Diary of a Billionaire Real Estate Artist

🌟 Editor's Note

It isn’t about money in the bank — it’s about wealth in time, presence, and the rituals that make a life feel like art. Every day is a house, every hour a room, I am both the architect and the inhabitant. Real Estate Art is something I made up with my Imagination. Thanks for reading:)

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August 27, 2025

🌅 Morning

9:00 a.m.
I wake up with no alarm, no panic. Just the soft call of light across my eyelids and Emmy Lynn’s soft paw on my face. First: water. A reminder that I am fluid, adaptable, never stuck. Then Emmy, my cat — my direct telegram from God. To stroke her head is to say thank you to the universe. Her purr is my scripture. The memories of how I used to pray for her flood my brain in gratitude.

9:15 a.m.
The glass rectangle lights up. Emails, texts, DMs. My Mission: INBOX ZERO.

It’s discipline. Can I sift through chaos without being consumed by it? Can I keep my energy sovereign in a marketplace of demands? Every message is either a door or a drain. I respond to everyone. Like they are real people passing by. Whether they are local or foreign, truck drivers or CEO’s of big companies. A Movie Star is the attention she receives. Maybe I’m naive, but everyone is worthy of my time. They just have to ask.

10:00 a.m.
Coffee. Strong, dark, unbending. It’s less about caffeine, more about ritual — the act of sharpening the day’s edges. While I sip, I write. Sometimes it’s a concept, sometimes just a line or phrase. Social Media is an instant feedback machine so I post a lot in the mornings to see what engages people and develop ideas from that.

Real Estate is my theme, words are my rehearsal.

If the sun is out, I stroll outside and grab a hot soy latte from the local Coffee Shop: Sasso or Starbucks depending on the mood. I say good morning to everyone, pet the walking dogs, respond warmly to cat calls. I watch the Men hard at Work in their hard hats and stained shirts. That is a hormonal boost that can keep me going for hours… I give money to the homeless man on the way.

With my coffee in hand, eyes lifted to the sky — sun gazing, recharging like a solar panel. The sun is one of my biggest priorities, my silent business partner.

If it’s hot enough, everything else gets canceled: meetings, plans, obligations. The beach becomes my boardroom. The waves take the minutes, the horizon keeps the agenda.

Outwardly, it looks like indulgence. Inwardly, it’s strategy. What’s more powerful than aligning your schedule with a star?

11:00 a.m.
Back home, I move my body.
The body is the first property deed I’ll ever sign.
I dance — tango, ballroom, modern. I shadow box. I hold planks. I stretch into yoga. Sometimes I mix it all together. It’s less about form, more about reminding my body it was built for expression, not just survival.
Movement is how I sign my name across the air.

🏠 Midday

12:00 p.m.
I clean. First, I pour bleach into the bucket, that sharp smell rushing up like a signal that things are about to change. I dip the rag, wring it out, and start scrubbing — counters, sinks, tiles. Every stroke pulls me deeper into rhythm. I wash the dishes, letting the warm water rinse more than just plates. I sweep the floor, watching dust gather into little piles of the past.

There’s something holy about it — the undoing of chaos, the reclaiming of order. It feels like hitting reset on my own mind. When the space shines, so do I.

I love cleaning. A broom is a witches best friend.

1:00 p.m.
Sometimes I eat, sometimes I don’t. It depends on my cycle, on how I feel. I don’t always keep it light either. Almost every day, I’ll have ice cream. It’s not a treat, it’s a ritual. A small joy I don’t negotiate with myself about.

Discipline builds strength, but pleasure keeps me alive.

2:00 p.m.
I sit down to write. Sometimes it’s notes in my journal, sometimes it’s whole pages pouring out. I organize ideas, make videos, check my goals and calendars. This is when I line up the inner world with the outer one — vision meeting logistics.

Dreams don’t work unless they’re scheduled.

3:00 p.m.
I shower. I love water on my hair, my face, my skin. I shave everyday because I love feeling like silk. Exfoliate every inch of my skin.

Then comes the ritual. Moisturizing is not an afterthought, it’s a ceremony. I take the lotion in my palms, warm it, and smooth it across my body like I’m writing love letters to my skin. Face, neck, chest, arms, legs — I don’t skip a single inch. My skin drinks it in. And it’s not just one type. I layers body oils, fragrances, creams, and sparys.

