This is apropos of nothing: But as a member of the service industry I think it’s easier to see and feel the temperature of the economy compared to, let’s say, stock market shows on CNBC and Fox Business, as two examples, that constantly tell Americans that the economy is doing great (!) all the time because the Dow Jones is up at like $40,000.
In case it needs to be said, no, the stock market is not the economy. It is only the economy for the wealthy. According to Yahoo! Finance the top 10% of U.S. wage-earners own a whopping 93% of all stocks (with the richest 1% owning more than half), while the bottom 50% of Americans own just 1% of all stocks. In other words you are either one of the haves, or one of the have-nots; you are either wealthy, or you are workingclass. The middle class no longer exists.
The stock market is just one small, almost insignificant example of this. Once you dive in to the nitty gritty of how workers are living, er, surviving, in many cases, the divide becomes even more pronounced. For instance, 66% of Americans (two out of every three people you come in contact with) are living paycheck-to-paycheck. Per Fortune, 56% of Americans do not have $1,000 in their savings account in case of an emergency. For hailing itself as the greatest country in the history of the world, we should feel pretty embarrassed.
Despite all the negatives related to Covid-19 — namely, all the millions of people who died — it’s like a thing within the casino industry (and more specifically the table games department) that we, as dealers, reminisce in a lot of ways about how awesome the money was when we went back to work. We lament some of the added protective measures that were put in place, but the public had become so fed up with being pent up at their houses that there was a gold rush of money to be made — every day — when the casinos opened back up.
No one needed to know that we workers were making a shitload of money in unemployment. It was the first time in a very long time that ordinary people were essentially earning what they were worth, which is ironic because most of us weren’t, you know, working at the time. The quarantine era of Covid, which in California lasted for only like 2-3 months for most of us, was the only example in the life of a millennial (born 1983-1996) where the American government did something noticeably, tangibly good for us, the people.
Speaking of it personally, due to the fact that I was raking in money and spending very little of it, I was able to pay off all of my student debt (which by 2020 wasn’t too terribly much) along with all of my personal debt, and I am hardly in the minority as far as that is concerned. Most of the people I work with are conservative and/or Republican, and almost everybody has fond memories of that very weird and specific juncture in history for similar reasons.
What most of them — or people in general — fail to realize, or acknowledge, is that what was happening to all of us was Socialism. I mean the United States is already a quasi-socialist country anyway (what with Social Security and Medicare and public schooling and public dollars going to build roads and bridges and fund police departments and fire houses, etc.), but what was so different about the Covid shutdown is that all those dollars that generally get spent on bullshit — such as bigger, badder weapons for cops, or the fact that like 60 cents out of every tax dollar goes to the military — actually went into the pockets of working people.
And we saw the result: when workers have money, they spend it. That means more trips to bars and restaurants, it means more disposable income to buy clothes, it means more travel, and, god willing, a trip to the casino here and there to blow a couple hundred bucks and maybe if something cool happens then they’ll tip the dealer. Hi. I am the dealer.
The problem with workers feeling comfortable, which isn’t something that the United States can ever allow for more than a few months, is that the extremely wealthy business owners and multi-million and multi-billion dollar corporations realized — once the country opened back up — that many workers would rather sit on their asses and collect money in unemployment in lieu of going back to work and making a similar amount. In many cases, workers were making more in unemployment.
We live in a very fucked up society where instead of chastising or ridiculing those at the top, the business owners/capitalists, for not paying a fair wage, we instead blame poor people for not wanting to work. I grew up in a conservative white family so it was always kind of ingrained in me as a little boy to blame those beneath me (or us, talking about my parents/family) on the economic ladder than those at the top, for why we couldn’t have nice things. It was always Mexican immigrants who were the problem. Or if wasn’t them, it was people living off of food stamps (nowadays EBT) or unemployment. It was always somebody. Somebody else, that is.
