What’s the Point of Having Money if You Don’t Spend it


$300k sitting in a bank account; yet I was paralyzed by the thought of what I was going to do for money in the future.  I had hung up my previous career and was unsure of what was next.  I was so fearful about money that I made myself and others around me miserable.  Instead of investing in new opportunities or in myself I was living off my savings.  I held onto that money so tight that I pissed a good portion of it away.  I couldn’t get past the thought that somehow this money needed to last me forever because I would never make another dollar.

That was my situation a little over year ago.  I wasted a tremendous amount of time worrying about something so trivial and shortsighted.  Worst case scenario;  I could have lived off that money for 5-7 years depending on how I scaled my lifestyle.  That’s more than enough time to figure things out.  I could have gotten a job and made a little money until I figured out what was next for me.  Instead I did nothing but cling onto my past and the lifestyle I was accustomed to.  That behavior cost me much more than money.  It cost me time, happiness, health and some of the people in my life.

Today I’ve changed my outlook and behavior.  I’m finally starting to spend money investing in myself and my future.  It’s insane that I could spend $10k on a watch or $100k on a car without batting an eye.  But when I thought about spending a couple thousand dollars investing in bettering myself, my asshole puckered and I became incredibly stingy.  The most important thing I could possibly spend my money on made me the most uncomfortable.  I would either avoid doing them or do them in the cheapest manner possible.

When I read about or talk to successful people, the one common theme they share is that they all invest in themselves.   Whether mentally, physically or emotionally; they spend the time and money needed to make them the best at what they do.  They realize it’s an investment that will always pay dividends over time.

Success doesn’t have to equate to money.  The majority of people don’t want to be millionaire’s to be able to say they have a million dollars in the bank.  Well, some may.  Most want to be millionaires because of the lifestyle it could afford them.  The luxury of getting up in the morning and spending their day doing whatever they would like.  Not having to worry about bills and other financial obligations.

Not every millionaire lives how I described.  I know people who barely have a pot to piss in and lead much more rich, exciting lives than those with millions.  They spend their money investing in life experiences.  They travel and enjoy what the world has to offer.  I see their posts on social media and wonder how many of them afford it, knowing some make very little money.  They spend what they have to build wealth in life experiences.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t save your money.  I think everyone needs to create a financial plan and a vision of how they want their tomorrows to look.  However, The only thing we have for certain is now.  The happiest people I know don’t wait for the perfect timing to start living life.  They go out and do it.  Spend your money on what makes you happy and adds value to your life in a significant manner.  What you experience in life and the person you become as a result is what make you truly wealthy.


Back when Myspace was popular I was really into trolling the site for girls.  Social Media was pretty new at that point.  I feel like people were more open to the idea of meeting a complete stranger off the internet.  It seemed socially acceptable to message random girls on Myspace like you would a dating site today.  The conversation rate from message to date was pretty high for me, probably like 20%.

One girl from Myspace stood out among the rest.  Let’s call her K.  When I first saw her profile picture I was so into her.  She was tiny; maybe 5’1, weighed about 105 lbs, with brown hair and rather tan.  She looked a bit trashy, but I didn’t let that deter me from going after her.

I talked to K for two weeks off and on trying to get her go on a date with me.  She always had some excuse for why she couldn’t hang out.  Finally, one Thursday night she agreed to get together with me.

She lived in the the ghetto in West Baltimore.  She didn’t have her car (or so she said) so I needed to pick her up.  She jumped in my car and we chatted about life and work.  She told me she worked for a company doing HR.  I knew it was a lie, but I let it go.  These should have been a clues about the night I was going to have.

We went to a bar to have a few drinks.  The alcohol apparently fueled her ghetto side.  She was loud and obnoxious.  She started dropping the N Bomb while talking to people. Then justified saying it because she said she was part Cuban!?  I was embarrassed for the both of us.  The more she drank the more she became like a chick from Flavor of Love.

Even after I saw her behavior at the bar, I stuck to my plan and took her home with me.  I figured I was already in pain so I might as well get something out of it.  When we got back to my house around midnight I carried her up to my bedroom.  Clothes came flying off, spread throughout the room.  All was going to plan.

As I took off her underwear I noticed a really shitty looking tattoo on her pubic area.  It looked like it was done in a jailhouse or someones living room.  The tattoo was of a money sign and above it had the word “BUTTA.”  I didn’t stop to ask questions at that point, I just preceded with what I brought her home for.

She started talking a lot during sex.  But not in a good way.  She kept calling me “white boy.”  Then she told me “Im used to guys telling me, oh I want you to be my baby momma.”  Now I don’t know who the fuck she was sleeping with prior to me, but I couldn’t help but laugh at what she had said.  That laugh quickly turned into horror when I thought about the fact that I wasn’t wearing a condom.  At this point I was just trying to finish as quickly as possible before I went soft.

The next morning I woke up around 7 AM with pretty bad hangover.  I rolled over and asked K if she needed to leave to get to her job.  She looked confused at first.  Then she must have remembered the lie she told me about working in HR and replied “No my boss is out this week.”

She grabbed her purse from floor to get her phone out of it.  In doing so a box cutter fell out of her purse onto my bed.  For some reason this triggered me to ask about her about the BUTTA tattoo.  She told me it was her ex boyfriends nickname and that he had a matching tattoo on his neck.  I smirked at her.  She countered that smirk by telling me that he was locked up for a double murder.

She continued to tell me interesting stories about her life.  Like the boob job she got in South America.  I asked why she would go to South America to get implants.  Her response was “They were cheap.”  She claimed her implants looked great, but she had to have them removed.  Apparently the cosmetic surgeon in Colombia didn’t practice in the most sterile environment and she got a massive infection.

I had heard enough of her stories.  It was time for me to get up, shower and get ready for work.  But I didn’t really like the thought of leaving this chick alone in my room with my rolex, my money and my credit cards.  I grabbed my things off my nightstand and brought them into the bathroom with me.  I was pretty certain if I left them in the room she may vanish and take them with her.

While I was showering all I thought about was, I hope I didn’t catch anything or knock this chick up.  My mind replayed the fact that I didn’t wear a condom or pull out.  I couldn’t scrub my body hard enough with the soap to get the dirty feeling off.  I pictured the tattoo, BUTTA.

I would like to say that I dropped K off on my way to work and never saw her again.  But that would be a lie.  We hung out one more time.  It was more of a nightmare then the first experience.  I couldn’t handle her so I left her at the bar.  And that was the last time I saw Butta.