2 years of degeneracy (tl:dr. also pather aler)
07-20-2012
, 07:22 PM
07-23-2012
, 08:07 AM
07-23-2012
, 11:34 AM
Thread remains one of the all time best!
Make it happen! 
07-24-2012
, 08:13 AM
amen! I'm down for some benders when the cash flow gets good 
I'm pissed that I cant do the degen name proud and pop my vegas cherry when I go to the US later this year. 21 age limit is ridonkulous...I would have loved to hit up some action on the strip and other places like the commerce etc.
I'm pissed that I cant do the degen name proud and pop my vegas cherry when I go to the US later this year. 21 age limit is ridonkulous...I would have loved to hit up some action on the strip and other places like the commerce etc.
09-09-2012
, 10:57 PM
09-10-2012
, 07:35 PM
10-02-2012
, 10:16 PM
final part to my brisbane story. took me forever to finish this. been too busy bottoming out and trying to put the pieces back together. taking it's toll on me. getting over it.
to anyone that bothered to read I only hope it was worth your time. To anyone that's left comments thank you for taking the time. Been a ****ing hectic year.
part 1
http://forumserver.twoplustwo.com/sh...&postcount=168
part 2
http://forumserver.twoplustwo.com/sh...&postcount=211
Part 3
If you're so funny
Then why are you on your own tonight?
And if you're so clever
Then why are you on your own tonight?
If you're so very entertaining
Then why are you on your own tonight?
If you're so very good-looking
Why do you sleep alone tonight ?
Because tonight is just like any other night
That's why you're on your own tonight
With your triumphs and your charms
While they're in each other's arms
**** my mornings. I'm an insomniac chain smoker alcoholic. I've got the 10,000 cigarette death exhale that floods my mouth with a torrent of chewable lung discharge. My universe spins. I typicaly don't remember where I am or how I got there and stare at the ceiling and wonder why the **** do I keep doing this until my head becomes burdened with regrets. Women. Money. Body. Nothing treats me right and my disposition makes sure I **** it up somehow if it ever starts to. Could I have made a move on that girl? ****, I was flipping through groups left and right. Entertainment spewed forth from my fingers and awesomeness ensued wherever I wandered...or was I just a drunk ****ing ******* kodachroming the **** out of yet another alcohol induced stupor? Honestly, I can't remember. I've spent many of my mornings with this itch in the back of my head that says I did something really ****ing uncool the night before and I owe someone an apology but ****s me who it was or what I did. This morning wasn't disimilar. Slowly peel my eyes open. Light hurts. Breathing hurts. My brain ****ing hurts. It's 9:30 a.m. which means I've managed to procure three and a half hours of sleep and I'm ready to do it all over again until I find an early grave.
Last night was another blur of Bundaberg rum, chip tricks, and three barrelling into the backdoor nuts. Started off with me being over rewarded for playing bad in the 1/3 game. Pair and a gutshot? 2x pot overbet jam from a nit on the turn? I metagamed him by popping the biggest blackest boner since Robert Hamburger and jumped on the table and fist pumped my nipple piercing loose after insta-calling. Who gets married to overpairs when you have a cashed up action junky on your left with offsuit connectors? Seriously. I'm up 1k playing short handed maniac action at 3 a.m. when two girls come up to the table and sit directly to my right. Drunk? Yes. Fat? Yes. Stupid white trash? Mega Yes. The moment feels perfect so I start attempting to spit some game at them. Regardless of how un****able and single they are apparently I am still too **** for them though as they don't particularly seem interested. Eventually I get into this hand where I flop trips with 10 3 offsuit out of the big blind. I check, drunk Mr. Goodtimes in mid position wearing a suit bets $25. First lady calls. Second girl calls. I raise enough to put all three of them all in as noone had more then $100 in front of them. ****** in a suit tank calls then both girls call. Blanks roll out on the turn and river and I scoop the pot. Girls go aweeee and leave me with yet another unsatisfied erection. However, the Mr. Goodtimes s00ted remains seated. Not rebuying, just staring at me in complete and utter disbelief that through some cruel twist of fate the forces of the universe had conspired against him and he had lost a WHOLE $100. Then comes the accusations-
Mr. Goodtimes-"Mate, did you know those girls?"
me- "Um... the girls I just introduced myself to and was hitting on and then stacked?"
Mr. Goodtimes- "You guys were colluding! You planned to have them call to force me to call. You were cheating."
me- "You realise I went all in and you were first to act after me right?"
Mr. Goodtimes- "Mate you're a cheater. I want to talk to the floor boss right now."
me- LOLZ
At this point I'm just feeding this guy's paranoia and saying 'yeah bro you got me good GG' and laughing. A pit boss comes over and instead of calmly explaining his accusation he begins to scream hysterically about the integrity of the casino and pointing fingers at me and calling me a cheater. Casino staff in Australia don't work for tips so they don't put up with even a quarter of the **** punters give in other parts of the world so the guy was promptly dragged out by security. Another perfect example of the hysterical ****head approach to getting your point across to working staff failing miserably.
So three players down at 5 a.m. on a Thursday the game ends up breaking. The fat white trash vagina had me totally sprung still so it was off to the bar to down as many rum and cokes as I can in an hour. Turns out to be about 8 or 9 which isn't really a good effort but I was just trying to either drink myself to sleep or drink myself in to sexing something. I spot a hot lady and got ready for the approach only to be intercepted by the standard sloshed up douche male returning from the bathroom. I bought in deep on a baccarat table to try and impress asian bitches but I had no clue how to squeeze cards and all the girls just blew me off. I found the fat girls again and had another crack while they played the pokies but it quickly became apparent the catchy music and spinning poker symbols consumed them and there was -no- chance of me ever getting my dick wet there. I left the casino drunk, lonely, disheartened, and being greeted by the sun. People were jogging or riding bikes and commuting to work while I am stumbling across the Brisbane River bridge with bloodshot eyes chainsmoking and berating myself over missing the ****train yet again.
The pain of the morning recovery can be assuaged with good ritual practice: orgasm, coffee, cigarettes. It doesn't matter which order they occur just as long as all three are properly taken care of. I wake up most days with a raging erection. I have no idea how long it's been there but the need to deal with it as soon as possible consumes me. Days where I can't either get laid or jerk off within an hour or so of waking up just put me on edge. I don't care if I'm sharing a small apartment with a bunch of dudes, a tent with my dad, whatever. I am addicted to orgasms and need my ****ing fix when I wake up. After a sneaky wack I find I have once again failed at packing appropriately for this trip and am forced to choose between the socks and underwear I wore last night or the night before. After tanking on it a bit I decide to mix it up and wear the same underwear as last night and the older socks. Then I just have to douse my crotch and shoes in body spray and I can almost pass like I'm not a complete filthy trash ****. Next comes a ****house cup of International Roast and that first smoke. It burns. I don't want it, but I ****ing need it. My whole life is powered by caffeine and nicotine. Exhale monoxide, take in the sun. Ahhhhh yes, I already feel like today is going to be another painful disappointment in my joke of a life.
The Grand Prix is being held just down the road at the Brisbane Convention Centre. I love Magic tournaments. Just endless ****ing nerds, card tables, bad beat stories, and ringers. It's just like a poker room except there are far less angsty ****heads in the Magic scene. Oh, and Magic is actually fun. The game today is just standard qualifiers to win byes for the big tournament tomorrow. I pay, sit down, bust out. Try again. Pay, sit down, bust out. After whiffle balling my third grinder in a row I begin to feel it's just not my day for Magic. Sure, I haven't played the deck before and could spend the day hanging around talking strategy, play testing, and fine tuning the deck for the meta game but I could also be nipple deep in ****house poker action at the Treasury in 10 minutes grinding out a miserable existence. My masochistic desires soon take over and I'm puffing a *** giving myself the 'one time everytime' mantra and people watching all the commuters stuck in traffic across the bridge.
