The Wee Democracy

cure alls

i was talking to riqui just now, and i asked him if he ever allowed himself to think about cure-alls. you know, those things that are the answer to all your life's problems. so i got to thinking, can 40 billion dollars make me happy? i don't know, but i'm williing to think about it.

if i had forty billion dollars, i could pay for therapy. fuck, from the world's best therapist. and i could pay for medication if i needed it, and i wouldn't have to worry about insurance.

if i had forty billion dollars, i could have a personal trainer, and a personal gym. and i wouldn't have to work, so i could work out every day without thinking, jesus, i don't want to be wiped out before i go to work, or, i hope i have time to shower, or blah blah blah.

if i had forty billion dollars, i'd buy an apartment in the upper east side of manhattan. a pimp apartment, a loft probably, nice and big and ultra cool. i'd of course have to maintain a place of residence here, and probably keep a beach house on each coast (the OC in the west, NC and the hamptons on the east coast).

along those lines, if i had forty billion dollars, i'd have parties all the time. not so people would like me, but mainly for my friends, and to force my music onto others. i'd have booze and stuff, like an endless supply. they'd be so swank, my parties, celebs and shit would be trying to get in them. paris hilton would probably be jealous.

if i had forty billion dollars, i'd rent out the biltmore mansion every now and again, and throw the wildest craziest swankest three day party known to man. it'd make woodstock look like the fucking mclaughlin group.

i'd bankroll movies, i'd publish authors, i'd own galleries, and provide a venue for new and obscure musicians that i dug, and give them record deals. and i'd pay my sister to make my houses look bad-the-fuck-ass with her art.

i'd buy an NBA team, or take the cowboys back from jerry jones and sell them to mark cuban for a dollar. i'd have courtside seats for every mavericks game, and people would say, there's josh, and i'd be more of a fixture than jack nicholson at the lakers' games.

i'd have a driver and a fucking sleek badass black-as-night limo to take me wherever i needed to go. that way on dates, i can pay attention to my date rather than to driving.

fuck a cell phone, i'd own a cell phone company.

if i had forty billion dollars, i'd have my pick of the litter when it came to girls. sure i'd have to deal with my share of gold diggers, but i'd have a prenup and a nice little windfall prepared for them. that, and i don't marry easily. and besides that, i'd weed out the unsuitable, and uncool.

if i had forty billion dollars, i could do all the things i want to do, and i could try to be all the things i wanted to be.

but angela still wouldn't like me.



feeling: shit
thinking of: starting to carry a weapon
song of the day: bird stealing bread - iron and wine
Does his hand on your head feel alot like a thing you believe in? Or a bit like a bird stealing bread out from under your nose?