It’s not me, it’s you. Don’t get me wrong, we can still be friends, and we’ll certainly see each other from time to time…but our love affair is over. I suspect that it’s been over for a while, but it’s only recently that I’ve come to grips with what a giant waste you are. Quite frankly, just about everything is more entertaining than spending time with you. And it’s not about the quality of my hometown team either. I can still enjoy hockey plenty, and the Sabres are a unique and special kind of terrible.
This is about me not wanting to watch three and a half hours of commercial laden shit-fests which are only occasionally interrupted by a couple of disembodied voices that, I can only hope, are trying to sound like complete morons that are barely watching what’s happening in front of them. Which is turn is really occasionally interrupted by something called football happening. Somehow you’ve convinced a country full of dipshits to spend 200 minutes watching for 11 minutes of action. Bravo. But I’m not falling for it anymore.
I thank whatever deity exists that I have dual monitors, because I can’t imagine devoting the entirety of my brain to the head traumapalooza you call a sport. I think at this stage of my life I want to be more invested in myself than in teams of men over which I have no control, (and judging by the volume of police reports, over which you have no control either). Three and a half hours…there are a lot of things I could do with that time. I could read a book, or watch a movie (two even!), or I could write a staggering amount of fiction.
I’d say I wish you all the best, but really I think you’re kind of gross. I hope you either fix all the things that are wrong with you or fail to your own hubris. Thanks for the memories.