And so

We've arrived at a new year.
Have a good one, dears.

Gay new blog

how can you not love a man who writes like this?

Feliz Navidad

And to all a good night.

Time for Bed.

But not without adding a couple of lines here.

J, the night gaurd, usually shows off pictures of his little baby (four year old) daughter, the most angelic bit of a girl you've ever seen. Had the privelege of meeting her by accident today, and had a pretty interesting conversation. It started off with her asking me if I wasn't going to spend Christmas with my mommy, like she was going to.

"No" I told her. "My mum lives abroaaaoood" I pronounced this last word loud and clear, hoping to teach her a new word and thus pass on the legacy that is Me. She stares at me for a while, and gets this smile - I don't know what kind of smile it was, but I know I use it all the time, and now I know why I should stop - and says: "My grandpa is in Heaven. He's an angel. And when people are in Heaven, they close their eyes."

(Now there's just something so not right about pouring your heart and misery out to a four year old and they go and top your sob-story witha story about their dead grandfather.)

"That's right," I replied. "Their eyes are closed because they're....okay, they're resting", I replied, assuming she'd seen an open casquet and hoping that this conversation would not go on. So she smiles even more mysteriously(?), this twinkle in her eye. Needless to say, the situation was not very comfortable. How much did she know? How much should I say? She went on: "Old people go to the hospital, and then they close their eyes, and SOMETIMES THEY HAVE BABIES."

Dear God in Heaven. My very own Mini-Me. Only a little more coherent and a little less morbid. I didn't know whether to laugh or not, you laugh at the wrong pitch and the little kid will always remember you that evil woman who laughed at her. Plus you're given a couple of freebees when she's writing her memoires later on : you're portrayed as that hook-nosed lady with the beady little eyes who occasionally ate the neighbourhood children. "A fie on her!" she'll write. A fie indeed.

I wasn't ready to get fied, so I just looked away and commented some big red neon sign we were passing. And that's the good thing about four year olds. They'll slide from a conversation about existential questions to Neon signs on any given day. Versatile little critters.

K

Allright. Sleeping a full night, then taking a nap from 10 to 3 the same day you're on nightshift is never a good idea. But opening your eyes to find a letter and an Ismo record from K-Girl makes everything better instantly. And getting some of her favorite (?) quotes/lines translated from that language they call finnish into english, well that's just special. Except it's just not the same listening to Ismo Alanko without you, love. And I miss the wine evenings. And I miss those sandwhiches you used to toast in the oven, with oil and garlic and whatever else it was that looked like hell but tasted like heaven. And I miss how you were the only one in whose presence I could bounce around the living room and dance crazy little dances. And I miss your joy at finding things to 'recycle' and the way you'd always laugh at my silly jokes and finish off with an "aaahahaha....Okay."

And I swear, my eyes watered at listening to Kriisistä Kriisiin and falling helplessly in love with it and running back to find that that was probably the song you're in love with too, because it was the only full song you translated, dear heart. And I swear my eyes watered because I knew there was a reason for this being the only one. And even though I have no idea what the rest of the songs mean, I know that this one was meant for me. And more importantly, for you. If shivers ran down your spine because you found yourself in my blog, then they ran up mine because I found myself in your song. And in You. And it your funny little ladybird hat.

And I don't want to write anything else, because everything pales in comparison to the music flooding through my room, my veins, my fingertips, through me, from you. And nothing I could say could say thank you as I would like to. Everything seems shamefully redundant.

It's done

I'm standing.

Waching a sea of people in the throes of ecstacy is not my bag.

Out of the mouths of babes and MSN.

Creep: "Thinking about going to this Korn concert anyways, just not sure what seats to pick,
seats or standing?"

Bro "Stand, I guess..."

Creep "Maybe I'm getting old but I'm thinking- what if I get crushed? Not crushed as in crushed dead, but slightly mangled?"

Bro "Either risk getting crushed.. or pray no one sees you sitting."

Creep "Oh damn. Okay, fine. Standing room it is. But I mean, I'd be sitting really really close to the scene. That's kinda cool though."

Bro "What kind of music will they be playing? The sitting kind or the standing?"

Creep "For Chrissakes, it's not Sting. It's Korn. You know. Rocky. Pros with sitting- you'll be like pretty close to the scene - pros with standing - you'll be pretty close to the scene IF you get there and line up a gazillion hours beforehand. But hours without a bathroom?"

Bro "Okay, sit."

Creep: "Am I uncool? Maybe I'll just stand.

