The Kawhiary



Dear Kawhiary,

The weekend is over and I’m sorry for not writing sooner. The end of the week was, like, one of the saddest of my life. I felt it not in my best interest to journal in such extreme pain.

Do forgive me? Please? It was me and my faults, not anything you did. I must tell you what happened, Kawhiary, for I am filled with sadness.

We lost. A Game 7, Kawhiary. How can I adequately describe to you how painful it was? Where are the metaphors?


You remember how I felt when I discovered that it was Walt who had poisoned the kid with the Lilies of the Valley? This was like that if you multiplied it by two infinities. I don’t know how I’m going to come back from this, emotionally. I thought Walt was good. He’s not. I thought we would win. We didn’t.

I want to curl up into a ball by my fireplace, get under a blanket, turn my back to the warmth, put on my Dusty Springfield Dusty In Memphis record, and just fade off into dreamland.

I must escape my thoughts for now. They are more somber than usual.

I tried to go out today. I drove my Prowler to the 5 Guys over on Basse. Listened to Kendrick Lamar’s “Sing About Me, I’m Dying Of Thirst” on a loop the entire way. In hindsight, that was about as good of an idea as drinking warm milk on a hot day to try to cool off. I need to watch Anchorman. Maybe that will help me laugh. I haven’t smiled in at least eight weeks, Kawhiary.

I tried to find solace at the J. Crew, but even there, at my most happiest of places, I could feel nothing but sadness. Nothing I did worked. Chambrays and ginghams and ludlow suits and New Balances and those fun hats that look like they’re from baseball teams but they’re not actually from baseball teams. I bought them all. Nothing worked. The sadness remained. Why can’t I escape it? When we lost in the tournament at San Diego State, Coach Fisher just purchased Sonic cheeseburgers for all of us and everything was fine. It was no big deal. This HURTS, though.

I feel, Kawhiary, as though every single minute of every single day is full of some awful someone kicking me in the jibbies, stopping long enough for the pain to have almost subsided, only to have them rack my little helpers again. I can’t watch ESPN. I can’t go anywhere. Constant reminders of the loss wait for me at every turn and I must aggressively pursue privacy in order to not see another clip of another way in which we didn’t get it done.

I see now what it takes. I see the elevation that must happen. There is a ring out there, somewhere, for me. I’ll find it.

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