It always starts the same.
Despite the fact that I (we, us, what?) don't play the Powerball, we (us, me, I, him....what?) win big. We talk about this all the time. Call the lawyer, cash the check, quit the job, no guilt whatsoever. Climb in the car, never mind the mileage-we're rich now. Call up real estate agents-find us a house in that valley we found on the way to the distillery. Leave it all behind. Au revoir, Louisiana. You're in my blood but you make me sick.
When it gets to be too much, sometimes (and believe me, I have guilt over it), I imagine just breaking out on my own. Just for awhile. Climb in the car, money in my pocket. Find that house. Turn my phone on airplane mode. Delete Messenger. Smell a different sort of air, an erratic EKG horizon. No worrying about schedules, my current rating on the priority list. No commitments, no responsibilities. Just quiet.
It sounds lovely. It's a placebo lancet for the walking boil of whatever it is I'm going through and it helps me avoid homicide. It sounds so good that Sid and I are considering buying a Powerball ticket this weekend.
But, of course, welcome our favorite party pooper-logic.
You can't just walk into a Lottery office in the United States of America and get the whole damn thing right there. Takes weeks. Even if I had all that money in the bank, I'd feel guilty for leaving work. There's some people I wouldn't think twice about leaving behind, but I barely see Riley as is. That would hurt. Takes awhile to find a house you like. Lots of papers to sign.
You can't turn off your phone. Tons of dangers on the open road between Tennessee and Louisiana. Flat tire. Sickos on the road. Road hypnosis. Phone blowing up the whole way there, or worse, not blowing up at all. Traveling nine hours with that kind of money on you. The slow burning through Alabama that would evolve into full blown panic once in Chattanooga-"What the fuck did I just do? I can't do this."
If you manage to get there, you have to get a place to live, assuming there's just a nice big chalet ready for you. Highly doubtful. Prepare yourself for a no frills Motel 6 hotel room with gang rape lighting and a Cracker Barrel next door. I don't know if you know it, or have ever noticed, but the static buzz from the floodlights in a hotel parking lot is probably one of the loneliest sounds in the world.
Then-the reality of what you've done makes itself at home: Tennessee is lovely, but it snows, and I don't know fuck all about snow. Female living all alone, even in the country-that usually goes over like a fart in church. Bears? Not to mention that I'd be all there all of one day before I started losing my shit even further-I am not built for solitary living. No amount of money in the bank absolves loneliness. I would miss Sid too much. And yeah, the fact that my favorite distillery is right up the road might sound great-but God knows what I'd turn into.
Carrie Fisher said it best: -“I wish I could go away somewhere but the only problem with that is that I’d have to go, too.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know-I'm making you DEPRESSED. So fucking sorry. Go back to click click clicking on super dank memes, buying grown up toys, nurturing your superiority, jerking yourself off and pretending your life is just as cherry as you say it is. Go ahead.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know-everyone entertains that fantasy. Winning 'fuck you' money. Hitting the open road with your middle finger painted onto the rearview mirror. Nobody considers the reality of what it might mean. Accumulating all that freedom in the time it takes to match a few numbers on a ticket to the one on the TV-that's a lot of change to swallow so very quickly. You don't have to worry about the bills, sure. You can buy yourself your heart's desire.
But you never know who's really in your corner anymore.
At least I'm writing. That's always the first step back towards the light for me.
Just keep swimming, bitch. It's just Shark Week. Take some B12, take your Armour, take some fucking St. John's Wort, take a Xanax, take a shot-TAKE SOMETHING.
-Rae
Tonight I feel ambitious and so does my foot as it sinks on the pedal I press it to the floor I don't need a girl, don't need a friend Cause my friend lonesome's unconditional We're flying forever bored And for a moment I love everything that I see and think and feel I love my broken side view mirror Cause it's so perfect
I'm so perfect
you're so perfect
you're not here I hear the change in gears