P.S.

I didn't learn much about the world of MMA during the course of this blog, but I did renew my love for writing. My first and second majors at USF were journalism and creative writing. I have since moved on to Physical Therapy but still dream of writing a novel someday. Just for fun. I used a lot of this class as an outlet for my creativity. I truly enjoyed this Expository Writing course and would definitely recommend it to anyone looking for  a great course with extensive writing. Keep on pushing forward guys. I'll see you around someday. :)

See you later...

Everything must end. This is true of all things in life. The good times the bad times the just alright times. Everything. Everything eventually ends. But don't be sad. It is in the end that new beginnings can arise. Yes, the sun falls beneath the earth every night. Every night the sun falls but that does not mean it isn't still there. It is in time. In time it will rise again. It will rise again and soar up above your head and shine its warmth upon you. You will smile and you will know. You will know in your heart that this isn't just the end. It is just the beginning.

Poor

I'm poor. What college student isn't? O.k. I guess some are spoiled. I've seen kids pull up into the USF parking lot with their BMW's and Mercedes. They're spoiled I guess. And when I see it it always makes me wonder. It makes me wonder what the fuck these kids are doing here. You already have a BMW and you haven't even graduated from a public university yet. Shouldn't you be in some Ivy league school where you graduate based solely on your parent's name or paycheck? And then don't you move on to be in charge of some huge corporation or wait wait, you get into politics right?
How do your amber waves of grain taste America? I hope you choke on them you asshole.
So maybe I'm angry? Maybe I'm angry because I can't even afford to get my ass kicked. Do you know how expensive the average MMA gym is? I called around and got some prices and even went to a couple free lessons. But every time they walked me into their office to do the whole, "salesman pitch" thing I couldn't help but to laugh. I can't even afford to get my ass kicked.
So these MMA gyms cost around two hundred dollars a month. Two hundred dollars. And I use the term "gym" loosely. These facilities don't have weights or cardio machines. They have sweaty mats and cages and long ropes to work your forearms. To gain strength as a fighter you still need a different gym membership for strength training. So add that to the cost. And you probably won't ever get health insurance either. Most professional fighters no matter the age still don't have health insurance. So you have to pay for your hospital bills in cash. And I'm poor.

UFC 131

Pictures say a thousand words. In the case of the above picture of Shane Carwin, I'm sure most of the words involve references to the need for pain pills. Shane, who has beaten all his opponents by KO or submission in the first round, got beat. Got beat badly. Junior Dos Santos broke his nose. Broke his nose, put gashes underneath both of his eyes, and tore apart his reputation. A thousand words. But actions speak louder.
If you remember one of my last blogs about Brock Lesnar coming down with Diverticulitis, you might remember that he was supposed to take on Dos Santos for this title contender bout. But Brock got sick, pulled out, Shane stepped in, stepped up, got knocked down. I'm sure Brock is laying in his recovery bed right now, after getting a foot of his intestines removed, feeling a hell of a lot better than Carwin does. After seeing this fight he might pretend to have another Diverticulitis flare up in order to avoid stepping into the ring with Dos Santos. I would. Who knows? After looking at Carwin's face he might be in the hospital laying on the recovery bed right next to Lesnar.

My three fights

You know, let's have fun with this post. Everyone likes fun! Fun, fun, fun! Plus, I'm in a little bit of a pessimistic mood today. So, if you could take three people into the octagon for a fight, who would they be? And no, please don't say your father or mother because you never felt loved enough...this isn't a psychiatric thing. This is for fun! I'll start this off with my three picks for the octagon.

First off, I'm definitely going to have to pick T.I. You know, the rapper from Atlanta. The super tough guy. The rapper that always talks and dresses like he's so bad ass. I'll bet my favorite care bear stuffed animal that he's not. If you've ever seen him talk on t.v. or in interviews you have probably witnessed his annoying demeanor. T.I. I pick you!

