Weeks 10 & 11 - Jack Kerouac Never Did This

They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"


A pointless foul with 3 seconds left. Duke sinks both free throws, the first of which rolled around the rim for a five seconds before falling in, just to taunt me. I hate Duke. I lose my last $850 by half a fucking point. It's over. It's finally fucking over. Purged.

So here I am almost a week late with this fucking post. The reason? My soul has been completely dominated by college hoops. Odysseus had his Lotus plants and I, I have these fucking games. 

I almost just said fuck it and packed it in with this shit. But then I realized that this blog is really all I have. It's the only thing that keeps me from crawling up in a ball in my bed for days on end. My novel is a dream, a hoax, a sick, sad joke I've been playing with myself all these years. I have nothing else to write about but this. Who the hell wants to read 300 pages full of this crap. I sure as shit don't. All the authors I tried to be at some point in my life - Kerouac, Miller, Kundera, Roth, Dostoevsky, and Auster - have all left me. Now I'm stuck with this embarrassment of a self. There is no novel in me. There only games. 


Fuck it. The Novel is dead anyway. Let's fuckin go!

WEEK 10 - Nov. 10th - 14th

Thursday I go to the Houston v. Tulane game at the Mercedes Superdome. I have a beautiful time. I sit with the Houston fans, kick my feet up, have a couple hot dogs and beers, and watch Houston absolutely dismantle this Tulane team. They tie the highest scoring output in Division IA this year. I have them first half and game with overs in both. A nice jump start heading into the weekend. I have close to a grand in the account.

Friday I hit up South Florida. Easy winner. $1400. I drink three bottles of wine behind the bar at work, ripping a couple key hits every half hour to balance things out. This continues well after work til about 8am. 

I wake up at one with no brain. It was an eight tylenol and half a gallon of apple cider morning. Once again I miss the early games and roll into the afternoon games with a twisted brain. I have to work at 2:30 so I shower immediately and push off. 

Now I have nothing written down. I've done no research. I have no idea as to who is playing this afternoon. I'm about to kill myself again.

I get to work five minutes early and take a quick peek at the games. I see TCU is playing Boise St. I fucking love TCU here. I've been following this team all year. Plus 17? What a gift! They may win outright. I drop a nickel on them.

I see USC is playing Washington and Kansas St. is playing Texas A&M. USC and K. State are two other teams I've been following. I love them both. I bet both for $200 and parlay all three for $100.

I end up getting a little busy behind the bar right off the rip so I can't spend my time staring at my EVO while every play passes. This annoys me. I want to choke pretty much every customer that orders a drink from me. "Why are you fucking bothering me!" "Can't you see I have my balls on TCU here?" Fuck.

I hit all three. TCU wins outright. USC cruises. K. ST. is a heart attack and wins in triple OT. $2900.


The only team I like in the night games is Oregon. It's tough to go undefeated and they're primed to take down Stanford after they had a grueling triple OT game against USC the week before. I put nickel on them and they win easy. $3400.


Annie is back in town for the weekend so I meet up with her after work. We get a drink and then head home early. We're both beat. We get on the couch to watch some tube. Whenever I have over 2k in the account I really like Annie. I let her watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and actually watch it with her. Tonight I have over 3k in the account so I'm especially nice to her. I don't rip on these beverly hills broads so much. I don't remind her how shallow she is. I don't joke about this Armstrong guy who killed himself. I just chill and laugh at whatever she thinks is funny while I think about my Buffalo Bills and what a fucking lock they are tomorrow.


I wake up Sunday morning and go for a fucking jog. These morning jogs are the fucking best. Honestly the fucking best. This runners high thing is no bullshit.


During my jog I plan my betting strategy for the day. I love the Bills early. I mean love. Fucking love. My favorite play of the season I think. The word from the locker room is the Saints are banged up on defensive and a guy I know on the inside thinks they are in for a pounding. So I love the Falcons and may tickle the over in case the Saints offense keeps up. The third game I like early is the Fins. The Redskins are one of the worst teams in the league at this point. Both those QB's are terrible. Two more clowns I could beat out If I really trained for it. I still might. Fucking Warren Moon played til he was like 48. Shit I haven't done anything with my body since College. I probably have a good ten years in me.


$3400. I start thinking about Big Yates. If I could run this up to 20k I could give that cocksucker 12k and be done with him. That would leave me 8k. Shit.


I figure I have another 18k that I owe various friends and former friends. Even if I hit my $42,000 goal, after paying everyone off and kicking some cash home, I'll still be broke. Sometimes I forget this. My new figure is $62,000. I need to make fucking $62,000 this year.


So this $3400 is dogshit. I wish I could just get it above 5k and pull out and get the ball rolling with these debts. But I can't. It's just fucking impossible for me.


I get back, cool down, and wake Annie up. We're doing Tracy's for the Saints and my Billies. I shower, get dressed, and make my daily phone call to my parents.


I drop $1500 on the Bills +5 1/2. Fuck it. They win this game outright. I parlay them for $100 with the Fins and Saints over. The Saints O will put up points. I tease the Bills, Fins, and Saints over for a nickel. If this loses I'm done with the NFL. Billies +15 1/2, Fins +7, Saints over 39. What a joke.


We get to Tracy's and the Bills are already down 14-0. Romo goes on to complete his first 11 passes en route to a 28-7 halftime lead. They're not only scoring, they're scoring in 3 or 4 plays. The look like the fucking Oregon Ducks out there.


The final score is 44-7. Midway through the third I go to the bathroom and almost cry. I come out and tell Annie we can go home and watch the end of the Saints game. At least I can act upset and don't need to win an Oscar. I just don't have the power.


The Saints pull it out in overtime after the Falcons coach makes a bonehead decision to go for it deep in their own territory. I've always thought this fucking guy was a goober.


I'm back down to $1,000 and change. I put $500 on the Bears and $500 on the Giants. The Bears I really love and the Giants I just like because I hate this 49er team and Jim Harbaugh's amateur ass and because I really like to watch Eli Manning, doofus that he is.


Annie is about to push off. I lit her up last night so I can just focus on these games. I almost wish she'd stick around. I have a feeling for what's to come this week after looking at the College Basketball schedule. On top of that she won't be back until next Monday, so I have the whole weekend to thoroughly destroy myself. Ahh fuck I can't wait til she gets her ass in her car.


She leaves. I watch this asshole Giant game on the couch. The Bears are an easy win. Eli and the Giants make a valiant effort to tie the game up at the end but fall short. I split.


Pats and Jets in the Sunday night game. For some reason the Jets are favorite. Suddenly they're the best team in the AFC again. I blast the Pats and the over for a nickel each. After a sluggish start the Pats shit all over that Jet team and win big. I hit both for a grand. I'm back up around the 2k mark.


