I’ve been lying in bed with my finger up my nose and breathing heavy with my other hand dangling a Pall Mall slim over the edge of my single bed fighting the urge to post. Ashes piling up among cat shit and old dirty Fruity Pebble bowls. I knew it’d be like this. Pathetic. All I’ve been thinking about all day is Monfils’ loss to RAFA! Sometimes I don’t want to put down 1200 words. Sometimes I just want my mommy and a chocolate Yoo-hoo like the rest of you metrosexuals. If Monfils could just grow-the-fuck-up and realize you have to win 3 sets against the big guys I wouldn’t have to put up with all this pain (it starts in my rear and ends in my ear). After losing his fucking mind and taking the 1st I knew something was wrong. You know what was wrong? He pissed off the wrong motherfucker. Don’t believe me? Look at the scores of the last 3 sets. I sometimes think just showing up is good enough at my job too, but then the music goes on and the next thing I know I have to dance on that pole. Point is, even strippers have to work to be the best, like Jessie Spano in Showgirls. I love the guy, don’t get me wrong, but I think I’ll be waiting a few years for that nut to mature enough to win a meaningful match.
My notes on the match has everything from Tony Bennet and skeet shooting, to Michael Phelps morphing into the biggest fucking retarded, sleazeball ever, to Pam Shriver making me vomit as she tried to hit on him, to “Chelsea Clinton in the house,” but it’s all in vain at this point, 2 days later with no Monfils by our side. Who could possibly give a shit about a 17 year-old at a time like this?
