I suck so much ass at this game.

Ass that hasn't been wiped in weeks. Explosive diarrhea ass. The kind of ass you wouldn't eat even if someone offered to make you a millionaire. Crusted cat ass. Swollen, parasite-ridden dog ass. Any disgusting example of ass you can imagine. I'll let you do the rest.

I'm just so horrendously inconsistent at everything. Straight shots, cut shots, stop shots, follow shots, kicking, banking, position play, and the list goes on.

And let's not talk about my fragile mental state. I've realized that my mindset is at its worst when I miss shots I know for a fact I should be able to make. My inevitable self-hatred begins as a frustrating disappointment, then simmers into a crippling disbelief, then boils into a quiet rage that distorts my face into something resembling a gargoyle's before I ask myself, "Did I really just do that? What the fuck is going on?"

I just suck ass.

I need to work on controlling the cue ball more.

Lately, I've been practicing by racking and breaking six balls and trying to make them all in a row, but that's not doing anything to help me master the rock, because its position never matters when all I'm trying to do is pocket balls. I just take whatever position I put myself in and move on to ball after ball until eventually the table clears. There's no focused plan to manipulate the position of the cue ball. I'm putting more of a priority on breaking and running than my skill at predicting and executing accurate routes for that all-important white ball.

That needs to change.

An older woman kept passing by the pool room with her bicycle tonight. She wasn't bad looking, but her straight peach hair was wild, like a dry bush that hadn't been trimmed in years. A sky blue purse hung from one of her exposed shoulders and after noticing her watching me while walking by for about the fourth time I thought about asking if she wanted to play, but she didn't come back.

I wonder who she was. I haven't gotten laid in a while, so maybe that's why my memory's fixated on her now. She was wearing jean shorts and had decent legs, smooth and toned. I wonder why most men love a fine pair of legs so much. You can't fuck legs, so what's the big deal? But we sure do love 'em anyway.

When I was a kid, one of my brothers had an album by Ludacris called Chicken and Beer or something like that. The cover was of Ludacris, while sitting at a bar table layered with fried chicken, holding and pouring salt on a woman's bare high-heeled leg. I can still remember how much the image turned my adolescent brain on. It was really just a hilariously cool album cover, sure, but that didn't stop me from wondering, even as a kid, how satisfying it would be to sexually tease the woman attached to the leg by sinking my teeth into her calf.

I was such a horny ass kid.