My good buddy Spencer got me a book titled Up From Slavery, written by Booker T. Washington, where, in speaking of Union General Samual C. Armstrong, who after the Civil War aided Washington in building schools and helping educate former slaves, he says (emphasis my own):
I soon learned, by his visits to the Southern white people, and from his conversations with them, that [Armstrong] was as anxious about the prosperity and the happiness of the white race as the black. He cherished no bitterness against the South, and was happy when an opportunity offered for manifesting his sympathy. In all my acquaintance with General Armstrong I never heard him speak, in public or in private, a single bitter word against the white man in the South. From his example in this respect I learned the lesson that great men cultivate love, and that only little men cherish a spirit of hatred. I learned that assistance given to the weak makes the one who gives it strong; and that oppression of the unfortunate makes one weak.
I alluded a couple paragraphs ago to America being a fucked up society, and I meant that. Moreover, what’s perhaps worse, is that we have a fucked up culture. One feeds into the other, and they each boomerang back-and-forth off of one another like a pendulum to perpetuate our race to the bottom. There exists here — uniquely, compared to almost anywhere else in the world — an appetite, or like thirst, to celebrate in the failures or struggles of others. There are many reasons for it, of course, but I think the one big thing is simply that such large swaths of the population are unhappy. With themselves. With the current reality. With so much of what is deemed Life.
And so it is my theory that if these people — the ones who feel a little bit better about themselves when they see others going through hard times — were happier, or happy, in general, then they wouldn’t have any need to wish ill towards complete strangers. I realize this is not by any means a ground-breaking theory. I am more arguing that the institutions in place in the U.S., systemically, are kind of geared towards ordinary Americans being dissatisfied.
This is why the quarantine and post-quarantine era of Covid was so crucial. Again I don’t want to like gloss over the fact that so many people passed away. It’s just that it was a moment for working people — i.e. poor people — to catch their breath, and catch up. It was a legitimate universal experience where everyone was, like, happy, to some degree, because almost everyone was devoid of the economic anxiety that so often surrounds and suffocates them. There wasn’t the time to worry about petty culture-war bullshit such as Mexicans crossing the border, or abortion, or any number of things that generally divide Americans. Workers were content, because workers had money in their pockets — thanks to the government.
It wasn’t that long ago, in the cosmic sense, when Covid dominated every aspect of our lives, but in many ways it feels like it’s been a lifetime. And I know that because many people I work with, who aren’t raking in the tips like they did during post-Covid 2020, 2021, 2022 and 2023, compare everything present-day to back then. Way back then. It’s been four years.
We, in the service industry, can feel it when the economy is doing well. When the real economy is doing well, I mean. Unlike the bill of goods that was sold during the Ronald Reagan administration — and the charlatan theory of ‘trickle-down economics’ — what actually works (and always has) is the effect of money when it trickles up. That is, when poor people have it. They buy stuff. They go places. They buy more stuff. The more stuff they buy, the more jobs that are in demand to supplement all the business.
It’s the same for casino workers such as myself. When people have an extra few hundred dollars of disposable income, they end up at our tables. If they win, they may tip us (dealers). The more tips we (dealers) make, the more disposable income we have, and the more money we stimulate into the economy. (The same can be said for cocktail servers, or restaurant workers, or you can name it.) We make money, you make money, and, yes, the extremely wealthy business owners make their fair share of it, too.
Compare that to essentially the business model of the United States government since the early 1980’s when Reagan came into office, where the rich pay very little in taxes, stuff all the excess into offshore tax-havens, such that they can retain as much of it as possible, and in turn that money never gets pumped back into the economy. They give campaign contributions to virtually all American politicians — both Democratic and Republican — so they, the politicians, will not change the system. In short: when the rich have money they save it and it’s good for them; when the poor have money they spend it and it’s good for everybody.
The problem now is that the poor don’t have money, which makes sense since, you know, they’re poor. But when I label people as poor I’m not doing the thing where I’m saying they’re like homeless or that they can’t brush their teeth or that they haven’t had a shower in a fortnight; I’m saying, deliberately, if you are a making less than $100,000 per year, you are poor. And you are probably living paycheck-to-paycheck (unless you are living in Montana or Alabama or some shit). Because it’s expensive out here, in the United States.
