Don't play if you can't win

The blinking lights, the high-energy chimes and bells, the three wheels of fate with a one-in-a-million chance of stopping in front of you on 'BAR-BAR-BAR.' Gambling is love. Metaphor. But it's 999,999-in-a-million that you'll end up with less than you'd hoped for. I knew this truth already by 15, when I met my jackpot. I can't tell you how lucky I was, to find someone capable of loving this hot mess, eleven years strong.

I have man-boobies, and odd-looking ones at that. I'm hard on myself. I'm a consummate hypocrite. I dislike like sharing. I can't grow a full beard, only a hipster-looking neckbeard. My sense of humor is dark to the point of alienating. I'm lazy and hold myself to low standards. I have social anxiety and insomnia. I care about myself more than my family. I self-censor in front of people and don't know how to defend myself. I second-guess myself at every turn. I'm mooching off my parents with no end in sight. If I can put something off til later, I always will. I don't keep my promises to myself and always think I'm wiser than you. My head looks like a yield sign.

If you've been reading, my flaws aren't really news to you. No question: I hit my lucky number at 15. At the time, I assumed I would die as a forever-alone meme, a 40- or 80- or 100-year-old virgin. I hit the jackpot, and not the penny-slots; the $20-a-pull, about-to-end-up-on-an-episode-of-C.S.I. bonanza. It's the only reason I have hope, which I do, that I'll ever have true love again. I had it once before. And I don't believe in one-in-a-millions. But now, I believe in two-in-seven-billion.