I woke up this morning to devastating news. Once again, I had not won the Powerball. This was particularly upsetting because I had gone to bed fully expecting to wake up a billionaire. Not hoping to wake up a billionaire. Expecting it. I had already mentally accepted the responsibility. The money was practically in escrow. And yet somehow, against all reasonable statistical expectations, someone else won. Again. At this point, I think we need to stop pretending this is random.
Everyone tells me the odds of winning the Powerball are approximately one in several hundred million, which sounds suspiciously like the kind of number invented by people who don’t want you asking questions. Because as I understand probability, there are only two possible outcomes: I win the Powerball, or I do not win the Powerball. That is clearly 50/50. I don’t know why statisticians insist on making this complicated. Every drawing begins with two possibilities: Billionaire Z and Non-Billionaire Z. Coin flip. And somehow this fucking coin has landed on Non-Billionaire Z every single time. You expect me to believe that? Eventually probability has to probability.
Which leaves only one reasonable explanation: the Lottery Illuminati are involved.
I don’t yet know who sits at the top of this thing. State lottery commissioners? Investment bankers? A rotating panel of regional Freemasons? Representatives from Big Scratch-Off? I assume there is a dimly lit underground room somewhere where someone periodically slides my ticket across a polished black table and says, “Robison played again.” The room goes silent. A dossier appears. Someone flips nervously through the pages. They know what happens if I get a billion dollars. They’ve run the simulations. They understand the threat.
Within seventy-two hours I’m handing strangers enormous amounts of money for completely irrational reasons. A waitress mentions she’s worried about rent? House paid off. An exhausted teacher tells me she buys classroom supplies herself? Here’s $300,000, and I may have also purchased the abandoned strip mall next door so we can turn it into an art center. Guy at the gas station has good energy? Congratulations, Gary. You’re debt-free. Local library needs twenty grand? Here’s two million. Build something weird. Small nonprofit helping people nobody politically important cares about? Fully funded. Artist wants to make a twelve-foot fiberglass raccoon wearing papal robes as a commentary on consumer capitalism? Obviously we’re doing that.
And here is where the real danger emerges: there is no committee. There is no board. There is no grant cycle, application process, advisory panel, feasibility study, or ten-year strategic plan. There is only the committee in my head, and historically that committee has shown very little respect for traditional wealth management. It meets irregularly, has no written bylaws, and is dangerously susceptible to arguments like, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we changed this person’s entire life before lunch?”
This is precisely the sort of behavior our economic system cannot tolerate. The wealthy are supposed to give money away correctly. There are procedures. Foundations. Boards. Galas. Naming rights. Preferably a building with your last name attached to it so everyone understands that generosity remains, fundamentally, an exercise in branding. You cannot simply wander through Oklahoma distributing economic liberation like some bearded absurdist Oprah. You get generational stability. You get generational stability. Everybody gets generational stability. Chaos. Absolute chaos.
Property owners would become nervous. Certain employers might suddenly discover that employees are much harder to intimidate when their mortgages are paid. People might begin asking dangerous questions like, “Why does everything have to be this difficult?” Or worse, “If one ridiculous man with lottery money can dramatically improve hundreds of lives on a whim, perhaps some of these systems are unnecessarily cruel?” That kind of thinking spreads. Best to keep the Powerball safely outside my possession.
Initially I assumed the universe itself was responsible. Perhaps there is some cosmic intelligence looking down upon me saying, “We simply cannot give this man nine figures. He lacks the appropriate respect for hierarchical wealth distribution.” Which feels unfair. I’ve done the spiritual work. I’ve meditated. I’ve contemplated impermanence. I’ve accepted the absence of inherent meaning in existence. Surely enlightenment should come with at least a modest jackpot. Buddha renounced wealth because he already had wealth. Very easy move, Siddhartha. Let me get the billion first and then we can have a serious conversation about attachment.
I am perfectly willing to discover that money cannot buy happiness. I simply believe this is an empirical question, and I volunteer to conduct the research personally. For science. Unfortunately, Powerball continues refusing to fund the study.
Which brings us back to conspiracy. Because there is something suspicious about repeatedly losing an event that I have conclusively demonstrated has 50/50 odds. Mathematicians will object here. They’ll start talking about combinations and probability distributions and independent events. This is exactly what I would expect from people compromised by the Lottery Illuminati. Follow the money. Probably straight to calculators.
Still, I remain optimistic. Every drawing resets the universe. Two possibilities. I win. I don’t. Fifty-fifty. After this many consecutive losses, I can only assume the cosmic bureaucracy is becoming increasingly embarrassed. Eventually somebody somewhere is going to make a mistake. Someone will forget to remove my numbers. Someone will look at the file, sigh, and say, “Fine. Let him have it.” And somewhere in Oklahoma, I will wake up, check my phone, and discover that the great containment experiment has finally failed.
Then the real experiment begins.
Until then, I will continue courageously purchasing the occasional ticket and standing against one of the most sophisticated conspiracies in modern American history. Not because I believe I’m entitled to a billion dollars, but because probability demands justice.