Good evening, Stackendenciers. Well, there’s no use sugarcoating it: times are tough for most of us these days, what with the state of the world and all. Things have never felt more dire and tumultuous. The only silver lining is that at least we’re not suffering as much as billionaires are, as Devon Anderson details below.
The yacht’s Wi-Fi became weak for almost forty-five seconds while crossing the Mediterranean, forcing me to experience what experts call “a thought.”
My personal chef interpreted “comfort food” as “deconstructed truffle-infused childhood,” when what I wanted was a grilled cheese sandwich.
I accidentally wore last season’s cashmere to an event where everyone else was wearing this season’s cashmere, and now I have to fake my own death.
My therapist insists that “buying another island” is not a healthy coping mechanism, despite overwhelming anecdotal evidence that it sounds extremely relaxing.
One of my houses has gone completely unvisited for so long that I am beginning to suspect it has developed its own culture.
A stranger on the internet referred to me as “mid.”
My assistant asked which Ferrari I meant, and I had to spend twelve emotionally exhausting seconds remembering.
The private jet landed at the wrong private terminal, causing an inconvenience statistically indistinguishable from ordinary life but spiritually catastrophic.
I found out my college roommate, who became an elementary-school teacher, genuinely laughs more than I do.
The algorithm keeps recommending videos titled “Ten Habits of Billionaires,” as though I need to optimize my morning routine even further.
My children only call when they need something, which, in fairness, may be because I raised them to outsource all human interaction.
I spent $18 million on a painting that now makes me feel judged every time I walk past it.
There are now so many people whose full-time job is agreeing with me that I have no earthly idea whether I’m funny.
The tailor looked at me with pity when I said I wanted my pants to make me appear “approachable.”
The concierge greeted me by name before my own cousin did.
I keep reading articles about how money can’t buy happiness, and I resent how aggressively peer-reviewed my life has become.
Every birthday gift I receive is either impossible to surprise me with or another watch.
The family office sent me a quarterly report titled “Legacy Planning,” which is an extraordinarily elegant way of reminding me that I will, in fact, die.
The barista smiled more warmly at the man ordering a small coffee than at me, and for one irrational second I considered buying the café.
Despite controlling companies, foundations, investments, real estate, aircraft, and enough liquid assets to alter the GDP of a small nation, I still occasionally wake up at 3:17 a.m. convinced everyone secretly hates me.
Money turns out to be remarkably effective at solving money problems. The other ones are apparently their own department.
Please don’t mistake this for a request for sympathy. I’m mostly just annoyed that the penthouse echoes.
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