Lose My Number

Or as my wife says, you should all definitely unfriend me.

So I have walked around this year with a Charlie Brown on a bad day rain cloud over my head. I have given you chapter and verse of the personal sorrows that have been relentless in  their pursuit of me throughout 2024. My political team just got soundly thrashed by a man who has forever resided in a looking glass world where no sin is too large to commit or too horrible not to be forgiven and forgotten . And I was eye witness to the fifth inning fifth game World Series devastation and self-destruction of my beloved Yankees. There is little I have to offer by way of contravention. Whichever way I turn, ugly follows as my unwanted companion.

Let this serve as fair warning. I am this season's six degrees of separation. Everyone within my contemplation is within reach. No mountain high, no valley low, no river wide enough to save you from the woes that flow directly from the Hell that has taken over my universe.

I must have stepped on a crack, left my keys or hat on the bed (I don't know, ask my mother), walked under a ladder, broken a mirror or had a black cat cross in front of my path. I have surely fallen out of favor with whatever gods are looking down and pulling the strings. I have incurred their wrath and my apologies, my begging has not yet turned the tide.

It wasn't always this way, I promise. Hell the Yankees won four Series in five years on the eve (and the inception) of the new millennium. And the Dems were gods not very long ago, while you know who toiled doing who knows what. Personal tragedies: someone else's venue.

But for today, and until the all clear siren sounds, I give you fair warning. Forget you know me, cross to the other side of the street if you see me in the distance and, whatever you do, never accept my invitation to hang out. 

The curse of the Bambino lasted 86 years. I am pretty sure I don't have that long left to turn this around.

Lose my number.