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Letter to the Weather Gods

Dear Weather Gods,

In case I have failed to mention it before, I really love you and your rain.  I love the way it smells and sounds and looks.  I spend my summer bowed down in front of the window praying to you for rain (sort of).  But I can also never say enough times that context is everything.

Hear that?  Yes?  So then what on earth would motivate you to schedule a downpour, perfectly timed to allow the Cardinals to use their ace-guy on short rest in the possible elimination game?  Really, what?

If it’s money you’re after, I can provide it.  In large quantities.  I mean, you’ll have to wait until that lame-looking flick with Ben Stiller and Eddy Murphy comes out next month and teaches me the ins and outs of robbing penthouses, but after that I will deliver.

If this is a power thing, then y’all need therapy.  I get that you’re better than us and can affect even things as important as the World Series, but really, we all learned that lesson way back when, when you did your thing for forty days and forty nights.  And everyone died.  Time to move on.

If you think this is funny in some way, then head over to a local comedy club and regale the patrons with this story.  When no one laughs, come back to me and apologize.

If it’s a Cardinals win you’re after… I don’t even know what to say.  Except that you should really choose your allegiances more carefully because that reflects really poorly on you.  May even change my opinion of rain.  Seriously.

Stay safe.  And drizzly.


Diamond Girl

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