Happy Tuesday, Spursland! Last night I was trying to cheer myself up -- After all the balls in a vice stuff of yesterday I needed something to help me pick myself up off the ground -- and the solution seemed obvious: taco night. And so it was, my friends.
Rice with cilantro and lime juice went in the rice cooker. Homemade corn salsa was prepared. Ground beef and two types of sausage removed from the casing was cooked slowly for hours with garlic and spices. And then, as I was on the edge of my triumph with the package of taco shells in my hand, I walked like John God Damn Wayne towards all my fixings ready to deliver the blow that would murder my sadness when I glanced at my laptop -- Verts was leaving.
It was like slow motion as the package crashed to the floor. I was crushed. No. NO! I couldn't do it again, not after Bale. After the years and years of the cockteasing of him leaving, every day writing about it knowing how it shoved our inferiority in my face. I was crushed. I can't do that again. I can't live that life so soon.
I was lower than low my friends, and then i looked down at the floor. The floor closer than it had been before, I hadn't noticed collapsing to my knees. There on the floor was the clear package holding my taco shells. Every...single...one of them shattered, like my heart.
Buddha was right, life is pain.
And now the "news"
Good, I think Cesare Borgia would make a better choice (Am I the only one to watch that show? It sure feels like it.).
Don't worry guys, he is on the Andriy Shevchenko training plan.
No pressure, kid.
Speaking for angry young men(do I still count as young?), I can tell you that deep down all we want is someone to give us a hug.
That hug Wayne Rooney needs? He can probably get it from the husky in that last link.