The Mets

The season is over.
We didn't make the playoffs.
I sit here, fettuccine in homemade cheese sauce in a bowl, and cold can of PBR by my side...as I try to work through the emotions of being a fan.
All at once, I am hurt, upset, depressed, hateful, angry, incensed, perplexed, and exhausted.
On the other hand, I am relieved in that doing this for another month would have probably given me an ulcer big enough for Mo Vaughn to fit through.
And also, being a fan, I am hopeful that next season will be better. I now can watch television that doesn't involve nine innings and return to my life as a single nerd looking to meet a special someone.
In other words, I have a whole other mess of issues to obsess over and be upset about.
See, there I go whining again. How blase, how unattractive, how...how...emo.
I don't mean in the good sense here, like Rites of Spring and Texas is the Reason. No, I'm talking about stretch-pants emo. The kind of emo that makes people take vacuum cleaners and weed-whackers to their hair to make a fashion...I mean personal statement. Here's some advice emo-kid: stop it. Just stop it.

So as a fan, what happens now? I pick myself back up and get back out there. I mean, I have to find something to fill the time- mise well be dating.
amirite?