I’ve maintained a specific financial surplus in a private vessel for nearly two decades now. It’s not about the money itself, but rather the containment of a particular domestic variable. My partner—the person I share this suburban cage with—possesses a psychological compulsion to renovate everything that functions perfectly well. It’s a fucking sickness, honestly. If they knew about the inheritance, this house would be gutted by Monday morning to make room for some architectural vanity project that serves no functional purpose other than to impress the neighbors at the next driveway cocktail hour. I’ve observed their spending habits from a distance, documenting the consistent lack of impulse control with a clinical sort of detachment.