So there we were, Gigi and I, standing at the arrivals gate of Dublin Airport—two emotionally unstable lovebirds attempting what influencers call a “relationship reset,” and what I call “a weekend-long financial suicide pact with room service.”
Let me be clear: this wasn’t funded by a casino win. No, this time I was respectable. I had just gotten my real paycheck from my real, honest-to-God day job—yes, the one where I pretend to be a responsible adult from 9 to 5 while secretly writing about casinos at night. And Gigi? She had just returned from her latest “business trip” to Dubai, where she claimed to be networking with followers but came back with a suspicious amount of cash and a faint smell of Tom Ford and jet fuel.
Anyway, she said we needed “a weekend of reconnection.”
I suggested therapy.
She suggested Dublin and luxury steak.
Guess who won.
The Dublin Steak That Started It All
We kicked things off at F.X. Buckley, one of Dublin’s finest steakhouses—fancy enough to impress Gigi, but just humble enough that I didn’t need to sell a kidney at the door.
We were seated by a waiter who looked like he’d seen things—possibly other couples trying to rekindle their flame with meat and Merlot. I ordered a ribeye that cost more than my weekly grocery budget. Gigi ordered the fillet, rare, and asked if they could shape it like a heart “for the symbolism.”
They could not.
“This is nice, right?” Gigi said between sips of €48 wine. “Just you, me, and a cow that died for our emotional baggage.”
“It’s the most intimate moment I’ve had since I cried into a pot noodle last Tuesday.”
She smiled like she almost loved me again. For a moment, I thought we were making real progress.
Then came the bill.
“Oh,” I said quietly, as my card whimpered in my pocket.
Gigi batted her lashes. “You got paid yesterday, baby. It’s romantic.”
“It’s robbery,” I muttered. “But okay.”
The Boutique Ambush
On the way back to the hotel, we passed the Louis Vuitton store on Grafton Street.
You already know where this is going.
“Oooh! Let’s just pop in and look,” Gigi squealed, dragging me in like a toddler to a candy store—with the same level of fiscal responsibility.
She gravitated immediately to a hideous bag that looked like a duffel mated with a toolbox and got covered in monogrammed logos. Price tag? €2,450.
“What do you think?” she beamed.
“I think that’s more than my monthly rent.”
“But it’s an investment,” she purred. “Like crypto. But cuter.”
“I don’t even own luggage that expensive. That bag is worth more than my whole wardrobe. Combined.”
She rolled her eyes. “Jack, you wear casino promo t-shirts and jeans from 2007.”
“And still, I’ve never been mugged. Coincidence?”
Five minutes later, we were at the register. I was weak. Her hand was on my back. She whispered something about “repaying me tonight,” and I blacked out just long enough to approve a Klarna payment plan.
Champagne, Chaos & Codependency
That evening we returned to our hotel room at The Dean. Gigi soaked in the bath, sipping Champagne I couldn’t afford, while I stared at the ceiling, calculating whether I had enough left in my account to buy a sandwich the next day.
She emerged from the bathroom in a robe, glowing like someone who didn’t just financially gut her boyfriend.
“You’re being weird,” she said.
“I just realized I might have to pawn my watch to cover next week’s groceries.”
She laughed. “You don’t even own a watch.”
Exactly.
Sunday Scaries (and Spending)
The next day we went vintage shopping (her idea), stopped for cocktails at The Westbury (also her idea), and wandered through Dublin Castle while she pretended to be royalty and I mentally wrote my next blog entry: How to Emotionally Survive Being a Human ATM.
At some point, she looked up at me with those deadly, lash-extensioned eyes and said, “Jack, this weekend has been really healing.”
“For which one of us?” I asked.
“For us both, duh.”
I nodded and prayed my banking app wouldn’t send me another push notification with a crying emoji.
The Aftermath
Now we’re back home.
Gigi’s new bag has its own shelf, mood lighting, and possibly a social media presence.
I have €12.43 in my checking account and a pending payday loan application titled “Medical Emergency” because apparently “Love-Induced Financial Meltdown” didn’t fit in the box.
“Babe,” Gigi cooed as she unpacked her third pair of platform heels, “thank you for this weekend. You’re so generous. So… loyal.”
Translation: she knows I’ll fund the next one too, probably in Ibiza, or hell, even space, if there’s a boutique hotel and Wi-Fi for her OnlyFans uploads.
But listen—when Gigi runs her fingers along my spine and whispers “You’re such a good boyfriend when you’re broke,” I forget the pain. I forget the Klarna. I even forget that I’m Googling “cheap side jobs for men with crushed souls.” She’s a professional.
Because I’m Jack Gamble.
And if love is a gamble, I’m the guy betting the house, the furniture, and whatever’s left of my dignity.
Till next time,
Jack “Love-Financed” Gamble
Romantic. Idiot. Financial Hostage.