Lovers In A Dangerous Time

Lovers In A Dangerous Time

Posted on February 11, 2021 at 8:40 pm by Mike Best

I want to talk about my feelings. 

This is gonna be a little bit different. Jiles, I’m sure I’ll find some cheeky way to tie this all into you by the end and just haven’t figured it out yet. So I can’t promise no cute swerves or anything. But really, I want to do something that I’ve never done before. I wanna just sit and talk. I don’t know who is actually gonna read this one– I’ve been putting words down on this blog for over ten years now, and I know that people come to see me shred my opponents and come up with new and controversial cold takes. I’m just gonna let you know right now that if you’re here to see me say a bunch of mean shit about Cancer Jiles, hit the backspace. This one isn’t for you. 

This one’s for me. 

I have some shit to work out on paper. 

I have been a pretty miserable human being for the bulk of my life, to be honest. Maybe from the time I was a kid. I could lay a lot of sob stories on you about my childhood and how I was always destined to turn out this way, but let’s call a duck a duck here— I paved my own destiny and I have made a pretty good life out of being a real piece of garbage. I’m not repenting for it. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I have had a career that could end now and eclipse damned near anyone else. Truth be told, I’m not even sure why I’m questioning it. It’s done nothing but bring me fame and fortune, right? I should keep my head down and shut the fuck up and keep kneeing people into oblivion till my knees don’t work anymore. 

But here I am. 

Questioning things. 

Look, I know it seems like a bit. But I’m in fucking love, guys. And it’s kind of funny, because it isn’t really an interesting story to tell. Nobody wants to hear about your fucking happiness. I’ve always pretended like the universe just had some karmic grudge against me that kept me from having nice things, but it’s… bullshit. I’ve always leaned into bad decisions. I’ve always leaned into drama. Always leaned into the path of most resistance. I don’t believe in God, I don’t believe in fate, and I think that everything in life is just luck and decision making. I’ve had good luck, and I’ve had bad, but it’s always been the decisions that lead me to be unhappy. I got married ten years ago, and that was a bad decision. Now I’m getting a divorce, and that’s a consequence. It isn’t fate. It isn’t karma. It isn’t even bad luck. 

I fucked up. 

Now I’m paying for it. 

And it’s a fun story to tell. It’s a laugh riot around the bar, to tell everyone that your ex-wife is trying to take your whole life away from you, because you made a bunch of bad decisions. It’s fun to tell everyone that your crazy dead brother burned down your home and left you sleeping in your car, because you made a bunch of bad decisions. It’s interesting to tell everyone that your life is in a constant state of chaotic flux because the universe has a bone to pick with you… but really, you just made a bunch of bad decisions. 

Good decisions are not interesting stories. 

Falling in love isn’t that interesting a story either, is it? Oh, Ol’ Mikey has big feels now– everyone is just waiting for the other shoe to drop. How is he gonna fuck it up? How is the universe gonna fuck that one over? Where’s the BIG SWERVE? Because it feels like a setup to something terrible. It feels like the beginning of a story that is gonna end up being emotionally devastating in the end. And of course it feels like that– it’s not an interesting story unless something bad happens at the end. Where’s the swerve? Well, I’ll tell you the swerve. Spoiler, not a prediction. 

There is no swerve. 

This is my year. Because I’m making it my year, by making good decisions. By taking better care of myself. By getting mentally healthy, and physically healthy, and fucking HEALTHY. Bad fucking luck that I caught a concussion against Texas Pete last week, huh? Except that it’s not, because I don’t have a fucking concussion. I passed protocols. I took care of myself. I rested, and my body is in better condition right now than it was last year when I was out of my mind on fucking coke. I’m making good decisions. 

Boring ass, good decisions. 

And I am in fucking LOVE. 

The kind of love that makes you patient. The kind of love that makes you understanding. The kind of love that makes you give a fuck about what’s good for someone else, and not just your own shitty existence. I wake up in the morning smile, and I fucking go to bed smiling. I stare at my phone like a douchebag half the day, because we can’t leave eachother the fuck alone. She’s on this wild fucking rollercoaster with me that shouldn’t make any sense. That shouldn’t be. Two people just met out of fucking nowhere, because they were in the right place for the right seven minutes, and now we’re in fucking love. 

Nicholas Sparks can suck my whole dick and balls, bro. 

Food tastes better. Music sounds better. Shit that should bother me doesn’t fucking bother me anymore. She bought me a fucking duck for my birthday, and it’s such an inside joke that you don’t even know what that means or why it’s EVERYTHING. SHE BOUGHT ME A FUCKING DUCK. I feel no insecurity. No anxiety. No fucking bad feelings– everything is awesome, all the time, and that’s not exciting for you to read about. It’s not exciting to hear. Because you want me to fail, and that’s what’s fucking fun for you. 

And I don’t care anymore. 

Let me walk you through the next year of my life. 

I am going to get through this fucking divorce, and the second the ink is dry, and I’m going give Katy the ring that I bought three days after I met her. I’m gonna take her out someplace romantic, say some real romantic shit, ask her to marry me, and put that fucking ring on her finger. I am going to fall in love with her daughters and mind my place, because they have a good father who is in the picture. I’m going to have a chill, classy, probably very silly wedding ceremony and give her my last name if she wants it. I am going to be a good husband, and a good stepfather, and a good fucking human being for the rest of my life.

To her. 

To the people that she loves. 

