04/01/2026
I woke up yesterday morning with the kind of clarity usually reserved for people who drink green juice or wake at 5:30 a.m. on purpose. It hit me somewhere between my first sip of coffee and my third existential sigh: I am done. Finished. Retired—not from working, mind you, but from the idea that paper rectangles and invisible numbers get to decide whether I can buy a sandwich.
So I drafted my resignation email. It was short, elegant, and, I believe, visionary:
“I quit. Effective immediately. Money is no longer real to me. Who bases legitimacy of affordability on metals or rocks buried in dirt and caves anyway? No, screw that. Please accept handshakes, smiles, and general human decency as payment going forward. Warm regards.”
I hit send before my better judgment could unionize. For the record, it never did.
By 9:07 a.m., I had already paid for my second coffee with what I can only describe as a firm, emotionally supportive handshake. The barista hesitated—understandably—but when I added a reassuring nod and a smile that said, “We are pioneers in a new economic dawn,” she accepted. Progress.. though I noticed she immediately called a manager and pointed in my general direction as I sauntered out the door whistling “Bitch better have my money” by Rihanna. I imagine she called attention to me because she was highly impressed with my attitude and wanted to tell a friend.
At 12:15 p.m., I attempted to pay for my cheeseburger lunch using what I consider premium-grade goodwill. The drive-thru cashier, tragically, was not an early adopter. He countered with something about “legal tender” and “the police,” which felt unnecessarily negative given the spirit of innovation. I drove away with no deal, and no food. How rude. Two out of five stars for this establishment.
Around 1 p.m., I tried to buy groceries. I approached the cashier with unwavering confidence, offered a handshake, and layered in a compliment about their impeccable scanning rhythm. For a brief moment, I thought we had a deal. Then my apples, milk and Corona Lite were gently but firmly repossessed. Not a setback—just a market correction.
By mid-afternoon, I realized the exchange rate between smiles and sandwiches is wildly inconsistent. Some people value a grin at roughly one banana; others insist on archaic systems like “currency” and “receipts.” It’s a transitional period.
Still, I remain optimistic. Great ideas are rarely understood at first. The wheel? Confusing. Electricity? Suspicious. Co***ne in a cola? Quackery. My handshake-based economy? Ahead of its time.
So if you see me out there—jobless, hopeful, radiating aggressive friendliness—know this: I’m not broke. I’m simply operating on a higher, more human standard of wealth.
Also, if you could spare a sandwich in exchange for a truly life-affirming handshake, I am currently running a limited-time promotion.
