To breathe or not to breathe?

No, that's not the question, I just always wanted a blog title that was a parody on Hamlet. Nerd you say? "Fie, Sir, Fie!" I say.

Think I'm going to rename my blog "How To Get Rid of a Roommate in Ten Easy Steps." Either that or things will just culminate into one frenzied, jumbled blog named "The Day The Creep Got herself a Hug-Yourself Shirt." Don't get me wrong, I love my roommate, in the past in more sweaty ways than usual, but - see, here is the issue with banging your roommate and then deciding it was not a good idea in the first place, or on the kitchen floor either for that matter. You can't really kick them out, especially after your..physical relations have dwindled.

[ because of one small peeing-during-sexual-relations-incident, which I thought was rather hilarious, but made others run away rubbing their arms into raw flesh yelling "Dirty! S-so dirty!".]

But chances are that if you kick your roommate out after sex has been cut out of the picture, he will claim sexual harassment, get all teary-eyed and Meg Ryan on your ass, and hey. Tell me good people. Who wants Meg Ryan on their Ass? Seriously? I didn't think so.

Reasons to get rid of your roommate, day 30, Month 10, 2003

1. He has more shoes than you do. Allright. I myself am no big fan of shoes, but when your roommate comes home with the fifth pair of shoes he's bought in a six month period, you start seeing things in a new light. You start reflecting over your image, as opposed to girlie-boy's image. You feel very very poor for not managing to be able to buy one pair of shoes per month as he does, Which, I might add, in no way influences my hate for his shoes. Not the slightest. hey, he can spend his money of Mars bars for all I care. Grow fat why don't you. Very fat. Like the capilatistic shoe buying pig that you are. Yeah. make my day, motherfucker.

2. He never takes out the trash unless you plant the bags in a place that is very obvious to him. Like on him. Or below him- I'm nothing if not versitile. Which leads me to subtitle number 2.

Day 46 in the Waste Wars.

My roommate did not come home yesterday, hence he did not take out the trash like he should have done for the past week. Luckily, I noticed that one of the bags was leaking. A idea hatched. What if I were to plant the garbage bags outside his door, let the liquid leak out, and hope that it dired before he arrived home? That way, everytime he walked into his room, he would first be hit by an unmistakenably putrid yet untraceable scent. Unfortunately, he came home a bit earlier than usual. I did not have time to swoop down and retreive the bags or any other evidence of crime. my eyes widened with virgin-like innocense when he cussed because the bag had leaked. I quickly turned my attention back to the more important things in life, Baywatch, I beleive it was at that time, and shrugged it off. What followed was a scrubbing frenzy, after which he proceeded to nuke the apartment with Axe cologne. Now let me tell you, Axe is no Georgio Armani. While it is bearable once the initial stench has worn off, it seeps into the walls, which will whisper to you, each time you pass them, hissing "Poor people live here! Poor people live here!" Dear me oh my, whatever will happen to my sunday afternoon tea with the ladies? No longer will I be able to invite them over for a spot of tea and some very heterosexual crumpets without hanging my head low.

No. Get a grip. Fumugate, then bake.

Fumugate, then bake.

Not much of a mantra, but any port in a perfume storm.

Goodnight folks.

I, Carrot Maximus.

Oh I'm a carrot yes carrot I am
I go well with peas and ham
I go well with peas and ham
Sometimes I hang with spam

Oh I'm a carrot green on top
Quite frankly I'm a brilliant crop
Quite dandy for a brilliant crop
Sometimes I hang with spam.

Eat me raw or cook me well
Either way, I'm just swell
Orange you glad? Yes I could tell
Sometimes I hang with spam.

If you were to pull me out
To see what I was all about
"To be eaten!" I'd boldly shout
Sometimes I hang with spam.

