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.
