This is not a letter. This is a rant. This is a speech. This is a statement. I am sick and tired of making a plan, just to end up in a different place than what that plan called for. I am sick and tired of building something, just to find out the ground is too hard and too rocky to support that planned structure. I am sick and tired of moving a pawn on the chessboard, just to lose my queen. Born depressed, anxious, hyperactive? Weighted slot machine. Born with a stutter? Shouldn’t have hit on sixteen. Attacked, rejected, discounted? Should’ve folded when you thought the player across the table had a pair of aces. Met a girl, just to go 1820 kilometers away? Bad beat. Get addicted to cocaine, try to take my own life, go to rehab? Snake eyes. This perpetual trip to this existential, infernal casino is making me sick and tired, leaving me drained and defeated. I cannot stand to see the roulette ball fall on an odd black again, when I bet on an even red. I cannot stand to see my horse get shot on the track again, after breaking its leg. I’m tired of losing. I’m tired of feeling that glimmer of hope that my parley is guaranteed, just to lose on the last leg. I am tired of staring into the green velvet of the poker table, just to see beady snake eyes staring back. I don’t need or want to win enough to buy the Bellagio or Caesars, but I demanded by righteous triple seven. I demand my flashing lights and treasure sound. This is not a writing of self loathing, despair, or a player’s final message. This is my righteous anger, frustration, and exasperation. My resentment of the house is righteous. In my eyes it is, and if God was a betting man it would be in his as well. I do not and will never accept my own damnation in this casino, regardless of how many times I come up snake eyes. I will never accept that the house can win forever.
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