The jolly green giant is my friend
My love for corn will never end!
But don't pour ketchup on me I don't like that really. It's not that I have anything against ketchup per se, it's just that it's a sign of low class to pour ketchup on everything unless you're like under five or "American". And don't get me started on the French and their Poupon, which, if you ask me, sounds more like a verb for releiving yourself in mildly disturbing - and if I may say so -unrefined fashion. So much for all their culture, and their blessed "Louvre" Fucking poupers. You may quote me on that.
Hey!
Sometimes I hang with spam.

Limericks for Losers.

There was a lad from Ascott see,
Who thought he was a biscotti
When it was time for lunch,
He would take a munch,
And yell "Ow, I bit me!"

Nuff said.

Sweet Lord

AGAIN with the two poems, to be handed in tommorow.
Whenever someone tells me "I can't sing" I refuse to beleive them. I usually respond:
"Sing dammit. it's not about singing well or badly, it's about beleiving in yourself."
Now here's a free tip, from me to You. Never, NEVER say this to someone until you've heard them. Me myself, I think I got that attitude from my mom. Poor misguided woman. Because every once in a while you meet, or, even worse, move in with someone who is tone-deaf, and your pep-rally speech gets them started and never stopping. Ever.

It kinda gives you the feeling of dread Dr. Frankenstein must have felt when his baby ran amok. You sit there in your now designated corner and only freind - appropriately named Bud - and rock back and forth, tearing out tufts of hair. In a perfect world, this would only be metaphorical, but alas such is not my luck.

But I had a point with the tone-deafness, in that I am convinced that some people are poem-deaf. Which doesn't mean we don't know how to tap our feet in time with the rythm of the poem, or can understand the beauty of them, but that we can't for the love of God, or good grades, write a decent poem. Being okay at writing prose does not mean that you are the new e.e. cummings by proxy.

So why the pressure, why the pressure?
Free me, free me. Free me from rhymer dot com and the shame of handing in a set number of A4's of poems which, mysteriously enough, all come back smelling like fish.

Smelling Bad.

I am not kidding when I say that I am starting to smell really funny.
I wish that I had realised this before I went to the store just now. I mean, I've never smelt like strawberries and cake or what have you, but I've never been this aware of this change. At first, I went from room to room in disbeleif, trying to explain it as something that had crawled under the couch, under the bed, under the sink - and died, but as I sit here in front of my computer, which is supposed to be the feel-good, and by proxy- smell good area of my apartment, I realise that it is I who have crawled up and died. Oooh the tragedy.

How can you devote a blog to your smells?
And does this not simply reinforce the beleif that blog writing people are struggling artists (who wear berets 24/7 but STILL no stardom) - who, while not flipping burgers, spend their time writing meaningless things that interest no-one but themselves and the occasional lonely 52 year old?

Well doesn't it?
Let us reflect on this for a while.








Getting back to my scents - smelling bad could not have come at a worse time. My not-so-favorite cashier was at the store when I went. This would be the same cashier who, on an earlier occasion, stared at me with a sort of "Please. Go. Now." expression after I told him that i used to put pieces of paper under my upper lip. There was a story behind the putting paper under lip thing, but since talking generally makes me nervous, I failed to realise that I had forgotten to tell him the story. So now my title has probably offically been changed from the girl-who-tells-me-things-about-herself-and-i -don't-now-why-please hold-me, to the girl-who-tells-me-things-about-herself-and-smells funny- and-i-don't-now-why.

Yeah, I'm still Single. Why do you ask?

On an entirely different note, my dialect is rubbing off on my metrosexual friend Andreas.
Except he adds a swedish dimension to everything. It cracks me up just as much everytime he asks me what I'm doing for the weekend and if I'm going to that potty I'd been talking about all week, adding (tonight) that he will be at his freind's going-away-potty for some two, maybe three hours.
Maaaybe even seven. Quote unquote.

Cheers, mat.

11:13 a.m

1. No, I really don't want to go to work.

2. I can't for the likes of me understand why anyone would want to raise sea-monkeys.

F

[radiohead - there there]

fleet
adj. fleet-er, fleet-est

1. Moving swiftly; rapid or nimble.
2. Fleeting; evanescent.

v. fleet-ed, fleet-ing, fleets

1. To move or pass swiftly.
2. To fade out; vanish.
3. Archaic To flow.
4. Obsolete To drift.


Archaic
Such a lovely word.

