Coffee run
A latte with whatever syrup makes a Tuesday a Tuesday.
A game, not a budget app
Pick a monthly or annual surplus, then go shopping. Coffee runs, sneakers, a Tesla, a small yacht, naming rights to a stadium — we’ll keep score while you build the spree.
How much have you got to play with?
Roughly $19,680/yr at this rate.
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Enter an annual salary above to find out how much you’ve made while deciding whether to buy a tiny horse.
Tiny purchases that fix a Tuesday.
A latte with whatever syrup makes a Tuesday a Tuesday.
Two beef patties, mild regret, undeniable craving solved.
Two hours of dark room, one bucket of unreasonable popcorn.
Large pie, garlic knots, no dishes. The deal of the century.
Buy the book everyone keeps quoting. Read it eventually.
Thirty days of ‘let’s just watch one episode.’
Tokens, skee-ball, the slow accumulation of paper tickets.
Two scoops, sprinkles, the small thrill of choosing waffle cone.
Foam, vacuums, the disturbing thrill of a clean dashboard.
A fill-up. The vehicle is grateful. Briefly.
Soft, oversized, immediately your favourite.
Foam soles, summer footwear with strong opinions.
Boring on the outside, deeply attractive on the inside.
One month of ‘oh no, the water heater’ insurance, prepaid.
Stab the principal. The principal hates this.
Pay tomorrow-you. Tomorrow-you would like a hug.
Index funds: the quiet, boring billionaires of the lineup.
Tax-advantaged money for the bones you’ll inevitably break.
An hour of expensive listening. Surprisingly load-bearing.
Pennies a day to be unambiguously the good guy in your will.
Decide who gets the espresso machine. Reduce group-chat blast radius.
Find out what’s wrong on purpose, before something finds out for you.
Pay the gym every month, attend twice, retain moral high ground.
A grown-up afternoon and a much smaller mess later.
Forty minutes that prevent a four-figure engine surprise.
The single best thing you can do for braking distance.
Three hours of someone else’s vacuum. Worth more than dollars suggest.
Sets aside the worst-case ‘deductible’ so it doesn’t become an emergency.
For the day the sink decides to communicate with the basement.
Eating, drinking, performing happiness in public.
Cloth napkins, candles, mutual eye contact. Worth it.
Omakase energy on a Wednesday. Soy sauce on the new shirt.
Dinner that requires both bibs and life choices.
Negroni, smoky thing, Negroni again. Pretend you’re cosmopolitan.
Six wines, a cheese board, and the word ‘legs’ used unironically.
Eggs Benedict, six lattes, two hours of group decision paralysis.
Lower bowl, average view, life-altering chorus.
Two-drink minimum, one belly-cramp guarantee.
Close enough for the jumbotron. Far enough to keep your dignity.
Ninety minutes of being a very expensive cucumber.
An hour of vibrating regret. A lifetime of conversation starter.
A two-hour ovation for being the kind of person who throws this.
Tacos, sliders, churros — your neighbours suddenly know your name.
Toys, gear, reasons to open another tab.
Tiny computers that politely cancel the world for you.
All the camera you’ll ever need. Still won’t make you a photographer.
Either three sleeping hours or your next personality trait.
RGB everything. Smells faintly of plastic and pure joy.
Fast enough for everything, light enough to actually carry around.
Now you can see the actors’ pores. Truly the future.
The good camera that will live entirely on a shelf. Worth it anyway.
Aerial shots, alarming buzz, three lawful flying spots in your city.
Hisses dramatically. Saves real money in year two.
Five speakers, one subwoofer, neighbours who finally call.
Workout in your living room. Punch a virtual cube. Sweat profusely.
Wheel, pedals, shifter. You will drive faster than any real car you own.
Print one Yoda. Cure all desire to print anything else for six months.
Carries the same stuff. Says different things about you.
New shoes won’t make you faster. Will absolutely make you happier.
Carries the same stuff as a $40 bag. Says different things about you.
A small rock. A large moment.
Time is a flat circle. This one is stainless steel.
It fits. The whole room can tell. Hard to overstate.
Subtle? No. Confident? Absolutely.
UV-rated. Outfit-rated. Plane-window-fogging-rated.
Someone tells you what to wear. Suddenly your closet works.
Six new staples, two splurge pieces, one bin for the closet purge.
For the gala you’ll absolutely be invited to any day now.
Memories you can dine out on, literally.
Two nights, one tank of gas, zero meetings.
