If your money could talk, then what would it say about you? Do you still carry your money in a pouch nestled against your butt cheek? I daresay that anything that rides so close to such a sensitive area of your anatomy would do well to keep quiet.
My money has said some things about me that I’d like to set the record straight on. First, my money has purchased quite a number of high end clothing items (natch) that may tell onlookers of a lifestyle that exceeds their budget (to say nothing of their credit card limit). Now, while this may seem to be saying the right things about me and my position in life, I fear that there are those who misinterpret these statements to mean that I am nothing more than a few thousand dollars worth of their time because that is all the value it seems my outfit demonstrates. I’d like a way to silence this tacit judgement without the inconvenience of wearing a bracelet that boldly proclaims my net worth in 64 point bold font. Besides, the value increases so dramatically on a month by month basis that I fear the plebes may, again, be confused as to just how “out of their league” I am. For now, I am resorting to renting obnoxiously expensive sports cars to take off-roading, but while that has its appeal, a clear declaration of my superiority here on this abandoned island of the internet is obviously the best way.
Second, my investments have sounded a stodgy alarm that I would love to quell.
sexy aint it?
That dirty looking duplex with steady income each month and a dog in the yard may look tired and smack of old timey lords and ladies sitting in a parlor sipping tea and laughing about leases and estates, but it seems a damn sight better than the rapidly rising and falling sucker bets on bitcoin and NFTs that we are all so eager to read about. Speaking of bitcoin, please wake me up when that garbage finally runs out of juice and takes all of these newly minted billionaires with it. So, while you may hear tales of stale air and damp crawlspaces from my money’s sass about my duplex investment, just remember that I have a place to rent to you and I have a long memory.
Third (and this is the last one), my commute car with its caked on dirt and the sun faded color has told some wild lies about my status and I’d love to sort this out. The trouble is that while I may drive a Toyota Corolla with 800 thousand miles on it to the office and back home, this doesn’t represent my true situation in life. That car is like a mule to me: I kick and curse it in one instant and then expect it to haul me where I need to go in the next. It doesn’t mind because it is stupid and thick and requires abuse in order to thrive. This is just how it is. I don’t choose to spend my last dime on glamorous rides that cost me more to maintain just so that I can flaunt my status while on my way to work and back and so the statement made can seem confusing. But let me assure you, my position is secure and my money better just keep its damn mouth shut.
It may well be the apogee of my entire life to spend the next several weekends driving around with you in my car looking at homes. I cannot express the utter pleasure that I derive from listening to you complain about the “market” and greedy home sellers while driving you and your oddly docile husband to listing after listing.
These homes are, naturally, all inadequate for your purposes, but then you have set an absurdly low price limit and demand to see every hovel that pops up in your search even though you know full well that none of them will suffice. I especially treasure the quiet moments of prayer that you foist on me while I’m navigating afternoon commute traffic. Listening to you make supplication to the creator of everything for a price discount on a single family home that is in your desired area of town is nothing short of awe-inspiring.
Further, you have clearly bested those of us with lesser aspirations by your dedication to the deal. I could hardly conceal my amazement at your stories of pursuing those homes in pre-foreclosure by way of visiting the home owners in person; at their home. It takes a gutsy person to ask someone in person to take a loss on what may well be their largest investment in order to enrich your wealth position. Bravo!
Now, it has come to my attention that you require the temperature to be nothing short of inferno so I will dutifully pipe the exhaust into the cabin of my car just to meet your very reasonable expectations. This will, of course, serve a secondary purpose in suffocating me to death which would be far more preferred, than to listen to another of your stories about your middle-aged son who lives in your basement but who is just misunderstood.
You can’t deny the rights you have and all I can do is try. But let’s not forget ourselves and lose our way or cast that stone before we’ve had the chance to judge. It is, after all, the way in which we evince our stunning charm. I’d love to know that feelings don’t change, that we are all we need. But I can’t force you.
There’s a hill that rises on the edge of the town and casts a shadow when light is low. It holds its place against the wind and stands still and silent in the deepening gloom. But there it is with trees and rocks, dirt and sky. It needs no sign, no truth to grasp. I may tread upon its paths and breathe its breath. The hill does not need me though, it stands in place and guides the clouds.
Passion is like the lake with lapping waves, it comes, it goes, it comes, it goes. But with the wear from years of use, the bank recedes, the edges on the shore cannot maintain their keen and driving force. Pools will grow, subside, and leave behind the fertile ground. Passion lies in waters deep where light can’t touch, where seasons rarely see their change. Still, I won’t force you.
If life be misery, then let’s be miserable together.
