It's Only Fitting That This Was a Brady Quinn Line: "Now I'm Done."

I’m writing this on a laptop (Editor's Note: So, uh, no clean-copy expectations), which I hate, and it’s quarter of one in the morning, which is ridiculous. More importantly: I haven’t written much of anything in over four months. That’s the worst thing of all. ‘Cept it’s not.

No.

The worst thing of all is the Kansas City Chiefs Football Club.

Somewhere in the middle of all those axes of suck lies the fact that the period of my life in which I, to date, have spent the most time consistently writing was an era that centered on these same Chiefs. I mean, my life has always centered on the Chiefs, and by “these same” I don’t mean this 2012 team, but by this point, it’s unimportant.

My life, for as long as I can remember has revolved around the successes and failures of Lamar Hunt’s football team, and in this moment, on this early, second morning of November, I can say that that will no longer be true.

Where I’m going with this doesn’t need to be long-winded. It’s best summarized by two distinct memories in two unique venues, some six or seven years ago, in which two grown men who’ve never met one another offered me the same answer to the same question. I don’t remember if I asked them on the same Sunday, or even in the midst of the same season, but it’s irrelevant.

The two separate conversations involved me asking them how they could be so nonchalant about fill-in-the-blank Chiefs loss, and they both answered identically:

“I tell you, Blair,” they said. “I used to care so much. I used to live and die with this football team, and I reached a point in my life where other things became more important than being letdown game after game, year after year. So, I just don’t care anymore.”

Those words hurt. I carried them with me, like an irreparable wound, winter after winter, vowing never to become that guy. And tonight, courtesy of Thursday Night Football and the NFL Network, I have officially become that guy.

This is how much I don’t care: Stats about not having leads and history lessons regarding how tight-rolled my acid-wash jean cuffs were the last time a quarterback drafted by the Chiefs that won a game for the Chiefs aren’t even fazing me. I don’t care that the crew at the desk unofficially declared us the laughingstock of the league, and I certainly couldn’t be more apathetic about next year’s draft positioning.

The fact remains that I am officially too old, too busy, and if so be it – so be it – too boring to stake all my claims in what this franchise might or might not accomplish on Sunday.

I don’t care.

So the media can take to the printed pages and the airwaves tomorrow morning and talk about whether or not Scott Pioli or Romeo Crennel will be fired, or whether or not now’s the appropriate time to do so. They can take calls and print letters from season-ticket holders that say they won’t renew. And they can compile stats that pit this team against the worst of all time.

I’m done giving the thing any energy.

The landscape that encompasses the National Football League is too big for me to tie myself with the team that bears my city’s name, and there aren’t enough hours in the week to warrant keeping tabs on how much worse this team will be this week than they were the prior.

Like Andy Dufresne said in The Shawshank Redemption: “It’s time to get busy livin’, or get busy dyin’.”

I’ve died a little bit each year of the past three decades. I’ve got a life to live, and it can no longer be shackled to the anvil around the ankles that the red-and-gold team at Truman Sports Complex represents.