If I were the kind of girl who blogs about her real life rather than the life she lives largely in her overactive imagination, then these past weeks I would have been blogging about all of these hockey playoff games I've been screaming at. I'd be blogging about how much fun I've been having going to these games, how proud I am of this little team who battled from worst to first, how smitten I am with that adorable Brooks Laich. I'd be blogging about how popular my "Let's go douchebag!" cheer is, how boys from Philadelphia seem to masochistically fall in love with me, how I've stopped drinking except on game day because my body simply refuses to tolerate any more alcohol. But mostly I'd be blogging about how, for the first time in eight years, my boyfriend has seen me truly passionate about something, how I'll catch him staring at me, open-mouthed, an expression of Who IS this girl? plastered on his face.
Am I embarrassed that I get so worked up about a hockey team? Yeah, a little.
But not much.