If I were a real writer, I would be able to describe our misery in flowery language. I would come up with some grand metaphor that captured the true nature of our current impotence at the plate and brought it home, and changed the way you looked at the world at the same time. We are the subprime loans of baseball, we're the tender saffron strands crushed beneath the boot of an unobservant logger. Something hard hitting like that, only it would make you think, "yeah Rox Girl, that's exactly it. We are the saffron strands now mixed with the dog feces on the bottom of that logger's boot. Thanks. Here's your blogging Pulitzer."
But no. I'm not a real writer. All I can think of at times like this is screaming something like
YOU'RE BLOWING MONKEY CHUNKS ALL OVER MY LIFE, ROCKIES! GREAT GREEN GLOBULAR MONKEY CHUNKS! THEY'RE SPREAD AGAINST THE WALLS
AND THE FLOORS, AND I CAN'T EVEN GET THE BILE SMELL OUT OF MY CAR... PUT THAT DOWN. STOP THROWING THAT. THAT'S DISGUSTING.
so I'm sorry to disappoint everybody with my blogging capabilities at times like this. I'll try and get my "It's only been five games" perspective back by this afternoon.