My name's Cass and...

I’m an idiot.

Each week I spend $4.90 on an auto-pick lottery ticket and each week I am sure I will win.

During the week, I guard the ticket as though it was the soul of my first born child.
When I walk to the newsagency to ‘cash’ it I am dizzy. Dizzy with the massive mental influx of vicious yet soothing thoughts of just how f*cked I will tell people to get once my millions are nestled in my account. (This really goes to show just how little I care for so many people in my life.) *1
I walk in, heart racing, eyes drawn to the chocolates and lollies that surround the counter.

“If I win, I can buy 20 million Caramello Koalas.”

Nerves. Handing over of the ticket. Chinese man puts ticket into machine. A moment. A moment that seems like an eternity. The sound of till drawers opening in my head.

“You win nothing. Wanna buy ‘nother ticket?”

Three grammatically flawed words, shattering my hopes and dreams. Soul crushing heartache and intense desperation. Facing of the fact that I will have to go back to my crappy desk and close the only windows that I see in there: the internet windows of real estate and travel agents. Those- the windows of hope in a windowless office- will not be required by me and my now non-existent American Express Platinum Card this week. *2

*

So that was today. The week before it was his wife. His wife that has an Adam’s apple and big hands, but she’s still pretty hot.
Yes, she’s usually the one who breaks my heart. I hate her now, you see? I didn’t used to hate her, but this is what the lotto does to people.
By her being the middle man (figure of speech - not pointing any fingers. The Adam's apple could just be a weird physical flaw) between me and my lotto winnings, and effectively standing between me and my chance to tell my managers how sick they actually make me, she has become another one of them. Another person I would sooner leave behind.
Having said that, on the day she does announce that I am, in fact, the millionaire I have been aiming to be all these months, I feel my hate will subside.
Unless I’m 85 and on death’s door- without even the hope or the energy to be able to spend my fortune. Then, I will probably muster all the strength I have left in me and punch her in the head.
Having said that, if I’m still working here when I’m 85, I probably would have killed myself ages ago so again, she gets off Scott free*3.

Anyway...people like to remind me that I have more of a chance getting struck by lighting than winning the lotto. Well, I turned to the ever reliable source at everyone’s fingertips – the internet – to study this theory further.

Chances of winning lotto are 8,145,060 to 1 and getting struck by lightning: 1,603,250.
Apparently 2000 people around the world get hit by lightning each year. Another site tells me that 1000 people in North America get struck by lightning.

So I’ve figured it out. If HALF of the entire lightning strike victims are American, that means that I am TWICE as likely to get struck by lightning and TWICE as likely to win lotto if I am in the US! Sometimes, people even get struck while they’re inside! What are the chances! How lucky are they? They should go out and buy a lotto ticket, I reckon.

So anyway- can I borrow $2000? I need to buy a plane ticket. I'll pay you back when I win lotto or when I sue the sky for electrocuting me. Either way, I'll be a millionaire in no time.



*1
I worry- will my fated lotto win not take place until I have cleared my hate plate enough to be modest in my fortune? Do I need to become, like…at peace with my life’s shortcomings before I can be offered more for nothing?
Because, Universe, I’ll have you know that it’s not nothing, okay!? I spent 5 bucks on that! Compared to how much I earn, that’s a lot of money.

*2
And do you know what the saddest part is? I bet there’s a better, more awesome card than the American Express Platinum Card, but I’m too financially non-descript to even know what it’s called.

*3
Ummm…who is this ‘Scott’?
I did a little research: The term is actually scot-free, and it’s got nothing to do with a person.
‘Sceot’ is old English for a tax. Someone who managed to avoid paying this medieval tax was known to have gotten off ‘scot-free’.
I think we’ll all be able to sleep a little tighter having had this burning question suitably extinguished.