I sit down at a just started 2/5 game and in three hands I'm ruining some ****s day and doubling up. The guy proceeds to go on crazy Lebanese tilt and splashes around the table before somehow winning a big hand by convincing me to fold aces on a dry turn to heavy three way action. Now the guy is even and suddenly the constant prattle of previous bad beat stories and accusations of the deck being rigged cease and poker is fun again. This phenomenon isn't anything out of the ordinary but it confuses me. I always try and be an amiable and happy person when I'm logging my hours around the felt regardless of how much I'm stuck or winning. This helps keep tilt and poor play in check and also makes an otherwise miserable past time like poker bearable. However, other people seem to have a direct correlation between how much they are winning and how much of a loud mouthy **** they are being. This leads to some big stacks who are actually complete ****ing ******s when it comes to hold 'em suddenly become Phil ****ing Galfond giving the play by play hand analysis to other recreational fish ****heads who are stupid enough to listen. I guess people just don't like to lose. I, on the other hand, have been such a constant **** up throughout my years that I view losing as an emotional baseline and any sort of win as just a bonus that helps keep the razor blades away from my wrists.
I grind harder then a curbstomped minority until night settles across the urban wasteland of Brisbane and my homies call me up to go get ****faced. Turns out our final Townsville member, Sharmander, has arrived and we are going to start it off at the Pig n' Whistle. Sharmander is ****ing hot. I mean, popping an erection so hard that you evacuate part of your small intestine through your urethra hot. Tall, voluptuous, brunette mother****ing bombshell. Why she plays Magic, I have no ****ing idea besides the joy of trolling the many poor un****able nerd-souls with her massive rack. I had started chatting her up a bit previous to the trip and did some hero 3 a.m. drug scoring for her so I thought I may get an opportunity to actually pull some moves while we were down in Brisbane. However, it is a delicate situation. She has been driven partly crazy by her looks and constant over-attention from the opposite sex. She hates getting hit on but still manages to keep hooking up with complete losers that treat her like **** because she's also afraid of being alone. She confided this to me and while I feel like there might be a glimmer of sexual tension between us I've had a hard time approaching her from any non-plutonic angle. I'm hoping while she's in Brisbane she cuts lose to the point of making a mistake she will definetly regret later but barring that she should still make an AMAZING wingman.
I show up at the Pig n' Whisle and am immediately affronted by the hopeless naivety of beautiful young women. It appears Sharmander has picked up a homeless tag along dressed in an attire reminiscent of a 1920s speakeasy frequenter from the bus ride to the apartment and promised him accomadation with us. Me, having a lot of cash on hand and not being a fan of murder/rape tried to explain to her that due to her looks people are going to cling to her with less than ideal intentions and just allowing weird ****ing strangers you've known for 10 minutes to stay with you can sometimes be psychotically fun, but most of the time ends up with someone getting HIV and losing their wallet. She says she feels bad, I recommend she should just feel stupid. The guy can't come clubbing with us since he has no identification or money (nice.pick.) and heads back to our place. I call up our mate Mr. Finn back at the room and tell him to not let the immaculately dressed transient back into our apartment.
We head over to the Down Under Bar, the scene of my only and greatest conquest. My head still swims with the pleasant memories of getting intimate with an actual woman and the bitter dissatisfaction of not getting to **** her. The place is lively, but noone in our group is getting a great vibe. Sharmander doesn't want to drink because she's allegedly dying from some horrible internal rotting disease and her attempt at winging for me is relegated to tapping random girls on the shoulder and saying "my friend Sam wants to get laid." Okay, this ****ing sucks. Andy convinces us to **** off to the valley to do some legit clubbing and Sharmander leaves for the apartment because she has a vagina and therefore is weak. We end up at a spot called the Vic on this gigantic outdoor balcony that is just neck and neck covered in mother****ers. The place is hopping, you can smoke cigs freely, and there are a metric ass-tonne of bitches about. I try like a try hard and my boy Hollowayz is at the stage of walking dead drunk but we are undeterred from approaching fat girl after fat girl in the hopes of finding someone with no self esteem and a wet vagina.
me going King's pawn to D4- "Sup bitch"
Matt distracts the ugly one.
Her, interested- "So what do you do?"
me- "I'M A MOTHER****ING CRIMINAL."
her- "OH neat, meet my boyfriend."
After getting checkmated a few too many times we get the **** home with the threat of the sunrise about to burn our eyelids out and remind us all that we have unfixable drinking problems. Crashed out by 6 a.m. for a 9 a.m. tourney start? EZ game.
The morning is a giganti**** hangover. I've got 15 vodka lime and sodas crashing a Ford Fiesta into the side of my temple and a mouth dry enough to impress the **** of a Somalian housewife slaving over a stove in the middle of a sweltering summer day. I'm standing, waiting for coffee in a ****ing endless line which is actually one person deep but taking forever since I'm barely able to hold my own weight up. Coffee goes down. Some food follows. Suddenly every thing feels like it wants to blow out of my orifices all at once. I'm about to piss myself. I want to vomit so ****ing hard I'll retch something up from my lower intestine. My nose is leaking snot and even my mother****ing eyes feel like they are weeping out excess alcohol from my system. I make a mad dash to the bathroom and run into a stall. Attempting to urinate in a straight line is failing completely and I'm managing to cover the whole ****ing place in piss. Halfway through the epicly long urination my feet suddenly give out and I crash tackle the side of the stall with my face and end up splayed out on the floor covered in my own urine. I want to croak out something like 'ewwww' but vomit comes welling up my throat and I barely have enough time to crawl through my watery grave to hunch over the toilet and let out a torrential downpour of half digested meat pie and bile. Now the toilet is covered in all sorts of bodily discharge. It's ****ing disgusting and I have to desperately take a ****. Lucky me, every other stall is occupied and I'm stuck trying to take a hover dump over the throne of alcohol abuse I've just created. ****ing karma. My balls gingerly dab themselves into a wet spot I'd rather not think on too hard but somehow by ricocheting off either side of the stall I manage to stay up for the most part while I evacuate some god forsaken poison from my ass. I finish up and get the **** out. I don't even bother flushing. I have just taken the institutional public toilet and turned it into a mother****ing alter to satan. On the way out I go eye to eye with the janitor heading for the bathroom. Young man. Good looking. Smile on his face like he just got to work... About to get his whole ****ing day ruined. I'd like to say I feel bad but I already hate myself more then anything else in the world and a hangover like this makes it incredibly hard to give a **** about anything.
Settle in and get ready for 8 rounds of standard. Watch the overweight nerd roll up a few minutes late and get rejected from signing up. Ten minutes later the well endowed Sharmander realises she hasn't actually registered and with a bit of back arching and a smile pretty enough to make graves she's registered into the tournament and the judge has a ****eating grin spread ear to ear across his face. Ahh, to be a beautiful woman. Must be nice. The rounds go by and I suck dick. Magic is a thinking game. All I can think about is being covered in piss and the developing brain clot in the right hemisphere of my head. Between games I'm either religiously chain smoking or passed out on the floor. There is no splendour. No joy. All the banter about bad beats and sick moves is kind of just sliding off me. I'm not a human today. Coming in to one of the last rounds I've got a miserable record and an even more miserable disposition. Not even using condoms as saproling tokens can brighten my mood. I'm up against a TemperED STEELE deck and should just be rolling the **** into a corner with Wolf Run and golden showering his lineage so hard that his hypothetical grandchildren feel moist but instead I'm punting left and right and losing. Worse, I'm doubled over in the most miserable ****ing pain and I can feel my heart on the verge of giving up. There it is, I found a full blown anxiety attack. We are in game three and it's relatively close but I can't ****ing hold on. My heart is about to explode out of my chest and my brain is about to bleed out of my nose. I'm shaking uncontrollably. Can't ****ing see straight. People are scary. Words don't make sense. I GG BBQ HF the d00d and scoop because I need to mother****ing leave as soon as possible. I stumble outside and hop into a taxi because I'm too ****ed up to even attempt making it the two blocks down the road back to the bed. Bed. Bed... It's all I want right now. Curl up in the fetal position and pray to god I wake up again.
"Hey mother****er get up. Time to party."