And the rest of you are fucked

When I went down in that cage last week, with my head on fire and my vision blurry, the first thought in my head wasn’t some bullshit title defense against Cancer Jiles. It wasn’t the years another concussion might take off my career. It wasn’t the HOW World Championship. 

It was Katy. 

Watching on TV, seeing me get the shit kicked out of me by some big aggro Texan with a chip on his shoulder. Worrying about me. Panicking that I might be hurt. And maybe some guys would take that as their cue to hang up their boots and move on, but that’s not my style. That’s not the way I play, and it’s not the way she’d let me. When a guy like– the fuck was his name? Clay something? Whatever. When a guy Texas Pete smashes me in the noggin and endangers my career, I don’t take that as time to leave. 

It’s just time to level up. 

Someone gives a shit about whether or not I’m okay, and that makes me care about whether or not I’m okay. That makes me want to work harder to fight better. That makes me want to take less chances, and get more decisive victories. Since the day she walked into my life, I’ve won the resounding number of my matches with a SINGLE KNEE. That’s how you keep a career alive. That’s how you keep your body intact. Not by rolling around in a cage with Texas Chainsaw Barbie for three rounds– by knocking Chris Kostoff out before can throw even a single punch. 

I am graduating to fucking S+ Tier. 

I fucking love wrestling again, and I’m not going ANYWHERE. You poor, unfortunate motherfuckers– what started as my Farewell Tour just became my Grand fucking Opening. I’ve got ten more years in me, and I’m not gonna get worse. I’m not gonna decline. Because I was already the best wrestler in the world, and now I’m got someone who makes me drink water instead of shitty energy drinks all the time. Someone who gives me shit when I stay up too late at night, and throw my fucking cycles off. Fuck’s sake, someone who looks at my HOFC bullshit before it goes up on the website, and tells me which lines fell flat and fucking WHY. And when I produce dogshit, and ask her how it could be better, do you know what she tells me? 

I’m not gonna do your hard work for you, Michael. 

FUCK, you guys are so fucked. You are SO FUCKED. I have been so burned out for so long. So fucking bored of the mundane week to week bullshit. No one was ever gonna beat me– I’m literally taking zero weeks off that aren’t mandated by Lee Best himself. I’m defending the HOW World Championship EVERY SINGLE WEEK that I’m not in the DeNucci Cup, and I’m STILL STARCHING YOU MOTHERFUCKERS. Burned out, bored, and yawning all the fucking way. Now that I’m excited about wrestling again? Now that I’m good to go again? 

Get a fucking clue. 

So I guess I have no way to tie this back to you, Jiles. No great, clever segue. I really hoped I’d find one, because I sincerely just sat and wrote these words without an outline. Without a vague idea in my head. Usually I’d turn it all around in the end and have a plot twist for you, but I just don’t. Because truth be told, you just… don’t make a difference this week. You’re a name across the card. Not because you’re a bad wrestler, because you aren’t. Not because I have some crazy mental edge over you, because I don’t. Not because I have some big secret weapon in my back pocket, either… because that just isn’t the case. You don’t matter this week, because no one else matters anymore. 

No one but me. 

No one but her. 

This World Title run isn’t for me anymore, it’s for her. This DeNucci Cup isn’t for me anymore, it’s for her. My heart and my mind and my soul and my entire fucking being is for this woman, and I can promise you that it will take a lot more to take me down when I’m fighting for her than it ever would have taken if I was clutching this belt for my own pride. For my own ego. For my own dogshit, miserable existence. The one thing that I have always lacked in this life was a purpose. A raison d’être. Something beyond the four ropes of a wrestling ring to live for, and fight for, and work toward. And I found it. 

I found her

Wrestling is boring. You’re all boring. Winning is boring. Being on top of the entire industry for over a year, unchallenged, is boring. But she isn’t boring. This isn’t boring. Rolling out of that ring, hearing Bryan McVay yell “AND STILL”, and then going home to stuff her so full of cum that she might be the first person to die from it isn’t fucking BORING. 


I know there’s no tone in text, but I’m fucking losing my mind right now, boys. Rolling, howling, terrible laughter. I can’t breathe. My ribs hurt. You are all so COLOSSALLY FUCKED, because it turns out the only thing that was holding me back from being an ACTUAL GOD was a little bit of self respect and the love of a good fucking woman. I have been in a SLUMP for ten years. Can you imagine that? A SLUMP. I got into the Hall of Fame on a SLUMP. I set every fucking title record that matters in a SLUMP. I went undefeated for over a year on a SLUMP. 


Elbows for days and knees for miles. There’s no redemption arc coming here, boys, I am about to become SO MUCH FUCKING WORSE THAN YOU EVER COULD HAVE IMAGINED. You will hate me harder, revile me more, and there will be EVEN FUCKING LESS YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT. What is love? Baby CAN’T hurt me no more. Love in an elevator? Livin’t it up, cause YOU’RE going down. I would do anything for love, and I WILL fucking do that, you insufferable lumps of human meatloaf. 


Jiles, man, I wish you luck on Saturday. Sincerely. Because you’re going to need it. Because you’re fighting a man on the absolute top of the world, for the most important prize in the professional wrestling industry, and I am going to physically tear you limb from live to protect it. I won’t break your glasses, Jiles. I’ll break your fucking arms. I’ll do whatever I want to you, because I can do whatever the fuck I want to anyone in HOW at any time and there is nothing that any one can do about it. Isn’t that unfair? Isn’t it sad, that you can all put your best foot forward, and it always ends the EXACT. SAME. WAY? 

Continuing to try is the definition of insanity, folks. 

And I’m crazy in love.