Windows

Dear Poker Player,
I see into your soul. I see the slightest tremble of your hands. When our fingers inadvertently touch, I notice the cold clamminess. When your breath seems to stop and you are struggling to make your lungs work again, I see. When nothing but pure evil is oozing from your pores, I sense it. Where there is goodness, I perceive it. I wish I could turn it off, but I can't. I want to be the machine that pumps out the cards, good, bad, indifferent. The brick wall that can neither understand nor interpret your mumbled laments, your cold inhuman stares.
Buy-in after buy-in you place on the table. Your game never changes. You almost never win and when you do it is simply a fluke, an inexplicable twist of fate. You refuse to become a better player. You already know it all, so how could anyone or any book help you? Hell, you could write a book. If it weren't for these idiotic dealers who don't know how to deal you a winner you would never lose. Bottom pair? Good enough to call all the way to the river. Your AK didn't hold up? How can that be? Stupid dealer! They're all laughing at you. I know it, but you don't. As long as you produce yet another buy-in, they will continue to enforce your beliefs. How could your gut-shot not magically appear? They'll agree with you about how bad that beat was. Who cares if you were behind the whole way. You were supposed to get there, damn it.
I know you don't want my pity.
If I sense just a shred of humanity, you get it anyway.
If not......you've created your own bed of nails.
Peaceful dreams.