Sky high stacks

I want to be a millionaire. So fucking bad. I want sky high stacks of cash. Like this:

I want to not worry about paying my next phone bill. I want to enjoy central heating rather than cover myself in layers of blankets.

I need money because I want to travel the world. I want to follow summer. I want to drink cocktails in New York, climb Kilimanjaro and walk Milford Sound. I want to paddleboard on the Okavango delta, circumnavigate Uluru and drink vodka while watchig the sun set over the ocean in Broome. I want to do the walking pub crawl across the UK and Scotland. I want to eat croissants explore the catacombs of Paris. I want to dine outdoors on pizza in Florence. I want to traverse the canals in Venice. I want to shop on Fifth Avenue and watch the ball drop on New Years in Times Square. I want to walk the great wall of China and see the pyramids of Giza. I want to glamp at Longitude 131.

I have expensive tastes. I like nice things and I don't want to settle for second best. I want massages and facials, hair treatments and pedicures. I want a car with iPod connectivity and money for iTunes. I want diamonds and jewels. I want pretty clothes - a silk singlet, dresses galore and some tailored jackets. I want shoes. Lots of pretty shoes. I want to eat out and go to the movies. I want to drink cocktails. I want an en suite and undercover off street parking.