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...
