I Hate Your Ruse, Lottery
I play Mega Millions every Tuesday and Friday. Being the imaginative young man that I am, I always believe that I am going to win. When a pot goes unclaimed and swells, I naturally assume that the man with the beard who lives in the clouds and makes rainbows and puppies and Adriana Lima is making the pot fatter so I can have more money to spend on beach houses with deck-anchored water cannons and silk overalls and shoes made of gold. This is just the way my brain works. I also think that when more money is added, it's so I will have enough cash to settle with the people who I smash in the face with lemon meringue pies as I ride around my office on a motorcycle, naked. Again, this kid's brain works in mysterious and disturbing ways...
But these are some of the many reasons why I hate the Lottery. It's tricky. It's slimy. It's like that guy at the San Gennaro festival who tells you can win a Playstation 3 and then hustles you out of $50 as you try and toss a washer around a milk bottle. It continually brainwashes me into thinking I can actually win, that the 38,000,000 to 1 odds don't matter. When I hand the Pakistani dude at the deli a $5 and he says "good luck," I say to myself, "no need, my mustached friend, I got this locked up," as if it's a done deal. I see cars pass on the street and I scoff, "Pshhh, you only have the 500 series? Ever hear of the 700 series? Well that's the one I have - in MY BRAIN..."
Sometimes I start imagining what my resignation email will say. I decide who I will express sincere gratitude to, and who I will burn the shit out of...Hey Sheri, I just thought that you should know that YOU ARE A FUCKING DICK AND EVERYONE HATES YOU, INCLUDING YOUR BOYFRIEND, WHO'S CHEATING ON YOU WITH AN INTERN. AND YOUR BREATH SMELLS LIKE ROTTEN ASS. SO FUCK YOU, I'M OUT.
I think I imagine stuff like this because my brain refuses to concede the mediocrity of my career thus far, and wants to make the jump from young, go-getter to comfortable retiree before I hit 30 years old. I know this is ridiculous and lazy-thinking, but c'mon, who wouldn't want to spend their days sipping on some vintage McCallum, hanging out on your sick deck staring at the ocean while you laugh and laugh at all the schmucks who have to go to work each morning. "Oh hey, Jim. What's that? You're at work finishing quarterly reports? Oh, I'm sorry, I can't hear you, the MOTHERFUCKING ATLANTIC OCEAN IS SO LOUD TODAY..."
And yes, I realize I am a dick.
Again, I know that this is pipe-dreaming at its worst. But I still go out and play the game, giving my money to the Lotto man in hopes of a lump-sum cash payout, thus allowing me to make a bonfire of pleated Banana Republic khakis and Van Heusen shirts and Aldo shoes, and to also be able to BCC you all on the scolding email blast I send to Sheri. Because seriously, she sucks.