Poker & Some Good-God-Damn-Fiction

I love Poker. Even though most of the time I don’t win. See – it works out to be even most of the time. Last week I cleaned up – rolling out of the game with $45 is no joke. I got some dirty looks, but what the fuck ever. This week – I’m out the $20 I brought. So maybe the time before last I lost money, and maybe I’m down if you’re really keeping track. But I don’t give a shit. I like being able to drink a bottle of wine to my fucking head and playing poker with some cool folk. It makes my 12 hour work day that much more earned. Whatever.

I haven’t updated in a while – not sure why. I’m not exactly living it up lately, but I’m also just really burnt out. It’s taken me working 50+ hour weeks to even keep my head nominally above water lately – which is 10+ more hours than I’m getting paid for, unfortunately. But I can’t complain. I don’t work for Denny’s. I don’t go to school. I don’t have a husband or kids. So – points for me!

Speaking of kids – I have to go to a baby shower in a few weekends. WTF?! I don’t know why this is all of a sudden my life. Weddings, baby showers….bullshit. I call bullshit on this. I’m 26. Do people my age and younger actually get married and have kids with enough regularity for me to statistically have to attend this many of these things? Wow. I kind of thought my generation would live up to more than this. Let’s chain ourselves down to the daily grind at the same age as our parents – there’s the way to bridge the generation gap, people.

Doesn’t anyone want to travel the world and stay single anymore? If I meet that person I would consider marrying them in 10+ years - after we were done travelling the world and not having babies, that is.

I am reading the most excellent book. It's slow and it's hard to manuever. But it's poetry makes the effort worthwhile. From "Sometimes a Great Notion" by Ken Kesey:

At the window of her one-room shack Indian Jenny sips her bourbon and snuff and becomes more interested in the moonlit march of clouds. They come trouping in from the sea in mighty masculine columns, and, squinting, she leans bulkily forward to try to make out the half-remembered faces of this army - handsome, handsome and tall they were, an army handsome and tall and white as snow, stretching back over the horizon of her memory.

God damn if there isn't a more confusing, beautiful, powerfully written novel. And I'm only on page 61 of 628. I look forward to the rest of this beautiful mess. It will take me a while, but it's worth it - for prose such as this, it's worth it.

I'm now too drunk to type. So Briana is over and out.