It was one of those days, coming off a rough night of deep losses from one unlucky bad beat hand of hold'em. Still shaking the pulsating hangover that was included in the fifteen hundred dollar price. May not be a lot to a high roller, but I'm not in that league. Never have been, and with the way things are going, never will be. That was yesterday. My identity, like my anger at the river card, was transparent. Everyone at the table knew who I was, what I did, knew the highs that drove me, and I knew as much about them. Today I'm walking around the city seen by those who pass me by as just another stranger. Who? Some guy in a fedora. A hipster on his way to a trendy coffee shop? A self categorized "creative type." Another hopeless romantic with a naive dream of making it big - creating obscure art in some squalid Williamsburg shack. A local. A tourist. Plays guitar. Speaks a foreign language. Speaks two. Doesn't. Ten thousand other invented half second possibilities, one for each pair of eyes. That's not my story, it's theirs. Assumptions based on zero. We all make them.
Me? I'm just a gambler.
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