Blink back those tears boys, the moon closed the weekend. And the year will end shortly. It pains me to know that I have caused you frustrations. Dominating the March Madness bracket brought cries of outrage in the first round, suspicions in the second round and by the championship game you drank denial. You believed my picks to be the work of some basketball master with insider tips. When I calmed those allegations you turned to straight-up-luck-of-colors-and-names foolishness and called this year a flop.
The witch-hunt accusations reminded me of your refusals to play card games with me. While the blood relatives handle my winnings with more composure than the marriage tie-ins, Sunday dinners heated up in the game playing afterwards. Maybe it’s not fair, but I can’t help that I win. Family of competitors, right?
As the True Blue failure adds to the year’s defeats know that the Crimson sweater I wear on Christmas morning celebrates the holiday. A turn-coat and traitor you think me, but with an unblemished record I know those emotion-spurred labels are code for “You’re the greatest sister.”
To honor these close bonds I played in a flag football game Saturday morning. When I got hit in the head with the football I thought of your teasing. And as my breath rushed through my teeth after being slammed in mid-air and knocked back a few feet, I thought of group hugs. It felt like you three crushing my ribs.
Sorry the year has been a rough one. I guess you can blame Daniel. Your consolation prize—I burnt my tongue while composing this apology. Next time I will try for more sincerity.
(Pictures withheld due to the emotional impact of visual aids. Fresh wounds.)
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