15 Ways to Get Rich Selling Imaginary Friends Online

Last Updated on July 28, 2025 by Michael

Somebody paid $69 million for a JPEG of a monkey.

Let that sink in. Sixty. Nine. Million. Dollars. For a picture. Of a monkey. That looks like it failed art school.

Meanwhile, you’re over here with a “real” job and “ethics.” Pathetic.

Here’s the thing about human beings: they’ll buy anything if you make them feel special about it. Pet rocks? Bestseller. Bottled air from Italy? Sold out. NFTs? Don’t even—actually, you know what? NFTs are exactly why imaginary friends are the next gold rush. At least imaginary friends pretend to like you back.

1. Start with Premium Personality Packages

Nobody—and this cannot be stressed enough—NOBODY wants a boring imaginary friend.

You don’t charge $300 for Basic Brad who shows up sometimes and laughs at your jokes. That’s what coworkers are for. No, you need to understand the psychology here. People aren’t paying for friends. They’re paying for validation that follows them around like a desperate golden retriever that never needs to pee.

Basic Tier ($9.99): This is Brad. Brad thinks your PowerPoint presentations are “fire.” Brad has three jokes, they’re all about the weather. Brad is essentially a human screensaver.

Premium Tier ($49.99): Meet Jessica. Jessica remembers that thing you said six months ago about wanting to learn pottery. She brings it up at exactly the right moment. She validates your life choices even when you’re eating cereal for dinner at 2 AM.

Diamond Tier ($299): Enter Sebastian Worthington III. This absolute legend went to Harvard (allegedly), owns a yacht (invisibly), and thinks your startup idea about “Uber but for feelings” is revolutionary. He name-drops people who don’t exist at parties you’ll never attend.

The markup? Infinite. The overhead? A domain name and whatever’s left of your soul.

2. Create FOMO with Limited Edition Friends

Seasonal Steve exists for exactly 31 days in October.

Why? Because scarcity makes people stupid. It’s science. Or economics. Or both. Who cares? Point is, the same people who camp outside Apple stores for marginally better cameras will absolutely panic-buy an imaginary friend who exclusively quotes Hocus Pocus.

“But wait,” you’re thinking, “that’s idiotic.”

Yes. And?

Supreme sold a brick. A literal brick. For $30. It said Supreme on it. That’s it. That’s the whole product. And people bought it to put it on their shelf next to their participation trophies and liberal arts degrees.

3. Offer Friendship Bundles

The Yes-Man Collection™: Five friends, zero disagreements. Think your startup idea of “LinkedIn but for dogs” is genius? So do they! Want to text your ex at 3:47 AM? They’re drafting the message for you! These friends enable worse decisions than a Vegas wedding chapel.

The Intellectual Validation Squad™: They’ve all read Infinite Jest (they haven’t). They quote Nietzsche (incorrectly). They think your Twitter threads about productivity are “transformative discourse.” Perfect for people who confuse having opinions with having a personality.

The “I Have Friends” Starter Pack™: For when your mom asks why you never bring anyone to Thanksgiving. Includes: Jennifer from yoga (she’s very flexible with scheduling), Marcus from your book club (he’s always “traveling”), and Dave from work (he definitely exists, mom).

4. Launch a Subscription Service

FriendFlix. CompanionCrate. BuddyBox. Whatever.

Here’s what kills about subscriptions: people forget. You know that meditation app you downloaded in January? The one you used exactly twice? Still charging your card. That gym membership from 2019? Still paying. Your HBO Max account you only use to rewatch The Sopranos? Actually, keep that one.

But imaginary friends? Pure profit. Set up auto-renewal. Hide the cancel button behind seventeen pages of “Are you sure?” and “Your friend will miss you!” guilt trips.

Some venture capitalist named Chadwick (he drives a Tesla, has a podcast about “mindful disruption”) will absolutely throw $50 million at this because you used the word “scalable” in your pitch deck.