Snow?

Could be frost. Fascinating.
It must be frost.

maird.

Almost ten pm and I can't fall asleep, getting up in some four hours to work for my daily bread amen. Typically, I got up andturned my computer on instead (which was on all along, who am I kidding ) -and found this link in my mail. Suddenly, lectures in general make a whole lot more sense.

Shame on you, shame on you All.
From now on I shall take pride in reading Mad during lessons. And THEN some.

Ships ahoy.

Aaaand back from the mandatory personel conference.
Which was, to say the least, informative both in the ways of man, the mechanics of a company and the short-lived joys brought by running round an Åland block screaming "I'm FREE! FINALLY FREE!"

Things started off peacefully enough, dinner, three glasses of wine, a snaps or two, a drink consisted of pear and cognac. And this was within the first hour I might add that the first evening, as you might ahve suspected, consisted of bonding. The sort of bonding which involved alcahol and a mornign after consisting of pndering why some idiot thought it a good idea to gather a whole bunch of people into a place that will, whether you like it or not, rock mercilessly, and then fill these people with copious amounts of alcahol.

later on, came the dnacing part of the evening. Now, if all of my freinds jumped off a mountain, I would probably stay behind and laugh. But when all my freinds get up to dance to Kikki Danielsson and her contemporaries, I get up and shake my booty. (The Power of Birka compells You! ) In order to shake your booty, you do, however need a dancing partner. Convincing yourself that you can have fun AND dance all by your damn well liberated woman of 2000-self feels just about as great as having dinner for one in a restaurant that has a two-for-one special tat particular evening

Which reminds me - the company is offering a two for one thing up till december. Which is just so damn depressing. The two for one ticket costs 99 crowns, leaving the price per person at 49:50. It thus seems natural to ask passengers if they have company, to save these good people some cash. But my heart sinks a little in the hopes that the rest of my body will follow it everytime a passenger looks down shame-facedly and mumbles "no. One. " I find it a bit cruel to sell single people tickets that cost twice as much as they would have, had the passenger had company. it feels like "Oh, you're lonely and desperate? Tough. You don't look like you've suffered enough though, despite your 80's poodle frizz. 89 crowns, please." My apologies to all the Eleanor Rigbys of this world, I love you all.

Right, dancing it was. Well. I have never been as skilled in social relations and the laws that govern them as I would like to be. Now, to my right, was a sturdy looking 33 year old man, who, though his pleasant face, lost points by sliding down next to me and hissing- "I'm a boxer. I have nooooo feeling in my right hand.". To my left, was one of the bosses, let's call him Ed. I chose Ed, a man I'd hardly talked to before, but who insists on wearing a new shirt everytime I see him, making me refuse him entry into my booth everytime he passes by, (seeing as how we are not supposed to allow strangers into our space) I've learnt his name by and by now, since he yelps a little eveytime I shun him and cries- "it's Me! Ed! Remember? Your boss!"

So here's Ed to my left.
I had had my fair share of tequilas, I had.
"ED" I say, pronouncing the name in such a way that it sounded like a story instead of one word. A threatening story, but a story all the same.
"ED." I repeated. "IF I WERE TO WANT TO DANCE, and asked you to dance with me, would you?"
"Yes?"
"Allright ED. Do YOU want ME to Ask YOU, ED to dance?"
"uuh, yes?"

That's right. Scare them into submission, ra ra ra.


My style of walking is directly proportionate to my discreetness in social matters.
is what one could say. Doesn't work that way in every situation, though. I'm painfully shy at times. At the conference itself, I was the only representative for our little 'section'. I will not tell the reader what section entails other than that it has everything to do with who sits in the little booth downstairs. It felt a bit cool though. I kept thinking of the Lord of the Rings when every kind of species is gathered round the table. I was the sole representative of the trolls downstairs, I was happy. Until I was posed a direct question.

