Certainly, you read a short story similar to this one in college: Some bloke wakes up with ease on a Monday morning, inexplicably without the usual weekend hang-over. He makes his eggs for breakfast; they're fantastic. Checking his blackberry, he reads that he has been assigned to attend the conference in Perdido with the hot, single, flirtatious marketing director Kim. He lets out the dog. The dog craps in the neighbors yard. He has never liked his neighbors. Stocks are up. Sun is shining. His mother calls and, though she loves him, she has to cancel her visit. She's going antiquing in New England.
Maybe the story ends with a bus. Maybe the eggs were infected with some bacteria, and he is deathly ill on the trip to Perdido. Maybe he never makes it to Perdido. Maybe he makes it to Perdido, and Kim is actually a man, who has been hired to kill our hero. However the story ends, it ends badly. It has to.
You just can't keep getting these sorts of uplifting messages before BAM! A bus.
So, everybody, just stop it. No more SEC Title. No more BCS. No more. Just let me be the pre-season fifth pick in the West. That's where I'm happy. Give me Cutcliffe. Give me expectations of mediocrity. Because all this hype has left me perpetually afraid that all anyone is going to give me is the football equivalent of the stomach virus in paradise.
Please, don't love me anymore.