Now that we’re rejecting everything in the material world that is not aesthetically or sensually pleasing, we’re doing a lot of reevaluation around here at House of Vomitola. We cast a critical eye on all aspects of our lives. Do our turbans protect us from the assaults of the workaday world? Are our sunnies shielding us appropriately from the unkempt and otherwise unappealing?

I was personally sent for a tailspin the other day when it turned out you can have good things, but not too much of a good thing. I awoke with the most frightful headache, and careful reflection led me to diagnose myself first with brain cancer, then glamour fatigue, then exhaustion and dehydration. I was getting ready to call the Mayo Clinic when my house cleaner suggested that it might be…a hangover. WHAT?

I stumbled out to meet the day, unclear as to how Champagne Wednesday could be at fault for my condition. How could Armand de Brignac hurt me? I decided to go to work, as it is perfectly acceptable to be useless there. I still work because I need that “me time.” An underling asked why I was cradling my head on a velvet pillow while reclining on my Persian carpet. What was the occasion for the festive indulgence? Well, it was WEDNESDAY. What else does one do?

Against Lambchop’s bitter protestation, I got a farm on eBay in a fit of tipsy impulse. While I was at it, I got an uninhabited island off the coast of Panama, but I’ll deal with that later. I also considered buying that town from The Hunger Games and filming complicated Twilight fanfic reenactments in it.

So. The farm. It’s…well…farmy. Not what I expected at all. No one showed up to greet me with a cheese plate! The animals smell quite strange. I really did not want to know where filet mignon comes from after all.

Apparently there are people out there in America who can’t have nice things. I was absolutely stricken to find this out. Did you know that to farm, you have to do work? There is dirt. Flies. It’s not all tumbles in the hay loft. And hay is ouchy anyway.

As a result of my little lifestyle experiment, I came to the painful realization that if I can’t have nice things, I don’t want to have any things. If I can’t have bespoke custom measured thousand thread count sheets, spun from 24 carat gold, I don’t want to sleep. If I can’t have European white truffles grated onto my tongue, I don’t want to eat. If I can’t glance at the hour on a Patek Philippe Supercomplication, time should stop.

I think I’m a Buddhist now.