A little bit ago I got stoned and watched Monday Night Football, which I forgot had existed, and I took some notes.    

All of the questions I had did not pertain to the world of the football game itself, and I felt like I was annoying my uncle asking, “What’s going to happen to Candlestick Park now that the 49ers aren’t going to play there?” “How long have there been black quarterbacks in the NFL, are there more now that it’s no longer just Warren Moon!?” “Are they really selling Navy identity to civilians by telling them to join Navy Credit Union? The navy man is obviously an actor pretending to be in the Navy—now so can you!”  

 
I didn’t realize how much my uncle was now not just a football fan by a Seahawks fan—he is the 12th man. I realized this when I asked if the whole idea of the 12th man—that the fans are so intense that it’s like they’re literally on the field in the form of an extra player—was either arrogant or delusional. He looked hurt. “It’s just an expression,” he said. I internalized my questions, took notes, and tried to compose a working essay:

 
The football with the commercials with the weed was too much stimulation. It made me think of Elizabeth Gilbert speaking of her new non-fiction work on creativity, and that there comes a time when you have to shoo away new ideas or else drown in possibilities.  I went to the room I was staying in that had TV and I decided I would pretend it was the early ’90s and that I was in my grandma’s house flipping through channels and settling on Full House. However, it was too excruciating to attempt to watch the show. I gave up and went to bed, watching a netflix as I went to sleep.