Usually, when you have the morning shift, you hav a certain sum of money aailable to you until six am, when the others arrive. The discussion was about whether this sum lasted - during the time the morning-shift-person was alone - or not. "Is x amount of money and change enough to last you through the morning till the rest of the personel arrive?" - one of the bosses asks me. Me. I froze, like a deer in the headlights of a monstertruck. It was not pretty. Silence. I decide to buy time.

"Could you..repeat that, please?" In english of course, a dead give-away that I also felt like a deer in the headlights of a monstertruck. And there were fourteen in total sitting aroudn the table. Vroom vroom. "Is the amount of money enough to last you till the rest of the personell arrive in te morning?" he repeated. "Well...yes...?" (I coulcl totally relate to Ed right now, and cast several desperate glances in his direction) "I mean, if the money runs out, you just call the people upstairs, and they bring you more....? So yes, my answer is yes. Yes. Indeed. Haaaaauuum." It hits me two minutes afterwards that I never quite answered the question. If money runs out, there is no-one there to call before six, which was- the question in the first place. And I botched it, saying that I would call someone. Someone, who wouldn't be there. hey! Kudos to me and my imaginary workmates.

I wanted to sink through the floor. I picked up my pencil and started doodling in my hand a while before realising that it was a pencil and obviosly not something you use to doodle on your hand with Linda, my sweet, starting smoothing out my hair, and this made everything all right, somehow. She understood.

I almost fell asleep twice during the conference ( even though I thought it enchanting that to see people I appreciate all interact at the same time) - this because my breakfast mates had confused finnish and swedish time and dragged me out of bed at seven am, instead of te agreed on 9 am. I'd like to use this, and not the fact that I had a bit too much to drink the night before, to explain why teh bacon and eggs made a comeback after i'd gotten back to my cabin. There is, however, no explaining why lunch insisted on treating me to its cognacy taste again later on. Only the mazarin stayed, and this I am happy for as I am quite fond of mazariner.

All in all, it was a lovely experience. just hate that I missed CW10 because of it.
But to make a not so perfect day perfect, I rounded it off by heading over to Andreas place.
Andreas, whom I adore above all. Because I do.

e.e

[Passengers Your Blue Room & Queensryche Silent Lucidity]

And for those under the misconception that I hate all poetry, here's one of my favorites by mr. e.e cummings himself.


i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go my dear; and whatever is done
by me is your doing, my darling)

i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet,) i want
no world (for you are my world, my true,)
and it's you who are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the tree of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life which grows)
higher than the souls can hope or mind can think
and this is the wonder that keeps the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

e.e cummings, from Selected Poems 1923-1958

It's going to be a beautiful day.
On days like these, it's hard not to explode from the sheer beauty of it All.

AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaIIIIII will be watching over you
AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaIIIIII am gonna help you see it through
AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaIIIIII will protect you in the night
AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaIIIIII am smiling next to you
In silent lucidity

Yikes!

Well.
This can't be good.

World Domination, anyone?

Wow.

Spent the day thinking, hey, I should tell the blog this, and I should tell the blog that.
oh, this is an exquisite form of exhibitionism, and you, my love, the most beloved of all Voyeurs. Asuming that someone is reading this.

I got my very first comment on a poem at the poetry boad today! Weehooo!
I beleive it was (copy paste) a comment on my Sonnet 69 - to be found in the September section of this blog - "I like this, tho I'm not sure why. It has a playful bounciness that contrasts with the serious title and (maybe) subject matter. Black humor? And where are the other 68 sonnets? :-)"
Aaaaaaaaha.

Told Andreas this. He started giggling in his sometimes girly way, and exclaimed:
"You're Chinese -African, living in Sweden, doing snus, for Chrissakes, get an identity!"
And this is the problem that faces me veryday. And this is what I write about.
That, and Love. I have to prove my flowery feminity somehow.

So we're going on the cruise on Monday (job people) , which is great, except for that it's really really terrifying. At the workplace you limit jargong to "Working long hours?" and the occasional crack about that one workmate that smells kind of funny. But when you are stuck on a boat together for 24 hours- well. It speaks for itself, doesn't it?