It must be beer:30 which means I've gotten a few hours of sleep and it's time to start railroading my system with substances that are slowly killing me. Ten minutes later I've got a beer in one hand, a pipe in the other, and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. My balls are flooding my brain with chemical hope telling me tonight is gonna be a good night. I'm surrounded by dapper mother****ers ready to get down and I can feel the social elite skills slowly creeping back up to the sick**** levels that drives me to live like a mad man. Shower up, find the least disgusting underwear and sock combination available to me, and we all get the **** gone.
First real spot of the night is some ****ing hipster joint down the road called the PlayPen. One of my boys rocks up with the party favors to kick this **** off in face melting style as he passes everyone some little capsules to help toast to the good life. I down a few drinks before going in to the male toilet to swallow my load. I've got this little clear capsule with some red goodness inside which is probably some ****ed up combination of anhydrous, cat urine, rock salt, and trace amounts of MDMA being passed off as ecstacy but, whatever I really want to get ****ed up tonight. I start prying open the capsule planning to just insuflate the **** for some stupid ****ing reason when the bathroom door pops open and some reggae wannabe dickhead startles the **** out of me and I end up spilling a bit of the red awesomeness on top of the urinal. I swallow the other half then play it cool like I was just hanging out to piss and try to form a sight barrier between the dreadlocked whiteboy rasta and the half capsule of spilled drugs. I know he won't give a **** about me getting down in the male toilets and if he did, whatever. **** him. I just didn't want him to see what I was about to commit myself to doing. I've had a lot of proud moments in my life: becoming an Eagle Scout, graduating from university, scissoring a lesbian, but this was not about to be one of them. The rasta leaves and I open wide and start tongue ****ing the urinal. I'm committed to partying tonight and I'll be damned if something as menial as licking a piss covered bathroom fixture is going to hold me back. Nom Nom Nom. It definetly looks better then it tastes now I just have to hope there is enough party in there to justify losing whatever remaining dignity I may have had.
Rounds of drinks for the homies. Even more for those endowed with spectacular chest adornments.Get Izzy Medrano to sign my luscious hairy man boobs along with an ill guided attempt to hit on his SPECTACULARLY good looking girlfriend. Share a few joints down the road. Catch up with an old friend. Catch up with the ground. Breathe deep mother****er, YOU ARE REALLY ****ING WRECKED. My mate Chimney finds out about my unrequited erection over Sharmander and decides to engage in some friendly competition. Really, I don't think I have much of a chance and there is no way I can spit better game then this sexy/cool metro man beast. I'm more of the go slow and pray to JWHW a girl takes pity on me type. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, I cut myself or kick the living **** out of a defenseless animal.
Eventually we get tired of hipsters, thick rimmed glasses, and math rock and head out to Fortitude Valley to chase the dream of getting ridiculously ****ed up. I'm well over half cut while mobbing in to RG's listening to Sharmander bitching about Chimney's attention and I'm just thinking...unlucky. Stop being hot I guess? I head to the dance floor and am having a legit crack at some girls that don't appear a day under 45. I get up to some hands on the hips grind action and they get off to the 'lol, young kids still want to **** me but I'm married and committed' then go and dice me. Ah, **** it. I end up in the bathroom taking a piss when a dude straddles up next to me in the urinal stall. Young, dreads, Unit shirt, and arm sleeve tat. Standard too cool too pretty Aussie male.
me- "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED GOOD SIR"
him-"umm...."
I piss-hop over to him and start vigorously parrying his urine stream with mine. Realising all too late that a sword fight has just broken out he foolishly attempts to riposte but his efforts are no match for my heavy drinking and dysfunctional prostate. He leaves defeated and confronted with what will be by far the gayest thing that will happen to him this night short of getting roofied and railed in the ass by a bloke. EZ game, piss fights. You see, I actually suffer from urination anxiety. Growing up in the States you become used to most urinal stalls being equipped with these giant barriers of anti-dicklooking privacy. However, most Australian toilets have opted for a more efficient design of either the giant piss trough or the ultra homosexual high density tiny urinals. Either way your penis is on display for every other bathroom patron at the time. For a man who regularly flaunts his nudity and has done several viral pornographies leading to thousands of people seeing his genitals in action this should not be an issue. Unfortunately, it still is and I find it difficult to urinate with other people right there. Still, I attempt to embrace everything about Australia and in the same vein I make sure to saddle up right next to someone along the giant piss trough and go for it. Most of the time this leads to akward situations with me standing there hanging my dick out, not urinating, with sweat beading on my brow as I clench up in an attempt to physically force myself to let it flow and stop looking like a creepy ***. I never bother to glance at the man whose very personal space I invade in my endeavour to assuage my own mental hang up but I can imagine I'm not the only one feeling uncomfortable every time I do this. However, those times I get it out and let loose with ease I just want to proclaim it to the world like 'HA, UNIVERSE. I PISS IN SPITE OF YOU,' and what better way to celebrate than with a friendly sword fight.
I'm outside having a cigarette when Hollowayz comes out telling me Sharmander has left in tears. Noone knows why but I'm sure it has something to do with the trials and tribulations of being beautiful. Pfft. Whatever. Lock out rolls around and we're in the smoking area of RG's right on the Fortitude Valley thoroughfare when one of the mates in our party, who happens to be a cop out west, decides to start shouting numbers at the girls walking by-
Coppa- "7!!!! YOU ARE A ****ING 7!!!!"
her- flips us off
Coppa- ".....6 AND DROPPING SWEETHEART."
Well it's typically out of the bad manner league for me since the last thing I want on a big night is some beefy roid rager to take offense and flog me into the ****ing ground, but having a drunkas**** police officer on your side starting the **** means you are pretty much untouchable so the group of us keep at it. Some smile, a few call us *******s, and I repeatedly yell out a higher number than my counterparts as I obviously have much lower standards. Meanwhile I get the bright idea of big bill trolling the asian guy across the street by buying out all his change. I ship Chimney a hundred dollar bill and ask him to go get a $4 slice of pizza. He come back with the $94 in change then I give him another hundred dollar bill and ask him to do it again. And again. And again. Soon we're swimming in pizza and regardless of the fact I've just wasted $50 plus on individual slices of pizza that I mostly don't eat the expression on the asian guy's face when another customer tries to pay with a $20 dollar note and he can't break it is ****ing priceless.
Eventually the sun comes up and the bar shuts. We all do the drunkas**** shuffle to the taxi line and get ready to write off another night in our frivolous existences. Standing in line, a guy comes up to me and asks if I can score him some weed.
me- "nah man not holding but my buddy can hook you up"
take him over to Coppa
me- "Hey mate this guy here is trying to get some weed can yo hook him up?"
Coppa- "Oh **** yeah I can."
Digs through his back pocket and pulls out his badge. Suddenly drugfiend has his hands in the air and he's doin the slow backwards crawl like he just ran into a mother****ing mountain lion.
drug fiend- "yo sorry I didn't mean..."
He piss bolts. I laugh until tears come out.
The morning ****ing sucks. Everyone else goes to get there game on but I just....can't....do it. I want to ****ing die or I want to jerk off. I can't decide either way so I settle with lounging around my single bed in complete mental and physical disarray and trying to sleep in. So far for a Magic trip I'm not playing much Magic. For a weekend **** romp, I'm definetly not doing ANY ****ing. What the **** am I doing? Making bank around the felt then pissing it all off on useless consumption in the name of good times? Am I okay with this? My soul draining sexual failures aside I have to give props to myself as a confessed hedonist. However, there is an agonising emotion starting to envelope me. I'm mother****ing lonely. Endless idle chatter about inane subjects with covertly feigned interest. Hundreds of dollars spent on buying women drinks. Nerve racking cold calls on the hotty across the way with hope that she just may be the one to end my torment. I've spent countless hours trying to be the mack and the universe has done its best to show me unequivocally that I am far, far from it. I just want to connect with another human. To know that I can be worth someones time. I want to be desired, or even just used. Any level of female attention. I want to use my one-time right here and now. Get there, get in, leave before the sun comes up then paste my sexual success all over facebook and call up my parents and tell them they were wrong about me being a complete ****ing loser. Ah, that's the dream. So simple, so natural, and yet it feels like an unattainable light I can barely glimpse at the top of the giant ****ing hole I've dug for myself physically, emotionally, and financially. How do you convince anyone else you are worth their time when you can't think of a single good reason to wake up each day.
