"I don't want to talk about it."

So said Homer in his FSD interview during the first intermission, specifically in reference to the garbage goal we coughed up to San Jose in, literally, the last seconds of the first period, after playing a commandingly strong game at both ends of the ice.

And that's how I've felt during this entire series.

Because how can we really talk about it?

Take yesterday's game. Yeah, we killed off all six penalties, had a chance at a penalty shot, scored four goals (one of which was overturned), all of which were scored by our typical postseason rockstars, and managed to show up in the faceoff circle. So, what the fuck happened?

Various people during my workday ask me how the Wings are doing during playoff runs. Smart move by them, as it's really all I'm capable of discussing during the spring months. My new-ish coworker is a complete and total sweetheart (yeah, yeah, my polar opposite--the joke pretty much makes itself); she has absolutely no interest in hockey, but she always makes a point to ask me how the games go.

In order to express my angst, I've sketched a little interpretive ditty of each conversation thus far following each game in Round 2:

And then...

And, in anticipation of talking to her tomorrow:

And yeah, for those of you who don't already Facebookstalk me, I am actually a purple troll with unkempt pencil hair.

I have no words to describe adequately and completely how I'm feeling right now. Angry? Of course. Frustrated? You bet. Nervous? Sure.

Despite the Wings' lack of cohesive play at various times throughout the season, I was in no way, shape or form mentally prepared to watch them give up the goals they gave up last night. I'm further in no way, shape or form prepared to deal with being down 3-0 in the series against a team that I've lambasted as a disappearing act the likes of which are incomparable unless Marian Hossa's present. It's such a scary set of numbers, isn't it? What does this even feel like? How is it that the Sharks have capitalized on every single instance of the proverbial "letting our feet off the gas" in this series? This is the composition of TSO's current existential funk.

It's amazing how far a 3-0 series deficit and a white-hot team like the Sharks can foster hatred in the heart of someone who already hates plenty as it is. Do I have any real reason to hate San Jose? Not especially. There's no equivalent of cockface extraordinaires Matt Cooke or Georges Laraque or Chris Pronger on the team to whom I can easily point and jeer, "Yeah, look at all those assholes at the HP Pavilion, cheering for that motherfucking prick." Speaking of the HP Pavilion, it's amazing how much the denizens of Silicon Valley show up for that team. Aside from the superlame shark jaw motion they do to rile up the team (because what's more invigorating than seeing someone munch his/her entire arms in your general vicinity? A whole bunch of nothing, that's what.) and the superlamer Styx-esque sound effects they play after announcing the names of goal-scorers, I have to tip my hat to a city that gets behind its team. Furthermore, the team as a whole has refused to get shaken up, even when down 3-1 for much of yesterday's game. And for fuck's sake, the laser-haired Todd McLellan is a former Babcockian acolyte. There's so much NOT to hate about this team...

...but I do, anyway, for the time being. Sorry if you disagree, kids, but perhaps you're stronger people than I. Right now, there's little more I hate than San Jose. Major-league genocide? Yeah, that's probably worse than the Sharks. People who cram their religious views down other people's throats? Yeah, they suck at life a tad bit more, as well. Uninvited rimjobs? Welllllll...that might be pushing it.

For crunch time during the last series, I put on my Pollyanna hat and professed my staying in my proverbial seat until the final seconds of Game 7. Obviously, the same is true for all of us in this situation, except instead of knowing that our team's fate will be determined in 60 +/- minutes from the first puck drop, in our only good-case scenario, we have four sets of 60 +/- minutes to endure. For residents of Hockeytown at Large, it means an awful lot of nail-biting, whiskey-guzzling, nipple-clamping, tears, and cheers until time runs out in Game 7. Hopefully, there are more cheers than tears.

P.S. One final thought on last night's game: I would have bet Patrick Marleau's eyebrows against him scoring the game-winning goal last night. One of the fine details that chaps my ass the most about this series is the fact that Marleau and Thornton have each scored game-winners against us after being mostly invisible for the duration of the postseason. Fuck me sideways.