Blind Baseball

Trying to cover all my “shoulds” and “mights” is pointless. There’s only so much preparing I can do for the unknown. It’s kind of like catching pop flies blindfolded. I can run around, waving my glove after each crack of the bat, hoping to broaden my chances of catching the ball by some tiny percentage. Or I can pick a spot in the middle somewhere, put my glove in my lap, and write some poems. Or eat a pretzel.

My chances of getting hit in the head stay pretty much the same, so I’m opting for the pretzel.

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It’s obvious that when the apocalypse comes, I will be one of the weak people. I will have no spin kicks with which to defend myself. I will have only the magic of my words and my understanding to protect me. I will be meat for the beast. (Unless I can engage him in conversation.) And I am fine with that. If my death at monstrous hands becomes imminent, I hope I can meet it in a lounge chair, sipping on a gin martini.

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