::throws pillows on floor::
Not ONLY can we not win a GOD DAMN GAME (Thanks, WANG. You SUCK. Your mom SUCKS. Your dad SUCKS.), but fucking Bitchson almost goes and pitches a no-no. Thank CHRIST for Carlos Guillen, because I would seriously have to go on a KB style rampage if I had to watch the national media sucking Bitchson's dick. It's been all I can do in the offseason to make sure he looks like a punk ass bitch, and I will NOT have all of my hard work undone now.
And now D. is sniping at people on his team who aren't 'true Yankees', because you have to grow up drinking milk out of Steinbrenner's TIT to be considered a fucking true Yankee around here. What the fuck do I have to do here, people? I save a fucking brat from becoming a fucking PANCAKE in Boston from szome manic truckdriver who probably had, like, two teeth and a MULLET. I hit TEN FUCKING RBIs in one goddamn GAME for you motherfuckers. What more do you want from me? You fucking shitbags are supposed to be bringing me my World Series ring on a silver fucking platter, here, and you can't even beat Tampa fucking BAY? Give me a fucking break. You little shits don't DESERVE to play with America's Greatest Ballplayer.
I'm sorry, guys. I just totally had SUCH a bad day. I couldn't sleep because I couldn't get comfortable on the floor in front of D's door. I went over to bring him brownies and riesling to cheer him up after yesterday's awful loss, and to be a good friend and listen to him in case Mr. S. chewed him out. He wasn't home, so I figured I'd wait for him. I fell asleep for a little bit waiting outside. I must have rolled over on a marker or something, though, because I woke up and my lips were all colored blue. It looked like I must have put my head down on a newspaper, too, because the ink transferred onto my face- all kinds of weird pictures drawn on my forehead and stuff. I found a margarita glass, too, which is weird, because why would I have brought a margarita glass with me for brownies and riesling?
I need a nap. And maybe a facial.