Sleep remains elusive as ever for me. Rotating in bed like a pig on a spit with my head pounding from a hangover and a million thoughts all taking me in the wrong direction I'm finally driven to get up and do something. All my friends are at the Magic tournament that I'm too late to register for and the idea of drinking or getting high makes me want to vomit until my stomach inverses out of my mouth. That leaves poker. It's always an option. The longer I stay in this lifestyle the more it begins to feel like my only good option. I can stay out and do bad **** that hurts me or I can go in and grind money for some vague intangible goal I've never really thought through. Herpescock sneak attack or blue waffle beatdown. Run it as many times as you want but both options still end up sucking.
So I'm at the Treasury being a loud mouthed ****ing spastic and platonically hitting on this hulking adonis of a man who looks like Jesus carved him out of a sheer granite cliff. We get the old over-over-over straddle going and I wake up with 2-4 off when Mr. Granite opens a pot for the 8th hand in a row. Throw in a three bet, get the standard 2-4-7 board (authors note: NOT standard) and crack kings. Yeah, poker is easy when the deck is relentlessly hugging your ****.
him- "Really?"
me- "I only three bet you because they were offsuit."
some random- "That makes no sense."
me- "pfft."
I own everyones soul by having the best hand at showdown then having the dealer push me the pot (remember, unexploitable strategy). I get up a few hundred then realise I'm ready to flip this money into my last great white hope. One more night out in town before I'm on a plane back home. One more chance to do it right. Hope. Redemption. Vagina.
A few beers and a couple hundred deep on the pokies my eyes lay witness to the one and only flake of flake and ex-best friend enemy of my girlfriend, Kristen. She used to be a constant fixture at my place back in Townsville. Always getting wasted and passing out cold in akward places. She had the distinction of being the only lesbian in my life who I had teabagged and she held a special place in my heart for that. Now, I'm not alone. She's packing a group of underaged try-hard fake lesbians and homeless hipsters that I can blend into as well as connections since she works at the bar. I ingratiate myself to one of her friends by grabbing his crotch aggressively and staring him in the eyes and he reciprocates by freaking out because he used to have a heroin addiction and got molested or something... **** it, I don't know..or care. Nights going good. I'm getting ****ed up. Kristen reckon we should get more ****ed up and go smoke some weed down by the bridge. We all pack up and head out.
At this point I am beyond trashed, stumbling around at the back of the pack trying to light a cigarette unsuccessfully. We head around a corner and into this place. Some lady is asking me for 10 bucks for entry and I'm confused since I thought we were going to a park to get high but whatever, this place looks pumping. I follow our group up to the bar and am about to organise a round for all when I realise I don't know any of these people...in fact Kristen and her mob aren't anywhere around at all. I've ended up at some place called the Family. Alone. Naturally. Place looks amazing though. Sick music. Dance floor packed with people.
I'm enjoying my 4th or 17th vodka lime and soda for the evening on the upper deck and scoping out the gyrating mass of humanity below me when these two birds straddle up to me on the rail. I look over to behold this gorgeous, tall, thick, blonde, swedish girl in a floral dress4success. She asks me a question, I give a hillarious answer. She asks me another question, conversation continues. Holy **** is this what getting hit on feels like??? Then my eye catches her friend. This short, obese, weasel-like failed abortion next to this blonde bombshell. Bleeding sphincter red hair, buck teeth, eyes too close together, hairy arms, and protruding belly. She's perfect for me. These woman are out and about. They are trying to get it on and get off. I have finally...FINALLY found a woman so repulsive that I can't be rejected. I switch gears into awesome mode. Drinks courtesy of the un****able sucker and lead them booth to the dance floor. I'm going crazy. I'm wrapping arms around my sweet little mole. We're hammering drinks back and forth. Slight grinding. Sick pimping. On the third or fourth trip back from the bar I see ratgirl with another guy. Mother...****er.
Mother...
.
.
.
****er
MOTHER ****ING ****ING **** ****C FUKC WHAT THE ****ING **** **** FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK~!!!#@@!$!@%!%!@% !
Some pinheaded prick rockin board shorts, a unit shirt, and some sort of dressed up version of croc shoes. I'm undeterred. Not this time. I'm not getting my fat, sloppy piece of ass stolen by some dickbrain again. THIS ISN'T ****ING TOWNSVILLE. I ****ING PUMPED $30 OF DRINKS INTO THIS BITCH, I HAVE CLAIM!!!!!
I step in, I isolate. I'm whispering **** so sweet into her ear I'm giving her emotional diabetes. I'm power playing..
power playing....
I lean in for the kiss, I get an uninterested cheek.
I give a sexy ultimatum and she's....****, she's walking away. Mother****ing buck toothed dero lovebirds entwined on the dance floor. I've just had the absolute dog ugliest **** to ever grace the clubbing scene leave me for Trevor from Trailer Park Boys. **** my night. **** this trip. **** MY WHOLE ****ING LIFE WHAT AM I DOING WRONG HERE.
The place is emptying out. It's geting late and everyone is already coupled up or doing other 4 a.m. drama. I keep drinking and dancing amongst all the random shirtless men still on the floor who I don't think have taken a break in the last 3 hours I've been here. Eventually the laser lights die and the flood lights turn on. It's over. My trip is done. I've got a plane to catch in 5 hours. I just spent every day of my trip desperately trolling for affection and was left with nothing. No returned messages from Roxxxie. No reciprocation from Sharmander. No passionate tongue ****ing with ratgirl. No bankroll increase. No Magic success.
Nothing.
I walk out into the sunrise. A sight I've seen almost everyday from the wrong side. My eyes burn till they water. The puss filled blisters taking over my feet throb. My throat feels like someone choke ****ed me while wearing a sandpaper condom. Other than that, I'm just generally sad about how it has all turned out. I collapse on the ground next to this hot girl who I had noticed dancing her ass off most of the night. Light up a cigarette, converse away. I've given up on getting off so it's idle random filterless chatter. Still it goes well. In fact it goes great. An hour later and we're still there being gutter scum on the ground. I get a phone number. I try to dance around the subject of 'hey come home with me' but to no avail. I just can't get there. I generate the interest. I make them laugh. I engage in every way I possibly can. Yet, when it comes to sealing the deal, making contact...there is an infinite distance of inches I can't bridge. I'm a friend...a sideshow... a passing interest...a moment of entertainment...I'm good, I'm definetly good...
I'm just not ****able.
We part ways with an akward hug and a facebook add. She's heading back to Gold Coast and invited me down to party sometime but I'm too strung out. I need to crawl back home and heal my open wounds and broken soul.
A few hours later and I'm at the airport gate curled up on a chair in the foetal position and moaning like a crazed gypsy under my breath in an attempt to fight off extreme fatigue and the slowly encroaching hangover. I'm torn. This weekend was a failure. I have money, I have nothing to go back to besides my girlfriend. I got an invite to the Gold Coast to hang with this girl. Maybe I should stay... But I'm dirty. I'm exhausted. My feet are killing me. Staying here is hopeful at best. More likely, I go further down the trail of tears and find more impassable walls. I make up my mind, I lost this battle but I'm not defeated. Return to Townsville and plan a comeback. They call my flight for boarding. I look down at my phone and in comes a return message from Roxxxy. I waited days for this and now she tell me she wants to hang out. Today. ****! So ****ing standard. I've already made up my mind to go home. This is just another nail in my side. I message her back, tell her I'm ****, and board the plane back for Townsville.
Townsville is the same. Hot. Humid. The familiarity is soothing. I come home feeling on the verge of death. Air conditioning. comfort eating. The loving arms of my girlfriend. Rest up. Relax. Get back to humanity. I spend a lot of the time just zoning out thinking about how much of a **** around these last few months have been. It hurts me. I'm surrounded by friends and yet feel completely isolated from humanity. I've thrown standards out the window. I've tried everything in my power. Still, no matter how many god forsaken woman I've tried, no matter how drunk, how ugly, how absoluetly putrid, stupid, desperate, old, whatever... They all shared a bond in rejecting me completely.