All the red scare propaganda from yesteryear about how we, America, can’t cave and devolve towards Socialism — oh, the horror — since then inflation will run amuck (!) and the cost of goods will soar to epic proportions (!) and we’ll have to pay workers a significantly higher wage to compensate for it (!), has all more or less already been happening. Under capitalism. Not Socialism. What we are living through right now is not Socialism. It’s capitalism. And anyone who tells you otherwise is a fucking idiot.
What I mean to say is that the cost of everything — groceries, gas, rent, housing in general — continues to rise, and wages remain the same. The federal minimum wage is $7.25 and has not gone up since 2009. 15 years of stagnation. I could do the legwork and post you a link of how much ‘better’ and more stratified CEO compensation has risen during those 15 years, but I trust if you have read this much that you would be willing to figure that out on your own, or, better yet, just take my word for it. Because you already know the answer.
I was talking to my friend Spencer about a month ago, the guy who gave me the book a handful of paragraphs ago, and he and I sort of made a pact that we were going to start working all of our hours again. I referenced the nature of the table games department in a previous month this year when talking about my two brothers, and the Early Out list, and while it’s not as prevalent where we (Spencer and I) work as compared to my two brothers, speaking of the EO, on average the two of us, Spencer and I, probably work about 33 or 34 hours per week. By working all of our hours I’m really talking about like six or seven additional, which comes out to roughly 12-14 per paycheck. It isn’t much, but it isn’t insignificant, either.
The two of us executed this same plan about a year and a half ago, and it wasn’t until recently, as in the last few weeks that he and I have been doing it again, that I was able to remember how nice it is. To work a full shift every day. To clock in at 12:00 P.M. Pacific Standard Time and cash out at 8:00 P.M. PST and know that I did everything I possibly could to maximize my chances of making money. Some days/evenings are obviously better than others. But that’s the thing about being a dealer who keeps their own tips: it only takes one player, for a few minutes, sometimes, to make your whole day.
And I told Spencer this. I told him how much I love it. Working, that is. While I was kinda anticipating a response that sounded as if Spencer was a typical lazy entitled dealer, I really shouldn’t have been surprised by his warmth and optimism when he told me, in return, that he agreed with me, and that ‘I am looking at this as an opportunity.’ It’s almost like it took someone to say that back to me to reinforce why I, too, love it so much. Working, I mean.
If truth be told, it’s been a long time since us dealers have had to ‘sweat’ the money, in a manner of speaking. Like in the 11 years I have been doing this there have been eras where all that was necessary and required was to show up and be a warm body and blam, it was going to be good day, money-wise. And there have also been eras where the money dried up, so to speak, and it was like a revolving door each day where the same people said the same negative things about how it’s ‘dead’ and how there is ‘no money,’ and so on.
I know I am good at my job, from a technical and mechanical and procedural standpoint. But my biggest strength is that I’m a tactician; I can change tones and switch up my lexicon from table-to-table depending on the demographic of people I am dealing to; I can relate to almost everybody, from good ol’ boys visiting from the South to hardcore-seeming dudes with tattoos on their hands and faces to a group of kids to a gaggle of elderly ladies. Whatever you need me to be, I’ll be. I can speak the language, whatever it is.
But there are levels to this shit. And the final level is the one I am dealing with (no pun intended) now, in this post-Covid, post-people-having-money, dead era. I can be good at the basic requirements of my job. I can be a chameleon and do better than the average dealer who only has one trick to play at a time.
The final level is about being there. Being present. Not complaining about how slow it’s been, how difficult it has been to make money, not giving up before I even walk through the door. It’s doing what Spencer said, about his mindset, and viewing every day as an opportunity.
Because this is a rat race we are involved in, here. I fear the International Worker’s Party that my political hero, Leon Trotsky, once dreamed of, is hopeless. We also cannot count on the American government to ever again give us two or three months worth of peace where we can make money, and save money, and pursue our goals and interests without the burden of needing to go to work and spend 40 hours a week (give or take) generating profits for someone else, or some entity, that considers us as nothing more than an easily-replaceable cog in their wheel that will continue to churn whether or not we are there. Those days were nice. But those days are dead.
