I'm at it again: Watching the Red Sox and obsessively reading books. I feel like my old self. Have I been in a protracted funk lately because the Sox have been, essentially, beset by the plague?* Perhaps. Or perhaps I was just tired and cranky. Bygones. The point is, I watched the whole game last night. And it was great -- gut-wrenching, ulcer-giving, great. I watched again tonight, and if Papelbon is seriously hurt, I'm going to church tomorrow and lighting a fucking candle, people. Sure, I've been an atheist for years, but if my going back to the fold will bring the Sox just a little fucking luck, for chrissakes, then I'll do it. (Luckily, I have a sick memory, so I still know all the words to the Nicene Creed.)
In addition to being my usual twisted self when it comes to the Sox, I was walking around the house reading a book today. I haven't walked while reading in a long time. It felt really good. And the book responsible for sucking me in? The Mill on the Floss. I know, hard to believe, but Eliot and I have something going. Something sick to be sure, but something. Let's hope both the winning and the reading continue. The fucking injuries can stop right here.
*On a serious note, my heart goes out to Jon Lester.
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