For people like him, the world is just one long series of transactions. The human is the superior being of the Earth and, as such, he owes no amount of comparable respect to the underlings that plague his existence. No, everything else exists for his amusement. A high roller in a room full of card tables who just pawned all his precious metals and expects to be waited on.

Money is the ultimate filler. Filler for personality, insecurity, just about anything he might be short on. Its power over him cannot be overstated and he wields it like a sabre but with the skill of a jester. When it fails to smooth over his rough patches, those patches become craters. He wonders endlessly how the people around him chaffe at his generosity. Were they not dined at a delightful restaurant? Did I not treat them to a spectacular event? He cries his dissatisfaction out into the night like a coyote on the hilltop. 

“Freeloaders!” he cries to them, “how, after everything, do you not love me as I expect?” Missing entirely the irony of a person who soured their generosity by cashing in on their loyalties. Soon, any inconvenience to him is a slight against his past favors. Somewhere along the way, these people that he loves have lost the freedom in their lives to make choices for themselves. Anything can be used against them now. Their relationship devolved into yet another ledger that he can summon. 

Surely he must realize, they imagine, that he’s missing completely all the worthwhile parts of a relationship because he is too busy keeping score. Like everything else in life, he believes that he has paid for a certain kind of experience. He’s shelled out for the dinners and the little getaways or small tokens, and now he wants what he came for. But it escapes him that what someone brings to the table, albeit a little different than what he expected, is often better because it’s something he couldn’t pay for. And that is the real currency of life.