Dear Baseball Season,
Listen, we need to take a break. It's just time. I'm not saying forever, but dude, it's November now. Stop telling me that we could just travel down 95 and find a warmer ballpark. I will not be swayed - even by the promise of a Sonic down south that sells a perfectly mixed fountain Cherry Vanilla Diet Coke with flawlessly crunchy ice. And really, Baseball, isn't that just running away from our problems? We both want better for each other, don't we?
I'm not liking the person I've become with you lately. She is grouchy and cold and shivering with her shoulders all scrunched up to her ears. She is huddling down, wrapping herself in a blanket and rolling into a ball in her Dick's Sporting Goods folding chair. She is a shadow of her former self. You see, one has to learn to love herself before she can love another. And this girl with her hood pulled tight around her head, her face chapped red and her teeth full of baseball dirt? She's starting to look like the Unabomber - not the fresh faced, smiling, pony-tailed fan you used to love.
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