THE JAY PRICE FALLACY Sept 23, 2021 14:06:38 GMT -5 Trey Bouchet, Johnny Bacchus, and 2 more like this
Post by Odin Balfore on Sept 23, 2021 14:06:38 GMT -5
I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing or what I’ve done to harm or wrong you, other than being the sole reminder that I have achieved more in my career than you will in multiple lifetimes. I’m not convinced that that this is all because you found out who your daddy is or the gun that you think you wield but you hand me Jason fucking Price. Sending me to beat up the ghosts of your failed and pathetic wrestling past is just shameful.
Live through the greats, Pasta, because you cannot be great yourself; no matter how many failed stars you bring to your daddys company.
With the failed gimmicks of: “ I’m an asshole who is now expecting a child.” How many AW stars rocked that shit into into the putrid abyss of ratings bombs; spoilers: ALL OF THEM.
Oh hey, you and Jay Price have something in common.
Make that three things.
1. You think that having a kid is some kind of redemption arc for you being an incompetent, ineffectual asshole
2. Neither of you can run a company
3. Coma will be your only way out of this.
Pasta, you made several mistakes this week. First and foremost you sent me back home to Minnesota.
I was on the 35, just north of Albert Lea, on my way towards Owatonna. Pushing 90 in my 2019 in my black BMW 228i. Demigods “Slumber of Sullen Eyes.” on the playlist.
You send me home to fight Jay Price. I laugh at this punishment. I broke your Pure Cup Columbine reject. The one with the sword. He’s at home right now, limpin’ and whimpin’ but he’ll be back with a stone face and stern warning. They always come back with a stone face and stern warning. My stone face, steel eyes and graveled voice go unheard because guys like Max think they got this whole thing figured out. We should ask him how that worked out for him.
Delaware State Hospital.
One week prior.
The heavy thud of my boots echo’d down the hall. We’re past visiting hours but Benjamin Franklin is everybody’s friend. Walking into the room, I can see Max sleeping, spending the night as they monitor his vitals. It’d be a shame to get finished off with a hospital pillow. The last things you heard is your own muffled struggles and that final beeping of the heart monitor.
“Max, this was not your fight. The fight was brought to you by Pasta. He did this to you. The gun he wields only pops and cracks. You’re sword, make of cardboard and pipe cleaners. It glints in the sun with glitter and fairy dust. You both draw your power from lies and delusional wishes. To be something greater than yourself without having a concept of that greatness. When our paths cross again, boy, do not expect a different outcome.”
Back on the 35, the breeze was a consolation prize for an otherwise humid day. Home was just a ways off and yet felt so far away. In an empty world, I have yet again fill it with passions and pride.
Jay Price, what are you living for, what are you dying for and why are they not the same? In a world that you gave so much for, the same that took so much from you - the golden boy that continually laid a polished turd, you kept going because one day that gold would glitter and yet that day it never came. I should know, I was there for most of it. It couldn’t have been those little defunct belts that kept you going, it was the smaller rungs on that ladder that propelled you upwards, each step telling you a sweet lie, the sweetest perfection. A living meme as you looked at yourself in the mirror. On one hand, you had accolades, accomplishments, and adornments and on the other, you were and still are the butt of many jokes.
A living, breathing, sunk cost fallacy. One of your own making. One bought with your own money. One toiled away with your own time that you can never get back. Jay Price puts time, effort, and energy into Jay Price because only Jay Price can. The only problem is that you burn out too easily. You shine bright because you have no other option. You fade fast because you see no other way out.
As CD and I mirror each other, you mirror Logan in all the ways that make both equally compelling and equally shit. You are equally tragic and equally sympathetic. It’s a fate that I know I wouldn’t want to partake in. I’ve spent decades before our crossed paths and I’ll spend a few decades after we depart again.
Your high points are my low points and my high points are dreamscape fictions that you only read about.
Jay Price, I have no ill will against you. If anything, you were a straight and honest shooter with demons that I could empathize with. Yet you could never peel yourself away from. Misery loves company and you love being the life of the party.
See, equal points tragic and sympathetic. I, however, do not extend to those feelings. You’ve had decades to improve, battle, and make peace with your shortcomings and yet you wore them like rusted armor. Ineffectual and daunting. They wore you out as much as you wore it with pride. You had a net gain negative and that is why you are who you are.
The how or the why in the matter of this week, where you find yourself against me, for the dozenth or so time, I could not tell you. Just know that it’s not personal. Its just business
But do know, I regard them as one and the same.
For you, this is a paycheck. One to keep you in booze and ladyboys.
For me, this is payback. For two years of being skipped. For two years of being the other, other guy. And even now, Pasta’s disregard and disrespect. This week, you’re him.
This week, you’re next.
I had a home in St. Cloud, on the rare occasion that I would visit my mom before she passed away. It was small and modest, as were the homes were in that area. One bedroom, an office, kitchen, and a gym in the basement. It was all the same as I left it years ago. I had pictures of my parents, of old tag team partners from back then, championship belts from companies that no longer exist, and magazines that were faded and yellowed from neglect.
All of this stuff used to matter to me but now it’s just an empty feeling. I recognized the people in the pictures but not that stranger with them. My hair was blonde. My face wasn’t as weathered. What I did recognize was my lack of experience. The road ahead would be long and arduous. It still is. At the very least it is a reminder of all the work I still need to do.
I could have stopped here with five world titles and nine tag team belts with a smattering of midcard belts. With my face in magazines and on the top one hundred. I had merch and toys. I had signatures and memories.
But if I stopped, that's ALL that I would have; memories. The only thanks I would have gotten would have been from my knees and my knuckles. Now, I no longer need tem to pay the bills. Dividends and interests do that for me.
I continue on because I don’t know where my story will end but I am interested to find out.
I know Max thinks he’s pure, despite his little emo, hard edge bullshit. This is what he has to look forward too.
That half-drunk bottle of whiskey I left on the kitchen counter that I haven’t touched in nearly a decade. Those magazines of when he thought he was on top. All just to throw it away because getting better means to change
And change is a frightening endeavor.
Just ask Jay Price because THAT, is your future.
And mine, despite all these accolades and magazines. The millions of words written by me and about me over these soon-to-be twenty-three years - my future has yet to be written.
To Pasta, Jay and Max, to reload that gun that they wield is to admit they are wrong. Something that they can never do.
While the gun that I wield is one of devastating change.
I told you, Pasta, that it was a mistake sending me home. Through all these memories, I never forgot the combination to the safe. And unlike you, I know where my bullets are kept.