#okay to rb if you want i give zero fucks about this being shared im just keeping it in the tags bc that's polite
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having one of those nights where i'm just. extremely frustrated about fatphobia's existence and the fact that whatever i do to try and change it will be a drop in the ocean and there'll always be people who think i'm just saying this because i'm lazy
#and by night i mean its 5am but shhhhh#what sucks is i was actually building my acting confidence back up quite a bit with my delirium stuff#and i still do wanna do more of that!#but i got reminded that regardless of how good an actor i am i don't meet the 'must be this skinny to have emotions' bar#so i could only ever play her over the internet where people can't see my body#which is especially dumb bc she has like 60% of a physical form at best and yet its always a skinny one#and like i love sandman but it has a fatphobia problem. and the show has not exactly rectified it#kinda wanna draw despair skinny and the other endless not to turn the whole depression = overweight thing on its head#bc hell depression also = underweight and frankly i'd rather have no fat characters at all than her be the only one#but i fear that would get misconstrued and i don't wanna bring down that kinda hate on my head#and like i know i can't change what i look like i've tried i gotta be happy with this eventually#but i see no difference between comic despair and myself in the mirror#and sometimes it makes me feel like im two minutes away from growing tusks#so whoooooo oversharing on the internet#just. i wanna punch something but the something is society so unfortunately that's not really possible#okay to rb if you want i give zero fucks about this being shared im just keeping it in the tags bc that's polite
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i probably shouldn’t post this, but i’m clearly doing it anyway
I won my work’s Fantasy Football game. This is nothing short of a miracle. Despite beating everyone’s ass into the ground, I will never play this game again. But why?
I didn’t want to do this. At the start of the season I heard chattering around the office about Fantasy Football and putting together a team. No one asked me if I wanted to join, which is frankly not surprising considering that I am me. By the day of the draft they were still looking for one more player. My co-worker swiveled around in her chair, giving me a big, albeit nervous smile. “Would you want to play Fantasy Football with us? No pressure but I thought I’d ask.” (This is not an exact quote. I have problems remembering exact quotes.)
I thought very hard about this decision...
If I said yes it would mean embarrassing myself for several weeks, a not uncommon occurrence, but one I still hoped to minimize. If I said no, they wouldn’t have enough members on their team. I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like that may be a big deal? So of course I said yes. Since I am a human, I like being included in things.
I paid $20 to join the team, a Venmo transaction I described in the memo as “definitely not gambling.” The co-worker collecting the payments did not acknowledge my hilarious comment, which was a disappointment and what felt like a very bad omen.
Despite his obvious snub, I messaged him anyway. The IM conversation went a bit like this:
Me: I have no idea what I’m doing.
Him: Okay, so the first thing you want to do is figure out which players you want to draft.
Me: Who are the players?
Him: Come here.
Oh god, oh god. Did he say players, like multiple people? You have to understand my only other experience in this realm was at a previous job. I picked which teams would play which games. There were brackets involved. I did one thing, one time and I was done.
I walked to his cube. Act cool Melissa, you’re in this. You got this.
He patiently explained some things that I don’t remember and told me I’d have to draft my players.
Me: “What’s a draft?”
Him: “What’s a draft?”
There was a small ripple of vocal disbelief from a couple of my other co-workers. I looked up and scanned the room with my deer eyes.
Me: “When do I have to do this?”
Him: “Tonight.”
Me: “TONIGHT?”
What the absolute fuck did I just agree to. I walked back to my desk in shame and frantically messaged a friend, “I would have gotten more pleasure out of setting a $20 bill on fire.” (Again, this is not an exact quote. It may have been him who said this. He is much funnier.)
The co-worker who helped me out earlier answered my questions all night during the draft. What a champion, honestly. He told me the order in which to pick my players and also what TE, WR, and RB meant. I’m still not 100% sure what those positions actually entail, but I do know what they stand for. Let me demonstrate for the nonbelievers: tight end (no problem remembering that one), wide receiver (still somehow sexual), running back. Despite having an hour long anxiety attack, I managed to pick my players without logging off, crawling under my sheets, and suffocating myself with a pillow.
After the draft I didn’t think about it again for a full month. I had already picked my players. Football games were happening. What else was there to do? Until this:
A co-worker: Did you pick your lineup for this week?
Me: What’s a lineup? Wait...this week? You have to do it every week?
I learned that yes, if you want to win (an important stipulation my co-worker kindly provided), you have to do it every week. For 16 weeks. 16 weeks. 4 fucking months. I wanted out immediately, but it was too late. The $20 already sat smoldering in my house of poor decisions. Despite this, I sunk cost fallacied myself into continued emotional connection.
I eventually learned that some players didn’t play for a week, which meant they were “out,” which meant I would get no “points” for their…”moves”? The amount of anxiety I experienced after that lovely piece of knowledge foisted itself into my nervous system is innumerable.
So here’s the thing. I built the plane as I was falling (is that the correct phrase? probably not) thanks to advice from very kind co-workers who I imagine feel just a little bitter about their assistance in my epic rise to fame. Some other fun statistics:
I watched zero games.
I don’t remember the names of any of my players, except perhaps...Olsen? Who may have actually been a benched player now that I’m reflecting on this.
I still don’t understand where the points (?) come from. I just know that higher numbers are better. (Is it the number of yards they ran? That sounds like something that could be true. If they use yards, how does it translate for other countries with football? Do they just temporarily shelve the metric system? Interesting question I will not research.)
I didn’t start to care until the final games (or...playoffs?). But I found myself getting very upset when someone on my team got injured. A real thought I experienced: I spent countless minutes of my life picking my lineups and I’m gonna lose because someone got injured. What kind of sick fuck invented this game? I hated igniting my primal desire to win at the cost of someone else’s physical wellbeing.
So I ask myself…
Was it worth winning $200? No.
Would I do it again? Absolutely not.
But you did enjoy yourself, right? Only in the way a primate can.
Since my number one goal in life is to simultaneously run away from and cope with the fact that I share a ridiculous amount of DNA with a chimpanzee that smiles when it throws rocks at you (a real thing that happened to me), I simply cannot justify stoking my inner chimp for anything other than communicating and sex. And that’s just the goddamn truth.
~~~~~~~~
Proof:
#best fantasy football player in this workplace specifically in the year 2019#i'm still pretty sure this is gambling#i didn't love it
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