Man, if I was a horror writer I'd have a real go at creating some nice imagery to go along with the title I've given today's rant fest. Festering wounds and the like are great fodder for wordsmiths such as myself--especially if you write in the horror genre. I'd go with something along the lines of "oozing pustules" and "maggots converging for a picnic on scabby surfaces until there's nothing left but the shiny red tissue normally covered by my pasty thin skin."
Crimson inflamed infections eating away at my flesh like an obese family at a Chinese buffet.
That's why I don't write horror.
But that's pretty much what last night's game reminded me of. The nightmare of Larry Bird stealing an inbound pass and hitting the game winning shot in the last seconds of game seven in 1984 came flashing back in a blind fury as I watched the devil spawned Celtics come from 24 points back last night to take game four, all but extinguishing our hopes of winning it all this season.
I think I still have scars on my knuckles from that 1984 series, and emotional scars that will haunt me forever, the result of a lifetime of watching the Celtics cheating their way past us to get to the top. (And by cheating I mean selling off their souls plus the souls of their children and their children's children. Note to Danny Ainge: Those contracts are not easily broken. Remember Len Bias and Reggie Lewis?)
As I mentioned to someone today, it's a good thing I don't own a gun because I probably would have shot something (or someone) and definitely regretted it this morning.
Yes, despite tossing and turning in what little nightmarish sleep I did get last night, I still dragged my fat belly and bony ass out of bed this morning and managed to conjure up 5 or 6 hundred words to add to my gestating baby.
Listen: I'm not giving up hope. On Monday I fully expect to be back on here writing about how possible it is to take two games from Boston in Boston.