When rich people invite me along on their wealthy expeditions. Part of me wants to leap in and live it, and the sane part of me knows being there and seeing doorknobs worth more than my car will just make my blood boil and I won't have any fun. And that sick, queasy feeling I get when a rich person offers to buy me something. It's somewhere within the passing tidelines of infinite gratitude and inexpressible rage that my heart is stuck drowning. The absurdity that all of our money ended up in the top 1% of our population and for no good reason besides sneaky greedy people and their offspring's weak-wristed paper-signing.
Yes, friend, that's the toy I want. No, I'd rather eat a dead rat than accept your tainted charity. Go play your social games and watch your bank accounts grow of their own monstrous accord while I work my life away for nothing.