Dragged Beneath The Surface.

There is a bite in the air this morning and I insisted on a hot Americano after the barista lady grabbed for the iced cup. She screamed, and said she wasn't going to think I was as hardcore anymore. I thought to myself that many people call me many things, but I do not believe the word hardcore has ever been used to describe me. Stoic, detached, "zipped-up" is the term Compadre used the other day, but never hardcore. A bit florid for my taste nonetheless. It's striking to me how something as impersonal as purchasing a cup of coffee can create so many expectations. Regrets. And tears. There's always the tears.

This waiting is pure torture. The first game of the World Series is tomorrow night at 5:00pm. The only thing we need to decide is where to hang the bells. Derek will be on this show called The Biggest Loser. Probably as an example of the antithesis of, but I will prolly have to miss it nonetheless, but by all means...