One of the guys at work sang for me today. I kept waving my hand and going "Stop, stop", while laughing. Apparantly he took this as encouragement. He isn't the first. People seem to have a hard time reading my signals. I've been called everything from weird to psychotic - to the wussiest pansy ass on earth. I'm not. It's just that while I may be terribly political incorrect in writing, I'm usually terribly political correct in person. I can write about fountain orgasms that are not quite fountain orgasms, but I can't say the p word.

For some reason, Andreas & I happened to arrive at the topic of his nipples. I have no idea why, and quite frankly, I'd prefer not to remember.

Me: "Please don't talk about your nipples. You can talk about your package* all you want, but not your nipples." (*referring to an old conversation)
Him: "I haven't talked about my penis, I was merely establishing the fact that it's THERE!"
Me: "Please refrain from using the p word. Just call it 'lower regions'."
HIm: "Yeah, sure. As a matter of fact, just forget it. I have no penis. Yeah, that's right, I PEE FROM MY MOUTH"

...which basically confirmed something I had suspected all along, but hey. Point was, I think, is please don't take everything for face value. I'm not necessarily evil, just sadly misunderstood. But then again, us übergeniuses usually are.
And then we take over the world.
And then you'll be sorry.
Very Sorry.

Coffee and TV

Just came home from work- and forgive me if I sound like the spoiled brat that I am, but it hit me again, today, how wonderful this thing called work is. And sorry, no puns, irony, or sarcasm here, I'm serious.

Though I still haven't figured out what i'm going to spend the rest of my life doing, what program to read at university, I know I'm not going to hang out in my workplace of a booth my whole life. On the other hand, it wouldn't be too terrible. I quite like it. So unless I get my degree or become the rock star that I am destined- (...) to become, I'll hang there for a while. But I've veered off track now- what I meant to say was that it hit me again today, that people work to provide services for other people, who in turn provide something for you. It's absolutely delightful. Am I getting dangerously near the Bimbo zone for not having figured this out earlier? I can't help but label the people who pass by.

"You're a mathmatics professor. You teach children to add and subtract, so that they can get some job at some economics department somewhere, who in turn, help balance the books of this sausage-bread factory, which makes it easier to pay the worker's wages, so that the workers can take a vacation every now and then, some chartered trip to mallorca, who knows - but who, subsequently, comes to me, so that I may....print their ticket. "

It's all connected. Hey, Simba was right.
Kudos to you, little talking lion.

Still working on my poems for Creative Writing. They were due last Tuesday, but I sort of botched up the assigment and wrote three monstrosities that had absolutely nothing to do with the topic. Luckily, I got two more days, so that I may work on more monstrosities.

In other, completely unrelated news, I hate it when people sober up before you get a chance to dress them in drag. Why is Life so hard sometimes?

Goth and the Spiders from Mars.

"I HATE spiders."
"Why?"
"They're fuckin creepy."
"You're scared of spiders....?"

And it's sad how people confuse the two.
I'm here checking out this predominantly goth community. It's a community designed primarily for all music lovers- as long as that music doesn't fall into the NRJ or r&b chategories. Pop is tolerated. There's a noticeable lack of happy faces in the gallery.

Nine Inch Nails La Mer is playing. And I find that life has become very sober, with or without NIN. When the class was asked to show who enjoyed NIN, I put my hand up. When it was revealed that the NIN fans were supposed to read out loud and I was called on -
"Jenny, you liked NIN, didn't you?". I answered "Strange that you should mention that. Come to think of it, no, not really." And I think the class laughed. It's a good thing to make people laugh. Well, I cover up my tattoo most of the time these days. The things you do to find a home. I think it's just about time to get back to writing Sam.

On the upside, my new work schedule has changed my name yet again.
I currently go by the name Jenny KT, which if said out loud in english provides an interesting extra middle-name, and which, sadly enough, when pronounced in a certain way in Swedish, can easily be interpreted as Jenny Horny. Last week it was Jenny KaiT.
I wonder why they do these things.

