I’m a fighter by nature and nothing will ever change that.
One Jarod’s a lover, and one Jarod’s a fighter. Which Jarod am I? The middle one.
I think a cool war helmet is painted with red and white concentric circles, exactly like a bull’s eye. But I’m not a fighter—I’m a lover. That’s why I’m joining the military. I figure after well over a decade of continuous war, all they do is fuck around.
The builder has ginger curly hair on top of his head, and a thick moustache. He has the look of a McDonald’s manager from 1970 who spends his evenings sitting in the smoky back row of theatres in Soho. He’s tall and muscular with hands the size of shopping baskets and, on the one occasion...
I am a fighter. I’m not just there to go along and get along.
A fighter cannot contemplate fear, let alone show it. Fear weakens you, gets you hurt.
You know how when you step on court your coach is like “go go go!”? And all throughout you just keep telling yourself to hit harder and harder and keep at it? You know how much you treasure those five-minute timeouts? You know how good you feel at the end of a session? You know...
You either learn to play hard ball or you become the ball.
Take the things from America that speak to you, that excite you, that inspire you, and be the Americans we all want to know; then cook it up and sell it back to them for $28.99. Cue Funk Flex to drop bombs on this. All my peoples from the boat, let ’em know: WEOUTCHEA.
I used to be a fighter and I’m used to taking weight off.
Take a chance and risk it all or play it safe and suffer defeat.