If you want to know how rich someone is*, look at their toilet paper.
My uncle is dating a woman who lives in a beachfront mansion in Naples, Florida. She has really nice toilet paper. The kind that frees small fibers in the air when you pull it apart. The kind that feels like a plush towel gliding across your ass. The kind with pointless diamond designs and cute bear cartoons to rebrand the task you are performing into a refined endeavor.
I, on the other hand, live in an uninsulated, leaking basement apartment in Brooklyn with a roommate and our occasional guest, Charles the rat. I have really crappy toilet paper. The kind that you can see through like a slightly foggy window. The kind that leaves your hand damp and your soul crushed at the end of a wipe. The kind that's priced at .99 cents, instead of $9.99. Sure, if I sacrificed my large coffee and toasted bagel I could get the good stuff, but why would I allow such an injustice?
One day, I might measure myself by my toilet paper. One day, I will have the fluffy roll resting beside my shiny toilet. One day I will have fancy soaps and fresh flowers to go with that fancy toilet paper. And then I will know that I've made it. Because then everyone will think that I'm rich, which is the true goal of the average New Yorker, is it not?
* Maybe you want to know if the Picasso is real. Maybe it's your baby daddy and you want to know how much he can fork over in child support. Maybe you're just curious.