2007
There is an obsession never once revealed in all my livejournal musings I believe needs to be let free because it's the new year and that's what you're meant to do right? Apparently the new year is time to let go of all those things holding you back, delete those people on your mobile you're only lovely to because you met them when you were pissed one time and sold them a fat lie about lunch next week, quit smoking and go on radical "i'm a fatty boomba I can't stand it anymore" crash diets. I've decided a reversal is in order.
Since I'm one year closer to dying I should revel in my obsessions because I have less time to enjoy them. I once tried to hide my love of wrestling (of the sports-entertainment variety) by leaving all the collected posters at my parents' place when I finally moved out of home aged 20. I hid my 'best of wrestlemania' hardback, along with various authorised biographies amongst old geography textbooks and my unwanted remington ladyshave (I'm a feminist ah socialist ah lefty goddamit) believing it was a phase with an end long overdue.
It took me a while to realise that real passions never really die out despite relentless effort to seem cool and 'over it.' I'll never get over watching Summerslam93 on video with my dad over and over on my birthday. It was the year Randy 'The Macho Man' Savage married "the beautiful Elizabeth" in the middle of the ring. I won't forget the time I watched Mick Foley as Mankind jump off the top of the cage onto the announcer's table only to miss Stone Cold altogether and start bleeding profusely. Oh and I'll always be fond of Chyna in her mamacita days before Eddie Guerro became another thirty-something wrestler to succumb to a drug-abuse-related early death. Perhaps it's the drama. I know it's not the overt misogyny because that's well, bad....but there's something fantastical, other worldly about it and I vow never to get over it.
Since I'm one year closer to dying I should revel in my obsessions because I have less time to enjoy them. I once tried to hide my love of wrestling (of the sports-entertainment variety) by leaving all the collected posters at my parents' place when I finally moved out of home aged 20. I hid my 'best of wrestlemania' hardback, along with various authorised biographies amongst old geography textbooks and my unwanted remington ladyshave (I'm a feminist ah socialist ah lefty goddamit) believing it was a phase with an end long overdue.
It took me a while to realise that real passions never really die out despite relentless effort to seem cool and 'over it.' I'll never get over watching Summerslam93 on video with my dad over and over on my birthday. It was the year Randy 'The Macho Man' Savage married "the beautiful Elizabeth" in the middle of the ring. I won't forget the time I watched Mick Foley as Mankind jump off the top of the cage onto the announcer's table only to miss Stone Cold altogether and start bleeding profusely. Oh and I'll always be fond of Chyna in her mamacita days before Eddie Guerro became another thirty-something wrestler to succumb to a drug-abuse-related early death. Perhaps it's the drama. I know it's not the overt misogyny because that's well, bad....but there's something fantastical, other worldly about it and I vow never to get over it.