defining one's chances

I can't get the Lotto out of my head this week.

Ever since I was a small child, I had the implausible and unshakeable conviction that I was going to win the lottery. This weekend I'll write about Ed McMahon and my baptism dress -- how they are inexorably linked for time and all eternity.

But for now I have to ask myself: why is this fantasy so persistent. It involves many layers. There is the trust I would set up to pay for the education of my family's descendants; The loans I would pay off for friends (promises I have articulated to them, years ago, and probably every few months since we've known one another); the lit mag I could start; the graduate school I could afford; the loans I could pay off; and then there is the ultimate -- something I wasted an entire subway ride on yesterday -- how I would tell my parents.

I could tell them to print out a credit report, wait for them to do it, and then tell them all of that worry, all of that stress, all of that burden -- is over. I could send a crew of construction workers to the house to finally patch those uncovered vents and the decay of the barn. I could scream or I could deliver it deadpan (my preference). I could call my grandmother first and let her break the news to them. I could fly out, arrive at their doorstep with a check to pay off their mortgage. I could. . . you see how this goes on. I get stuck in the vastness of that moment -- the gift, the relief, the burden lifted.

I can't stop thinking about it. Powerball, Mega Millions, King Kong Millions (for a limited time only). I think this is how gambling addicts start, right? Playing Keno or video poker. Luckily, that's not legal here. I got snowed into a hotel in Portland (iced in is more accurate) and they had video poker in the bar. It was a long strange night. I don't think I could actually spend large sums of money -- just time, energy, and all of this idiot hope*.

(*that being said, I partially wrote this entry so that when I win it will look like prescience.)