Bored.

I'm bored. 

I'm so fucking bored that I played around on this stupid site and changed all the fonts and backgrounds and shit. What am I, a preteen girl? I'm starting to think this "therapy" is doing more harm than good.

I'M A FUCKING FOOTBALL PLAYER!

There. I guess I wasn't clear enough, and I need to spell out every little fucking detail for you nitwits. So here it goes:


My name is Blake Sawyer.
I play professional football.
I live in Kansas City.
And I punched a dude in the face.


Now maybe, just maybe, I can get on with my fucking life and prepare myself for when my suspension is lifted.

Is this good enough?

Apparently my last entry was deemed “insufficient” as an introduction to my story. My shrink (he hates it when I call him that… SHRINK!) said that I need to talk more about myself so I can “get in touch with the real me”. What a bunch of fairytale bullshit (He also said I should cut down on the profanity. Fuckhead.).

Anyway, my name is Blake Sawyer. I was born August 9, 1986 in New Lexington, Ohio. I didn’t have shit growing up because my dad was a small-time farmer who spent most of any profit he managed to gain on booze. My mom died when I was 4. I was her only child.

Don’t take this as some sort of sob story though. Nobody else had anything growing in New Lexington either. Either you farmed your own land, somebody else’s, or you worked at one of the factories over in Dayton. Luckily for me, I latched onto one of the only surefire tickets out of that piece of shit town; sports. I was a three-sport athlete in high school: captain of the wrestling squad, power forward for the basketball team and, most importantly, star linebacker on the football team. And since you know who I am, you know which one I hung my hat on.

As for why I’m writing all of this shit, well read the title idiot. It’s state mandated. Two weeks ago I was out at a bar, with a few of my buddies and my wife. We were celebrating the start to another season, pounding down drinks like there was no tomorrow. Stories were told, laughs were had, yada yada yada… At some point during the night (memory is kind of hazy), I caught some dude across the bar giving my wife the eye. Nope. Not in my town. Long story short, I bashed his fucking teeth in.

Now, apparently, that type of behavior is frowned upon by the Kansas City Police Department. I was arrested for aggravated assault, being drunk in public, resisting arrest, etc. (the list goes on for a while). Luckily for me, my name carries weight in this town and my judge just so happened to be a season ticket holder. So, I avoided jail time but was sentenced to three months of anger management. There, my shrink had the genius idea of having me keep a “personal, online journal” to document my actions and “get in touch with my feelings”. I know, what a quack.

So there, I think that’s enough for now.

This is bullshit.

What? I'm supposed to just type my day-to-day actions and "feelings" into this stupid website and everything is going to be better? That's going to prove that I'm "rehabilitated" and over my "anger issues"? Give me a fucking break.


I'm a goddamn football player. Not a poet. People pay to watch me destroy the opposing quarterback on any given Sunday, not read about what I bought at the mall yesterday.


And so what if I have anger issues? That anger landed me an 8 year contract worth almost $100 mil in one of the largest, most profitable sports' leagues in the world. That anger won championships in college. And you know what? That anger made damn sure that douchebag would never give my wife a look like that again.


Fuck, this is stupid. I almost wish that prick judge had just sent me to jail.