The romance I find with life is not in the old million dollar question of: If you had all the money in the world and it was no longer an object, what would you do with all your time? That answer should be fairly obvious. I would write. And I would travel. And I would write some more. I would be a writer. I mean, after all, I once went to college for it, thinking that’s what my life would consist of. Writing.
Instead, since I am involved in the thick of this rat race, and since I am just a minor cog in this completely insignificant wheel, and since I do have financial obligations just the same as everyone else, my romance is in this trivial one or (god willing) two hours a night where I am free to be all by myself, on this back patio, while the sprinklers run, and while the wind blows, and while the moon shines, and while this sad piano playlist occupies my speakers on Spotify, where I can do the thing that I would be doing anyway, if I did have all the money in the world.
I think I can appreciate this now more often than I do usually, since this is the first time in probably two or three years that I have been forced to work six days in a row (because of Memorial Day). Apologies for pulling back the curtain and admitting that once I post the previous month’s blog I start writing the next one, but there it is. And I told Spencer last night (before my sixth day of work) that my body felt beat the fuck up. So I know that I will sleep like a baby tonight.
One of the major themes, or motifs, of this blog is the idea of never forgetting where it is you came from. I probably choose to drone on more than I ought to about past experiences of being young and in love and having this very wide window that didn’t ever seem to be closing where the world was my oyster and anything was possible. I navigate to and from certain portals of my life just to peek in, and remember the journey that took me from point-A down all sorts of interests and rabbit holes and people, and then when I pop back out, to reach again for the ever-elusive surface, I see that it all had some meaning to it, even if I couldn’t see and appreciate it while it was happening.
Like I can still see my little cubical back when I was a 19 year-old working at an auto-auction company doing data entry. I can still see once I was promoted into accounts receivable the little corner office I shared with a hobbled and gimpy middle-aged woman named Tristin who just wouldn’t shut the fuck up, all day, from when I was stumbling into the building every morning off of like four hours worth of sleep, high and hungover, from the previous night’s casino extravaganza, until 5:30 P.M. PST. I can still see myself walking out one afternoon c. March 2022 and subsequently being unemployed for about a year while I was writing for a little Texas Rangers blog on the Internet and simultaneously going to dealer school.
I can still see those early dealing days. I can still see the pride I felt when I looked at my picture on my first gaming license, and when I put on my first official uniform. I can still see my cash-out receipts where I felt good making $100 a day in tips, which was rare. I can still see myself at dealer school, at age-24, learning craps, and having the owner of the school, the guy who taught me everything I know, Peter is his name, telling me that ‘If you can break a bill [make $100] a day at Spotlight [Casino], you can make money anywhere.’
So it’s all very humbling, remembering what got you here. I have read the tea leaves just like all my other coworkers and, yeah, these last several months have been ‘hard times’ in comparison to most years. You just aren’t ever going to hear me bitching or complaining about how good things used to be — even if it’s true — because those give off real You Peaked In High School vibes and my attitude, although extremely condescending most times and ironically-negative-and-pessimistic-sounding all the time, is to look forward. To appreciate what I have, and where I am.
And I know that easier days lie ahead, insofar as the service industry is concerned. Like Donald Trump will probably get elected President again in November — his conviction today [5-30-2024] is only going to make him more popular, and make his supporters (and people on the fence) more convinced that it’s all a major conspiracy/witch hunt — and for whatever reason that is going to instill confidence in the economy and people will feel good about themselves and start spending money again, and so on.
But we, here on Future Bets, will never forget that, when times are less fruitful, such as these, we are capable of doing both. We can be the warm body occupying space and time and collecting a nice paycheck. And we can also dig deep when we have to. We won’t complain. We won’t harp on the good ol’ days. We will be present. We will do that thing John Belushi said, from Animal House, about when the going gets tough, the tough… get going. We will always find a way.
* * * * *
Contrary to some of the action that has filled the airwaves of this blog over the last handful of months, I am proud to say that, currently, there ain’t much going on in my life. I mean, I can’t deny that there has been an unfortunate series of One Step Forward/Two Steps Back moments over recent weeks, regarding what I told my friend Sarah a couple months ago, that I was done with the gambling and the late nights. I’ve generally been doing better insofar as those things are concerned; I just haven’t gotten all the way there yet.
