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My dad left when I was two. The earliest and only memory I have of my mom and him together is of my older brother and sister shrugging off a verbal argument they were having outside. The memory is convoluted with the concept of yogurt, and perhaps I'll never know why. Not to start out each blog as a free associative autobiography, or anything. There actually was a high level of functionality between my parents, fit for a fourteen paragraph blog of its own. It might have gone on to fill its own e-book, but my mother has recently passed on. There was a scene near the very end that seemed to go beyond functioning beyond divorce. Of course, I was young when they were divorced,

a lotto bull

Impulsion versus compulsion, it's what separates us recreational users from the addicts. Just as drug addicts and alcoholics have support groups, so do the stalkers of Lady Luck. This habit can be equally destructive. So, Gamblers Anonymous is there with a wagon, as well. You don't need to be an alcoholic or a junkie to catch a buzz. So, it follows that moderate gambling can give a taste of the kinds of fantasies a compulsive gambler experiences. And in the case of compulsion, the stakes are often high.

The first lottery ticket I ever purchased was not bought for the thrill of winning four lousy bucks on a five dollar game. My experimentation in chance was related to a different vice, women. The service counter girl was spectacular. I tried a number of segues: cigarettes, chewing tobacco, returning spoiled produce (I jest). I could have struck up speaks about her hair, which frequently changed from one punky color to the next. Perhaps I should have been straightforward, that I was more interested in the number behind that face, than the ones behind the scratch-off junk.

In that downtown grocer, I came by her glass cage a conspicuous number of times, I'm sure. I realized a subconscious plot, more ingenious than a simple excuse for a transaction that I barely felt worthy of. If I won anything considerable, we'd paint the town together. After all, she'd be partially responsible for my winnings. Though I'd probably soon find that in the end, money cannot buy me love. That is, when our three story love nest was burning to the ground, she raging at me 'til hoarse, from her horse, and I projectile vomiting into the tropical fish pond.

Of course, in order to get that far in life, I'd have to graduate from the gateway scratch-offs, and get serious about the weekly drawing games. The lack of effectiveness I had in hitting it off with this finest service rep might have had something do to with her vision of a future with a man playing only low-stakes games. Also, the names of the tickets I bought want be considered. I tried my best to avoid the ones that were pink, cartoon covered, or with other such fu fu. Still, it's hard to go off from, "Here's your Oodles o' Moolah ticket, dude!"

For sure, fantasies of love must sometimes intertwine with those of fortune, and to the point of sickness, in someone really in trouble with money gaming. Occasionally, fantasies might only involve getting an account in the black. Maybe a lotto player really likes getting their picture taken, as big winners do, for the Wisconsin lotto website. Luckily, none of these are my primary motivations for participating in the lotto. I've been lucky to stay out of the red with my bank. And, although holding an oversized check in front of a camera could be slimming, it's just not a money shot. To continue the topic of love and money, I almost see it as a risk to put oneself out to become a millionaire while single. A hooker, money can get you. A million in cash can get you hookers for life. But imagine being in sweet admiration of someone so fine in every way. Things seem to be moving in the right direction. Then, one day you're loaded for life. Intentions between you and this someone could get very convoluted. Especially when she finds out about the hookers.

I am not an avid gamer, but I have tried the heroin of multimillion dollar number games. Thus, I can make assumptions on the mind of someone sick. My first purchase of a Powerball ticket occurred last January. In Powerball, five numbers and an additional "Powerball" number are played. Drawings take place twice per week. Each play costs a buck, and the odds of winning millions... or your buck back, are one in ten. I researched the game after I bought five plays (cost: five dollars). On the frequently asked questions page on the Wisconsin lotto website was the question (and this was frequently asked, mind you) "I bought ten plays, but I didn't win anything. [What gives?]" The answer went on to explain simple odds and that they did not make a guarantee. I surely hope this has caused some epiphanies in compulsive lotto players.

It was the day of the drawing, and I checked the numbers against my ticket at work that night. The preceding phase of fantasizing was mild. I remembered my father playing at the peak jackpot, when I was a child. He snorted, "I didn't even match one number!" I matched four numbers, which had a handsome prize. But, they were spread between three lines of plays. And, I had matched the Powerball, but it wasn't in the Powerball position. I checked with the website, but these topics weren't covered. They weren't even frequently asked. In my frustration, I hastily assumed I had lost. So, the ticket got wadded up and recycled. This has bugged me ever since. The rules could have been made clear, or I could have doubted my judgment and taken it to a gas station to be digitally read. I could be rolling in a handsome amount of prize money. My life could be a few K happier right now. And, my odds are now wasted on the luckiest ticket my shit luck will probably ever grant me. This was proven true__at least, in the realm of my relationship with Powerball within the last two years.

