Wine, Women & Wrestling
Sept 27, 2015 16:41:12 GMT
ISM Office, Buck U Productions, and 1 more like this
Post by Deleted on Sept 27, 2015 16:41:12 GMT
El Paso, Tejas, Estadio Unidos
“Go fuck yourself, asshole!”
Just like that, another broad walks straight out the front door and out of my life. I wondered aloud for a moment if there was something truly wrong with me when it came to long-term commitment or relationships, or did I just have a problem when it came to dealing with the fairer sex in general.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I never have any luck with women, I just have a hard time convincing them that I’m not a complete fuck-up afterwards. Then again, I probably should stop waking up next to them hung-over and pissed-the-fuck-off at everything in sight.
I didn’t dwell on that thought for too long, as I had an appointment to keep and I couldn’t afford to sleep it off, less I wind up ass-out on the street with cardboard box and nothing else to my name.
I went about unpacking my suitcase to find a fresh change of clothes, looking for an outfit that would make me look semi-respectable. I settled on a button-up Ben Sherman knock-off, with a pair of my least torn-up jeans and my trusty pair of Adidas Superstars that were about to split in half at the seams.
It took me the better part of 40 minutes to look for the meeting place, a Pollo Bucket at a busy intersection located in downtown El Paso. I got myself an iced-tea and declined the tempting prospect of a Fried Box to kill the hangover, opting instead for a taco off a food-cart somewhere after the meeting: I was on that tight of a budget.
I remembered being a 17 year old kid, believing that I’d make a name for myself someday and wrestle at the Madison Square Garden: in front of pay-per-view cameras and a record-breaking audience.
I remembered staying back to clean up the gym: so I could climb up to the top rope, close my eyes and imagine the bright lights of the Garden and the screams of tens of thousands of people, watching my every move and cheering me on as I got ready to take a leap of faith and pin the fucker on the canvass to win it all…
Laugh, you can’t help but laugh; it’s probably the only real solace or comfort that you’ll find in life: Laughter.
Tell me back then that I’d end up in El Paso, Texas, wrestling some guy named El Vainillo for a promotion owned by a fried chicken franchise, and I’d probably laugh at you, if I weren’t so offended by the very notion of it.
She walked in, and it was over before I knew it.
“All of the terms on this employment contract are non-negotiable. These are your numbers; you’ll get the chance for a review on the date printed here. Once you’re done reading through the contract, I’ll need you to sign right here, Mr. Rousseau.”
I signed it without reading a single word and walked out to look for a taco stand.
I’ll be seeing you soon, El Vainillo.
“Go fuck yourself, asshole!”
Just like that, another broad walks straight out the front door and out of my life. I wondered aloud for a moment if there was something truly wrong with me when it came to long-term commitment or relationships, or did I just have a problem when it came to dealing with the fairer sex in general.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I never have any luck with women, I just have a hard time convincing them that I’m not a complete fuck-up afterwards. Then again, I probably should stop waking up next to them hung-over and pissed-the-fuck-off at everything in sight.
I didn’t dwell on that thought for too long, as I had an appointment to keep and I couldn’t afford to sleep it off, less I wind up ass-out on the street with cardboard box and nothing else to my name.
I went about unpacking my suitcase to find a fresh change of clothes, looking for an outfit that would make me look semi-respectable. I settled on a button-up Ben Sherman knock-off, with a pair of my least torn-up jeans and my trusty pair of Adidas Superstars that were about to split in half at the seams.
It took me the better part of 40 minutes to look for the meeting place, a Pollo Bucket at a busy intersection located in downtown El Paso. I got myself an iced-tea and declined the tempting prospect of a Fried Box to kill the hangover, opting instead for a taco off a food-cart somewhere after the meeting: I was on that tight of a budget.
I remembered being a 17 year old kid, believing that I’d make a name for myself someday and wrestle at the Madison Square Garden: in front of pay-per-view cameras and a record-breaking audience.
I remembered staying back to clean up the gym: so I could climb up to the top rope, close my eyes and imagine the bright lights of the Garden and the screams of tens of thousands of people, watching my every move and cheering me on as I got ready to take a leap of faith and pin the fucker on the canvass to win it all…
Laugh, you can’t help but laugh; it’s probably the only real solace or comfort that you’ll find in life: Laughter.
Tell me back then that I’d end up in El Paso, Texas, wrestling some guy named El Vainillo for a promotion owned by a fried chicken franchise, and I’d probably laugh at you, if I weren’t so offended by the very notion of it.
She walked in, and it was over before I knew it.
“All of the terms on this employment contract are non-negotiable. These are your numbers; you’ll get the chance for a review on the date printed here. Once you’re done reading through the contract, I’ll need you to sign right here, Mr. Rousseau.”
I signed it without reading a single word and walked out to look for a taco stand.
I’ll be seeing you soon, El Vainillo.