The Man Without a Face

Dearest Daytona,

Tell me.

Whose fault is it that I don’t know if you are a man or a women? Whether you are white or black? Legal or illegal? Stripper or hooker? Coke head or free baser?

Is it mine?

I have been a tad remiss for the better part of too fucking long, so it is possible you’ve been a star in my slumber. Then again, we are opening the show so if I had to bet I would take the other side.

The other side of course being that it is your fault.

Whoever you may be.

It is your fault I don’t know when you were signed to the roster. It is your fault I don’t know who your last opponent was, or who your first opponent was, or even how long you’ve been around for. It is your fault I don’t know what color hair you have, if you’re young or old, have bitch tits or man boobs.

I don’t know if you’re green or yellow.

I won’t front, Day.

I don’t care either.

Nothing personal.

Like I said I have been remiss.

As such, you might wrangle me into submission, or flip kick me in the face, or heat up a needle to stick in my eye, or amaze me with you pole dance.

You might even win this Saturday Night.

I say good for you.

I hope you celebrate accordingly.

Who knows?

Maybe, after such craziness, I will know who you are.

Probably not.