Cat's Game
The cat sits across from me, sneering.
"Play the seven on the eight," he says.
Be quiet, cat.
For you see, I am a patient player of solitaire. Sneer away, cat. I need to check to see if there is a seven in the pile before I carelessly move the ones on the table. I know the dangers of quick movements. Many times I have trapped the lone noble beneath a lesser pawn that simply cannot be played. Woe to the royal family and scorn to you cat.
I am playing solitaire with great strategy, but before long I begin to consider the fickle nature of the cards. What do you think, cat? Could it be that winning at cards is only luck? The number of times you shuffle, the spot where you cut the deck? The four you move to the top line and the four you move to the five?
Ten thousand hours, the expert of experts says, ten thousand hours of practice is all that it takes to become an expert. If I should keep playing, would I be better at cards? My shuffling skills have improved.
The cat pads across the table and flicks at the empty aces with his tail. "I suggest you play that four," he says.
Be quiet, cat. I'm improving with each game. It occurs to me that there is a magical nature to the deck of cards. When you think hard enough about the card you need, it materializes. I just need to better harness my control over the deck.
I know that if Josh were here he would tell me that is nonsense. The only reason that the card you need sometimes appears is because all the cards you don't need have already been played. It's logic and odds and the cat is in agreement to this verdict.
But I contest! How is it that I win at rummy? I guarentee that it is not skill. And how is it that people can perform tricks and read minds with the cards? Why can't the cards be magic? Why can't I control them with my brain? At this point, magic makes the most sense.
They're only fifty two glossy papers, together in a deck, together with the cat they taunt me. Be quiet cat. Be quiet cards. Think Carrie think! I want the six of spades. Done. I want the eight of clubs. Done. Use your mental power and create the cards you need. You will win at solitaire! Keep your focus, furrow your brow, keep your nails clicking on the table top. Three down, move one up, send brain waves to the cards. The hidden faces switch spots under my magic powers and are what they should be when they are turned upright.
I am patient and skilled and I will defeat any challengers at my game. Go away and sulk cat, for I am the greatest player of solitaire of the time.
"Play the seven on the eight," he says.
Be quiet, cat.
For you see, I am a patient player of solitaire. Sneer away, cat. I need to check to see if there is a seven in the pile before I carelessly move the ones on the table. I know the dangers of quick movements. Many times I have trapped the lone noble beneath a lesser pawn that simply cannot be played. Woe to the royal family and scorn to you cat.
I am playing solitaire with great strategy, but before long I begin to consider the fickle nature of the cards. What do you think, cat? Could it be that winning at cards is only luck? The number of times you shuffle, the spot where you cut the deck? The four you move to the top line and the four you move to the five?
Ten thousand hours, the expert of experts says, ten thousand hours of practice is all that it takes to become an expert. If I should keep playing, would I be better at cards? My shuffling skills have improved.
The cat pads across the table and flicks at the empty aces with his tail. "I suggest you play that four," he says.
Be quiet, cat. I'm improving with each game. It occurs to me that there is a magical nature to the deck of cards. When you think hard enough about the card you need, it materializes. I just need to better harness my control over the deck.
I know that if Josh were here he would tell me that is nonsense. The only reason that the card you need sometimes appears is because all the cards you don't need have already been played. It's logic and odds and the cat is in agreement to this verdict.
But I contest! How is it that I win at rummy? I guarentee that it is not skill. And how is it that people can perform tricks and read minds with the cards? Why can't the cards be magic? Why can't I control them with my brain? At this point, magic makes the most sense.
They're only fifty two glossy papers, together in a deck, together with the cat they taunt me. Be quiet cat. Be quiet cards. Think Carrie think! I want the six of spades. Done. I want the eight of clubs. Done. Use your mental power and create the cards you need. You will win at solitaire! Keep your focus, furrow your brow, keep your nails clicking on the table top. Three down, move one up, send brain waves to the cards. The hidden faces switch spots under my magic powers and are what they should be when they are turned upright.
I am patient and skilled and I will defeat any challengers at my game. Go away and sulk cat, for I am the greatest player of solitaire of the time.
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