If I think rich will I really grow rich?

I am in the middle of a creative visualization, manifestation experiment. What I am about to write is true in my altered reality:

I am rich and my life is wonderful. My husband is incredible. He’s the most handsome man on the planet. At the moment he’s waiting in our incredibly spacious bedroom wearing my favorite white lounge pants and shirt. He’s reclining on our plush Kreiss sectional from the Agassi Graf collection reading Atlas Shrugged. He looks so very intelligent in his reading glasses. He is waiting for me to finish this post and come to bed. He wants to make love. I am not particularly in the mood myself but I don’t like to deny him too frequently. He’s so good about respecting my feelings when it comes to that matter, and it has been a couple of weeks. It might be good for me to try to have a little fun anyway.

I am in the adjoining den where I do my blogging in the evenings. I am seated at a beautiful mahogany desk. The room smells richly of pine. It’s a spacious room. One wall is lined with book shelves and stacked with books. I am feeling at peace. Happy. Rich.