My childhood was full of random unlucky happenings. I've fallen down stairs and chipped my foot, I've had multiple valuables stolen from me, and when I was in school, I was never a winner of any drawings or contests. Luck was never on my side. Life was a game of Russian roulette, and I always got the bullet.

When I was about nine, my family decided to go on a vacation to Florida. At least, this is what I was told. We were really going to Georgia, but what kid wants to be told that? Florida had Disneyland and beaches. Georgia had hicks and alligators. We lived in Wisconsin, so I was excited to fly. I counted down the days, excited to go on an adventure of a lifetime. Beaches, Mickey Mouse, and southern hospitality all waiting for me. Then, I found out we were driving all the way from Wisconsin to Georgia. What a buzz-kill. This is where my bad luck began.

We loaded our over packed suitcases into the back of our silver 2000 Ford Windstar. The minivan was packed to the roof with suitcases, packed lunches, and three eager children. The beaten up van was finally ready to begin its voyage to the south. My step dad, Tony, turned the key. Click, nothing. He tried again. Click. It wasn't damaged, decayed, or flooded; the battery was dead. After a heated argument about whose fault it was, my step dad finally took the blame and started charging the battery. My sisters whined and cried that they would never get to Georgia. The roaring of the van quickly ended their disappointed tears and off we went.

The journey started off perfectly with nice weather, hilly scenery, comfy bench seats, and a portable television playing cartoons and Disney movies. We continued on through the night and I snuggled in with my sisters. Not much later, I awoke to cursing and loud conversations. The van was stopped, but I could still hear traffic. I stumbled out of the van to find a steep ditch. I was ill-prepared for the mountain steep ditch and rolled halfway down. Luckily, it was dark enough that nobody could see. When I finally reached the summit of Mt. Ditch, I asked my mother, “Where we were?”
“Just a little south of Des Moines.” She replied. I looked at the beaten up van scanning for the new ding or dent when I noticed a sharp two by four poking out of the back right tire. Four hours into our trip and we already had a flat. Just fantastic! What were we going to do? Of course it was Sunday, so no garages are open. Then, Tony ended his conversation with a “Great, thank you very much.” Luck finally took a turn; one of Tony’s friends, who owned a garage, was able to get us a new tire. All we had to do was put on a spare and drive to his house. After two hours we were back on the road.

The trip continued on with only little mishaps. We stopped every hour and a half either to let somebody stop for a bathroom break, to fill up on gas, or both. On our way there, each night, we stayed in the van instead of getting a hotel room. One night, I woke up in a train station sleeping next to a bum because my mother was “too cold” to sleep in the van. We arrived 36 hours later, sore, tired, and defeated by the road. We endured another flat tire, food poisoning, a dirty hotel, and losing my parents.

I wasn't worried throughout the vacation. In fact, it was pretty normal for me. I realized a couple of years later that I was lucky enough to get hit with the misfortune stick. So, if someday, somebody wins the lottery from Lancaster, Wisconsin, you can bet it isn't me.