I deleted the last post because I was being a whiney, hungover bitch. Nobody reads me to be witness to just how little I have to complain about. Now that most of the alcohol has either seeped out of my skin or been processed by my liver, I'll try my best to string some coherent thoughts together. Hey, I might even try to relate them to poker in some fucked-up, tangential way. Don't bank on it, though.
My life is easy. I have no real worries, and because of it, no real consequences in the event that I fuck up. I don't rely on anyone, and right now, there's not a soul that relies on me. I'm in good health for a man on the brink of 30. Hell, I might even be able to play through an entire soccer match this summer without having to wheeze "Sub..stitu..tion".
I live in a kickass, heated apartment in a great neighborhood. Though, there has been a rash of robberies in the area, which I suppose would've been nice to know before I walked home drunk last night with my laptop strapped to my back. I'll have to remember not to do that anymore. And soon, there will be short shorts sportin' women, and I don't mind that one bit. Ok, not at all. In fact, I'm highly appreciative of it.
My job, hell yeah that's easy. I arrive at work whenever the hangover wears off--which is usually right around 9, if you're keeping score at home--fire up a browser, check my email, and whatever else I can to avoid doing any real work. Around 11, I'll start playing poker and won't quit until it's time to go home. Internet poker is the second job that I can complete while I'm supposed to be doing my first. Honestly, the only thing that keeps me on track is playing poker, otherwise each and every day I'd reach the Fifth Level of Boredom, otherwise known as Hell.
A few weeks ago I bellied up to a $3/$6 table at Canterbury Park. It was only my second live session ever, so I was understandably still a little nervous. If you'd asked anyone at the table about my demeanor, all 8 of them could've described the look on my face with one word:"constipation".
That look of constipation quickly turned to one of fear, and I damn near shit myself as I was dealt two, wonderful, black aces. Do you remember the first time you were dealt pocket aces in live poker? Yeah, as opposed to dead poker, shut up. The feeling was relative to any time that you just knew you were going to get laid. No worries, no pressure. A sure thing. You were absolutely positive that by the end of the night, a hot, easy girl--or guy, if you swing that way--was ending up in your bed, naked. My heart was pumping, fingers were shaking and my palms were gooey. Next time I'll leave the KY part of that analogy at home.
Sorry, I've just been staring at my screen for the last 10 minutes. Girl. naked. bed. Lost my hovercraft of thought for a bit. Where was I? Oh yes, Canterbury.
I raised the hand and was happy to see that only one, stupid guy called my bet. He was an older gentleman with a slight paunch, and had a propensity to play a few too many hands. Well, that's a bit of an understatement. That would be like describing Kunta Kinte as "a smidgen black". He was a 90 years old fat asshole that played every damn hand. There, that's more like it.
The first card out was the ace of hearts, followed another heart and a brick. I bet out, he raised, I reraised and he called. I had him on the flush draw, and all semblence of sphincter control was lost as the dealer turned over a third heart on the turn. It scared me enough that I checked, hoping that he'd bet and I'd check-call him down to the river. He just checked behind me, though.
A fourth heart came on the river and we both checked it down again. He turned over A2, no hearts, for one stinking pair and I won the hand with my 3 aces. Sure, I won the hand, which was a nice way to start the session, but so what? I win lots of hands. I was pissed due to my horrible play and at least a few missed bets. I'll admit that I'm terrible at betting for value when a scare card comes down, even if I still think my hand is good.
The hand was an easy win for me. Low risk, low reward and if I don't overplay it, there's not a chance of losing my whole stack to some shmuck that will go broke more times that day than I leave the table to pee. And I pee a lot.
As I started writing this, I didn't have a clue where it would go. After a lot of staring and a few trips to the bathroom, I realized that the poker hand I just described, well, it describes me, too.
I'm afraid of something--what that is, I don't know--so I've effectively been checking the rest of my life down to the river.
My life is a fuckload of fun. But, I'm prone to being a pansy, thereby losing out on the possibility of so much more. And there has to be more than this two-walled cube and 21" monitor. Granted, the monitor is a nice touch, and it might grow legs and follow me home when I leave this place, but it's no reason to stay in a job that doesn't give me what I deserve. The only thing that makes my heart jump these days is sitting at a poker table, and the only thing makes me feel proud is writing something that other people appreciate.
Come on, look at Otis, Pauly, and and that guy with the worst monikor in the history of self-given monikors. They're living the dream. They're value betting the fuck out of their hand, and it's paying off in--Wakka, Wakka--spades.
God how I miss Fozzy.
Me? I've been playing the game inefficiently. And life really is just a game, is it not? I've just sitting here, checking down to the river, hoping to have the best hand when it's all over. That's no way to play life. Abso-fucking-lutely no way. I might be lucky enough to win, but I'm missing out, man. Those bets add up, and I've missed a shitload so far.
Back in October, I asked Pauly what steps I needed to take to become a better writer, and the one that sticks out to me still, is this:"Move to a different city. Experience things from a different point of view". And I have to say, that right now moving sounds like the perfect idea. I do love Minneapolis, but I don't really know if it's the place for me if I don't experience another city, or even another culture. I couldn't imagine getting married to a highschool sweetheart, so why would I choose to live in only one city for my entire life? For all I know, Seattle could give better head. Or maybe Dublin won't nag on me like Minneapolis does in the winter. I can rule out Vegas, though. She'd chew me up and shit me out like confetti, but with very little fanfare.
Even BadBlood pointed it out in a response to my post this morning. I don't have any real reason to stay in Minneapolis. Sure, my family is close, but I can't be a Momma's Boy for my whole life. My distaste for a job, not a career, is no reason to stick around. And we all know that girls scare me. Well, that and I don't have a girlfriend right now, which makes it tempting to ask Emily to run away with me. Be the new locale exotic enough, I feel she'd jump at the chance. I can't ask the poor girl to move to Omaha.
Shit, I've stayed at work an hour past when I was originally supposed to leave. Huh. That's never happened before. So, I guess I better end this the only way I know how.
I've had enough of this check-call shit. I raise