“I hate money,” Harriet the Spy said, and my jaw dropped at the sheer entitlement of that. I shut the book, disgusted, utterly betrayed by this beloved character who’d–all of a sudden–become the kind of brat I couldn’t tolerate.
I was around her same age when I read the book, and already I knew money saved lives, bought comfort. And comfort–no matter what anyone with money says–is far more valuable a thing than happiness. If anything, it’s the biggest hurdle to reach any kind of sustainable joy. I vowed then and there to never read more of the spoiled kid’s ramblings.
Less than an hour later, I opened the book again, grudgingly.
“You’d like it a lot more if you didn’t have any,” Sport said, and I was able to breathe easy. Fucking call her out, Sport. Jesus.
Anyway. Instantly master? Stocks and trades.
No idea what that even really means, but it’s something rich people talk about, and it seems to be a lucrative practice. You best believe I’d absolutely take a shot that just gave me all the knowledge, cuz there’s no way in hell I can learn it. Numbers continue to elude me.
Every other skill? I’d honestly rather do it the old fashioned way. After all, the looking from before and after, the slow incline, the journey, if you’ll forgive the cheese–that’s the part I adore the most.
Answer the question in comments, btw, and I’ll tell you the story in the next post.
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