I, like every other red-blooded American, didn't want to come into work today. I wanted to emulate my roommate by skipping out of work and spending all day drinking $8 pitchers of beer with $0.25 hot wings. It's 12 straight hours of sports and sports related gambling. It's the tits.
(Speaking of which, if anyone wants to compete against my solid picks, please join the DCist bracket pool. You have two hours before the games start. Hurry.)
So, yeah, boo for work, hurray for basketball. But I don't play hooky. I am dependable. Well, I try to be. Sometimes circumstances beyond my control make it so that I'm an hour late to work. The delays were so bad that I just gave up and walked a few blocks to Western Avenue to catch a bus. It had been over a year since I commuted to work via bus and I forgot how slow it was. But at least I got a seat. And a window. And it gave me time to catch up with my main squeeze, Laura Sessions Stepp. I got to read about a Muslim Marxist feminist battling depression who has meaningless sex under her Che Guevara poster. Seriously. If I were that insipid I would be depressed too.
Am I angry at the Metro? Well, always. As soon as I saw the almost inconceivable horde of commuters waiting for a train that wouldn't arrive for another nine minutes, my blood began to boil. But I wouldn't let it get the best of me. Not today. Today is for basketball.