I’m a millionaire—well, in a manner of speaking. At 40, I’ve clocked in over a million seconds on this planet. Speaking of “in a manner of speaking,” what does that even mean? Does it mean I can conjure a manor just by speaking it into existence? Because that would be amazing! I could use a mansion. After all, I am a seconds millionaire.
But what if you’re a writer? You’re not actually saying the words; you’re writing them. Does that still count? And if it doesn’t, what about those invisible walls mimes keep running into? Maybe they’re not invisible at all—just glass. I wouldn’t want to live in a glass house. They say people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, and I’ve been known to throw a few stones. I’ve also thrown a few parties. And a party in a glass house? No, thank you. I’d end up going through a year’s supply of Windex in one day.
And there’s another thing—what if a fire broke out? It’d be like living in a giant casserole dish. Now, I like casserole as much as the next person, but I think I’ll pass on being the main ingredient.
Come to think of it, living in a glass house would be more like living in an aquarium. And I’d need gills for that. Last I checked, I’m no gillionaire. Million seconds or not, I happen to quite like air.
So, in a manner of speaking, even at my ripe old age of a million seconds, it seems the only way I’m getting that dream home is in my dreams.
