One in one-hundred-seventy-four million.

Well, I didn't win the lottery. Again. It's funny how that ticket, in my mind, acts like it is in some sort of quantum state: it is both simultaneously a winning and losing ticket until I actually observe it. It's as if the numbers are actually continuously changing right there on the page, and only freeze in place when my hand tentatively reaches into my wallet and grasps that smal slip of a hopeful future.

I often think what it would be like to suddenly have millions of dollars at my disposal. When I was younger, I thought the same way as I suppose a lot of people do: give the job the one-finger salute, buy an outrageously expensive house, travel the world in first class, steak dinner every day. Now though, I think my lottery dreams have become as dull as my everyday dreams: find a humble home to call my own, save for not only my future but all my descendants futures as well, get myself through college, take the time to find something that I really want to do for the rest of my life.

I'm never going to win the lottery, so I had better start doing something on my own to attain those dreams.

I think I know how Marvin felt...

I think I'm going to write a book. There is an idea that has been slouching about in my brain and once in a while stands up straight to say, "Here's another part you could add!" I am going to need some fancier words in my vocabulary, though; my language is too simple, too ordinary, too blasé. I need more 'susurrus' and 'languid' and 'quixotic' in my arsenal. Maybe a 'turgid' too.

Oh who am I kidding...

I am the machine.

CLICK.

I always thought the book resensitizer here had a very satisfying CLICK to it. As if some exceedingly happy machine from the universe of Douglas Adams was like, "CLICK. That's all set for you, Drew! CLICK. That book is sensitized now, by golly! CLICK. Another job well done!"

Although I guess it's less of a CLICK and more of a CLOHCK. Maybe it's from Sweden?

Lately, though, that CLOHCK has sounded less and less satisfying. The machine has become less cheery, and more bored and disenfranchised with life. "CLOHCK. Yep, that's done. CLOHCK. Uh huh. CLOHCK. Sigh."

Maybe the machine needs to start taking more risks. Maybe the machine needs to get out there and see what it's capable of. MAYBE, just maybe, it will realize that it actually is quite talented, and shouldn't just shut itself down before it even attempts something.

This, obviously, isn't a metaphor for anything...

Really bad at this.

So here I am, manning the circ desk, watching one of the homeless mentally ill people that like to camp out at the public computers for hours on end, writing another 3000 word missive on how the world is out to get her. I've read her rambling, inane, badly spelled diatribes from time to time (she posts these things to a blog, donchaknow), and while they make abso-fucking-lutely no coherent sense whatsoever, it never ceases to amaze me that she'll sit there for two, three, four or more hours at a time. Writing. Non. Stop.

I cannot figure out for the life of me why I'm completely unable to make myself sit down and write. I've got all these ideas and thoughts and sounds and words and stories and quips bouncing around in my echo chamber of a brain, but I never get them out. Do I need to go back on Adderall again? Should I bash myself repeatedly in the head until I become as crazy as her? Should I start cutting myself again as punishment for not doing what I need to do to get out of this chasm that I've dug for myself?

Damnit, Drew. Get your shit together.