[Just saw a new grim face on helgon - a girl with a t-shirt bearing the text "I am strange."
Well, maybe she is. But why do you have to define yourself, and why would you want to? To define yourself automatically means that you confine yourself.

There's that saying that a leopard can't change its spots. I never understood why a leopard would want to. Or feel the need to. Who took the time to find this out , or why we make these assumptions. Because you can change your spots, it's all a matter of will and a little know-how. We redefine ourselves every day.]

I miss my homepage.
I have no problems being personal, but a homepage seems a bit too putting myself out there. Right now there's just Alice there holding down the fort.

Didn't have lice.

Anyways, got a letter from mom this morning. Apparantly, my father's been asked to clip our neighbours' holy tree. The neighbours are getting ready to have a prayer meeting, and the head of the family is a bit too old, I suppose to do it himself, so he asks me 60 something year old father to do it instead.

Kinda cool. Our neighbours are Hindu, we aren't. But that's just how life looks on the island. I'd like to remember that the festival of Lights was a special time, when we got bags of kurma channa and other such sweets whose names slip my mind, and that I was allowed to light a deya or two if I hadn't eaten meat that day.

memories of seeing a million lit deyas - (saucer like and made of clay) - trying to make them myself out of clay and water, and watching them fall apart in the midday sun - buying rosaries for their beauty and classmates' envy rather than their intended purpose - the catholic church up on harris promenade and dipping fingers in the holy water - wanting to be like everyone else and solemnly stride up to the alter to receive communion - wanting to be like none of them and siding with the hindu girl who thought school mass at Harris Promenade would damn her forever - watching Phagwa where brown skinned children would laugh and spray purple and pink paint on each other - falling alseep to the lullabyes of the Baptists at the YMCA down the street- eating pelau under the coconut trees up by Maracas Bay - seeing the Northern Range and Port of Spain emerge slowly as we flew down the seemingly endless expanse of highways on our way up north - all of these religious experiences.

And most religious of them all - watching television.
huh.

You should read Miguel Street by Naipaul if you haven't.

Lice, Anyone?

Slept 6pm to 10pm, put in my nine hours of nightshift lasting till 1 pm, went into town shopping with Dan - (which is like mass-suicide, except you're the only one) - and still going strong.

We went to Stadium, tried on hats, and I think that I came home with lice. Lice are scary. When a bug flies into the room, I generally tend to bolt to the bathroom and lock myself in, rocking for a couple hours before I realise what I must do. Call a freind.
But when you've got lice, it's a whole different scenario. You can run to the bathroom and lock yourself in for as long as you like, but the therapeutic value is less than, or equal to zilch.

The second time I got lice, it was from a dreadlocked fashion statement freind who called me two days after sleeping over at my place, to tell me that he might have left a few freinds over on my pillow. The sad thing was that he was right. The even sadder thing was that another dreadlocked freind had slept over the night before. And the saddest thing of all, was that this dreadlocked freind was a true Rastafarian. White, but a rastafarian all the same.

I called him over, invested 700 in lice removal, and drowned his head. The fumes made him keel over and puke in the sink twice. I wasn't looking forward to the follow-up treatment since he'd left with the comment "When you lie with the dogs, you wake up with fleas." I understood the flea part was a metaphor for lice, but the dog part hit a little too close too home for it to be funny.

He returned the following week, with a wild desperate look in his eyes that was mirrored only by that in mine. "Are they gone? Are they truly gone now?"
Well. What do you say in a situation like that, when the boy is almost in tears and threatening to cut off his hair and blame it on the bitch that gave him fleas? I lied.
"Well, your hair is pretty thick. but most of them must be dead. they have to be. Still, jsut in case, we should do the folllow up treatment." I poured the lice remover on the one louse I spotted making a mad dash for home to warn his battalions, who would laugh at his cowardly lousen fears and justifiably so.

I never called him again.
I did, however, see him a year later. His hair had almost grown back to a full two inches.

