Tennis? Did you just mention tennis?

Really? REALLY? You’re bringing that up?

I’ve been wrestling a ridiculous sports depression all day because of that — and such teasing torture! Oh my god, Andy — the ‘walking existential crisis’, according to the New Yorker, teasing the hell out of us. He took the first set! The early thrill, my little buoyant heart, filled with hope this morning and then … crushed. Andy trudging dejectedly around the court, a completely different player.

And then — wait! Eleventh hour, tail end of the do-or-die fourth set and Andy stages a comeback! He breaks! He holds! And then?

Novak flat on the red clay, his smug parents gloating — did he rip his shirt off? Pound his chest? I don’t know, I turned it off quickly and left the room. I think I may have yelled at someone for unrelated reasons. Perhaps I wasn’t as nice as I should have been for awhile.

I’m better now. I have wine. There was meat sauce. Life goes on. It had to happen.

I’ve wanted to write about tennis, I have entirely too much to say. But, does anyone really care? Like really, truly care? I can’t even keep my family in the room for my tennis rants. Perhaps, though. I have no other ideas.

Ugh — let’s hope he doesn’t take the rest of the year. I just can’t take it.

Oh, but Muguruza was a feisty little ray of sunshine, yes? She’s not going away. Does anyone know what I’m talking about?

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