I’m going to keep this short.
It is by design.
The Nail of the Bandits has nothing left to lose.
My thumb is swollen red, and the nail I once was has fallen to the floor. I have no idea where it is. It took a wicked bounce. I thought I heard where it went, but turns out it was something else. And the shell, well that is beyond repair. Cracked, and then stepped on by an elephant that will never leave the room.
No. Not bald, but still very much decrepit gray and no beautiful blond highlights in sight.
To be honest, removing the hair from the equation, I haven’t decided which of the two hurts the worst. On the one hand, the gold was nice. I enjoyed having it for the short time that I did. It validated a long, ho-hum High Octane career, and now that it is gone I find myself wondering how I will ever be able to get it back? It took ten years for me to win my first singles title. TEN. Yes, those are on and off years, and I’m sure that contributed to such a drought… but TEN.
I doubt I have ten more. Fuck, I know I don’t have ten more.
Not to mention, what I had to go through in order to get there, and become Champion.
Then, on the other hand… there’s the memory of the night I won the LSD Championship. It’s not of me in the ring with Cecil, or quickly pinning him and seemingly stopping time in the process. The memory I have of that night is the bright, and alive, and proud faces of my fellow Bandits looking back at me– even Doozer couldn’t hide it behind his old grump of a personality. It was amazing. They truly believed in me.
We were untouchable.
We were righteous.
We were beloved.
I don’t know if I will ever be able to make up my mind between which of the two hurts the most. I do know this. I know they both suck.
But, gun to my head…
I’d choose being alone.
I hate it.
I really do.
Misery loves company, and I miss being miserable with my friends. I miss going to the eGG Den and plotting our next move in the courtship of our Queen. I miss watching Rick running around the backyard while I throw eggs at him. I miss hearing Doozer’s bones crack and me acting as if the police were knocking at the locker room door. I miss being in awe of Bobby Den and watching him overcome whatever is thrown his way. I miss trying to figure out what the hell Zeb is trying to say and his unbreakable child like spirit.
I miss it all.
And that’s not even the worst part of it.
The worst part of the Bandit break up is that there’s no guilt for me to hang my hat on. I have no path to take me somewhere else when I think about the days of yesterday. The Fall of the Bandits wasn’t orchestrated by the Maestro. I didn’t stab anyone in the back. I didn’t run. I didn’t hide. I trusted. I enabled. I fast tracked. And in the end, it got me a spool of fishing line, a French Rosetta Stone, some off brand Patriot arthritis cream, and high cholesterol via osmosis.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful about the fishing line. I love it. I will probably use it in an attempt to hang myself after the Queen has her way with me this Saturday night.
And they say chivalry is dead.
And no, there will be no slander here.
Maybe I can rub the cream around my neck, and hope I don’t die from a heart attack before I can kick the stool over. I think I’ll play the Rosetta tapes in the background just to make sure I go through with it. Nothing like learning French in your final moments.
I assuming that is what they speak in hell.
At least I’ll be getting a leg up.
And, seems like a dignified way to go out.
One last time hanging out in the eGG Basket, with nothing my friends to motivate me.
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