Her words were audible, but they held no meaning. Not right now. No. Instead, visions of wide (open) receivers running routes downfield, metaphorical miles behind the secondary. Hundreds of receivers swarmed, hungry for the ball. “Just pick one and hit him”, Kirk thought to himself. In his imaginary play, Kirk threw confidently to one of his receivers. The ball sailed far past his intended target. “Oh no!” Kirk exclaimed, snapping himself from his imaginative vision.

Grandma Cousins peered over her spectacles at Kirk and closed Sleepytime Stories. Shaking her head, she tucked Kirk in. “Go to sleep you pussy bitch.”

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