A few days after returning home I walk into our bedroom and breakdown in tears. Maybe it's my incredibly dry dick chaffing me into extreme discomfort, maybe it's a dopamine break down from over partying. I sob hard. Between the sobs I tell my girlfriend about getting rejected by all the females in Queensland. I tell her I feel like the biggest ****ing loser alive. I tell her I'm suffering. I tell her it hurts. She tells me-
"I slept with someone while you were gone."
....
.
.
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKKKK **** **** **** **** **** **** **** FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
**** my life.
---
to anyone that bothered to read I only hope it was worth your time. To anyone that's left comments thank you for taking the time. Been a ****ing hectic year.
part 1
http://forumserver.twoplustwo.com/sh...&postcount=168
part 2
http://forumserver.twoplustwo.com/sh...&postcount=211
Part 3
If you're so funny
Then why are you on your own tonight?
And if you're so clever
Then why are you on your own tonight?
If you're so very entertaining
Then why are you on your own tonight?
If you're so very good-looking
Why do you sleep alone tonight ?
Because tonight is just like any other night
That's why you're on your own tonight
With your triumphs and your charms
While they're in each other's arms
**** my mornings. I'm an insomniac chain smoker alcoholic. I've got the 10,000 cigarette death exhale that floods my mouth with a torrent of chewable lung discharge. My universe spins. I typicaly don't remember where I am or how I got there and stare at the ceiling and wonder why the **** do I keep doing this until my head becomes burdened with regrets. Women. Money. Body. Nothing treats me right and my disposition makes sure I **** it up somehow if it ever starts to. Could I have made a move on that girl? ****, I was flipping through groups left and right. Entertainment spewed forth from my fingers and awesomeness ensued wherever I wandered...or was I just a drunk ****ing ******* kodachroming the **** out of yet another alcohol induced stupor? Honestly, I can't remember. I've spent many of my mornings with this itch in the back of my head that says I did something really ****ing uncool the night before and I owe someone an apology but ****s me who it was or what I did. This morning wasn't disimilar. Slowly peel my eyes open. Light hurts. Breathing hurts. My brain ****ing hurts. It's 9:30 a.m. which means I've managed to procure three and a half hours of sleep and I'm ready to do it all over again until I find an early grave.
Last night was another blur of Bundaberg rum, chip tricks, and three barrelling into the backdoor nuts. Started off with me being over rewarded for playing bad in the 1/3 game. Pair and a gutshot? 2x pot overbet jam from a nit on the turn? I metagamed him by popping the biggest blackest boner since Robert Hamburger and jumped on the table and fist pumped my nipple piercing loose after insta-calling. Who gets married to overpairs when you have a cashed up action junky on your left with offsuit connectors? Seriously. I'm up 1k playing short handed maniac action at 3 a.m. when two girls come up to the table and sit directly to my right. Drunk? Yes. Fat? Yes. Stupid white trash? Mega Yes. The moment feels perfect so I start attempting to spit some game at them. Regardless of how un****able and single they are apparently I am still too **** for them though as they don't particularly seem interested. Eventually I get into this hand where I flop trips with 10 3 offsuit out of the big blind. I check, drunk Mr. Goodtimes in mid position wearing a suit bets $25. First lady calls. Second girl calls. I raise enough to put all three of them all in as noone had more then $100 in front of them. ****** in a suit tank calls then both girls call. Blanks roll out on the turn and river and I scoop the pot. Girls go aweeee and leave me with yet another unsatisfied erection. However, the Mr. Goodtimes s00ted remains seated. Not rebuying, just staring at me in complete and utter disbelief that through some cruel twist of fate the forces of the universe had conspired against him and he had lost a WHOLE $100. Then comes the accusations-
Mr. Goodtimes-"Mate, did you know those girls?"
me- "Um... the girls I just introduced myself to and was hitting on and then stacked?"
Mr. Goodtimes- "You guys were colluding! You planned to have them call to force me to call. You were cheating."
me- "You realise I went all in and you were first to act after me right?"
Mr. Goodtimes- "Mate you're a cheater. I want to talk to the floor boss right now."
me- LOLZ
At this point I'm just feeding this guy's paranoia and saying 'yeah bro you got me good GG' and laughing. A pit boss comes over and instead of calmly explaining his accusation he begins to scream hysterically about the integrity of the casino and pointing fingers at me and calling me a cheater. Casino staff in Australia don't work for tips so they don't put up with even a quarter of the **** punters give in other parts of the world so the guy was promptly dragged out by security. Another perfect example of the hysterical ****head approach to getting your point across to working staff failing miserably.
So three players down at 5 a.m. on a Thursday the game ends up breaking. The fat white trash vagina had me totally sprung still so it was off to the bar to down as many rum and cokes as I can in an hour. Turns out to be about 8 or 9 which isn't really a good effort but I was just trying to either drink myself to sleep or drink myself in to sexing something. I spot a hot lady and got ready for the approach only to be intercepted by the standard sloshed up douche male returning from the bathroom. I bought in deep on a baccarat table to try and impress asian bitches but I had no clue how to squeeze cards and all the girls just blew me off. I found the fat girls again and had another crack while they played the pokies but it quickly became apparent the catchy music and spinning poker symbols consumed them and there was -no- chance of me ever getting my dick wet there. I left the casino drunk, lonely, disheartened, and being greeted by the sun. People were jogging or riding bikes and commuting to work while I am stumbling across the Brisbane River bridge with bloodshot eyes chainsmoking and berating myself over missing the ****train yet again.
The pain of the morning recovery can be assuaged with good ritual practice: orgasm, coffee, cigarettes. It doesn't matter which order they occur just as long as all three are properly taken care of. I wake up most days with a raging erection. I have no idea how long it's been there but the need to deal with it as soon as possible consumes me. Days where I can't either get laid or jerk off within an hour or so of waking up just put me on edge. I don't care if I'm sharing a small apartment with a bunch of dudes, a tent with my dad, whatever. I am addicted to orgasms and need my ****ing fix when I wake up. After a sneaky wack I find I have once again failed at packing appropriately for this trip and am forced to choose between the socks and underwear I wore last night or the night before. After tanking on it a bit I decide to mix it up and wear the same underwear as last night and the older socks. Then I just have to douse my crotch and shoes in body spray and I can almost pass like I'm not a complete filthy trash ****. Next comes a ****house cup of International Roast and that first smoke. It burns. I don't want it, but I ****ing need it. My whole life is powered by caffeine and nicotine. Exhale monoxide, take in the sun. Ahhhhh yes, I already feel like today is going to be another painful disappointment in my joke of a life.
The Grand Prix is being held just down the road at the Brisbane Convention Centre. I love Magic tournaments. Just endless ****ing nerds, card tables, bad beat stories, and ringers. It's just like a poker room except there are far less angsty ****heads in the Magic scene. Oh, and Magic is actually fun. The game today is just standard qualifiers to win byes for the big tournament tomorrow. I pay, sit down, bust out. Try again. Pay, sit down, bust out. After whiffle balling my third grinder in a row I begin to feel it's just not my day for Magic. Sure, I haven't played the deck before and could spend the day hanging around talking strategy, play testing, and fine tuning the deck for the meta game but I could also be nipple deep in ****house poker action at the Treasury in 10 minutes grinding out a miserable existence. My masochistic desires soon take over and I'm puffing a *** giving myself the 'one time everytime' mantra and people watching all the commuters stuck in traffic across the bridge.
I sit down at a just started 2/5 game and in three hands I'm ruining some ****s day and doubling up. The guy proceeds to go on crazy Lebanese tilt and splashes around the table before somehow winning a big hand by convincing me to fold aces on a dry turn to heavy three way action. Now the guy is even and suddenly the constant prattle of previous bad beat stories and accusations of the deck being rigged cease and poker is fun again. This phenomenon isn't anything out of the ordinary but it confuses me. I always try and be an amiable and happy person when I'm logging my hours around the felt regardless of how much I'm stuck or winning. This helps keep tilt and poor play in check and also makes an otherwise miserable past time like poker bearable. However, other people seem to have a direct correlation between how much they are winning and how much of a loud mouthy **** they are being. This leads to some big stacks who are actually complete ****ing ******s when it comes to hold 'em suddenly become Phil ****ing Galfond giving the play by play hand analysis to other recreational fish ****heads who are stupid enough to listen. I guess people just don't like to lose. I, on the other hand, have been such a constant **** up throughout my years that I view losing as an emotional baseline and any sort of win as just a bonus that helps keep the razor blades away from my wrists.
