Welcome to the Bet On Yourself Sportsbook

The sports books are open in Illinois and in Michigan, but there are no sports. So who better to bet on now than yourself? Welcome to the Bet on Yourself Sportsbook, where the only limit to your action is your actions. 

Will You Email Your Landlord About That Thing? 
Yes: +450
No: -450

How Long Will Your Duolingo Streak Last?
Over: 8 ½ days
Under: 8 ½ days

Will She Text You Back?
Hell Yes My Guy: +120
Nah Gtfo: -120

Over/Under Number of Times You Masturbate While on Self-Quarantine
Over: 12 ½ 
Under: 12 ½ 

Will You Get a Promotion Before December 31, 2020? 
Yes: +220
No: -200
Lol whoops you don’t have a job any more: +1350

Parlay Time! 
Hit Your Goodreads Challenge for Books Read in a Year: -150
Avoid Fighting With Your Uncle on Facebook: -115
Write a tweet that gets 20 likes: +150
Finally get a six-pack: +250
Overall Payout: $100 pays out $2,626.45

I’m Just A Boy, Standing In Front Of A Girl, Angrily Defending My Sports Gambling Addiction

Look, I get it. I get why you’re unhappy that I had to take you to a “seedy and gross” Irish pub for Valentine’s Day because I didn’t have the money to take you to the nice restaurant where I had made a reservation. And I know you’re especially unhappy knowing that I had the money, but lost it because I put $300 on a three-game NCAA basketball parlay.

But don’t forget: I’m just a boy. Standing in front of a girl. Angrily defending my sports gambling addiction.

First of all, don’t blame ME for Louisville absolutely shitting into its slippers against Georgia Tech. I assure you, anyone who knows fucking anything about college basketball would take that bet.

I’m also not sure you quite understand that if I had won this bet, I would have made $1,400. I’m sure that tapas restaurant I made a reservation at is just fantastic, but if Louisville had figured out how to score against the fucking anemic Georgia Tech defense, I could have taken you to SPAIN. I could have gotten you all the tapas you fucking want.

It isn’t MY fault that Louisville decided to choke on ass for no reason. The only thing that’s my fault here is that I promised you we would get goddamn tapas and had you craving a stupid glass of fucking sangría all week. Though you clearly didn’t crave it that much, because the guys at McDuffy’s said they could probably figure out how to whip together a sangría, but you suddenly weren’t interested anymore.

Whatever. It’s fine. I’m sorry you got food poisoning. I did tell you the fish and chips weren’t a safe bet, but that still sucks. I guess we’ve both learned a thing or two about safe bets this week.