It’s been a long day of sitting in my cubicle and thinking about filing or doing that thing I’ve put off or worrying about which bill I need to pay next. I get home from work – I’ve stayed late for a networking thing because I’m a strong, driven woman who devotes herself to work because the status of her love life is somewhere between D.N.R. and #TooLittleTooLate – and I walk the dog. He’s a little constipated because of that toilet paper roll he ate as a cry for attention because I’ve been working so much lately.
Whatever, it’ll come out eventually.
I get in the shower. I don’t wash my hair because I have a haircut in the morning. I put on the new robe I got at Target because I fell in love with the print and it was on clearance. It is so soft. I lay down in bed and get on my laptop and text my best friend about whatever beautiful actor man that we’re both currently crushing on. I’m so tired.
But, oh! Powerball. I don’t buy lottery tickets, but I do when the jackpot is $1.5 billion. I mean, duh. The ticket is in my wallet, the wallet that I’ve had since my senior year of high school. Thank God that my aesthetic has always been “lady in her thirties”; I’m finally growing into it.
I lay back down. I google “powerball numbers”.
Surely, my eyes deceive me. I read the numbers again. I write them down. I quadruple check. I take a deep breath and get up. I don’t even text my best friend, I go right to her door. She lives down the hall.
“Coming… Ben’s putting pants on.” Her husband’s commitment to making sure he always wears pants when I come over? It’s sweet.
She opens the door. “That picture of Oscar Isaac and the kid from ‘Room’ is real cute. Why did he have a lightsaber at the Golden Globes, though?” she asks. It was the last thing I texted her.
I nod. “Can you check something for me?” She confirms the impossible and suddenly my life is completely different. I refer back to the list below. God, how smart was I for writing this list earlier in the day? Good job, Me.
How to Deal with My Lottery Winnings in 13 Lucky Steps…
- Sign the ticket. That’s what the Internet tells you to do. Take a picture. Make a copy.
- Sob. Weep as uncontrollably as you’d like to. Feel your feels, Girl. You are a magnificent creature and always have been…you just don’t have to worry about anything pedestrian ever again.
- Don’t tell anyone for at least an hour. Just…breathe. Think. (Whoops, your best friend and her husband already know. Oh well, that’s okay. Have a scotch or a Guinness with them, then. They’re family, it’s fine.)
- Call your parents. Tell them the news. Tell them that you’re going to put some things on their credit card but that, OBVIOUSLY, you’ll pay them back. (And this time, you actually will pay them back!)
- Delete all social media, including this blog. You don’t need the world analyzing every Instagram picture you ever posted. I mean, find a way to save it if you can? A relic of a time gone by, you lucky bitch, you.
- Sleep if you can. No pressure.
- Wake up. Email your bosses that you have food poisoning. Violent, violent food poisoning!
- Go get that haircut. Don’t go too short because you’re going to change your hair again after all of the press you do so that you can sink back into anonymity as much as this world will allow. (NOTE: Your stylist is adorable and kind, resist the urge to tell her that you now a certified baller.)
- Pick up your best friend. Go to the Apple Store. Get a new iPhone. Get a new number. You’re off the grid now. (You may also buy yourself and your pal a few presents at the Apple Store. Why not.)
- If friends text your old phone and ask where your social media went (and they will because you tweet like a maniac), tell them that you’re “still sad about that boy” or something. It’s a solid excuse; they will believe you because you are frequently disappointed in men. Thank you, assholes of Los Angeles.
- Get a hotel room. Chateau Marmont? Sure. Pack a bag with a few things, but like…don’t worry. You’re going to buy a whole bunch of new things soon. Get things like your glasses, your favorite sweatpants, and that new Target robe (because even though it was on clearance and was mass-produced? It’s luxurious as fuck).
- It’s probably like, 1pm now. Call Ariana. Tell her to get out of bed and get to the Chateau. Order some room service. Bloody Marys. Champagne. When Ariana arrives, call Whitney in New York. You have your three best gal pals. You feel alive.
- Do research and make calls: find a financial adviser, find a lawyer, use Ariana’s publicist, make an appointment with your therapist (PRONTO on that last one).
- Alert the authorities and brace for impact.