|Pic: Me last week spending the day in Kensington, living my best fake rich life|
Believe it or not (but believe it because it’s the truth), for the past 18 months, I was the sole person in charge of every bill, rent payment and issue that arose in my flatshare. And by ‘issue’ I mean things like the heating not working, the stove making odd noises and the washing machine flooding our kitchen floor. And by ‘in charge’, I mean I would have to call our landlord and beg him to help us and chase him until he stopped ignoring my texts like a boy from Tinder who ghosts you after you flatly refuse to sext with him or send him pictures of your bare boobies. I was the Wizard of Oz of my flat and my two roommates adopted the roles of the moronic Scarecrow and obnoxious Lion who came to me for every little annoying request whilst I busied myself doing grown up things like getting the meter reading and making spreadsheets to keep an eye on our monthly outgoings (I even took the bins out alone weekly whilst they cooked stench-filled fish based dinners and ignored me struggling loudly but that’s another story for another time). By May, I had finally had enough of being the den mother for two aggressively Conservative millennials that were not only younger than me but on salaries of around £10k more than me a year - I finally jumped ship for a nicer flat with a frankly much better roommate. Leaving the flat I’d lived in for 3+ years felt like a reasonably simple prospect because hey, people move around in to different flat shares all the time in London! What a piece of cake this will be…(carrot cake, I assume, the most triumphant of all the cakes)
As I sat down to go through all of our final bills before I moved on to a ‘greener grass’ scenario, the list of all the bits and bobs I needed to cancel, move and replace for the flat and the lack of money in our ‘joint account’ (an account I had to open in my name because everyone else refused - do I sound bitter? because I am) It began to stress me out so badly, I had to physically hide from all of it and go watch a Goldie Hawn film in bed to deal with the anxiety. I couldn’t help but think that an endless supply of money would solve all of these specific woes, my worries would be non-existent, I could move out and leave my stress in my rented mould-filled bedroom. Unfortunately, for reasons I am in no way control of (they were twats), I wasn’t close enough with the two women I occupied a home with to sit down and talk the bill stress through, so instead I distracted my mind. As a mood-lifter after facing the money dragon head-on, updating my spreadsheets and even finding a tiny pot of cash left over to cover the inevitable final bills we’d need to fork out for, I proceeded to dream of a better life where money wasn’t a worry. Oh, what a life that would be.
Oprah Winfrey used to speak about manifesting things you want by being focused on them, writing them down and putting these dreams out in to the universe, so in honour of this sound logic, I compiled a list of the things I would purchase if money was no object. Please peruse at your own leisure and make no judgements as, when writing this list, I was reaching a stress level of Love Island contestants when mean tweets about them are read as part of a ‘challenge’ (“one viewer wrote that one of the girls in the villa is a shitface bitchhole who has cellulite on her neck. Now, throw a cup of custard over the girl you think this tweet was about…” genius. Reality TV producers really are unsung heroes in my opinion):
- A personal trainer who motivates me by yelling Beyonce lyrics directly in to my face in a stern but caring way throughout our workouts. These will be daily except for any day I feel sad and don’t want human interaction/not in the mood to sweat/have just washed my hair.
- A laboratory filled with sexy glass-wearing scientists who are able to remove 99% of calories from all food. I can binge and binge and binge and never be called a lardy ass again.
- Every door knob and plate from Anthropologie. I will put whimsical knobs on everything and no one can say a damn thing about it!
- A giant suite in my favourite Disney World hotel that is always vacant apart from when I visit approx 3-18 times a year. Marie from Aristocats will greet me at the airport and will join me for breakfast on my balcony every morning. She’ll have her usual bowl of milk please, SO FUCKING CUTE, RIGHT?!?!
- A book deal and so much promotion for my book that people are almost forced to buy it. I want it really shoved down peoples throats that I’ve written a bunch of words. I will be nude on the cover because I thrive on controversy and my parents will have something they can brag to their friends about - “did you hear, our Faybees has a book deal! and yes, her breasts are real, don’t they hang triumphantly?”
- A private Spice Girls concert every year for my birthday. They will all perform, yes, even you Victoria, get off your high horse will you.
- A giant New York apartment that overlooks Central Park and a giant London apartment that overlooks the Thames. When I say giant, I mean like 3 bedrooms because I get scared of monsters/rapists/ghosts at night. I will also require nightlights in every room. Good thing money isn’t a problem, that electricity bill will be cray, am I right?!
- I’d pay for Diana Ross, Cher, Lady Gaga and Adele to collaborate on an album for me and only me. They will also tour this album and do an album signing - both of these events will happen in my mansion and I’ll only invite people who’ve never called me fat.
- Four Persian cats (misc colours) - each of which will have a personal assistant to feed and groom them so I can be there purely for snuggles and instagram photo shoots. The assistants will not be allowed to hug them incase the cats end up loving me less. I want to be these cats Messiah and I simply won’t accept anything less.
- A walk-in Wardrobe with a computer clothing system like in the film ‘Clueless’ - all outfits to be curated by Pandora Sykes and Gok Wan and will all be made with adjustable seams for when I eat big lunches and feel like a bloated pig person.
- The Parks & Recreation full DVD boxset. I know this seems weird but it’s like £70 and I can’t justify it until I’m rich.
- A private Starbucks in my home ala the film ‘Richy Rich’ - I know he had a McDonalds but that’s not chic and my personal trainer would simply murder me *rich woman laugh*
- Furniture that isn’t from Ikea.
- Weekly trips to the hair salon to sort my 1995 Courtney Love hair out. I’ll never be confused for a homeless lad again. Oh and hair transplants to cover my bald spots - I’d like this hair to be taken directly from the scalp of someone much more beautiful than me so it evens things out a bit.
- A 24/7 chauffeur who doesn’t engage in small talk and who drives a Prius because I’m rich, not a fucking animal. Tinted windows though so I can pretend I'm in music videos to all the songs on the radio and not be judged by fellow drivers or pedestrians.
- Presents for my parents daily - all the things they’ve ever dreamed of owning so I can cement my place as the favourite child. Shoutout to my sister Kara, I win.
- The rights to ALL of Whitney Houston’s music. I will only allow her songs to be used in the most respectful way and Kanye can’t have any of them.
- VIP & backstage passes to every festival (music, food and gin based only. Don’t waste my time with any other subject matter. A craft beer festival can suck my dick.)
- Bo Burnham on the payroll as my live-in lover.
Every item listed above was off the cuff and I had to stop before it got out of hand. I even resorted to prostitution at the end which can only confirm that a bottomless pit of money would make me a monster. The conclusion here, I think we can all agree, is that it’s probably for the best that I am not a wealthy woman. I don’t think I could stay humble. I dislike too many people for that to be a possibility and would marvel in buying things they dream of and flaunting it in front of them. This got nasty quite quickly and I really need to deep dive on my mental state.
Love Faye xoxo