The Magic Million: best lives and "The Low Spark of Boys In High Heels".

The Magic Million:

Mark Twain records this daydream being a thing in even the 1800s, the Magic Million.  "I dreamt of going back home to Connecticutt with my million dollars."  It was an astronomical sum more so in those days than today, more so, than in todays inflated currency.

Why today, taxes eat half the money, and then if you need a house, your money is gone, such is what we're also being sold in the housing market, deigned to impressive, to have that mild shock value on first viewing, to expect, as it were, beyond perfection.

At least 30K spent on the bathroom.

We look to celebrities and mark them for their wealth, but many of them are actually work-a-day people.  I think of, for example, John Cena and Tom Brady.  Tom Brady functioning at his peak, probably a "flow state", and that activity of course, yielding a good paycheck.

And John Cena, simply for the "busy" quality of his schedule, monies from this and that, and for years, his seeming marriage to the squared circle, how he just wanted to perform like a workhorse for his company, week-in, week-out.

Positioned as it were, for a leg-up when it became available, not asking or begging, but doing the core business, and that core business was the crux, the asking point, of all further reward, such that I begrudge John Cena none of his future successes.

Sergio Oliva, in a kimono and sandals, box of pizza, walking along the beach, comfortable at the top of the world of bodybuilding and collecting Sandow trophies.  "Living his best life."

Or me, in a relaxed state of mind, looking over, slapping Dan so hard in the back of the head, that he almost chokes on his tootsie rolls, and his head recoils so hard it hits Chris.

I stole her 33's and did bad ass donuts around her yard in my 1500, because I was, like a Kid Rock song come to life, but instead of making love, I was passed out, flacid, from a meth binge.

One's "best life", consumed, as it were, by one's own thoughts, one's own wants, prodigious they are, and anxieties, pushed, perniciously to silence?-- nay, I say, pushed as it were, to respond and counter-respond, such that at seems a slow-walked conversation, passively elapsing in text message space, with a lot of nothing energetically swirling about it.

Do not be your own enemy, of course, and the future is but a half-hearted promise.