I used to have this process where I would think of something to say and then I would say it. I called it my process. Lately it doesn't seem to be working for me. Lately I'm trying to get by with this alternate process where I don't think of anything to say and then I say it. Sometimes I do this thing where I think of something to say and then I fail to say it, saying something else entirely. I think I preferred my former process, but I cannot seem to get back into the groove. Take this post, for instance. This post is supposed to be a love poem.
Most of you have heard at this point that the Pittsville Stealers defeated the Arizona Bishops in the football match last evening. I watched the match and was completely riveted by the final period in which the Red Birds looked as though they might out-point the Stellars, but Pittston hurled a mighty score throw with mere seconds left in the competition and Arisita was unable to advance to the scoring region far across the grassy field before the final inning expired. Hail to the Steelites! They are the lords of their sport for now, having won the World Cup of American Football, the Super Cup!
Have you ever noticed how numbery football is? There are numbers everywhere. John Madden is probably a math prodigy, like Ben Affleck's former lover in that movie they wrote together where Jason Bourne hugs bearded Mork. "It's 3rd and 2 in the 4th and the ball is on the 24 with 11:17 left to play. It's an 8 point game so they'll have to go for 2. Warner is 65 of 80 this season, number 5 in the league. The Steelers have 4 out left, but the Cardinals are bringing 5." At the end of the game, if I figured everything correctly, the answer was 17. Is that what everyone else got? 17? I might have added wrong in the 3rd quarter. I don't know.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
