Didn’t win. Gotta whine. Didn’t lose big either, though.
I walked away with 4/5ths of my starting money in poker last night. My luck has been shit-Ty.
Three kings losing to a full house; straight to a flush; that kind of thing. I’m the only chick in my poker ring; this should be cake.
Not because boys are inherently stupid, mind. But boys tend to be inherently stupid around breasts. It’s a scientifically proven fact.
Maybe I should take them off next time and just put them on the table, like nubile book ends, one on either side of my chip stack, pointing north.
But that could start a dangerous precedent, you know?
I dont want the fellows flinging their anatomies up on the table. Salvadore Dali missed a fantastic opportunity, not painting what’s in my brain at this auspicious moment:
The poker felt. The cans of beer. The dealer wielding a large, fleshy appendage to spread the cards out. Six men, with varying degrees of grins and flushed faces leering toward the center of the table where two beige colored mounds tremble slightly when the table shifts. You just see the back of a girl and the tips of her fingers as her arms are crossed, and she’s tucked her hands into her arm-pits. Her head is lowered, hostile-like. “I ALREADY ante’d, motherfuckers.”