Monday night I go sharp and bet against the best team in the league.  The Packers destroy the Vikings and I'm back down to $1500 going into the week, the week which starts in a couple hours with the ESPN College Basketball Tip Off Marathon, one of my favorite 24 hours of the year. There's a game going every minute for the next 24 hours to bet on. I'm chomping at the bit. I have $1500 to work with. With my college hoops acumen I should be able to run it up to $15,000. Here we go.


Week - 11....Nov. 14th - 17th


This is where it starts. Excuse the nudity, but this is the thing. I can't stop watching these games! It's tough enough to stand up to get ice cream, much less get to the closet to find a shirt.







I go on, back and forth. I bet every first and second half of every game. I get some sleep shortly after I finish my ice cream and hit a parlay while I sleep. I'm floating around the $200 mark when Belmont and Baylor really crush me. I've lost more money on Baylor the last two years than any other team in professional sports. I'm convinced that team took a flop last year. 


I lose $800 on Belmont as they lose both the first and second halves. I pound Baylor first half and they let San Diego St. score the last 6 points to crush my soul. I'm down to my last $300.


I hit a four team parlay to bring me back up to $1500. It goes on and on like this all day and into the night...week. With these tournaments from Puerto Rico and Hawaii and all the fucking others, there is a game to bet on at pretty much every moment of the week. For a guy like me that's just not good.


So I'm getting fucking tired of this shit and have to go to the gym and hit the bags a bit before work. Tomorrow it's Thanksgiving and more importantly opening day at the Fairgrounds. I have the Racing Form all marked up and ready to go. Between the track and the Thanksgiving games I plan on making at least 5k tomorrow.


So this is how last week ended. I got so disgusted and finally hit my tipping point with these games that I decided to put everything on the Jets on Thursday night. I loved the Jets. Fucking loved them. It went something like this...







FIN

Week 9 - Jim Kelly

I rebound by hitting an exacta at Woodbine Harness with my last $20 and then roll it on the Arizona Wildcats 2nd half laying 7.5 College fuckin hoops! $20 into $300. Now I'm dangerous. We've got MAAC football games all week. They're all fixed - See Toledo scandal in the 2005-2006 seasons. I just have to figure out which way the fix is going. Then we have games on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday with some College Hoops sprinkled in. Beautiful week here.


Note: What I thought was a winner with Arizona was a loser. I turned the feed off when they were up 20. They won by 9, winning the the 2nd half by 7. Half a point I lose by.


I've actually had a pretty great day. I banged out my errand list then went for a fucking jog. About a mile in I realized I was running. I was running my fucking ass off. I felt awesome. I was cruising and decided to just roll with it. I ran three miles in 22 minutes. I'm usually around the 27 minute mark. I'm not shitting you. 


When I was done I was racked my brain for an explanation to all this fucking energy. Then it finally came to me. I woke up in the morning with the intention of depositing $100 in Betonline . I was going to bet a two team parlay with the Eagles and the over first half and then put the winnings on the Eagles 2nd half. This is how I had the game mapped out - $100 into $700. Then I can pay my fucking rent and phone bill tomorrow. I have $1300 in another account but haven't hit my rollover yet so I won't be able to cash out until probably next week. 


So I call Betonline just to make sure I can cash out tomorrow Sometimes you have to wait 7 days if you use a debit or credit card. I'm also only using my debit card because I don't have to pay for Western Union fees, which are only covered by these assholes if you send more than $200.


I have to scan, then email the front and back of the card along with my drivers licence and a utility bill. I have this shit already saved on my computer so this is not a problem. 


I go to the Pyrtania Mart to load the card. I always go here because it's run by a pack of Middle Eastern brothers who know the routine and are actual human beings compared with these indifferent zombies that work at Winn Dixie and Walmart. I've probably made over a hundred transactions with them (mostly sending). I just give them my phone number and they pull up all my info. There are over twenty sender names and five hundres receiver names linked to my account. I have to send and receive shit under a different name sometimes and every Costa Rican or Philippino or whatever the fuck is a different person. They let me look at the computer screen to make sure shit is tight. Anywhere else you have to worry about them fucking up the receiver or senders name and then you end up spending twenty minutes on the phone to get it fixed. These minutes on the phone with these fucks are some of the worst moments of my life.


I get my card loaded. I should add the only reason I have to go through this debit card bullshit is because I can't get a bank account. I'm in Chexsystems for all the bullshit I did back in the day - writing bad checks, making debit card transactions on poker and sportsbook sites and then either dumping chips to a friend or withdrawing myself based on their policies, withdrawing thousands from ATM's then telling the bank my card was stolen -  all the bullshit. Bank of America was especially good for this. Any transaction you disputed was refunded the next day. That was the beauty. They gave you cash back, then did the investigation. If you were found to be the perpetrator of the fraud they would debit your account and demand that you pay back what was refunded. I never paid back anything. I just moved on to another bank.


I get back to my apartment and log on to Betonline. I go to deposit and the Mastercard option is gone. You see you can't deposit directly to the site with Mastercard anymore because of all the FBI bullshit. So you have to buy a prepaid phone card and then deposit to the site with that. 


I call these bastards up to see what the hell is going on. I get some idiot Costa Rican who can barely speak English. I can go on and on explaining my situation to them and they'll give me an answer that has nothing to do with my question. They leave me no choice but to berate them.


So this is what happens. This guy keeps telling me that Visa, Moneygram, and Western Union are the only options, after I explain to him that I've only deposited by Mastercard on this site. Finally after calling him a fucking idiot and asking him if he was retarded numerous times, I demand to speak to his supervisor. He puts me on hold and transfers me to this bastard. After being on hold for five minutes the call drops. I yell at my fucking couch.


I call back and start yelling again. This time I get through to the supervisor. The supervisor tells my that the option to buy the fucking phone card has been removed for maintenance and will be available at the end of the month. I go nuts. I want to know why I was told Mastercard was OK this morning before I went to load my card and let him know about all the time I wasted and how he lied to me (I never mentioned Mastercard, just debit card, and I've never spoken to this guy before.) Finally he's had enough and hangs up on me. I put the phone down an have a bowl of cereal. I feel great. 


So my point is if you want to have a highly energetic day and run seven minute miles, the first thing you should do in the morning is yell at a few Costa Ricans.


Anyway fucking Toledo. I remember those goddamn games. They had a fat ass coach who at first I thought was an idiot. Then after a few games, when I realized these games were fixed, I thought he was a genius. 


These games were fishy as hell. It was obvious to me what was going down. After Toledo fucked me good for a few games I finally figured it out and loaded up on their opponent whenever they were giving a considerable number of points or were a home favorite (these are both big public plays.) Christ I remember clear as day a Toledo game I bet when I was passing through Boston and stayed at Big Yates apartment. A friend of mine was living there, but it was Big Yates apartment. 


