Because boozing’s better than betting.

When the choices are stay home and get blotto’ed or go gamble — and boozing’s better — you’ve got a gambling problem.

I do. It’s big. Very big. And long in duration. Some 15 years, off and on, peppered with (GA) recovery approximately 3 years at a stretch.

But I’m not here to share my gambling story. Who has that kinda time?! Besides, it’s fodder for a book. Or chapbooks. Or speaking engagements at least.

No. I’m here at this old blog of mine that I’ve neglected along with so many other things — first and foremost my basic well-being!

I’m here this fine spring evening drinking on the front porch and writing so I DON’T go gamble.

So I don’t get into my car, switch on the ignition and drive the super-pleasant and short several miles to the casino.

10 minutes is all it takes.

That’s like an alcoholic living a stumble-y block down from some bar. Seedy or otherwise. Doesn’t matter to the alcoholic. Like an Indian casino (translation: shitty odds, way worse than Vegas!) that hardly pays doesn’t matter to a gambler.

Thing is, I know exactly why I so want to gamble right now. I could articulate the reasons in my journal. So clearly I’m not drunk — or drunk enough yet.

I’ve done that, btw. Poured my heart out into my pages after a gambling binge, the pain, anguish, self-hatred. I’ve poured illuminations and personal therapies into those pages, full-on realizations about WHY I gamble and HOW to stop.

Then 10 minutes later been in my car heading to the casino. As if none of that journaling happened!!!

Twisted. Fucking twisted.

Ohhhhh, I can smell it now. The smokey air hitting my nostrils soon as I enter through the dark smokey (no pun intended) doors. “I’m here. I’m home.”

Twisted. Fucking twisted.

I can see it now. Stepping up to the cashier window. Typing data into the pad. Easy cash since they’ve got my checking account. Signing. “How’d you like that? Big bills OK?” “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Practiced. Fucking practiced am I.

Then stepping ’round the corner to my favorite bank of machines. 1-2-3-4-5. Each different. Each I like a whole friggin’ lot. Each with decent payoffs when they pay off. Each money-suckers when they don’t.

Ya never know. That’s why it’s called gambling, dumbdumb! Risk. Win or lose. Win and lose.

Really. A casino — or two, in my case — an easy-breezy-lemon-peasy drive from home — is way. too. fucking. tempting. For someone like me. Emotionally devastated by the most intimate and biggest of recent losses (i.e., deaths).

I gamble NOT to feel. Sound familiar? It will if you’re a problem gambler.

The slots (I’m strictly slots) anesthesize better than any. fucking.drug. Better than this low-carb fruity beer at my side. Better than sleep. Better than Any. Escape. Route in life, possibly excepting madness/insanity or heroin.

Oh I can see it now. Slipping a $100 into the slot of whichever of my Fav 5 is available. Tapping Max Bet. You can’t win shit otherwise. Switching seats if one seems cold. Or staying put on the (mad) thought that it’s about to pay off big-time.

You gamblers know that one. “It’s about to pay off — huge! I FEEL it. I KNOW it.”

Tens or hundreds of dollars later ……………… you know that one. L-O-S-S.

Still. We do it. We meaning gamblers. Who have, would and do give their eye teeth for one more spin of a wheel. Even if it’s a measly minimum bet of 9 cents.

Been there done that.

But why does ALL that not matter when the urge to gamble strikes? Why does ALL THAT MISERY — **SELF-INFLICTED** I should add — go forgotten?! Shoved aside. Turned into amnesia.

Selective forgetting. Selective remembering. Ohmygod have I mastered that art! That madness. That self-destruction.

OK, at this moment, I still haven’t gotten into my car for the casino.

But then I’m not wasted either, a minor plus for impulse control.

Time for another drink. Because boozing’s better than betting.