lemon..

You’re a lemon. 
Like a bad car. 
There is something… 
there is something inherently defective in you, and you, and you, and me, and all of us. 
We’re all lemons. 
We look like everyone else, but what makes us different is our defect. 
See, most gamblers, when they go to gamble, they go to win. 
When we go to gamble, we go to lose. 
Subconsciously. 
Me, I never feel better than when they’re raking the chips away; not bringing them in. 
And everyone here knows what I’m talking about. 
Hell, even when we win it’s just a matter of time before we give it all back. 
But when we lose, that’s another story. 
When we lose, and I’m talking about the kind of loss that makes your asshole pucker to the size of a decimal point - you know what I mean - You’ve just recreated the worst possible nightmare this side of malignant cancer, for the twentieth goddamn time; and you’re standing there and you suddenly realise, Hey, I’m still… here. 
I’m still breathing. 
I’m still alive. 
Us lemons, we fuck shit up all the time on purpose. 
Because we constantly need to remind ourselves we’re alive. Gambling’s not your problem. 
It’s this fucked up need to feel something. 
To convince yourself you exist. 
That’s the problem.