Nope

Why the fuck did I just go play poker at the fucking Tuscany. Bunch of fucking sharks if you ask me. I bought in for a hundred at the four eight game, and was never up. Fucking split pots all night. I flopped a nut straight that I ended up splitting on a river gut shot, I turned a nut straight that I ended up splitting on a river gut shot, I lost to higher two pair that he ended up hitting on a river 5 outer. And this one fucking guy, thought he was Phil Ivey or some shit. He came to the poker table dressed in a full suit and Oakley’s, the Tuscany casino mind you. The dollar beers are fucking pricey at that place, and this fuck is wearing a suit at the table. He makes those long agonizing decisions, like he’s not going to fold, makes everyone at the table wait for him, then throws in his cards and shakes his head. That fucking guy is the one who when he plays online the shit keeps flashing over him and he always mucks. Everyone hates that guy, everyone. No one respects his patientence, cause he’s always raising on crap hands anyway. That fucking guy split 2 pots with me where he was way fucking behind. I hated him so much. He left up 50 when I was down fifty, and that just made me angrier. He was flaunting this souvenir 100-dollar chip you can buy at the world series of poker gift shop and acting like shit was a collectors item. Then he left, up money. I played rather aggressively from there on out, eventually getting busted out after hitting top pair nines by a river jack. I stormed over to the free buffet spread which consisted of stale turkey and cheese sandwich rectangles stuck with toothpicks which had already pierced a grape, now attached to the decaying wheat bread. I angrily swiped three of the shits and ate them after I got back to my abode and was able to calm my nerves a couple of times and then a couple more times. Damnit, these sandwiches were delicious. I don’t know what it is about them, but I think it’s that fucking grape. Very sugary, seedless, and quite a nice contrast to the stale wheat. But I pretended the bread had been toasted rather than left sitting out seven hours for a bum’s repast and then it tasted even fucking better, regardless of the truths I hid from myself.

Nope

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