The biscuit tin now has three twenties in it and I'm terrified to look at it too long

GoldenCrown coughed up the rent at 23:47 three nights ago — Sugar Rush, 1800x, the kind of hit that makes you believe in red cars again. I'd walked away from fifty quid down, swore blind I'd stop there, then somehow found myself back in at half eleven with that shoulder thing starting in my neck. You know the one.

But it landed. It actually landed. ETH hit the wallet before I could talk myself out of it being real.

Here's the mad bit though — I started putting actual physical notes in a biscuit tin after that. Twenty quid, three times now, nobody knows. Not Derek, not my sister, nobody. It's sitting in the back of the cupboard behind the porridge and I'm half convinced it's not even about the money, it's about having something that didn't come from a bonus buy or a max-bet gamble. Something I didn't have to refresh a withdrawal page to prove existed.

Still can't tell if this is me getting straight or just another shape of the same spiral. The twenty-quid trick feels like a system when I do it. Feels like I'm finally ahead of myself. But then I'm here at quarter to midnight typing to strangers about it because I need someone to know and there's nobody I can actually tell.

Anyone else got a secret ritual that's probably nonsense but you're too superstitious to stop? Or is it just me and this bloody tin of shortbread money

GoldenCrown