This is Vince Young’s diary. Written on the second day of the second month of a year I could give a shit about. I’m in my humble Houston abode.
It’s Super Bowl Sunday, and I feel relaxed because of the music I’m listening to right now. My Evanescence Pandora Radio Station is my saving grace. People expect me to be a Hip-Hop fan because you see me in Mike Jones videos, but Hip-Hop doesn’t capture my id., no the morose, heavenly, deep, devilish, rocking music of Evanescence is what moves my spirit. It really WAKES ME UP.
I’m getting sidetracked, STUPID, STUPID VINCE. Again, another Super Bowl goes on without my presence. I dont know why I even bother watching anymore.
I’m beyond jealousy of the competing QB’s in the game. I’m not on a NFL roster even though I have a winning record as a starting QB and I’m broke because I essentially invested my earnings with Nigerian Princes. I mean, they said they were royalty – I thought I was investing with the guys Eddie Murphy and Arsenio Hall were playing in Coming to America.
I dont know why my chances in the league dried up. Maybe it’s my psyche. When Peyton Manning misses a pass, he is upset at himself and wonders how he can correct his next throw. When I miss a pass, I think about whether or not if the blood in my body could fill a tub. Also, I hate when people call me suicidal, that’s a big misunderstanding. I’m not jealous or angry really. I’m I’m like Eeyore, watching Winnie the Russell Wilson dancing in honey and adulation. I just wanted a little honey for my breakfast toast, that’s all.
I hate when people make fun of my intelligence because of my Wonderlic score. The Wonderlic. The Wonderlic doesnt throw touchdowns, win national championships, or run a fast .40. I’m not stupid, the test is stupid. And who cares if I didnt ace this test? I’m trying to be a NFL QB, not a world leader or anything. Let’s give George W. Bush the wonderlic, I doubt he lights it up.
I feel like Waylon Smithers, constantly overlooked and never appreciated. I dont know who feels bad for Tebow, he tripped into a playoff victory in a nice city like Denver. I played in Tennessee, a state that takes pride in not teaching evolution and pushing intelligent design. The problem was my coach, Fuhrer Fisher, did not intelligently design a gameplan for me. Now Fisher is with St Louis, underachieving per usual, yet earning big contracts.
No, I’m not bitter or anything. I’m just tired of being so good at football without a football job. I miss my time as a Texas Longhorn. I chose Texas as my football destination because I’m like the Longhorn. The longhorn lives a life for the sole purpose of being eaten as a burger after a gruesome death. I lived my life apparently to be chewed up and spit out by the media and NFL.
I’m not sad. I just want a chance. I’m the orphan Annie in a world of asshole Richie Riches and King Joffreys. Give me a chance, there is no way I’ll disappoint you as much as I disappoint myself.
OK Diary, I have some Avenged Sevenfold to listen to before bed.