Author's Note: You all know the drill. I do not, and will never, own any
of the characters you see in this story.
You know what I hate? Don't answer that - it's a rhetorical question and you'd be wrong anyway. You'd probably say working weekends, Xena or cheese or something. I'm not saying you'd be totally wrong, but you'd be missing the point `cause none of that's what I'm talking about here. You know what I hate? I hate interviews. Okay, that's a dumb generalization `cause I don't hate all interviews. They're a part of doing what we do and I accept that. And I guess in that ego-stroking kinda way I actually enjoy them. Y'know, knowing people out there might actually be interested in what I have to say. So what is it about them I hate? Oh, there's definitely something to hate. I hate specific questions. I hate `describe yourself/your profession/someone you know in three words'. I hate that. Word association too. That thing where someone says a word and you're supposed to answer back with the first thing that comes to mind. I loathe that. Especially when WWF Magazine does it, because they seem to have this special gift for taking all the questions I hate and firing them at me all at once. Word association with names. Instead of three words you've got one to sum up an entire personality. And you're not supposed to think about it `cause it's supposed to be spontaneous in word association. Damn I hate that. Considering they own our characters you'd think they could just make it all up to fit and attribute it to us, but no. That'd be far too simple. I'm pretty sure you won't understand this. In fact, I know you won't. You love interviews. You just slip effortlessly into character, assume the Jericho position and off you go. You're blunt and witty and entertaining and you instinctively know exactly what to say. Its like you don't even stop to think, your mouth just runs on autopilot. I really do envy you that. Everything's just totally off the top of your head and still absolutely perfect. I can never believe how easy it is for you. Because I have to work at it, sit down and figure out my answers beforehand, what I think the fans want to head me say. What Kurt Angle, WWF Superstar, is supposed to say. `Cause you know what? It's easier to come up with an answer in character. Underneath it all, the real me has no answers.
Not that I'm saying I'm inept, `cause I can think on my feet when I have to. I just have to take a step back real quick and ask myself what Vince would want me to say. Or I think back over past interviews and come up with a version of something I've said before. It's not that it's really hard per se, it's just that I hate it. I resent having to do it. And I'm not saying this has anything to do with mic skills or promos, `cause I think I enjoy that stuff almost as much as you do. We get out there in front of a sold-out arena and suddenly I'm Kurt Angle, superhero, and you're Chris Jericho. I love it, it's a great feeling. Talking out there isn't what bothers me. Spontaneity, improvisation, that's not what bothers me. Is this making sense yet? It should be. It should be pretty darn clear what I'm getting at. You only asked me maybe three days ago and I know you're still wondering about it. It's still right there, eating away at you in the back of your brain. I know you and I know the way you think - once you get something in your head you have to work it through before you can let it go. So you should really understand what this is about. You've asked me some pretty dumb questions in the past now I think about it. And I put up with them. I answer them. Because I know you wouldn't ask if it wasn't important to you. When you ask if your new vinyl pants make your thighs look like Rhyno's, I smile and reassure you. When you're having a panic attack over what to do with your hair and you ask me whether I think you should keep the beard or shave it or have a goatee or just keep the sideburns or whatever, do I just laugh at you? No. When you ask if I loved `the other Chris' more than you, I could be so sarcastic. But I'm not. I just kiss you and tell you honestly that I've never loved anyone more than you. Because it's true. Why else would I put up with you? You're a whining, self- conscious neurotic. But I guess all that's part of why I love you. Except for some reason you don't seem to understand that. You may be hyper- confident in Jericho mode, but sometimes you're so insecure there's nothing I can do to persuade you that I love you like I do. Telling you just isn't enough. Making love to you doesn't show you either. You'd think maybe both at the same time would do the trick, but nope. I could almost take that as an insult, don't you think? If I didn't understand you the way I do then I might take it that way. But I do understand you. And I love you. That's why I put up with all your crap. But you know, I almost wish I hadn't. Maybe if I'd told you to stop being such a jackass. Not that I'm saying I would've left you over it, `cause I'm not that damn petty. I just wish I'd made it clear that sometimes there are questions that I can't or won't answer. That might have helped me now. We were lying in bed one night, nothing unusual about that. I was playing with