I grind harder then a curbstomped minority until night settles across the urban wasteland of Brisbane and my homies call me up to go get ****faced. Turns out our final Townsville member, Sharmander, has arrived and we are going to start it off at the Pig n' Whistle. Sharmander is ****ing hot. I mean, popping an erection so hard that you evacuate part of your small intestine through your urethra hot. Tall, voluptuous, brunette mother****ing bombshell. Why she plays Magic, I have no ****ing idea besides the joy of trolling the many poor un****able nerd-souls with her massive rack. I had started chatting her up a bit previous to the trip and did some hero 3 a.m. drug scoring for her so I thought I may get an opportunity to actually pull some moves while we were down in Brisbane. However, it is a delicate situation. She has been driven partly crazy by her looks and constant over-attention from the opposite sex. She hates getting hit on but still manages to keep hooking up with complete losers that treat her like **** because she's also afraid of being alone. She confided this to me and while I feel like there might be a glimmer of sexual tension between us I've had a hard time approaching her from any non-plutonic angle. I'm hoping while she's in Brisbane she cuts lose to the point of making a mistake she will definetly regret later but barring that she should still make an AMAZING wingman.
I show up at the Pig n' Whisle and am immediately affronted by the hopeless naivety of beautiful young women. It appears Sharmander has picked up a homeless tag along dressed in an attire reminiscent of a 1920s speakeasy frequenter from the bus ride to the apartment and promised him accomadation with us. Me, having a lot of cash on hand and not being a fan of murder/rape tried to explain to her that due to her looks people are going to cling to her with less than ideal intentions and just allowing weird ****ing strangers you've known for 10 minutes to stay with you can sometimes be psychotically fun, but most of the time ends up with someone getting HIV and losing their wallet. She says she feels bad, I recommend she should just feel stupid. The guy can't come clubbing with us since he has no identification or money (nice.pick.) and heads back to our place. I call up our mate Mr. Finn back at the room and tell him to not let the immaculately dressed transient back into our apartment.
We head over to the Down Under Bar, the scene of my only and greatest conquest. My head still swims with the pleasant memories of getting intimate with an actual woman and the bitter dissatisfaction of not getting to **** her. The place is lively, but noone in our group is getting a great vibe. Sharmander doesn't want to drink because she's allegedly dying from some horrible internal rotting disease and her attempt at winging for me is relegated to tapping random girls on the shoulder and saying "my friend Sam wants to get laid." Okay, this ****ing sucks. Andy convinces us to **** off to the valley to do some legit clubbing and Sharmander leaves for the apartment because she has a vagina and therefore is weak. We end up at a spot called the Vic on this gigantic outdoor balcony that is just neck and neck covered in mother****ers. The place is hopping, you can smoke cigs freely, and there are a metric ass-tonne of bitches about. I try like a try hard and my boy Hollowayz is at the stage of walking dead drunk but we are undeterred from approaching fat girl after fat girl in the hopes of finding someone with no self esteem and a wet vagina.
me going King's pawn to D4- "Sup bitch"
Matt distracts the ugly one.
Her, interested- "So what do you do?"
me- "I'M A MOTHER****ING CRIMINAL."
her- "OH neat, meet my boyfriend."
After getting checkmated a few too many times we get the **** home with the threat of the sunrise about to burn our eyelids out and remind us all that we have unfixable drinking problems. Crashed out by 6 a.m. for a 9 a.m. tourney start? EZ game.
The morning is a giganti**** hangover. I've got 15 vodka lime and sodas crashing a Ford Fiesta into the side of my temple and a mouth dry enough to impress the **** of a Somalian housewife slaving over a stove in the middle of a sweltering summer day. I'm standing, waiting for coffee in a ****ing endless line which is actually one person deep but taking forever since I'm barely able to hold my own weight up. Coffee goes down. Some food follows. Suddenly every thing feels like it wants to blow out of my orifices all at once. I'm about to piss myself. I want to vomit so ****ing hard I'll retch something up from my lower intestine. My nose is leaking snot and even my mother****ing eyes feel like they are weeping out excess alcohol from my system. I make a mad dash to the bathroom and run into a stall. Attempting to urinate in a straight line is failing completely and I'm managing to cover the whole ****ing place in piss. Halfway through the epicly long urination my feet suddenly give out and I crash tackle the side of the stall with my face and end up splayed out on the floor covered in my own urine. I want to croak out something like 'ewwww' but vomit comes welling up my throat and I barely have enough time to crawl through my watery grave to hunch over the toilet and let out a torrential downpour of half digested meat pie and bile. Now the toilet is covered in all sorts of bodily discharge. It's ****ing disgusting and I have to desperately take a ****. Lucky me, every other stall is occupied and I'm stuck trying to take a hover dump over the throne of alcohol abuse I've just created. ****ing karma. My balls gingerly dab themselves into a wet spot I'd rather not think on too hard but somehow by ricocheting off either side of the stall I manage to stay up for the most part while I evacuate some god forsaken poison from my ass. I finish up and get the **** out. I don't even bother flushing. I have just taken the institutional public toilet and turned it into a mother****ing alter to satan. On the way out I go eye to eye with the janitor heading for the bathroom. Young man. Good looking. Smile on his face like he just got to work... About to get his whole ****ing day ruined. I'd like to say I feel bad but I already hate myself more then anything else in the world and a hangover like this makes it incredibly hard to give a **** about anything.
Settle in and get ready for 8 rounds of standard. Watch the overweight nerd roll up a few minutes late and get rejected from signing up. Ten minutes later the well endowed Sharmander realises she hasn't actually registered and with a bit of back arching and a smile pretty enough to make graves she's registered into the tournament and the judge has a ****eating grin spread ear to ear across his face. Ahh, to be a beautiful woman. Must be nice. The rounds go by and I suck dick. Magic is a thinking game. All I can think about is being covered in piss and the developing brain clot in the right hemisphere of my head. Between games I'm either religiously chain smoking or passed out on the floor. There is no splendour. No joy. All the banter about bad beats and sick moves is kind of just sliding off me. I'm not a human today. Coming in to one of the last rounds I've got a miserable record and an even more miserable disposition. Not even using condoms as saproling tokens can brighten my mood. I'm up against a TemperED STEELE deck and should just be rolling the **** into a corner with Wolf Run and golden showering his lineage so hard that his hypothetical grandchildren feel moist but instead I'm punting left and right and losing. Worse, I'm doubled over in the most miserable ****ing pain and I can feel my heart on the verge of giving up. There it is, I found a full blown anxiety attack. We are in game three and it's relatively close but I can't ****ing hold on. My heart is about to explode out of my chest and my brain is about to bleed out of my nose. I'm shaking uncontrollably. Can't ****ing see straight. People are scary. Words don't make sense. I GG BBQ HF the d00d and scoop because I need to mother****ing leave as soon as possible. I stumble outside and hop into a taxi because I'm too ****ed up to even attempt making it the two blocks down the road back to the bed. Bed. Bed... It's all I want right now. Curl up in the fetal position and pray to god I wake up again.
"Hey mother****er get up. Time to party."
It must be beer:30 which means I've gotten a few hours of sleep and it's time to start railroading my system with substances that are slowly killing me. Ten minutes later I've got a beer in one hand, a pipe in the other, and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. My balls are flooding my brain with chemical hope telling me tonight is gonna be a good night. I'm surrounded by dapper mother****ers ready to get down and I can feel the social elite skills slowly creeping back up to the sick**** levels that drives me to live like a mad man. Shower up, find the least disgusting underwear and sock combination available to me, and we all get the **** gone.