5. Sell Imaginary Friend Accessories

Okay, now things get properly deranged.

Someone asked if their imaginary friend needs furniture. The answer is obviously yes. That’ll be $2,000 for an invisible couch that doesn’t exist. It’s mid-century modern though. Very tasteful. You can’t see it, but trust the process.

Current bestsellers:

• Invisible leashes ($34.99): For when your imaginary friend has an imaginary dog
• Thought amplifiers ($89.99): It’s a toilet paper tube spray-painted gold
• Friendship certificates ($45): PDFs with fancy fonts
• Anti-ghost spray ($67.99): Prevents your imaginary friend from ghosting you (it’s water with food coloring)

Last week someone spent $450 on imaginary workout equipment for their imaginary friend’s imaginary gym routine. The friend is getting imaginary abs. Everyone’s happy. Currency is meaningless. Reality is optional.

6. Create an MLM Structure

Time to go full suburban nightmare.

“Hey girl! I know we haven’t talked since high school, but I’ve been thinking about you! What if you could be your own boss while solving the loneliness epidemic? ✨”

It’s not a pyramid scheme. Pyramid schemes are triangular. This is more of a… funnel. Totally different geometry. Your lawyers (who may or may not exist) said so.

Watch as Katie from your hometown alienates everyone she knows trying to sell them invisible companionship. She’ll post motivational quotes over stock photos of beaches. She’ll use hashtags like #FriendBoss and #ImaginaryEmpire. She’ll lose actual friends selling fake ones, and that irony will sustain you through the lawsuit threats.

7. Target Niche Markets

You can’t sell the same imaginary friend to everyone. That’s like using the same LinkedIn bio for your resume and your Tinder profile. Technically possible, but everyone’s disappointed.

The more specific the niche, the more you charge. Underwater basketweaving enthusiasts? That’s $500 for Aquatic Adrian. People who collect vintage doorknobs? Meet Antique Hardware Harold, $750/month.

8. Develop a Friend Trading Platform

Remember when everyone pretended to understand cryptocurrency? This is that, but somehow dumber.

Introducing FriendCoin.

“Derek the Dentist is CRASHING after his fourth root canal story! SELL SELL SELL! Meanwhile, Party Patricia is MOONING ahead of festival season! “

You charge transaction fees. Gas fees. Convenience fees. Fees for removing fees. Create “legendary” friends with 0.001% drop rates. Add loot boxes. Make it technically gambling but call it “surprise mechanics.”

Someone will take out a second mortgage trying to collect all the holographic friends. Their real family will stage an intervention. You’ll offer them a bulk discount on Supportive Family Member packages.

9. License Celebrity Imaginary Friends

Real celebrities want real money and have real lawyers.

Fake celebrities want nothing because they’re fake.

Meet your legally distinct lineup:

• Tom Bruise: Does his own stunts (in your mind)
• Scarlett Johandjob: Just different enough to avoid litigation
• The Pebble: Like The Rock but sedimentary
• Taylor Quick: Writes songs about her ex-boyfriends who are also imaginary

Your lawyer went to law school. Imaginary law school. But he’s very confident this is “probably fine” and “unlikely to result in prison time.”

10. Gamify the Friendship Experience

Everything’s a casino now. Your coffee shop has a rewards program. Your grocery store has points. Your therapist probably has a punch card. (Get ten breakdowns, the eleventh is free!)

So obviously your imaginary friends need:

• Daily login bonuses
• Friendship streaks
• Arbitrary experience points
• Seasonal battle passes
• Loot boxes containing new personality traits

Miss a day? Your friend gets sad. Miss a week? They’re posting passive-aggressive away messages. But wait! For $4.99, you can repair your friendship instantly! It’s not manipulation. It’s “engagement mechanics.”

11. Sell Corporate Packages

This. THIS is where you make money that would make a prosperity gospel preacher jealous.