My second pick would be Florida Governor Rick Scott. He not only looks like the crook that he is, but he also looks like a child molester. Doesn't he? Look at those creepy molesting eyes! Oh, my blood boils when I hear how stupid the citizens of this state, and furthermore, this country are. This dumb ass turned down more than two billion dollars from the Federal government to help assist our state in creating a light rail from Orlando to Tampa and possibly Miami. This asshole already ran a health care company into the ground by being corrupt and stealing money from Medicare and Medicaid. And the dumb citizens of this state vote for him. And why? So, Governor Rick Scott, please don't veto my request to kick your ass. I mean, technically you should be in prison right now getting it up your ass anyways.


Finally I would have to pick a royal rumble with Lil Wayne and Nicki Minaj. I mean, how in the hell did either one of these ignorant and uneducated kids get so goddamn famous? Lil Wayne, maybe you used to be good. But the fact that you don't even write your lyrics down doesn't mean you're good. It means you're lazy. Here's your talent:

"Excuse my charisma, vodka with a spritzer
swagger down pat, call my shit Patricia
Young Money militia, and I am the commissioner
you don't want start Weezy, 'cause the F is for Finisher
so misunderstood, but what's a World without enigma?
two bitches at the same time, synchronized swimmers
got the girl twisted 'cause she open when you twist her
never met the bitch, but I fuck her like I missed her
life is the bitch, and death is her sister
sleep is the cousin, what a fuckin' family picture
you know father time, we all know mother nature
it's all in the family, but I am of no relation
no matter who's buying, I'm a celebration
black and white diamonds, fuck segregation
fuck that shit, my money up, you niggas just Honey Nut
Young Money running shit and you niggas just runner-ups
I don't feel I done enough, so I'ma keep on doing this shit
Lil Tunechi or Young Tunafish"

 Case in point. Those lyrics are terrible.
Now what about Nicki Minaj? Yeah, she's just as terrible. Every time I hear her annoying voice on the radio I wanna veer my car into the nearest telephone pole. People think she's so talented because she can do inflection in her voice? Five year old's can do that. Here's a taste of her so called.. "talent".

"Ok i was on my way to school i do's i me hopped out the drab grabbed my juciey i hop skipped and jumped past them hoopdies but wait i forgot to grab my lose sleeves i doubled right b-back like who's that i did a little dance b-kat-b-boom-kat i like how the jocks be watching me me so i grabbed my crotch and say hehe i be like bum stickety bum sticky bum while i popped ma gum they lookin tum tickety tum think they stepped in some uh i said excuse me hunny im b-bugs bunny aint funny got my guarantee aint gona if i may cos we the mean girls yes we're so fetch and when we in the yard be jumpin double dutch with back to the future pearl you were the best now i got everybody lookin at me i got everybody lookin at me"

Wow. Sounds like an inner city second grader's attempt at writing an essay. Just plain terrible.
So...who would you take into the octagon?

balls out

"Why the fuck can I see your balls, Privates?" The Drill Sergeant's voice thunders across the courtyard. I panic. Was he talking about my balls? I force my head up off the mud in the middle of my flutter-kicks and check to see where the Drill Sergeant is. He's about fifteen feet away. Fifteen enormous steps away. He's standing in front of the fat kid. He's standing in front of the fat kid fifteen enormous steps away but I still panic. Welcome to boot camp.
I never wore boxers under my gym PT shorts again. The embarrassment of being singled out because of your balls showing was enough for me to learn my lesson. With the guidance of our father figure, Drill Sergeant Barbosa, we all bought spandex shorts to wear underneath our gym shorts. This was a good thing. This was a good thing because it made sure our balls would never be seen by another Drill Sergeant again. Our balls learned their lesson.
It's seven years later. Seven long years later and I'm pretty sure I still have the same spandex shorts for my balls. I'm throwing my clothes in my hamper all across the room like a dog digging up a bone and I'm furious. I call myself a fucking idiot. I feel like punching the wall. I must have thrown the spandex shorts out when I moved two months ago. I must have thrown them out because I thought I wouldn't need them again. It's two months later. Only two months later and I need them. I'm such a fucking idiot. So I go to my first MMA lesson with the chance of my balls being seen again. Hopefully my balls don't learn another lesson this time.Hopefully.

