Nervous Wreck

The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
Job, 1. 21

I've read too much media hype regarding game 6 of the NBA Finals. I'm officially shook. Everything I've read suggests that Dallas, on their home floor, will play with the intensity -- plus some residual anger from their lackluster vacation in South Beach -- they possessed in games 1 and 2, and that the Heat are stepping into a lions' den.

Honestly, I'm scared. No bullshit. I'm not normally one to get bad nerves, but the game tomorrow has me in such a state that I've not been able to sit still for more than 1.9 seconds without getting jumpy.

Shit, I was supposed to write the final Spring Cleaning review today. Promised to have it done with before the start of Cree Summers' Solstice. Couldn't concentrate and had to take the 'L' (a bad omen if ever there was one).

Can't stop writing fragment sentences, either.

I can't eat. OK, that's a lie: today I had a bowlful of Oreo O's (if you've ever wished your dookies were darker than Tim Thomas's complexion, Oreo O's are, my friend, the cereal for you), half a plate of spaghetti and a handful of Skittles (Skittles + humidity = sticky rainbow hands; take it from me); but my stomach was about as agreeable as a durian in a Singaporean hotel room, and all day I've felt queasy and uneasy.

I can't take this anymore. These playoffs, which I initially approached with low expectations, have turned me into a basket case the further the Miami Heat have advanced. What with the frenetic outcomes of games 3 and 5, in the past week I think I've lost 3 or 4 (or 8 or 9) pounds off my already-slender frame, and my visage has assumed the look of terrorist flushed out after spending two months hiding in a cave in southern Afghanistan.

This is not healthy, this is not how a sane man should live.

Thusly, I can't but believe that the basketball gods -- heed ye their wisdom -- aren't playing on me a cruel game of tribulation, testing my faith by leading me closer to the promised land, with the ultimate intention of, at the brink, snatching it all away.

The Heat don't have to win game 6 tomorrow, but they motherfucking better.

I'm through being toyed with, done being a pawn on your divinely comical stage.

It ends tomorrow.

It fucking ends tomorrow.

(But if it doesn't, we're still cooler than a polar bear's toenails)

Your faithful servant/whipping boy,

E