This is a battle a brewin'. In actuality, it has already started. I have spent most of my time the last five years living with a pregnant woman. I make no complaints about that. She endured the sciatic nerve pain, the constant pressure on the bladder, and the insatiable cravings. All I had to do was be sympathetic and provide the occasional massage with these gorilla hands. Now, I have an assistant who is expecting. Not the tall one, she is home, studying for the LSAT, desiring to go to law school next year. It's the other tall one, the one who can sing like a bird that can really sing, not one of those buzzards or crows with guttural squawks that haunt our walks home in the gloaming, but a song more of the Black-headed Grosbeak variety; Sweet, but strong and lifting. Anyway, she is pregnant and it is taking a toll on my life. I can deal with her aversion to being around food as it is prepared as it only knocks out one or two of our Friday office-lunch destinations. In our ever burgeoning town, the restaurants are popping up faster than we can take account and we can always find a spot where the food is cooked safely away from the dining area. I can deal with her pregnancy induced absences as this is a slow season for our office and the other tall one and I can handle the load. Unsustainable though, is the detente I have effected with the bag of York Peppermint Patties she leaves on her desk all day and cruelly leaves there after she has departed for the day. They taunt me so, those discs of minty goodness. No chocolate fiend am I, but mint-chocolate appeals to my senses and calls out to me from the other room. I seek the sensation. No doubt her military trained husband has taught her the art of trip wires and directed deterrence. After the mysterious gob-stopper disappearance, I could not blame her for an abundance of preparation and protection. Oh, but I feel they have probably underestimated my wile and determination. I will have satisfaction by tonight. If this is my last post, please, someone call my wife and instruct her to avenge my demise.
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I played 6%of my hands last night at the Riverchasers event. That's right, 6%. You know you're jealous. You wish you could have that kind of patience and ability to sit motionless (and emotionless) for hours other than the occasional twitch of the finger to hit the "fold" button. The trick is to get really crappy hands all night, sit at a table full of raisers, and auto-fold a lot when you have to leave the room due to little boys who insist, after they should have been asleep hours ago I mind you, "Daddy, I have to tell you something." Once the tree fears were alleviated (and in their defense, it really is a spooky old tree outside their window) I was able to double up enough to get into a good spot with less than two full tables remaining. My demise came though, in a most unfortunate manner. I pushed AI from the button with no prior action with QT. This play had been keeping me alive orbit after orbit, as the smaller stacks dropped out and we crept towards the money. This time though, the SB pushed back and the BB called only to turn over respectively, KK and JJ. Wow. Wow. I actually hit two pair but one of the PP hit their set and I was out in 13th.
Tonight, I will be shooting for at least a 50% "saw flop" statistic at Kat's Group therapy session. I may push AI the first ten hands. It depends on how easy it is to get my hands on those peppermint patties. Sweet chocolate sonsovbeetches.
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