Pand-Avatar and the Pain of Hope

Welcome to the last couple hours of my life.  Less a playlist and more of a cry for help, I've just been listening to those few songs for, oh, the past few hours.  I put "best break up songs angry" into the Google Machine.  Out popped three Taylor Swift songs.  B-tch please.   So you got mule-kicked by a John Mayer truthbomb straight in the mammaries.  The worst you'll get is a email with a subject heading "Thoughts" or maybe "Re: I Love You" if they thought it'd get your attention by replying to an old love-email, since you can't just write a love letter, you gotta tap it out on a damn iPad.  At least you don't get an on-air autopsy by ESPN's "Adventures in Hair Gel," Kirk Herbstriet or Lou Holtz and Mark May racing to see who can give Nick Saban the best OTPHJ on-air.  The winner is obviously Mark May, he's a true ballhawk.

Strange things have been happening.  I ate a vegetable today.  I didn't even notice it was on the pizza until I ate it.  "Oh, this tastes pretty good...what is i- OH GOD IT'S GREEN I THINK THE PIZZA'S BAD" I thought.  They call it "green pepper" and I apparently have an affinity for it.  I then realized about 5 minutes in that I was reading a book.  I don't know what happened before or after, but words on the page were appearing in my brain.  I hate reading...but I was doing it...seemingly at will.  I found myself telling someone good job.  The strangest part:  It was actually a good job, a perfect time for yelling and unnecessary criticism.  But I complemented them.  These small things kept happening...and I didn't even realize it until they were over.

Adele's back.  News Flash:  She's still pissed.  I notched another 50 odd reps of "Someone Like You" last night.  Played it all through the second half.  Played it through what I imagine was the series of small strokes I had.  I say this only half in jest:  There came a point where I was seeing double for about an hour and I had to cover up one eye to watch the game.  As a friend astutely pointed out, "Maybe you should have just covered both."  Damn it.  

I tried to feel better.  Made me about a pound of ground beef and sat down to eat it.  Even had a conversation with it. Went something like this: 

"Hey Meat, I'm gonna eat you now."

"Moo."

(seconds pass)

"Moo?"

"I...I'm sorry Meat...I can't do this right now..."

"Moo...."

"I can't talk about it anymore, Meat.  It keeps happening and every time it hurts even more.  

"MOO!"

"Don't look at me like that.  You know I love you...I..I just can't eat you right now.  I'm so sorry."

"mooooooooooo"

So it's still there on my night stand, just being delicious and waiting for the old me to come back...which it won't because he's probably dead in a gutter right now.  Took a drive to Pennsylvania today to try to remember how lucky I am to have been raised in the South...then I remembered the Saints play the Eagles tomorrow and that will be another rusty nail stabbed through my withered heart.  Stared at an 'merican flag for a little bit...then I remembered the election was Tuesday and that made me want to die a little bit inside.  Even poured me out a whiskey...then I didn't realize I poured it into an LSU glass.  Mike's just staring at me right now, mid-roar wondering when it's all gonna end.  "I don't know, Mike, I just don't know." 

Last time, I thought I knew depression and sadness.  What I imagined was depression and sadness was like a sunny spring day compared to the sucking whirling vortex of pain that I currently feel.  Why?  As all of us know, it boils down to one thing:  Hope.  

I've always said that I wanted to lose huge or win, but I never want to lose close.  This is the reason why.  With a lead with a minute to go, you are infused with the forbidden thought that, maybe JUST MAYBE you'll win.  The future begins to reveal itself to you, the wonder, the grandeur of all the things that come after one precious minute.  But during that minute you forget that OH BY THE WAY SCREEN PASSES ARE A THING THAT ARE DONE WITH GREAT EFFICACY BY TEAMS WHO PLAY TACKLE FOOTBALL SPECIFICALLY THE ONE YOU ARE PLAYING AGAINST RIGHT DAMN NOW and you realize you've just gotten sucked into an episode of some J.J Abrams series where you can see other beautiful universes but are stuck in yours and it sucks so much b-lls it's basically pornography.  

