Someday, I’d like to read an essay by a rich person called “rich person fantasies” because I’d love to know what they fantasize about.
As for me, I’m poor. You might argue with me and point to a starving African orphan, but that’s no fun, is it? I’m poor by my own definition, we’ll leave it at that. For your amusement, these are the things I fantasize about, in no particular order:
A kitchen so large that even if I wanted to put every dish, pot, pan, cake pan, vegetable and spatula on a counter, I’d still have plenty of counter space left over to do gymnastics. A kitchen so large that I could have 25 people in it and none of them would have to touch to get by each other.
I’d have a washer and dryer inside my own house. The kind that dumps the washed clothes straight into the dryer and dries them.
Everything I own would work. The refrigerator roof wouldn’t be dripping water, the hall lights wouldn’t only turn on if the switches at both ends of the hall are in a particular configuration. The car wouldn’t make noises or smoke. My internet would be fast enough that videos don’t pause themselves and require a refresh to play again. I could stream NPR and not have to constantly press play twice to get the stream to restart.
I wouldn’t hear anything I don’t want to hear. No one’s leaf blowers, no arguments with gay lovers, no babies, no loud Indian phone conversations. Certainly not vacuuming from another house.
I would never smell anything I don’t want to smell. No one around me would sleep in their own urine. No one would ever smoke.
When I buy food, I won’t look at the prices. It won’t matter.
These are my fantasies. These things are what keep me feeling poor.