Whale I reckun I shuld be fixun my man some possum, but since I am an educated woman of the twenty- first century I'll create a new blog instead.  I guess it could be assessed from the few garnered comments from my first blog that some do not consider me an equal on the NASCAR Fan rating.  It would appear as though my first blog created some sort of anger in danerno1.  While I am sorry to see such a feeble excuse for an English professor angered, I do not regret anything that was typed in my first blog. 

In case some of you were confused by the dramatics...my blog was meant to be more of story.  I was trying to give the reader a sense of how I felt when I first truly became a fan of NASCAR  I wanted the reader to understand the pure rush of adrenaline that I felt.  I wanted the reader to gain a sense of what it felt like for me to finally begin to understand NASCAR as a sport, a real sport.  I don't recall stating anywhere in my blog that I was an English major, nor do I recall stating anything about "just being with my man".  Yes, I said that I would sit and watch the race only because of my now husband.  Love is thinking the best and doing the best for someone else even to the point of self-sacrifice.  So, yes to make said man happy, I watched racing with him even though it "pained" me to do so.  And though sacrifice is a strong word, perhaps those who were offended by my doing so, have never had anyone love them enough to sacrifice for them. 

I can't honestly say that I give a giant, hairy rat's arse what people think of me or my blogs.  Freedom of speech...remember???? Besides, the great thing about blogs is that NO ONE can make you read them.  If you don't like it, simply click off the page. But maybe that is too sensible for some people. 

   Its true.  I haven't been always been a fan of racing.  As a matter of fact, I thought it a pretty idiotic sport.  A bunch of testosterone driven morons going round and round.  I just didn't understand.  What was the big deal?  I mean, so they went fast.  Whoopie.  It just didn't make sense.

   And then I met HIM.  My one.  My only.  My perfect man save for the fact that he was a Nascar fan.  It was difficult at first.  I thought about ending the relationship early on because of the idiocy of his "sport".  Every weekend I was forced to sit mundanely beside him watching all of those testosterone driven morons going round and round.  I was bored senseless.

   I would watch him, yelling at the screen, cussing at this driver or that driver, giving directions at though he were their crew chief and my stomach would turn.  The bile would rise into my throat and I had to fight the urge to run fleeing from the house.  But something held me there, by his side race after race.  To my dismay,  I was falling in love with a Nascar fan.  Life sure is a *** sometimes.

   And then one day it happened.  I witnessed one of the most horrific crashes I had ever seen.  And it was all caused by some idiot who didn't know how to drive.  But as I watched Jimmy Johnson wiped out by this idiot,  I felt something burning deep within my gut. And for the first time it wasn't bile rising out of disgust, but rage rising out of stupidity. 

   I don't remember rising from the couch, I just remember standing in front of that television set, my fists raised, screaming at this idiot, whose name, because of my previous loathing of the sport, I didn't even know.  My stomach burned from the rage bubbling inside.  My heart was pounding, beads of sweat had formed at my temples and my hands were shaking from the adrenaline rush I was experiencing.  Holy Hell....THIS was Nascar.

   The bile no longer rises in my throat at the words "Gentlemen, start your engines", but instead my heart pounds, my hands sweat and my breath quickens as those engines start and those testosterone driven morons go round and round.