the ends of your hair, looking down at you as you stared off into space. You're cute when you're like that, all your defenses down, all your pretences dropped. Sometimes with me it's like you check them at the door. Sometimes not and just by looking at you I can tell. That night you had. It was just you and me with nothing between us. You looked up at me suddenly, a frown forming on your face, and I let go of your hair. You sat up and pulled yourself back, making the bed squeak as you leant back against the headboard. "Kurt, can I ask you something?" you asked. I just managed to catch myself before I could sigh. With you that's a huge no-no. When you get that serious you like to know you're being taken seriously. "Sure. Shoot". "How do you feel about me?" I frowned. "I mean, in one word. You've got one word. Say you've been in a car wreck and you're lying there dying on a gurney and you've only got the strength to say one word to me. What would you say?" I opened my mouth but snapped it shut again as I saw the look on your face. "And I don't mean love. My word's love, that's taken already. So you're dying and you need to tell me how you feel in just one word. What is it?" I couldn't answer. I just plain couldn't answer. I sat there and I stared at you and I couldn't say a word. I couldn't even tell you it wasn't a fair question. You sat there looking at me expectantly for a moment, then your eyes narrowed and I knew that wasn't a good sign. "Well?" you said. All I could do was stare at you some more. And all I could do was stare as you left the bed, dressed and left the room. I know exactly what must've been going through your head. You know I know you so there's no way you can tell me truthfully that I don't know what you were thinking. That wasn't a simple spur-of-the-moment type questions. I bet you'd spent all day thinking about how to phrase it, worrying you'd screw it up, wondering what my reaction would be. Now you'd finally asked and I'd said nothing. Absolutely nothing. And of course you knew exactly what that meant. I had nothing to say. I couldn't tell you how I felt so of course that meant I felt nothing. I couldn't even come up with one lousy word. If I was dying I wouldn't care enough about you to say one lousy word. Maybe I didn't feel anything for you at all. If I couldn't tell you that must be right, right? So you left. What point was there in staying if I didn't love you? I found out the next day you'd spent the night in Adam and Jay's room, you'd left me alone. You came back the next night and tried to act like nothing had happened. We were okay again. But I know it's still on your mind. You're just not dumb enough to leave me over this. But you're still thinking about it, wondering why. You just wanted me to say one word, one lousy word out of millions, anything, I don't think you'd even really care what it was as long as it was in the right general direction. But I could even give you one word. All I have to do was pick one. Any one. Any one of a million. But what you don't see it that that's exactly the problem. For you there is no problem. Ask you and question and you'll answer back completely unfazed. But Chris, even after all the questions I've answered for you, there are still some things I just can't do. This is one of them. Because how could I put this into words? Even `I love you' doesn't do this justice, so how do I take it down to one word? I just can't. I just keep thinking. I come up with word after word after word and none of them seem quite right. Just when I settle on a word I think of another and another. Or I decide it's the wrong word. And I'm terrified of that. I don't want to choose the wrong word and say it and have you hear it then it's too late and it's hanging between us. I love you, Chris. I want every moment to be perfect. I don't' want to screw this up by saying the wrong thing. And you should know, right now, that there's a good reason why I didn't answer you. There's just not a word I know in any language that means everything you mean to me. I'd need a million words and even then I don't think I could get it right. Giving me one word and ten seconds just isn't fair. It's not a fair question. Besides, if I was dying, if you were there with me, I wouldn't need words. All you'd have to do it look into my eyes because I know you'd see it. As I looked at you you'd see, because I'd know exactly what was being taken away from me. Not just my life, but my reason for living. You. But I can't tell you that. That neurosis of yours wouldn't let you believe me if I did. You're insecure, anxious and paranoid, no matter how much you pretend you're not, so no matter how much you may want to believe me, I doubt you ever would. And I can't answer your question. Maybe eventually you'll forget about it, but I wouldn't want to bet. I know this is important to you. You'll just never understand my reasons, just like I'll never find the perfect word. But I can tell you one thing. Right now as we lie here, as I toy with the ends of your hair and watch you sleep, there's one word that springs to mind. Tomorrow I'll have changed my mind again, but right now this is it. I look down at you, beautiful, perfect. I love you so much my heart swells. And the only word I can think of is `forever'. -End-
