Sunday.

Football makes me a bad person. It makes me belligerent, petulant, vindictive, irrational, manic, and uncouth. It makes me drink too much on Sundays, scream obscenities in front of strangers; sometimes it fills my heart with hate, and once it made me cry.

But oh hot damn, I love it so much. Nothing in life—not breakups or makeups, layoffs, first dates, traveling across oceans, or even tequila —can incite in me the searing despair and unbridled euphoria of fourth down conversions, red zone fumbles, booth reviews, overtime coin tosses, unstoppable Peyton Manning drives, acrobatic Polamalu interceptions; the seconds that change everything.

This girl once told me that I was the shallowest person she had ever met, that all I ever did was drink, party, and shop. And then she tried to get my boyfriend to dump me. Still, I don’t remember hating her as much as I hated Phillip Rivers after the Chargers beat the Colts at the playoffs.

I care too much, but before last night, I thought there was a line.

I thought that when my girl Erin’s Redskins—a team she grew up watching with her father, a team that I had arbitrarily decided to hate—lost to the Detroit Lions, I wouldn’t openly taunt her. I thought that because Erin is one of my all time best buds, because she’s helped me through three breakups, makes me dinner a few times a week, lets me pick out the first song on the Jukebox at Stetsons, rationalizes my fuck-ups, and cabbed home with me on Saturday night to make sure I got upstairs without falling—that because of these things, I would muster up the restraint to not gloat gleefully over her team’s humiliation. That I wouldn’t say things like “I’m no expert, but I think the reason the Redskins lost is because they are not good at football.”

Well I thought wrong, and guess what, I’m not even a little sorry. Because the Redskins suck.

Go Lions! 14-2 :)