This evening I was going about my nightly routine of ironing my work clothes for the next day, and began thinking out loud about how much I hate ironing. I never get the creases right, it takes forever, and is generally a giant pain. I remarked out loud that if I ever became fabulously wealthy, I really wouldn't want much out of life. But I would want someone to iron my damn shirts and such. And maybe someone to make some custom shoes for my chubby little feet. And a room full of armadillos running about at all times. Basically that would be it. I love cooking, and would miss that. I'd especially miss trips to the grocery store, as I have a perverse love of clipping coupons and going to the supermarket each week (it's like a treasure hunt!). And I wouldn't know a designer purse if it hit me upside the head. I wouldn't make a very good rich person.
"Yeah," said Mark. "You'd make a shitty Hilton."
I think that's one of the greatest compliments I've ever heard.