I am living what can only be described as a downward death spiral that finds me wide-awake at midnight and sobbing (SOBBING) for a greasy-haired, FICTIONAL football player that is gonna graduate from high school and go to COLLEGE, y'all. Except that he's also gonna have a niece or nephew, and at this point, I really might sell my soul to Peter Berg just to see Tim Riggins stay in Dillon and whisper sweet sarcasm to a BABY. Shoot, he's come a long way since showing up to practice drunk and banging his best-friend's girlfriend in the pouring rain on the side of the highway--but didn't we all see the depth in that half smirk, and just KNOW he had it in him? I mean, seriously. With the way they introduced the first season of Friday Night Lights, did any of you die-hard fans EVER think that it would be Tim Riggins that you cried for when he left his cleats at the stadium? That entire story line KILLS ME.
And Coach. Coach, Coach, Coach. If I ever run into Joe McCoy at the Alamo Freeze, or the burger joint, or Panther stadium, I will punch him in the testicles for you because he is a son-of-a-bitch and you deserve BETTER. My blood pressure goes up 20? 40? 150 points? when he pops up on my television with that cocky little grin. And where the hell is Buddy Garrity??? I hate Buddy, and then I LOVE Buddy, and then I HATE Buddy and then I kind of hate Buddy. And then I hate Dillon, and the politics of it all, and the boosters. There is a special place in fictional hell for the BOOSTERS. And then I remember that the show isn't REAL, but it doesn't matter, because the aneurysm is half-way exploded by that point, and so I am *committed*.
{Edited to note: I have watched two episodes of season four since those first paragraphs were written, and now I need a Zanex. And a case of chardonnay. And a shot gun for Joe McCoy. And a Pinterest board of ideas to cutesy up Riggin's trailer, because that is sort of the rage right now. It's not like I don't have a life; quite the contrary, I have an entire, fictional UNIVERSE.}
Blog world, I'm sorry if you have never watched Friday Night Lights. It's like my Narnia. But even if you don't have any idea what I am talking about, I am fairly certain I can entertain you with my tales of going off the freaking deep end. What I'm trying to say here, is that I now COMPLETELY understand the homeless guy at the park who think's he's MacBeth. Because every evening I imagine I live in Texas and that I am pledging allegiance to the flag of the East Dillon Lions.
I have two seasons left of Friday Night Lights, and I have no idea how it's going to end, but I'm fairly certain it entails finding Cheetos stuck in my neck skin, substantial weight gain, the (continued) inability to seperate fact from fiction, and probably 23 stray cats--that will just happen to take up residence here, because that tends to characterize this particular level of crazy. I'm sure there's a tube of red lipstick in there too, and I suppose I get why someone might leave the house with it applied liberally outside the boundaries of the lips, because the muscle relaxants that are necessary to uncleanch my very tight jaw (as a result of the Season 4 shake-ups), will do that to you.
Texas FOREVER.
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