I was supposed to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, but ended up playing online poker until well after the bastard birds started tweeting. Shouldn’t I be trying to get my ass into gear? Shouldn’t I be prepping for the fascist EFL fucks in Belarus who will be interviewing me and busting my balls for no good reason other than the thrill of displaying dominance? I just don’t seem to care. I don’t care about my graying and depleting hair, nor my limp dick. What is the point? If by miracle I land some shit gig in Southeast Asia, what fertile woman is realistically going to want to fuck me? And, say they do want to fuck me, how am I supposed to get this limp cock inside of them so that I may seed them with my brood? I don’t even seem to care about my existential dilemma. I just want to play poker – poker is way better escape than drinking – I haven’t drunk all month and have lost 12 pounds because there is never time to eat when you’re playing poker. I’m not winning, but for the first time, I’m breaking even. I can play poker for real money until the end of time now for free. I play poker because I don’t care. I used to drink because I didn’t care. I don’t even feel suicidal anymore because I simply don’t fucking care. In the past I would say, look at the horror of my life being flushed down the fucking toilet; but, really, what life was there ever to get flushed? What future where I am not neck deep in shit do I have?
No comments:
Post a Comment