Bro. "Okay, stand."

Creep: "We'll see. Did you read the blog about how you used to put toy cars in my hair and turn em on?"

Bro : "I remember..."

Creep: "You DO remember!"

Bro: "It happened directly opposite out bedroom door one time. To the right.. (your left) side of the hair, I think. LOL! I remember."

Bro: "HAHAHAHAAA! Your face! Priceless! And your hair!"

Creep: "Bitch."

Bro: ""Life's a bitch, we're all part of it"

Bro "....with the exception of the Korn concert "sitters"

Creep: "OH! I AM SO STANDING!"

8:37am and I'm still undecided. Keep in mind people, that this is the first concert I'll go to since Offspring (....no comment) back in 1999. I've so far made it to the Arena, and then run literally off from a total of one Alice Cooper concert , Korn's 2002 appearance, and various other potentially lethal activities including. two jobs, piles of job intervues, dates and the occasional speeding car.

One a.m. blues

Yes, well, there is something hideously surreal about listening to the Ave Maria while your neighbours are pounding away at it.

Hair!

Today I've enjoyed my last day of freedom, tommorow will find me in bed at 6 pm.
But up first at 7 am tommorow morning though. Korn tickets are getting released tommorow, thought I'd be one of the first million who try to get through to booking online. Since most other Korn fans are 14 year olds with 2 inch dreads, I'm hoping my age, wisdom and early rising will have given me an upper hand on this one.

Spent my last day of freedom watching tv and eating tonnes of fries (well, not more than 1 kilo, said so on the bag). Which doesn't really help. I don't really need any more craters in my face right now. Which is EXACTLY why I also poured half a bottle of oil over my head today. Well, not exactly the 'why' - I did it because my hair is seriously starting to worry me. It's gotten tangled to the point that it's one big lump in the back with scraps of paper sticking out at strategic places. (See, because I planned all this.) The hairs that are left on the left and right sides of my head look like they're trying to escape, which is sad. I rather enjoy having hair on my temples. The back can basically do whatever it wants to, you never see it anyway.

But since it's Christmas and Christmas means cleaning yourself up and re-allocating dust in your living quarters, I spent a painstaking 4 hours trying to unknot my hair. Then I spent half an hour massaging in sunflower seed oil. Then another hour trying to massage it out. The oil did not work any wonders - in any way - unless you are fond off smelling like you've worked at Mac Donalds since the day a talent scout realised your true potential. The thought of cutting it all off crossed my mind, it's not like I haven't been bald before. Back in the early ninetees, my then baby brother would wish for, and get - a remote control car, activated by flipping a switch located at the back of it. By New Year's his car would somehow, mysteriously but inevitably, end up stuck to the back of my head. Gotta give that boy one thing, and that's that he's a sneaky little devil.

Course, Dan's threatened to move out if I shave it all off. Which should be reason enough to shed my dread right there, but he still hasn't given me my Christmas present just yet so I'll just have to resort to conditioner for a while.

I'll bide my time.
I've got time.

Conundrum

On a serious note on blogging -
I've been following several blogs since the concept was introduced to me. At first puzzled by the fact that people didn't update their blogs several times a day, then settling for every day and every few days. There's two blogs I've been folllowing particularly closely, because their entries have a short story-like quality, updates sporadic, worthwhile the wait.

The point was that one of these blogs, belonging to SJ, are often be downright hilarious. She writes about her daughter, a pink haired little four year old of a girl named "Frenchie", her Mr. Husband, her chickens, her hamster "Monkeyhip" her childhood and her love life. Thing about blogs is that after a while, at least for me - and I'm not sure if it's because of a general malfunction of my limited social life - is that you start expecting certain things. Not the kind of "Blog, damn you, because otherwise - I KNOW where you blog!!" kind of expectation, but style of writing, themes. Light hearted, heavy-footed, comical, unkosher, you name it. And then suddenly, one day, the blogger announces that they'll be taking a break and re-appearing around the 2nd of January, which, despite the time lapse of only seven or so days, seems like an eternity. It's not until the new year, its' forever.

A couple of days later, you're given the reason why - all is not well in Little China. In fact, something is terribly wrong. I mean, depending on the nature of a blog, you build a person out of the words and thoughts you're treated to. And when something goes wrong well, in a way you just want to reach out and pull the person close to you and just do good things, happy things. And make everything all right again. But do you have the right to do much more than comment? This is not someone you know. Your knowledge of this person is only as deep as a fleshwound. And the rest of this construction is basically, I think, part of yourself. You add bits of yourself into the equation- its natural, in all situations.

