The Post That Was Almost Suicidal

Today, I went for my first football training session of the year. I was done with the majority of my assignments and decided to reward myself with a nice game of football with teammates and others.

Unfortunately, my nice, relaxing game of football was not realised as the losers had to do a three-lap run up the pitch, around a tree, and back. This obviously increased the stress and the need to perform. I hadn't played a proper game of football ages and was rusty and incredibly unfit. At the same time, an ant bit me near my groin. Ouch.

Now, I regard myself as a fox-in-the-box, which to the football illiterate means a player that (sort of) goal hangs and picks up loose balls in the 18 yard box, followed by creating a bulge in the net. There are many good foxes: Ole Gunnar Solksjaer, Ruud van Nistlerooy, Luca Toni.. just to name a few [three]. And then there are bad foxes, who on their day can be a good fox, but are consistently bad. Today, I was a bad fox. A very bad fox that needs punishing. *growl*

I made many good runs into the box, I just didn't finish like I normally do. Rule of thumb: bad foxes need about 10 chances to score 1. I only got up to 6. Suck. Shit.

We could've won, but some of my teammates made a hash out of their chances. We ended up drawing all our matches, but forced to do a run because the other two teams played out a 1-1 draw. To add injury to insult, the skin on my toe ripped off during one of the matches. O-U-C-H-!

Get back to the apartment, I'm on a highway to death. Short of breath, light-headedness, nauseas.. Crikey, I'm unfit! If one day, I started fancy-ing self-mutilation, I'd go for a long, long run.

... and on that bombshell, I'm off to finish my English autobiographical assignment. Good times.