You know what I hate? Don't answer that - it's a rhetorical question and you'd be wrong anyway. You'd probably say working weekends, Xena or cheese or something. I'm not saying you'd be totally wrong, but you'd be missing the point `cause none of that's what I'm talking about here. You know what I hate? I hate interviews. Okay, that's a dumb generalization `cause I don't hate all interviews. They're a part of doing what we do and I accept that. And I guess in that ego-stroking kinda way I actually enjoy them. Y'know, knowing people out there might actually be interested in what I have to say. So what is it about them I hate? Oh, there's definitely something to hate. I hate specific questions. I hate `describe yourself/your profession/someone you know in three words'. I hate that. Word association too. That thing where someone says a word and you're supposed to answer back with the first thing that comes to mind. I loathe that. Especially when WWF Magazine does it, because they seem to have this special gift for taking all the questions I hate and firing them at me all at once. Word association with names. Instead of three words you've got one to sum up an entire personality. And you're not supposed to think about it `cause it's supposed to be spontaneous in word association. Damn I hate that. Considering they own our characters you'd think they could just make it all up to fit and attribute it to us, but no. That'd be far too simple. I'm pretty sure you won't understand this. In fact, I know you won't. You love interviews. You just slip effortlessly into character, assume the Jericho position and off you go. You're blunt and witty and entertaining and you instinctively know exactly what to say. Its like you don't even stop to think, your mouth just runs on autopilot. I really do envy you that. Everything's just totally off the top of your head and still absolutely perfect. I can never believe how easy it is for you. Because I have to work at it, sit down and figure out my answers beforehand, what I think the fans want to head me say. What Kurt Angle, WWF Superstar, is supposed to say. `Cause you know what? It's easier to come up with an answer in character. Underneath it all, the real me has no answers.
Not that I'm saying I'm inept, `cause I can think on my feet when I have to. I just have to take a step back real quick and ask myself what Vince would want me to say. Or I think back over past interviews and come up with a version of something I've said before. It's not that it's really hard per se, it's just that I hate it. I resent having to do it. And I'm not saying this has anything to do with mic skills or promos, `cause I think I enjoy that stuff almost as much as you do. We get out there in front of a sold-out arena and suddenly I'm Kurt Angle, superhero, and you're Chris Jericho. I love it, it's a great feeling. Talking out there isn't what bothers me. Spontaneity, improvisation, that's not what bothers me. Is this making sense yet? It should be. It should be pretty darn clear what I'm getting at. You only asked me maybe three days ago and I know you're still wondering about it. It's still right there, eating away at you in the back of your brain. I know you and I know the way you think - once you get something in your head you have to work it through before you can let it go. So you should really understand what this is about. You've asked me some pretty dumb questions in the past now I think about it. And I put up with them. I answer them. Because I know you wouldn't ask if it wasn't important to you. When you ask if your new vinyl pants make your thighs look like Rhyno's, I smile and reassure you. When you're having a panic attack over what to do with your hair and you ask me whether I think you should keep the beard or shave it or have a goatee or just keep the sideburns or whatever, do I just laugh at you? No. When you ask if I loved `the other Chris' more than you, I could be so sarcastic. But I'm not. I just kiss you and tell you honestly that I've never loved anyone more than you. Because it's true. Why else would I put up with you? You're a whining, self- conscious neurotic. But I guess all that's part of why I love you. Except for some reason you don't seem to understand that. You may be hyper- confident in Jericho mode, but sometimes you're so insecure there's nothing I can do to persuade you that I love you like I do. Telling you just isn't enough. Making love to you doesn't show you either. You'd think maybe both at the same time would do the trick, but nope. I could almost take that as an insult, don't you think? If I didn't understand you the way I do then I might take it that way. But I do understand you. And I love you. That's why I put up with all your crap. But you know, I almost wish I hadn't. Maybe if I'd told you to stop being such a jackass. Not that I'm saying I would've left you over it, `cause I'm not that damn petty. I just wish I'd made it clear that sometimes there are questions that I can't or won't answer. That might have helped me now. We were lying in bed one night, nothing unusual about that. I was playing with the ends of your hair, looking down at you as you stared