Last Tuesday, I asked for a half-page and quickly realized that I didn’t have anything to say. This Tuesday I again am realizing that I have not so much to say. In fact, I have even less to say today than I did last time. I didn’t have much at all to say last time. And I have even less to say now. This is a really good way of drawing people into the article. Once I reveal I have absolutely nothing worthwhile to say, there’s no way I could possibly disappoint anyone. Better yet, I discourage anyone from even bothering to read it at all, and thus do not reveal that I actually don’t have anything to say and am not just pretending not to have anything to say. Except for those people who have to read it, whom I feel sorry for and apologize to sincerely.

My fifth point:

This week’s match has been submitted by 25 Dear Diary readers. “Todd Philcox” of “Lucasville, OH” says “I think the WWF’s Kurt Angle looks a lot like former Red Sox utility infielder Moacir P. De sa Pareira.”

I agree.

My sixth point:

For five minutes I do not hate the Yankees so much.

My seventh point:

The hate is back, with an aircast fitted to its gimp leg.

My eighth point:

Theories I Have:

Bartolo Colon and Manny Ramirez are the same person.

Nelly Furtado is actually a guy.

My ninth point:

I will name my first-born child “Unicorn.”

I will name the second seed “Marty.” It will be unclear whether this is a tribute to Marty McFly or Marty Cordova. Their middle name will be “Flozell.”

The third child will be called “x_eLvIs gRbAc sMoKeS uNdErAgE dOnG_x.” There are two people from Cleveland that I hate without justification: Elvis Grbac is one. Elvis Grbac is the other one also.

My tenth point:

I am not from Iowa.

My eleventh point:

I like the movie Swing Kids. A lot. I mean it. I really fucking like that movie. It has Frank Whaley in it and Neil from Dead Poets Society, which I also like but pretend not to like, for fear of savage beatings.

My twelfth point:

I hate this school.

My thirteenth point:

God officially forsook me about 14 pitches into Game Three of the ALDS.

My fourteenth point:

My dad rode in an elevator with Jerry Stackhouse once.

My fifteenth point:

The only professional athlete whose autograph I have ever gotten is Paul Sorrento.

My sixteenth point:

I have never caught a foul ball at a major league baseball game. My friend Aaron caught one from Wade Boggs, I think.

My seventeenth point:

My dad caught a foul ball off the bat of George Bell when I was like six. But I was not at the game at which this foul ball was caught, and instead of bringing the ball home to his son, he gave to some kid at the Stadium because that kid looked sad. Well, I look sad right now, Tames. Where’s my fucking baseball?

My eighteenth point:

I feel like I could use a guru. Maybe a gay guru. They wouldn’t give me tips on how to be gayer, they would just sort of give me hints about all sorts of things, and it would be good. We would be so happy together, me and my gay guru.

My nineteenth point:

The Stone Temple Pilots, they’re eligible bachelors.

My twentieth point:

They’re foxy to me, are they foxy to you?

My twenty-first point:

Omitted.

My twenty-second point:

Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

My twenty-third point:

I would like to say hello to my cats. Fatass, B, and Mitch Kitty, hello.