I am happy, I suppose. Carlton Cup semi, Villa beat Blackburn, stupid f*cking Blackburn that I still can't stand after Chris Samba scored against us (yeah "us") in some game or another that I can't remember except that it bothered me quite a lot.
And then there was the MLS Super Draft, which for me really is a case of "I hope you got what you wanted for Christmas, MLS clubs, because I don't know these players from whatever that mixture of poo and pine needles was my cat left for me on my floor when I came home from work." The draft didn't make me feel much of anything to be honest, except the names of those kids were really fucking weird. Teal Bunbury? Bright Dike? Dilly Duka? Was there something about Hammer pants and the artistic dissolution of Public Enemy that made everyone go mental and name their kids after shades of light and pickles in the early nineties?
I guess though I'm happy a bit because I'm really eager to get to listen to Preki speak in post-match interviews all year long for TFC ("eeerarhya, we had uhhhhhh a good game, I suppose. Lots of ahrgeahm running? Yes? I am in Toronto, Canada.")
Then I continued mulling over whether I'll be going to England to study countertenor in September for about £1.2 billion or whatever it is they're asking for, which didn't make me very happy. I have friends who say things to me like, "Go! Just don't think about it!" which strikes me as a particularly stupid way of going about one's life, unless of course you're Carlos Tevez. Then, yeah, go and damn the torpedoes. But for me? I'd be secretly wanting to write about football all the time, and go to matches, which wouldn't be very good for my voice.
Then I got linked on a forum, which made me both happy that I'd been called a "good blog btw" but unhappy because others said I was a phony and talked about art and music to give my football writing some intellectual gravitas. I hate that word, gravitas. Why not "intellectual weight?"
So happy took the edge, I think. I haven't done the math.