So, here’s the thing about the Powerball—it’s basically the ultimate game of luck. You can’t really sit there with a calculator, crunch the numbers, and say, “Yep, I’ve cracked the code.” Nope. It’s all random balls bouncing around in a big machine, spitting out random numbers for random people, and every once in a while, some random lucky person hits it big.
And I swear, I thought that random lucky person was gonna be me Wednesday night. I was convinced it was my fate. My destiny. I had my whole routine down. Let’s see, I wore my lucky underwear, my magic socks, and I refused to step on any cracks. I even walked only on certain tiles in my house, like it was some weird game of hopscotch for millionaires. And typing with my left hand only? Oh yeah, I did that too. Every superstition in the book—I gave it a shot.
When the countdown to the drawing was on, I grabbed my ticket off the refrigerator like it was a golden treasure. I was ready. I told myself, “Tomorrow, I’ll be a billionaire.” And then? Nope. Nada. Just like the millions of other hopefuls across America, my numbers didn’t hit…