The poof doesn't exactly fit up the stairs to my new attic room, but I decide to try to get it up anyway. Halfway up it gets wedged between the wall and the banister and I pause to rest, leaning forward. I'm Sisyphus, I think, but for me the poof (a ball of stuffed fabric designed for collapsing into) is apter than the rock: my obstacles have not been sharp and heavy but soft and indistinct. Also, it is one of those items of furniture, like a futon, that is perfectly normal at 18, but if you still have it when you're 30 it means something has gone seriously wrong with your life. At 24 I am halfway in between and starting to think about these things.
I am back in the States, renting a room in a house with two other 20-somethings, looking for a day job. I am still playing poker, but without access to multiple monitors or my old Poker Tracker stats I've switched from short stacked multi-tabling to single-tabling heads up sit-and-gos. I'm hoping this will allow me to improve quickly and climb to higher stakes, but for the time being it's slow going, so the prudent course looks like getting a real job. So I'm back where I started, jobless.
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1 comment:
Nate, let's be serious for a second and talk about the truly important thing here.
Is this the old poof of Sean's?
If so, when can I come over. I need to dive onto it and roll around and happily greet my old friend not unlike a rambunctious puppy.
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