I was alone, drinking screwdrivers, sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop, playing internet poker on Youwager (Youwager was my sportsbook as well.) The poker site was on a smaller network (unlike Party Poker or Pokerstars) and had a lot of crazy vietnamese players who consistently called every hand and pushed all in at moments that make absolutely no sense. They're always behind. Always. But that's the problem. As easy as it is to crush them, it easier for them to crush you. In the long run I lost my ass to these damn vietnamese.


These fucking vietnamese are playing on a different skin (a different betting site with it's poker room on the same network as yours.) You can look this shit up. I know these guys play poker but fuck if I know whatever else they bet on. Their website is advertising to bet on the NBA right now with absolutely no NBA games to bet on. Crazy little fuckers.

Anyway I remember betting Toledo and watching this fat, bald bastard wiping his forehead all night as his team made shithead play after shithead play. This is the game when I realized what the hell was going on. It was the last time I ever bet on Toledo.


I remember this so clearly because this is where things began with Big Yates. But we'll get to that in a bit. Anyway I've been writing my novel (I will let you read some of it soon.) I spend all day trying to improve upon Joyce, Dostoevsky, Beckett, Proust, Fitzgerald, Kundera, Auster, Roth, and Bolano to name a few, so I don't have much time for this fucking blog. Fuck I hate writing this thing, but let's get to it.


THURSDAY


The Breeder's Cup starts tomorrow. Two days of racing. Friday are the ladies - Juvenile filly classic (two year olds), Juvenile Filly sprint, Juvenile Turf, Filly and Mare sprint (3 year olds and up), Filly and Mare turf, and Filly and Mare Classic.  I've been studying The Sheets and watching these assholes on TVG all week. The entire living room is covered with the Daily Racing Form, various pick sheets from so-called experts, and the fucking Sheets. The thing is the racing form has two or three pages for a race. The fucking Sheets have a different piece of paper for every fucking horse. There must be 300 pages of paper scattered around this apartment. I found one in the stuck to my bathrobe this morning. I forgot to steal toilet paper from the coffee shop last night so I wiped my ass with it. The horse was 40-1 anyway. No shot. 


I stay up all night trying to organize all this shit and map out my entire day of betting. I get my Pick 4, Pick 5, and Pick 6 in line. I narrow each race down to five horses. I'll use five as my superfecta base, 4 for triples, and 3 for exactas. I map out the races where I really like a horse to win and races where I feel like there are a couple horses that are far superior to the rest of the field.


I use The Sheets and everything I've garnered from TVG all week to do this. At this point I know which horses worked well over the track, those that didn't. I've got everyone's opinion and picks. I've watched video of past races and video's of recent workouts. I'm fucking ready. Time for sleep. Big day tomorrow.


FRIDAY


$900 to work with.


I jump out of bed at 9am. These are the mornings you live for. The mornings of your High School Football games, the mornings when you were still up shooting crap at 11am and on an hour roll,  the morning when you were 11 (or however old you were) and made plans with your girlfriend to fuck for the first time, the mornings in college - well I can't really think of any morning in College that I was excited to get up for. 

I hit Whole Foods for my coffee. I have $2 to my name so I just walk right out with it. Not that it matters. I haven't paid for coffee at Whole Foods in six months. There was one day but when a cop was standing by the exit and not playing with his phone, so I decided to pay for the fucking coffee. The lady asked me if it was a refill. Yeah it is. No charge. Six months. Not a dime. That's about $400 I've saved...$600 in EZSTREET with the 50% bonus.


My walks back from the Whole Foods are always dominated by Big Yates. Whenever I'm feeling remotely decent about myself I start thinking about Big Yates and the shit show I started 5 years ago and the $42,000 I won and then the lost a couple times. Big Yates. He was the first. He is where it all began. 


Pangs of guilt...shame...self-loathing...The Triumvirate. Not for myself. But for my family. How their situation would be better today if I just decided not to lose the 42K. I could give a shit about myself. I'd be in the same position, with a car perhaps and my own apartment. Maybe a better wardrobe, like Tom Brady. Fuck I want that guys wardrobe. Christ the pussy. Could you imagine? My own Giselle! Amazing. 


I rationalize everything. The money would be gone....badly invested. No matter how much cash I gave my family it all would have been lost when the economy shit it. Brady is a fag and his wardrobe is fag. Those stupid sweaters he wears. His fucking girlfriend dresses him. Not bad rationalizations as far as rationalizations go.


Big Yates. Toledo. We snort lines and put vodka in just about anything we can find. Up to this point Big Yates and I have just been aquaintances. I've been his bartender for years at a bar on Martha's Vineyard called The Irresponsible. Big Yates is a dark guy. He's gotta be 6'8"....300lbs maybe. He wears all black all the time and when he enters a bar everyone in the place has some visceral reaction to the dude. If you're looking for cocaine he's like chocolate for broads. If coke's not your thing you're most likely just scared. They guy is fucking scary. 


Big Yates would roll in and come right to the corner of the bar, away from everyone else, so he could see everybody that walked in the door.  Big Yates was the most paranoid person I've ever met....which is a big part of why the guy was such a successful business man. I'd usually have his triple Goose and pineapple ready for him, the first of a dozen, that I served him in a fucking hurricane glass that we had behind the bar specifically for him. I didn't do this out of fear. The thing is Big Yates was the coolest guy in the place when it came down to it. He knew the moves. He tipped large. And most importantly he liked me. It wasn't just that I took care of him, but he liked my fucking style. He liked the fact that I was short with people and didn't give a fuck whether customers liked me or not. He recognized that I was the fucking man, which was part of the reason I got sucked into his morbid, disgusting world in the first place.


But like I said Big Yates was a cool mutherfucker. He was really all about keeping the peace. Big Yates never really got into it because it usually wouldn't get that far. Just a lot of shit talking while people swarmed in to break it up. Big Yates was friends with the owner of The Irresponsible, so he worked as kinda an enforcer and undercover security guard for the place. There was one time however, actually the only time there was an incident inside the bar, that someone intentionally fucked with him. There was this guy Mertha. He was a tough dude...about six foot tall, linebacker build. He worked construction and was from New York. There was always tension between Mertha and Big Yates. They were the two toughest guys on the island, publicly anyway. So everyone wanted to see these guys fight. Well finally it looked like everyone was going to cash in their ticket. One night Mertha was very drunk and decided to talk shit to Big Yates. He was on the other side of the bar from Big Yates. The thing is nobody had really seen Big Yates fight someone who wasn't terrified of him. He threw one of his friends around once, bouncing him off walls until he was almost dead, but that was it. So people doubted how Big Yates would stand up if he was challenged. Usually he would tell someone to shut their mouth "or else" and the guy would shut his fucking mouth. Not Mertha.