I'm sorry

I knew my father would be upset. He wanted me to be a baseball player. He wanted me to be more like my sister. My sister who was one of the top five high school tennis players in Europe. He wanted an athlete. He was stuck with me. I knew he would be upset.

You see I was different. I liked the smell of the dance floor. I loved the studio where the ballet dancers tipped around on their toes and slid around on the wooden floorboards with grace. The studio where the early evening sun would splash the ballerina's shadows on the white wall across from that enormous window looking into the parking lot. I was a boy who loved the dance floor. I was different. 

I skipped baseball practice again that day. I skipped because I wanted to go to the dance studio. This was becoming a frequent occurrence now.But today was different. I was excited. I had a new pair of spandex and leggings in my baseball bag. The bag was a lot lighter than usual. Damn was I tired of carrying around those bats and gloves. I felt like Jesus when he was forced to carry that cross around town three days before Easter.But today I was free. 

I was stretching out my legs in the corner of the studio. The sun was beginning its descent towards the skyline, the warm glow upon my face. The glare through the huge window wasn't too bad at this particular moment. I only had to squint a little and I could clearly see most of the cars in the parking lot although they were a different color. 

Then my heart fell. There was my father's rusty, beat-up station wagon screeching into the lot. I panicked. There was no way he could know I was here. What was he here for? I thought about running for a second. Running away and never coming back. I wish I ran. There was my father's rusty, beat-up station wagon screeching into the lot. 

My little brother must have ratted me out. That little piece of shit. I watched my father storm into the studio and stomp his way towards me. He wanted to know what the fuck I was doing. Why wasn't I at practice? Why was I wearing spandex? What was I a fag?

Sorry dad. Sorry that I wasn't an athlete like you or my sister. Take me home and hit me. Use your belt if you have to. I knew you would be upset. I knew this wouldn't be the only time I would have to fight for what I believed in. I might as well get used to it. I was different.

Barbie Whores

I'm just a product of society. A kid who got scolded for wanting to play with dolls or liking the color pink. Big fucking deal right? So I'm like five and my sister gets this whole Barbie set and I'm so jealous. I remember her parading that toy set around the house. Parading it like it was the goddamn cure for cancer.
So I struck a deal. As long as I played with my shitty Batman action figures she would let me play with her. It didn't last long. I got bored when Batman banged every single one of her Barbies with ease. Every one. Maybe it was when Batman had the retro Barbie bent over the convertible. Maybe it was when Batman beat Ken to death and then got Mailbu Barbie to sixty-nine him on her bed. Maybe it was just growing up. Maybe. All I know is something in my pants felt weird and I knew that whatever it was I was going to like it.
So from then on out I became what society wanted me to be. A kid addicted to violence addicted to sex. Addicted to that feeling that pumped through my veins every time, every time that feeling pumped when Arnold Schwarzeneggar cut the guts out of someone or chopped their heads off. That feeling of triumph every time he got the girl. Every time.
You can say this was the beginning. The beginning of manhood. The beginning of a kid addicted to violence addicted to sex. A kid that knew that in order to get the girl you must fight for her first. Just like Batman. Just like Arnold. Just a product of society.

It fucking sucks

It fucking sucks. Fucking Brock Lesnar. Former football star turned professional wrestler turned WWE wrestler turned UFC STAR. Fucking Lesnar.
You would think that a champion in one of the hardest sports in the world would be physically impenetrable. You would think that. Physically impenetrable. I thought that. This all changed in 2009 when Lesnar's intestines got attacked by diverticulitis forcing him to cancel a fight and undergo surgery. Fucking Brock Lesnar was a STAR. This all changed.
Diverticulitis is when your intestines form pouches where food weasels itself into. Like a fucking parasite. So your food gets stuck in your intestines and this eventually turns poisonous turns infectious turns life-threatening. Diverticulitis. Life fucking threatening.
So Lesnar fought his way back. Fought his way back to optimal health. To the fucking arena again under those bright lights those bright lights, that octagon. He looked strong he looked menacing. He looked healed.
So Brock finally gets a shot at the title again. He gets a four page spread in Muscle and Fitness magazine highlighting his training and diet since his sickness. He gets a four page spread in one of the biggest magazines that caters to a male audience. He fought his way back.
It fucking sucks because Lesnar's intestines have been attacked again. This time he decides to pull out of his major fight against Dos Santos this summer. Lesnar had this to say:

"I felt another infection. I got a CT scan on my stomach and there was visible inflation. What it does is it doesn't allow me to train to my full capabilities and I was forced to make a decision to go back down to the doctor this week to see how far this was along and what it does is it drains my entire body. Basically you've got an infection in your stomach and all my resources went to fighting this problem instead of rebuilding what I tore down in the gym."

