sentimental conjuring

Dear Diary,

Excuse me, diary, for the frivolity.  

And forgive me for being so forward with the details of such an unappetizing abnormality, but each offseason my body goes through a tortuous fourteen week cycle of expansion, rashes, reduction, boils, inexplicable sunburn, hammerfist, gas, and finally, locusts.  This series of miseries enables me to forecast without fail the rudimentary rate and counting stats of certain beloved Cardinals.  I have found one foil to my infallibility:  injuries.  Only the proverbial or literal strained groined fogs up my mucus-filmed future-seeing machine.  Combat your curiosity by following me into the void:

My belly, already distended, and the flies that it harbors, say that Jim Edmonds will surprise an ocean of red skepticism with 140 games played, 31 homeruns, a renewed ability to hit lefthanders (though still not like the glory days), and a .269 BA.  Other details remain fuzzy (Obviously the cycle hasn't completed its vicious run).  But despite the protests of my brain, I'm confident in the reemergence of Jim Edmonds batsmithery.  Refute me at your peril.  

Good day.