A Novel Experiment: Day 29

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Today’s Word Count (actual/goal): 1012/1000

Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah): 14,642

Had some good writing the last few days, thank gods, powering through the crazed machinations of my heathen children and utter exhaustion. We’re getting there, buddies. We’re getting there.

So there were protests in Lexington about letting high schoolers play sports this fall, as in Right Fucking Now. You know what I enjoy? Sport. I watch sport, used to play sport, find comfort in sport. In fact, the loss of sport is when I first thought “Oh shit, this virus stuff is serious.” You know what I enjoy more, love more, need more? My children being alive and healthy, dirty heathens that they are. I sure do love them, and I sure do value them far more than high school touchdown records. Fall sports are the most contact heavy, particularly football but also in high school soccer where the fields are smaller than the pros and the players are worse so they don’t spread out as much. The only thing worse would be starting up a fall rugby league or some sort of county or statewide dirty-dance competition. We Americans are such bitches, such spoiled brats who want things our goddamn way and kiss our collective ass, The Greater Good. Gimme all the guns and the cheeseburgers and movie theaters and deep-fried butter sticks at the state fair because we can’t let the virus win and also terrorism.

“Life’s not worth living without some risk, so let my boy play football!” Go fuck yourself.

Last I’ll say about this: look at the protest that was held by parents in the Big Ten conference a week or so ago. What was their main battle cry? “Let us play!” US. Motherfuckers, you aren’t playing! You’re fifty years old with saltwater taffy for knees and big bellies like mine filled with ice cream and sadness! You’re just admitting to living vicariously through your children. Smooth. Borderline child abuse, but smooth.

In other news, I’ve been more bananas the last couple of days. I’ll say this: they’re tasty.

Be good to one other, my friends. Clean Breaths > Quarterback Sacks.

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