It fucking sucks but Lesnar swears that this will not will not be the end of his career. There's an ultimate fighter inside of him and he will fight back from this sickness and he will fight his way back. Back to the fucking arena again under those bright lights those bright lights, that octagon.

The Dolce Diet

Diets suck. I'm annoyed when people tell me they're on a new diet every fucking week. I'm annoyed when girls think starving themselves will make them look better. I'm annoyed when my best friend tells me to eat fast food to gain muscle. I'm annoyed. Annoyed. Don't they know?
1. Numbers mean nothing. Especially when it comes to the scale. You could be gaining all fat. Or worse, losing muscle.
There's this fighter. This fighter named Roy Nelson. Roy is such a fucking talented fighter but you would never know by looking at him. Let's be honest. Roy looks like shit. But I would never tell it to his face because he also looks hungry.

So Roy fucking Nelson finally decides to get his ass into shape. He goes to Mike Dolce, famed nutritionist and huge advocate of whole and natural foods. The guy doesn't even support taking supplements. On the tsbmag.com  blog he had this to say about his diet for fighters:

“I am not an advocate of supplements, although, supplements do make their way into my program                towards the very end once we made sure we have a very high level of whole, earth grown nutrients,” Mike     says. The only supplements he supports are all natural ones, like fish oil or flax seed. “Any other supplements out there, sports supplements – I’m not the guy. We can get all the same nutrients and a better level of nutrients through whole foods.” If you want to get big, it’s all about “calories in versus calories out.” Mike advocates eating “mom meals” when trying to gain muscle, foods like chicken, broccoli, potatoes, steak, etc. The caveat is “you have to make sure your food source is of a very high quality.”

 Now I'm not quite sure if this Mike Dolce guy really deserves to call this his diet. The Dolce Diet is eating natural and whole foods? I've been doing that for years already. My mom has been doing that since before I was born. My grandma has been doing that for who fucking knows how long. But maybe Roy never has. So  good luck to Roy. He's going to need it. Can anyone say divorce? I heard his wife stopped going to his fights a long time ago. And it wasn't because she didn't want to see him get hurt. She just didn't want to see him topless anymore.

Western Winds

It's bullshit. I had a perfect plan for my blog. A perfect plan. OK, maybe things don't always turn out the way they're supposed to. Maybe things never turn out that way. I had a perfect plan.
So instead of taking you along with me in this post to my first MMA lesson, I'm going to veer into a different direction. We were heading west with the spirits of the good wind. Now we're heading south. But maybe that isn't all too bad. I mean, the teacher is the teacher. And I am just the student. I'm the student changing his direction. Like a good boy. I'm just a student looking for another teacher to give me advice. I was heading west.
I'm heading south.
I found this article by Jeffrey Carver on the Atlanticmma.com blog site. It's supposed to help improve an athletes grip strength. I could use that strength to choke the life out of my lungs. I could use it like a good boy. They say that to write a good summary, you must be able to suspend your own beliefs for a time and put yourself in the shoes of someone else. I read that once. I would like nothing more than to walk away as a new man. I found this article by Jeffrey Carver.
Jeffrey Carver explains in the article titled, "One trick that'll improve your grip strength today" a way to use a towel to complete your MMA conditioning workouts. The best exercise with the towel is the pull-up. You grip the towel instead of the pull up bar. You grip the towel and that's what makes it so hard to do. This is the best towel exercise.
Maybe things will go back to the way they once were. Maybe they will go back. Maybe the next time life hands me lemons I'll just squeeze the fucking shit out of them. I'll squeeze the shit out of them because I listened to Jeffrey Carver. I listened to Jeffrey and started bringing my towel to the gym. I mean, the teacher is the teacher. And I am just the student. I'm the student changing his direction. Like a good boy.

