Just another day for some. A national holiday for others. The kind of event people plan snacks around and scream at their TVs for. The winner‑takes‑all spectacles. Honestly, it’s probably the only sports event I ever actually watch—and the only time I enjoy the commercials more than the show.
The armed services and the U.S. Drum Corps marched onto the field like they owned the place. Regal, proud, a walking advertisement for safety and order. Then came the enormous flag stretched across the 50‑yard line, the National Anthem swelling through the stadium, everyone rising to their feet. A song we’ve heard our entire lives, known by heart whether we want to or not. And then the camera cut to troops overseas, standing in formation, saluting the colors they’ve sworn to protect. Strong. Stoic. Purposeful. A reminder of the American dream—whatever that means anymore.
Watching them brought tears to my eyes. They looked carved from stone, like nothing could shake them. Purpose radiated off them. Accomplishment. Direction. Meanwhile, me? Purpose? Accomplishments? Laughable. Some days, getting out of bed and pretending to function is the only thing I can claim.
But I still thought what was behind their eyes. Were their minds as chaotic as mine? Were they fighting private battles no one could see? Were they stronger than their demons? I hope so. God, I hope so.
Then came the commercials. A ski ad flashed across the screen, and for a moment I felt that old adrenaline—the rush of staring down a slope I had no business attempting, the thrill of flying over snow, fast, free, slightly out of control but pretending I wasn’t.
And then… the commercial that made me go silent. The one sponsored by Bud. Always poignant, thought provoking and directed straight to your heart. Tears, yup. A glimpse of an almost fantasy life. The kind I only dream about. I quickly shook it off. I had walked through hell and survived (i think) a silly commercial shouldn’t create such longing in my soul.
And then, a commercial for a drink called Liquid Death. At first, I thought it was a parody—some edgy spoof making fun of energy drinks. I watched with mild amusement, assuming no one would actually pay Super Bowl prices for a joke slot. But curiosity got the better of me, so I Googled it. To my horror, it was real.
A real drink. With real taglines like: Murder your thirst. Sell your soul for exclusive perks. A pop‑up on their site: “Cheat on your current beverage company.” Exploding heads. A “Murder Head Death Club.”
All of it felt surreal, especially with my still‑fragile grip on reality. Maybe other people found it cute or clever. I didn’t. Not even close.
Watching the spectacle unfold — the anthem, the troops, the commercials that swung from nostalgia to outright madness — I realized how strange it is to live in a world where everyone else seems to have a script. Purpose. Direction. A clean narrative arc. And then there’s me, sitting on my couch, crying at soldiers and getting rattled by a can of water dressed like a horror movie. Maybe that’s just how my brain works: always a little off‑beat, always a little too aware, always slipping between awe and absurdity. But even in the chaos, I’m still here, watching, feeling, trying to make sense of a world that never quite fits.
K. Unsupervised
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