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⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.
Life swears it’s “real.” But you and I both know it’s just one big work swerves you didn’t sign off on, matches you didn’t want, and the booking committee from hell.
You want real? Forget inspirational Instagram quotes. Try WCW when the New World Order was running the show.
Monday nights on TNT pyro, trash flying into the ring, Tony Schiavone trying to keep a straight face while the nWo mugged the babyfaces live on air. The crowd? Split down the middle. Half cheering, half booing, all throwing beer. The wrestlers? Six-foot-plus, leather-clad, and making their own rules while the boss counted the money.
Kevin Nash — seven feet of “I don’t give a damn” with a jack knife powerbomb that could ruin your week.
Scott Hall — the guy who’d flick a toothpick in your face, drop you, and still look like the coolest bastard in the building.
Hollywood Hogan — black beard, black gear, black heart. The kind of turn you saw coming but still gasped at.
Sting — trench coat in the rafters, bat in hand, deciding whether tonight’s your redemption or your funeral.
The Outsiders — rewriting the rules, spray-painting your title, and laughing all the way to the pay window.
The nWo didn’t pretend to play fair. They wanted you to know the fix was in. They’d beat you down, steal your belt, and cut a promo on your corpse. Life’s exactly the same it’ll work you over, leave you lying, and tag in your oldest friend to finish the job.
In wrestling, the heels are easy to spot. They strut, they cheat, they brag. In life, the heels shake your hand, borrow your tools, and call you “mate” right before they throw you through a metaphorical table.
At least in the ring, there’s a ref even if he’s crooked. Life? Life’s ref doesn’t show up until after the count’s already hit twenty and you’re staring at the ceiling wondering who booked this crap.
I’ve taken bigger bumps in my hallway than Nash took in ’98. MS is my permanent heel turn no babyface comeback, just a slow burn storyline I didn’t ask for. And unlike wrestling, there’s no crowd pop when I get back up. Just me, my chair, and the kind of promos I cut at the universe when it’s 3 a.m. and the meds wear off.
So next time someone says wrestling is fake, remind them: The matches might be scripted, but the pain’s a shoot. Exactly like life — except life never lets you cut a promo first.
I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.
