This morning, I drove to Los Betos and got a really greasy carne asada burrito with extra green and red sauce as I chugged my 64-ounce Coca-Cola.
I had lunch from McDonald's - a Big Mac super-sized with a syrupy Dr Pepper, all to the unhappiness of my soon-to-be-expanded tummy.
Dinner went on the CatCard, as I called Papa John's and ordered three large pizzas, two orders of breadsticks and another carb-infested soda to drown away my sorrows.
Hello, everyone. My name is Shane Bacon, and I didn't get men's basketball tickets.
I am 1-for-4 in the ticket lottery as a Wildcat. What's that you say? Oh, quit bitching! You got tickets one year, you can't be all suicidal.
Well, the one year I received the magical slips of paper from McKale Center was the same year my genius brain decided to go abroad. I sold them to my buddies.
So that's it: four years in Tucson, enough sweat to bust a levee, and never a defined seat to watch fellow senior Hassan Adams jump out of the stadium.
I won't get to watch Lute Olsen hop like a Mexican jumping bean after a bad call, hear the band play one note during the opponent's entire time out or get pumped to the Zona Zookeepers jogging around the mid-level seating.
I'm stuck. Broken-hearted, ticketless and full of pity.
What does a senior do when he can't go see his beloved Wildcats play in his final year?
I think Dixie Cups, pingpong balls and a trip to Axis will at least start the healing process.
I want someone to call, someone to complain to. I want my mom to fly here from east Texas and make me a delicious hot plate while I complain about how much this world hates me.
I want to run through Coronado Residence Hall yelling at every kid who received tickets yet doesn't even know the words to "Bear Down, Arizona." Hell, I bet they still think our colors are sage green and silver.
I want to go to my good friend Michael Tankenoff's house and, instead of congratulating him on receiving tickets for the fourth straight year, slam my size 12 shoes on his little toe and run out the door with his CatCard.
Tickets are tickets, man, and you gotta do what you gotta do.
I want to drive to Durham, N.C., find Shelia Allen, Duke's ticket manager, pick her up in my arms and kiss her squarely on the cheek.
I want to thank her for giving the most dedicated sports fans the opportunity to see the game, no matter what computer picked them in what particular order.
I want to let her know that dedication isn't a choice, it's a passion, and those kids who are sleeping in tents for most of their second semester do it from deep within, not because they paid a certain amount of money to get calculated in a lottery.
Can we maybe trade our Zona Zoo passes in for some of those Cats shorts?
Do you think the ticket office would let us barter for tickets? I'll trade you my "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" DVD, a mini-fridge that holds exactly a 30-pack and a half-used bottle of Lacoste cologne for just half the season.
I'm depressed, down in the dumps, sad and upset.
I want to break stuff. I want to spit on people who get to sport their crimson T-shirt to a competitive sporting event. I want to ask how all four senior guys in my house didn't win.
Was it a fluke? Does the machine not like me because I made a "B" in Nutrition, Food and You?
Whatever the case, don't expect to see my frowning face anywhere near the front of the ticket line for the first basketball game of the year.
I'll be that kid arguing with the security guard at McKale Center's media entrance that I really am supposed to be reporting that week. If he doesn't let me in, I'll juke him like an Arizona Cardinals defensive back.
Think they show the game behind bars?
Shane Bacon is a journalism senior. He can be reached at email@example.com