Millionaire

What does it take to be a millionaire? Well, the first thing one will endure is the initial chuckle or smirk someone sends out in response to the idea.

"I'm going to be a millionaire," one might say.

"Ha! Oh? You're serious," is the response.

It may not be much of a bother at first. What do they know about one's plans? But, eventually it grows frustrating. How is it that nobody believes?

Probably, one may consider, because they don't know how simple it can be.


Those one-in-a-million ideas that completely reinvent the way society functions aren't what makes a millionaire. No, those make billionaires. What makes a millionaire is determination and constant sacrifice.

"But," some may say, "a million dollars is nothing in today's world."

"Sure," one might respond, "but, you do not have one million dollars and look at what you have now. Besides, the goal is not to see how quickly the million can be spent--rather, it is to see how quickly the million can grow into millions."

A million dollars is not a lofty goal. It isn't something one may acquire only through inheritance. It isn't as far fetched an idea as winning the lottery. So, what does it take to become a millionaire? It takes determination and constant sacrifice--constant sacrifice.

If one gives something up for ten years, one can spend the next twenty or thirty years indulging in that thing. No vacations for five years means the most amazing vacations for the next five years or two vacations a year for the next ten years.

Less money spent now means more money to spend later. And, not just the money saved--that money multiplied by compound interest will grow significantly through years of proper handling.

It doesn't take very much. It's quite a simple thing to do, really. Spend less than what comes in and keep the rest for later, and eventually one is a millionaire and all of those people who smirked before are jealous now.

The moral here is that, no matter how many smirks, laughs, and "Oh, I hope you're right,"s one may get, one will become a millionaire. And, one's friends will have an amazing time at the party when it happens.

My Grandfather

I used to go hunting with my grandfather when I was a kid. We'd go on the weekends almost every weekend; it was the highlight of my weeks. We would go to this reservation a few minutes from his house and it was like an adventure—it was so exciting, having to be quiet and getting to carry a gun. When I became a teenager, we would share a few beers while we were out and he'd always tell me, “Don't tell you're parents I'm giving you this.”

It was pretty much the only time we'd ever spend together; going out hunting, drinking, goofing off. I loved it more than anything and I could see in his eyes that he enjoyed it too. I killed my first buck, cooked my first squirrel, shot my first turkey, and my first duck with my grandpa and he was always so proud of me when I'd get one. I was thirteen when I shot my first buck, a little four-pointer absolutely nothing to brag about, but you couldn't tell me or my grandfather that. We came back to his house, where my parents and siblings were waiting and I just strutted up to the door with my chest puffed out and quietly, with a smug look on my face, pointed to the back of the truck where my prize was sitting. That was the best deer meat I had ever eaten.

As things go, I got older and the trips started spreading out more; some of it was my life catching up to me and some of it was my grandfather being less able to keep up and go out as much. We still enjoyed a good hunt together, but it became an annual thing, no more once a week or once a month trips for us. It was still just as much fun as it had ever been, and I still looked forward to it every year, counting down the days until our hunt together.

One year, I was twenty-five at the time, he called me up and asked if I was gonna make it to the hunt this year, but I told him I was just too busy this time; I'd have to get a rain check. Truth is, I was going out with friends to bars and clubs to pick up chicks and get wasted; we were gonna have so much fun out that night and we'd get so much pussy it would hurt. Found out the next day that my grandpa had an accident while he was out hunting. He was trying to climb one of the fences out there and half-way up had a heart attack and fell to the ground. He died alone out there because I wasn't with him.

I never forgave myself for that. If I had been out there maybe I could have helped him and saved his life, maybe it never would have happened if I'd gone with him, he wouldn't have had to exert himself carrying all the stuff and he would have had my help climbing the fence. There are so many maybes, but it's my fault he died and I have never been able to forgive myself for that.

Maybe I Am the Bad Guy

It's hard to do, you know? Getting a real job; earning real money. And, stealing and vandalizing is so much more fun anyhow. And, hell, it's easy. That's what I'm really looking for, right? Easy. So, here I am in some rich bastard’s home, trying to figure out if this is what I really should be doing. And I guess it is. It's the easiest thing for me to do, and, to be honest, after doing it for so long, why should I quit now? Why shouldn't I take this DVD player or this computer monitor? It's just sitting here unattended, ready for me to pick up and shove into the trunk of my car. It's just sitting here in this little suburban utopia where the houses all have two floors and the fridges have food in them--where the mommies and daddies buy their kids presents on Christmas. Nobody will miss their stuff for long. Hell, they'd probably throw it out in a few weeks for better stuff anyway.

And, you know what? I love smashing their matching plates and glasses on their shiny kitchen floors. The echo they make in this big fucking house is just too satisfying for me to stop. And what do these people expect anyway? They flaunt their big houses with the well-kept lawns and the fences around their yards in their little gated communities and practically say “Look at us; we have stuff worth stealing!” What do they expect when I have to live out of my car and I have to donate plasma for food money and they sit here comfortably with all this useless shit?! I'm not the bad guy here. I'm the fucking victim.

Maybe one day I'll live in a place like this. Maybe one day I'll have two refrigerators full of food and a pantry and a laundry room and I'll be able to sit on my own big couch and turn on my own big television. Maybe I'll come back from my office job and kick off my shoes and pass out in my own big recliner with the air conditioner on high, bundled in a blanket. My wife will wake me up for dinner and my kids will kiss me and tell me they love me.

I'm not trying to be the bad guy here. I'm just trying to survive and maybe show these people that their shiny little sheltered lives aren't all that's out there. Show them that there are people like me still out here in the world, stealing to survive and wishing I could live like them. It's not like I haven't tried to get a real job. But being treated like shit by an anal retentive boss in a job I hate for the rest of my life just isn't appealing. At least, not as appealing as this.

These people probably deserve this stuff; I'm not stupid. They probably worked hard for it and sacrificed a lot. But, I've sacrificed a lot and worked hard too. I deserve at least a piece of this stuff, but what do I have? Haven't I given up enough: my friends, my family, my life? Just so I could shit on the lives of people who probably don't deserve it? Didn't everyone always say “Go chase your dreams. It doesn't matter what you do as long as you love doing it?” Well, I chased my dreams and failed; now I take away other people's dreams.

I don't know; maybe I am a bad guy. But somebody has to be.