I’m sorry, Fed. It’s all my fault.

I can’t discuss the results of the US Open. The tennis US Open, golf fans. There’s one for tennis, too. Yes, I’m totally serious. Could we maybe start inserting the sport category into the sporting event from this point forward? I’d hate to be discussing my deep distress over the results of this year’s US Open and get into some sort of argument about Spieth. Because I like Spieth, and I rooted for Spieth. And, wait, how did this become about golf?!?

Even now with plenty of time for Fed’s soul-crushing loss to sink in, I’m still not ok. I walked around the office today like a giant, pulsing, red, raw nerve. And gross. I don’t know what’s up with all those adjectives. I’m just trying to help you envision my inner turmoil. And guilt. Because you see, it’s my fault. My FAVORITE MALE TENNIS PLAYER EVER lost due almost entirely to the fact that my new toothpaste is the wrong flavor. OK, I should probably explain. I have a very unique, but entirely rational, jinx philosophy. It’s very involved, and I won’t go into it all here. I’ll save that for another blog post. Just know that I brushed my teeth halfway through the match and discovered that I had purchased the wrong flavor of toothpaste. If I’m being completely honest, I’d say that another member of my household, who shall remain nameless, purchased the wrong flavor of toothpaste, but why kick a man when he’s down. And, if I’m going to continue with the honesty, he didn’t exactly know it was the wrong flavor, but, again, let’s not get into finger-pointing. It’s such a nasty business. Regardless, the minute I tasted that detestable flavor, I knew Federer was sunk. Sorry, Roger. The inability to capture your 18th major title rests entirely on my shoulders.

As an aside, why is it that every single blog post I compose comes to me in the shower? Why is that the time when my muse chooses to visit me? Could it possibly be any more inconvenient? I have to rush through my shower and all post-shower tasks, so I can dash to the computer to complete the transfer from my brain to my blog. It’s just a real pain in the ass is what it is. No, Dragon, that doesn’t mean I only take as many showers as I have blog posts. What? Yes, I could indeed have a blog reader named Dragon. In fact, I’m sure I do. ‘Sup, Dragon? How you been, man?

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