backpost: expectations

This was originally posted on September 16, 2009 at lemonlove.wordpress.com. I am reposting it here in case I lose that archive.

If there is anything foolish that I ever do that irritates my friends to no end it is invest in the lottery.

Powerball, Megabucks, oh you fickle gods of chance. I find myself dreaming of what I’ll do when I win. Buy a cottage, fix it up. Attend school full time, move into a fancy glamourous downtown condo. Pay off my parent’s mortgage. Travel to Australia. Visit DisneyLand for three weeks. Buy that black and white striped Ralph Lauren jacket. Buy more “rich white woman” nautical themed clothes in general. Ride a zebra.

You know, important things! Important things I need! Someday! It will be all mine, and I will dive headfirst into a pool of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck did in DuckTales.

I don’t invest a lot of money in the lottery–when it comes down to it, I’d rather have my dollar bill to buy a pack of M&M’s out of a vending machine, but I faithfully put my $2 in every other week and hope and pray and dream.

Yesterday my sister and I ran to the store to check our tickets. She went first, (“Sorry, not a winner”) and then I pulled out mine.

“Please see cashier.”

My mind exploded with excitement. A million dollars? A gabillionzillion dollars? Ten dollars?! The possibilities were endless. I impatiently waited in line at the customer service desk, flinging angry thoughts at the slow pokes in line ahead of me.

I tapped my red wedge flip-flops. I twirled my hair impatiently and I am completely, one-hundred percent guilty of glaring at the wife-beater wearing, bald man who oh so desperately needed to exchange this neon-green garden hose for the neon-green garden hose that was fifteen-feet longer and SERIOUSLY YOU CANNOT TELL THAT I HAVE JUST WON THE JACKPOT GET OUT OF MY WAY I HAVE A NAUTICAL-THEMED PASHMINA AFGHAN TO PURCHASE.

I finally got to the front of the line and thrust my ticket at Hal, the customer service representative. Hal smiled, took my ticket, inserted it into his machine and handed another slip of paper back at me.

“Sorry, hon,” Hal said, as he tapped his fingers on the plexiglass table, “Lately the system’s been all skewed and been tellin’ people who aren’t winners to come see me. Looks like it just did it to you, too.”

I accepted back my ticket and the receipt declaring that I didn’t win meekly and walked away, tossing both into the nearest trash can as my hopes, dreams, and plans of diamond-encrusted toothbrushes flew away.

It was then that Hal’s words hit me, and I was filled with indignation. People who aren’t winners. People who AREN’T WINNERS? I nearly turned around and gave him a what-for. How DARE he?! I am totally a winner. In fact, I am the winningest person around. I, Brittney, am a winner.

WINNER.

WINNER.

So I fluffed my hair, stomped my foot, and pulled out another $2 to invest in my future. I am going to prove Hal wrong.

I am a winner, Hal. You just don’t understand.

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