Three weeks into the new Premier League season and we get fucked by the first international football break of the year.
It happens every year, but I am neither prepared nor ready on any occasion for this monstrosity of an event.
I liken this break to a dry hump.
It’s not really fun or wanted by anyone, but is unfortunately required to get to third base or if you’re trying to round the bases.
Skipping bases is frowned upon in most situations.
The Prem is the only thing that gets me out of bed after a rough night at the local watering hole filled with grimy people and even sketchier drinks. I really don’t have two fucks to give about World Cup Qualifying.
For me, it’s the same story again and again. The top sides will manage to easily qualify or do so in a playoff and my homeland, Scotland, will continue to be the disappointing high school dropout that smokes behind the dumpster and skips class.
I can’t deal with that much disappointment just yet; I need the buffer zone of the Premier League.
I need unpredictable upsets, late goal magic, and that sad face David Moyes makes when he knows he’s really fucked.
Plus, all the PL games are televised and you’re not forced to seek out broadcasts in the depths of the internet that look like they’re being streamed from someone’s Razr.
Shouts out to 2004.
I care about international football when there isn’t any other football on to watch. It fills a void in my life when there’s nothing but transfer rumors fluttering about in the summer and when I lack any desire to do much of anything.
My will to survive is being tested severely; God knows what’ll happen.
Only 6 days of my personal hell left, but who’s counting?