My Glass is Half Empty

Ok, so it's New Year's Eve, and I'm sitting at home because my kitten became suddenly and violently ill and needs constant nursing care. So I doffed the evening wear, pulled out the bobby pins, tried to comb the hair spray out of my ratty hair, and got comfy in my sweats. Uh, yeah. Right. I'm writing this post because I wanted to issue a resounding, guttural sigh of discontentment. After that, I'll think about possibly stifling myself to spare you from any more whining. But don't hold your breath.

Gerald Laird gets arrested for assaulting security guards. Come on. COME ON!

I mean, the Tigers off-season has become a brutal grind designed to pulverize our collective spirt. I feel like yelling Adam Sandler style.

I was running down the Tigers' projected starting lineup with a friend, and burst out laughing at our impotence half way through.

Dave Dombrowski's "This is not a fire sale" line cruelly taunts me as I watch our payroll plumb new depths.

I'm pretty sure that when the ball drops over Times Square tonight, it's gonna fall of its glittery axis, bound through the streets of Manhattan, hit the Interstate and squash my house. I'm prepped for it, anyway.

Happy New Year to you too.