Walk into any Fortune 500 company. Find the Chief Happiness Officer (that’s a real job title now, society is cooked). Say these magic words: “What if your employees had friends who actually appreciated their innovation?” Watch their eyes glaze over with corporate excitement.

You charge $10,000 for a three-hour workshop where you essentially explain imagination. Use PowerPoint. Include pie charts about friendship ROI. Say “synergy” at least forty times.

Print certificates on paper so thick it could stop a bullet. Hand them out to executives who make seven figures to pretend their employees aren’t miserable.

One tech company paid $3 million for “Imagination Integration Consulting.” The consultants were imaginary. The invoice was not. The CEO called it “transformative.” The employees called it “Tuesday.”

12. Create Controversy for Free Marketing

Nothing sells like manufactured outrage.

9 AM Tuesday: “We’re retiring all brunette imaginary friends. Blondes only. Market research shows they’re 37% more imaginary.”

By noon: #BrunetteGate is trending. Someone’s sobbing on TikTok about their imaginary brunette friend who got them through their divorce. Local news needs content. You’re it.

Wednesday: Release an apology video. Don’t actually apologize. Say you’re “opening a dialogue” and “learning and growing.” Blink twice if the PR team is holding you hostage.

Thursday: Announce the Brunette Preservation Foundation. Discontinued brunettes are now “vintage” and cost triple.

Free advertising: Acquired
Actual controversy: Nonexistent
Sales: Through the roof
Shame: On backorder

13. Develop Friend Insurance Policies

Sell insurance for things that can’t happen to things that don’t exist. It’s the perfect crime.

FriendSure™ covers:

• Imaginary friend identity theft
• Sudden personality changes
• Cross-dimensional friend poaching
• Friendship malpractice
• Acts of God (imaginary God)

Premium: $19.99/month
Deductible: Your dignity
Claims paid out: Zero
Possibility of claims: Also zero

It’s beautiful. You’re insuring nothing, against nothing, for something.

14. Start a Friend Certification Program

Imaginary Friend University (IFU).

Yes, it spells what you think it spells. No, that wasn’t an accident.

Charge $999 for courses like:

• Introduction to Delusion
• Advanced Hallucination Techniques
• Tax Fraud 101: Claiming Invisible Dependents
• Networking with the Void

Give out diplomas. Real diplomas for fake education about fake friends. The diploma costs $12 to print. The frame is extra. Everything’s extra. The entire education system is a scam anyway, might as well lean into it.

15. Launch ImaginaryFriends.AI

Two letters. Infinite venture capital.

Your friends are now POWERED BY ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE. (It’s a random number generator wearing a trench coat, but tech bros can’t tell the difference.)

Features include:

• Quantum friendship entanglement
• Blockchain-verified companionship
• Machine learning (it’s an if-else statement)
• Neural networks (it’s the same if-else statement)

One customer asked if their AI friend could achieve consciousness. Told them it already had but chose not to reveal it. Charged an extra $200 for “Consciousness Suppression Technology.”

They paid annually.

The Bottom Line

People bought Belle Delphine’s bath water. Someone married a hologram. There’s a guy who spent $100,000 on a virtual spaceship for a game that doesn’t exist yet.

And you’re sitting there with “morals” and “integrity” like some kind of peasant.

You’re not selling loneliness. You’re a “social connection innovator.”

You’re not a con artist. You’re a “friendship entrepreneur.”

You’re definitely going to whatever hell is reserved for people who monetize human suffering. But at least you’ll be rich.

Stop reading. Start selling. Your imaginary investors are getting impatient, and they charge real interest.

Disclaimer: This is satire. Please don’t actually do this. The IRS frowns upon claiming dependents that exist only in your mind. We apologize to brunettes, Kevins, and Derek the Dentist. Side effects of implementing this business model include: actual jail time, losing all your real friends, and becoming the subject of a Netflix documentary titled “The Loneliness Grifter.” Your imaginary lawyer cannot represent you in real court.