Your BP drops like the bad habit,
You don’t even know it’s Sunday when you wake up,
You sleep past 10 am no problem,
You check the standings just to make sure…
Yup- Patriots still the best; Browns still the worst
(Everyone else pretty much right where they always are too).
You honestly have no use for your big screen TV,
Or your $200/month cable bill,
You can look a $100 bill straight in the eye,
And say, “You really are something.”
You still owe your bookies from last year,
But that’s only because you were customer of the year,
Of the decade- of the millennium,
And poker has been Abysmal– for a year.
You write a poem while your TV catches up on sleep,
After a lifetime of burning the candle at both ends,
You make coffee and think about your future…
Poems are nice but it’s time to pay the bills,
It’s time to pay all those bookies,
And sell them some shirts,
And finish your book.
It’s time to record your songs,
Then walk over to Aria and just HOPE
Some kid on a heater-
Who doesn’t know you from Teddy Monroe,
Will play you heads up
For whatever you can pull from your pockets…
Cuz that’s the only way
The Bookies get paid,
And the TV ever wakes from its slumber.
When you quit betting sports you no longer see the burning light at the end of the tunnel that isn’t there. You only see a sliver of light- for now, but it’s there. You just gotta keep walking through the waste, and taking acquaintances for what they are, and telling the Tom Middletons of the world they are the best- cuz they are, and that’s the crew that deserves all your time and attention and love and whatever else you can come up with for the rest of your life– regardless of age, size, sex, color, Apollo Creed or whatever.
You will no longer feel burnt by the ____ ______s of the world for failing to reciprocate your generosity/for being mondo self-absorbed like all the kids not named Charlie at the Chocolate Factory. You won’t feel slighted for having run up the score in the favors game vs Veruca Salt, only to watch her pass up a wide open 10-point layup- because she prefers to wear a plain black T shirt (and admittedly a pretty cool hat) to a WPT final table, over an insanely comfortable (our clothes are made of Angel Wings I’m almost positive) Poker Rags™ T shirt- that is smart, funny, cool, and “good for the game…“, 2 weeks after she reached out to you and told you she wanted to re-pay you for all those golden tickets you gave her- and like 5 minutes after you read about how vital it was to Nike’s survival early on (and eventual puberty into the strongest man alive) that athletes started wearing their shoes in big events (even though their shoes weren’t quite up to the quality of Adidas at the time- the athletes did it as a favor/to be part of something they believed in/to hook up the people they wanted to see do well)
No, you will not feel slighted or angered or hurt or whatever anymore when easy favor buckets are passed up by all the Augustus Gloops of the world, who really just want to eat all their candy- and yours, because all your favor scoring moving forward will be done vs the Charlie Buckets of the world- and the Oompa Loompas…
You have always been a prolific scorer.
You have always been horrific at discriminating who to light it up against- and who to just let the ball bounce off your knee against (I now realize this metaphor is confusing AF, and I’m not sure if Charlie’s last name helps or hurts).
Also you have understanding now that people are merely equations– equations they didn’t choose the variables for (unless they are some real enlightened cats- rare AF), and you are done being mad at variance…
On second thought, fuck it- what’s the line in the night game?
Just kidding, where’s Bravo and who wants to fucking play some heads up Cadillac? Is my laptop charged in case I need to come back and work on my book, my company, my music, my blog, etc? Check. Lezgo bitches, it’s time…
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