I was sitting there at the poker table like I had a million times before. I was tired. I was frustrated. I was anxious. I wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else, doing anything else. But I could not leave. I was stuck.
I was stuck to my chair. I was stuck to my suffering. I was stuck to being stuck.
Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.
How the fuck can these idiot fucking moron piece-of-shit assholes be beating me? How the fuck can my luck be so fucking bad hour after hour after fucking hour? How the fuck did I ever win at this stupid fucking game?
Years of capture in this place had made it warm and familiar. It gave me comfort, to torture myself. So I did it some more, and some more, and some more, because it felt so good, to feel so bad.
And besides, I deserved it. I was entitled. I was entitled to feel sorry for myself, as bad as my luck was. I was entitled to hate my opponents, for sucking out on me. I was entitled to be as miserable as I could make myself.
And I was getting exactly what I deserved.