“So I told that bitch, ‘Sorry, I just thought you would want to know that your tracks look like shit.’ Honestly, I thought I was being a Good Samaritan. If she didn’t want people to comment on the fact that her hair extensions were painfully obvious, she shouldn’t have barged into a bathroom full of drunk girls. Can you believe she got so upset?”
“Mhmm,” said my boyfriend, without even looking up from his laptop.
“What? You’re seriously siding with her?” I was shocked.
He met my eyes as a look of fear came across his face. “Wait, sorry. What were you saying?”
This is my life now. I ramble on about my day, while my boyfriend checks his stats, or players, or whatever it is boys look at when they’re monitoring fantasy football. Fantasy Football. I hate that title; it’s like they’re trying to make the concept sound more appealing. But it’s not appealing. It’s evil, and all the guys in my boyfriend’s league are Satan’s minions at work.
I tried to understand the system, I really did. After many painstaking hours of listening to him explain the league, I can basically chalk it up to a series of pipe dream football games in which guys choose their favorite players (a loose term for boycrushes, which is what they are) to rep real-life stats. If I was into football, I might think it’s cool enough to participate. But I’m not, and I don’t. So where does that leave me? Talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that I want to fuck, but is too busy freaking out over the fact that its QB got injured.
I mean, I get it. If there was a fantasy league for rush, or trashy reality TV, or cosmetics, I could totally be down to clown. I’d slap my name in the game and rope ten of my best friends in, because I’m a competitive chick who enjoys winning almost as much as I enjoy watching my opponents eat shit. But the world is an unfair place, as we have no such game. All we can do is sit by and listen to our boyfriends bitch about how “at least Mike’s team is worse.”
I’m not bitter. I’m indignant because he is clearly more interested in this game than he is in me. The worst part is that we’ve barely scratched the surface here. Did you know we have FIFTEEN more weeks of this shit? That’s 105 days of staring at the top of my boyfriend’s head. 2,520 hours of repeating my stories over and over until he really understands how much of a bitch Trish was to me last night. 151,200 minutes of screaming, “Why, God, WHY?!” in the most dramatic fashion possible, just for good measure. 9,072,000 seconds of wishing I had paid attention when my dad unsuccessfully tried to immerse me in the world of sports as a child. What the fuck did I really get out of my Barbie fascination, anyway, other than an intense hatred for my red locks and real, human waistline?
I guess it could be worse. He could be a cheater, or a drug addict, or a Nickelback fan. I know I lucked out and somehow managed to land a guy that’s way too good for me. But I cannot, nay, I will not accept this flaw. I will fight to the death for his attention, even if that means I have to sacrifice my dignity and engage in a conversation about *gulp* sports.
That’s right, I said it. I’ll ask him what’s going on with his running wing, or tackle back, or line guard, or whatever. I’ll strap on my big girl pants and refuse to take them off because I am a strong, educated woman who is capable of retaining a man’s attention without utilizing the powers of my hoohah. Most importantly, I will win this fight, not because I care about his interests and hobbies, but because I refuse to be in a relationship with a man who loves fantasy football more than he loves me. .
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