I was lying in bed, now hung over, throat sore from screaming into my "scream pillow."  I didn't realize this was unusual until recently so I"ll explain: I have a pillow that I reserve for LSU games that I scream into because in Baltimore, a scream generally equals felony.  I couldn't sleep and I kept rolling around in my bed.  I saw I got another extra hour to sleep.  Awesome, if I could sleep.  But, no, boy, your punishment must be more severe.  We've reserved a special hell for you of hungover, angry wakefulness.  Try to sleep, we give you an image of uncontested touchdowns.  Fall asleep, we stab you in the brain with an ice pick.  And that's when I decided: I have to divorce LSU football.  But, I can't write about that now...I have this overwhelming urge to go for a run...it's like something is making me good decisions...and I don't realize they're happening until it's over...and I CAN'T. MAKE. THEM. STOP.  

someone...help....me...

New Stuff Tomorrow

Birthday today, reflections on mortality tomorrow. Prepare for 85% chance of bitterness.

Schadenfreude: The Most Awesome Emotion Ever

(Quick aside: This only applies to those who taunted me over the past two weeks. To the rest of you, I know your pain and if you need someone to talk to, don’t call anyone. Just pour yourself a drink and drown out your sorrow. Trust me, it’s the only thing that works.)

Friends, The Ravens have lost. In ordinary times, this would be a moment of sadness for me, as I have somewhat adopted them as a team. But not on this day, ooooooooh no not this day. The reason for this is the laughter and condescending pats on the head that I got over the past two weeks while I was in the midst of relatively unfathomable sadness. Seriously, even now, I can’t figure out how I’m still alive. Now, most if not all of these people were in some way shape or form Ravens fans. And, friends, misery may love company but what it loves even more is the sense of smug satisfaction that one gets from seeing someone suffering the exact same thing they taunted you for.

I have always felt this way, but it was only in the past half decade did I become acquainted with the fact that the Germans have a word for this. That word is Schadenfreude, meaning “pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others.” Now, I have always felt that when we start a Moon colony, we should send Germans. This is not because I think they would be better at surviving the Lunar lack of climate, but because of the fact that they have to be the most miserable people in the world. Americans would go crazy because of boredom or moon zombies, but the German people have imbedded in their language that warm feeling in your heart you get at the vanquishing of your foes. They would see a moon zombie and probably say “At least now I have company. And now I must kill you. Goodbye my friend (KABLOW or more likely silence since moon guns probably don’t make noise)” Schadenfreude is clear evidence of this. There is a word in the German language that means licking up the tears of unfathomable sadness (to use the parlance of our times). If you want a visual representation of this, look no further than the our friend Cartman, 1:50 for the whole story, 2:50 for the anguished realization, and 3:50 for the sweetest of tears:

http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/104191/chili-con-carnival

Now, I sit with the grim smile of Schadenfreude on my lips. I know that it can’t bring back what I’ve lost, but you’ve lost something too my mocking friend. Enjoy the moment of your greatest despair.

Break Time

Today was a good day, which means that it's a bad day for you since I have significantly less piss and vinegar to convert into 1s and 0s for your entertainment.

But rest assured, I will me mad as hell tomorrow. For some reason.

Adele: The Sadness Terminator Sent Back in Time to Sing Our Feelings

The other day, my coworker and I had an Adele jam session. By this I mean we listened to “Someone Like You” on repeat. She loves the song because of its passion. Or something. I’m not really good with emotions. All of this, of course, brought me back to last week, and how a song simultaneously spoke to me and all of you who are like me….

1/10/12, 3:15 AM, Baltimore-Washington Parkway

I’m cruising down the old P-way, which is what we call it in Baltimore (actually that’s not at all true, I have no idea why I just said that). I note the remarkable amount of deer on the side of the highway, veritable throngs of Bambis just munching away on gas soaked grass. “Do you think deer understand emotion?” I thought. “Perhaps, they too are sentient…perhaps they too feel. And what am I, this monster that eats another sentient being? Who am I to cho-“ And that’s when I stopped myself. Nick Saban, you will take a lot of things away from me. You have taken away happiness. You have taken away pride. BUT YOU WILL NEVER. TAKE. AWAY. MY. MEAT (TWSS).