Big Yates, after telling Mertha he better shut his mouth multiple times, finally told Mertha to shut his mouth "or else". But Mertha persisted, calling Big Yates a pussy and fucking faggot...stuff like this. Suddenly I felt a breeze above my head and heard what sounded like a gun going off.  I look to my right and see Mertha crouched over. I look above him and there's a corona bottle sticking in the wall....just hanging there like a dart. I don't mean it was dangling with the possibility of falling to the ground. It was lodged in the wall. It was a part of the wall. My first thought was that we were going to have a hell of a time pulling that fucking bottle out of the wall.


Finally Mertha shut the fuck up. Big Yates grabbed his Goose and pineapple and walked outside to the rail (there was a rail outside the entrance where everyone congregated and smoked.) I asked my boy Jimmy, who saw the whole thing, how the bottle got in the fucking wall. He said a radar gun would have clocked the bottle somewhere in the 90's and that it barely missed hitting Mertha in the face, grazing the hat on his head (the guy always had a yankees hat on.)


Mertha made a half hearted effort to go after Big Yates, but everyone saw the big guy just chillin outside, drinking his Goose and pineapple like nothing happened. They suddenly went from wanting to see the fight of the decade to just wanting to get Mertha out of the bar with his fucking yankees hat on. So they snuck him out the back. I never saw anyone step to Big Yates again. 


I get back from my morning coffee run and extricate Big Yates from my mind for the day. It's usually like this. I have my morning meditation on Big Yates, The Triumvirate, $42,000, then I lay it rest and get on with things. Big Yates...how the hell did I ever get involved this fucking guy?


THE BREEDERS CUP - OPTIONAL


The fucking Breeders Cup. The first race goes off....The Juvenile Sprint...The biggest favorite on the board at 1/2 wins, but not without bearing out in the stretch (two year olds run greenly sometimes.) I singled him in my Pick 4,  5, and 6. So I'm alive. 


Next race is the Filly and Mare Turf. I have 3 horses going in here. There was one horse I had to eliminate to stay within budget. I was about to toss the 5 out when I was overcome with the feeling I had 3 years ago when I was in Santa Anita for the Breeders Cup. That day Johnny V. (the coolest jockey) came flying in the stretch to kill my pick 4, which would have paid $4,000. I think about this often, especially every time I'm about to throw him out of one of my exotics. So I leave him in and he comes home at 7-1. Fucking Johnny V. Beautiful.


The third race is the Filly and Mare Sprint. I have the 3 and 11 here. The 3 is the big favorite at 6/5 and one of the "can't lose" horses of the week, and the 11 is a bomb, one of the horses who had a bullet work this week and was impressive doing so. If he comes in this race I'm set up for a huge payout and can hedge in the next race. The race goes off and the 3 has a horrible trip - it looked like he ran twice as long as the others - and still almost wins. The 5 comes up the rail and wins going away with the 11 closing from last place to get second. The 5 pays $42.40. I'm nauseas. (I just watched the race again and of course one of these assholes is talking about how all week they said the 5 had a good shot at a price. The 5? The fucking 5? I listened to every word that came out of every commentators mouth all week and I never heard anything about the fucking 5! These fucking dicks. I'm certain this asshole didn't have a dollar on him. I'm still fucking pissed.) 


Time to start over. The next race is the Juvenile Classic. I bet a late pick 3 and start betting win, exacta, trifecta, and small superfecta bets that I passed on earlier. I love the 5 in here. The 9 is the favorite and he looks good too. Then there's Wemissfrankie, who's the third choice at 5-1. He's undefeated but really hasn't faced anyone. Now I'm one of the many people with a dead relative named Frankie. Mine happens to be my grandfather, who was my main fucking man. So I have to bet him, therefore I can't hammer the 5. I box all three in exactas and trifectas. Then finally I fucking get some. The 9 wins, 5 gets 2nd, and Wemissfrankie closes for third. I have the  exacta for $20, but it only pays $24.20 so I basically break even with my win and exacta bets. But the fucking triple pays $110 and I have it for $10. What was $700 is now $1200. I'm dangerous again.


Filly and Mare Turf  - The 2, 6, and 5 are the only horses in the race. They're the best European horses and the best Euros always win the turf races. I hammer the 2, Stacilita, the favorite at 2-1. Everyone on fucking TVG picked this horse. I go large with exactas and trifectas, ready to make a big move here.


The 8 comes in with Johnny V. and pays $57.60. Stacilita finishes 2nd to last. $700.


Ladies Classic - I love the 3. I put $100 on him, bet a $50 exacta box with the 6, and go to work. 6-3 comes in and the exacta pays $32. I make $600 on the race. Back to $1300. Dangerous.


SATURDAY


Boring myself. Let's rap this up.

I'm invited to a VIP party at the Fairgrounds where there's no racing, but all the tracks are simulcasted. I'm hesitant to ask Annie to accompany me. She's usually a clingy pain in the ass at sporting events. I can't watch a Saints or Bills game out at a bar without her grabbing my arm or wanting a kiss or some bullshit. The problem is I have to get out of the apartment at noon wearing a sports jacket. For some reason I always think of Jim Kelly in these moments. Since I was a kid, and all the way up to my young adulthood, I always thought that fucking guy could do just about anything but win a Superbowl. He always seemed to be with a super hot broad, when I always thought of him to be kinda an ugly bastard. I'd hear stories of him being a drunk asshole most of the time, when every Bills fan, including me, thought he was was the closest thing to Jesus Christ we had down here. Woody Allan had Humphrey Bogart and I have Jim Kelly. Yeah Ole Jimbo...What would Ole Jimbo do?


My initial plan is to think about telling her one of my customers at the bar died and I'm going to his funeral. But Jim doesn't seem to like that one. When you're beat your beat he tells me. 


So I invite her to come along. She takes an hour to get dressed. We miss the first race. We get there and there's a minute to post for the Juvenile Turf. I love this 5 horse (Wrote...what a nice name) simply because of his trainer who always locks me up. He's 12-1. I run to the window and put $50 on him. We walk into the VIP room right as the horses are entering the stretch. I look at the TV and see the 5 coming on the outside and taking the lead. I immediately do what I try not to do around Annie. I start yelling at the TV at the top of my lungs...."Come on with this 5!" "Hold on Baby!"...shit like this. I'm bent over to my left like I'm a cheerleader doing a cheer slapping my left hand with my rolled up Racing Form. The 5 opens up and wins going away. I high five everyone in the room, who've I've yet to be introduced to. The guy who invited me, Jeff, is staring at me in amazement. "How the hell did you land on the 5?" "I like the trainer." "He always locks me up," I say. I'm introduced to everyone in the room. I'm Jesus right now. If I asked them all to kiss my feet they would.


Annie is actually not too disturbed. The thing is if I was a winner she wouldn't care what I did. I could spend eight hours a day at some shitty bar playing video poker and as long as I made a few hundred dollars a day she wouldn't give a shit. 


My image gradually begins to change. I go the rest of the day without cashing a ticket. I lose all $1300 in my online account and drop what was $1200 in my pocket after Wrote locked me up. 


