there is no need for me to take on any more risk at the table than is inherent to my playstyle which, even when dialed down, is still massively violent. this is my nature, to attempt to dominate my opponents for every waking moment of their lives, and for me to exult in my destruction of them. it's who i am.
i don't always need to do it. in fact, almost all of the time i can just do my thing and wait for my opponents to offer up a win. all that i have to do is be present to accept it. that's real, and that's intelligent and that's what it means to be a poker player.
oh, and there's that thing about matching your style to the format being played and working backwards from the objective. minor details such as playing a gigantic field donkament with the intention of winning the fucking thing starting right the fuck now and suchlike.
restraint. the word is restraint and to understand that it leads to stress and that the way to get it out is by fucking.
This is my final offer to the world of being staked. This is an opportunity to buy my mercy. I will not be staked lightly or by someone that I do not already like and certainly not without favorable terms. I understand what my image is like right now, so I will be slightly lenient on terms. Hold your peace if you do not make an offer else I will not think favorably upon you.
Thank you for the kindness. In a moment of darkness in which I was lost you allowed me to think and believe the impossible, specifically that everything would be ok and that good things would once again happen to me.
You gave me the strength to believe and you gave it freely and to no personal gain to yourself.
And so now I go out into the world and I pay it forward and although something tells me that you're gone know that you will never be forgotten. This is my love for you which I now speak to the wind to be passed down through time and maybe one day I will be able to help another as I was helped by you.
this is the only way that i know how to live: receptors on blast, mouth open, and driven by a massive ball of psychosexual energy. this is who i am.
they call it hypomania. it's not. for me, it is the normal resting state of my ego. it's me, in every sense of the term.
it's the guy who blasts blueprint 24/7, who likes cigarettes and loves cigars, who loves to fuck people who think the way that he thinks, who gets thirsty and chugs iced tea, and who demolishes all in his path in a socially acceptable way. the lover and the fighter. the killer and the slain through ejaculation. the battered and indignant. the victorious.
writing is hard but dealing with these psychopaths and principled sociopaths is fucking exhausting and more to the point i'm not allowed to say fuck. the games fucking suck. the fish are all gone because fish like to have fun and these games are not fun. you can have it. buy my books.
it's july 2005. he's trying to figure how to break through. he's dominating weaker players and breaking even or losing to better players. it's the same pattern as before. he was missing something then and he's missing it now. the only difference between then and now is that he finally understands that he's missing something.
unbidden, his reflection attempts to inculcate a slightly different mindset in him. to be more assertive, more initiatory, more violent. to make a mockery of their feeble attempts at control. never settle. initiate and thereby actively limit their options. understand that you're better and that they will either give ground or overreact. as they give ground, pummel hard. as they overreact, laugh hard. fuck these motherfuckers. be who you are or, to be more accurate, be the person that i know you can be.
he chooses to believe and so he steps it up and goes and does likewise. much to his surprise he finds that it works. moreover, it's easy. a world of possibilities opens up to him and whereas before he may have shied away from it he now finds himself willing to embrace it. he starts to have new and brighter dreams. he can't wait to enter that world of his dreams, to be the one person he knows of in the flesh who made it real. he lusts to become whole in it, to shed the baggage of poverty, to self-actualize. to live wholly and unrepentantly in the moment, finally, after all of these years.
he finally understands what that one man was doing, why that lady cared so deeply, and why he had to leave that place at that time in his life. why he hasn't been able to let anyone in.
something happens, something violent. he is wounded. he crawls deep into a hole and he pulls it in over himself and he waits.
the months roll by as he slowly heals. eventually he can sleep again. he finds that he can move freely and without pain. he starts to play again.
something's not right. he's not feeling it. his sense is lacking and his timing is off. his attacks are anticipated, and his movements are awkward. he's hesitant.
there's a haze over him.
he starts dropping codeine and finds that it helps. he feels better and he sleeps better and he's more focused. he doesn't really know why he's taking it but he doesn't care.
stuff starts happening to him. his body fails to protect him in spots where it would have protected him before. he's dysthemic significantly more often than not; this is new. he develops carpal tunnel and ulnar neuropathy and wonders why this should be the case after all of these years of clicking a mouse a billion times a day. his vision suffers.
he doesn't care.
he drives on and more often than not he's just waiting for the moment in which he feels recognizably and mostly whole. when in that moment, he plays relentlessly. at times he even feels like the person he can remember feeling like. somehow, this is enough for him.
time passes and he sees his results slowly diminish. the interval between being whole and being noticeably diminished grows progressively larger. he wonders if he might be bipolar. he takes some pills and then some other ones, just to see if it's so. he's not.
the shoulder becomes unbearable. he waits for a year and then he has it fixed.
stuff happens. he chooses to wait it out, to wait and see what happens.
a short while later he finds that the results of his most recent play can most aptly be characterised as inconceivable. he's gone through five years of progressively diminished results, so he should be numb to this sort of thing but this shocks him. this should be impossible for him. he is who he is, right?
he processes for awhile and finds that he was missing something then and that he's missing it now. he looks within himself and finds that the answer is pain. that he never really came out of that hole that he had pulled in over himself.
sometimes it is acute and the rest of the time it burns. it always tingles. there are spasms. it itches. the sensory experience of joint dysfunction has been magnified. minor nerve irritation now returns something subjectively equivalent to a herniated disk.
he reflects further on the past few months and remembers waking up and seeing the bags under his eyes, day after day. he remembers being, at times, unable to recognize the man in the mirror. he's lost weight.
he's disabled.
the person that he was would not have stood back and watched his social ties wither and die, or seen his days grow longer and darker without recourse, or walked around for a year with no rotator cuff.
he would have initiated, attacked. he would have tried to force it, whatever it was, to bend to his will and he would have found it immovable. he would then have processed. instead this unreconizable disabled person dropped codeine and shrugged it off for five years.
casper, the god. he shines bright like a diamond. he's harsh, but he's sensitive. he feels deeply, and he cares. and he's dead.
i carry the memory of the worst day of my life with a smile and i choose to believe that i will be able to take back my life an inch at a time. i know of no person in the flesh who has managed to do such a thing, and so i aspire to be the first to do so and i hope that, in time, newer and even brighter dreams will light my sleep.
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