Don't Know Whatcha Got 'Til It's Gone

“Every rose has its thorn,
just like every night has its dawn.
just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song,
every rose has its thorn.
Yeah it does.”

-Bret Michaels

I hope you like the picture. My mom made me do seven takes until she felt like we captured the raw emotion that has tormented me.

If I’m quoting lines from Poison, then you KNOW it’s fantasy football season. Look, fellas, I’m going to just lay it on the line: it’s been hard as hell knowing that I don’t get to keep that trophy in my basement. I show it to everyone who descends into my man cave, and to be honest, I don’t have anything cool to put in its place once it’s gone, which means it will be replaced by a Longeberger basket. Don’t know what a Longeberger basket is? That’s okay, once you get married and move into a house bursting with throw pillows, candles, and baskets, you’ll get the joke.

The worst part is that I can’t even really enjoy it anymore. I know that it should be with Scott, so every time I look at its beautiful silver (pewter?) finish, I feel that it’s making a cuckold of me. After drafting like a dickhead, I did everything I could to win back its favor, and The Seaward surged magnificently down the stretch. Unfortunately, Taylor bested me in what is obviously destined to be an annual postseason showdown. He is Magic to my Bird (he’s Magic because he owns a flat-billed cap, I’m just Bird by default, I think). All I can do is hope that when I let the trophy go, if it really loves me, it will come back to me. I've probably offended some of you with my uncharacteristically cold comments in the last couple of days. Go ahead, try to stay mad at me, I've also got a boatload of pictures with puppies and a cute baby. Just a warning shot: