I fell out of love with fantasy football. In fact? I'm kind of weary of the fact that it exists and I'm in a league. Not to say that I'm gonna be cranky about the year I was forced to choose between Dave Garrard, David Carr, and Trent Green as my team horrendously collapsed.
But I'm not bitter about that. Not at all. Even though I don't know what would happen if I ran into Donovan McNabb, or even the It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia lookalike.
But that's not it. You get a bad beat and you try to find the people who'll nod the most politely as you go from cock of the walk to cashing in on the bubble. It happens. And yet? Your humble host is out of love even if he can handle the mishagoes. Why is that?
It's not peer pressure. Elvi may call me a nerd, but I can throw my 20-sided dice as if I was Jay Cutler. It's not that it's gambling, even though that it is.
You know what? Fuck it. I've got better things to do than get all pyschological...to a blog.
I MEAN WHO DOES THAT?