How is it that this qualifies as a happy weekend?

I wound up not playing rugby this weekend, given a combination of a still sore ankle and a fair amount of fatigue.  Instead I spent most of Saturday in bed at the Collaroy Castle before heading into town for the Convicts show.

Apparently in the game against Macquarie Uni one of the opposing players called our guys "a bunch of faggots."  The guys have reacted on Facebook in the following ways:
Go figure u got beaten by faggots!
The one who called us faggots was like, totes ugly. It didnt offend me one bit, we hit em where it hurt!
I think if anything it spurred us on a bit, I like Rowe's comment after we scored that last try "who's the fags now £@&$!!! "

The show went well.  I was sexually harassed less than at any other Rugger Bugger, probably on account of the fact that we didn't go into all of the bars of Oxford Street selling tickets.  The theme was Australian anthems and the song used in the finale was "Working Class Man" by Jimmy Barnes.  You know, for all those gay bogans out there.

I had a nice swim in surprisingly warm water and surprisingly large waves the following morning.  The waves were big enough that they actually caused me some concern.  When you get lifted up so high there is always in the back of your mind the fear that you might get dumped hard enough to cause damage.

I visited Minou yesterday on the way back to The Berra.  We talked about a number of things, including a slightly unsettling discovery.  I was in the shower yesterday and I found a lump.  Yes, a lump, roughly where you are thinking.

It's not on the ball itself.  It's sort of off to the side but it's certainly there.  Minou's assessment was that it was probably an ingrown hair.  That would add up.  Still, neither of us are doctors and I would rather not mess around with this.  I'll probably combine this visit with a visit to talk about depression.  Multitasking!  I think I'll go in later this week.

This reminded me of something that's been crossing my mind recently, or since I've been dealing with being depressed.  I've been thinking about dying.  Not let me be clear.  I've NOT been thinking about suicide.  I wouldn't do that.  But I have been daydreaming about having a terminal and incurable disease and about how I would spend my last six months.  The doctor tells me not to do anything strenuous, and of course I go out and play rugby at least one more time and I keep doing my full on gym sessions, because really, am I going to just stop pushing myself physically when pushing myself physically is one of the few things I feel like I do well?  So yesterday I contemplated what would happen if that lump was the worst possible option.

Oh yes, and apparently someone came out to fix the lines and now the internet works at home.  Hooray!

All in all, somehow it was actually a pretty good weekend.  Strange.