I stand staring at a blank canvas. My mind is just screaming with ideas but it seems that today I just can't release the artistic demons from me. This problem arises every now and then. It's not consistent but then again I'm not consistent. I'm all over the place like a moth on meth in a room full of lit up light bulbs. My mind processing a million ideas and they all wanna come out in different forms. That's why besides wrestling; I paint, sculpt, create music, and write because my mind traverses the planes of art so furiously there isn't one aspect that can contain my interest fully. Today however I am in a slump and I hate it. It's annoying as fuck to feel inspired and then to walk up to a blank canvas...only to be slapped in the face with a random attack of nothingness. A brick wall of blah. This feeling is far worse than any opponent I have fought in the ring and it looms over me like a sick and twisted, sadistic monster. I can't let this shit get to me though. I'm Jeff Hardy, and I know a lack of ideas can't last forever. It just seems that way at the moment and if I let my mind dwell upon it too long that's what will kill me more than anything else.


The phone rings and I pull my cell out, only to see it's Paul calling. Really? That fucking dickwad is calling? Oh...this should be good! I answer as I feel an even more larger tug of annoyance pull at me. Annoyance mixed with anger, some betrayal, and a dash adrenaline to tell Paul off. All the ingredients inside me that created the smoothie of emotions I was feeling.


What, Paul?


JEFF! Such a pleasant greeting! How's my champ doing? Are you fucked up, Jeff?


I sigh as I feel a knot starting to grow in my stomach. Getting this pissed off isn't good for me.


No Paul....I'm not. What do you want though?


Just calling to see how you are Jeff! Don't get so defensive, I am a manager who cares about my employees. I like to see them happy and healthy. I like to see my champs living as champs and that's why I think I'm going to have you submit to a drug test before your match. I need to make sure you're safe and I need to make sure your opponents are safe. I'm on the fence about this decision though. I'll let you know right before your match if I want you to do it or not. Hope that's not a problem?


Really? What a fucking cocksucker! Whatever.


No Paul, it's not a problem.


Good.


Got any more astonishing tidbits to lay on me?


No.


Then fuck off, Paul!


I hang up the phone and toss it across the room. It lands with a clunk and I sigh feeling that knot in my stomach tighten even more. I fucking hated that guy! Then all at once I lifted a paint brush and began to paint. Splashed the paint covered brush over the canvas in a frenzy of rage meets pure inspiration. A fever that flowed from me and into the brush as it danced along. I couldn't stop and I didn't stop as my creation grew and came into light. Savagely slamming the brush into paint and then onto the canvas. I simply lost control. It was almost like a fury that encased me. Like I was possessed and I couldn't break free of the hold. Couldn't stop painting. Part of me didn't even register what I was painting. I mean I knew it was something on a canvas. I knew I was doing it in that aspect. However the rest of it was all a blur. A fury that surged through me and was released onto the canvas. It was epic. Frightening and magnificent at the same time. I barely registered time as I frantically carried on. Lost in a trance of artistic wonder. The brush swishing like a mantra playing along with the beat of my soul pouring itself out onto the canvas. Relentless passion and devoted fire churn through me as I continue this well into the day and night.


Finally I stopped and stepped back as I felt an overwhelming feeling of completeness. A feeling no one who didn't love to create could understand. It would be the same as if I greeted someone in a language that was foreign to them. Nothing could properly define the moment and as my eyes pan across the canvas...registering just what I created, I hated it. It was putrid, it was vile and I despised the very sight of it. Clearly I had no talent if I could create such a worthless piece of shit. I dropped the brush I was holding onto the floor and turned around as I exited the room. I walked like a zombie through the halls until I found myself in my kitchen. The clock on the stove read that it was 2am. My brain barely registered it. This was a common feeling when I found myself returning to Earth so to speak after what just happened. I almost wondered what day it was and if my match had already happened? Did I miss my match? I never went off into a severe storm of mania and sparks causing myself to miss a match before. There was always a first time for everything. I mean when that happens I literally have no control over it and no clue on how long it would last. The longest that occurred was 3 days and when I came back to reality I slept like I went into a coma. This really was far more ruling and dominating than the presence of being addicted to any drug.


Pulling the fridge open I grab a container of orange juice and open it. No glass needed and I was far too thirsty to get one, so I chug that shit from the carton. I didn't realize how fucking thirsty I was until I began to drink it! Within a minute the juice was gone and I tossed the carton into the garbage can that sat a few yards from me. Having the pull to create like I was possessed by an entity that needed to be released sure took it's toll. It stopped me from eating, drinking or doing anything but that until I was "done". As I turn from the fridge I see my wife Beth standing there with a look that screamed "What is Jeff on today?". I close the fridge and slightly chuckle.


I'm sober. Can you believe it?


She walks over to me and peers up at me with curiosity flickering in her eyes.


I can believe it. I'd know if you were fucked up after you uttered one word, even if you said no words. I'm your wife and I know my husband.


Ouch! I felt a slight stab of something slicing deep into me. It was sharp like a knife and it stung as it sunk in and then slowly permeated over my whole body. Beth didn't mean to do it. Hell she probably didn't know her words did that. It was the fact that my actions of betrayal remained rooted in me like an abysmal pit. They churned and ate at me when I looked in her eyes and realized the gravity of what I did. Then all at once I found myself pushing her against the wall as we went from kissing to fucking in one swift and easy flowing motion. Like that rush of anger that caused a surge of creativity but instead of painting I was fucking my wife. It was pretty chaotic and amazing at the same instant. When it was over I stumbled back as I felt like my legs were going to give way. Like my legs went from being legs, to very overcooked strings of pasta. My wife looked at me like she was just taken down by a bulldozer as she held onto the wall to keep stability. Seeing her effected like that meant I did a good fucking job at fucking the shit outta her. I patted myself on the back for that one. As she leaned upon the wall, she caught her breath and gazed upon me with satisfied eyes. The next words outta her mouth couldn't have floored me more if she suddenly turned into Big Bad Leroy and punched me.


I cheated on you!


She declared it loudly and suddenly. My brain couldn't register it at first but then it began to play back in my head over and over like a broken record. I didn't know what to say. Was I angry, how could I be angry at her for doing the same thing I did to her? My mind spun with every emotion known to mankind. Not one feeling staying put or dwelling within me for long as I just tried to find actual words to spurt out. I mean I had to say something didn't I? What would I say?


Who?


Yep. That's the best I could pull outta my brain and transfer it from thoughts to words. Who? Good job Jeff! Way to step up and toss out some dialog there!


Who?


Okay...now you're just seriously impersonating an owl. What the fuck are you doing man? Form words. A sentence or something and for christ's sake pull your fucking pants up! I yanked my pants up and fastened them as my head continued to spin. It didn't seem like more words would be manifesting themselves anytime soon so hopefully Beth, got I was asking her who she cheated on me with.


It was John....


John? John who? My mind filled with every John I could think of and then she supplied the rest.


John Cena.


No. This was a fucking joke. That shit couldn't happen. He was a fucking happily married man with a beaming school boy personality.


Well, if your just gonna lie about it why tell me what you did at all?


Hey I found some words and threw them out in a sentence. Good for me!


I'm not lying. You were gone on one of your adventure, week long trips to god knows where. Climbing mountains and what not. I bumped into him at the mall. He was here in North Carolina with the WWE and we hung out while he had some free time. Things just sorta happened. I don't know how they escalated...but they did. I'm so sorry. Please understand if I could take what I did back, I would. Where are you going?


I didn't even know. I just grabbed my keys and walked out the door.