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.