Editor's Note: This article is satire.
Trust me, I tried.
I brainstormed every avenue. I cashed in all my favors — financial, emotional, physical, sensual. I reached out to people I swore I’d never talk to again. I was ghosted by a 500 person GroupMe.
There was no Duke-UNC ticket for me.
Had I not sacrificed enough for this team? Was choking down BORGs and embarrassing myself in beer die not enough? Is my extensive Google history of “score of UNC game right now” not sufficient evidence for my love of the game?
I guess not.
To be fair, I did forget to enter the lottery. But that doesn’t matter. The lottery should’ve known how bad I wanted that ticket. They should’ve known that I would plot to sneak in, attempting to leap, catlike, over the iron gates protecting Kenan Stadium, only to be escorted out by two burly men who greatly resembled the rest of the Maye dynasty (how many sons does that family have and what did Mrs. Maye put in their green beans growing up?)
Alone and cold, I collapsed outside the stadium — my tears blending in with the rest of my Hex #7BAFD4 RGB 75, 156, 211 color scheme. This was the end of the road. Four years of backing the better blue, and UNC couldn’t open their doors to me on the day it mattered most.
Then, it dawned on me: I didn’t really care. Football games are long and exhausting, dehydrating and expensive. I had everything I needed at home. Instead of a 5-inch hot dog for $20, I could have a free dinner of Trader Joe's microwavable dumplings and use that $20 for gas, utilities or more eggs on DragonVale. And so I did.