I have $5 in my pocket when we leave. I didn't even leave myself any cash to bet on the Breeders Cup Classic....the richest race of the year. It's OK but because I love the filly...Havre de Grace...so I have something to live for. As it goes the favorite, Uncle Mo, as many experts believed didn't handle the distance and tires to finish mid-pack. Game on Dude looks home free when she's nailed at the wire by Drosselmyer (as a side note Chantell Sutherland rode Game on Dude and Drosselmyer was ridden by Mike Smith. The two were engaged last year....nailed her). My filly Havre de Grace runs a gritty race and finishes fourth. I'm very proud of her.

Obviously Annie would have kicked me out of the apartment if she knew how much I lost, so I have to act like I hit a few races and leave the room after them to cash my tickets. As far as Annie or anyone else in the room knew I lost 50 bucks. 


I have to work, but I try to get out of it to go watch the LSU-BAMA game. I succeed and have my boss spot me a hundo so I can have a couple beers and a sandwich. I was planning on dropping everything I had left in my account on LSU. Now I'm broke and can't get any action on the game so I'm forced to root for Bama, which I enjoy because I'm pretty much the only guy in the bar rooting for Bama. If you're reading this blog you know the outcome. I laugh my ass off when the dude makes that field goal. How the hell else am I supposed to react?


SUNDAY


I have $120 left from my stake. I deposit with Betonline with my Mastercard (they have yet to cancel this option which they will do tomorrow.) I put $70 on the Saints first half and I tease the Saints...Skins...and the fucking Bills in a 3 teamer. 


Annie and I go to Tracy's. I call to make sure the're showing the Bills game first so there's not another fuck up like last month. Tracy's is more airy, not a dungeon like Cooter's. They open their doors onto the street. It's pleasant.


We stand by the first TV as you walk in to watch the Bills. There are four people wearing Jet jerseys. This is going to be fun. One of them is this black lady who I usually see at Cooter's. She drinks Miller Lights, rips cigarettes, and yells at the TV like me. She seems a bit subdued today. A friend of mine knows a guy who lives with her. Apparently her mother committed suicide last month. This is not good for her entertainment value. Bummer.


Anyway, nothing of mention really. Jet fans are half-retarded so I didn't really understand anything they said. The Saints cover for me giving me $135 in the account. The score of the Bills game is 3-0 jets at the half. I love the Bills. There's no way we're losing this game. We played about as bad as we could have played and we're only down 3. 


The halftime line is +1/2. I put the $135 on them. I'm all in.


The Bills get crushed and don't even cover the tease. I'm tapped out.


Annie and I go back to the apartment. She's leaving in an hour and wants to bang before she does. I have a big problem getting it up after I take a big hit like that. I worked all weekend so we didn't throw down at all. I figure I have to bang her or I'd be kinda a shitty boyfriend.


Annie takes off without getting laid. I blame it on too much coffee and vyvance. Annie is understanding. She thinks I need to take the vyvance because she thinks I should take any pill my shrink tells me to take. She will sacrifice some dick for this.


As soon as she walks out the door I start fist pumping. Then I check the score of the Giants-Pats game. I see it's scoreless at halftime. Beautiful. I have something to live for now so I bike down the street to watch the game at Henry's. 


It's a great fucking game which the Giants pull out with 8 seconds to go. Awesome. My Billies are still tied for first place in the AFC east. It's nice to actually give a shit a about the outcome of a game when you don't have money on it.


Well another week, another loser. But I'll be back next week. It's a long season. I have to persevere. I have $42,000 to win by the end of the season. I need it for myself, for my father (like I said the recession and all kinda fucked the guy), and for Big fucking Yates. The bastard called me last week. I get these calls every month or so. The guy wants his money. He wasn't as pissed as he usually his though. I think he sold his mother's house, unbeknownst to her most likely, so he has a little cash in his pocket. Last month he threatened to send one of his boys down here. It's the first time in years he's done that. Like I said the guy likes me. 


The offer right now is to get him $12,000, half of what I owe him, and call it even. Basically the $12,000 will get him back in business which again, with the economy and all, has fallen off a bit. Apparently he's moved back into Boston and feels he can get going again. He'll probably be able to flip 12k into 30k he says, and so on and so on if he doesn't blow it all. He does like to throw as much money around as possible.


Then there's Annie. The marriage and kids bullshit came up again this weekend. You'd think this would be an easy decision, but the reality is as much as I shit on Annie, at the end of the day she's really alright....and it's kinda tough to find a broad who's kinda alright. So I figure I have about six months to figure that fucking shit out. It's either stay here and pack it in or move to fucking Berlin! Berlin baby! That's the move. I'll find some bohemian broad who plays bass and paints. We'll fuck each other up and down and drink wine and throw paint on each other....Henry and June style. It's like Paris in the 20's over there. Shit it's like New York in the 70's over there. Fucking Warhol and the Factory. Fuck Warhol. Fuck the 70's. Paris in the 20's man. That's the shit.  I can escape all this bullshit. Annie...New Orleans...$42,000...The Triumvirate...Big Yates. All this shit will become a distant memory....except for Big Yates. That bastard will find me. There's no escaping that dude. There's much more to the story of Big Yates and I'll try to tell it all as we continue on with this bullshit blog. Until next week....

Week 8 - Havre No Grace

Depressed. All week. All fucking week. Can't get out of bed. When I do...can't stay awake. I yawn. I get pissed. I think about everyone that I've hated over the years and fantasize about killing them. There is one that I would literally kill, but the others I'd just beat badly.


These thoughts don't help to motivate at all.  Nothing helps. Aderral, jumpin jacks, apples....nothin. I can't even jog a mile without stopping to re-consider what the hell I'm doing exercising anyway? Isn't it a bit narcissistic?


I picked up a copy of Samuel Beckett's letters this afternoon to really get in there, really go after it. Turns out he actually got me going a bit. After crushing a few letters, I was able to get off the couch and ended up writing a short play about my toaster. Fucking Beckett.


Now It's 3:30 in the morning and I'm two days late with this blog so I'm gonna lay down a short one.


I turned on TVG a couple hours ago to watch a Breeders Cup preview show. I just printed out the Daily Racing Form and The Sheets for Friday and Saturday. I ended spending my entire unemployment check (I have a job) on these fucking Sheets. I'm sure I'm not going to get a damn thing out of them but I just can't help it. It's like getting involved in a Ponzi scheme. I know the Sheets are fraud but I buy them anyway. Alright, fuck these Sheets let's go.


SATURDAY


I'm riding a high after Stanford miraculously wins by 8 (laying 7.5) in triple OT. They're forced to go for two in the third OT so I figure I had a 3% chance of covering the game at the beginning of the fourth quarter. I love this shit.


