I never set out to be rich. Honestly, I was just trying to buy a snack. A candy bar, maybe. Something with caramel. But the vending machine was broken, and instead of spitting out chocolate, it spit out destiny.
That day I stumbled into what can only be described as a cosmic joke – the universe tripped, dropped its bag of riches, and I was the poor fool standing underneath. Suddenly, there I was: a millionaire, courtesy of some ridiculous twist of fate. No grand plan. No savvy investing. Just dumb luck dressed up in sequins.
The first few days were strange. I stared at my bank account like it was a magic eye poster – if I squinted long enough, maybe the numbers would make sense. Spoiler: they didn’t. Instead, I bought a dozen goldfish and named them after my favorite philosophers. All twelve died within a week, which felt like a warning. But a fortune doesn’t come with an instruction manual, and apparently, neither do fish.
Here’s the thing no one tells you about having more money than you know what to do with: you don’t suddenly get smarter. You don’t suddenly become a financial wizard, or a collector of yachts, or a wearer of monocles. You’re just… you, only now you have the option to replace your front lawn with a bouncy castle if the mood strikes.
And so, dear reader, this is where my tale begins: with too much money, not enough sense, and a deep suspicion that the universe is still laughing at me. Welcome to my confessions and my follies. I can’t help everyone, but I can at least help you laugh at how badly I’ll probably spend this fortune.
Stay tuned. It only gets more foolish from here.
