The sky bleeds black. The scorched earth is littered with dead ravens. A cule shouts “HASHTAG BARCA LOST” into a void. The world burns.
I lie on the floor, dazed and confused. Outside my window, it’s snowing and grown men are sobbing on the streets. My body feels like the eyes of a terrified rabbit. Four rabbits, even. It all started so promising: win against our footballing cousins, clinch top spot in the group, score five manitas. Where did it all go wrong?
The injures? The suspensions? The rotations? An intense team that came out to play for their European lives?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything. It’s like I’m living in a bizarro world where Messi gets injured before Adriano and Atletico is an actual title contender.
I forgot what this felt like. It had been 21 blessed games. What was life before that, anyway? Before Pique became Hlebbed, before Xavi scored penalties that weren’t in a shootout, before the world and Eusebio deluded themselves into believing Patric would be a right-back full time. I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. Who am I? What is this? It’s not real life.
Mother Catalunya is about ten seconds away from going full-Thermoplyae on the effigies of Argentina. My strange metaphors are as terrible as ever.
We should sell everyone: Puyol, Puyol’s old age, Pique, Pique’s waka waka, Song, Song’s swansong before it even happens, Tata, Mata – wait, he doesn’t play for us. The point stands.
Barça lost and I may never be happy again.
Except nope. Everything above this sentence was a lie.
Except for the grown men crying part. That’s 10000% accurate.