I Spent My Silicon Millions on Slot Machines—Yet I Found Myself Still Breathing

I used to think gambling was a game of numbers—cold, precise, engineered. But then I met Muse, my cat, curled beside me on our Brooklyn rooftop at midnight, watching the slot machines glow like carnival lights through rain. She didn’t care if I won. No one does.

In Silicon Valley, they sell you hope wrapped in RTP percentages and wild symbols that expand like Brazilian drums echoing through fiber-optic screens. They call it “strategy.” I call it distraction masquerading as meaning.

I used to chase the jackpot—until I realized the machine never spoke back. Not because it was rigged—but because I had become the algorithm.

There’s no bonus in this life except stillness.

We’re told to play with discipline: set budgets, time limits, low volatility games for beginners. But when you sit long enough—in quiet rooms with no notifications—you begin to hear your own breath again.

The real reward isn’t cash—it’s recognition: that you are not a user being optimized by code. You are not data being processed by an AI designed without soul.

I now choose games with extended wilds not for wins—but for moments where time slows down enough to remember who you were before the screen lit up.

Muse purrs beside me now when I walk away from the reels. She doesn’t need rewards. She needs stillness.

And so do we.