“What will your life be like in three years?” they ask, as if I’ve got some grand master plan drawn up on a whiteboard somewhere. Truth is, I don’t. I barely know what I’m having for lunch tomorrow, let alone what I’ll be doing in 2028. But if the universe doesn’t hurl any major surprises my way, I’d be quite happy to keep things exactly as they are — only with a bit more confidence, a few fewer worries, and maybe a car that looks european, as reliable as a japanese and as loud as an american.
Now, if we’re talking about big changes — well, I wouldn’t exactly say no to winning the lottery. But here’s the thing: I’d still want to keep my head screwed on straight. None of that “buying a gold-plated jet ski” nonsense. I’d want to do something meaningful — help a few people out, clean up a river or two, maybe fund a park bench with my name on it that says, “He Meant Well.” Something with a legacy.
But let’s be honest. In three years, I’ll just be older — possibly greyer, definitely grumpier — still doing a job I actually enjoy (assuming no one fires me for telling the truth again), and living with the love of my life, who somehow still puts up with me. And of course, my little dog Georgie will still be there, trotting around like he owns the place, occasionally judging me from the sofa with that face that says, “You could’ve walked me ten minutes longer.”
So yes — three years from now, I’m not asking for yachts or fame or a private island shaped like my head. I just want peace of mind, a steady job, the woman I love, and my dog beside me. And maybe — just maybe — a bit of luck that keeps the madness of life at bay. Because in the end, that’s the real jackpot, isn’t it?
A Kings 
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