I knew a guy once, true story¹, who was walking down the street, minding his own, when, without warning, he tripped over something and fell to the sidewalk. He was a little embarrassed, and he’d skinned up his knee pretty bad. Annoyed as well, he looked at what had tripped him. It was a giant diamond that sat right next to a pirates' chest full of gold. That guy, who's kind of an asshole, is now the third richest man in his tri-state area. I relay this snippet of a tale because it illustrates luck. Blind, dumb, jackass luck. It happens². People get lucky⁴. No other explanation for their good fortune.

My question to the universe is: Where the fuck is my luck, bitch⁷?

Wait, wait, read me out. See, I know that there are many, many, many people who have it worse than me. Really, I do. I am very much aware of that. But it doesn’t change the fact there are many people who have it better. There are people who are so rich that they use $100 bills to wipe their butts⁸.

It’s not just about money… but it mostly is. Some folks are born into it, and they have no idea what it’s like to have to work some menial job to earn even a tiny fraction of it⁹. Those folks, the Paris Hiltons of the world, are often looked down upon by the regular folk¹⁰. And sure, there are plenty of reasons to look down upon vapid, soulless, spoiled brats who wallow in money they didn’t earn in anyway, shape, or form. No arguing that.

Me? Yeah, there’s this whole feeling that something is cosmically unfair when someone who offers nothing to the world has everything while someone else maybe doesn’t have the monetary means to realize or develop the potentially great things they have to offer, no matter how much they try and work. That’s a crime. Decent poor folk co-existing with rich folk who are just rich and didn’t have to do anything for it. Buuuuut…

I want to be one of them lucky rich bastards.

Well, okay, I don’t want to have anything to do with most of them, but I want their money. I want to get lucky and come across a bunch of money. Oh, man, how great would it be if, instead of worrying about whether or not I can afford filling up my gas tank or paying my bills, I could swim around in a room full of gold coins Scrooge McDuck style? Or what if, instead of being unable to afford a ticket to fly home to Ohio from vicious Hell A, I had my own plane¹¹? Better yet: I’d buy Airwolf.

That’s the kind of rich I’d like to be -- able to purchase fictional super helicopters from 80s TV shows. Damn!

In my not-that-lucky real life, I work, but the work isn’t going to get me rich. I write, but I’m not looking to become a million -- or even a thousandaire off of it¹². The only way I’m gonna get that mad, mad super money is through sheer luck.

And that kind of luck seems to be sorely lacking for me. Is it one of those things where people make their own luck through their outlook and general disposition and all of that? If that’s the case, yeah, I’m screwed. Anyone who knows me would agree with that.

When I face facts, I will admit that I’m jealous of the rich. There are some nice rich people and some douchey ones, just like poor people, or kinda in the middle people like me. And… uhhh… gaaah…

I don’t know what I’m typing right now as there are dollar signs in my eyes as I blatantly equate luck with $$$. I really just want to happen upon a pile of money and be able to pay all of my bills and not worry about making ends meet and maybe be able to afford a gold plated hat is all¹³.

And that’s gonna take some luck.