one toke over the line.

(...sweet, sweet mary...)

This is my last weekend of mild sanity before the season begins. Last time to watch an exhibition and marvel at Kershaw's mad curve and Reed Johnson's shiny dome with little emotion beyond drunken awe. In the coming months, the same drunken awe will be balanced with the occasional dreadful horror coinciding with whatever bullshit this world hands out. With the state of this failing nation, the racist and sexist assault that will arrive all summer, much more predictable than any one team winning the fucking pennant. It's these perpetual bullshit things I will evade every time the Dodgers don't lose. Or else, it's a hundred knives to the chest. Been there before and I'll be there again. But the drunken awe will be there too. Only it will have more purpose, philosophically and otherwise. Those are the fine times I can't live without. Reason why I'm still in this abusive relationship. This is the last Saturday I can drink coffee without the possibility of wanting to throw my Dodger at the fucking wall. Or else fill it with whiskey and drink, drink, drink until the world turns black and I'm blind forever. Play ball.