Bad days: we all have them. Whether you’re Tom Brady or the terrifying man in Philly that always used to stand outside of Walgreens and call me a bitch because I wouldn’t give him any money for hitting the handicap button and opening the door. No matter what stage of life you’re passing through, bad days come and they hit us all the same. Like a freaking freight train (I would say “fucking,” but my mom told me to stop swearing so much because it’s not “ladylike.” Lmk your thoughts).
Yesterday morning, someone asked me if I thought he was an asshole (his words, not mine, Mom). My response was a simple, yet truthful “No, I think you’re human.” At the end of the day, that’s what we all break down to be. Humans that make forgivable mistakes, like diving into the wretched world of sports betting and letting it eat her alive in the name of Twitter engagement and building a brand, so that maybe one day she won’t have to pretend accounting is her lifelong dream.
Thirty days ago, almost a month to the day, on Saturday, August 24, I dipped a little pinky toe into this cesspool by placing a conservative $10 on the under in Florida/Miami. It won by 1.5 points. It was crack. I was hooked.
This day feels like twenty years ago — nearly the same amount of time that we’ve been trying to figure out if Marcus Mariota is going to have his breakout year this year. But just thirty days, several heart attacks, and endless unfathomable losses later, I’m sitting here wondering when the bad days end, and what I did to deserve so many of them. I don’t attend church, but it’s time to confess. I figure blasting my soul out to the internet is basically the same thing.
Personally, I endured a strange and emotional week last week, to which an unsettling Sunday morning was the culmination. Instead of talking it out with someone or lying low for the rest of the day, I went full psycho and broke my 7-day gambling retirement, cannon-balling straight back into the depths of my despair. Why be bummed out when you can be flaming angry too?
For the first hour of the early games, I was trapped in the car with my dad. Bless the man’s heart — he spent the morning cleaning my filthy tub in my Philadelphia apartment, as I finally moved out yesterday. I also think he may have CTE. The first bet I placed was on Chiefs -5.5, to which my dad agreed was “great,” right after he called Dak Prescott “Zack.” It should’ve been the last bet I placed for the day.
After my Chiefs bet missed by 0.5, I was on Daniel Jones and the Giants to win outright. MFJML – Mothafucka Jones Moneyline. When the Bucs went up early, my eyes tunnel-visioned on more failure in my future, and I took “advantage” of FanDuel’s “cash-out” feature, where I could salvage part of my money instead of losing the entire wager. So when MFJ led his marvelous comeback, and everyone thought I was happy, I was actually pissed, because my impatience got the best of me once again, and ruined an absolute gem of a winner. One rookie’s massacre of the Bucs’ defense rubbed salt in the wound of a rookie gambler’s wounded knee.
While cashing out on this gut-wrenching mistake, the 49ers-Steelers game was playing on my television as the only available option. Producing more turnovers than Andy Reid’s oven, it was the battle of tall, dark, and handsome QBs that I really wish I wasn’t stuck analyzing. Analyzing away I went, and with a miserable halftime score of 6-3, I knew the live under of 33.5 was a lock. Which of course meant that it actually wasn’t, and both offenses exploded (extremely relative term) in the second half.
So not only did I give up early on a winner, like the Bills when they cut Nathan Peterman, but I put even more money down on a live loser to makeup for it, and ended up a million times more pathetic. If you’d seen the emotional state I was in earlier that morning, you wouldn’t have thought that was possible. But I believe the quote is “all’s fair in love, gambling, and war,” so I should’ve seen it coming.
To end the treachery of what is normally my favorite day of the week, I went craAaAaAzy again, putting all the remaining money in my account on Rams -3.5. This sounds bad ass, but it was $3.12. So it was actually very depressing, and let me tell you, “rock bottom” didn’t get its name for the type of music they play to get you through the bad times. There is no music, no cushions on the rocks, and your butt just hurts.
As I watched yet another boring primetime game unfold, I started asking my dad which organs I only need one of, how regenerative others were, etc. An eye could go for a good bit, no? An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind! (I’m not sure that actually relates to the situation.) Plus, if I only had one, I wouldn’t be able to see the Eagles players die one by one as well. Maybe all the catchable passes they keep dropping would look uncatchable, and I wouldn’t have to throw the remote as many times. It would certainly save my parents in wall repairs. Everybody wins!
As a result of the tumultuous day I’d experienced, I couldn’t keep my eyes open to watch Freddie Kitchens make the rest of his stupid playcalls, and I tucked it in early. To my delight, I woke up this morning to the nicest win I’ve ever had:
So guess what — I’M BACK! One-game win streak, bitch! (Shit, sorry mom.)
I will use this $6.09 as expertly as I possibly can to build myself back up to the point where I can rationalize throwing an absurd amount of cash on Penn State -7 vs. Maryland on Friday — which I will be at, so stay tuned for the live meltdown…
P.S. The title of this blog is a line from a song called “Human” by Christina Perri, and it’s absolute FIRE when you scream it alone in your car while rain is drearily rolling down your windshield. Try it sometime if you’d like to get even sadder, but also trick yourself into thinking you’re in a music video for a few minutes.
Sup Caroline? 