(I got moved to loose forward, hence the 6) In the aftermath of it, its hard. No one wants you, longs for, or even frankly cares. You'll sit at home questioning every decision you made with your now heavy heart, looking for any way to distract yourself. Your brain says wait, your heart says go, and your liver screams to make it stop. Love, like Rugby, is hard. After heart break makes its proverbial tackle, it seems like everything else is trying to ruck over and save the balding ball that is your life. Work, friends, alcohol, each tries in vain but the counter ruck is too strong. Ball is out, and your not yourself anymore. You wander aimlessly across the void that is the field, line outs to hope and scrums for sanity abound. After awhile you finally see it, normalcy coming back your way in the form of a ball carrier. At this point you have two options; slip a tackle and look good while suffering inside, or wrangle the fucker and take your life back. I, the full auto mother fucking heavy metal prop am done slipping. It's time to crush a bitch, and hopefully you'll find it in yourself to do it as well. My heart will go on, and like those fools in the picture above, no one will stop me.