Still shaken from the fact that I almost became a vegetarian, I turn up the radio. Sadness, I’ve found, makes the mind an amazing rationalizing machine. Everything around you will remind you of something that accentuates the hurt. I see a road sign that tells me I’m on the Parkway and automatically remember driving back to Baltimore before that Auburn game where Jarrett Lee threw two clutch touchdown passes and WHY THE HELL DIDN’T HE PLAY THE BOY JUST WANTS A CHANCE TO PLAY SOME BALL LES WHY DIDN’T YOU GIVE HIM A CHANCE IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU. I look at a receipt in my cupholder. “Louisiana Fast” it proclaims and I almost vomit. “I vow on everything I own I will never eat Popeyes again,” I thought. Fact: I’m f-cking broke then because I ate Popeyes 3 out of the past 4 days. And so I focus on the song on the radio. Party Rock Anthem. This song oozes energy and despicable happiness. I change the station and hear the pseudo arpeggio of a song I have heard so many times, and thought I understood. I find, however, that now it’s different. The song, THIS song is speaking to my soul parts. “F-ck yeah, girl. Sing me some sh-t,” I quietly whisper to myself. I’ve heard the song many times before, so I was singing along. Actually, less singing, more anguished screaming. And then comes the sweet sword of truth that crams itself into my ear and sears my brain:

“Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead.”

And half stomp on the breaks. Half (so I guess a quarter?) because I saw two Bambis hanging out in the traffic triangle ON THE INTERSTATE. Guess what you deserve to be eaten stupid deer. And half because of what she said. They say that sometimes your heart skips a beat. That’s actually probably not happening because your heart is actually a really reliable time keeper. Like the best if you think about how much sh-t it has to put up with on the day to day. But I can assure you that my heart did skip a beat. And I thought “This sh-t is real. This is real emotion. She probably wrote this drunk off her ass after she showed up at her ex boyfriends house in a super creepy way. Probably in the rain. Just staring with those dead eyes people sometimes get. Maybe she pointed and said something creepy when he answered the door. Am I reading too muc- HOLY SH-T ANOTHER DEER.”

I turned off the radio. I fiddled with my phone and brought up iTunes and immediately downloaded the song. I needed this and I needed it now because there were still 10 miles to my house and every thought gravitated naturally to the game and every thought then gravitated to me playing “Man in Car vs. Tree.” The tree always wins people. Its simple physics.

So I listened to the song for about 3 repeats and arrived home. I kept it playing as I walked up my steps. I looked at my drink selection. Jim Beam vs. Maccallan 12 year. “This is a time where you spare no expense.” Except for cups since you didn’t want to drink this out of a coffee cup, dumbass (boozing tip: Drink out of a coffee cup for the appearance of work and activity) and since you hadn’t started the old dishwasher, you didn’t have glasses. You are so worthless (other me, sobbing, I KNOW STOP SAYING TRUTH). So I poured the scotch into a mini paper cup, added just the right amount of water and sat on my couch. I couldn’t turn on the TV because it was on ESPN so I sat there for 10 repeats of Someone Like You. I sat there and stared at my cup, rhythmically taking pulls from the paper contraption with every anguished “SOOOOOOOOOMONE LIKE YOOOOOOOOOOOOoooOOOOOOOO.” I had long since put the song on repeat, so it continued to play the soundtrack of my early morning. I looked at my phone. 5:14 AM. I laid on my couch and thought, “God, why have you done this to m-“ BLACKOUT.

I woke, as I have said before 108 repeats later. The only thing that had changed was the wax had begun to run off the cup and was now soggy. Aside from that the room was as much the same as I had left it. Cold, dark, and silent aside from the angst of a broken girl singing to the heart of a broken bro.

God DAMN that is depressing.

Mama Knows Best About Being a Selfish Birch (DAMN YOU AUTOCORRECT)

Mama always knows best. That’s what we’re told ever since we popped out of the womb. Here’s some fast facts: Mama probably don’t know sh-t. Just because you gestate and give live birth to a human being doesn’t imbue you with some sort of crazy ability to know sh-t about life. That woman that you are half a part of is still just as fallable and foolish as she was before old girl got knocked up. But most importantly, mama’s probably still pretty damn selfish.

