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Becoming a Pro Poker Player

For a couple days last week I didn't work. I woke up, walked to Casa, ate my lunch, sat with my friends until lunch hours ended, and then sat in the empty restaurant, staring out the window.

What do I want to do with my life? Not the whole thing, but right now.

Conversion Doubler isn't going to get off the ground. It turns out that too many people have bizarre unique requirements that reduce it's usefulness. The book is going okay, but at the end of the day I hate marketing and don't want to spend my time doing it.


On The Mad Ink3r

I used to visit the coffee shop on 24th street, everyday for my normal dosage of caffeine. It started when I was sixteen, working a retail job at Old Navy on 68th street. Normally, I'd catch the train from Long Island, and then get off and walk the rest of the way. There was this African-American guy that would always sit in the coffee shop with his notebook and small dollar cup of coffee.

There wasn't a day that I wouldn't catch him sitting in the same old spot, cornered at the very last table to the back of the coffee shop by the window. On my sick days to work, he'd be in here drinking nothing but that coffee. There may have been once when I saw him with a bottle of water and a croissant.

I was having a bad day one of my days off, so I decided to leave home and take the train to sit in the coffee shop. It wasn't anything significant, but a quiet environment with friendly people who sat at separate tables, either reading newspapers or drinking Lipton Green Tea. That day, there were no more seats so I asked the man who I'd always see writing, if I could have a seat.

"Umm, Hello." I said.

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