I’ve had my share of good times. Nights with friends, late mornings that rolled into lazy afternoons, and a handful of moments where life actually felt like it was mine. But the more I look at the world around me, the more I realize how strange our obsession with money really is. People act like wealth is this magical key that unlocks every door, when in reality it’s just another cage—shiny, polished, but a cage all the same.
Here’s the thing: I don’t ask much of the system. Democracy, capitalism, whatever you want to call the circus—it doesn’t do me any favors, and I’ve stopped expecting it to. Politicians on both sides throw around promises like candy, but they’re not talking to me, and they’re definitely not talking to you. They’re talking to the people who already own half the game board. Obama, Republicans, celebrities in power—it’s all the same. The wealthy already hold the wealth, and the rest of us are left watching, scrolling, and hoping there’s still room for us at the table.
But let’s be honest. The “table” isn’t even real anymore. What we’ve got left is a middle class holding on by their fingernails, whole countries classified as “third world” like that label explains away poverty, and groups of people dismissed as “freaks” for daring to live differently. Meanwhile, the ultra-rich keep serving us their version of reality, one carefully polished press release and Instagram story at a time. They’re pandering to us, and we eat it up. That’s the messed-up part—we keep scrolling, keep buying, keep admiring, as if disgust is the new currency.
Take a walk down Hollywood Boulevard sometime. The sidewalk is littered with names, stars carved into the ground that people take selfies with like they’re holy relics. And you’ve got to ask yourself: who put those stars there? Whose sweat polished them to a shine? Was it a Mexican laborer, a Black worker, someone hustling paycheck to paycheck while tourists step over their work without even noticing? Behind every glamorous name is someone else’s unglamorous job, and yet all we ever see is the finished product.
And then there’s the insider crowd. Martha Stewart goes down for insider trading, serves her time, and somehow comes back even stronger, with her brand intact. Meanwhile, the rest of us are told to be happy with our Robinhood apps, Yahoo Finance stock alerts, or half-baked “get rich quick” posts on TikTok. We’re told to “play smart,” but we all know the real money isn’t made on apps—it’s made behind closed doors, on private calls, and yes, probably on landlines with rotary dials that haven’t moved since the ’90s.
It’s funny though. Everyone loves to talk about money like it’s the only thing that matters, but I don’t buy it. Money fades. Stocks go up, then down. Your bank balance doesn’t hug you at night, doesn’t laugh at your bad jokes, doesn’t keep you warm when you wake up. When I picture my future, I don’t see numbers on a screen—I see waking up next to my wife, sending one business email, and calling it a day. Because honestly? That sounds like real wealth.
The dangerous thing is how money twists our perception of worth. We measure people by the cars they drive, the brands they wear, the vacations they post. If someone has “enough,” they’re admired. If they don’t, they’re invisible. It’s like society has made a pact to ignore what really matters in favor of what sparkles.
And yet here I am, still watching my stocks rise and fall, still caught in the same cycle as everyone else. Maybe that’s the joke: that no matter how much we criticize the system, we’re all in it. We refresh our apps, check our balances, chase promotions, and dream of “making it.” Even when we know the game is rigged, we still play.
So yeah—Dad, I love money. I love what it promises, the doors it says it will open, the security it whispers about. But I don’t love what it does to people. I don’t love how it divides us, tricks us, and leaves most of us scrambling while a few get to coast. At the end of the day, money is just a tool. It can build or destroy. It can make you or break you. It can buy you a shiny star on Hollywood Boulevard or leave you sweeping the sidewalk beneath it.
And maybe the real flex isn’t having all the money—it’s knowing that you don’t need it to feel alive.
