Dear diary,

Had a run of bad luck this week, what with my laptop fried for no apparent reason and me being taken ill, it's no wonder why I'm not too hyped up about the on-going world cup. This is of course, coupled with me not able to appreciate of the nuances of grown men kicking a very small ball across a very big field.

Still, life goes on, the laptop's probably coming back tomorrow and I've more than sufficiently recovered from the fever, although I'm still quite edgy over the yet unknown fate of my harddisk, because I've added pretty neat paragraphs to my story and hadn't the chance to back them up yet. I could rewrite it, and the difference wouldn't be that great, but I believe the stroke of geniuses only happen to me by the slightest of coincidences and would quite unlikely occur any time soon in the near future.

Those, unfortunately, are not my only sources of irritation. Es' back since yesterday and I hadn't been able to pick him up at the airport. I hadn't seen him for God knows how long and it's just plain distressing that I should delay our meeting any longer. I've also been sleeping way too much -I sleep alot when I'm ill- and it's not healthy, I should know because they leave me with one helluva headache and I get all these weird dreams like I'm in psychedelia, although I didn't get to enjoy any of the elevation and irrational exuberance associated with it.

Hopefully I'll be well enough tomorrow so I wouldn't have to skip my gym session. What can be more gratifying to the superficial than to see your puny limbs turn slightly less flaccid and a little bit more swollen than the bee-sting you got last summer?

Stupid headache.