I once heard Jim Carrey say in an interview, “Don’t get inside my head because you’ll get hurt,” or something along those lines. I feel the exact same way, but what the hell? I’ll let you into my head for just a little bit. Let’s face it: if you’re reading this, you have nothing better to do, so please wallow in my nonexistent misery so you can forget about how your life is like mine and everyone else’s. It’s not what you want or expect, but it’s there, so you better make the best of it. At least, that’s how I try to live my apathetic life.
Well, I guess maybe apathetic isn’t correct. I mean, I’m not lazy. I just rest a lot, but that’s only because I work extremely hard. All of my friends and family members call me an extremist, but not because of my political or religious views (let’s save those for a later date), but because of how I live my life. I do live life at 100 mph; I run stoplights (even the bright red ones, like my ex-girlfriend(s)), I don’t signal when switching lanes, and I certainly don’t check my rearview mirrors.
I’m not going to say decadence is the word either, but I think excessive might hit the nail on the head. I play pretty damn hard, but I work even harder. Oh, and I chill the hardest. I do everything to the fullest, and not because I think that life will pass me by if I don’t. No, no, no–not even close. I could care less.
I don’t think I’ll live past 26, and I owe it to the world not to procreate, trust me. No, I do everything to the fullest because I’m obsessive-compulsive, and I have this imaginary mentality of having to do the things I do the way I do.
I’ve always been this way. There was a time when I was actually attractive (some of you are laughing, but seriously, for like a day). I was extremely built and rock-solid.
You know those guys at the gym people look at because they think they’re going to kill someone? Yeah, I was one of them, only not 6’5″ and 250 lbs. (with a laser, rocket arm). I was 5’10” (was? I still am), 190 lbs. (getting soft nowadays), and my body fat percentage was less than six (the only 6-pack I have now is in my fridge).
I don’t look anything like that anymore, but the reason why I did is because I worked out to the extreme. Now? I haven’t stepped in a gym since last spring, and I love it. Sure, I’m not as cut as I once was, and I drink beer like water, but I got burnt out. So now, instead of going crazy in the gym, I’m going crazy on the couch whenever I possibly can.
I work a full-time job and go to school full-time (well, not so much this quarter), but I also play in three bands and try to listen to, practice, or witness as much music as possible, because no matter how many Playboys you throw my way, music makes me most happy.
I work on commission, so I’m always worrying about whether my check’s going to be enough to cover all my extremities (oh, and the rent too, I guess).
Anyways, that’s enough about those subjects (I have no idea what I just wrote down), so on to other things. How about them Bungels? Living in Cincinnati, I hear about nothing but the Bungels everyday. Everywhere I look, I see a jersey, a billboard, a “Wanted” sign–just something.
If you read my NFL article not too long ago, you already know that I’m a Colts fan because I’m from Indianapolis (my playoff prediction was pretty solid all the way back in Week 8, by the way). The thing is, I want to like the Bengals, I really do. But man oh man, is it ever hard.
Number one, they can’t stay out of county jail. I mean, I feel like I’m witnessing a real-life “Longest Yard” remake, except Burt Reynolds is played by Chris Henry. Number two, Bengals fans are crazy, and not for good reasons–very loud, angry, bitter, and always overconfident. I don’t like being around them that often.
Not all are like this, but enough are to justify an 800 number at home games (it’s not just me, guys). And finally, number three, the Who-Dey chant. In the 90’s, it was the lovable loser chant, but last year, it became serious. Chad Johnson isn’t the only person to keep lists around; I can make a list of all the teams that Who-Did.
Don’t get me wrong though; I do want to be a fan. The main reason why is Carson Palmer. I think he’s amazing. I think he’s going to be the best quarterback in the league in a few years when Favre’s gone and Manning and Brady are past their prime. I feel sorry for him for everything that’s gone on this year. I think the Bengals will clean up their messes and they’ll become the perennial playoff team that they have the potential to be, but they need to get to work.
Now, I am a Colts fan, and they did finally win the Super Bowl. So, can we please stop saying that they’re a soft (dominated the big bad Bears) dome (won the first ever Super Bowl in the rain) team that can’t (did) win the big game (can’t get any bigger)? Am I bitter? You bet your Astroturf I am! I’ve heard nothing but that crap for years. Did I ever gloat or pride myself during all the winning streaks? No, I didn’t. Why? Because I’ve learned from too many other things in my life that you don’t pop the cork until midnight, and it was always still 11:59 on December 31. But I am now, baby. Oh man, am I ever the A-hole. And I don’t care.
We won the freakin’ Super Bowl. For a whole offseason, I can proudly say that the team that I’ve rooted for since I could say “Colts” has finally won its first Super Bowl in Indianapolis, my favorite town in the world. It’s a great feeling, and I hope Cincinnati can feel that someday too. Now sure, maybe I put too much emphasis on sports, but like I said before, I’m an extremist. So let’s not say that I didn’t warn you.
Now, hopefully you’re not too battered from my endless rants and tangents about topics you don’t care about. I think we all pulled out of this okay. Maybe next week, if I’m still here, I’ll write about more pressing issues, but in the mean time, stay safe and remember to always pass the Dutchie on the left hand side.