Now I’m not blaming all of this Gunner Kiel non-sense on his mama but I figure why not blame most of it on her (also this is a clear tip off when you name your child “Gunner.” Yeah I get it it’s probably a nickname, but this is the first name that people go with in the papers. They’re not like John “Gunner” Kiel. They are straight up like Gunner Kiel. No quotation marks, basically saying, “We don’t know what kind of weird sh-t they stuffed into mama’s epidural but all we could make out postpartum were “Ice Cream Bandit Salad” and “Gunner.” Since, legally “Ice Cream Bandit Salad” is hard to put on a birth certificate we went with “Gunner.””). So congratulations, you named your child after what is widely renounced as the worst time of human being in an academic environment, but you also, shocker, happen to love the sh-t out of this retirement plan.

ALL OF THIS ASSUMES that he actually does that thing where the throws the ball real good and makes you a crap ton of cash. He could blow up like Ryan Perrilloux who, lets be honest, would probably consider Fourth Meal shift at Taco Bell a huge career opportunity at the moment. The ability to cash in on this retirement plan means that mama’s gotta help baby bird not f-ck up his sh-t. And, boy, when she saw her baby boy start packing his bags and head down south for a “great college experience” she probably saw visions of cleat chasers and booze filled parties that she probably was and loved, respectively. Cause that’s one thing human experience teaches you: Booze is awesome. And if you get within a ten mile radius of a single good time when drinking you are hooked like…ok well I guess like the addiction that is alcoholism. Cool story, bro. And while having a lineman fall on your arm will ruin a career, just ask Justin Vincent how fast Bogies will end one.

Anyway, so mama couldn’t reason with baby boy Gunner so she did what most men are powerless in the face of: Cry. I have to consider myself an exception because rather than be powerless in front of female tears, my dark heart chooses to feast on them. But I digress. Gunner is probably powerless before these (like most men) and was all like “aww mama, you know I couldn’t leave you” and gives her this long hug and she does that thing where she sniffles but looks at the non-existent camera and smiles. Smiles because she is a b-tch.

See, mama Gunner probably couldn’t get past one thing: Notre Dame is a good school with great tradition. To reverse genders for this sweet ass analogy, they are the handsome doctor or lawyer moms always want their daughters to merry. LSU is one of two things: in her mind it’s probably the handsome rapscallion that collects virginities as it collects student loan debt. But in reality, it’s probably the nice guy that ain’t too smart, and prooooolly taaaaawks like theeeeeiiiiissss, because LSU is full of idiots who can’t speak English. TRUTHBOMB B-TCH: I WENT TO LSU AND MY DICTION IS IMPECCABLE. I PURPOSELY TRY TO UNLEARN FOREIGN LANGUAGE CLASSES BECAUSE I CONSIDER ALL NON-ENGLISH “THE LANGUAGE OF THE ENEMY.” So naturally, given both these archtypes she shoos her baby boy away and tells him to go to Notre Dame, the ideal husband. Fact: Some of the most pathologic and depraved human beings I have ever met were classmates I met in medical school. While the cover of this book says "Really Great Husband" the subtitle is probably: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=piVnArp9ZE0. To quote House when he talks to that superhott Cameron replacement: “That look of shock is elitist and offensive. Doctors can be degenerates too. This is America.”

This IS 'merica, mama Gunner. You should let your boy choose. Don’t shackle your retirement eagle with your predilection for “proper higher education.” As your son would have learned at LSU, sometimes you have to “just let it happen.”

You Are the Antagonist of Every RomCom ever.

As you read this, one week ago you were having your heart torn out. Not in the awesome FINISH HIM fatality way. But in a surgery-without-anesthesia way. Each layer of you cut and dissected, ribs being cracked in a slow methodical fashion until they got to the old heart parts. They probably looked at it, turned their head like a damn veloceraptor, laughing slowly yet maniacally and thought “This will look lovely on my mantle.” And one by one, they cut the great vessels. Maybe the veins first so that your terror would continue for ever more moments. There was still some hope that you could have this macabre surgery stopped, that the team from House could be magically transformed (as they always are) into cardiac surgeons, that they put you back together and House looks at you and says “You’re pathetic” and it would be OK. And then they run a goddamn left sweep and simultaneously sever your aorta and it’s poof, game over.

