'Sing us a song, you're the piano man…'
Jesus.
After I've bled, sweat, and done other unmentionable stunts on or over that ring, all I get is a five minute interview with the man. And now I sound like Theodore Long.
It's not fucking fair.
Sure, I didn't love the business anymore. At least I actually had the guts to say it out loud. I mean, watch Rob Van Dam. Even Booker T. Chris Jericho…maybe not Chris. What do they have in common?
Booker T and RVD have never tasted the top gold. And now they figure what's the point? With Trips screwing Stephanie, he's never gonna let that title go. Therefore
Me…I figure that I've done enough. Brought in enough money. For nearly three fucking years there's been at least two items of Hardy Boyz crap on the merchandise best-seller.
I was happy.
The passion was coming back, I liked the angle with Trish (who wouldn't) and I had friends.
Quite honestly, I can't name more than three friends I've talked to in the last four months that aren't wrestlers.
I mean, FUCK! This is my fucking life!…
No it isn't.
But it's so fucking close it's scary.
'Sing us a song, you're the piano man…'
That's been stuck in my head since I saw Vince push my contract back with an extra sheet saying I wouldn't sue for the two weeks I didn't get notice.
'Sing us a song…'
My career's been sung.
'…you're the piano man…'
And my piano's been stolen.
Jeff Hardy. Signing off.
Shit…this was a short one. I just felt compelled to write once I checked 411mania.com and saw Jeff'd been fired/he and the company have split/whatever. This is just an unlikely thank you to the man who captivated so many for so long. And an apology for not appreciating what was so obvious for so long.
Thank you.
