Bet it on the House

And you're wrong.

What does it mean when you’re totally off? 

When the stars seem to align.

When the whispers of friend and foe point in the same direction. 

When all of your carefully planted “Is it gonna happen?” boobie traps get tripped on.

And then, it doesn’t happen. At the climax, when the Universe brings together its final ruling—an outcome you’ve been so certain of—something falls apart. Or many things fall apart.

You were plain wrong. 

And out of abundant caution, you’d even wasted your prayers on dogs that died (and Grandparents), etched six figures onto blank cheque(s), howled at the moon, overspent, overate, and overdrank.

Then, a shutdown followed by “I’m sorry” texts and DM’ed horoscope links. 

The thing that you thought was going to happen didn’t.

Did you misread the signs? 

Has the latest season of “Selling Sunset” rendered you cognitively incapacitated?

Or was it just “bad timing blah, blah” and the inextricable unknown?  

Most devastatingly, you have to go back to the drawing board.

This was meant to be the last push after years of pushing. The final battle against the Mob Boss after defeating countless trench-coated tyrants. This was the planned end to sacrificing good skin and hair, and cafe-windowed Saturday mornings for your belaboured cause. 

This was the carefully drafted punctuation point after drawn-out prose. This was where the next story was set to begin. 

Instead, your only choice is to pick up your ink-stained hands and keep going. As it turns out, we’re not at the part where we fuck off to Europe, learn to handroll cigarettes, then get fatter before getting thinner again. 

You’re stuck between your next good idea and the previous one.

You’re in real estate purgatory. 

You bet it on the house. And this time, the house didn’t win.