I want to be a winner and yet I can’t.
For my birthday, along with the tickets to see Anthony Bourdain (my personal god), Miss Carol gave me a bunch of those scratch-off lottery thingies.
Thanks babe. Can you maybe steady the pistol while I blow my brains out?
These glittery jewels of scratchy hope are the most despairingly tiny little roller coasters of dashed dreams I’ve ever seen.
Their glitzy little whispered promises of $20,000, 10X, $50,000, bonus prizes, and millions and millions, make your palms sweaty and your nerves twitchy.
So you get caught up in it and you scratch.
‘Cause you’re drawn in. Who doesn’t want free money? And pulled in, you play the game, whether it’s matching PAYDAY NUMBERS or Aces and 8’s or bingo numbers or, my fucking favorite- The Super Bonus Crossword.
And you work it and you sweat and you hope and when the scratchin’s done and the scratching shavings are everywhere?
Nada. No way baby, not here, not now, not today, not never, now get your ass HOME boykins.
But, even through the relentless loserness, I keep trying, keep thinking, keep hoping, that my fortune is just a scratchy scratch away.
What DO they put on those things?