Bro I’m on day 30… By their maths I should be benching elephants and shouting in ancient Greek at sunrise 👀 Instead I’m just pacing around like a WiFi router overheating.

If I hurt your feelings, just know… mine were already bruised.

Bro couldn’t even wait till sunset. Public places turning into PG-13 zones and for what? Is it that hard to hold your hormones till you reach a door with a lock? The urgency is crazy… man moves like he’s on a strict 2-minute expiry timer. Why are people so desperate to display intimacy like it’s a social media KPI? Where did shame, privacy, and basic decorum go?

Good morning, fam. Some days I feel like a kid again, filling my school bottle, lacing up my worn-out shoes, telling myself “one more rep, one more try.” Hydrate. Work out. Push through. The grind has been the same since childhood… only the stakes got bigger. Consistency beats talent. Sweat resets the soul. Never back down. Let’s win the day.

Chelsea won and my hormones started doing rondos. I’m not even joking… I’m so horny I might start celebrating like it’s extra time.

Delap isn’t even playing badly. You can see the kid pouring himself into every minute. He runs, presses, throws his body around, fights for scraps… and still walks off with nothing in his hands. That’s not effort failing. That’s the system failing him. We joke about the “number 9 curse,” but deep down we know it’s bigger than superstition. It’s in our football DNA. For years Chelsea have been a club that cooks everywhere except where the striker stands. Wings, 10s, fullbacks, chaos-build-up… everyone eats except the guy wearing the 9. He becomes decoration. A prop. A witness. Look at the graveyard of elite names who came here and got humbled: Torres. Higuaín. Morata. Lukaku (twice). Jackson. Now Delap taking the same blows. This isn’t coincidence. This is culture. This is structure. This is a club that never learned how to feed its own striker. We rely on wide overloads, inverted creators, and midfield runners to score. Then we look at our number 9 like “why aren’t you scoring?” Brother… from what? From who? From where? Even Haaland would struggle here. He’d score because he’s built from metal and destiny, but he wouldn’t look like the monster he is at City. They give their striker 20 chances. We give ours 20 collisions. Delap doesn’t need a blessing or a new number. He needs a system that believes the striker matters. Until we fix the way we progress the ball, the “curse” is just the poetry we use to avoid admitting the truth: Chelsea strikers aren’t cursed. They’re starved. And that’s what hurts the most.

A 3-0 win, sitting second on the table, and suddenly all the people who were barking in August are nowhere to be found. Timeline quiet. Group chats silent. Rivals pretending they “always rated Chelsea.” Cute. Let them know: Chelsea didn’t “join” the title race. Chelsea created the title race. And the funniest part? We’re doing this without Cole Palmer, our frost-blooded wonderkid, the coldest creator in the league. When he comes back this winter, teams are going to feel like someone plugged a power bank into the attack. Levels will rise. Goals will rain. Knees will shake. This squad was cooking today like they finally remembered the badge they’re wearing. Consistency. Clarity. Class. And a whole lot of agenda fuel. So yeah… Let everyone who laughed stay quiet. It’s a long season. Chelsea just warmed up the engines. Up the Blues. Let’s run this league.

But Neto? Man is out there running the most template winger simulation known to mankind. Cut inside, fake shot, lose ball, repeat. Wolves basically playing with a hazard light on that right side.

Cucurella marking Garnacho is like watching two kids sprint around a supermarket aisle. Chaos, but somehow it works. Garnacho getting loose pockets, fair play, he’s lively today.

3-0 Chelsea. Cold, clinical, corporate demolition. One early goal to set the tone. One right after halftime to crush their morale. One in the 80s just because we’re Chelsea and we like to put a bow on things. Clean sheet vibes. Wolves wandering around like their GPS glitched. Delap gets one. Neto steals souls on the counter. Estevao runs like he’s powered by espresso. That’s my alt forecast. Lock it in. Up the Blues.

Life was elite when our only stress was finishing homework before Cartoon Network started cooking.

Pant lines attractive? You’re asking the wrong questions. The timeline is already distracted.

this Chelsea draw feels like a personal heartbreak. mood on airplane mode, soul buffering… only thing that could’ve cheered me up was sex but i rejected it for the badge ⚽️💙 so now i’m down bad AND loyal. football is a scam 😭

Estevão is my MOTM. from the first goal to every little movement after, he owned that right side… finding pockets, creating angles, dragging defenders like it was light work. fearless dribbling, smart decisions, mature execution. not just talent… football IQ on turbo mode. the future isn’t coming, he’s already knocking in blue 💙✨

Estevão is magic. kid plays like someone whispered football secrets into his crib before he could walk 🔵

tried to find Estevão, no lane… so Garnacho took the keys and scored himself 😭🔥 baller behaviour. 2-2, we’re cooking 🔵⚔️

Estevão. 1-0. the prophecy wasn’t prediction… it was destiny 😌🔵🔥

I can reject sex at this time during a Chelsea game. priorities are priorities, mate… this badge comes first 💙 romance later, three points now. candles can wait, kick-off can’t. loyalty isn’t dead, it just plays at Chelsea’s games 😌🔵⚽️

Estevão first 5 mins. don’t ask me why… it’s destiny talking 🔵✨

52 goals and 60 assists at 16 is wild.

this ain’t a lineup, it’s a youth army with Premier League manners and Champions League intentions. let the kids feast. baku is a training ground tonight 🔵👊