And I remain unaware of which abstract concept, over all these months, I was trying to prove to myself — whether I needed validation that I’ve still got it, or if I needed to reinforce the idea that I never lost it. I would submit that what I have been going through is the natural order of things, getting broken down before building myself back up. The point is: it doesn’t matter anymore.
My slowly developing plan over the course of 2024 — and when I say ‘slowly developing’ I mean at a like glacial ass pace — is to get out of everything that I got myself into. I am talking about something on the verge of a whole handful of separate (non-overlapping) pseudo-relationships with women who probably at some point thought it was going somewhere even though I maintained a certain combination of honesty and standoffishness which made it fairly obvious where I was coming from. I imagine that’s just my nature, anyway — being simultaneously honest and standoffish, especially with those whom I can’t see a future with — but in some ways I felt it working against me. My nature, that is. Because oftentimes it seems as if the other side always takes it as some sort of challenge, my nature, I mean, and they won’t give up on me until I let them off the hook.
My main frustration with myself at current is that I did go a solid two months (give or take) without going to the casino to gamble, and then over the last couple weeks I went twice and lost like $2,500 without even having much fun. A couple grand is a couple grand. It’s not going to break me or anything. I simply became a victim of my own progress. Because I saw again my bank account beginning to bloom, and I got comfortable.
The first time I went back — about a week and a half ago — I met up with one of the floor women while she was going on break. And I had clearly partaken in a few, so to speak, and her and I were talking while I was gambling. She gave me her phone number and told me we should do something on our weekend (of which we have the same days off), and I was very agreeable in that moment (for obvious reasons) so I said sure let’s do it and all that.
Then we got to talking over the course of the week and, I don’t know what it is, in short order it just rubbed me the wrong way that she was making it seem the entire time like she was the prize and I should only be so lucky. As if I was supposed to be working for her affection rather than the other way around. I am by no means the standard-bearer or some fucking expert for knowing the Rules Of The Game, or anything like that, but if the other person is the original aggressor/initiator I am not going to break my back to carry on the conversation or feel like it’s my responsibility (to them) to prove my own worth. So I took a page from an old book and responded to her with a thumbs up emoji and haven’t heard from her since. C’iest la vie.
Then the other night I was out at Burgers and Beer — otherwise known as a Local Establishment — and I was there with my good buddy Spencer. It was Father’s Day, actually, which is kinda fitting because Spencer is the closest thing to a father figure that exists in my life. (My own dad included.) And, like my dad, Spencer and I disagree on almost everything that is of little import, such as politics, conspiracy theories, etc. I like him because he offers me a different perspective on life and makes me smarter in a lot of ways.
Anyway, after doing our usual runaround, Spencer and I, that is, talking about things that do not at all matter, we touched on what’s going on between Israel and Palestine. Naturally I, being the leftist that I am, was droning on about how Israel is committing a genocide and how Israel is right up there with the most fucked up fascist governments in the whole world, and in the midst of Spencer telling me not to trust the news, and that Hamas exaggerates their figures insofar as deaths are concerned, et. al, I happened to look up and meet eyes with the bartender, Shannon is her name, while she was fake-washing one of the glasses.
And I have known her for two or three years now, because I have been going to this particular local establishment randomly (usually on Sundays to watch Sunday Night Football during football season) for about that long. As a bonafide Old Man I find this place to be, like, perfect, because the bar is a pretty good size and there are several TVs and because it’s usually not terribly busy. Her and I have spoken many times but never about anything substantial. I think we had like a moment a couple weeks ago because there was this super drunk dude that was hitting on one of the hosts and I looked over at Shannon and said It Must Be So Hard To Be A Girl and she laughed and told me This Is An Everyday Thing before letting me know that At Least There Are Men Like You Out There Who Understand.
But I was curious what Shannon thought about the Israel-Palestine situation. Because she was clearly showing some interest. So as Spencer was talking, I cut him off and asked her: What do you think about the Israel-Palestine situation? There were only a couple other people at the bar and they were sitting to our left, Spencer and I’s, that is, and Shannon played the role of Dumb Girl because she said ‘I don’t know too much about it but I agree with everything you [being me, Eric] are saying.’ Then the two dudes to Spencer and I’s left started laughing, and one of them said ‘Of course that’s what she’s going to say, she’s trying to make money!’
