[& now gmail's being a bitch]

[mazily]

True stories about me:

1. When I am already in a fragile mental space, Carlos Pena hitting a home run off Josh Beckett can and will drive me to huddle under the covers and (not cry, that didn't happen until morning*) pull my hood up and (then I fell asleep). Relatedly: baseball as emotional pick-me-up does not actually work when all you can say the morning after is, "Hey, at least Beckett looked good." (Which, mind, is a very good thing, but still.) (And let's not even talk about the Mets.)
   
   
2. Relatedly, part deux: Chinese food is awesome. Even when it's bad, it's awesome.
   
   
3. Loud music, Reggie & screaming & The Game & Gym Class & new FOB & beats & foot stomping & MCR & Leathermouth, and. Walking down the street. We take our power where we can, you know? Play your music loud, motherfuckers. (People must think I'm crazy, some days, when I walk down the street singing along. But I think they're the crazy ones, so there.)
   
   
4. Sometimes being in a position with actual choices sucks more than not knowing at all.
   
   
5. A while back, there was a short article in ESPN: The (Shitty) Magazine about Shattuck-St. Mary's, which of course makes me want to watch SSM: The Series, which of course does not exist. But, c'mon, a tv show about a (primarily) hockey boarding school, maybe even focusing on the girls hockey team, would be totally kickass (to me, until it got canceled mid-season, etc.).
   
   
6. Seriously, sometimes getting out of bed, showering & getting dressed, walking to the T (stopping for coffee & a muffin), getting off the T at the right stop and actually walking across the Common and into the building and up to my office? Is a huge, huge, thing. So props to myself for accomplishing it on this "Gee, ma, I don't wanna get up" day.

And now, back to work. Because that's what I'm supposed to do. Feel free to post pictures of hot people &/or ficets in the comments if you want to (or, hey, don't; we are all about the "no pressure" vibe here).

*Which, while triggered by a picture of sad J. Mast, was shockingly unrelated to baseball activities.