Naw. I'll play it cool. I'll simply mutter, in the general direction of the field, "I don't know you anymore. You're dead to me. Do you hear me?" At this point, I'll turn directly to the field and raise my arms, stretch 'em to the heavens: "DO. YOU. HEAR. ME?!"
On a related note, Pat Benetar was right: Love is a battlefield. But here are words written with the utmost sagacity: Hindsight is 20/20. Do you ever wish you could pull a Superman and spin the globe around, all opposite-like? Yeah, me either. Was just wondering, is all.
On a--slightly-more--related note, by the time you read this, I will have gone six months without drinking "real" beer [I had three O'Doul's--shoot me; my sponsor wanted to.]. Six months is equal to around 180 days, give or take a 24-hour-er. That factors to 432o hours and 259,200 minutes of stone-cold sobriety. This is heavily taxing--believe you, me. Thus, as celebration, any and all cases of Wild Irish Rose can be--and should be--forwarded to Louie in Royal Oak, care of Adam. Thanks, and keep reaching for those stars; eventually you may be lucky enough to vaporize.