It's Halloween weekend in New Orleans and that means a bunch of fruity bullshit downtown. I wasn't even going to go out until Stanford locked me up. Now I'm drinking half bottle of rum and headed to the French Quarter.  I put on a stupid costume...The Most Interesting Man in the World. I color the beard black and put a fucking suit on. Fuck costumes.


I pick up a couple bags of shit from my guy and call my boy Stacks. Stacks is my driver. I gave him the nickname after Samuel T. Jacksons character in Goodfellas.  He's never even seen the fucking movie.





We head downtown. Stacks doesn't like me doing blow in his car but I do it anyway. I text Annie and tell her I'm staying uptown. She's been downtown all night and thinks that I'm still working (I got done four hours ago). She says she's heading back uptown now and that she's drunk because she drank, "a double"....broads.  Most of the texts are indecipherable, which is why I try to never go out drinking with her, especially when she's with her friends. I can't be led around by a bunch a silly broads all night. Not my thing.


Stacks and I arrive at the tail end. It's about 4am and the fruits, though still prancin' about, have thinned out a bit. Stacks and I bump up at the D.B.A. He ends up taking off early and I end up going to a dive bar off Bourbon where a girl that I'm sometimes in love with tends bar. She's in full goth tonight with her piercings and black lipstick. I'm diggin her, especially when she starts stocking beer. I sit there til 7am drinking heineken's, smoking camel lights, and ripping lines. I leave after a kiss on the cheek. I'm an idiot.


I take a cab home with three dollars on me. I plan on running it but the cabbie turns out to be a nice Japanese man so I feel bad. I run in, grab a check, and write it out for $20. It'll most likely bounce but hell, at least I gave an effort.


SUNDAY


Annie wakes me up at noon to watch the Saints game. I'm on the coach with my socks over my eyes. I have $1600 in my account, half of which I wanted to unload on my Billies but I slept through the game and get shut out.


The Billies cruise....23-0....I'm sick. At 4pm I love the Steelers. I'll take Big Ben at home catchin' 3 against the 85' Bears. I drop a nickel on them.


Annie cons me into driving to Alexandria with her. I agree because she's coming back tomorrow for Halloween and because I'm severely hungover and feeling guilty about every evil thing I've ever done in my life, including all this shit she knows nothing about. She mentions how nice I've been to her lately. I tell her my medication seems to have kicked in and I'm not feeling so awful lately. She laughs.


The Steelers cruise. I drive with my phone in my left palm, checking the score of the game every minute or so. Annie is asleep or she would bust my balls for this.


I've got $2100 in my account. My favorite game of the week is the Cowboys. Philly sucks and will continue to suck. The Cowboys are going to make a run for the division. I love Romo and when all his weapons are healthy, I think with their defense they're one of the best teams in the league.


The Cowboys get destroyed. An absolute ass-wiping. $1100.


MONDAY


No play in the Monday night game. My one discipline in life is to never bet a San Diego Charger game. Fuck that team.


Halloween bullshit again. I put on the same shit. Annie dresses up as the King of China. While she's doing her crown I kill the rest of the rum and whip a couple key hits.


We can't get a cab so I call Stacks and he drives us downtown. Stacks drops us at Canal and we walk down to Frenchman to join the fruits. We run into a friend of mine. He's a kid. 23 maybe. He's a drug addict idiot. He's got other drug addict idiots in town and has been running around with fifteen grams of blow and two pounds of mushrooms all weekend. He's tripping face and asks me if I want to go around the corner and take a few keys with him.  I tell him he needs to get his shit together soon or he's going to die young and walk away.


We run into a couple other people I know along the way, one of which is this hot but dumb cocktail waitress from the bar down the street. She's dressed up like a fucking dog. Dumb and dumb. Fucking costumes. 


Annie and I make it an early night, come home, and actually bang. The coke usually hurts me with that shit but somehow I make it happen.



She passes out. I pull out what's left of my baggie and hit my computer. The Breeders Cup is coming up this weekend. I love this filly Havre de Grace in the Classic. I pull up this video of her working out with a jockey cam. I watch it over and over again. It's beautiful...she's beautiful. If I wasn't such a degenerate gambler I would try to get involved with horse racing somehow. Fuck I need to have a big score. Then I can buy a fucking horse. Bobby Flay. He owns a bunch of fucking thoroughbreds. Fuck Bobby Flay. I should've been a fucking chef. I've got more charisma than that doughnut. If I ever see that guy I'm gonna call him a doughnut and punch him in the face. Fucking Bobby Flay. Fuck You.

Week 7 - Masculinity and Its Discontents

MONDAY NOON


No Annie. No work til Wednesday at 6. Three days to myself.  I'm going to jog every day...start meditating again...hit one of the eight yoga bullshits within 5 blocks of me...and start my novel. Great fuckin week in store here. 


MONDAY 11PM


I'm sitting at my desk in my stretch trunks streaming horse racing from Australia. I hit a two team parlay with the Jets and the Under in the football game for a few hundred and am now trying to lose it all on these horses. At this time of the night the only horses left to bet on are these fucking Australians. The racing starts around 11pm and there are three tracks - Australia A, B, C. Now what this means I don't really know. I do know that at one of the tracks - I'm not sure which and am not even sure all three don't race on the same track somehow - the horses run counter-clockwise, which is the American way. The others race the European way - clockwise. I usually never know which way they're gonna go til they hit the gate. 


I love to bet on these races but. The fields are large - 20 or so - and they run on the grass. I love the fucking grass. They have very long stretches so it's a mob scene when they get to the top of it. If your horse is a closer, getting to the lead is like trying to get to a Lucky Dog after a Saints game. 


The saddlecothes of all the horses are the same color so it's hard to tell which horses are which during the race. I rarely know if I've won money or got crushed until the race it over.


But I love betting Australia. They use terms like Punters...Not travelling...Big drifter..Really good go...Dead 'un...and Market Mover. And they talk really fucking fast, like auctioneers, in a sophisticated,  Australian accent. 


They have bookmakers stationed in all the Enclosures around the racecourse. The main bookmaking ring is located in the Paddock. It's old school. Just some guy, usually wearing a hat, surrounded by a mob, taking bets, writing tickets, and turning the dials. If that doesn't make sense, just think Running Man. 


When I was a kid the major bookie in my town was Charlie Friss. He used to run the book out of the back of his convenient store - Charlie's Corner. You could bet horses at the OTB(Off Track Betting) or you could bet them with Charlie. He also ran numbers. You could bet numbers with the state or you could bet them with Charlie. Charlie took the number from the last four digit's of that day's total ring at the nyra track - Belmont, Aqueduct, and Saratoga. So if your number was 7212 and the track rang $117,212 that day you were a winner. Shit I'm rambling. This paragraph should be cut.


Now the way I understand it - and I'm just learning this now to write this fucking blog- is that the pools are separate. Basically the bookmakers are doing their thing and the Tote, which is the nationwide pool, is doing theirs. So the punters(players) shop around for the best odds on their wagers between the two. 