I finished watching New Girl. For the second time. That’s right, I watched the entire thing twice. And you know what? I don’t care what you think. I have run out of f-cks to give (also, I will also edit this blog strategically because I don’t know who’s reading over your shoulder. They might take my green card if they read some of the sh-t I write here. HAHAHA JUST KIDDING I’M STRAIGHT UP ‘MERICAN B-TCHES GREATEST COUNTRY EVER MADE USAUSAUSA). And you know what else I did today. I just stared at an ‘merican flag, just pondering all the awesome sh-t that it’s brought us. Cause you can’t do that enough boys and girls. Sometimes you just gotta stare at a flag and have a good cry because ‘merica you are one beautiful, wonderful b-tch.

But let’s get real for a second people. Why are we still sad over this? It happened a week ago. No one died (we think, seriously where is Bobby Hebert and half the cast of Swamp People. Other digression, really History Channel? Cajun Pawn Stars? Are you seriously going to slap “Cajun” onto everything? How about “Cajun World War II in Color?” or “Cajun Modern Marvels.” Fact: Cajun Modern Marvels would be an amazing show roughly ten minutes long about pieros and how somehow this is related to Katrina OH GOD SAINTS FOOTAGE ABOUT THE REDEMPTION OF NEW ORLEANS AND SUPERBOWLS AHHHHHHHHH)

I think we’re sad because of the way that it went down. It was basically the reverse of every awesome story ever. Darth Vader slices the sh-t out of Luke. Voldemort kills Harry but like for real this time. Harry doesn’t meet Sally but ends up doing an uncrazy thing such as taking his son’s phone away instead of letting his son get on a plane and now Harry has to chase his ass cross country to the Empire State Building. Thanks for being a negligent parent Tom Hanks, here's your reward: (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Meg_Ryan_Met_Opera_2010_Shankbone.jpg).

Fact: We are the perfect finace/boyfriend in every romantic comedy that gets left at the alter. Just as the National Championship/Super Bowl is walking down the aisle, looking equal parts radiant and ironic in her white dress (ironic because of how slutty she probably was, because honestly, how do you get to the alter and still have some other bro pining for you if you weren’t doing some extracurricular OTPHJs (Over the Pants HJ for the uninitiated, a popular tactic of exotic dancers everywhere). AND THEN BOOM, here comes the bro, likely looking really disheveled, probably on a horse, possibly smelling of B.O. because he’s a workin’ man from the wrong side of the tracks, and confesses his love. And the audience eats this up BECAUSE THIS IS HOW LIFE IS. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO LEAD PEOPLE ON AND HAVE ONE OF THEM GO F-CKING CRAZY TRYING TO LOCK YOUR SUPER-HOTT-RIGHT-NOW-BUT-SERIOUSLY-AFTER-ONE-KID-WOMPWOOOOMP ASS DOWN. And then everyone claps and awws and they probably look at their significant other and think “I would totally leave your ass if someone rode in on a horse to break up our wedding.” But lost in it all is perfection, standing at the alter. They’re usually a gentleman about it, extend a hand, and say, “Good game you’ve taken the one thing I loved with your sh-tty stunt. But seriously, if I was going to marry that kind of two-faced sh-t it’s probably for the best. No, I’m not bitter, but heads up homewrecker, you better put an ankle bracelet on her if you forget to take out the trash because she is going hunting. Hunting for D. OK, good talk. Bridesmaids, who wants to make some mistakes?” But heres the sad part: There’s no bridesmaids for us. All there is is standing cold and alone wondering what might have been.

God DAMN that is depressing.

I Have Become the Emo Kid I Hate

Dear Journal. Mood: Apathetic.

I woke up today in a gutter covered in my own vomit, shaking to stay warm. Hahahaha false. I woke up in my robe on my couch with my heat turned up to between "Cuba" and "Hell."

Either way, I sat down at my internet machine and suddenly drew a blank. Why? Because I realized that I suddenly have no hobbies. I have two tabs open. One for gmail, the other for facebook. I can tab between these two. I remember a day not too long ago when I had to tab through a handful of LSU or Saints articles. Now those days are gone.

