Want to teach yourself about patience? Spend money on a lesson, go out and play immediately after, and watch as everything you were taught slips away.
I am in desperate straights right now. My headspace is scary, my swing, even scarier. Remember Jabba the Hut? That is the game of golf. Remember that small squealing Kowakian monkey-lizard that sits next to Jabba looking for his approval , or at least not to be eaten (its name is Salacious B. Crumb)? That’s me.
I really want to be positive when I address the ball. I want to believe that there is a good, or at least not horrible shot lurking around every corner. However, I cannot stop shrieking at inopportune times.
A lesson is supposed to remedy those thoughts right? Wrong. A lesson is supposed to give you a glimmer of hope, saying, hey, there is a repeatable action somewhere hidden in that blob of clumsiness.
However, when I attempt to apply these moves in a live round, the result largely remains the same, and the inching towards further drug abuse continues.
I suppose I should take my lesson for what it is, a reminder that all any of us can hope for, is to avoid being eaten.
Party on.
Golfing the Greens 
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