So, now that I’m pretty. Now that I’m beautiful. Now that I’m Thin Anthony, as I’ve made very clear to those who are within earshot. Those last few sentences had no predicate or complete thought. Frick, I forgot how to use the Queen’s English. But where, oh where, do I stand regarding recent events.
The same place I’ve always stood: confused, with a slight smirk. Left of center, of course. I can’t really stand center if someone’s aiming to shoot me, can I? Yes, there’s the possibility that I could probably get shot standing off-center, but I like my odds.
Using my newfound smashing good looks, my success with the fairer sex has been…successful. Not even a tweak to my personality. Next thing you know, BAM. Total Nonstop Anthony. Then, something amazing happened. The sex-crazed (not my words, mind you) prick…stopped caring about sex. The last time I felt this way was undergrad. Elaboration: I received my degree, and could not have been less celebratory. I believe my answer was “meh” when asked how I felt about graduating. YAY! MEH! So, there is precedent for me succeeding, then being completely apathetic. That does make me question what my end goal is. I previously stated I wasn’t interested in a relationship, but I’m no longer interested in the other option, either. How do I know this? Ran into a girl some time ago that I barely knew, we clicked, and voila. Then voila turned into “it’s not you, it’s me.” I really have a knack for finding the crazies. Or people who want something else after meeting me. I kid you not, if I had a dime for every time I succeeded with a girl…then I’d have no dimes. Shit, that joke was not supposed to backfire on me. But yeah, interesting girl, we clicked, and then she told me that her ex is moving out here in August and that means she’s saving herself for him. Huh? Yep, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Which is a shame, of course, seeing as I loved how we interacted. It’s rare that I meet a girl (or guy) for that matter that doesn’t annoy me within the first five minutes.
Mental efforts notwithstanding, I’ve been unable to navigate these cerebral gymnastics. Sex. Commitment. Commitment. Sex. Puppies? NO. I guess that happens when you sell your soul at cost. You never get over certain people, even when they’ve wronged you. Unless you’ve hated them from day one, which is the case with most, if not all of my enemies. Hell, they almost cause you to hate the people that you really don’t mind, such as a friend I thought I may need to fire. But that hate isn’t really hate, but hate inspired due to love and there go those damn cerebral gymnastics. I would seriously hate to be my therapist. Too many stories about crazy blondes. Correction: too many stories about ONE crazy blonde. Who I still love. Though I shouldn’t. Because Rellik is KILLER spelled backwards.
But when I assume my new identity, Moxley Ambrose, in a little over a month, for five days, there will be no cerebral gymnastics. Yet, there will be tumbling, floor exercise, and perhaps a pummel horse. Why? Because Moxley Ambrose came to Miami for one purpose, and it’s not WrestleMania. Actually…two reasons. I’d be lying if I said wrestling didn’t excite me, because I’m getting my first Hell in a Cell. Let’s see, I’ve seen a ladder match, two TLCs, Guerrilla Warfare, Money in the Bank, Money in the Bank cash in, cage match, nightstick on a pole…but this will be my first HIAC. Damn, I’ve seen a lot of wrestling in my years. Skibbedebebop. Much later.
Current Track – Flo Rida feat. Sia “Wild Ones”