It’s karma, you know.
The reason behind me not winning anything–ever.
Unless you count the red chicken suit
from the office’s secret santa.
It’s the syllogism behind every speeding ticket,
a shattered champagne flute,
and why Micah Ballent broke my heart
in the second grade.
Because I’m short tempered with incompetent waiters
who serve hair in my parmigiana
or salesclerks who can’t accept emailed coupons
that’s not printed on a tree.
Because I refuse to let merging cars merge in front me.
Because I don’t like cats or babies
or men in Star Trek uniforms.
I detest letters with upside-down stamps
or Mother’s Day flowers
and partners who snore with sleep apnea
(which makes me afraid of waking up
next to a dead body).
I should go to church, maybe take pilates, or self-medicate with an acai bowl, in order to be a better person.
I am karma-tically predisposed never to win the lottery.