off into space. You're cute when you're like that, all your defenses down, all your pretences dropped. Sometimes with me it's like you check them at the door. Sometimes not and just by looking at you I can tell. That night you had. It was just you and me with nothing between us. You looked up at me suddenly, a frown forming on your face, and I let go of your hair. You sat up and pulled yourself back, making the bed squeak as you leant back against the headboard. "Kurt, can I ask you something?" you asked. I just managed to catch myself before I could sigh. With you that's a huge no-no. When you get that serious you like to know you're being taken seriously. "Sure. Shoot". "How do you feel about me?" I frowned. "I mean, in one word. You've got one word. Say you've been in a car wreck and you're lying there dying on a gurney and you've only got the strength to say one word to me. What would you say?" I opened my mouth but snapped it shut again as I saw the look on your face. "And I don't mean love. My word's love, that's taken already. So you're dying and you need to tell me how you feel in just one word. What is it?" I couldn't answer. I just plain couldn't answer. I sat there and I stared at you and I couldn't say a word. I couldn't even tell you it wasn't a fair question. You sat there looking at me expectantly for a moment, then your eyes narrowed and I knew that wasn't a good sign. "Well?" you said. All I could do was stare at you some more. And all I could do was stare as you left the bed, dressed and left the room. I know exactly what must've been going through your head. You know I know you so there's no way you can tell me truthfully that I don't know what you were thinking. That wasn't a simple spur-of-the-moment type questions. I bet you'd spent all day thinking about how to phrase it, worrying you'd screw it up, wondering what my reaction would be. Now you'd finally asked and I'd said nothing. Absolutely nothing. And of course you knew exactly what that meant. I had nothing to say. I couldn't tell you how I felt so of course that meant I felt nothing. I couldn't even come up with one lousy word. If I was dying I wouldn't care enough about you to say one lousy word. Maybe I didn't feel anything for you at all. If I couldn't tell you that must be right, right? So you left. What point was there in staying if I didn't love you? I found out the next day you'd spent the night in Adam and Jay's room, you'd left me alone. You came back the next night and tried to act like nothing had happened. We were okay again. But I know it's still on your mind. You're just not dumb enough to leave me over this. But you're still thinking about it, wondering why. You just wanted me to say one word, one lousy word out of millions, anything, I don't think you'd even really care what it was as long as it was in the right general direction. But I could even give you one word. All I have to do was pick one. Any one. Any one of a million. But what you don't see it that that's exactly the problem. For you there is no problem. Ask you and question and you'll answer back completely unfazed. But Chris, even after all the questions I've answered for you, there are still some things I just can't do. This is one of them. Because how could I put this into words? Even `I love you' doesn't do this justice, so how do I take it down to one word? I just can't. I just keep thinking. I come up with word after word after word and none of them seem quite right. Just when I settle on a word I think of another and another. Or I decide it's the wrong word. And I'm terrified of that. I don't want to choose the wrong word and say it and have you hear it then it's too late and it's hanging between us. I love you, Chris. I want every moment to be perfect. I don't' want to screw this up by saying the wrong thing. And you should know, right now, that there's a good reason why I didn't answer you. There's just not a word I know in any language that means everything you mean to me. I'd need a million words and even then I don't think I could get it right. Giving me one word and ten seconds just isn't fair. It's not a fair question. Besides, if I was dying, if you were there with me, I wouldn't need words. All you'd have to do it look into my eyes because I know you'd see it. As I looked at you you'd see, because I'd know exactly what was being taken away from me. Not just my life, but my reason for living. You. But I can't tell you that. That neurosis of yours wouldn't let you believe me if I did. You're insecure, anxious and paranoid, no matter how much you pretend you're not, so no matter how much you may want to believe me, I doubt you ever would. And I can't answer your question. Maybe eventually you'll forget about it, but I wouldn't want to bet. I know this is important to you. You'll just never understand my reasons, just like I'll never find the perfect word. But I can tell you one thing. Right now as we lie here, as I toy with the ends of your hair and watch you sleep, there's one word that springs to mind. Tomorrow I'll have changed my mind again, but right now this is it. I look down at you, beautiful, perfect. I love you so much my heart swells. And the only word I can think of is `forever'. -End-