My head hurts. My nose hurts. My throat hurts.

Everything bloody hurts.

I was supposed to go watch the Germany vs. Sweden match on Saturday night at the mamak, but had to FFK, since my head was hurting and I started coughing like a mad cow. I know mad cow's don't cough (or do they?), but it's just a figure of speech, okay? So sue me.

Back to the mad cow coughing.

As if it wasn't bad enough that I was burning up inside, but feeling damn cold on the outside; every single time I coughed (which was every other thirty seconds), a little migraine unleashed itself inside my mind.

I seriously don't remember being this sick in ages.

The whole of Sunday morning was a daze. I didn't go to church because I couldn't even get out of bed, let alone into the car and to church. Not forgetting, it wouldn't be all that great, if I polluted an entire church with my cough cough sneeze sneeze germs.

I went to sleep at 8-something last night after porridge for dinner, and woke up every hour or so, after that. I slept huddled up, on my side, on my front, sitting up, and in every imaginable way possible.

I must have swallowed an entire packet of panadols.

Around 10-something, my phone buzzed-

Pek Wah: eh, babe! wanna go watch the england match at Murni's later?

It took me forever to type a reply to her. I blame it on the fever. Six (unsuccessful) tries later, I finally managed to type a coherent message, sent it, and promptly flopped back on my stomach to go back to sleep.

I remember waking up to answer nature's call, and I saw that the score was 0-0. Bloody heck it. Anyone else notice how I've become a foul-mouthed sailor during footie matches?

Went back to sleep and was woken up again by the dear phone, this time from Nick.

Nick: Oi, never watch the match ar?

Me: Sick la.

Nick: Beckham scored weih! Free-kick! 1-o!

Me: Yay.

Nick: How can you never watch?

Me: Sick la.

Nick: I just finish screaming only you know!

Me: Tomorrow I watch repeat. Zzz.

I tell you, it's really no wonder that my mum says my fever is of the football fever kind.

But anyway, sleeping in all those different positions must have helped, one way or another, because I woke up feeling a lot better this morning. Or rather, well enough to watch the entire 93 minutes of the repeat, and to attempt downloading the first episode of Veronica Mars.

I'm not a Beckham fan by any means, but I'm so glad he scored and saved England's asses. And horror of all horrors, Peter Crouch didn't play at all? Am I seeing things, or is Sven finally wisening up? Whatever. I'm not complaining. The lesser I see of that guy, the better. Is it even right to be so abnormally tall and irritating-looking at the same time?

On a side note- For the amount of shots Lampard has had during this entire WC, he should have scored a few hattricks, and more. Sigh. He needs to break that duck, he really does.

And when is my Gary Neville coming back? I'm emo. His calf needs to heal miraculously, and he needs to play, seriously. I can only take so much of other people playing in the right-back spot when they actually CAN'T.

England vs. Portugal next, so I'm keeping all fingers, toes, and eyes crossed till then. Okay, so I can't really cross my eyes, but you catch my drift, no?


Panadols await, so till then.