Insecurites

The goddamn alarm is going off and all I want is to burrow my head under these pillows. I'm not good enough for this. I just know that I'm going to walk into this class full of seasoned bad-asses and I'm just going to stand there by the front door and they are all going to know. They're going to know that I have no idea what I'm doing. That I'm green, inexperienced, maybe too old to be trying this out for the first time. And then they are going to laugh. Laugh inside their little heads about me. Maybe they'll laugh about my clothes. Maybe about my hair. All I know is that they're definitely going to laugh about me. 

I shrug this thought from my mind and throw my feet on the ground. Fuck it. I always do this. I do this every time. Every single fucking time. Every time I decide to try something new I let my insecurities creep their way into my mind and out through my actions. I'm tired of it. This is something that I'm doing even if I have to roofie my orange juice and manhandle myself onto those mats. 

Wrestling mats. I remember when I was 13 and I used to watch this show called Monday Night Smackdown and this wrestler, this wrestler the "Rock" would come out and onto the stage. He would come out all ripped and then these fireworks would explode and everyone would cheer and whistle and scream. I remember being glued to the screen and being downright amazed at how strong he looked. I wanted to be strong just like him. Fuck, I wanted to BE him. So every Monday night I would do push-ups and sit-ups during the Smackdown's commercial break. I figured that in no time I would have a physique just like him. 

But that never happened. Its been twelve years since then and although I've made some progress, I've come to realize the difference between working out and eating right to shoving steroids up your ass like suppositories. I've tried it both ways. One's just more expensive. So I eat my scrambled eggs, oatmeal, and roofie-free orange juice, go outside, get in my car, and head down the road drugged free. 

Hi, my name is..

Fuck it. I finally realized that I've had an attitude problem my entire life. Maybe it was because I was born dead on a cold garage floor (which is why I hate working on cars, I'm sure) or maybe it was me being teased by the older black kids in my neighborhood, a ritual the trailer park kids down the street jumped in on as well. These were the same black kids that tried to jump me when I was six. The older brother held me so his younger brothers could punch me (I'm sure it was just because I had red hair, or because I refused to chew my gum any quieter on the bus) but I ended up, to my own amazement, pushing one kid down the ditch and taking the other kid's backpack and throwing it down the sewer.
This of course, wasn't the first time kids decided they didn't like me. I remember my first fight, back when I was only four years old. There were these dirty pale kids on the military base in Puerto Rico who loved to roll down this hill in front of their house in big green plastic trash cans. You could see them out there almost every day, pushing each other down the street and laughing like big dumb ass morons. That't probably because they were just that. Morons.
I think this particular incident started when my sister put a big rock in a bubble gum wrapper and told the leader of the dirty pale kids, there were three of them, to close his eyes and open his mouth. Like the dumb dumb he was he did just that and got a chipped tooth and a broken ego. My sister came home crying for some reason and my best friend Tyler and I decided to go over there and finish her job for her. I remember kicking one kid in the nuts and us throwing the same rock eating kid into his own plastic trash can and kicking him down the hill. I don't think he was screaming for joy that time...
Or maybe it's from my time in the Army as a Military Police Officer. Another place in this world where big dumb people get to scream at you and tell you what to do all day long. Yes sergeant, I would absolutely love to go outside in the rain and mud and do push-ups for you. No sir, I hate sleeping, PLEASE wake me up and force me outside to jog in the sleet and snow just because I forgot to bring a pen to class. That makes sense doesn't it? Come to think of it, I think they had the bigger attitude problem, compared to me for once. I mean, they just loved to pick on ME in particular. They said it was because I had the most "potential" to be a great soldier. I never believed them. I definitely call bullshit on that one.
This brings me to where I am today. Looking for a positive outlet for my built-up anger. I'm like a buffer, red-headed version of Adam Sandler's character off of Anger Management. I'm about to implode. So what the fuck am I to do?