So I sit here, brain still rattling from potent potables, wondering where the day will take me. I could go for a drive, just drive a hundred miles in one direction until the static obscures all the Baltimore radio stations. I do that sometimes, as an illusion that if I’m too far for radio, I’m too far for my pager to reach me (FALSE YOUR PAGER IS ACTIVE NATIONWIDE). I thought about buying a video game then got depressed at the thought that younger versions of me are probably dominating right now and I would just be padding their way to 8^th Prestige. Baltimore is finally silent. For those of you not acquainted, at night it roars with the sounds of The Wire mixed with a shitty J Lo dubstep remix. Sometimes I stand on my deck and marvel at the acoustic nightmare below me, the crisp winter air punctured by screaming, sirens, the staccato churning of the police helicopter rotor, and by what I imagine stab wounds sound like. It’s all there, waiting for me. It will soon roar again, however, because the Texans will be here and Baltimore will curbstomp the Texans. People will be happy. Fact: I hate happiness. If I had to power rank all the emotions I hate the most it would be:

1. Happiness

2. Happiness

3. Happiness

4. Sadness

5. Whatever makes non-cowboys wear cowboy hats because that shit is stupid.

6. Whatever emotion I felt at the end of “Gladiator” that made me cry (which is also the last time I cried tears and not blood)

So, in other words, I’m going to be pissed.

I’ve also run out of hobbies. Someone asked me once what my hobbies were. I said “aww shit I got so many hobbies” and they said like what and I had to think about it. I really only had one, and it was watching football with a double major in “College” and “NFL” and minors in “LSU” and “Saints.” I have since renounced these. Now before you jump all over my ass about how I'm a fair-weather fan do two things. First, understand the follow:

Will I ever say I am not a fan of these teams? No.

Will I deny their existence? No.

But can I do what I have done in so many years past? Also, no.

Why? Cause here's the second thing coming straight at you, and that thing is called SCIENCE. Booyakacha: http://www.jhsph.edu/bin/k/u/5_20_08_JC.pdf. ( Wilbert-Lampe, Leistner, and et al 475-83)

For those of you about to say tl;dr, I'll give you the Sparknotes version (cause Cliff Notes costs money and Sparknotes back in the day were FO FREEEEE):

1. Do you have risk factor for a heart attack? OH YEAH GOTTA CATCH 'EM ALL.

2. Do you watch stressful sporting events? Yes (they used the World Cup, but seriously, SEC football is so much more important and stressful).

Conclusion: If you think your heart is exploding in your chest, science says it probably is. And as much as this is a suicide watch diary, there is still a little voice inside that begs me to live. So for that little guy, I have to walk away. As the guy from The Walking Dead said in Love Acutally, “ It’s… a self-preservation thing…you see. (cue shitty Dido song).” DON'T REMEMBER THAT SCENE, BRAH? LET ME REFRESH YOUR MEMORY PARTS (@4:23): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MG1_a8RZ_bs

So, I leave it up to you, friends. Find me a hobby. Cause if you don’t, well (fill in something super emo and dramatic)

--

Wilbert-Lampe, Ute, David Leistner, et al. " Cardiovascular Events during World Cup Soccer." New England Journal of Medicine. 358.5 (2008): 475-83. Web. 15 Jan. 2012.

Welcome to The Suck

"You will never hate me as much as you hate yourself."

Friends, that's a quote from New Girl. How do I know that? CAUSE I'M WATCHING GODDAMN NEW GIRL AT 11:30 ON A SATURDAY NIGHT. ON "ON DEMAND." Why am I doing that? Cause I'm a pathetic loser. And guess what. If you're reading this there is a high percentage chance that you too put way too much of your emotional balance in 17-22 year old males or multi-millionaire football players. And if you're Louisiana you have just experienced an emotional apocalypse the likes of which wont be seen until the real apocalypse in approximately 11 months and one week and IT CANT COME FAST ENOUGH.

