Endowed by grace and

Beguiled in sadness.

An inhumane spiral–

Reveals a twisting groan of misery.

The lurid dawn.

Rays hang like new flags

Shifting the war to peace.

Stymied in the mire–

Of forgiveness sought.

A reprehensible pain,

Unworthy of notion–

But relevant in deep trends

Of hate, and fear

Of self.

Bring on the morning.

With shining subtlety,

We awake to prosperity–

And garner the keen freedoms,

Of living.

Mocking Too Early

I’ve done dozens of mocks at this point. No results, really, to speak of. Things are still “up in the air,” and since individual league settings tend to neutralize findings anyway, I don’t give too much credence to what roster positions are filled in what order.

The work league roster format is:


Ideally, I might fill roster positions during the draft in this manner:

QB – Round 3
WR – Round 4
WR – Round 6
RB – Round 1
RB – Round 2
TE – Round 8
W/R/T – Round 5
W/R/T – Round 7
DEF/ST – Round 9
K – Round 10
IDP – Round 11


That does not take into consideration drafting BNs at some point before selecting a K or IDP.

I have 100 players on my draft board. Names that keep popping up are somewhat interesting. I’m not sure if I like what I’ve observed so far. These names are pretty much based on a standard, non custom league setting, with simple drafters following a pre-set order of relevance. Pretty much sticking to the Yahoo! format. So, my results have little relevance at this point. I’m bored though, so here you go:

QB – Drew Brees, Cam Newton

WR – Calvin Johnson, Marques Colston, Reggie Wayne, Antonio Brown

RB – Marshawn Lynch, Alfred Morris, Frank Gore, Darren Sproles

TE – Jason Witten, Greg Olsen

Eh. Not too excited about that crew. M. Lynch is the wrong class of RB that I am interested in. D. Sproles might be at the end of the line, productivity-wise. Is the sophomore slump for real? Is this all just superstition and hocus-pocus?

Blathering. My thoughts are an alphabet soup of NFL players. See you later.

The Downward Dues

I struggle with self-confidence. Being “strong” is a trap in concept, because it implies that there is a level of internal fortitude that grants some form of immunity from the various struggles and circumstances of life.

Even though I am not a believer, I still smash myself against this unreasonable standard; attempting to validate my worth through an idealistic self.

I’m acutely depressed lately. Fragile and brittle; slight disturbances to the norm can cause emotional failure. I am burdened with a lapse of reason. I struggle in the momentary fray to rationalize emotions. I trend downward, as life’s burdens press in on me. Demands on my existence are many, so I toil, and endure the pain in order to have a functional life.

I don’t know where this road leads. I walk anyway. I never want to stop doing what I am doing, despite the heartache and anguish it can sometimes provoke.

Perturbed by calamity, but ever endowed with hope, I will press forward. I make my best effort towards independent life.

Although, my most recent trends signal a repetitive trend of failure. I repeat past mistakes, neglect love, disregard compassion for frustration…

Maybe this is because I am poorly possessed by depression, or just drained of the energy it takes to live.

Either way, through all the sorrow and joy, I go on.

The Inside Poop

No one knows a fucking thing. But they still say things regardless.


It’s interesting, however, to pick-through the shreds of reasoning most pundits (talking-heads) have for their beliefs. What am I referring to, exactly? It’s the brutally humbling world of NFL Fantasy Sports. Duh.


Not surprisingly, I’ve created MY OWN league this year. Much as I described in previous posts, but re-balanced, tweaked and tested throughout the long, dead wasteland of the offseason. OTA’s are about as boring as dead turtles fucking. Training camps don’t begin until the end of the month. We’re getting close, but we’re not there yet.


For me, the NFL is strangely pleasing. It demonstrates a high level of strategy on the part of coordinators and coaches, portrays momentary, great or panicked decision-making, huge physical exertion, and the whole thing is done at full fucking speed. Every play is different, albeit, the majority can seem (initially), fundamentally uninteresting; the nature of the expectation is wonder: will anything happen? What is about to happen? What about this new set of circumstances?


The criteria of achievement changes, and the game seems to have a “flow” about it; where “momentum” or “energy” can dictate rapid alterations to previous events, or inspire dramatic action. It is assignments, physical struggles, and a challenge to play in the most crucial engagement at the pinnacle of athleticism. The best of the best, play in the NFL.


People who can’t play (nor have the desire to), are locked into an observational standpoint, where analysis and understanding prove to be the most integral endeavors. Pondering the game’s endless complexities, and literal collisions of outcomes can result in endless moments of entertainment (for me, at least).


Numerical values make sense to my tiny brain, so mathematically expressing these athlete’s achievements is a good way to keep track of things, study said things and ponder upon their celestial importance. Often times, pundits will claim to have unlocked the future’s magnificent secrets, by injecting the womb of uncertainty with the semen of opinion. Such transparent, pointless and dangerous intrusions are for the decidedly meek, easily-controlled masses. It comes from no source of comparable meaning, and therefore, has no value.


I can go on all day claiming “well, I think THIS BULLSHIT HERE is going to happen.” But really, who am I kidding? I don’t fucking know; neither do they. They’d like you to think they know. But they don’t. No one does. I hope that’s clear…


Just laying this out there: what if, instead of pontificating about nothing, we concentrate our efforts on making relevant observations, or concluding upon facts.


I try to ignore most things I hear. It’s probably a good policy in general. I get to form my own opinions, while lying partially-submerged in the clear pool of ignorance. I much prefer to not know, than know something useless.


This year, I am commissioner of the work-wide fantasy football league, customized to a very discerning and particular set of rules and conversions. Points will have to be earned with skilled, logical guesses. Player values are going to be assessed through preference, primarily. At least, I believe opinions to have the majority-share of the projected worth of anyone in the NFL. Projected is another word for “here, I pulled this out of my ass, and it’s just for you!”


I’m a ticking time-bomb of expectation and suspense. I have been RIGHT THERE, “in it” every fucking year. And I never take the crown. Fuck that noise.


I said this last year too, right before my stupid fucking Uncle imploded my 8-2 record (with 2 wins against HIM). Disgraceful behavior that simply can’t be repeated.


So, here I go into waiting. Waiting for my drafts, and thinking numerical thoughts, in the pendulum-swing of comprehension that is my offseason routine. I make no Unitas Guarantee. I just plug away at my spreadsheets, and hope.


In silent kisses–

Assurance waits sleepily,

Admonishing the scent of reasons,

Quick to flavor the confidence, waning…


A tender heart, lost to doubt.

Smiting frailty in challenged tones,

Blighting his fields of tall, thin grasses.


Anew, the sounds of silent hate.

Bastion of truth, razed in flame.

A dire secret of malevolence.

Arc of truth betrayed.

Solitary, flesh-ripping sadness…

Enduring despite pain.


But the touch that is love,

Silences the screaming–

Bleating, grotesque thoughts

Fading into shadowy recesses,

As the dawn breaks.