I was asked to post the following masterpiece by a, one of the more unique posters on jazzfanz.com.
it's really, i mean you go up to my dog (my parents' dog) and you say "BOOM!" stretching it out in the middle, and she licks your face, the underbelly of your nose. Raul Lopez, anyone, he of infinite potential in 2003-2004 (abby is a beagle)? a pretty cute puppy doing pretty cute things under overwhelming stress (it was the correct pick; she's 11/77 years old, he has no knees), licking your nose, and Matt Harpring falls over somewhere, beside himself, oops.
he has the same initials of my most recent ex-boyfriend (and they share the same first name; the same singular, focused propensity for getting shots off and nothing else; the same guttural whine when asked to play defense; both rarely are able get up and dunk; both are white and rewarded for it) so it's an immediate irrational dislike, unfortunately, and when i watch Harpring i only see the other Matt slogging about the court, though much less pudgy (i wanna play World of Warcraft.. it would have been cute), just as boxed faced (not square-jawed) and sweaty, though i couldn't be with Harping due to my crippling vertigo, refusing to be victim to a combined equilibrium that would rival the Titanic in ferocity (crickets, and i don't have vertigo. cloverfield) remember Curtis Borchardt? no feet, no knees, god i loved 2003-2004. i'm a vegetarian ("He has as much personality as that pole over there")
i'm ambivalently unemployed, pining for the opportunity to hit open curls, though i'm not white so there's no room for me in the rotation. big surprise the WNBA died in Utah. i have lucid dreams, though, about Andrei (i met him at a bank), and the ethereal bind holding us together via mutual suffering. *swoon* my recalcitrant anti-hero, playing well out of spite for his burden, eventually leaving Utah, his newly-created wake leaving his first franchise blood-red in frustration, mediocrity, futility and permanently suffocating feelings of regret. fans clamor for athletes stripped of cliché, yet continually crucify a man for shedding tears, who's simply upset at his self-perpetuating prison created out of his own past successes, wanting only to perform up to his celestial abilities. holding up a sign for you on February 9th, lover
i eat rice and vegetables every day because i don't have a lot of money, but i do have a rice cooker, almost as if i'm making an attempt to force diversity upon myself, seeking some connection with my racial heritage through diet (not "on a diet") (i hate you i hate you i hate you i hate you i hate you). i lost my journal on campus last semester. the tags of Matt Harpring's journal: Jay-Z, Best Buy, Better Basketball DVDs, LAYUPS FOR DUMMIES MILLION DOLLAR BABY damn it damn it damn it damn it damn it damn it
