My Roommate Bought A Lamborghini With His Stimulus Check—And Now He’s Living In My Couch
You know how everyone’s always saying, “If I had a Lamborghini, my life would be perfect”? Well, my roommate, let’s call him Chad (because of course), actually took that to heart. And now I’m writing this from my own bathroom floor because he’s sleeping on my couch, and I can’t afford the therapy bill.
So, buckle up, buttercup. This is the 2024 American Dream, Redux.
Let’s set the scene. It’s March 2021. We’re all still pretending we’re going to come out of this pandemic as better people, but Chad has other plans. The government drops a stimulus check—$1,400 for each of us, plus a little extra for dependents. Most of us are like, “Cool, I’ll pay off that credit card debt from buying too many sourdough starters.” But Chad? Chad sees an opportunity.
Now, Chad is a guy who works part-time at a vape shop. He lives off of ramen and the sheer audacity of his own existence. He’s the kind of person who unironically says, “Bro, the universe will provide.” And the universe did provide: $1,400.
But here’s the kicker. Chad didn’t just blow it on a PS5 or a month’s worth of avocado toast. No, Chad decided to play the stock market. Specifically, he went all-in on a meme stock that was already circling the drain like a drunk goldfish. He bought options—yes, options, because why gamble with your own money when you can gamble with borrowed leverage?
And, against every law of physics and common sense, it worked. He turned that $1,400 into $85,000 in about three weeks. I came home one day and he was screaming at his laptop, wearing nothing but boxers and a grin that would make the Joker jealous. “We’re going to the moon, bro!” he yelled, while I tried to figure out if he was having a stroke or a spiritual awakening.
Fast forward two weeks. Chad is now the proud owner of a 2015 Lamborghini Huracán. Not new, not even clean, but it’s got that loud, obnoxious, “look-at-me” energy that perfectly matches his personality. The car is matte black with neon green accents, because subtlety is for people who don’t want to get pulled over by the cops for simply existing.
The first week was a spectacle. He drove it to the 7-Eleven. He drove it to his mom’s house in the suburbs. He drove it to pick up a pizza, and the pizza guy was so confused he almost dropped the pepperoni. I’ll admit, it was kind of fun. We took a cruise down the highway, blasting “Money” by Cardi B, windows down, feeling like we’d finally hacked the system.
And then the bill came.
See, Chad didn’t think about the insurance. A 25-year-old with a part-time job and a Lamborghini? That’s not a driver, that’s a risk assessment. His premium is more than my rent. And the gas? The thing gets 15 miles per gallon if you’re lucky, and it requires premium fuel. He’s literally driving to the gas station, filling up for $80, and then driving home to cry.
But the real kicker? He can’t afford to live anywhere.
He was paying $600 a month for his share of the rent—a steal in this economy, I know. But after the car payment (yes, he financed the rest), the insurance, and the gas, he’s broke. He asked me if he could crash on the couch for “a week or two” while he figures things out. That was three months ago.
Now, I’m not a saint. I’m not even a nice person. I’m a Reddit user with a mortgage-level coffee habit. But I’m also a guy who values his personal space more than a hermit crab. So when Chad started leaving his vape juice stains on my Ikea sofa, I snapped.
I gave him an ultimatum: sell the car or move out. He looked at me like I’d asked him to sell a kidney. “But bro, it’s my dream car! I worked so hard for it!”
“Chad,” I said, “you clicked a button on Robinhood while taking a dump. That’s not hard work. That’s a dopamine rush with consequences.”
He didn’t listen. Of course he didn’t. So I did what any reasonable, slightly unhinged person would do: I posted the situation on AITA. “AITA for telling my roommate to sell his Lamborghini or get out?”
The response was glorious. Top comment: “YTA for not charging him rent in the form of Lamborghini rides to the grocery store. Use that man’s stupidity for your own gain.” Another: “NTA. He made his bed. Let him sleep in it. But also, that car is probably worth less now than the day he bought it. Classic depreciation + idiocy tax.”
And then I had a thought. What if I could make money off this disaster? I’m a writer, after all. I pitched the story to a few outlets, but they all said it was “too unbelievable.” So now I’m here, writing this for the sweet, sweet karma and maybe a few clicks.
In the meantime, Chad is still here. The Lamborghini is parked outside, slowly accumulating bird droppings and parking tickets. He keeps the keys on a chain around his neck like some kind of financial chastity belt. And every morning, I have to step over his vape pen and a half-eaten bag of Takis to get to the kitchen.
So, I’m asking you, dear internet: what do I do? Should I sell his car while he’s sleeping?
Final Thoughts
After reading this piece, I’m struck by a simple, brutal truth: money isn't just a medium of exchange; it’s a mirror reflecting our collective anxieties and deepest values. We chase it for security, yet it often amplifies our insecurities; we treat it as a tool for freedom, only to become tethered to its accumulation. Ultimately, understanding money isn't about mastering spreadsheets or markets—it's about confronting the uncomfortable silence when you ask yourself what you're truly trying to buy.