Really?! Really?

AGAIN!? To the fricking WHITE SOX?

Okay. So. Um. It’s always frustrating. You know. To play THIS BADLY against a team THIS SUCKY.

It felt horrible with the fricking Orioles.

It felt horrible with the fricking Rays.

It feels HORRIBLE with the fricking Sox.

Maybe the baseball gods are confused about their colors.

THAT IS NOT RED, BASEBALL GODS.

What is red? My anger. Coursing. Through. My veins.

So, I can’t actually watch this game, thanks to the wonderful world of journalism, but I can for the next ten minutes. Ohmyfrickinggod.

While I’m working tonight, could ONE of you do something?

Seriously? When I tell you to hit the damn ball, I’m not telling you to give it a fricking high five. I am telling you to knock it out of the fricking park.

Now that we have that clarification…

I’m too angry to watch this. I am going to spend my break watching the Bachelorette.

Okay. Not really. But I AM TEMPTED.

Damn it.

L

I better come back to this and see some mad rallying. OR ELSE.

—-

9:48

How many times have we had to fall in love all over again?

It’s like that. We say we hate them.

Like this: I HATE YOU, RED SOX.

And we come back. And they KNOW it. That’s why they do this to us, FDA.  And we let them. Because, like a battered wife, we keep coming back.

So, I HATE YOU, RED SOX (not you, Jason Varitek).

But… sigh… tomorrow I’ll be back…

THIS is why Israel doesn’t give in to terrorist threats, people.

God help me.

God help us all.

Wait… what’s that? 6-10? A score? A score during my rant? What?

Dare I… is that… could it be… hope?! Don’t do this to me Soxies. Don’t do this… do it quick… do it quickly…

Oh… cruel, cruel hope…

—

A DOUBLE?! Sutton? OHMYGOD. Run faster! Oh… we could do this? We could do this! 2 outs, baby. 10-7. Oh… daring to dream… this is really going to hurt, isn’t it?

Oh God… please… whatever happens… make it quick…

—

10 p.m. … Gonz. Please?

No. No. Noooooo.

Damn it. I hate you ALL.

—

10:03 p.m. My feelings can best be expressed by Bonnie Rait. And this bottle of Keystone Light. Which doubles in my apartment as a microphone AND a tasty treat. But you can’t see me dancing on my couch right now, so you’ll have to use your imagination. And in your imagination, my voice should sound EXACTLY like this. Oh. And my hair too. I could totally pull this off.

Have a heart, Tito… And I will have another microphone. Um. Beer.

10:08.

And, while I’m Youtube ranting…

You! Alfredo Aceves! That’s right! I’m talking to YOU, FREDO.

You. Broke. My. Heart.

And YOU, Carl Crawford. I. Thought. We. Were. Friends.

I can’t even look at you.

KEYSTONE LIGHT IS DISGUSTING.

—

10:15. Papi. I don’t know what we would do without you. Don’t ever go away.

I hate you, Aceves.

Keystone Light is so cheap. This cost me like eight dollars.

—

It’s like you poison my coffee a little each day.

That’s from a song.

It’s from this song.

I am too mad too sleep. And too incoherent from a 15 hour day to make sense.

This is YOUR fault, John Lackey.

I mean. Um.

Okay. I’m going to sleep.

Maybe.

—

You know what I like about Keystone Light?

It has like, absolutely no taste. It’s crisp. You know? Like Miller Lite? And it is like $8 or something.

—-

Another stinker for the Red Sox.

Hah. YOU’RE ANOTHER STINKER.

I didn’t mean that.
Hold me.

—

The Yankees! The Yankees could lose! And then we would be tied.

—

And another thing.

John Lackey.

—-

Bottom of the first. 2-0. Really, Athletics? WHY ARE YOU THIS BAD?

I can’t. I can’t watch this.

I need more Keystone Light.

I am going to make a can pyramid. My new apartment needs artwork.

ACEVES!

I’m okay…

—

10:27. If the Bruins do not win tomorrow I will:

1. cry.

2. write a fionaappleesque song about how much i hate hockey.

3. cry.

4. swear off sports and do something girly. like watch the bachelorette.

5. cry.

6. throw a temper tantrum that includes the destruction of that record player i have that does not work but does take up space.

7. drink keystone light.

8. write letters to timmy in an accusatory tone.

9. cry.

10. torment everyone in my neighborhood with my cathartic parking lot scream ritual.

11. tear up this pillow.

—

I am on the Yankees site checking their score obsessively- and look at this little gem about A-roid’s overratedness.

Oh hah.

It is 2-1. Stankees. By the way.

—-

Hmph. SOMEONE just said that I should stop “drunken blogging.” That I’m “better than that.”

I am TIPSY blogging, thank you.

And, no I am not!

But I am sleepy.

So. Yeah.

Damn.

Stupid Yankees. Someone stay up and tell me if they lose!