Look, these are the end times. I read "World War Z." Read the news. Homeless people are turning up missing in San Francisco. This is a sign that the Zombie Apocalypse is upon us. And who will be the first to go? Healthcare workers. Why? Cause, as Contagion taught us, "we're sending the healthy to take care of the sick" and guess what they get sick too. I'M SO SURPRISED, MORPHEUS. TELL ME MORE OF YOUR NEWLY MUSTACHED KNOWLEDGE. I'm so glad you're safe in the CDC with your fancy "vaccines" and your "science." The rest of us will just slum it here with our "vancomycin" in the face of shitsnacks crazy zombie disease. A disease that turns people into zombies. Because that's what's coming, folks. And I hope you're gettin' to the range cause they only stop with head shots. And at the rate we're going, I'd rather turn into a zombie from "The Walking Dead" where I have to sit through hours of painful dialogue about "OH WE GOTTA GIT 'ER BACK SHE'S MAH GUHRRRL." Son, you're British. You sound like a fifth grader we held back two times so he could get to "football weight" OH JESUS FOOTBALL AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

OK, so I've accepted my fate. I'm ready to go. Have I experienced love, the first snow fall of winter in a beautiful prairie, the soft coo of a child that is of your own flesh and blood? No, no I haven't. But if it hurts as much as this week, I'm glad I didn't because dear sweet God, they don't make enough whiskey on this planet or the other 8 (THAT'S RIGHT PLUTO'S STILL MY BOY) to numb the emotional torment that I feel right now. I once posited that this felt like someone you loved was thrown into a woodchipper. I was wrong. This feels like someone you loved was thrown into a woodchipper by, I shit you not, Keanu Reeves and he turns to you in his Neo glasses and says "whoa." And then you think, "aw shit, I got Keanu" but wrong, son, this is The Matrix, and he kung foos your ass into a subway train. But since its The Matrix, you not only feel yourself plowed into a train for the rest of your existence, but you also hear the audience clap because they're stupid and they think you're the enemy. That is how you feel now, because not only did you lose but everyone is so happy that you lost because, as I have learned this week, AMERICA HATES A WINNER BUT LOVES A LOSER WHO GOES "AWW SHUCKS" ENOUGH TO MAKE AMERICA FORGET THAT THEY ARE IN FACT THE VILLAIN. THEY WERE THE ONES PULLING PEOPLE OUT OF VATS OF HAPPINESS. Just like that-school-we-wont-speak-of pulls kids out of vats and looks at this seemingly speedy cover-corner and says "you are mine now" who goes on to absolutely blow man coverage in the last 3 seconds of the game. PROBABLY SOMETHING LIKE THAT.

The question in your mind is probably, "What did I do to deserve this?" Who knows. Try, as I did, to look through the litany of sins you have committed against your God, the Gods of others, and the 'merican Constitution and honestly tell me you can see where whatever deity you hold dear would punish you the way you are punished now. You can't. It's impossible. The pain you go through is too severe that it is equitable to the fault that you have incurred upon the cosmic fabric of karma. AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ABOUT KARMA. Those thoughts are my own, where I keep them in the darkest place of my heart of hearts that is three sizes too small and made out of depleted uranium.

They say that we've become spoiled fans. Two national championships in ten years? A Superbowl in this decade? WE ONLY LIVE 7 (SEVEN) DECADES ON AVERAGE WHY IS IT SUDDENLY TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR A CHAMPIONSHIP EVERY YEAR? I'm not unreasonable. I'm just someone trying to chase that beautiful butterfly you call happiness. Unfortunately, that butterfly turns out to be god damn eagle and just flys off in into the sunset, crapping on us as it leaves our ill-y constructed butterfly-but-not-good-enough-for-eagles nets.

This is the worst time in your life. Believe that. Other people will tell you that it's nothing, that you're being stupid for being so upset about this, that you're an idiot for crying over a football game. But when you look up at them with tears of blood and eyes that lust for revenge, then maybe they too will understand that you don't poke at an angry dragon and say "hey big fella, it's OK you'll get 'em next time." They'll just leave you alone, to your scotch, and your Adele songs. "Sometimes it last in love but sometimes it hurts instead?" That is horseshit. It always hurts. Sometimes you're just lucky enough to end on a high note.