Reporter had plans for the $17 million he didnt win

There was this moment after I walked into work Monday and an editor told me a 30-year-old man from Moose Jaw had won the lottery, I actually thought it was me. Of course, that would make no sense. How would the Western Canada Lottery Corporation and local rumour people possibly know I'd won before I knew?
But when one is in lottery mode, logic takes a back seat. With the knowledge a person of my age and gender (from the same city in which I currently dwell) had won, teary eyed and shaking with trepidation, I rapidly walked to the nearest lottery ticket terminal, confident that all my worries in this life would finally come to an end.
My dad always likes to say winning the lottery would absolutely destroy my life, leaving me with more stress than I could ever possibly imagine. However, I am forced to disagree with the old man. Money does buy happiness.
If I won $17 million, I'd very happily retire from journalism (and employment in general for that matter), gleefully purchase a modest island off the coast of some very warm country and joyfully spend my days speeding around my private life-affirming racetrack in my delightful little Lamborghini.
Perhaps I'd start a new collection, keeping a variety of exotic animals with funny-sounding names for my cat Spatz to play with and destroy - everything from a duckbilled platypus to a tufted titmouse to a homo erectus.
Depending on the likelihood those I pay to tend my gardens, clean my manor and feed my army of killer pygmy chimps wouldn't revolt, I'd likely declare myself king, prime minister, chancellor, emperor, czar, 10-star general, his holiness, grand nagus and el presidentÉ of my small island, better known as Carterania.
For my parents, I would undoubtedly provide them each with a couple million dollars, with the contractual understanding that, when they pass onto the next realm, any remaining funds (or items purchased with the money I gave them) would then be willed back to me.
I'd probably give my siblings a little something as well, but for revenge purposes (as I'm the youngest), I'd force them to first complete a series of humiliating and very public tasks, all the while with them pledging allegiance to their brother and intellectual/moral superior - me.
To anyone I deemed has wronged me in even the most miniscule degree, I would arrange for them all to receive a weekly newsletter, detailing how wonderful my life is and how much they should continue to envy everything Carter.
To all those reporters I've met over the years who have won my favour, I would employ them to research and write my newsletter.
Of course, I understand money can't buy everything and there would come a day (about 125 years from now) when my well-toned and 30 per cent original organ-filled body would meet its end due to some unfortunate accident.
That is why I would spare no expense to have my brain cryogenically frozen in a chamber of pressurized liquid nitrogen, and launched into orbit until such a time when cyborg-to-human integration medical technology is perfected.
By this distant time in the future, I'd assume the human species has evolved past the need to acquire money and everyone lives for all eternity in high-tech pleasure chambers. The timing would be impeccable, as I'd probably be starting to run low on my lottery winnings at this point.
However, unfortunately it wasn't me who won the lottery last week, but rather some lucky gentleman named Brad Legare. Although he might have different plans for his fortune than would I, I hope if he reads this column and finds it even a tad enlightening, he might consider employing me as his financial planner.
Remember Brad, if you hire me, money will buy you happiness.

Carter Haydu can be reached at 691-1265.