Football season is here. The time of year where I turn to my sports mistress (baseball will always be my wifey) only to get my heartbroken by that slut in purple. Ah, but she always looks so right at the twilight of summer, over there in the corner with so much promise. Oh well, maybe things will be different this time. Maybe she will stay until February, when we can take that vaycay to South Beach and party with that guido Lombardi.
But we all know how this is gonna turn out. The broad is going to leave the relationship around November all emotionally bruised after some asshole named Brett or Tavaris breaks her heart by failing to deliver on his promises. I will probably start to flirt with that redhead in downtown St. Paul, or that silver fox who hangs out by Block E. But I won't do anything, and I will go back to my wifey and the new house she's building downtown MPLS in the spring, where we will be hopefully happy for years to come.
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