Friends are those people who you tolerate even when they can’t remember simple instructions like, “Skim milk, 2 shots, and half a packet of Splenda.” I’d still like to know why I can’t be friends with someone who takes offense at silly little jibes at a weight problem or friendly observations of noxious odors. When I ask “What, are you going to cry now?” I’m literally interested in an answer to that question. I’m not sure what I’ll do with that information, but at least I’ll know!
For untold millions, friends hold the key to happiness in life and perceived social success. Sadly, there is precious little evidence to demonstrate that level of value in friendships. Don’t misunderstand me, I appreciate friends just as much as anyone else, but I don’t mistake a friend for an accomplishment.
I love you friend!
Still, I have to wonder why I can’t always manage to be friends. My demeanor says welcoming sometimes and my sarcastic responses are not always biting, but I just don’t seem to convince the world of my intent. In my younger years, I assumed that my smattering of loosely held friendships were just an artifact of my strained ability to maintain relations with intellectual inferiors and went about my life with no regrets. Those years having gone, I realize now that my lack of practice with friendships has left me unable to convince my peers that I am friendly. I’ve tried shouting it (I’m fucking friendly!!!), declaring it (I’d consider being your friend…), and even demanding it (we will be friends!). In all, I’d say that the results are less than satisfactory and I’m left wondering why I even bother trying.
I’m told that for individuals like me who have difficulty persuading humans of friendly intentions, there is always the possibility of forcing those intentions on an innocent, well-meaning dog. I intend to put this theory to the test and go rescue a mutt from the humane society and convince this animal that, while I am his superior, I am still friendly and would like to be his friend.
I feel extra creative because I’m lying in a field.
We’ve all been there before: finished reading the Twilight series for the sixth time and while dreaming of sexy vampires, you wonder what could possibly be next on your reading list? Let’s start by eliminating some of the obvious low hanging fruit. You’re certainly not going to read any of the latest memoirs or political screeds because you’re far too busy for such nonsense and I think that we can all agree that books like those are for retired people (emphasis on tired). Next to cross off is the romantic novel genre. Sure, that one series of books where a guy beats up his favorite lady and she can’t get enough had a good run and it seemed super empowering to say that you were fond of porn lit. If Ayn Rand were around, then she’d certainly have privately read the series a couple times herself and may have even penned a few fan fiction tomes bringing Howard Roark back to whoop some fair damsel’s ass unapologetically. Oh, and lastly, while we brought up Ayn Rand, let’s go ahead and cross off “The Classics.” This includes the objectivist herself, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Shel Silverstein, Herman Melville, Charles Dickens, Stephen King, and any other self-important pompous sounding author whose books are only available in hard copy with a collector binding.
Um yeah, I wear glasses. Not just because my vision is bad, but also because I’m smart. Checkmate.
So what does a discerning person like yourself read who needs to show not only that you do read, but also that you read better (lest we forget the Rhinestone way!)? May I suggest that you turn to a boring-ass biography? Now, before you fall asleep, let me remind you that what you are currently reading speaks volumes about you and wouldn’t you like those volumes to say things like studious, mysterious, classical (not that kind of classical), and other classy adjectives? The beauty of this system of reading (the Rhinestone method) is that you can be reading a flour-dry biography like Grant (Ulysses Grant, duh) while you’re instead reading whatever you actually feel like reading such as the latest brilliant (yet controversial) book by Amy Schumer or whatever; use your damn imagination. You always need to have one title of a boring-ass biography handy, so the only real struggle in this system involves learning the titles and names of the boring-ass individuals that these boring-ass biographies endeavor to document. You can rest easy knowing that no one would ever dream of reading a biography like Grant, so you can make some random crap up and you’ll be credible with no effort in the slightest. Just remember to keep it light and believable and always remember to remind everyone around you loudly that you prefer to read about a person in an honest to goodness book because you always learn more than any nonsense that’s written on Wikipedia.
I’m currently reading a biography about Percy Shelley and I can tell you that it is riveting. He seems like he should be quite the romantic based on his writing and while his amorous pursuits were definitely noteworthy, he just really desired a quiet life as a homosexual man in the country and he tried to fill that void with women, drinking, old timey drugs, and wild car races. All of it eventually caught up with him after that particularly bad accident. You’ll note that I’ve left you with a question you can’t realistically hope to respond to with anything other than a nod of the head and a knowing cluck. After all, who the hell knows who Percy Shelley is or what he (she?) did. You may call me a monster, but even Frankenstein could appreciate the brilliance of this system and would be quick to utilize it at parties and would be selling more houses than anyone else before you knew it.
