What Was I Thinking?

Maybe I have been looking at this "spam" thing all wrong. If I choose to view the world as a vast expanse of opportunity, and these messages coming to me from across vast regions of space and time are really signposts directing me to the next best thing, then I may be able to correct the course of my life. Basing all of my decisions on prior experience and the wisdom of close friends and family has paid off nicely so far, but am I missing out by not taking the random chances offered to me by my in-box?
Let's start with the message that arrived just this morning, announcing that my e-mail had been awarded the sum of one million GBP. Without opening the attachment, I assumed that meant pounds sterling and would therefore be worth one and a half million dollars. All I had to do was open that attachment, fill in the security form to verify my winnings, and let the cash roll in. What are the chances that I was somehow selected by the powers that be in whatever contest that needed to give me one and a half million dollars? Pretty slim, but isn't that the very nature of playing the lotto? Maybe somebody took it upon themselves to enter me in this mysterious contest on my cynical behalf, just to squeeze some excitement into my world. Or maybe I'm destined to crash with a plane load of strangers on a deserted island, filled with even more intrigue and smoke monsters. Delete.
The next message assured me that I could show off my inner artist by earning a photography degree on-line. Maybe I don't need those pounds sterling after all. I could make my fortune taking pictures. That would be taking an active role in my own life, wouldn't it? If I did that, then I would definitely need this message over here for faster Internet speed. Which would, in turn, allow me more time to check out the Social Security disability benefits that this other message assures me that I am due. That would probably pay my fees for the Internet photography degree, right?
All of which would snowball into a new life choice that would allow me to check out that new Russian wife, who I could woo with Pajamagrams and new kitchen cabinets. And to think it's all been sitting there, callously labeled as a variety of canned spiced meat. Delete.