The first ten bucks I deposited vanished faster than the milk in my fridge. Slots, some stupid fruit game. Spin, lose, spin, lose. Classic. I felt that familiar pang of loserdom. Of course. This was my life now: losing pretend money in a pretend casino because I couldn't handle real life. I was about to close the tab, go back to my container-sorting mission, when a banner for a live dealer game caught my eye. Blackjack. I remembered the basic strategy from some movie. "Hit on 16, stand on 17," or something. I deposited another twenty—my "pizza money" for the week. A reckless, stupid move. The dealer was a real person on screen, smiling politely. My heart was hammering. This felt different than the mindless slots. I got a 19. The dealer showed a 6. My turn. Stand. My hands were actually sweaty. The dealer flipped his cards… and bust. A wave of pure, unadulterated shock hit me. I won. Actually won.

That first win was a spark in the grey sludge of my existence. It wasn't about the money, which was just a few bucks back. It was about winning at something. For years, I'd been losing: losing job interviews, losing motivation, losing track of time. This was a tiny, digital "screw you" to all of that. I got cautious, weirdly strategic for a guy who couldn't strategize his way out of a paper bag. I set a limit. One more loss, and I'm out. I'd play my twenty, try to get it to forty, then cash out. The next few hands were a blur. I won two, lost one, won another. My balance crept up to sixty. A hundred. My brain, usually foggy, was laser-focused. Reading the dealer's up card, making decisions. I felt… capable. It was a bizarre feeling.

The big moment came on a hand where I was dealt two eights. I split them, another move I vaguely recalled. Doubled my bet. On the first eight, I drew a three. Eleven. I doubled down again, heart in my throat. The card was a queen. Blackjack. On the second eight, I drew a ten. Eighteen. The dealer, showing a five, proceeded to draw to sixteen and then bust. The screen flashed. The numbers jumped. I’d just turned a twenty-dollar bet into over three hundred. I actually yelped, a stupid sound that echoed in my empty apartment. I didn't even know I could make that noise.

I cashed out immediately. The withdrawal process was smoother than I expected. The money hit my e-wallet while I was still sitting there, stunned. Three hundred and twenty dollars. For me, right then, it was a fortune. It wasn't life-changing, but it was mood-changing. I didn't buy anything extravagant. I paid off a pesky utility bill that was nagging me, ordered a proper, large pizza with extra everything, and even got a six-pack of decent beer. As I ate, staring at the confirmation that my bill was paid, I felt a strange sense of order. A tiny bit of control.