Prayer Meetings of a Different Kind

My addictive personality didn't manifest itself.  I've had nature and nurture conspiring together to make me into a gambling, drinking, facebooking, tweeting fool. 

Less than a full month after my 21st birthday, I began my new life in Oklahoma City, OK as a First-Term Airman.  Sounds like a great idea, dudn't?  Give a guy a license to drink, legally, and no parents or the like within 1500 miles to say, "Gee, maybe you shouldn't be out at the bar eight nights / week 'til they do last call."

Well, if you know my Dad, you know he might not object so readily. 

I'm man enough to admit that on more than one occassion, I drank enough to arrive at a puke-and-rally check-point.  Twenty eight years on this Earth and there's only one day that I recall actually waking up the next morning and wanting to throw up.  This was almost exactly a year ago.  It was following one of my last nights on the East Coast before heading West with tens of thousands of dollars, in search of some dream in Las Vegas.

Not only did I want to pray to the porcelain gods after that night of drinking, I went through with it.  I'm convinced that it was more nervousness about the trip than a simple hangover from hell.  My second night in Vegas, I lost a $3K-$4K pot with a set vs OESD/FD.  I went on tilt for the ensuing six or eight weeks, and lost many much monies.  The dream quickly turned into a nightmare.

Since I picked up the poker habit, I don't drink nearly as much as I did within the four years before and the four after my 21st - but when I do, I try to make up for lost time.  Went out last night and had a good time, woke up this morning feeling fit as a fiddle.  Bright and early, too - I was out of bed a full 13 hours before I had to be at work.

Just before I started writing this, I came across the Grump's Re-cap of a Robl vs Antonius PLO Hand.  For the second time in my life, I wanted to puke after a night of drinking.  This was a sympathy-vom, though, and I failed to follow through.

We're Kin Fourier Live In

Couple weeks ago, I forgot how to deal.  I made two table-halting mistakes in a single night and was not all that surprised to get a txt the next week saying, "you're off tonight, talk to you tomorrow."  Luckily, I wasn't fired, more of a one-game suspension arrangement.  Give the players a week to forget that they're mad at me.

This didn't stop me from making bad decisions last week.  I talked to Gene, told him I had the night off, and I'd like to come ship it at his game.  The catch: I could only pay him by dealing off the debt on the following Sunday.  He was more than happy to have me come out to play.

Shocker:  I hadn't played in weeks, was playing $2/$5 NL on some level between scared money and free money... and I shipped it, in enough time to get to the bar before Midnight.

Fast forward to Sunday.  Around Noon, Gene tells me the game starts at 4pm.  I show up around 3:45.  Some time around 4:10, people start asking questions like, "are you here to deal, or play?"  Uh, I thought I was here to deal... because didn't I prove on Tuesday night that I don't know how to play this game?

Gene and I got our signals crossed.  He admits that it was a total brain-fart on his part, sends me home.  I drive home, the whole way thinking about whether I want to go to the bar, or just sit at home and watch TV, or worst decision possible:  load some money on PStars and play on there.

A pessimist would argue that I drove all the way home for nothing.  An optimist would suggest that I was saved by the bell.  Gene sends me a txt, "Do you want to come back [to deal]?"

I don't live two minutes down the street.  It's a good 35-40 minute ride, complete with a toll booth and all.  "Sure, I just got home, I'll be right there."

Took the drive.  Did the work.  Now I got a job on Sundays again - for a short while.