A figure that looked like Jimmy Edison stood on a small ridge of wind-blown sand near an untended hedge of rosa rugosa. It was high tide and the crashing of the surf sounded like laughter, like the ocean and the sky and the world was chuckling, snickering, guffawing at some cruel but irresistible joke. Jimmy Edison's partially eaten dead body lay face down in the wet sand just a few feet away with two local police officers crouched over it.
The NFL.
It's just like us.
We've got guns. We get shot by guns. Uncle Carl is gay. That guy who got the job we wanted? Yeah. That guy. "Motherf--ker."
I share one thing with the Hollywood outlaw, The Sundance Kid. I can't swim.
No, wait. Two things. If they made a movie of my life I'd be played by whoever the young Robert Redford is today. Brad Pitt?
Okay, okay. I share one thing with The Sundance Kid.
After a long night of tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable, can't stop thinking about that thing you said (or did), and finally falling asleep just before the alarm went off, the last thing you want to see when you open up your browser that morning is a link that seems just a little too spot on:
Poor sleep linked to dementia and early death, study finds.
Like I needed scientists to tell me this.
