I’m going to tell you a story I’ve NEVER told anyone, ever.  Not my friends, boyfriends, family.

When I was 18 years old I was trying to get a fake ID.  I was supposed to meet up with a guy who was going to make me one, but on my way I got an urgent message on my beeper to call my friend who had set up the meeting.  I knew it was urgent because after my friend’s phone number she added, “911.”

High tech communication going on back then.

I stopped at a 7/11 on the corner of Desert Inn and Maryland, outside the Boulevard Mall, not the greatest part of town, and called my friend on the payphone.  The deal had fallen through.  The guy cancelled.  I stood there on the phone brainstorming with my friend about what we were going to do.  Without coming to a conclusion, I hung up and headed back to my car.

“Hey, I can help you out,” a skinny black dude sitting on a bicycle called out to me.

“I can help you get a fake ID, I have a friend who works at the DMV.”

He had been listening to my conversation. 

I immediately thought, “Jackpot!” 

I mean, what luck, right?!  This guy, who just happened to be eavesdropping on my conversation, knows someone who can get me a “real” fake at the DMV.  Freaking serendipity if there ever was.

“Yea, drive me over there and I’ll set it up,” he said.

“How much?”


“I need one for my friend also.”

“No problem,” he said.

“Awesome, lets go!”

This guy, we’ll call him “Gary,” locked up his bike that he told me he had just bought at Sears, hopped in my Honda Civic and we headed to the DMV on east Sahara, also not a great neighborhood. 

“Alright, I’ll go in and set it up.”

He went inside and I waited in the parking lot.  He came out about 15 minutes later and told me it was “all good.”  My friend and I were to go to window 15, tomorrow at 1pm and the deal would go down.  So now, he needed the money.  I handed him $200 and I drove him back to the 7/11.

The next day, we excitedly went to the DMV, found window 15 and when the clerk was free, I told her Gary had sent me.  She had no clue what I was talking about.  Like none.  It took me about two seconds to realize I’d been had.  I was fuming. 

What the fuck!?

I was so, so mad. 

Now what was I going to do?

We were going to go find Gary god damn it!

First stop, Sears.

We went into the store, to the bike section, and I asked the salesman if he had sold a bike the day before to a skinny black dude named Gary.  He said he did. 

“Do you have his number or address from the sale?”

“I can’t give you that information,” the salesman said.


Not to be deterred, I took my friend to a seedy apartment complex down the street, where Gary had mentioned he stayed.  I was going to find Gary, confront him, and he was going to give me my money back!

My 18-year old self was fearless!

I drove us through the complex trying to spot Gary’s bike.  My friend, wiser than me and not as fearless, told me this wasn’t a good idea and we should go.

After about ten minutes, I gave up, drove off, was out $200, massively angry, and was left with only a lesson learned that I can now share with you, dear reader, in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation:

Don’t fucking trust someone you meet outside of a 7/11 who says they can hook you up with a fake ID.

Cliffs: I’m an idiot.


Guys, you probably wonder what I do all day, given that I don’t update this blog that often.  What possibly could I be so busy doing?

I’m a hustler, baby. 

So why don’t you kill me?

Something like that.

I started hustling slots late last year.  I really didn’t like that term, “hustler,” because honestly it sounds dumb.  But it’s what all the people doing it call all the other people doing it, so “hustler” it is.

My main competition are Asians and old white men.  Most of them are grimy.  At least at the level I’m at.  Also, most hustlers are broke and can barely afford to hustle. 

It’s an odd game.

What is slot hustling?  Honestly, it's a lot of things.  What it is not is glamorous.  My day consists of a lot of driving and walking many, many steps.  My step counting app has me close to 10k a day.


Oh, yea that.  It’s finding advantageous slot machine situations.

No shit.

Seriously though, that’s what it is.  There are a dozen different situations that can arise, but it’s pretty boring and given who my peers are I don’t really feel super cool about it, except being called a hustler, that's cool.

How did I get into such a neat gig, you ask.  Well, in recent times casinos started installing skill based slot machines.  And when I read about them I thought, oh cool a new move.  So I found a guy on Twitter that openly tweeted about beating these skill slots, I asked him to meet me and show me, and he was kind enough to do so.  In my advantage play career I have NEVER come up with an original move, ever.  I’ve either learned through books, message boards, or seeking out people who were good at a move and having them teach me.

