Dodger psychosis

While deeply embarrassing (did I spell that right?), it has come to my attention that my entire mood and day are completely determined by the Los Angeles Dodgers baseball team. If they win, then there is a god and all is well with the universe. If they lose, then there is no god and the universe reigns in an endless cipher. While my cognitive mind understands that this is poppypoop, my subconcious mind has no such understanding of the absurdity of this condition. No amount of internal self-talk can assist me in changing this situation. Therefore, I am in the midst of what can only be described as Dodger psychosis.
Dodger psychosis can take many forms. Among them are the early stages of Gurd, a malady of the intestinal tracts, either large or small. Although Prevacid is the appropriate prescription for this digestive horror, with each impending errror recorded by the Dodgers, the prevailing acid reflux condition is exacerbated by this exasperation (do you like that?). As the innings pile up with poor hitting, men left on base, and poor fielding and wretched pitching, the gastrointestinal vagaries move into a more despondent place in the cranium. Depression sets in and no amount of medication can arrest the slow and inexorable ideation to suicide. However, when the Dodgers get that perfect hit, begin to pitch with gusto and zesto, runners begin to score and the high fives fly, well then, my friends, I am the master of the universe. The cockswain of my own domain. The world is good again. The cats are friendly and non-smelly and the phone just keep ringing with good news, no matter how bad it is. My breath is clean and fresh and my proboscis engorges with non-putridity and goodlyness. I am the mack of the sack. Los Angeles rules the universe and this Valhalla of ours can do no wrong. Ever. At any point in time.
When I am reminded that this is the sign of a very sick man, I take a time-out and play some quiet musick. I try to correct this absurdity and join the human race in having a family, or a farm. The Dodgers become businessmen with contracts and goatees, and dislike most things jewish anyway. But still, I can't help but know that baseball is back. and the Dodgers are my salvation. Not yours but mine. Go away. Stay away from me! get out of here! Mine I say, mine!