First real spot of the night is some ****ing hipster joint down the road called the PlayPen. One of my boys rocks up with the party favors to kick this **** off in face melting style as he passes everyone some little capsules to help toast to the good life. I down a few drinks before going in to the male toilet to swallow my load. I've got this little clear capsule with some red goodness inside which is probably some ****ed up combination of anhydrous, cat urine, rock salt, and trace amounts of MDMA being passed off as ecstacy but, whatever I really want to get ****ed up tonight. I start prying open the capsule planning to just insuflate the **** for some stupid ****ing reason when the bathroom door pops open and some reggae wannabe dickhead startles the **** out of me and I end up spilling a bit of the red awesomeness on top of the urinal. I swallow the other half then play it cool like I was just hanging out to piss and try to form a sight barrier between the dreadlocked whiteboy rasta and the half capsule of spilled drugs. I know he won't give a **** about me getting down in the male toilets and if he did, whatever. **** him. I just didn't want him to see what I was about to commit myself to doing. I've had a lot of proud moments in my life: becoming an Eagle Scout, graduating from university, scissoring a lesbian, but this was not about to be one of them. The rasta leaves and I open wide and start tongue ****ing the urinal. I'm committed to partying tonight and I'll be damned if something as menial as licking a piss covered bathroom fixture is going to hold me back. Nom Nom Nom. It definetly looks better then it tastes now I just have to hope there is enough party in there to justify losing whatever remaining dignity I may have had.
Rounds of drinks for the homies. Even more for those endowed with spectacular chest adornments.Get Izzy Medrano to sign my luscious hairy man boobs along with an ill guided attempt to hit on his SPECTACULARLY good looking girlfriend. Share a few joints down the road. Catch up with an old friend. Catch up with the ground. Breathe deep mother****er, YOU ARE REALLY ****ING WRECKED. My mate Chimney finds out about my unrequited erection over Sharmander and decides to engage in some friendly competition. Really, I don't think I have much of a chance and there is no way I can spit better game then this sexy/cool metro man beast. I'm more of the go slow and pray to JWHW a girl takes pity on me type. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, I cut myself or kick the living **** out of a defenseless animal.
Eventually we get tired of hipsters, thick rimmed glasses, and math rock and head out to Fortitude Valley to chase the dream of getting ridiculously ****ed up. I'm well over half cut while mobbing in to RG's listening to Sharmander bitching about Chimney's attention and I'm just thinking...unlucky. Stop being hot I guess? I head to the dance floor and am having a legit crack at some girls that don't appear a day under 45. I get up to some hands on the hips grind action and they get off to the 'lol, young kids still want to **** me but I'm married and committed' then go and dice me. Ah, **** it. I end up in the bathroom taking a piss when a dude straddles up next to me in the urinal stall. Young, dreads, Unit shirt, and arm sleeve tat. Standard too cool too pretty Aussie male.
me- "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED GOOD SIR"
him-"umm...."
I piss-hop over to him and start vigorously parrying his urine stream with mine. Realising all too late that a sword fight has just broken out he foolishly attempts to riposte but his efforts are no match for my heavy drinking and dysfunctional prostate. He leaves defeated and confronted with what will be by far the gayest thing that will happen to him this night short of getting roofied and railed in the ass by a bloke. EZ game, piss fights. You see, I actually suffer from urination anxiety. Growing up in the States you become used to most urinal stalls being equipped with these giant barriers of anti-dicklooking privacy. However, most Australian toilets have opted for a more efficient design of either the giant piss trough or the ultra homosexual high density tiny urinals. Either way your penis is on display for every other bathroom patron at the time. For a man who regularly flaunts his nudity and has done several viral pornographies leading to thousands of people seeing his genitals in action this should not be an issue. Unfortunately, it still is and I find it difficult to urinate with other people right there. Still, I attempt to embrace everything about Australia and in the same vein I make sure to saddle up right next to someone along the giant piss trough and go for it. Most of the time this leads to akward situations with me standing there hanging my dick out, not urinating, with sweat beading on my brow as I clench up in an attempt to physically force myself to let it flow and stop looking like a creepy ***. I never bother to glance at the man whose very personal space I invade in my endeavour to assuage my own mental hang up but I can imagine I'm not the only one feeling uncomfortable every time I do this. However, those times I get it out and let loose with ease I just want to proclaim it to the world like 'HA, UNIVERSE. I PISS IN SPITE OF YOU,' and what better way to celebrate than with a friendly sword fight.
I'm outside having a cigarette when Hollowayz comes out telling me Sharmander has left in tears. Noone knows why but I'm sure it has something to do with the trials and tribulations of being beautiful. Pfft. Whatever. Lock out rolls around and we're in the smoking area of RG's right on the Fortitude Valley thoroughfare when one of the mates in our party, who happens to be a cop out west, decides to start shouting numbers at the girls walking by-
Coppa- "7!!!! YOU ARE A ****ING 7!!!!"
her- flips us off
Coppa- ".....6 AND DROPPING SWEETHEART."
Well it's typically out of the bad manner league for me since the last thing I want on a big night is some beefy roid rager to take offense and flog me into the ****ing ground, but having a drunkas**** police officer on your side starting the **** means you are pretty much untouchable so the group of us keep at it. Some smile, a few call us *******s, and I repeatedly yell out a higher number than my counterparts as I obviously have much lower standards. Meanwhile I get the bright idea of big bill trolling the asian guy across the street by buying out all his change. I ship Chimney a hundred dollar bill and ask him to go get a $4 slice of pizza. He come back with the $94 in change then I give him another hundred dollar bill and ask him to do it again. And again. And again. Soon we're swimming in pizza and regardless of the fact I've just wasted $50 plus on individual slices of pizza that I mostly don't eat the expression on the asian guy's face when another customer tries to pay with a $20 dollar note and he can't break it is ****ing priceless.
Eventually the sun comes up and the bar shuts. We all do the drunkas**** shuffle to the taxi line and get ready to write off another night in our frivolous existences. Standing in line, a guy comes up to me and asks if I can score him some weed.
me- "nah man not holding but my buddy can hook you up"
take him over to Coppa
me- "Hey mate this guy here is trying to get some weed can yo hook him up?"
Coppa- "Oh **** yeah I can."
Digs through his back pocket and pulls out his badge. Suddenly drugfiend has his hands in the air and he's doin the slow backwards crawl like he just ran into a mother****ing mountain lion.
drug fiend- "yo sorry I didn't mean..."
He piss bolts. I laugh until tears come out.
The morning ****ing sucks. Everyone else goes to get there game on but I just....can't....do it. I want to ****ing die or I want to jerk off. I can't decide either way so I settle with lounging around my single bed in complete mental and physical disarray and trying to sleep in. So far for a Magic trip I'm not playing much Magic. For a weekend **** romp, I'm definetly not doing ANY ****ing. What the **** am I doing? Making bank around the felt then pissing it all off on useless consumption in the name of good times? Am I okay with this? My soul draining sexual failures aside I have to give props to myself as a confessed hedonist. However, there is an agonising emotion starting to envelope me. I'm mother****ing lonely. Endless idle chatter about inane subjects with covertly feigned interest. Hundreds of dollars spent on buying women drinks. Nerve racking cold calls on the hotty across the way with hope that she just may be the one to end my torment. I've spent countless hours trying to be the mack and the universe has done its best to show me unequivocally that I am far, far from it. I just want to connect with another human. To know that I can be worth someones time. I want to be desired, or even just used. Any level of female attention. I want to use my one-time right here and now. Get there, get in, leave before the sun comes up then paste my sexual success all over facebook and call up my parents and tell them they were wrong about me being a complete ****ing loser. Ah, that's the dream. So simple, so natural, and yet it feels like an unattainable light I can barely glimpse at the top of the giant ****ing hole I've dug for myself physically, emotionally, and financially. How do you convince anyone else you are worth their time when you can't think of a single good reason to wake up each day.
Sleep remains elusive as ever for me. Rotating in bed like a pig on a spit with my head pounding from a hangover and a million thoughts all taking me in the wrong direction I'm finally driven to get up and do something. All my friends are at the Magic tournament that I'm too late to register for and the idea of drinking or getting high makes me want to vomit until my stomach inverses out of my mouth. That leaves poker. It's always an option. The longer I stay in this lifestyle the more it begins to feel like my only good option. I can stay out and do bad **** that hurts me or I can go in and grind money for some vague intangible goal I've never really thought through. Herpescock sneak attack or blue waffle beatdown. Run it as many times as you want but both options still end up sucking.