The first time I got lice, it was during primary school. Now before I go on, I have to tell you a little something about my parents. My father is the sort of man who never talks of his troubles. He will make a point of telling other people if they have pissed him off, but if something else is troubling him, he will remain silent. My mother, on the other hand, says nothing when hurt, but everything when depressed. My father is semi- hypochindriac, beleiving in the worst of all intestinal worlds, while my mother has more Candide-like tendencies when relating to physical diease. This amounts to two things - When you are tired, grumpy, sad, when you listen to music as you fall asleep, when you eat too much, when you eat too little, when you eat to survive, it is because you are lonely and sad. You should talk about it. If you slept a sound six hours instead of your regular seven, you are getting marched off to the psychiatrist. An untouched meatball, which, when it comes to my mother's cooking is not unusual, is cause for concern and the wringing of hands. My father never even really looks up from his morning papers. If however, you have a belly ache, my father springs out of his couch, and pulls you by the collar to the nearest doctor.

If my mother hears that you have lice, she will blame it on the new shampoo she's just bought. If you tell her that the teachers did in fact, examine your scalp and find the critters having massive orgies in your hair, then she calls it dandruff, and hurries outside to the store to change it to something milder.

This is the way it's always been.
And this is the way it shall stay.

And I might add here that this was a much funnier story when it was told earlier. NIN tends to sober you up.

OH GLORY BE!

NEIL GAIMAN IS COMING TO AKADEMIBOKHANDELN IN STOCKHOLM AT 5 TODAY.
I HATE USING CAPITALS; BUT I JUST HAD TO.

FORGIVE ME.
ALLRIGHT; OFF TO MAKE PASTA (BREAKFAST) AFTER A HARD DAY'S WORK AND THEN OFF TO THE BOOKSTORE. GOT CALLED "ASSHOLE" TODAY; SWEIDHS EQUIVALENT BEING "SKITSTÖVEL" BECAUSE I DENIED A GUY A DISCOUNT.
I PRETENDED NOT TO HEAR.

I HEARD.

Trash or Just plain Trashy?

Finally took out the trash.
it's amazing how long you can live with a trashbag filled with fish and other such obscenities by just shifting its location from to day. if someone starts complaining of dead rats in the sink, baddabing, baddaboom - you relocate the bag to the bathroom.
You enterain this secret fantasy of that one day, your prince will come - or in this case- a country bumpkin roommate- will realise that barnyard scents don't do as well in the confinement of a 49 square meter apartment and carry the trash out because he never never does otherwise, but no.

Tommorow- his room.
I beleive that this is called silent warfare.

Right. I submitted my story for Creative Writing today. Yay. Only problem is that it's an angry piece. Well, hell. Thing is, how you write reflects upon who you are as well. Your work is, to some extent, mixed with relaity, and since your reality s the only one truly available to you, well, you write what you know. And then, sure you can write about Tom Dick or Harrys adventures in Wonderland, but it will be their adventures in wonderland through YOUR eyes. your point of view will be visible, to some extent or the other.

I guess my greatest fear here would be that people associate my writing with me. That they label me angry girl, or necrophelia nymph, (even though I have a hard time seeing me and nymph associated in any context) -or what have you. I'm not any of these people, although I do share some of their views. I do collect old boxers*. (hey Andreeeeeeasssss?) Except the necrophelia nymph. I have no idea where she came from.

Another thing about telling stories is that sometimes you get so caught up in your character that you start thinking alike. You get these "Gah!" experiences. "Gah! That's what he/she would have done. Gah!" I like those though. Unless they mess with my everyday life. It introduces an interesting question- did you create this character, or was he or she there all along?

Yegads. Working tommorow. The great thing about my job is that I sit behind a two inch thick pane of glass. You say hello, how are you", to people, have one minute conversations. this I like. No fuss, no muss. Serving sized people. just me and Neil Gaiman and a few select American Gods.
I like.

*^(Simply because I've either borrowed them or they've been left behind by mistake and never found their owner again, not for sexual purposes)