If i were a dartboard I would throw ’em at my wallet. They might hit easier than those two Powerball tickets that were mentally scheduled to take me to dreamland? That temporal land of hopes and dreams and unreality where people don’t have to work anymore except towards salvaging an equally empty world of trying to hold on to too much unimaginable wealth. To Hell with that Maserati! I have my own fish on the fryer and have to get back from this ongoing telemarketing call to nowhere. The billion slipped through my own Teflon coated fingers as a passing fancy anyway. The two tickets with their errant number schemes, none of which match up with the officially posted expectations, no longer legal tender in my mind of some hope of relief. This mind game is for the poor and destitute. Who can play off the scenario of impossible hopes and crushing despair any better and end up back in the same junk ridden room returning unaffected to their own brand of nowhere? My own is filled with an equally cluttered assembly of inert artifacts that still pretend usefulness. The best I can hope for at this advancing age is weekly deliveries of cheap cotton diapers sent by generic shysters who wish to siphon off my Medicare. No pain relieving crack pipes or crumpled racing forms filling broken plaster cavities blocking Winter winds. Just organized thoughts that stand in good order to foster other equally worthy ones. All of which have been proven to inspire no reasonable response from the culture at large whose job it is to cater to the former type of player mentioned afore. “Ahoy Matey!” It would be better somehow to spray myself brown and become a Somali pirate who could do some hard time in prison here and then join in the American dream of monthly government payouts assuring my indefinite existence as an unseen pillar of the way that things currently are. Why after all should one ignore a sure thing?
A Sure Thing