So I'm at the Treasury being a loud mouthed ****ing spastic and platonically hitting on this hulking adonis of a man who looks like Jesus carved him out of a sheer granite cliff. We get the old over-over-over straddle going and I wake up with 2-4 off when Mr. Granite opens a pot for the 8th hand in a row. Throw in a three bet, get the standard 2-4-7 board (authors note: NOT standard) and crack kings. Yeah, poker is easy when the deck is relentlessly hugging your ****.
him- "Really?"
me- "I only three bet you because they were offsuit."
some random- "That makes no sense."
me- "pfft."
I own everyones soul by having the best hand at showdown then having the dealer push me the pot (remember, unexploitable strategy). I get up a few hundred then realise I'm ready to flip this money into my last great white hope. One more night out in town before I'm on a plane back home. One more chance to do it right. Hope. Redemption. Vagina.
A few beers and a couple hundred deep on the pokies my eyes lay witness to the one and only flake of flake and ex-best friend enemy of my girlfriend, Kristen. She used to be a constant fixture at my place back in Townsville. Always getting wasted and passing out cold in akward places. She had the distinction of being the only lesbian in my life who I had teabagged and she held a special place in my heart for that. Now, I'm not alone. She's packing a group of underaged try-hard fake lesbians and homeless hipsters that I can blend into as well as connections since she works at the bar. I ingratiate myself to one of her friends by grabbing his crotch aggressively and staring him in the eyes and he reciprocates by freaking out because he used to have a heroin addiction and got molested or something... **** it, I don't know..or care. Nights going good. I'm getting ****ed up. Kristen reckon we should get more ****ed up and go smoke some weed down by the bridge. We all pack up and head out.
At this point I am beyond trashed, stumbling around at the back of the pack trying to light a cigarette unsuccessfully. We head around a corner and into this place. Some lady is asking me for 10 bucks for entry and I'm confused since I thought we were going to a park to get high but whatever, this place looks pumping. I follow our group up to the bar and am about to organise a round for all when I realise I don't know any of these people...in fact Kristen and her mob aren't anywhere around at all. I've ended up at some place called the Family. Alone. Naturally. Place looks amazing though. Sick music. Dance floor packed with people.
I'm enjoying my 4th or 17th vodka lime and soda for the evening on the upper deck and scoping out the gyrating mass of humanity below me when these two birds straddle up to me on the rail. I look over to behold this gorgeous, tall, thick, blonde, swedish girl in a floral dress4success. She asks me a question, I give a hillarious answer. She asks me another question, conversation continues. Holy **** is this what getting hit on feels like??? Then my eye catches her friend. This short, obese, weasel-like failed abortion next to this blonde bombshell. Bleeding sphincter red hair, buck teeth, eyes too close together, hairy arms, and protruding belly. She's perfect for me. These woman are out and about. They are trying to get it on and get off. I have finally...FINALLY found a woman so repulsive that I can't be rejected. I switch gears into awesome mode. Drinks courtesy of the un****able sucker and lead them booth to the dance floor. I'm going crazy. I'm wrapping arms around my sweet little mole. We're hammering drinks back and forth. Slight grinding. Sick pimping. On the third or fourth trip back from the bar I see ratgirl with another guy. Mother...****er.
Mother...
.
.
.
****er
MOTHER ****ING ****ING **** ****C FUKC WHAT THE ****ING **** **** FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK~!!!#@@!$!@%!%!@% !
Some pinheaded prick rockin board shorts, a unit shirt, and some sort of dressed up version of croc shoes. I'm undeterred. Not this time. I'm not getting my fat, sloppy piece of ass stolen by some dickbrain again. THIS ISN'T ****ING TOWNSVILLE. I ****ING PUMPED $30 OF DRINKS INTO THIS BITCH, I HAVE CLAIM!!!!!
I step in, I isolate. I'm whispering **** so sweet into her ear I'm giving her emotional diabetes. I'm power playing..
power playing....
I lean in for the kiss, I get an uninterested cheek.
I give a sexy ultimatum and she's....****, she's walking away. Mother****ing buck toothed dero lovebirds entwined on the dance floor. I've just had the absolute dog ugliest **** to ever grace the clubbing scene leave me for Trevor from Trailer Park Boys. **** my night. **** this trip. **** MY WHOLE ****ING LIFE WHAT AM I DOING WRONG HERE.
The place is emptying out. It's geting late and everyone is already coupled up or doing other 4 a.m. drama. I keep drinking and dancing amongst all the random shirtless men still on the floor who I don't think have taken a break in the last 3 hours I've been here. Eventually the laser lights die and the flood lights turn on. It's over. My trip is done. I've got a plane to catch in 5 hours. I just spent every day of my trip desperately trolling for affection and was left with nothing. No returned messages from Roxxxie. No reciprocation from Sharmander. No passionate tongue ****ing with ratgirl. No bankroll increase. No Magic success.
Nothing.
I walk out into the sunrise. A sight I've seen almost everyday from the wrong side. My eyes burn till they water. The puss filled blisters taking over my feet throb. My throat feels like someone choke ****ed me while wearing a sandpaper condom. Other than that, I'm just generally sad about how it has all turned out. I collapse on the ground next to this hot girl who I had noticed dancing her ass off most of the night. Light up a cigarette, converse away. I've given up on getting off so it's idle random filterless chatter. Still it goes well. In fact it goes great. An hour later and we're still there being gutter scum on the ground. I get a phone number. I try to dance around the subject of 'hey come home with me' but to no avail. I just can't get there. I generate the interest. I make them laugh. I engage in every way I possibly can. Yet, when it comes to sealing the deal, making contact...there is an infinite distance of inches I can't bridge. I'm a friend...a sideshow... a passing interest...a moment of entertainment...I'm good, I'm definetly good...
I'm just not ****able.
We part ways with an akward hug and a facebook add. She's heading back to Gold Coast and invited me down to party sometime but I'm too strung out. I need to crawl back home and heal my open wounds and broken soul.
A few hours later and I'm at the airport gate curled up on a chair in the foetal position and moaning like a crazed gypsy under my breath in an attempt to fight off extreme fatigue and the slowly encroaching hangover. I'm torn. This weekend was a failure. I have money, I have nothing to go back to besides my girlfriend. I got an invite to the Gold Coast to hang with this girl. Maybe I should stay... But I'm dirty. I'm exhausted. My feet are killing me. Staying here is hopeful at best. More likely, I go further down the trail of tears and find more impassable walls. I make up my mind, I lost this battle but I'm not defeated. Return to Townsville and plan a comeback. They call my flight for boarding. I look down at my phone and in comes a return message from Roxxxy. I waited days for this and now she tell me she wants to hang out. Today. ****! So ****ing standard. I've already made up my mind to go home. This is just another nail in my side. I message her back, tell her I'm ****, and board the plane back for Townsville.
Townsville is the same. Hot. Humid. The familiarity is soothing. I come home feeling on the verge of death. Air conditioning. comfort eating. The loving arms of my girlfriend. Rest up. Relax. Get back to humanity. I spend a lot of the time just zoning out thinking about how much of a **** around these last few months have been. It hurts me. I'm surrounded by friends and yet feel completely isolated from humanity. I've thrown standards out the window. I've tried everything in my power. Still, no matter how many god forsaken woman I've tried, no matter how drunk, how ugly, how absoluetly putrid, stupid, desperate, old, whatever... They all shared a bond in rejecting me completely.
A few days after returning home I walk into our bedroom and breakdown in tears. Maybe it's my incredibly dry dick chaffing me into extreme discomfort, maybe it's a dopamine break down from over partying. I sob hard. Between the sobs I tell my girlfriend about getting rejected by all the females in Queensland. I tell her I feel like the biggest ****ing loser alive. I tell her I'm suffering. I tell her it hurts. She tells me-
"I slept with someone while you were gone."
....
.
.
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKKKK **** **** **** **** **** **** **** FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
**** my life.
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10-02-2012
, 10:53 PM
