That’s a Maybach. Easily $300K. That’s a Rolls Royce Phantom. Another $300K. And an Aston Martin, a few S-Class Benz’s and Range Rovers. Yes, I’m standing in front of the Four Seasons Paris and there are chauffeurs. And yes, I’m walking through the doors.
The money sitting in the restaurant probably surpasses $100 million. In the display case sits $1.5 million in watches and jewelry. The cars out front are worth about $2 million.
I’m walking around the hotel, wandering freely, touching the walls, breathing the air, noticing the details. The staff smile kindly. But I’m not dressed in Louis Vitton. I don’t drive a sports car. The pants I’m wearing, yeah, I’ve been wearing them non stop since I bought them. My shoes are beat to hell, my shirt is one of three. And I’m going on a 80 day beard.
I wouldn’t change places with anyone in that place. I don’t want an eight figure trust fund. I don’t want to ride around worried about someone scratching my paint job or scraping my rims.
I don’t want their life because I love mine.
But I do want a glimpse of that lifestyle. I want an inside look, to experience the luxury, to live that life for a short while.
That why I want a billionaire trust fund girlfriend.
With Daddy’s Black Card. With keys to his cars, her jet on speed dial, her hotel reservations taken care of by a secretary. I want to take first class trips to exotic locations with shopping sprees and expensive toys. I want shoes, I want front row at Fashion Week and I want all of that without spending a dime.
I just want a taste. I don’t want to whole 7 course meal. No, just a sample of the smells and a quick bite of the appetizer. I don’t want to win the lottery. It would ruin me. I know I will make the amount of money I need to make to live the best life I can. I know this and I’m not worried. And I know that I will live a fucking awesome life.
I don’t want the their life. I want my life, directed by me, on my shoulders, like it already is.
But if you have a spare million to blow on your boyfriend, hit me up.