Dear Tesco,

So I trek to one of your locations, trying to think of some magic numbers that would win the jackpot for me. I abandon that task and start thinking about what I would do with all that money: pay for school, pay the rent, not worry every bloody minute about money, and how I need to find a job, even though I have no experience, and people want you to have experience on you FIRST JOB…and how I’m anti-social, and no I am not the cheerful shop-girl you seek, because I’m depressed by my unemployment and the fact that I have to read three books this week, write an essay, and pretend that I actually want to join in with the other worker bees. Oh, what is the point anyway?
I wait in line for what seems like forever, and I finally hand in my golden ticket to freedom. The cashier looks at the ticket, looks at me, and says: “You are not old enough to buy lottery tickets.” So I tell him my age. He keeps staring at me blankly.
I’m so flabbergasted by this that I can’t organize my thoughts to protest, so I just take back my ticket and storm out of here. That guy has a job.
So Tesco, that day you took my measly hope of winning the lottery, and you lost a customer.
I might come back if I run out of milk though. I’m still not speaking to you, though.