It's The Hope That Kills You. It's *Always* The Hope That Kills You

I planned on going to a speakeasy last/Wednesday night, then thought, "Uh, maybe we need to take it easy here, Unforgivable Wetness," and then I had a surprisingly heavy day at work after a week of relatively no work, and then I drove like a motherfucker to the speakeasy for two cocktails, some pasta and a flatbread.

Me being the sports addict, I think a part of my anxiety and my, uh, unrefined coping skills was the Lynx, who had home-court advantage and was playing Game 3 of the WNBA Finals at Target Center last night.  I saw on Twitter while I was at the speakeasy that they started the Game leading 14-5, leading The New York Liberty to call an early Time Out.  I then made sure not to check the score again, if I could help it.

After eating and drinking, I got an ice cream in the neighborhood.  I overheard while listening to the jazz station while driving home that at some point in the Second Half, Minnesota was up by six.  I went home and promptly fell asleep, even though I did want to know what the score was at some point before the night was through because if they had won, I was going to snap up a ticket to (hopefully) see the Lynx close out the Liberty and win Game 4 and thus the championship on Friday.

I somehow woke up at 11:57 p.m.  I grabbed my phone.  The home screen on my phone has a notification from Apple Sports News ... that Sabrina Ionescu sank a Three-Pointer to win the Game for New York and take back home-court advantage.

Nah, I'm not going to see the Game on Friday.  I'll go out to dinner with friends instead.

It's the hope that kills you.  It's always the hope that kills you.