Last night I dreamt about coming back to my old apartment. It wasn’t really my apartment, just one of the stock apartments used for my dreams.
Inside was a rotting carcass. A lechon? Or a buffalo? It was large and rotting with flies all around. In fact there were flies and larger wasps. I tried to swat away the large wasps, but whatever I used (newspaper, cloth towels, etc.) would go limp and envelope the wasp. Then I would see the shimmering emerald green backs of these wasps and imagine the pain of its sting, so I stopped fucking with them.
I walked around to other rooms, but there were more flies and wasps. The windows were open everywhere but a linen curtain lining would be blowing in and out preventing the bugs to fly out naturally. Instead they just lingered. I just wanted to rest, just sit down some place. I was so tired walking from wherever I was to get to this point.
I wanted to leave, but this is my home. So I resolved to clean up this mess, but finding a starting point was hard. My first thought was to clean the smaller, outer rooms and push all the trash to the living room with the festering carcass. That carcass was rotting with maggots and flies. If I could smell in my dream, I could not imagine the awful nature. The horrible sight is a blur, yet it’s symbolism was so easy to decipher as I woke up. It was 1:36am. Not even close to my waking hour. The middle of the night is how most people would classify that time, but my experience told me that this dream is at the forefront of my mind. This was not a warning but a promise. I must clean my house before I rest.
Well, not exactly, but with the help of his incredible college basketball site, kenpom.com, and my old reliable site by Jeff Sagarin, sagarin.com, I am primed to make my January Vegas trip profitable.
The hype is building, so I am ready to crunch some numbers and dive into this data. I need to see if I can actually translate Pomeroy’s numbers to the NBA games, but there is a lot more unpredictability in the pro game. I hope the core metrics can override the randomness.
I truly love putting myself in confrontational situations. It’s the challenge. The pressure. Winning is best, but I’m fine with the lessons of losing. Today’s conflict is a triangle. Myself, a “fuxking cunt,” and an poshde virgin.
Armenian slang looks like broke down Thai. Fuck it. Time to divide or I’m subtracting.
Why explain the title? Google works. The City of Los Angeles finally got me by towing my car last night. Parking tickets a plenty. No registration since Texas 2010. Actually it’s a damn good thing the shit is paid for and I have the title.
Neal complimented me on overabundance of music knowledge. I can’t take a compliment, instead countering that my strengths mask my weaknesses. I’ve been trying weakly to be a light treader, gliding through life, learn about what interests me, ignore the shit that bores or scares me. I intimated to Cris that I need to get busy being an adult. Pay all my bills. Get insurance. Work from ahead.
I think having my car towed and the hell I know I will pay to get my car back would have crushed me emotionally even 6 months ago. Last night as Benoit thankfully dropped me off at Cris’s, I flashed a smile to reassure him. I can beat this shit because the shit is easy to beat. But as always, I really wish I hadn’t got got, so the lesson learned is to be more vigilant so I don’t get got again.
Down $290 from blackjack then poker. The sad thing is that all 3 sessions had me up only to dramatic and rapidly fall to earth like (Kid) Icarus with melting waxed wings. Also, all 3 sessions involved a force majeure or, should I say, an ill communication via negative actors.
I gave seriously bad counterintuitive advice following a bad double-down. my advice led to the player and myself missing the right card. My loss was soon following.
I have a rule never to tip blackjack dealers until I leave. Previous mid-game tips have led to walking away empty-handed. Added with an idiot playing doubling-down on a hard 13 with a 5 showing and the same idiot applauding the dealer hitting 3-card 21s, I knew I should’ve left when I felt the worry. But those titties… the cut card was sitting in front of me and a gracious exit was never made. Two hands later, I was ousted ingloriously.
But the coup de grace was the constipated ribeye. Because after pounding down 22 ounces of my favorite cut of beef, I fully expected a blowout. But none was forthcoming. And so lingered. I lumbered through the ill-fated blackjack session with the TOB-ed dealer. I tried to force it out but it was just utilities: water and gas. But minutes after sitting down for poker, the bubbling brewed. I should leave. I am bleeding chips. I should leave. I’m stealing a few pots. It’s easing off. I won a big pot. I feel alright. I go all in with 2 pair with a flush and straight draw on the board. But he has a set. Busted out. Time to shit. Then off to bed.