BeTheMatch
Footballguy
It's Friday morning. You haven't slept. You're still trying to get over the breakup with your girl. The night before, some bromigos convinced you to come out with them to get some drinks at a bar called O'Malleys. See if you can find some ladies to take your mind off things.
Come on, they said. It'll be fun, they said. And it was, for a time. But it didn't last. Just after "last call," the DJ decided to play one last banger, and YOU'RE HIT BY A THUNDERBOLT.
The next thing you know, you're swept out onto the dance floor. And you just sway. Everything makes sense again. You and your lady. Together again. Everything is gonna be just fine.
But then the house lights come up, and you realize you're swaying by yourself. So you skulk out of the place. You buy a dime bag and a handful of pills off Chico in the parking lot. On the way back to your apartment, you hit the Piggly Wiggly and pick up some mint chocolate chip, a family-size bag of Funyons and three bottles of Chablis. Because that's all you can afford.
You know you're in a dark place. At first, you try to fight it. You think, maybe SOME TV WILL CHEER ME UP.
But it doesn't work. You find yourself spread-eagle on the shag carpet, empty ice-cream carton at your side, eating Funyons lint out of your belly button, Chablis bottles in tatters.
You start dedicating songs to yourself on the radio station. You even feather your bangs again. YOU'RE SPIRALLING OUT OF CONTROL NOW. All you want is to love and to be loved.
Time doesn't exist now. The amphetamines are kicking in. You're back. Bouncing around the place. It's your manic phase. Nothing can stop you now.
You finally find your happy place, but then the mailman walks through your open front door and sees you standing on the couch, naked except for your favorite afghan, SINGING INTO AN ICE-CREAM SCOOP.
You finally black out. You put yourself back together Saturday night and head out to the Regal Beagle. Your friends are there. They ask you, "What the heck happened to you the other night?"
And you have no choice. YOU TELL THEM THE TRUTH.
Come on, they said. It'll be fun, they said. And it was, for a time. But it didn't last. Just after "last call," the DJ decided to play one last banger, and YOU'RE HIT BY A THUNDERBOLT.
The next thing you know, you're swept out onto the dance floor. And you just sway. Everything makes sense again. You and your lady. Together again. Everything is gonna be just fine.
But then the house lights come up, and you realize you're swaying by yourself. So you skulk out of the place. You buy a dime bag and a handful of pills off Chico in the parking lot. On the way back to your apartment, you hit the Piggly Wiggly and pick up some mint chocolate chip, a family-size bag of Funyons and three bottles of Chablis. Because that's all you can afford.
You know you're in a dark place. At first, you try to fight it. You think, maybe SOME TV WILL CHEER ME UP.
But it doesn't work. You find yourself spread-eagle on the shag carpet, empty ice-cream carton at your side, eating Funyons lint out of your belly button, Chablis bottles in tatters.
You start dedicating songs to yourself on the radio station. You even feather your bangs again. YOU'RE SPIRALLING OUT OF CONTROL NOW. All you want is to love and to be loved.
Time doesn't exist now. The amphetamines are kicking in. You're back. Bouncing around the place. It's your manic phase. Nothing can stop you now.
You finally find your happy place, but then the mailman walks through your open front door and sees you standing on the couch, naked except for your favorite afghan, SINGING INTO AN ICE-CREAM SCOOP.
You finally black out. You put yourself back together Saturday night and head out to the Regal Beagle. Your friends are there. They ask you, "What the heck happened to you the other night?"
And you have no choice. YOU TELL THEM THE TRUTH.