Fuck Literally All Our Lives: Mariah Carey and James Packer Have His’N’Hers Mega Yachts

Okay, so I'm not exactly what you'd call "rich" or "wealthy" or "somebody with the means to ever conceivably retire." Most of the time though I feel like I'm doing okay. I keep my Guy Fawkes mask hidden away in a drawer. I'm fine—I'm satisfied.

But I have a shameful secret. At some point in my life, perhaps around age five—maybe it gripped me in the womb—I began believing that money really could buy happiness. I don't feel good about it: I feel ashamed. Deep down, I am what they call "a cappo dog." A beast, a hound, salivating over the thought of a fancy house in Calabasas.

I bet a lot of people feel this way: because it's simple. Business class flights are more enjoyable than economy, fresh sushi makes you less inclined to vomit than suspect 7-11 California rolls. In a very tangible way, money makes your life better.

So buried, burrowed, and squirreled away deep within me is a desire. A dream, if you will. A dream to stave off the burden of being with gold bullions.

Today, that dream died. And it all began with this sentence: "Climb Aboard the Yacht Mariah Carey is Calling Home for the Summer."

Of course, I climbed aboard. To see how to other half live: to fantasise. I jumped right on to that yacht at the behest of a site called Entertainment Tonight. What did I see? I saw Mariah Carey. She was wearing a diamante encrusted bra. She was beautiful.

The ET host talking to her was quite noticeably flustered, which we would literally all be if we were standing upon a megayacht while Mariah Carey's boob diamantes caught the sun, blinding us. I want be there. I want to be blinded by Mariah's breasts too.

Mariah says the yacht is "really nice," in same tone one would describe a hideous drawing by a child that we must pretend to like so their creativity isn't stifled at too young an age.

"You and James have his and hers yachts," the nervous ET host says.

Excuse me? May I pause? Please sir, can I have some rewinding of the tape? They have two mega yachts to live on for the summer?

Yes. Yes they do. Mariah's has six bedrooms; however, three of them are filled with gold coins, and cannot be used to accommodate guests.

Would you like to know how much this yacht costs? $340,000. Obviously that's not the cost to purchase it outright. That's how much it cost to rent. For a week. One single week. Plus, another $40,000 on fuel. Is that "outrageous"? "Obscene"? I don't know. I do not know.

And yet, Mariah still gives nothing more than a weak smile. It is like I am pigeon, and she is throwing me the smallest breadcrumb—pretending to be "wowed" by the yachts, so I don't feel bad about myself. She doesn't care though. I can tell.

The camera now cuts to James Packer's yacht. But it's not a yacht. It's literally a military ship. I genuinely believe this is a decommissioned vessel James bribed the Australian Navy to give to him. It has to be.

Does the fact her fiance owns the seventh largest privately-owned vessel in the world elicit an element of "human" "emotion" in Mariah? No. It does not.

Wait, now we're back in Mariah's yacht.

At this point, I realised something. Mariah's totally pissed. I love it. It's amazing. She's at a point in her life where she literally does not care enough about an interview to refrain from getting completely drunk beforehand. It is, how do you say: #goals.

But, as much as I love Mimi being wasted, it also suggests she might be kind of bored on this yacht. And I don't love that. Because this yacht has become my dream. This yacht has, in three short minutes, come to represent "happiness" for me.

Mariah's his'n'hers yachts are the pinnacle of wealth. They are what money can buy after money has already bought everything else. They say: "I'm literally inventing things that I want now because I already bought everything I've ever wanted."

I want that. But if Mariah has that, and doesn't particular care that much about it… does that mean… money… hasn't bought her happiness?

I'm freaking out, dude. These fucking yachts represent Wealth Mountain, a peak which Mariah has climbed to the summit of. But she's just sitting there, bored enough to try and spice up some interview by getting totally fuckeyed.

Everything is falling apart. It's now night time on the yacht(s), and this strange look comes over Mariah's face. It's is the sort of smile you plastered on at your first-ever job, where some haggard chef used to verbally abuse you for folding serviettes wrong.

This is the look you give while you're holding back tears because somebody you really like doesn't want to fuck you anymore and you're acting cool like you totally also wanted to keep things casual too and it's not big deal at all and you'll definitely still hang out as mates.

Can't you see it?

One yacht can't make Mariah Carey happy. Two yachts can't make Mariah Carey happy—nothing will ever make her happy. So nothing will ever make me happy. All I wanted was one dream: a dream that wealth bringing me a perfect life, insulated from boredom, self-loathing, and depression. I didn't want to actually achieve it, necessarily, I just wanted to believe it was out there.

But it's not. Mariah knows that, which is why she's trying to flee on a third, smaller boat.

I learn this third boat is used to ferry the couple between their respective yachts, both anchored off the coast of Italy. Fantastic. Great. May I also anchor myself off the coast of Italy? Perhaps, say, at the bottom of the ocean? I have just learnt that sadness is inescapable no matter how wealthy you become, so I would just like to take a little nap there.

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