What it means to be a sports fan

I want a gun.

Not to use on myself or anyone else, but just to have. To be able to take out the cartridge and place the muzzle in my mouth, to taste the sharp metallic taste of death. To feel the cold handle in my hands and know that that, at least, is solid and real. To know that I have this choice after another year of not-quite-good-enough, ten, fifty.

I want a gun not to kill myself, but to know that I could.

Only the good die young is a lie

The problem was that it was three in the morning and he couldn’t have slept even though he wanted to, badly, and all he could think of was the smell of grilled cheese sandwiches and how he would never eat one with her again

They were both young and beautiful and fully aware of it, and if he slept around sometimes then so did she, but at the end of the day they loved each other. Loved each other. Enough for him to get on one knee in front of her after God knows how many years and pop open a box with a diamond ring. Him sweating and nervous before their routine dinner date and her laughing when she saw him bend down – laughing, even then of all times. Like it was funny that they would stay together, and in a way it was.

There were prettier girls, and smarter ones, but there wasn’t anyone else he could stand for longer than a month or two. He would miss that. He’d miss the fact that she didn’t mind if he didn’t always keep up his end of the conversation as much as he should have, the fact that she wasn’t too awestruck to not-care. How soft her hair was even when she was all dolled up. How looking at her was like looking over a thousand memories – his high school prom and the draft and a summer sun that would never come down with woodsmoke in his clothes and hers and the afternoon pleasantly blurred from booze

The problem was that he didn’t know if he should – if he could – put his name on her tombstone.

 

Rest in peace.