As I sat staring at the pile of 105 $20 bills resting lightly in my hand I realized that many people have died over sums less than that of one of these bills. That people have gone to great and elaborate measures putting themselves and others in danger for that which I am holding in my hand. I stare at the money. It is old money, it has been in circulation for years. This is not movie money, crisp and bundled with a tight red ribbon around the middle, this is money which is used. This money has been worked for. Four hours of minimum wage work went into each one of these bills. That's 420 hours of minimum wage work in my hand. People invest huge amounts of time, effort, and love into the making of money, but in the end it's just an artificial way of regulation. It oppresses those without it and lifts up those who happen to be good at making it. No on who had accumulated 27 billion bottle caps would be held in high esteem, except possibly as a crazy loon, and yet look at the value and stature given to those who have billions of little green pieces of paper. I thought of this as I stared at that pile of paper. It was more money than I had ever had in my possession, and yet I had no trouble handing it over to my manager, not even a tingle of jealousy or desire for those pieces of paper which could not adequately reflect the worth, the love, or the compassion of the spender pervaded my being. They were devoid of meaning to me at that moment, and shall forever remain to me an arbitrary measure of ones worth which attaches no value to the bill other than the numbers on its face.