"I enjoy money"

The utterance is disarmingly candid. Three words slice through elaborate pieties around art, purity, and compensation, replacing coyness with clarity. “Enjoy” sits between “need” and “worship”: it neither pleads nor grovels, nor does it bow to greed. It claims a right to pleasure without apology, a statement of boundaries as much as taste. Money here is not a villain or a savior; it is a source of comfort and delight, acknowledged without guilt.

From the vantage of a working performer, such candor affirms the value of labor. Especially for women whose ambition has often been policed, admitting pleasure in compensation asserts self-worth. It resists the romantic myth that true artistry must starve to stay pure. Enjoyment emphasizes the lived realities money affords: safer travel, better instruments, studio time, health, autonomy, the power to say no. It hints at agency rather than avarice, suggesting that financial well-being can nourish creativity instead of corrupting it.

Culturally, the line challenges a reflexive suspicion of wealth by reframing enjoyment as gratitude and stewardship. The phrase invites ethics rather than asceticism: use resources, share them, build something enduring, and savor the security they bring. It also exposes a discomfort many hold, expecting artists to float above commerce while consuming their work voraciously. The brevity becomes a mirror: what flares up in the listener, envy, judgment, relief, reveals more than the statement does. The power lies in refusing a false dichotomy: one can love music deeply and enjoy money openly. That fusion of honesty and joy punctures a culture of pretense and scarcity, making space for a healthier conversation about value, reward, and the right to take pleasure in what one’s work earns. It is a compact permission slip: to work well, be paid well, and allow delight to coexist with integrity, generosity, and unapologetic dignity of being compensated.