Buckleys Victory March

Coaches are for games, not for what you infer to be a glorified walk of fame—lit by your gaslight, fueled by shame. Call me impulsive or insane, but the fact of the matter is… I've run the numbers, and we both know that if I'm not winning, I'm not playing the game.

Take your questions and shove them. Take your well-intended concern and set it on the shelf next to where I used to keep all the fucks I gave at one point or another. See my words and read my smile. Walk down both sides of the road backward with your eyes closed.

Here I am. Here I stay. Watch me conduct, and watch me stand. I swim in my own river, unpolluted by your lack of empathy. My water will stay warm as you boyle yourself in yours—playing devil's advocate, reading postcards from hell.

My hallelujah may be cold and broken, but as long as it is mine, it remains mine to give.