I'm still numb from the events of Saturday.
All I wanted was for a hole to open up upon Hill 16 and swallow me up as Brian O'Driscoll cantered towards the line for Leinster's third try, the nail in the coffin of Munster's so-called "performance."
You put a brave face on it. You shake Leinster hands, congratulate them for their team's better performance and wish the all the best in the final.
But I sure as hell didn't feel like doing that when the final whistle went. I sank to my knees on the Hill and just felt nothing. It was hard medicine to swallow, but Leinster fans had been here before. Back in 2006, when Munster demolished them 30-6 on a glorious day in Lansdowne Road en route to winning their first Heineken Cup. They, too, were gracious that day, despite the unimaginable, gut-wrenching pain they must have felt to see their team dismantled so comprehensively.
And so it happened last Saturday, too. With a similar set-up. One team vastly over-hyped, expected to do the business without breaking a sweat. The other side given a snowball's chance in hell. Out comes the snowball as a raging blizzard, and the conditions don't favour the favourites. They're subsequently demolished, the underdogs engage in raucous celebrations and go on to win the fucking thing.
Leinster have yet to put the final piece in that particular puzzle, but I hope they do. It would cap a tremendous season for Irish rugby, with the national team having won the Grand Slam and Munster having won the Magner's League.
I'm going to have to re-educate every nerve in my body, but come the Heineken Cup final, I'm hoping for a bit of Blue Magic.
If they do it, fair play to them. They've been waiting long enough for their day in the sun.
But come the beginning of next season, by God, my mouth will be watering at the prospect of revenge.