Sunday, February 1, 2009

Superbowl Sunday is a cross-quarter sun

Super-Bowl Sunday...

Mom and dad make chili and we place our family bets. The entire experience is a warm ring. I think I won once by intuitive chance. I have celebrated, tail-gated, worn a jersey, and waved in the stands, and I'll be damned if I ever understand a thing about football.

People kept wanting to talk about killing babies this week. The woman who gave birth to eight babies despite the obvious terminal complications.

Sometimes I have Saturdays where I am convincing women to have their abortion without falling apart. They think they are killing their babies. They won't leave or take more time. They feel they have no choice, nor heart. The guilt will follow them regardless--stinky. They ask me to tell them that it's okay. I don't see why I wouldn't tie a bow on it. Abortion is such a catastrophe to some people that it breaks my heart.

Tonight. A bunch of men will dance on a painted field in shiny tights with synthetic armor, black lines painted beneath their eyes. They will tap butts and climb all over one another, and millions will watch intently, supportive, passionate, involved.

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