Spencer left shortly thereafter, as did the two dudes at the bar, which meant it was only me, there, and Shannon, who spent the next thirty minutes talking to me about Israel and Palestine (which she was playing coy about when other people were around), the billionaire class, whether or not I liked Joe Rogan (which I do not), where we were from, what our upbringings were like, etc. In other words we were talking about things that, to me, Matter. And we agreed on just about everything. It was crazy.
And I couldn’t help myself, because I never can. I had to ask her what time she got off work, and I had to ask her if she’d be down, in a manner of speaking, to join me at a different local establishment once she was off.
She told me she couldn’t, because it was one of those days, she said, where upon getting to work she envisioned the whole time how nice it would be to be back home lying in bed. Which was fair enough, honestly. It isn’t like I didn’t give her some fake grief for it — I did — but it was after she told me that she was interested in doing it the following week, going with me to a local establishment, that is, to which I did my normal Eric thing, stylistically, by telling her that I’m never gonna ask her out again and she blew it and it was Now Or Never, etc. She gave me her number before I left and I still haven’t hit her up (it being five days now), but I plan to. Eventually, anyway.
Because turning me down is the only way to keep me engaged, and entertained. It almost meant more to me that she rejected me than if she’d done the thing where we had just gotten done with — I don’t want to exaggerate this point but it’s going to come off that way — the most substantive conversation either of us, that being Shannon and I, have had in several months. I can’t speak on what her life is all about but based off the fact that she is both (a) young and (b) white, my assumptions are that she doesn’t really get to Talk (about the things she got to be free and open to talk about with me) to pretty much anyone.
And, for real, what would have happened if she agreed to see me afterwards that night? We would have gotten sloppy, in all likelihood, we would have ended up making out, then I would have invited her over, probably, because, c’mon, why not, I’m only like 10 minutes away, it’s nothing, we’ll just hang out, we don’t even have to do anything, and then who knows. Maybe we would’ve. And maybe I would already be sick of her, knowing how easy it was to get her to do exactly what I want. And then I would have to, most likely, be in search of a new local establishment to have my beers and burgers and watch my Sunday Night Football out of some fear that it would be awkward between us, Shannon and I, because even in spite of the very honest Moment and Conversation we had with one another, I wouldn’t have just burned the bridge between us but fucking torched it, altogether.
Because that’s what I do.
By rejecting my initial advance she at least allows me the gift of intrigue. Of believing anything is still possible. That’s in all probability the reason I have not yet reached out to her. Because I savor these moments when I don’t get immediate gratification, even though it’s all I’ve ever asked for. I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 18 and didn’t start talking to girls seriously or with any regularity until I was in my 20’s, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to label me a Late Bloomer.
It has been many years since that excitement wore off, the feeling where I’d be excited for receiving attention from virtually any woman. Again I’ve never felt like I’ve possessed ‘game,’ in any serious kind of way, but for whatever reason people of the opposite sex seem to like me. And with that have come far fewer challenges that are worthy of my time. They do come around, do not get me fucking wrong here, but they are few and far between in the cliché Once In A Blue Moon sense.
As a consequence, the things that get me excited now, as a 34 year-old who would probably prefer to settle down, if he had the chance, are those that don’t come so easily. And with Shannon, who is a pretty and petite 27 year-old, I regret to say there is probably some soft-bigotry-of-low-expectations element at work, given that (a) I generally view white women — from my own personal life experience — as far dumber than their ethnic (Asian, Black, Hispanic, etc.) contemporaries, and further (b) I never expect any woman to take interest or have serious opinions about geopolitics.
And that’s the sexism and misogyny and chauvinism that exists in my blood, there isn’t a way around that. Last year I was talking to one of my close friends about my hopes and dreams and what I want/expect out of the future, regarding my theoretical significant other, and I did the song and dance where I said I know the year is 2023 and I am very much for all the races and sexes and genders doing their things and living their lives, but with me, I still see the world through a very myopic 1950’s-style lens: one where I do the work and make the money, and, if it’s what she (the theoretical other) wanted, she could just be a homemaker. That’s romantic to me. Despite my very obvious modern-man openminded-ness.
