If I Had A Billion Dollars

Somebody won last night's billion dollar Powerball. It wasn't you.

Well, somebody won the Powerball last night. A California resident bought the only winning ticket and will collect the $1.08 billion prize. It’s an astonishing amount of money. While it might be hard to conceive of a billion dollars, consider that the little .08 at the end represents eighty million dollars. Even that much dough, an afterthought on the prize, would be an astounding level of wealth. I mean, you could buy every Dan Flashes shirt ever made, no matter how complicated the pattern.

I didn’t play. I never play the lottery because it’s a waste of money. Yes, somebody will win. But it won’t be you and I can prove it. Did you play? Did you win? I rest my case.

This isn’t even one of the more expensive Dan Flashes shirts.

Even so, like all people, I sometimes indulge in the “what would I do with a billion dollars” game. It doesn’t take me long to play because I can’t think of anything I would do with that much money. Let’s just agree that all of us would give a lot of money to charity because we’re all saints, ok? We all agree that, yes, we would be very generous and blah blah blah kids with diseases blah blah blah baby rhinos blah blah blah. Even at the end of all that generosity, you’ve still got a shitload of money.

What would you do with it?

Obviously, you erase your debts, your siblings’ debts, your parents’ debts, your friends’ debts. How much is all of that going to cost you? A million bucks? Two million bucks if your friends and families are maniacs. Pal, you haven’t even started spending. However much money your wastrel friends and relatives are in debt, it’s not even going to put a dent in your winnings. So then, on top of the debt-relief you give them each a couple milly to fuck up their lives all over again. Because, again, you’re a saint.

Now what?

Buy whatever you want, I guess. What do you want? A new house? Some kind of Italian supercar that you’re going to be afraid to drive? Great. And when you’ve accumulated all that stuff and a couple Jet-Skis and a time share in Ft. Lauderdale, then what? How many houses do you need? How many chairs? How much of anything before it just gets to be a bore?

For me, the answer is I don’t really want that much shit. I don’t want a boat. I don’t want a plane. I don’t want to buy any companies or sit on the boards of any philanthropic organizations. I don’t want to run for office or deal with shifty politicians asking me for money. I don’t want to invest in any start-ups. Here’s something I think I could use: a service that delivers new socks and shoelaces to my home so that I wouldn’t have to think about socks and shoelaces. Beyond that, I don’t really want anything.

And what do you do with yourself every day? You’d kind of feel like a jerk if you kept showing up for work, even if you liked your job. Say you’re a graphic designer at a little boutique agency. The work is interesting and the people are cool. Maybe you design record album covers. Neat, right? But then you win a billion dollars. Are you still going to show up and try to figure out the kerning on the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs album cover? Seems weird, right? I mean, maybe you would but what happens at lunch? In the old days, you’d go to Taco Bell with the gang every once in a while and everybody would pay for their own lunch.

Hey, look at us! Work buddies hanging out at Taco Bell paying for our own lunches!

Now you pretty much have to cover everybody else’s lunch order. Not just that day, but every day. Are you really going to make Jeff dish out ten bucks for his stupid footlong sandwich? Of course not. You’d be like, “It’s on me,” and Jeff would be like, “Are you sure?” And then it would get weird because of course you’re sure but Jeff doesn’t want you to think he expects you to pay for lunch but at the same time, it would be fucked-up if you didn’t. So now you just always pay for Jeff’s lunch? And the unfortunate answer is: yes you do. Which is annoying on principle. Maybe you stop going out for lunch altogether with the gang. Of course they notice. So now they think you think you’re too good to get their “poor people food” with them. But that’s not it. You still like the same food. It’s just that everything around socializing has become so fucking awkward that it’s not worth it anymore. Eventually, you probably just quit your job.

So then maybe you’re like, “Fuck it, I’ll open up my own boutique graphic design company.” For what? Do you really want to be the boss of a bunch of shitty, entitled graphic designers in skinny jeans and have to deal with all of their problems? Plus, they’re never going to be happy with whatever you’re paying them even if you pay them a little above the market rate for people with their experience. They’re not even going to like you. Because you’re the boss and nobody likes the boss even the cool poseur who runs this stupid boutique graphic design business as a hobby so why can’t they afford to pay the employees whatever they want and have better cereals in the kitchen? You’re not running a charity, you explain. You’re trying to run a business. They don’t get it. They’re such assholes. And you just end up looking like an out-of-touch rich person indulging in a dumb roleplaying “cool business owner” game. Kind of like Elon Musk. Gross.

Gross.

The depressing conclusion I’ve come to about coming into a fuckton of money is that, ultimately, it wouldn’t change my life very much in terms of material possessions. Yes, that much money would relieve my anxiety about not having enough money but then that would be replaced with a different anxiety about having too much money. The way you relate to people would change. The way they relate to you would change. Every interaction you had with the old people in your life would be tinged with weirdness and resentment. So then you’d end up hanging out with other really rich people because they’d be the only people who understood what it’s like to be really rich and, let’s be honest, those people suuuuuck. So you end up trading your cool friends for shitty friends who don’t even like going to Taco Bell.

Anyway, if you won last night’s Powerball, congrats. Do yourself a favor. Don’t turn in the ticket. Rip it up and chuck it. Instead, be happy with what you’ve got; and when you show up for work tomorrow in your new Dan Flashes shirts, take everybody out to lunch. They won’t know why and you don’t have to tell them.