The blog wakes up quickly, eyes snapping open and then immediately closing tight again. The blog looks around the room -- still dark, but it looks okay? No clear damage: TV still standing, light fixtures approximately in the right positions, and, oh, no spills. The blog stepped out of bed and there was no sticky, fruity substance there to greet both their feet and their nose with a nauseating reminder of last night's frivolities. It's okay, the blog thinks, I got a little out of hand last night, but it looks like nothing happened. Never thought I'd be so happy to hear those words: nothing happened. The blog exhales, feels a dull thudding in the back of its brain, but shrugs it off with a smile -- small price to pay, right? And so the blog, grateful for a reprieve, turns on the light.
Oh god. What is...oh god. I don't...who is....
There's another thing in the bed with the blog. It's sleeping with its face to the wall, but it appears to be androgynous -- the blog's gender of choice -- and not quite the blog's type. Too...bulky? Overloaded? Clumsy? The blog can't quite figure it out. As it shifts in its sleep, it rolls over to reveal that it's wearing those terrible 2013 glasses you can buy at New Year's. And nothing else. It wakes up as the blog starts to back away in terror and smirks a miserably cheesy grin.
"Uh," says the blog, "uh...hello? Who...I, uh, I have to admit that, uh...."
"Don't remember last night? That's okay, that's okay -- we had a bit too much. But you just lay back and let ol' 2013 tell you all about it.
Well first, you called me and said it was over. You were going to sell pieces. You were going to look to contending in 2014. Ol' 2013 was going to have to go slum it with the other non-contenders in the Basement Bar. Such a loveless scene down there. So I talked you down. Oh yes, baby, I did. I talked you down a bit, and reminded you that we belong together. We're so alike, you and I. We're both deeply flawed, but sometimes promising individuals, who just want the Phillies to win. We were just going about it in two totally different ways, and that was causing all this drama.
And after the third bourbon, you came around to my way of thinking.
So, you didn't sell off anything. You kept everyone. Even Michael! And we all went out to play the Giants. Of course, by that point, everyone had, uh, partaken, and I'm afraid the product on the field was not up to our usual standards. Kyle didn't pitch so well: an old Kendrick line if ever I saw one with two innings of seven run ball, no strikeouts, one walk. And, yes, the boys were maybe a little too blinded by our reconciliation to pay attention to the other side, as Chad Gaudin (yes, sweet, I know) stymied the team over seven innings, with five punchouts, a walk, and one earned run. But baby, Chase hit the homer! Doesn't that make you happy?"
The blog squirms a bit. "I do like Chase."
"Well, there you go. Anyway, the rest of the game was basically just this Brett Pill guy who came to play and the crying. And then we drank a little bit more to get rid of the crab fry aftertaste. And then you took me back to here to make something beautiful."
"Oh god," the blog moans, "that's unbelievably crass."
"No, wait you thought...oh not sex. I mean that too. But, no, this!"
2013 holds out its arm while gripping the blog's arm and pushing them together. Their forearms, tattooed, compose a full image when combined: "TGP plus 2013 Phillies Season equals FOREVER." It's fairly garish.
"I can't believe..." the blog sputters.
"Me neither. But you know what the song says, sometimes miracles do happen. Now hurry up and get ready before we miss the breakfast special at Denny's. Got another game to get ready for tonight!"
The blog slowly gets up and walks to the shower, already disrobed, the tattoo smarting painfully. Well, the blog thinks, I...guess it could be worse. I still like parts of 2013, and maybe 2013 will change. Maybe there's still a chance. Ah...who am I kidding. But it'll maybe be a fun fling over the next few months. Yeah...maybe?
"Ah hell," the blog says sharply, breaking its own train of thought. "Still better than blogging the Marlins; poor bastards."