On Fortuity, or Why I’ve Never Played the Lotto

A study in the U.S. asked how many

people do you know by name and

found the average person knows 611. 

Let’s assume you are more social

than the average, are acquainted with

800 people. In a world of 8 billion,

this means you know 0.00001%

of the population. A 100,000th of

one percent. 

—Max Roser

You are less than a social person—

the honorary Poobah

of the League of

Misanthropes.

It’s possible that

your fortune has been shite.

You only meet the Karens,

the asshat/heehaw bunch.

It’s conceivable that the

reason you are single is

you’ve failed to find that soul

to perfectly love.

Perhaps 99.99999%

are actually wonderful humans.

Not the ones who’ve launched

the wars; butted into line,

demanding to assail the owner, Mr.

Schlepp; while your sherbet’s

lost its cool, running rivers

down your pants

because the carton had been torn.

It’s within the realm of maybe

they’ve never tossed their litter

in a stream, kicked a pup or

kitten with their boots; stomped

into your home with muddy prints—

presenting wires for the cable

you’d expected the day before—

just in time to see the 7th game.

Well, there’s always next year.

In a dozen months, you’ll meet

another 4—

decide to take a risk, think it

serendipitous,

host them all for dinner

with the pizza on its way.

All will glean the olives

from their cheese, offer them up to

you as a sign of peace—

and you’ll call them on their

bullshit, know they just can’t stand

the taste, refused to embrace the bad

with all the good, though

there’s a snowball’s luck in Tucson

that the folks there will give thanks

for whatever’s set before them:

to the migrants, to the farmers,

even your idea of God, some fuse of

chance & fate.

Andreas Gripp

November 3, 2025

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