It’s a phrase I’ve seen a thousand times on armbands, miniature towels, and neon-bright t-shirts throughout the last 15 years. It’s not just a saying, but a way of life; a mantra which one can turn to when their dreams seem so far out of reach. Yet as I lay here on this hospital gurney, loaded with local anesthetic as the doctors try to reset my intentionally-mangled ankle yet again, I have to ask myself: is my time now? Or should I finally give up on my dream of meeting WWE superstar John Cena?
As much as I want to stick to my guns, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t dispirited after so many years of putting myself through a literal living hell. After all, despite all the time Mr. Cena (or, as he’s more commonly referred to, “Big Match John”) spends visiting children’s hospitals and the Make-A-Wish foundation, I have hoped to see him walk into my hospital room during any of my self-inflicted stays. When I journeyed to the rainforests of Southeast Asia and contracted many strange and borderline unknown diseases, he wasn’t there. When I drove my car into the zoo and crashed into the house of snakes, he didn’t come. When I smashed out my own teeth with a newly-purchased hydraulic nail gun, he was nowhere to be found.
Granted, there’s always a chance that I simply can’t see him, as is very possible in most Cena-related experiences, but alas, I’m starting to think that maybe I’ll never get an appointment with the Doctor of Thuganomics. I definitely know he’s aware of me, too; I’ve sent multiple DMs to his official twitter, showing off my second-degree chemical burns, my multiple compound fractures, and the infected rat bites that naturally come with turning my bed into a den of trash. I even sent a fan letter to the production of American Grit with my severed ear stapled to the envelope. But no matter how badly I render my flesh, I feel like I’m beating a dead horse at this point, and by horse, I mean my leg, which is also dead.
Sorry that I don’t have lymphoma, John! Trust me, if I could, I would get it in a heartbeat; it’d be way easier than having to wrangle my extremities out of bear traps on the reg. But some of us aren’t that lucky, and if that means I won’t get the opportunity to meet my favorite sports entertainer, that’s about some bullshit.
If anything, I should be elevated above the less-committed members of the Cenation. Everytime I’m rushed into the ER, or I make an EMT vomit all over his shirt, or my parents tell me they’re trying to strip away my power-of-attorney, I’m always repping my Cena merch. When I jump into the bathtub that I’ve refashioned into an industrial cauldron, I’m singing along to his album, You Can’t See Me, to get through that indescribable pain. But without fail, I’m more likely to see Clive Barker at my bedside in my time of need than John friggin’ Cena, and if Clive Barker is reading this, yes, the restraining order is serious, every fuckin’ word of it.
As much as I don’t want to believe it, there’s a part of me that believes you’re intentionally snubbing me, JC. Is it something I’ve done? Is it something I’ve said? With all the blood I’ve spilled in your name throughout my house, place of employment, neighboring apartments, public parks, the movie theater, Home Depot, the other Home Depot, the train, the Mütter Museum, and the lobby of Titan Tower, I simply don’t know why you won’t visit me in the hospital. I’m there almost all the time.
If it has to be something special, please, just give me a sign. At this point, the CDC has a protocol in case I try to break in again, so that’s ruled out. I’ve shattered and mangled my extremities so many times that I can’t really build up the speed or strength for anything too spectacular.
Please, Mr. Cena. I’ve given my blood, sweat, and tears to trying to get you to visit me in the hospital. While death really has lost its meaning to me at this point, I would much rather see you in the operating room instead of the funeral parlor. So, if you’re reading this, John Cena, I hope you’re able to recognize the hustle, loyalty, and respect I show every time I jam my head into a wheat thresher, and will take a second out of your busy schedule to visit this purposefully ailing member of the WWE Universe.
According to my vitals, my time is almost up. Will our time be now?