The Freak Out
That's as much out of me as you'll get.
I have to be coherent today and write a ten-page paper. You think it's gonna happen? Me neither. I'm a mess. I'm just a mess. I'm a walking disaster.
Speaking of walking disasters, look at this:
"They're a walking disaster. They act like they're tough, how they care so much about winning, but it's all a front. They're just a bunch of characters." - BALCO Gary "on six teams for a reason" Sheffield
(I can't take credit for the BALCO/"on six teams for a reason" stab - credit Boston Dirt Dogs)
I hate Gary Sheffield.
And his dealer.
I can say this - I never thought it was over. At the same time, I never allowed myself to think it would happen. You can't do that to yourself; it's like masochism.
It's been two days, two games, and about fifty million heart attacks. I'm on about four hours of sleep in the past 48 hours. I haven't breathed normally for a month. I'm in a constant state of anxiety, panic, and excitement, all rolled into one. I get up in the morning only to make it to the first pitch. I go to bed that night thinking about the next game. Each pitch could end the season. Each pitch could make it all last. Every Yankees at-bat makes me brace for the end; every Red Sox at-bat makes me hope for the best. I feel completely worn out and drained, and yet I've never been better.
This is what it's all about.
I have to be coherent today and write a ten-page paper. You think it's gonna happen? Me neither. I'm a mess. I'm just a mess. I'm a walking disaster.
Speaking of walking disasters, look at this:
"They're a walking disaster. They act like they're tough, how they care so much about winning, but it's all a front. They're just a bunch of characters." - BALCO Gary "on six teams for a reason" Sheffield
(I can't take credit for the BALCO/"on six teams for a reason" stab - credit Boston Dirt Dogs)
I hate Gary Sheffield.
And his dealer.
I can say this - I never thought it was over. At the same time, I never allowed myself to think it would happen. You can't do that to yourself; it's like masochism.
It's been two days, two games, and about fifty million heart attacks. I'm on about four hours of sleep in the past 48 hours. I haven't breathed normally for a month. I'm in a constant state of anxiety, panic, and excitement, all rolled into one. I get up in the morning only to make it to the first pitch. I go to bed that night thinking about the next game. Each pitch could end the season. Each pitch could make it all last. Every Yankees at-bat makes me brace for the end; every Red Sox at-bat makes me hope for the best. I feel completely worn out and drained, and yet I've never been better.
This is what it's all about.
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