What the hell is holding back Damian Lillard?

Welcome to Deadspin’s The Sports Nihilist, where all is for naught and we are but accidental jolts of electrified meat stuck to the surface of a rock in an indifferent universe. Fuck you.

Loyalty is for people afraid of an upgrade. Whether it’s swapping out significant others after a promotion and botox shot, eschewing your old friends for a group in a higher tax bracket, laying off a couple thousand people on the path to a multinational conglomerate, or kicking your country bumpkin franchise to the curb for South Beach, at some point to get ahead, you’re going to have to “screw over” a city, a spouse, an employee, or a friend. And that’s OK, because ultimately if anything matters (nothing does) during our short time on this planet it’s personal happiness.

And that’s the conundrum currently facing Damian Lillard. So, I ask, why not just demand a trade? It’ll get him closer to an NBA title and will fill a gaping hole in his career, and nothing fills a void like shiny objects. Do we actually think King Midas was unhappy? The guy died surrounded by gold.

Never mind that he literally couldn’t bite into an apple before it hardened and knocked out his dentures, how would you like your last moments to go? Surrounded by a bunch of people who love you, or in a palace of extravagance? Look at Zion Williamson. He knows his time is fleeting, and he seems to be content drowning in excess.

Legacy is just something boring people obsess over because no one will care when they die. If Stephen A. Smith had an aneurysm during his next tirade to get Lillard in a Knicks uniform, there’s already another media personality ready and screaming in the wings. Small-market franchises, and their fans, are pathetic. Why would you ever root for a team that has zero chance of consistently upping your dopamine levels?

It’s not society’s fault that Portland is infested with homeless drug addicts. Maybe if they disposed of all the filth, the Trail Blazers could attract big-name free agents. You know what’s not gross and overrun with bums? Beverly Hills. Manhattan. Coral Gables. There are any number of cities where you can put the dregs of humanity out of sight with a few million.

I mean, if everybody at this new destination agrees that your last stop was a shit hole, they’re probably onto something. And it’s really hard to find that kind of affirmation. There’s solace in an inner circle that tells you exactly what you told them you want to hear.

Look at all the stars who said fuck it, I’m getting mine. Do Kevin Durant, LeBron James, Anthony Davis, and James Harden seem miserable to you? Yes, the Beard doesn’t have a ring yet, but that’s not eating away at him. Poor postseason performances don’t faze Harden one bit. He knows who he is, and won’t change for anybody.

Think of how many more #4BarFriday participants Lillard could attract in a major market. This infatuation with bringing a title to the only NBA team left in the Pacific Northwest has got to stop. It’s unhealthy. What does he think, he’s going to cure cancer by hanging a banner? Get a clue. Not even doctors can do that, and they should honestly just forgo that pipedream.

Hey, Dr. Toboggan, how do you expect to cure leukemia if you can’t even figure out herpes?

Life coaches always tell people to accomplish little goals when big ones aren’t attainable, which is why I never attempt difficult tasks. People who die trying aren’t valiant; they’re fucking morons.

Oh, look at me, I’m wasting away in Willamette Valley like a martyr even though I could be part of any Big Three I want. Boo hoo. Doesn’t my integrity count for something?

No, it doesn’t. Grow up, Dame. You’re 32 years old. You know what counts for something? Your personal happiness, and you would be a lot happier listening to the guidance of NBA Twitter. Hell, even Blazers fans are ready for a rebuild. They’re practically begging you to disown them. Clip that corrosive hangnail of a fan base, and join a real conversation.

Stop being so archaic. This is the 21st century. We’re all realists, or nihilists, and understand nothing matters in the end.

You know what we’ve become, my sweetest, Dame. Every player we root for goes away, in the end.

And you can have it all, an empire of dirt. You won’t let anyone down, for everyone knows hurt.