Who Doesn't Want To Be a Millionaire?

There is a luxury in regular, liberal states that we do not have the benefit, or burden of, in Salt Lake: Good Old Fashion Gambling. There is no legalized gaming whatsoever in Utah, even to the extent of cracking down on Bingo halls and revoking their business liscenses. I can't help but laugh at the mental image of a Swat-Team of bored cops, kicking in the door to a nursing home and billy-clubbing a bunch of geriatrics for "illegally gambling" away their green jell-o?
The novelty of being able to buy lotto tickets, scratch & wins, and travel mere miles to a Dog Track has yet to fade for me. Especially when friends from Utah come to visit - it's actually a treat to be able to throw money away every time you walk into a 7-11 or liquor store because it feels like rebelling somehow. So, this brings me to the point: I am about to strike it rich and leave behind the hoi polloi. A bunch of people from my work and I have collectedly gone in on around 70 tickets for the $196M jackpot that is being held tonight! Mega Millions spans twelve states, so having an innate gift for statistics, and having taken 2 stat courses, I have a 1/12 chance of winning x70= 70/12. For those of you who can't do math, try to keep up.
After taxes, my share should equate to around $10.8M. With that much money I'll be able to buy anything! Even a lottery ticket!
And thus, the position of feeding me grapes and fanning me with oversized feathers is now accepting applications.

What would your first 5 purchases be if you hit the lotto?
And don't say a shark tank or Scarlett Johannsen, because I'm two steps ahead of you.

Self discovery? But what if I suck!?

For the record, I love me. I love being me. Probably more than I should... Do I have to look at myself in any reflective surface when given the chance? Yes. Without fail. The more mirrors the better. The biggest problem with my stunningly good looks is that not every woman has admitted it to themselves yet. Denial can ruin opportunity, ladies. Think about it. Anyway, I am confident with my decisions on any given day, but of late, I have noticed an increasing number of situations that cause immediate guilt and make me to wonder if I am indeed an asshole.
Here's your for instance: Today, I caught a glimpse of a man dressed outrageously. He was donning a hideous Hawaiian shirt that looked like a 3 yr-old's crayon drawing had been vomited on by a flourescent rainbow, Tennis ball green fanny pack, taupe sweater tied around his neck like a j-crew ad gone horribly wrong, Ray Charles sunglasses with chums, and probably equally ridiculous pants/shoes, etc... ( I could only see the upper part of him at the time.) So I silently giggled to myself pondering how anyone could manage to so poorly dress themselves. Then he moved, and the lower half of his body came into view. I still don't remember what the rest of his ensemble was because I was distracted by his SEEING-EYE DOG. Now the sunglasses make sense. A-hole.

Shipping Up To Boston

Shipping Up To Boston

I just I quit my job, left my friends and family, and moved 1800 miles away to begin the first true adventure of my life. The greatest rewards are preceeded only by greater risks. These are the stories of my life for those interested enough to listen. This is how I came to be in Boston:

One blustery May afternoon, I was lounging in the hammock in the woods above my house, watching the clouds roll past and daydreaming as is easy to do from this spot. As I sway in the wind, my thoughts introspective, pondering the grand adventure that is life and seeking the answer to a newly posed, monumental question. I had been living a life of routine that required only a semi-conscious state to thrive; bored with monotony and awaiting fate's intervention, when opportunity arrived in a startling, police-at-your-door, kind of way.
My good friend and roommate, Michael Gunnuscio, had just received a job offer doing what he loves, working the sleep medicine field in a much more accomplished and respected place: Boston - birthplace of yogurt and kabobs (probably).
"Hey Ilott, you wanna move to Boston?", he casually asked over our traditional Sunday morning mimosas.
"Why the hell would I move to Boston?" My abrupt inquiry immediately overthrown by his brilliant retort of "Why not?"
Hmmm... I guess I had never really thought about it like that. So with nominal planning or forethought, 80% of my mind made itself up that yes, Boston is the dramatic change I need.

His persuasive argument with my great childhood friend, George Pechmann went with ease as well, the succession of facetious questions sounding like "soo george... how's your job as a server? How's living with your parents? How's the girlfriend you don't have?"
And with this, George was on board to Beantown also.

Though as simple as it sounds, it is quite a challenge mentally and emotionally to take on such an endeavor. The decision to leave behind your family and the friends that you consider the same is not reached without fastidious deliberation, nor is the afterthought that you have made a grave mistake alleviated quickly. There is this extreme feeling of discomfort that relentlessly tries your spirits...a persistent, awful anxiety that changes you. After seemingly countless weeks of this frustration, it suddenly evaporated like storm clouds cowering behind the sun, and with it my view of the things in my life dramatically shifted. Rejuvenation! I had never felt stronger or more confident, ready to take on the world!
And this is where I am now. Spontaneously relocated to Boston without ever having visited, with hopes that two steps backward will lead to 5 steps forward.
Here, I have left behind the beaten path to tread new soil and create my own, being reminded daily that life can teach you a lot if you let it.