Anyway the tracks rotate so a race goes off every ten minutes or so. I try to bet all of the them. Now right as they're approaching the gate the bookie turns the dial adjusting the odds. The horse who's odds drop the most is referred to as this damn "Market Mover," which is the horse all the late money, usually from the sharps(wiseguys), comes in on. I have no racing form, no idea who any of these jockeys or trainers are, and can barely understand what the commentators are talking about half the time. So I just wait for the "Market Mover" to be announced and bet him. Then I pick out two random horses and box them in an exacta with him. The thing is I usually have better luck doing this than studying the racing form. Unless I'm betting Belmont. I fucking crush Belmont. 


Tonight I'm doing well, although I can't seem to hit anything at the counter-clockwise track. I'm up to about $600 in my account from a $100 deposit earlier in the night. The problem is we're only on race 4 which means there's 18 more races to go. I haven't bet a horse in months, and this is why. Like poker, like anything really, I can't stop. I need to come up with something here. I can't spend all night doing this bullshit and most likely drain my account. Fuck Thank Christ for In Treatment.


I've been mowing down these In Treatment episode's before I knock off for the past week. I've become more involved with these characters than I am with my girlfriend. I want to bang Embeth Davidtz and Melissa George so fucking hard. I want to bang pretty much everyone on this show... they're so vulnerable.


I pull up Miro and click play on one of these episodes and it's over. I shut down the streaming from Australia and get the hell out of there. 




TUESDAY 9AM


I passed out early, only getting through 4 episodes. I'm up at nine. Go for jog. Come back. Walk around the neighborhood and price out yoga classes. I make some breakfast, look up meditation workshops online, then sit down and get ready to get after this fucking blog. 


TUESDAY NOON


The T.V. is on and I'm waiting for the first race at Keenland to go off. I've purchased the racing form online and even got the Rogozin sheets, or The Sheets as they're called, for Keeneland and Belmont. The Sheets were created by this Len Rogozin guy.  Len came up with this way to calculate a horses speed figure based not purely on the time the horse ran, but on the effort the horse gave. Instead of just looking at the final time the horse ran - which is what other speed figures measure - he looked at every factor in the race that contributed to how the horse ran that day. Ole Len took into account the trip the horse had, the obstacles he had to overcome, and the real distance the horse had to travel in the race. Basically Len judged the horses physical performance, which reflected more accurately his condition and ability, and gave it a number. 


They're called The Sheets because every horse has a sheet with numbers and symbols all over it that represent the speed figures the horse's run in all of his races. It looks kinda like HTML. The problem is not knowing exactly how to read the sheets can be very dangerous. The Sheets have been known to produce symptoms such as paranoia, hallucinations, social-anxiety disorder, and tourette's, to name a few. If you're not careful with these fucking sheets you'll end up like that fucking guy from Pi. 


I don't know how to read The Sheets. I just buy them because all the horsemen and sharps swear by them. When I was going to Saratoga everyday a few summers ago I bought The Sheets everyday. I ran around with the Racing Form under my arm, The Sheets in one hand, and a hot dog in the other. I think I lost fifteen thousand that week. 


The only think I know for sure about these fucking sheets is that the lower the number, the better the race the horse ran. This differs from all the other speed figures out there like the Beyer Speed Figure for example. The faster Beyer ever recorded was somewhere around 125 and the lowest Rogozin figure was a -3. A negative number. The coolest.


The thing is there's all kinds of other shit on these sheets. Some numbers are in Bold, some in Italics, some large, some small. There's colon's, semi-colon's, brackets, pluses, and minuses surrounding these numbers. I don't know what any of this means. 


Anyway I spend the whole day pouring over these figures and betting every race on the board. I'm stuck inside my apartment. I can't pull myself away from the television. It's like sitting at the poker table and holding in a piss all night because you think the next hand could be pocket aces. It's awful. Just awful.


Six hours later I somehow still have $300 in my account. What a waste of a fucking day. I'd be better off if I'd just slept through it.


I make it out of the apartment and grab a couple slices for dinner. I call Leroy and give him the passcode for my Cox account. He calls up and cancels TVG for me and changes the passcode so I can't re-order it. I give him the username and password for my TVG online account and have him change up that info as well. Now I can't watch any races on T.V. or stream them online. No more fucking Australia. No more "Punters" or "Market Movers".  I'm free.


I hit In Treatment for a few more episodes, load, and knock out. I wake in the middle of the night with a headache and on my way to an Advil have a panic attack. I take a Xanax and pace for a bit. I don't fall back asleep til six.


WEDNESDAY


I sleep til 3 and have to immediately get ready for work.  No time to call Leroy and bust his balls for the new passwords. The panic attack actually worked in my favor.


THURSDAY


I put the $300 on Arizona in the night football game. They cruise.


FRIDAY


Annie took the afternoon off from work so she can get back from Alexandria in time for this therapy session she scheduled. We've been going to this woman, Mia, for a couple months now. I actually started seeing her on my own first, but just I was starting to make progress, Annie swept in an stole her from me. 


In my last session with Mia I talked to her about my gambling and how I know that I'm good, that I have an intuition with these games, that it's the way I'm stringing bets together which is the problem. I went on to tell her how whenever I play a parlay or a teaser it's always that one team that fucks me, that I consistently hit 4 out of 5 in 5 team parlays...consistently. And Mia comes back and tells me that maybe I should stop betting 5 team parlays. That maybe I should just bet the games straight. Genius. Mia's a genius. That's the best advice anyone's given me in years. 


Now Annie sees Mia solo and I only go with her. It's all pretty fucked up but I just roll with it.


She gets in around three and we head down to Mia's office. Annie I'm sure has a few things on her mind that she wants to bring up off the rip. I just roll in blind. The thing is if I'm not around Annie and in the middle of a disagreement of sorts, I really don't care about anything. When I leave Annie's presence, I pretty much leave the relationship.


Mia meets us in the lobby and walks us back to her office. She has a very Eastern vibe going on in there. A lot of golds, blacks, and greens. But mainly gold. A lot of fucking gold. I'm well past this crap so it makes me kinda anxious.


Now besides possessing the hottest female name in the English language our therapist is fucking hot. At least I think she is. I'd say most idiots would give her a 6. But since she's my therapist she's at least a 9. It looks like she's lost a bit of weight too. She was kind of full figured, which is fine because she's tall. Now she looks to have the perfect amount of meat on her. Thankfully her tits haven't lost any weight. They're still awesome.


So our sessions usually go something like this. She brings something up that's been concerning her and immediately starts crying. She's always fucking crying. I sit with my legs crossed and chin resting my palm, staring at Mia's tits. I can't stop. She has to be aware of this. I mean I'm locked into these things. I'm like Luke Skywalker approaching that Death Star reactor thing. I could blow up her tits.


