So. Um. I’m off work. Um. Unicorns.
So. Um. We lost, hmm? To, um. The Pirates? I feel like this is my fault. WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING?!
The first indication I get of events that have transpired?
A Jeb McRary facebook post that reads “Lyle Overbay haunts Lauren’s dreams.”
Hmmm, I think… still delirious from the lack of sleep that an all-nighter and a 7 a.m. bike race will do to you. Who is Lyle Overbay? And why is my vision swirly?
Thank you, Wikipedia, I say! I like Washington.
Lyle, I mutter, why does Jeb think you are haunting my dreams? Am I asleep? There’s a song by like, Fiona Apple or Alanis or something with “I only sleep to dream.” Have that in my head. Might be singing out loud into the hairbrush microphone. Feeling great. Sleep? Sleep is for the weak. Weak… John Lackey?! What?
Then it all comes back to me. That time before typing. Before work.
Red Sox. I get these flashes, see, of my life before the work horribleness of the past 48 hours. I see the Green Monster. I see those “k” guys. I see a beautiful, glorious bearded guy doing a batter’s dance. Kevin Youkilis. Red Sox. Kevin Youkilis.
I am filled with hope. Naive, naive sleep-deprived, hallucinogenic hope (Kevin Youkilis, is that really you?).
Pittsburgh. Drat. I remember you, Pittsburgh.
The .5 lead! The .5 lead!
Panic sets in.
Google, my one and only friend.
Red Sox. News search. Now. Click, you Mac computer clicker! Stupid Steve Jobbs, I yell, throwing a puppy toy across the room. Uh-oh. Fetch has started.
Sort by date.
DAMNIT. See first headline: “Streaking Pirates Drop Red Sox to Second Place.”
DAMNIT!!!! Shake fist at ceiling. Alarm puppy with ranting. May throw a hairbrush at the wall. I may have just done that. It is loud. I’m glad I don’t have neighbors, I think, before going back to cursing the clouds through my window. DAMNIT! Damn you, SKY!
Remember something. Someone to blame. This isn’t Tim Wakefield’s fault. Oh no. This isn’t Tito’s fault. This is YOUR FAULT, JEB. YOUR FAULT.
Cry a little. Maybe. Not really. Okay, a little bit.
Forget what I’m doing and make a paper crane out of my notebook. Okay. It’s not really a crane. It’s like this craney banjoey thing. Fade out a little. Sleep? Red Sox. NOOOOOO. Kevin Youkilis!
The thoughts are feverish now.
“We looked like we were going to come back, and we just couldn’t do it,” said Boston manager Terry Francona. “Their bullpen just shut us down.”
Bulls are scary. And very large upclose.
CONCENTRATE, LAUREN. You have much to curse.
A beer. A beer. This is what I need. It will help me sleep and give me something to hold instead of this notebook. Which I have now ripped to shreds. I hope those were old notes.
No beer. Improvise. Clever airport bottles. So cute.
“We can win four just like we lost four, so we’re not going to get too up or too down,” Pedroia said. “We started the season 2-10 and we’ve been kicking (butt) ever since, so I don’t think anybody’s going to go home and jump out of their hotel room because we lost four in a row.”
Pedroia lies. We will never be happy again. He so didn’t say butt.
I love Dustin Pedroia. He makes me so happy.
No one is going to go home and jump out of their hotel room, Pedroia. Because if they were home, they wouldn’t be in their hotel room. Silly, skippy.
Skippy peanut butter is inferior to Smuckers. But smuckers jam has a lot of sugar.
I have been awake since Friday at 6 a.m. That’s … um… carry the one… seventy bazillion hours.
My hairbrush left a mark on the wall.
Who is Lyle Overbay?
John Lackey, are you on the DL yet?
Think about mean things I could do to Jeb. Start brainstorming. I could. Um. Glare at him. Angrily. With eye daggers.
Yes, I think. With eye daggers.
Who is Lyle Overbay?
My fingers don’t make sense.
Hi, Kevin Youkilis. No, really, Kevin. I’m fine. Well, okay. If you insist. Maybe I’ll just rest my eyes for a little while… just a second. You’re always looking out for me. You’re always……………………
Who the frick is Lyle Overbay??????