Thing with lotto

A lottery ticket would sit for weeks in my wallet. Even months.

My idea has always been that the odds of winning depend on how much nonchalant you are toward it.

I would pretend to forget, and when the time is right I would be surprised to find one tucked neatly within my billfold.

“Oh! A lottery ticket!”

Regardless of the chances, lotto gives you something to look forward to, say a private express plane, my own zen island or a producer’s credit.

I would be wolfing down on five-digit truffles for breakfast and would fund a research on a super drug that would make me perpetually float, fetus-like, in orgasm.

This phase is something I am inclined to prolong as long as I can, feeling that I’m worth millions until I finally decide to verify if I actually won.

Sometimes I really get hard up, and hold on to some of the tickets forever by stashing them away in a nondescript cardboard box so that I can never check them.

By the time I hit 70, I will have, through hard work, made myself a billionaire, bored enough to sit on acres of lottery tickets to look for some lost treasure.

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