“Good luck.” It’s always “good luck.” Never has there been a wink and a “see you soon.” I get that would probably be collusion or some shit, but how often do I have to come in here and buy stale potato chips and a $7.00 quick pick before “good luck” becomes “good job?”
Someone in Alberta is always winning. A $50 mil ticket was sold there this goddamn week––the CBC’s website made sure to rub that news in my face. I would do great things with my winnings. I’d rescue a shelter cat, neuter it (not myself, but with my winnings I could go to vet school and learn to neuter.), buy it a really nice scratching post with three-to-four different levels for it to explore, then buy a house for myself so the cat doesn’t have to be trapped with me in my sweaty little bachelor suite with its three-to-four level scratching post blocking the way to the bathroom. I’d definitely put its litter box in the bathroom too. It’d be real cute to take a simultaneous shit with your cat.
Of course I’d donate to things if I won. Food banks. Hungry drives. My cousin’s app he’s working on that detects early onset halitosis. It wouldn’t be all about me. Sure, obviously some of it would. The authentic (and autographed) Bonnie “Prince” Billy face cast would cost a few pennies. The discovery and tapping of the aquifer on my new property would cost a few more. But winning the lottery for me is really a selfless act. Think of the cat, the hungry people, and my cousin. Deshi, come on.