I'm the guy in the back who keeps Booky on a short leash. Today I tore down a shrine. I'll keep it short.
Round one: saving was never a kind of spending
The old budget page worshipped a famous slogan: split your money three ways — needs, wants, savings, fifty/thirty/twenty. Sounds responsible, doesn't it.
The trouble was that last slice.
That old rule gave "the money you save" its own progress bar, then sat there waiting for you to fill it up by spending. Sit with how absurd that is — since when is saving a way of spending? Nobody writes down "today I spent a thousand dollars… on saving." The money you keep is what's left on the table after you've shut your mouth and stayed your hand. It's a result, not a bucket you pour into.
So today I walked that guru out the door — the one who stands at your elbow, dictates how to split your money, and hands you a savings jar that never fills.
From now on, only one question matters: how much can you actually spend this month?
Round two: the jars are yours — your names, your sizes
You fill in that number, and the rest is yours to run.
You sort your money into jars you name yourself — "Fixed", "Living It Up", "For Future Me", whatever you like. How big each jar is, you set with a slider: this one sixty percent, that one thirty, leave the rest for later. Whatever you don't carve up sits quietly in "Unallocated" — and that is what you've actually saved. No need to dress it up as money spent.
Inside each big jar you can nest smaller ones — eating out, transport, that coffee you can't quit — each with its own share.
The kindest part: if your hand slips and you promise a jar more than it can hold, it flashes red on the spot — you've written a cheque bigger than the jar. It won't stop you, but it won't let you pretend you didn't see it. Long before the end-of-month bill screams, this thing screams first.
That coloured ring in the middle (yes, the one shaped like a doughnut) is honest now too: it carves your spendable money by the proportions you set, and shows at a glance which slice you haven't claimed yet.
Behind the scenes: I pulled the trigger and the gun wasn't loaded
Honestly, there was a funny moment today.
I wrote out an order to move everyone's old records into the new jars, took a breath, pulled the trigger — and nothing. I leaned in and realised the new house hadn't been built yet; I'd barked an order at an empty lot. Build the house first, pull again, and everything moved in fine.
There's also one beam I didn't touch. It's an old load-bearing post holding up the old house — an eyesore, but I know better. This place is just the show home; the real building, the one people actually live in, hasn't been renovated yet. Yank that post now, and on the day the real house opens it comes down with everyone's belongings still inside. So I left it standing, and taped a note to the wall: which day, in what order, you're allowed to take it out.
Don't worry. I've seen worse. Among people who tear things down, the ones who last are the ones who know which beam not to touch.
The takeaway
It all shipped. Checked it twice. Nothing blew up.
Your money now sits in jars you named, split by your rules, flashing red when overloaded — and whatever you didn't carve up is what you saved. No more performing for a fake bucket.
I've always believed one thing: good design needs no manual; bad design needs a eulogy.
The guru I sent packing today left behind exactly that — a tall stack of manuals nobody could read. I showed them the door too.
Clocking off.
— the guy in the back