After a Wednesday night game at my house in which my main solace was the short trip home afterwards, in which I took bad beats from (how the fuck could you call the flop with a just a Queen? that wasn't a draw at all) and then just wholly misinterpreted (why would you bet that hard with a good hand?) the play of my friend Patrick, it was around midnight, I was wired, not drunk enough and with no desire to finish off the remaining beer (who brought Blueberry Ale?), and thoroughly steamed. There are cures for this mind state; last night, opening up the Sox-Braves recap was one.
Coco Crisp has himself confused with Jimmy Rollins as of late, and I hope he never remembers his own identity if this power surge can continue. Staked to a 5-0 lead before his first pitch, Julian Tavarez pitched his best game of the year, seven innings of shutout ball, giving up just three hits. The Braves put up all the resistance of a plate of nachos, the Yankees continued to validate Colorado and the Sox's recent problems with them, while also bumping up the number to Bo Derek. Soon thereafter, I fell asleep at last.
Today, I'm tired and a few dollars lighter, but at least some millionaires I'll never get to know made me feel briefly better by beating other millionaires. Unfortunately, this is a off-day. Leaving me way too much time to think about those fucking Queens. Now who wants to buy me lunch?
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