I’m just warming up. Shaking off the cobwebs. No big deal.
There’s something wrong with this fucking putter.
I need to stay calm, and remember my swing thoughts.
cart girl could easily ruin my marriage. I’m going to blade the shit out of this flop shot.
Maybe I need new golf shoes. How much are those
Tiger Woods cleats? Damn. Really running low on balls.
How am I sore already? I have the joints of a 70-year-old man.
If the foursome in front of us doesn’t hurry up, I’m going to ask someone in my group that can aim to hit into them.
Why does the course marshal always show up right before I hit? So much pressure.
I’ll play for real on the back nine.
Maybe I should just leave the driver in my fucking bag.
I really wish I had more time to practice
on the range. Shouldn’t have bought those
Pro V1s at the turn. I’m losing $6 worth of golf balls per hole. I wish an alligator would bite off my fucking
hand. All I need is one incredible shot to make it all worthwhile.
He shouldn’t have been
standing there. Fuck this game. Fuck this course. Fuck the guys I’m playing with. Fuck
Rickie Fowler. Fuck me.
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