I met said hustler and he showed me how to beat the Space Invaders slot machine.  And with that, I became more interested and starting hunting down more information online about beating other, different kinds of slots.  I’m generally determined when it comes to this stuff, and I was able to find enough info (besides Space Invaders) to get me started.  I also found more Twitterers, who were cool enough to answer my noob questions in DM.

Oh, and I also made friends with a dad in my son’s play-group who was on the slot hustle too, because this is Vegas and that’s what you talk about at play-date.  He and I have been exchanging info ever since.  Considering most hustlers are broke and grimy, I got lucky to be in a network with this dad and the guy that showed me how to beat Space Invaders.  Exchanging info is so helpful.  We even have a super neat group chat.

So that’s it, I’m hustling slots.  Part-time.  The rest of the time I’m hanging out at the playground with my kid, or watching Paw Patrol.   



I watch two television shows religiously.  One is Real Housewives of Orange County.  The other is too embarrassing to say.  Both are on hiatus so I’ve got an extra hour and a half a week on my hands. 

What to do?

One thing I do NOT do is read my boyfriend’s blog or listen to his podcast.  Like ever.   We are polar opposites, politically, and other ways, and I can’t.  I just can't.  So I don’t.  But to show solidarity and where my devotion lies on this almost eve of the new year, I share with you, dear reader, his link. #ad

With all this free time on my hands, I've consumed a few books:

Blood Of The Patriots – really well written and highly interesting if you’re into anti-gov’t militia stories

Recovery: Freedom From Our Addictions – worthwhile read, adaptable advice

We The Animals – unique story and writing style, read it without looking at reviews 

Molly’s Game – better than the movie, well-written and full of interesting detail

The Keys – garbage, didn’t get very far and wasted precious minutes of my life reading what I did

I've also been surfing YouTube for "I quit sugar and look at all the weight I lost."  I ditched the white stuff this week and am fully committed to staying clean. 



YouTube has been leaving me with a strong desire to start a vlog for a while now.  My polar opposite other half thinks it would be entertaining to watch us talk politics (yawn) and I think it would be cool to document my journey back into good health and prosperity.  We'll see.  He's the tech guy, I'm the idea man but he's been trying to wear both hats and so we've gotten nowhere.  

Here's a video.  


lo siento

She was living with me.  I was driving her to work among countless other places because she didn’t have a car.  I might have lent her money, I really don’t remember.  I do remember listening to my boyfriend’s voicemail where she left a message saying, “I can’t stop thinking about you and last night.”  She called to leave him the message 2-minutes after she finished having lunch with me.

I was devastated.  I couldn’t breathe.  I went home, waited on the sofa for her to appear.  When she came in I told her to get the fuck out, and to never speak to me again.  Without any drama, she left.  Then that night, she tried to kill herself.  She was rushed to the hospital and her stomach pumped.  I saw her at work a couple of days later.  “Next time you try to kill yourself, don’t fuck it up.”

What kind of demented, piece of shit, asshole says that to someone?

Me.  I’m that fucking asshole. 

I knew right away how wrong it was.  I called my best friend’s mom and told her what I did.  Ever caring, she called a suicide prevention team with the police and they went to where she was staying, to try and divert another attempt.  She said she was fine.  It was fine.

A handful of years later, I joined Facebook.  I friended this girl, apologized for being a bag of shit and she accepted my apology.  I felt a weight had been lifted.  A year later I saw her at The Sand Dollar on Spring Mountain and she was on what I assumed was an incredible amount of cocaine.  I couldn’t get a word in.  I wanted to leave so badly but she just kept talking, about the old times.  No mention of the horrible thing that I had done.

Fast-forward to a couple of months ago.  She killed herself.  The girl who I told not to fuck it up the next time she tried to commit suicide, successfully killed herself.  Did she think about when I said those terrible, terrible words?  I hope I wasn’t even a passing thought.  That me telling her to get it right didn’t enter her head.  I could feel the weight that had been lifted, seep back onto my shoulders.