I don’t consider myself to be a lucky person. That’s not to say I’m unlucky, because there are far worse ways to live than I do now. But, when it comes to the amorphous blessing of serendipity that allows the same person find a hundred dollar bill in the gutter, win a motorcycle raffle and then hit the lottery three times in a row, I can honestly say I have no idea what it feels like. It seems I’m destined to make my own way in the world, without fortune’s favor. And I’m very much okay with that.

I read this morning someone from Louisiana won fifteen million in the Powerball jackpot. And I wasn’t even a little jealous. Really. I’m happy for the person who won, and I wish all those who purchase these tickets with hope in their hearts eventually get a taste of the same victory. It’s simply that luck has diverged it’s path from my own, and I’ve come to the conclusion (or the rationalizing delusion) it’s because I’m meant to find my own way in this world. For me, winning a few million would be too easy, too final. Because what do you do when you finally have everything?

I’m a big fan of The Sims. It’s a twistedly fun game where you make your creepy little avatars do your bidding, forcing them to study and get jobs so they can earn enough money for you to get them bigger houses and better furniture. It’s a frustrating process, because (as in real life) bills have to be paid and you can never afford all the items you want. For some, this is where the cheat code comes in. With a few random letters and numbers, you can suddenly give your Sims all the money in the world. Sure, it’s fun for a day or two, giving them massive mansions, putting in giant pools, buying all the most expensive electronics to entertain them. After that, though, when your Sims have danced themselves silly on the disco floor embedded in their living room, and after they’ve walked their expansive gardens and messed around with their very own Tesla Coils, there’s nothing left. No goals. No higher achievements to strive for. They’re just a pack of microcosmic mini-me lottery winners sitting in their massive houses, each mired in stasis–and a lot of stuff.

I don’t want to win the lottery. Ever. While a truckload of money would be nice initially, I can see the path it would lead me down, and it would be the same my tiny virtual friends have suffered. Why bother writing and striving for personal achievement when I have an eighty-inch plasma in front of me? Why work to be the best, when I can be the richest? Why care when those two separate ideals blend in my soul and suddenly richest equals best.

No, thanks. I’m happy to let others have my share of tickets. Even if it means a life of semi-poverty, or even a burger-flipping day job. I want my fortune to be my own, from my own hands. I want it to be a product of the devotion I have to my chosen profession, and not a result of a random number drawing.

As for those of you who disagree, may fortune turn her shining face your way.