I last wrote about a year ago when there was a glimmer of hope that Bush would lose and my beloved Astros would win. I was excited and nervous. Hopeful, yet wary. My instincts were that it was all too good to be true. I was holding out that one of my rooting interests would come through.

Of course, Bush won and the Astros lost. A part of me died this time last year. Then there was a big fucking tsunami, Katrina and the New Orleans tragedy, the earthquake in Pakistan and now the newest and worst tragedy in world history. My team lost today. I am a walking ghost. I am spiritually dead.

The Astros were not only ahead in the 9th inning, they were ahead by a comfortable margin with only one strike needed to end the series with the fucking St. Louis Cardinals. One strike. One out. One piddly, piss-ant out in a sport where if a batter succeeds only three times out of ten he goes to the Hall of Fame. One out and three batters to face. Leading 4 to 2 with two outs we gave it all away and the Baseball Gods declared eternal war on my soul. After being taken to the mountaintop of the franchise's first *ever* appearance in the World Series, I have been pushed over into the jagged canyon of despair thanks to one swing of the bat from Albert Pujols. Going from literally one strike from reaching the pinnacle of a sport our team has never seen in its 45 year existence to such black despair two batters later feels a lot like a kick in the balls (without all of the wit).

In the scheme of things I know I will die a fortunate man. I have a wife, friends and family that love me and give me infinite joy. I have pets that bring me great delight. I have a fulfilling career that is more rewarding than I could hope for. When I look back on my life I remember so many beautiful and funny moments that I truly feel lucky to have lived through them.