Don’t you just hate it? Nothing to look forward to, no plans for the weekend. It gets dark earlier, the skies are grey and there’s a nip in the air. No future ahead, no light at the end of the tunnel. It’s bleak and cheerless; it’s an inert world of limbo. What does it all mean? Is man put on this earth to suffer? Minute upon minute, hour upon hour, day upon day. The leaves fall, cascading across the barren landscape of a colourless sky. Those dead leaves signifying loss of hope, loss of optimism as they lie rotting in the corners and staircases of broken dreams.
Nothing to do but batten down the hatches, slip an Arsenal DVD on pour a drink and wait; the long, long wait for match day. Recline beneath a blanket of warmth, shielded from the ennui by reliving past glories; thinking of match day, only of match day. Past goals, past teams scoring glorious goals, anything to fill the vast emptiness.
Oh how I hate the International break.
Heading Courtesy: Luke Rhinehart (paraphrase)