Every now and then Mia asks me if I understand what Annie's talking about. I always come back with "which part", since I've barely been listening, to get something to play off. Apparently this is the thing...listening to each other. I looked this shit up. Some technique called, "active listening." The goal is for both parties to be aware of the others' feelings and to create a safe environment for these feelings to be expressed. I go along with it. I'll pretty much go along with whatever Mia says.

The In Treatment has changed me but. I feel a lot deeper, a lot more self-aware...well a little bit more self-aware. In this particular session I find myself thinking about the couple of Amy(Embeth Davidtz) and Jake(Josh Charles) on this fucking show. In the last episode with these two just Amy shows up and Paul breaks her down - if you don't know, Paul is the therapist played like a gangster by Gabriel Byrne. The short of it is that Amy's father died when she was 13...he was a very tender man...she feels abandoned...when Jake is tender it disgusts her...she get's angry...she can't trust tenderness...she finds it weak...she feels like Jake is going to abandon her, die, and leave her behind. 


So Paul asks her if she thinks this might be because it scares her and therefore in order to avoid the fear she provokes Jake and makes him angry. That she creates these situations that bring out the worst in him - fucking gangster! The last sentence is all I really hear. The rest of it is over my head. 


So I begin to turn into Jake. It just happens. It's like I'm channeling him. I turn everything around and pick her apart. I bring up everything she's ever done that I thought was bullshit. I accuse her of being inconsiderate and thoughtless. I accuse her of being a phony and a lier. I start sounding like Alec Baldwin leaving that message to his kid. The only difference I think was I left out the word "pig".


They're both kinda baffled by the shit that's coming out of my mouth. I finally snap out of it and apologize for getting a little off track. Annie actually stopped crying because the things I was saying were so ridiculous. Thank God we were out of time. I stood up, paid Mia, and we got the hell out of there. 


SATURDAY


I wake up early and go for a jog. In case you're wondering Annie and I didn't say one word about the session after we left. We never talk about anything that's said in there. It's strange. I don't understand it at all but I roll with it.


Shit I've gotten way off track here. That In Treatment show is fucking me up. I need to get through it and be done with it. So let's wrap this fucking thing up.


I come out guns blazing. I love Cincy, Texas A & M, and K. State. I tease and parlay them. Easy winner. I hit for $900. Now I have $1500 and change going into the 3:30 games. I love LSU, Nebraska, and Missouri. I tease and parlay them and bet LSU straight up.


Fucking Missouri. They lose by 21 as Oklahoma State runs in a meaningless touchdown on the last play of the game. This happened in my favor a couple weeks ago with Boise St. and I laughed my ass off. I'm laughing my ass off now but it's a much different form of laughter. I had them plus 18 in a teaser. I lose everything but the LSU bet. I'm back down to a G.


I roll with BAMA, Stanford, and Notre Dame. Here's the move my subconscious likes to pull on me when I'm in position to go on a nice run. Instead of teasing USC up to +20, I tease N.D. down to a pick. USC +20 is hands down the better play. But I go the other way because I hate USC and my subconscious hates me. It's like he's telling me that I'm a loser and it's time to lose. This winning bullshit is just not your thing. 


Mia. I need Mia. I need to fucking get her back. I need her to help me dig deep and get rid of this darkness...this evil...this gestapo that lurks beneath this shroud of consciousness. And maybe after this is done we can fuck. Why wouldn't she want to fuck? Outside of that room she's a six. I crush six's. I don't think I've ever met a six I couldn't fuck. When our sessions are up she always touches my arm and tells me to call her anytime if I want to come back for a solo session. That's the signal. She definitely wants to fuck. She wants to fuck.


But right now I don't have Mia. All I have is this bullshit disorder that fucking owns me. 


Time and time again I try to convince myself that I have control over this. That I'm going to do things differently next time. That this behavior I will learn to correct. And time and time again my subconscious rears it's ugly head and shows me that I'm wrong. 


I lose $600 and I'm back down below $400 heading into Sunday...I can't wait til this weekend is over.


SUNDAY


We go out hard on Saturday. Annie is out cold at noon, so there's no running around sneaking these bets in. I roll with Philly, Carolina, and the Falcons. Falcons are my best play. My firm belief is that the Lions are overrated. I also firmly believe that the Falcons are starting to round into shape and are severely undervalued. When these two ideas align in my brain I fire...and I fire big.


Unfortunately the Notre Dame debacle has left me with $400. So to maximize my Falcon's love I bet them first half, with the feeling that they will be undervalued again at the half. So I bet $300 on the Birds first half and parlay the rest with all three. 


The Falcons are up 11 at half. The second half line is Lions laying 6. I put everything on the Falcons. They now have to win by 5, when initially they were a 5 point dog. I've basically fucked myself out of 10 points with this bet, but these are things you have to deal with when you're shorthanded. 


The Falcons win by a touchdown, but not without raising my blood pressure. The Lions were inside the 20 going in with under a minute remaining, but my Falcons held. Carolina and Philly come through and I have a perfect beginning. I'm back up to $1500.


The late games are gifts I think. Packers and Cowboys are big favorites and I expect them to cover. I love Kansas City going against a Raiders team with no quarterback. I love the Redbirds because, well because I always love them for some reason, because again I'm ruled by forces I have no power over. 


And then it hits me. I don't need therapy with Mia. I really do need to fuck Mia. I need to fuck her. By fucking her I will fuck this evil out of me. By fucking her I will have won and once you really win, I mean really win, I mean fucking your teacher, fucking your boss's wife, fucking your fathers new wife, fucking your fucking therapist! Then you are a winner. That's it. Over. Done. A new fucking existence!


So I split. Boys and KC(The Raiders QB's combine for 6 interceptions) kill it. Packers and Redbirds let me down. I still have $1300 going into the night game.


Now this next bet is so disgusting that I will limit my memory of it  to one sentence. I bet the under in the Saints game....62 - 7.


I go to bed with $800. I will lose a little bit more than half of it tomorrow night when the Ravens inexplicably lose to the fucking Jaguars. I'll be right back where I started on Monday. Hilarious.

Annie is gone again. I can return to the people I love the most - Jack, Amy, Sophie, Alex, Gina, Laura, and Paul. I'll call Mia tomorrow and set up a solo session. I will begin the seduction. I will tell her every dark, disgusting thought that enters my being and she will become fascinated by me and her vagina will shake as I spin my tales of masochism.  Hell I don't need any of this shit. I'll fuck her without transference or countertransference(I don't know what any of this shit means). She's a 6 for christsakes.  But for now I'll watch 4 or 5 episodes of In Treatment, then load to Laura. Laura's a fucking 9 in real life. Maybe one day I'll meet her and fuck her too. I'll fuck the evil out of her. We'll fuck the evil out of each other. Because I could fuck her. I could fuck her. I could fuck anything if I put my mind to it.