This is where I obsess. A woman’s glow doesn’t come from rushing. It comes from the slow attention she gives herself when no one is watching. Makeup can wait. Glamour begins here, in the quiet act of tending, oiling, softening.

I know it’s sexy — not because anyone sees it, but because I do. Because every stroke reminds me: this body is mine. This body is art.

Moisture is memory — and my body remembers every touch I give it.

3:30 p.m.
I dress up. The outfit always depends on my mood — sometimes sleek, sometimes playful, always intentional. I take time with my makeup, sculpting, shading, adding light where I want it. Lipstick is never casual; it’s declaration. When I’m done, I don’t just look different, I feel different. Gorgeous. Untouchable. Ready.

Transformation isn’t magic — it’s makeup, fabric, and the will to be seen.

🌆 Evening

4:00 p.m.
I usually go to work. Waitressing. But I don’t see it as “just” a job — it’s the place where I show off all my talents. The walk from the kitchen to the table is a runway. The way I balance plates and drinks is choreography. The smile, the timing, the banter — performance. My body remembers the tango steps from the morning, and they slip into my movements between tables.

At work, I get to be glamorous and efficient, charming and fast, graceful under pressure. I treat every guest like an audience, every shift like a stage. They think I’m serving food, but really I’m practicing presence, charisma, patience, endurance. All the traits a billionaire real estate artist needs — polished nightly under fluorescent lights.

Work is never wasted when you turn it into rehearsal.

5:00 p.m.
The restaurant fills. Lights dim, voices rise, glasses clink. This is when the performance begins. I glide between tables, balancing trays like extensions of my body. My heels click out a rhythm against the floor.

The dining room is my stage, and I never miss my cue.

7:00 p.m.
The dinner rush. Orders pile up, people wave their hands, the kitchen shouts. I don’t break. I speed up without losing elegance. I know how to hold ten different energies at once — the impatient, the flirtatious, the bored, the grateful. I become a mirror, a chameleon.

Charm under chaos is my superpower.

9:00 p.m.
Slowing down now. The tables clear, the noise softens. I still move with intention, because beauty isn’t only for the first act. It’s for the closing, too. The last glass polished, the last tip pocketed.

How you end is how they’ll remember you.

10:00 p.m.
After work, none of us go straight home. We gather outside, still in our uniforms, still glowing with the sweat of the shift. Someone pulls out a bottle, someone else lights up. We take shots, the liquor burning down but waking us up at the same time. Cigarettes glow between fingers, blunts pass from hand to hand. Smoke curls around us like a veil, blurring the night, making us untouchable.

The crew laughs — big, messy, unfiltered laughter that only comes after hours of holding it together for strangers. We trade stories, confessions, gossip. Someone leans against the wall, someone dances in the parking lot. My lipstick smears on the rim of a shot glass, my perfume mixes with ash and weed, and suddenly it feels like we own the night.

It’s rebellion, but it’s also family. This is where the armor comes off, where we’re just ourselves again. The world doesn’t see us like this — wild, loud, free — but we see each other. And that’s enough.

Excess is also holy when it’s shared.

🌙 Night

12:00 a.m.
Eventually the crew scatters. I walk home, tips tucked away, smoke still in my hair. The city feels different at night — softer, slower, like it belongs to me. Streetlights guide me, each one a little altar.

The world is most beautiful when it finally shuts up.

1:00 a.m.
Back home. Shoes kicked off, clothes in a pile. I wash my face slowly, watching the day’s mask swirl down the drain. Then I moisturize again — always again. My skin drinks it like a secret.

Beauty is maintenance, not accident.

2:00 a.m.
The house is quiet except for Emmy’s paws padding across the floor. She curls up beside me, purring like she did in the morning. Full circle. I write down a few notes — what I saw, what I felt, what I don’t want to forget. The diary always waits for me.

Every day is a performance, but only I get to keep the script.

3:00 a.m.
I drift into sleep. No alarm set. Tomorrow will come when it wants to.

Dreams are just rehearsals for the life I’m already living.

“The tip is the plot twist that decides whether I remember you or not.”

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