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A Part Of Me Died Last Night

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Last night, sitting in the freezing cold and light rain, I adopted a Zen-like attitude. Watching my hopes and dreams crushed in front of my eyes, there was no anger. There was no yelling (of course, outside of screaming my lungs to nothing when we were on defense). Walking out of the stadium, there was no urge to throw things. Well, that's a lie, but I didn't throw anything. I just sat, Indian-style on the gravel, completely silent, and drank. And kept drinking.


I wasn't necessarily trying to drown my sorrows, but at that time, Miller Lite had never tasted so good. I didn't want to talk about the game. I didn't want to hear about the play-calling. I refused to answer my phone, as if I had, I certainly would have ended a few friendships. I just wanted everything to go away. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts to avoid ESPN and the entire Internet, it hasn't.

If you're expecting a great review of our great loss, it's not going to happen. I don't want to talk about. Maybe, someday, whether it's tomorrow or next week or next year, I will feel ready to talk about it. But today? Not going to happen. Look somewhere else. If you want to talk about it -- and I'm sure a lot of you do -- do it in the comments. I might even chime in with some witty remark about suicide. But I'm going to leave the meaningful game commentary to someone else.

Note: Want to flame me for jinxing us? Do it in the comments. I deserve your wrath.