Waffle

Fourty five minutes to drag out, and the show's too quiet to put the bag up and bang away for a while. In all honesty, I've reached that pathetic checkmate where I fail to see the point in applying the necessary effort to go and empty my bladder. I'd much rather sit here and waste your time. Maybe boast a little about finding the cure to that inactivity all you poets are plagued with.

I'm walking proud with bruises just about everywhere. I have what I would describe as a 'gentile' black eye and when I was rolling with a Muai Thai practitioner earlier today he royally smashed the fuck out of my shins. That inner pussy I still have to share a bed with is fretting about Saturday. "Come along with us to the 'survive the first 5 second' seminar" they said. I tried to tell 'em it's only for advanced players, but on came the compliments. "Your fitness and your fighting ability is damn good, you'll be fine." Ha! Try telling me that when I'm surrounded by men who really do live a life of violence. Still, who better to learn from. Fortunately there's the 'get stuck in' side of me, and he's doing pretty well. He's definitely looking forward to telling you all about it.

Speaking of referring to oneself in the third person I can finally make some sort of weight carrying point. Did you know that a lot of atheletes (especially fighters) who have overcome difficulty to get to where they are refer to themselves in the third person. A lot of you sit on your ass types will refer to it as stupidity or a certain application of the inner pretentious. Well, I have news for you...

Take me for example: I can't stand toe to toe with a guy knowing that I'm going to catch his first kick and begin punching him in the head whilst he desperately tries to hop away, and imagine the me that I know. I can't take the back of a man twice my size and roll out an armbar despite his attempt to stop me, whilst thinking of myself sitting at a bar knocking back the hardstuff. I have a confusing cognitive relationship with myself at the moment. Jamie did really well to get to where he is now. I don't know him, and I'm glad. He sounded like a desperate prick who replaced his insecurities with charm and a cunning wit that got him what he thought he wanted. Sure, he's done well; last time I met him he was dragging a blade down his arm begging for life's mercy.

Well, ladies and gentleman, I hope that makes the point. If it doesn't just walk away with this: Life doesn't owe you anything.
And if that seems like a bad thing, you're doing it all wrong.