I never considered myself “lucky.” Sure, you could throw a “lucky to be alive” at me, and I guess I’d have to agree, but I’m not lucky in the making-money sense. I’ve never, for example, won big at a slot machine or uncovered a trio of fifty grands on a scratch-off.
If I got a lucky break by finding a suitcase full of cash on the beach or if some kind of insta-wealth rolled in front of me, I’d put my hands in my pockets, sidestep it, and pretend I didn’t see a thing.
The closest I’ve gotten to those riches is an email from a Nigerian prince with bad english or from a bank introducing me to a very wealthy, recently dead relative who bequeathed his riches to me.
Of course the suitcase would be a trick. It’d be crazy to ignore it and crazy (but the right thing to do) to turn it in instead of keeping it.
And if I kept it, karma would probably kick my ass. If I picked up that suitcase and brought it home, I’d find my home burnt to the ground. If I bought a car with that cash, I’d get in an accident. If I bought a car and didn’t get into an accident and my house was still standing, some burly guy in a suit would knock on my door and threaten my dog.
I’m not paranoid, I just subscribe to one of life’s simple truths: