Post by JS2 on Nov 24, 2021 14:35:07 GMT
Sometimes, you can't get your brain to start working.
I often used to find myself in such states; like a rabbit caught in the headlights, a politician asked a question that only leads to wrong answers. Stuck, staring blindly at something, sympathetic nervous system screaming at itself to fight or fly the fuck away.
It was always at the worst times, too. Learning to drive, having tough relationship conversations...
In the middle of the ring, in a stadium with 80,000 people watching.
That might be the worst one - if you discount some of my breakups.
Yeah, sometimes my brain would just up and leave me to it, fighting on instinct with no semblance of strategy.
I miss that feeling...because at the moment, my brain just won't stop.
The bar around me looks as tired as I do. I can scarcely believe I even made it back to Manchester...held in stasis in New York City, first kept there by my own stubbornness, then by travel restrictions. That fucking pandemic.
I take a swig of my drink. A pint of some ghastly overpriced cider; spirits don't seem too good an idea anymore, and this is the best the Northern Quarter has to offer.
In many ways, this is like New York. The jukebox insists upon playing something by The Strokes, or Pixies, or something...
And it's full to the fucking brim of hipsters.
The main difference? I still got recognised in NYC. Cajoled, photographed, questioned.
"Why don't you fight anymore?"
"When are you getting back in the ring?"
"What hurts more - a chairshot or that move where they drop you on your neck?"
Something about those conversations, while more painful than any chairshot or vertebreaker (which is what they meant...they showed me a gif), always got me thinking.
I down my pint, to try and stop the thinking from getting any worse.
Moving back home - well, home-ish, at least - was meant to be an end to all of that. There are far fewer promotions in the North of England than there used to be, and I just don't see the need to reanimate the corpse or something as altogether gruesome as my career. I'm content, I tell myself, to live off what I earned and drink until I finally forget what it was I was obsessed with.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket - it's WhatsApp, which I have very little use for these days.
Specifically it's a former agent of mine - and not one of the good ones.
"Found a great opportunity. In-ring. Manchester-based...you know the company. Contract's been drawn up. Thank me later"
Just what I needed...something to think about.
I often used to find myself in such states; like a rabbit caught in the headlights, a politician asked a question that only leads to wrong answers. Stuck, staring blindly at something, sympathetic nervous system screaming at itself to fight or fly the fuck away.
It was always at the worst times, too. Learning to drive, having tough relationship conversations...
In the middle of the ring, in a stadium with 80,000 people watching.
That might be the worst one - if you discount some of my breakups.
Yeah, sometimes my brain would just up and leave me to it, fighting on instinct with no semblance of strategy.
I miss that feeling...because at the moment, my brain just won't stop.
*****
The bar around me looks as tired as I do. I can scarcely believe I even made it back to Manchester...held in stasis in New York City, first kept there by my own stubbornness, then by travel restrictions. That fucking pandemic.
I take a swig of my drink. A pint of some ghastly overpriced cider; spirits don't seem too good an idea anymore, and this is the best the Northern Quarter has to offer.
In many ways, this is like New York. The jukebox insists upon playing something by The Strokes, or Pixies, or something...
And it's full to the fucking brim of hipsters.
The main difference? I still got recognised in NYC. Cajoled, photographed, questioned.
"Why don't you fight anymore?"
"When are you getting back in the ring?"
"What hurts more - a chairshot or that move where they drop you on your neck?"
Something about those conversations, while more painful than any chairshot or vertebreaker (which is what they meant...they showed me a gif), always got me thinking.
I down my pint, to try and stop the thinking from getting any worse.
Moving back home - well, home-ish, at least - was meant to be an end to all of that. There are far fewer promotions in the North of England than there used to be, and I just don't see the need to reanimate the corpse or something as altogether gruesome as my career. I'm content, I tell myself, to live off what I earned and drink until I finally forget what it was I was obsessed with.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket - it's WhatsApp, which I have very little use for these days.
Specifically it's a former agent of mine - and not one of the good ones.
"Found a great opportunity. In-ring. Manchester-based...you know the company. Contract's been drawn up. Thank me later"
Just what I needed...something to think about.