I know that exercise is not for everyone and that sometimes it is a struggle. I have on many occasions battled with a powerful thought while driving into the lot to go work out. The engine is just idling while I sit quietly at the crosswalk contemplating the idea of slamming the accelerator to the floor and hitting as many gym bros as possible before launching off the curb on the other side and just driving off into the sunset. Believe me, once you’ve imagined it in your head, it feels like you have to try it just once.
But I digress. Everyone should remember that before any random acts of violence, you should always get in a good stretch. You’d hate to pull a hammie while dropping the hammer.
The question that goes to the heart of every real estate blog is unfortunately existential, “Why would anyone bother reading any of this tripe?”
Naturally, any author’s instinctive response to a question like this is going to be filled with pejorative language describing their typical reader and that is far from the wrong answer. I think you’ll find that authors are some of the most self loathing individuals in existence and everyone knows that an author only writes what they’d like to read. In spite of this, sometimes an audience will actually show up to glance at an author’s ramblings and may even stay long enough to insult the author in a tart comment. Clearly, this is the audience that we bloggers must lure in with assurances like, “Click here to see how to get a house with 50 dollars down!” Now, obviously I have no idea how to buy a house with only 50 dollars down, but that sure would be neat wouldn’t it?
Before anyone accuse me of duplicity, let me remind you that honesty is in the eye of the beholder. So, then how should we be reaching out to our audience? I prefer to express my answer through an anecdote.
By the Hair of Zeus!
Now it happened one day that I was called upon by a client of mine to meet him at his home to discuss his options for selling it. He had naturally inspected the listings that were posted in various places online and intended to dictate to me the appropriate price for his house based upon his years of experience and hours of research. Granted, all of his evidence was based upon prices of homes for sale and not prices of homes that sold, but that is merely a trivial matter in this gentleman’s mind.
His name happens to be Elihu, which I assume to mean “dim mind” in ancient Hebrew. Now Elihu was more than just a loud mouthed pushy sort, he also aspired to be a connoisseur of over sized, overly furry, bad tempered mutts. As such, while he lectured me on the finer points of online marketing, I gazed about myself in wide eyed wonder at the blanket of fur that covered nearly every flat surface in the home.
There was enough fur coating the floor that this man had no need of a rug and had only to spread a binder on the whole mess in order to decorate his abode with a delightful dog hair throw. In my opinion, it looked like the mud and feces that (presumably) his dogs had been tracking in would work well for this purpose and he was definitely on his way.
The fur did not stop in the living room though. It also coated all of the surfaces in the kitchen! Elihu was presently interrupting my observations by asking if I’d like something to drink. I like to think that the look of disgust on my face was answer enough for Elihu, but he was not named Elihu for his subtlety and insisted that I give him a verbal answer. I politely declined for the following reasons. First, Elihu is a disgusting boor and I would not chance that he has washed his hands in the last week, second, his kitchen looks like it serves as an adequate test bed for any aspiring entomologist, third, the dog fur.
This fur blanket on the counters was more than I could comprehend in one glance. I had to sweep all along the kitchen’s length to take in the mass of swirling shag that stuck to the counter tops and the sides of the refrigerator and stuck in balled up greasy globs in the corners.
Elihu fetched a glass out of the cupboard above the sink. It is important to note that this sink was also full of dirty dishes that extended back for probably a week. As he drew down the glass, he brushed a few wisps of hair off of the rim and proceeded to fill it with some sun tea substance that he insisted was delicious. I wished to violently dispute this claim but remembered that I was here on business and wondered how I was going to present Elihu’s home to anyone with a straight face.
I proceeded to ask Elihu when he might have the home cleaned up and ready for showings. He casually explained that the home should be ready to show already since he’d spent the last week cleaning and tidying up. As I strolled through the kitchen gazing upon all the gleaming surfaces that clearly showed all of Elihu’s many efforts, I stirred from my reverie to the sound of skittering claws and at least two dogs rushing in from the back door where Elihu had allowed them in. Elihu made no attempt to control the beasts and they proceeded to rush me at full speed and leap up onto my person, making every effort to scratch and slobber every surface that they could reach.
I’m told that dogs can smell fear, but the real question is whether they can smell rage. I suspect that they do have this ability as they both seemed to shuffle away sheepishly, snuffling the oddly clean footsteps that were tracked in on the filth. This was about the time that I glanced over at Elihu who stood there chuckling lightly.
The dogs settled themselves comfortably on a dirty brown sofa (original color unknown) and Elihu invited me to have a seat in the living room while we discussed listing his dog kennel for sale.
