My favorite squad is faltering! Its star is over-thinking himself into a slump just as we enter the final week-plus of the gorgeous, heart-wrenching pageant called the Pennant Race.
Meanwhile, I've reached the period of "writing" in which I cannot, will not, do not write. It mirrors my ill-conceived idea of giving birth, or better, my idea of being "infested" with The Thing: something is happening inside of me. Something that is of me but not reducible to me. I walk around my office squatting, grunting, bending, breaking, and not playing The Long Run on the 8-track deck. I fill the wastebasket with spent fruit leathers, and I try not to drink coffee after noon because even with melatonin and Tylenol PM, I wake up at all hours and dream about things like TB-laced-afterbirths washing up on black and white shores.
I suppose now would not be a good time to point out that the Cubbies magic number for home field advantage throughout the playoffs stands at two.
ReplyDeleteOh sure...to say nothing of our _fantasy_ playoff matchup...?? Maybe you should actually fly out here, dangle grievance materials in my face (i'm out, out, out!), kick me in the privates and then introduce me as the new internal organizer for Big Purple 49?
ReplyDeleteWow! And you were having bad dreams about your dissertation!
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