Hypergeek

At some point it just feels like there's nothing more to gripe about. You've got your poker, which gives you a steady and plentiful income. You've got a nice home and the neighbours don't give any trouble. There's so many women in your life that you hardly find enough nights in the week to sleep with them all. Life at university goes in such a fantabulous manner that you hope it'd never end.

Yeap. Then you wake up and let the cat out.

A non-poker player would probably feel the déjà vuic effect of someone hanging on to the aft-railings of the Titanic during its last descent towards the abyss if they heard the size of my current downswing. I wish I would tilt or accumulate some sort of negative energy so I could explode in a ball of frustration, but it just isn't happening. I'm just continuously getting my money in as a decent favorite (for you poker player types, that'd be more than a 60% favorite) and I get outdrawn. Yes, I do realize a good poker player isn't only about playing well, but also playing within your bankroll, which I haven't exactly been doing lately. I admit, I took a chance to make some huge money. So shoot me for failing.

Whoever fired up the rumour of the glamour in being this nightly gambler-type anyway? People look at you like some sort of freaky society-reject drowning his problems at the roulette and craps tables. It's a common misconception to believe that a true poker player rides flashy cars filled with naked women and gets to see the tournament action first hand from exquisite casino locations. A load of crap, I say. All you get is walking in the snow after 3 am, after a rough night at the tables, trying to catch that last bus towards home. And every time you make a slight mention around new acquaintances about the fact that you paid your rent playing poker last summer, people *gasp* and awkwardly change the subject. The only thing worse than being a fucking degenerate gambler is being a shark at the tables and still losing respect. And money, for that matter.

I woke up before my alarm went off today. My 2h of sleep was cut short by the overly considerate neighbour upstairs, who, in the recent weeks has indeed taken it to himself to use a gas powered angle grinder to splice up steel girders at 8 o'clock in the morning. I feasted on the image of launching a blunt object at high velocity towards his Peltor-covered head, which would've clarified my point of letting people, who don't exactly follow the normal business hour-sleep rhythm, get some fucking sleep. I thought better of it though, as, after my incarceration, someone might open up my blog and make the evening headline about all bloggers being degenerate gamblers with recurring psychopathic issues.

Women. Those lovely things with .. oh who am I kidding. I get shoved into the friend zone faster than people can say "wazzap". This makes into an annoyingly vicious circle, where my failure amongst the female population is turned into frustration, which takes me further into the world of internet porn, which, in turn, makes the jump to actually making conversation with a woman virtually impossible. And when I finally do gather the courage for such a feat, I get ranked into that degenerate gambler eternally stuck in the friend zone-type.

School's ok though.