Strange kitchen, strangers’ art, strong opinions about the duvet.
Two oceans, three timezones, one passport stamp you’ll mention forever.
Magic, churros, and the cardio of your life pushing a stroller.
Eight buffets, three pools, one karaoke night you’ll think about for years.
A lie-flat seat and lifelong elevated expectations.
Three cities, two trains, one impromptu Italian lesson.
Big animals, small jeep, photos no Instagram filter improves.
Three days of headliners, sunburn, questionable sandwich choices.
Twenty minutes of seeing your city the way it sees you back.
Tickets, flights, hotel, the smug satisfaction of having been there.
Open bar, soft pretzels, parking included. Behave.
Ten minutes of weightlessness, a lifetime of casually mentioning it.
Loud, fast, occasionally sensible.
The most rational purchase in the catalog. Will outlive us all.
A truck for the occasional thing you absolutely need a truck for.
Sub-5-second 0–60, autopilot that occasionally swerves at shadows.
Fun, dangerous, occasionally a personality. Helmet included.
Six months of bragging, six months of trailer-storage politics.
The cheapest month of boat ownership. The others are worse.
Street-legal in seven retirement communities. Lights, speakers, suspicious horn.
Climb hills like a casual show-off. Arrive everywhere not sweaty.
A scooter that earns you a small unjustified accent.
Two doors, eight cylinders, one insurance company on speed dial.
Six-foot tires, eleven-foot ego. Parks like a battleship.
Mobile kitchen, mobile bathroom, mobile bickering.
Walls, roofs, suspiciously large kitchens.
Pavers, lights, a small grill. Suddenly hosting season.
A small lake of bubbles. Increases backyard charisma 300%.
Squat rack, plates, mirror. Best-case: you use it. Worst-case: nice coat rack.
New counters, paint, fixtures. Sudden interest in hosting.
Step one of a multi-year backyard renovation. Bold of you.
Roof, inverter, the rare household purchase that pays you back.
Three hundred square feet of intentional living. Bring fewer pants.
Wood smoke, loon calls, a screen door that always slams.
Salt-air balcony, HOA you’ll come to know personally.
Five bedrooms, two staircases, one suspiciously named ‘great room.’
Things you absolutely do not need and absolutely deserve.
Yes, an actual small horse. Mostly the price is hay. We checked.
For when state law and your taste in cats disagree.
Five days of someone returning your emails. Profoundly healing.
Eight hours of someone calling you ‘sir’ unironically. Highly recommended.
You will arrive on time. Always. Even your phone is impressed.
Five dinners, three lunches, no dishes. Your guests will move in.
Twelve minutes of being unanimously beloved.
A certificate. A vibe. Astronomers will quietly disapprove.
Oil on canvas. Your grandkids will absolutely sell it.
A bookshelf that opens. A small lounge. One regret about the price.
From the loft to the living room. Statistically the happiest stairs upgrade.
Function: average. Form: deeply unhinged. Resale: terrible.
Glasses, bubbles, a single satisfying pour. Photo: mandatory.
Lasts four hours. Photographs for decades.
Choices a billionaire would call ‘bold.’
Indie budget, 17-day shoot, your name in the credits as ‘executive producer.’
Your face, the highway, twelve seconds of attention per car.
Your logo, 200 mph, occasionally upside-down.
Royalty, marketing fee, the specific joy of approving a new sign.
Quiet, cash-flowing, the most underrated investment in the catalog.
Twelve units, twelve tenants, twelve new opinions about HVAC.
Two pilots, one cabin, infinite ‘sorry, just landed.’
Six staterooms, one crew of twelve, weather-app dependency.
Floor 32. Express elevator. The view answers the why.
‘Just’ 1%. Box seats forever. You can wear the jersey unironically.
Eight acres of sand, palm trees, slowly improving Wi-Fi.
Cube-sat, low orbit, a small bright dot only you understand.
Brass plaque, polite applause, never-ending invitations to the gala.
Three minutes of orchestrated joy at scale. A specific kind of legacy.
Logo, lab coats, a press release. Mars: cancelled. Bragging: forever.
Your last name in five-story letters on a national broadcast.
What people ask before they spend their imaginary money.
CanYouAffordIt is for entertainment and ballpark planning only. Real insurance quotes, sales tax rules, dealer fees, loan approvals, and maintenance costs vary by location, vehicle, and credit profile. Before signing a contract, talk to a human you trust — and read the fine print.