I won the lottery last week-
Yeah, I’m a millionaire-
Tell you the truth, I don’t even know what I’m doing here right now-
I should be out planning on where to get that new TL with total suede package with sub-woofer and custom designed glass rims-
Or the Denon 5000 turntables with personalized custom mats-
Or a big ass Victorian in Georgia for my parents-
But I can’t-
Because I didn’t actually win the lotto-
But I almost did-
Not almost as in I lost my winning ticket or didn’t play the winning numbers-
But almost as in-
Okay, well maybe I should say I really felt that I won-
I mean it wasn’t just wishful thinking that everyone feels when they buy a lotto ticket, but I really felt it, deep in my bones-
Like this ticket was meant for me-
Cause my hope superceded everyone else’s hope by a landslide-
My hope wasn’t hope, my hope was the truth-
Reality-
It was like Charlie, who knew deep inside that his chocolate bar held the Golden Ticket because he wanted it and he deserved it-
Yeah, yeah, I know-
Everyone wants it and everyone deserves it and my chance is just like everyone else’s-
One in 2 billion, 635 million, 537 thousand, 7 hundred and one (I didn’t make that number up, it’s right here)-
But that one was for me, solely me, with desperate finality-
Like trooping through Death Mountain when Link got the Lion Key-
Like the perfect diamond hidden through the ages by the Illuminati-
Like leaping off Kilimanjaro into the Dead Sea-
Hoping to scavenge Sea Scrolls deep within the reefs and swimming 10 miles to the surface just in time to breathe-
I need it-
It was for me-
It had to be-
The first number was the license plate of that car on 287 in front of me that stopped short, rearranged-
The second was the last two digits of the serial number of the car-jacker down the street, so it had to be played-
The third was how often that day my little old auntie prayed-
The fourth was how many times lazy I was portrayed-
The fifth, simple, my mom’s birthday-
And the powerball-
The sixth-
Is the five fucking digits I cannot part with-
That I wrote this page with-
That I grope hair crazed with-
Misanthrope phased with-
Slit her throat or stay gripped-
My sanity consistently slips quick as I daydream and nightmare to try and get clean or remain in a constant need of repair-
My 88 Cutless didn’t care, why should I?
Saying there’s a thin line between love and hate is kind of like a line between wishful thinking and a delusional state of mind-
You’ll find it in the DSM IV Manual classified under perpetual-loser-itis-
A sub-affliction of skews-the-truth-and-loses-focus-
A bona-fide psychological diagnosis-
These aren’t memoirs, they’re actually repressed memories I forget every morning when I wake-
So it’s hard to say how many check-raises I faked-
Or how many sorry-ass loser horses I staked so far-
Or how many transactions firepay-dot-com had to make before my bank account called me up and said, ‘Hey Dave, I can’t take being raped like this anymore!’-
Or how close I came to having my cake, of which I can’t imagine the taste, cause I never ate it-
And probably never will,
At this rate~