The reason Shannon matters, to me, right now, is because she gives extreme vibes for being a very important person in my life. In a theoretical sense. Because she breaks all the rules of what I am supposed to be ‘into,’ or ‘interested in,’ given the givens of her whiteness and genuine understanding of things I myself take an interest in. My gunslinging style commonly shoots first and asks questions later, seeking first what looks ostensibly agreeable to me and taking it as a bonus if the synapses are firing within her brain. With Shannon, everything worked out in opposite fashion. Like, I actually, umm, got to know her a little bit?
The irony is, there’s some percentage of likelihood that I, too, am the opposite of what she desires. Maybe she’s into big ass Black dudes. Maybe she likes cut up Hispanic guys. Maybe she doesn’t care too much for intellectual real-world conversations and was, in fact, placating my ego by agreeing to see me the following week in hopes of making money off me that specific night. I would bet against every one of those Maybe’s, but, like I said, it would be ironic. And what is life without being able to laugh at its ironies?
The silver lining for me, personally, is that I don’t particularly care, either way. I mean, in a real-life sense I have realized that all of these fledgling attempts at seeing and spending any meaningful time with women has only created more problems for me, personally, and more problems for them — given that what I have to offer (without any real choice) is me, and all that comes with that.
What’s undeniable is that I have been banging my head against this wall, the one where I have been doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different outcome, and after enough trials it’s not like I can point my finger at anyone else and say it’s their fault. As Travis Kelce exclaimed in a very simple yet epic speech to some of his teammates before they took the field in the AFC Championship Game against the Ravens last season — in what ultimately turned into a 17-10 win — ‘It’s always been about us. It’s always been about us.’
As much as I would enjoy experimenting by doing everything the complete opposite of how I have been — a la George Costanza in an episode of Seinfeld — I think directionally I am actually in a pretty good spot. Like mentally and emotionally. Sarah may have said it best when I kind of unloaded on her last night about some of my general interpersonal issues, telling me I’m probably chasing some high, which is why I continually cycle through these fly-by-night trysts, and that I won’t find any type of stability with another woman until I become stable again with myself.
That is why It’s Always Been About Us, because really it’s always been about me. Everything is secondary to me handling my own business and reaching for that elusive feeling of peace that I have not yet found. Every date, every fling, every casino trip, every night out, putting my future at risk by consuming varying levels of alcohol, has been worth nothing beyond an admission that I am not where I need to be right now.
And as the nights have piled up, I have increasingly felt the weight of my own actions. Regardless of whether or not I, myself, have felt like I’ve been honest and upfront, and regardless of the fact that I make it part of my code not to do anyone dirty, in a manner of speaking, insofar as lying and cheating and stealing, etc., if the other party feels hurt or slighted or betrayed, then who gives a shit about my own personal ethics?
I think that’s what I have finally gotten most tired of: not myself — for I have been tired of myself — but rather the way I have come across and affected others. I’ve turned over these rocks to see what’s hidden beneath and I have flapped these wings and the butterfly effect has clearly impacted others enough to, in turn, affect me and my conscience. As impressive as it is that I can casually drop ‘affect’ and ‘effect’ to perfection within the same paragraph, I can’t stand for some of my behaviors if eventually I am going to bear the brunt of What It All Means.
The sun has gone down on Sunday, June 23rd, 2024. It is 9:54 P.M. Pacific Standard Time and it is currently 93 degrees Fahrenheit. I can feel sweat building up in my torso and under my armpits. By this time next month it will be the same day of the calendar month, July 23rd, as it were, and at this exact time of night it will likely be about 10 degrees warmer. My goal for next month is to start going to the gym, which will probably be dumb and awkward for me, but it’s something I have to do. And training camp starts next month, for the NFL. The Texas Rangers are on a four-game winning streak.
Maybe I’ll start writing about all that shit.
Future Bets 
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