Beats trying to be the first wrestler to compete with shingles. This disease will keep Keith Olberman off the air for a month. I'm stronger than the conservative conspiracy that keeps him from being the voice of the reasonable. As long as my opponent's had chicken pox, nothing can go wrong.
So maybe the worst has finally occurred in the recent downward spiral.
I guess with "The Game of Thrones" being hours away, maybe that wasn't the wisest thing to say. Or maybe the worst thing that can happen is HBO Now goes NXT Rival when they webcast that. My recent odd hours have resulted in me forgetting to watch the live-stream of HBO. Of course, what's the point to watching a live-stream when it's not an event? Netflix has done fine without it.
Oh yeah, the worst. I received next week's schedule without seeing my name anywhere. This is after I managed a long slumber after fearing that I may have lodged cotton into my surgically repaired ear (It's probably just be tinnitus. Again, I'm Archer sans the vacant women [I gotta change to how I spend my time at strip clubs. You're not suppose to be going there for intellectual conversation]). So the next overnight and minimal sleep my schedule allowed wasn't entirely comfortable.
But, work-schedule was remedied, another source of income was suggested (which isn't Archer-esque), and my trip to Berwyn ended up being an optimistic one. I could go on the "Indie Wrestling is Alive and Well" rant (Too easy. I mean Shimmer Weekend is like a Wrestlemania without the misogynist chants that hijack Monday Night Raw), but it's because I found out that Seth Rollin's (and my) trainer would give me a reference for Chicagoland employment in and out of the ring.
Well, definitely outside the ring. I mean, it's the third largest market in the country, and we both know I'm not physically ready for that.
Perhaps, I'm spilling too much of my soul into this blog. It may not be the soul I'm exposing excess of, it's the sense of optimism. This may prevent me from trying to guilt my way onto the local card this Friday. For those from the local show, I still gotta grin and bear my seemingly invisible existence until February first. Hope I don't die from poor health since wrestling is the only thing I'll physically bust my ass for.
If you can't book me, how about some insight on how you would start your own Kickstarter campaign to fund a script for a zombie/pro-wrestling comedy? If you don't have a script/director/producer, I've got all three of those with "Main Event of the Dead." Please send your suggestions to russthebus07@gmail.com. If you need a little more incite before committing your knowledge, e-mail me and I'll send you a treatment.
It reminds me of the second most annoying thing about my efforts to try and bring "Main Event of the Dead." First is the total lack of support (story of my adult life). Second is that I originally wrote it to be a tribute to the guys I started wrestling with at the first Peoria Athletic Club 13 years ago. This script was written as an homage to the guys I respected from that time, a chance for their bumps to be recognized...on a level they thought they could never be on.
That's the nicest way of saying it. After expressing my opinion about what a tribute show for the level the local scene was at, I'm just considered a bitter asshole and gained a better understanding of their motives. Hopefully I can get a little feedback on that statement so I know who the phony friends were/are.
As I said in the last blog (and probably my "Schrodinger's Cat" series), I don't have any supportive relationships. At least, none of those that want me to be thrive. If I'm optimistic about whatever the hell I'm chasing, I feel good. Whenever I hear, "hang in there it will all work out," I feel defeated. You cannot sell me on (as long as you stay in line according to social mores and values): the right job will just happen; the future wife will just appear; the next goal will just happen.
FUCK SHEL SILVERSTEIN PSYCHOLOGY.
Sorry, I shouldn't make it seem I'm bitter of the poems of my childhood. FUCK OSF'S PSYCHIATRIC DEPARTMENT for fucking ruining "Where the Sidewalk Ends."
Wrestling and writing is what I do to endure and stay in shape. It's fucking tough to do so when you are denied one by guys who refuse to hear about their shortcomings. If you don't like what I said, ask how we can get to common ground instead of waiting to laugh at the announcement of my death, reminiscing about how he was a loser who couldn't find a girl to get comfortable in mediocrity.
You can say (and it's not like I haven't been told) how many of those individuals who "don't understand me" or "act like complete assholes" are truly alone and empty. To that: I'm Peoria's only professionally trained, first generation wrestler. I appreciate a great illusion.
Zero Gravity is from the Bloomington/Normal, so don't bring them up as your counter argument to my "only" claim. Even if you bring it up, I'll say they weren't trained. They're just Connor McDavid and Jack Eichel. Transcendent talent won't be denied.
As for the seven-year gimmick, more accurately it would be six. Of the 12 years of my actual adulthood, I have to reboot after six. The first was my transition from aspiring wrestler to aspiring screenwriter. It's been another six years, and I've done my best with nothing again, and I know I gotta change. And that change will come when my lease ends, but I think I need help to get there.
Those who at least tell me to hang in there curse a lot of those I've figuratively broken my back for to assist, but I've never stopped messing my spine up for those who I can help. I'm good for a favor and your last name doesn't have to be Stevens or Daniels to end the irony of my adulthood.
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