Dear God,

I heard someone say the other night—Hold on, Mom!—something that I have to keep repeating to hopefully instill in myself.  He said—at least I think that's what he meant—when he knows what your Will is—he can feel it, I guess—it doesn't matter how he feels, he just does it.  If he's thinking about the weather, he doesn't let himself check the Weather channel.  That hel...helps me—No, I'm just gonna get a Whopper!—because I can't help thinking about the weather.  Sorry.  I feel good.  I'm scared.  I'm worried.  Bayern looks scary this year.  I mean, you saw what they did to Dortmund.  That Lewandowski's a ravaging beast.  He looks like her type, too; you know how she likes that fair hair and light eyes.  Now he lives in the same country as her, and what with all those goals behind him...I don't know...I worry.  I turn to you, as I always have to, because you're the vulnerability in all of us, the beauty of our mistakes, the hole in intoxicating anger.  I don't know... Maybe he's a bubblehead and will just go on and on about his goals all day if they run into each other during some...some Oktoberfest shindig.  I mean, she's smart, but that might make it all the more advantageous to her.  What if they have a beer together?  I mean, what's he doing drinking—he's in training!  Someone needs to tell the coach. Oh, let me find solace in the things I cannot control.  Let him accidentally fart in the room, and everyone fulfill their purist dreams.  Maybe he'll just squabble with the hotel staff the entire day.  Alonso wouldn't do that to me, his heart's still in Madrid, I know; Gotze's better looking than she is and Muller's kind of ugly.  I'm not too wary of them—I mean, look at my height.  Forget about it.  I'll win that one.   What am I saying, Oh Masterful One—the crown!  The crown is what's important.  I know our boys can do it; we've started incorporating Bale in the middle and CR7 more up front.  Bless their hams, ligaments, and knees, 1-2-3.  Maybe a plane out of Munich can take a bump, and some of them can take a knock.  I don't want to hurt them, love; just injure them, just for awhile...I mean, they have kids and mistresses, it's their life.  What if that taints our triumph, right?  I know...but I thought of that.  Maybe a few separate incidents, like a jilted lover and Costa gets clubbed in the knee; Neuer, the victim of a motor vehicle by some unsuspecting immigrant driver.  It's a big country, it'll give the papers something to discuss after the backlash ends in bigotry.  They can examine themselves after Bayern bows out and goes back to celebrating another domestic double.  Sorry, I couldn't resist.  I know, I need to examine myself firstly.  Surely, it comes from fear, surely my ego's the real monster.  Allow me the courage to call out my resentments, and identify my defects and shortcomings clearly.  Thank you, for today, and stay with me always.  Okay, ready?  4,7,11,21,23.  It's the same as my roulette numbers again, but the Mega Number is 4.