I have continued to play scratch-offs, but only the ones that you gung-ho scratch off all the gunk. I can't be messing around with crossword puzzles and Sudoku when it's the cash I'm after. In fact, I allow the machine to randomly select my Powerball numbers, rather than darkening circles on a form. Which is to say, yes I've played Powerball more than once. I bought a ticket last week, a fiver as usual. This is my second and last offense trying to defy rational statistics. I'm in a bit of a jam. Ends aren't meeting the way I'd like them to. That's not to say they aren't meeting, but there are expenditures in which I'd like to begin participating. I have a daughter in another part of the state. A winning Powerball ticket could mean she'd have, in some ways, more than she ever needed. As I walked back from the gas station where I purchased the ticket, this is what I fantasized about. Bursts of false hope came, and temporarily alleviated stress. I imagined the fantastical life I'd live when the millions came through. It caused a general euphoria. I really see how people get hung up in it. No, I didn't win anything. On five plays like before, I yielded no matching numbers. I'm pretty sure of the rules in that case.

I've found most people's lucky number is three. I'd say it's not a bad choice for a low end number on a Powerball, or other such ticket; the number seems to come up a lot. Some play their birthdays, and-or birthdays of loved ones. I've never heard of playing birthdays of infamous felons, but I'm sure it's been done. When I was a shave younger, numbers held an obsession for me, to the point of unhealth. I had made-up mathematical formulas and geometry for every concept under the sun. I wasn't getting much sun, huddled in my basement with a stack of paper, a ballpoint pen, and a vision for figuring it all out. I wonder what lotto numbers I would have come up with had someone challenged me, not to mention what the proof would look like. A delusion of compulsive gamblers, I've heard, is precognition, or special power to select the winners. Admittedly, with the residual associations I have with numerals, I look at each winning set and say, d'oh! I should have guessed that.

My mother, whose house I stayed at in the summers of my college years, lived near an Indian reservation with a ghetto-sorta casino. I'd made some friends at a coffee house, and they insisted I come to spin the wheel night. I'd been tearing ass at Trivial Pursuit at the pre party, so Hell, I'd give it a spin. I won twenty bucks, and made twice that on slots. I hadn't the guts to belly up to the blackjack table, but I am a freaking shark in practice. I found video poker to be the least entertaining video game in the house, but it only costs a nickle. I spent a lot of time in the area of my mother's house during the two years of engineering school I completed. Not once did it occur to me to go to the casino alone, and ante away my savings. Booze comes and goes, tobacco's here to stay, but I see no future with a gambling addiction. I saw that I had lost this last Powerball play, and began waiting for the cravings to hit. Curiosity is there for continuing to buy these tickets, but I ain't got the shakes.

I'll never stop getting a chuckle from the t.v. ads for new medications, barely out of their experimental phases. Well, first, you've got the graphic testimonials from actors about their growths, rashes, and urges. But, the voiceover raps about the side effects for half the commercial, as the actors smile at the sunset. Not only are the lists of side effects ridiculously long, but listen really close. I don't know when people started getting Restless Leg Syndrome, but I hope it isn't catching__cause I'm passing by people with restless-looking legs all the time. There's a medication for it, naturally. I can't remember what kind of bleeding, exactly, the medication causes on the side, but I did catch this: If you are taking the Restless Leg Syndrome medication, contact your doctor if you experience unusual urges to gamble or other such habits. Way to run a control group, AcmeMed Corp.

At a truck stop diner in my hometown, I'd occasionally see a bedraggled, dumpy, middle aged couple having coffee. I thought it was sweet, but let my imagination go when I witnessed them there on a Friday. They had purchased what might have been one hundred scratch-off lottery tickets. They shared a cup of coffee, and silently scratched to themselves for as long as my date and I stayed. Honestly, a bit depressing, but what cures depression like drama? As they sat across from one another, I imagined the man scratching off a $100,000 square... he glanced to his left, then his right. The man then scratched off another $100,000 square. A metaphorical thought balloon formed above his head. Just one more square should do it! In the balloon, the man held a knife inches away from his wife's back. He scratches__and... before his wife looks up, he pockets the ticket. "Gotta use the pot." The man escapes through the back door.