To converse with Elihu only means listening absentmindedly while he jabbers about everything he knows regarding selling homes including how it would be best to violate fair housing laws in order to secure “decent” folks for the neighborhood. At some point I made the mistake of glancing at his face only to see that he had a dog hair attached to his lower lip and every time he spoke, the hair would wiggle up and down.
This had gone on for too long already and I could no longer fight to insert a word here and a breath there. I stood up and handed Elihu a packet with instructions to “Look that over and let me know what you think.” The real meaning of course being, “I must go, you’re disgusting.”
As I edged toward the door with Elihu continuing his incessant blather, I extended my hand to politely exit. I opened the door and as I stepped out onto the stoop Elihu thanked me for coming by and then stopped and gave me a piece of advice: “Ya know, next time you really ought to remove your shoes when going in to someone’s house.”
You know those days when snacking is front of mind and the kitchen just seems to have a strange attraction? That’s the reason why you’re heavier than me, because I don’t have that weakness. Regardless, I find it important to relate to regular folks who may struggle with their weight and need some guidance. I’m here to help and I have a recipe that is my go to for a quick and easy snack on the go. As a purveyor of Rhinestone style and class, I strive for excellence, but I don’t have time for distractions like Instant Pots, Air Fryers, or children. Consequently, I try to distill my technique to classically simple methods.
First, we can all agree that eating fat or sugar is stupid and should be better left to those who would benefit most from an eating disorder. That narrows the options to something that would satisfy, but not leave you feeling like a domestic farm animal. Next, we’ll eliminate any carbohydrates because obviously those will give you cancer. Finally, I like to eliminate any sources of gluten because I feel like there is established science that demonstrates a link between gluten and autism and I have been a long time opponent of autism. I think we can all agree that autism is a scourge on our community that has gone unchecked for far too long.
After eliminating what I can’t (or shouldn’t) eat, I arrive at the obvious selection of a cigarette. Having a cigarette is not only calorie free, but also a welcome distraction from the hunger pangs that may be bothering me since next week’s meal is a little further off.
To prepare my cigarette, I like to retrieve a freshly sealed pack and unwrap the plastic on that pack. This first step may be unnecessary as you may already have an open pack in which case, you may proceed to the next step. Next up, I will slide out a cigarette and tap it lightly on the end to pack the tobacco a bit before using a lighter (you may substitute a match in the event that you don’t have a lighter) to ignite the cigarette while puffing slightly on it.
Bon Appetit!
If you’ve followed the instructions properly, then you’ll have a delightful smoking experience similar to the one pictured here:
I’ve found that in life, there will always be a tragic mass of collective sadness populated by those unfortunate ones with no flair, no decency, and nothing of note to say. This unpleasant gathering of damp rumpled towels revel in nothing more than darkening the brightness of the few of us who chance upon a spark in life and only wish to bring light, warmth, and intelligent discourse to a world that is so desperately tired and cold that yours truly is chastised for refusing to wait in a stupidly long line at Starbucks.
Let me say that I am not one to pick fights over ridiculously petty disagreements, but when I explained this to the fat lady waiting to order a venti hot cocoa with 4 sugar packets and an extra 10 ounces of whipped cream, she just would not let it go. I calmly let her know that it was extremely petty to fight over since I was merely ordering a drip coffee (no empty calories for me thank you!) and I would appreciate it if she would just let me slip by her while she decided on how many cake pops she wanted to go with her heart attack in a cup. The whole sordid affair was further exacerbated by the dolt behind the counter. She refused to serve me until Poppin Fresh had made her order and even threatened to make me wait for the customer after that.
Naturally, I demanded to speak to a manager. I refuse to kowtow to anyone and may have resorted to louder than normal tones while discussing the mistreatment that I had suffered at the hands of the barista (her name is Jill, of course). After I repeated that this behavior was something that I’d never in my life had to suffer, the manager had the audacity to interrupt me and ask me to leave!
If this wasn’t bad enough, it was raining outside and I got my hair wet while going across the parking lot. Granted, I did spend a little more time outside the door yelling and I may have even cried a little, but my day was effectively ruined by Jill, her manager, and the obese lady who started it all. That nasty bitch was incorrigible. She even went so far as to try to follow me into the parking lot. She can thank that rude manager for restraining her before I taught her some politeness through physical means.
I’d like to finish this by reminding the world that, while we sometimes suffer injustice at the hands of the clueless and the sad, we have to remember that there will be those ignorant multitude who just can’t grasp the higher level of reason and class that I apply to my everyday life. Don’t let yourself be mired by these fools. If you’ve chosen the way of the Rhinestone, then stand tall, demand the best, and f the rest.
