I was the wolf of Wall Street. Money was my life. I ate, slept and breathed it. And, if I do say so myself, I was pretty good with making it. I was on the fast track to being a partner with my brokerage firm and life was pretty good. That was, until a series of bad buys and a market dip put my finances in the toilet.
Oh, and everything that I didn't lose in the crash, my soulless harpy of a wife took in the divorce. I guess once I couldn't afford to keep her high-maintenance, over-tanned, surgeon crafted ass in Prada anymore, suddenly I was much less attractive. Last I heard, she sold our Manhattan loft to move into a penthouse with whatever poor sap she's leeching off of now.
Me? I got to keep an old turn of the century house in Colorado. It was an old property that I got in a will and I guess she decided I could keep it because it required actual work and the closest town, Red Moon, has neither a mall nor a Starbucks. Suits me fine though. I'm tired of money and tired of the useless rich. I married one. Hell, I was one. But hitting rock bottom makes you evaluate life. I looked back on my lifestyle and decided I was kind of a douche.
So, I moved out to Colorado. I'm fixing up that old house. I opened up a used book and antique store. It suits me. It pays the bills and I get the pleasure of pursuing reading and flea markets. Something I found I'm actually mildly passionate about. I guess I'm still figuring out who I am underneath all the Armani and whether or not I can learn to like him again.