Bed's Too Big Without You, NFL

The nights are growing shorter, but somehow the darkness is pervasive. A thin veil dims the hours of my waking life like the shadow of a rain cloud unwillingly orbiting my corporeal being. My interest in the mundane sinks into an expanding gap alienating me from my former life, pushing me deeper into nothingness. Across the void is a life to which I cannot return. But would I want to, after what you have done to me? If all you know is the black of night, would your eyes even be able to handle the white of day?

Oh NFL, my one true love. Annually you come to my door, invade my space, offering me all kinds of joyous wonders. And for a time, you fulfill them. But continuously the only promise you can keep is that of gravity. You lift my spirits, carrying me blindly, blissfully into the throes of the dead season, only to drop me fearfully and deep into the decaying brush where I will be covered by the angelically vengeful snow.

Oh NFL, you sultry minx, with your long legs and dashing appearance. Week to week I descend further into debt. Believing that the more resources I set aside in your honor, the more capable I will be of keeping you around all year long. I bet on you, I give you my emotional and financial support, I put all my money into your collection plate. I see no returns, I see no appreciation, I see only embezzlement.

Oh NFL, you haunting spectre. Vague reminders scattered about the landscape in the form of Mel Kiper, the Scouting Combine, and various pundits. The "stink", strong and decadent at first, wanes even before such trinkets are cast aside in a huff, like a dog shedding his collar. If it is a yoke with which you seek to bind me, then you will need a whole lot more Erin Andrews, and a whole lot less Marshall Faulk.

Oh NFL, you gluttonous cougar. You say that you enjoy the finer things in life, but it is I who on the second Sunday of February is left lonesome, with a case of PBR, and a fifth of Jaeger. The bratwurst sitting atop soggy, kraut-infused bun. The cheese curls soft, stale, now unsatisfying. The chili putrid and diarrheal, but somehow, still inviting. Much like you.

Oh NFL, you cold-hearted man-eater. Upon leaving you are always sure to call, keeping me on the line long after you have disconnected. Faint recollections of our conversation include topics such as a "Pro Bowl", and how we may even be a good fit. Have you still not come to see the quality of my taste? I am here not for friendly, meaningless games. I am here only for fateful outcome and genuine gain. I am here because I am lazy and unimaginative. Have you forgotten? You provide the spark that lifts me from my armchair for one brief, impenetrable moment before falling back under the weight of my own bloated belly. You are the artist that portrays the most wondrous playoff scenarios on the pallet that is my own underused, oft abused brain pan.

Oh NFL, you twisted whore. You treat me as if I am the only one. Yet for 5 months of Sundays.And Mondays. And a handful of Thursdays and Saturdays; you sell yourself to any man, woman, or even child. Some for the right price, some for no price at all. You claim that I am jealous, and of this charge I am unapologetically guilty. For jealousy, in this case, is warranted. For all the other imposters seek only to gawk at you, use you, bore you, and manipulate you for their own purposes. But it is I alone that wants to hold you forever. All I ask is that you be there for me. Be there all year long.

But NFL, you eternal cocktease, this is something that you refuse to provide. I offer you love, devotion, and perpetual homage. But all you have to offer me, is a 6th title for the Allegheny Whitefish, months of Brett Favre aggravation, and Trey Wingo.

Keep it.

All of it.

For I just saw NHL walking around here somewhere, and she is looking FOYNE!



Spitefully yours,
B. Lee



PS. I'll be waiting for you in September... Come back to me.