Post by danellis on Jun 20, 2006 13:24:42 GMT -5
What a fucking start…
I sit and hold my heavy head in the tightening grasp of both hands, the fingers driving into my skull in a painful self-torture. In the lonely shadows of my nighttime home I sit in silence, accompanied by the loud screaming thoughts of total failure. They break out of my skull, shattering it like a operatic glass, just so these sounds and re-enter my ear drums, making sure I take notice.
How can I be so shit?
How can I lose all but one of my previous matches?
How can be a total fucking loser?
I could have come out of my training months earlier in order to make my debut on the national wrestling scene. I could have taken my raw talent and put it on live television for the whole of North America to see – for the whole of North American to take notes. I could have propelled myself to this level much earlier, but I waited. I had the brains to realise I wasn’t going to make it without my game being truly rounded. Smooth edge – smooth as silk. A perfect circle. My game had to be perfect. I spent 6 months honing my skills and making sure I was as close to that perfection that I could possibly be. I wanted to touch that level – kiss it. I wanted to feel the touch of perfection on my skill, I wanted to touch back.
What good has those six months done?
Absolutely nothing.
I’m here, in Pure Class Wrestling, with one win against a half man, half woman, abysmal excuse for a wrestler.
I lost to James Keenan.
I lost to Mikey Wryght.
I lost to Justin Michaels.
I lost to Non Compos Mentis.
I came here with a plan – a set of tasks that I have set myself to complete during the course of my PCW career and that list of loses is becoming greater than that.
Or maybe…it’s only adding onto that same list.
Maybe these loses are just bigger tasks that I have to add to the to do list in order to accomplish larger goals. I have to turn losses into potential wins. I have to turn potential into reality. I have to turn the potential of a true great wrestler within me into reality. I have to turn the potential of a true champion into a reality. I have to win Tag Team Turmoil.
I don’t care who I get. I don’t care who I face.
I could be tagged with that smelly mentally unstable garbage man. I might have to hold me nose for the entire match, but I will make sure I get through.
I could be tagged with that pointy-eared goblin. I might have to keep a magic wand of my own handy, possibly a crowbar, but I will make sure I win.
I could be tagged with that hedgehog that is challenging for the North American championship. I’ve seen him; he’s not to be trusted. I wouldn’t tag him in anyway. I would make sure I got through to the final by myself.
I could be tagged with that egotistic, testicular free Showtime. He’d be too busy looking at himself during the match that I would have no problem winning on my terms.
I could be tagged with one of those freaking idiots who run about this place like kids. Too busy making stupid homemade news shows to concentrate on their actual day job…is it really a job…because I would have sacked them by now. I swear if I get one of them, I’ll slap them silly before I go on and win the match.
I could be tagged with Mark Shit Brown or ‘Nowhere to be seen’ Justin Adams. What the hell have they done. Nothing. They deserve each other. They deserve to get a beating together. They can both stay away from me.
I could be tagged with Seth Sinn. The absolute example of where bark is worse than the bite. Seth Sinn, you just don’t match up to me, nor anyone. Go home.
I could be tagged with anyone of Justin Michaels, Rodney Phoenix, James Keenan, Ace Anderson, Grimm. I have no problem with those guys. They are in the exact same boat as me. They want to compete and they want to win. I don’t have a single problem with that mentality. I’ll tag with any one of them, as long as they interfere in me kicking arse.
What a fucking start…
It’s not about how you start…
It’s about how you finish…
I sit and hold my heavy head in the tightening grasp of both hands, the fingers driving into my skull in a painful self-torture. In the lonely shadows of my nighttime home I sit in silence, accompanied by the loud screaming thoughts of total failure. They break out of my skull, shattering it like a operatic glass, just so these sounds and re-enter my ear drums, making sure I take notice.
How can I be so shit?
How can I lose all but one of my previous matches?
How can be a total fucking loser?
I could have come out of my training months earlier in order to make my debut on the national wrestling scene. I could have taken my raw talent and put it on live television for the whole of North America to see – for the whole of North American to take notes. I could have propelled myself to this level much earlier, but I waited. I had the brains to realise I wasn’t going to make it without my game being truly rounded. Smooth edge – smooth as silk. A perfect circle. My game had to be perfect. I spent 6 months honing my skills and making sure I was as close to that perfection that I could possibly be. I wanted to touch that level – kiss it. I wanted to feel the touch of perfection on my skill, I wanted to touch back.
What good has those six months done?
Absolutely nothing.
I’m here, in Pure Class Wrestling, with one win against a half man, half woman, abysmal excuse for a wrestler.
I lost to James Keenan.
I lost to Mikey Wryght.
I lost to Justin Michaels.
I lost to Non Compos Mentis.
I came here with a plan – a set of tasks that I have set myself to complete during the course of my PCW career and that list of loses is becoming greater than that.
Or maybe…it’s only adding onto that same list.
Maybe these loses are just bigger tasks that I have to add to the to do list in order to accomplish larger goals. I have to turn losses into potential wins. I have to turn potential into reality. I have to turn the potential of a true great wrestler within me into reality. I have to turn the potential of a true champion into a reality. I have to win Tag Team Turmoil.
I don’t care who I get. I don’t care who I face.
I could be tagged with that smelly mentally unstable garbage man. I might have to hold me nose for the entire match, but I will make sure I get through.
I could be tagged with that pointy-eared goblin. I might have to keep a magic wand of my own handy, possibly a crowbar, but I will make sure I win.
I could be tagged with that hedgehog that is challenging for the North American championship. I’ve seen him; he’s not to be trusted. I wouldn’t tag him in anyway. I would make sure I got through to the final by myself.
I could be tagged with that egotistic, testicular free Showtime. He’d be too busy looking at himself during the match that I would have no problem winning on my terms.
I could be tagged with one of those freaking idiots who run about this place like kids. Too busy making stupid homemade news shows to concentrate on their actual day job…is it really a job…because I would have sacked them by now. I swear if I get one of them, I’ll slap them silly before I go on and win the match.
I could be tagged with Mark Shit Brown or ‘Nowhere to be seen’ Justin Adams. What the hell have they done. Nothing. They deserve each other. They deserve to get a beating together. They can both stay away from me.
I could be tagged with Seth Sinn. The absolute example of where bark is worse than the bite. Seth Sinn, you just don’t match up to me, nor anyone. Go home.
I could be tagged with anyone of Justin Michaels, Rodney Phoenix, James Keenan, Ace Anderson, Grimm. I have no problem with those guys. They are in the exact same boat as me. They want to compete and they want to win. I don’t have a single problem with that mentality. I’ll tag with any one of them, as long as they interfere in me kicking arse.
What a fucking start…
It’s not about how you start…
It’s about how you finish…