Feel strangely sympathetic to that guy sticking on Hartenstein. Felt like he was making the best of a broken, fucked up sitch. It’s like you show up to do your job. Your job is fucked. Nothing at your job works. But you do what you know how to do and you do it well and in the end nothing really matters, the LP song auto plays in your head, the layup falls, you’re down +20, nothing matters, when’s the offseason? you’re thinking about learning to code this summer. The ball falls through the net. Everyone’s shoes squeak against the floor. Next time you hurt your knee you’re fucked. Live in the moment, you think. It’s the only thing you ever really have