What are the Odds?

Like millions of people, I like to play the lottery. I don’t have a system and I don’t delude myself into thinking that if I just stick with it and buy my ticket every week, I’ll win. I am well aware that it’s more or less a suckers bet. Hell, you have a better chance of being hit by a car and killed crossing the street to buy a ticket than to win with said ticket.

I’ve had marginal luck with the lottery so far. $20 here, free ticket there. I’m not complaining. The cost of $6 a week isn’t that much. That’s only $24 a month. $252 a year. That’s really not a lot of cash for the slim chance to win millions of dollars.

Some people like to point out the odds to me but I simply counter that the odds of winning the lottery are infinitely higher if you actually buy a ticket than if you don’t. It’s a mere pittance even on my low income.

So why am I talking about this?

Isn’t it obvious?

I don’t want to rub it in but, after checking my lottery ticket then checking it again and then again, just to be sure y’know, I ALMOST won the lottery. I was one number off on almost every digit with the highest difference being three. It’s probably the closest I will ever come to winning the lottery.

Ain’t that a kick in the pants?

Lotto

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O, Treacherous Hair

I have ridiculously long hair for a guy. I noticed this coming out of the shower the other day and catching my reflection in the mirror. It goes past my shoulder blades when it’s heavy and wet. And thick. So very thick.

Thus, with long hair, comes the hazards of it. Nevermind the fact that it gets caught on things like buttons and zippers when I’m putting clothing on. Those are minor nuisances, at best. Or worst, depending on how you look at it.

Last night at work, during our smoke break, it was a particularly windy night. As I was taking a puff, a rather mischeivous gust tossed my lockes into my face. An angry hiss later and I found a few burnt strands on the end of my smoke. Then the stench of burnt hair accosted my nose, making me want to sneeze. I couldn’t even escape it since it was in my face.

It’s not the first time that I’ve experienced a fiery trim, but certainly one of the worst.

Still that doesn’t compare to the time my hair tried to kill me. No joke. My hair tried to straight up kill me one day.

One morning, I woke up to the surprising sensation of something down my throat. Sitting up quickly, I coughed and gagged out my own hair which had, in my slumbers, managed to sneak its way into my mouth and down my throat. Probably the closest I have ever come to receiving a Darwin Award. At the very least, it would deserve a nomination.

Still, its my choice and I still have my thick fur toque on my head. Sure it might be hot and heavy and full of a murderous rage, but its still my hair and I love it.¬† So if you ever read a story about a man whose face was burnt to a crisp or was¬†suffocated on his own hair, think of me and know that’s how I would have liked to have gone.

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