Or maybe this is what all relations are like.
If you love someone, it's a half and half deal, you love them because of who they are, or at least the part of themself they choose to reveal to you, and because of how they make you feel about yourself. I suppose there's a world of difference between reading someone's blog and hanging out with them over a pizza? You have no obligations. And yet, when something happens to the person you're reading about, do you dismiss it, because this is someone you do not know, and have no business interfering with, or do you say or do what little you can, because this is another person in distress? It's slightly more obvious in real life, but how do you deal with blog-life?

Hm.

Donna on MSN

Donna: "You know, Angelina Jolie in Tombraider kinda reminds me of you. The pouty lips, the rude mouth, the fit figure."

Creep "Rude mouth? Dear Heavens, Donna, art thou saying that my mouth dost spout obscenities and such? A fie on Me, then! A fie!"

Donna "I was not referring to your morals. I mean the lips."

Creep: "Correction - one pouty underlip. Just that one."

Donna: "Guess god missed a spot there."

Creep: "A fie on him too."

(tired pause)

Ether: "....Okay. But you know, but she kinda does."


Except I don't.
The conversation made me wonder about how much we have changed though, my Donna and I, during the past four years we've been apart. She's a banker by day and is studying to take a couple more degrees by night. She has a steady relationship with some bloke she likes to refer to as "Darren", and juggles all this with yoga classes a few times a week. I mostly just spend my time trying to figure out why lint never collects in my bellybutton and compensating for this by filling it with things I find during the day. Collecting lint, well, that's kind of like like banking, in a metaphorical kind of way. And then there's the occasional dumpster diving, which is, well. if you were acquainted with the techniques behind Hungarian Yoga, you would probably be astounded by the parallells.

On a completely different note - if you want a perfect example of Catch 22, try finding lost glasses. Body count so far- two bruised kneecaps, four broken cd's, three stubbed toes, and one very unhappy Creep.

Junk Junkie

So many things, so little time! (and money)
(but mostly time.)
(and money)

Nightshift Für Alle

Arright, off we go, to another nightshift, in eight hours and counting. it's not my turn to do the dastardly deed of getting up in the middle of the night this week, but I couldn't say no to the sweet dear who asked me. Something about her not having seen her husband for a couple of weeks, and wanting to spend some time with him before he sets off for another couple of weeks.

Heh heh, nah, just kidding. I'm in it for the cash.

Got you again, it really is the former reason.

Or IS it?

Regardless, Cannibal Ox, lyrical geniuses and musical madmen - will be accompanying me tonight. And Naipaul's Miguel Street. Didn't have that much more to say other than that nine hours of bladder bursting pain paid off, Dan bought his third roll of tiolet paper for this year today. I'm so proud I could cry. That, and nine hours without the use of your bathroom will do that to you, and I don't care how Buddhist you are.

Ice Ice baby.

Yes, well.
This is the thing.
Nightshift wipes out my internet based existence for some four days or so. Which means that I'll be a goner the whole of next week, but hey. Come by with a cookie, why don't you. A partridge in a pear tree wouldn't hurt either, even though you'd get no points for oringinality. Meanwhile, if gingerbread cookies and this vile thing the Swedes call glögg, (tastes as bad as it sounds - bah humbug) will not be the death of me, snow and ice will. Oh snow and ice, how lovely you look, how mercilessly you slaughter the innocents, the not-so-innocents, and me.

Me & the Danarazzi, me having almost fallen on my patootie, the Dannarazzi giggling:

"But what if I had slipped and died, my skull a cracked watermelon, on the pavement?"
(trinidadians - melodrama - watermelons)

"I would have probably gotten very very shocked, then very very sad, then very very angry at not having bought my camera to put out snuff pictures of you on the net."

"You would exploit me after my untimely death?"

"Yes."

"I have taught you well, young Jedi."

"I would have called my collection "Dead Girl On Ice". They might even named a new drink after you."

"My very own Drink?"

"Yupp. lots of Baileys. Cause you're brown."

"You're exploiting me after death and insulting me racially?"

"Or maybe Baileys with Banana liquer. You're yellow brown, you know."

"I think we're enjoying my death a little too much."

"And a glass of ice to go with it, of course."

"And you call me a Creep?"

"I thought you liked Baileys?"


And well, you just can't argue with that.

Finally

Home Sweet home, bed sweet bed.

The K and I

K-Girl, my precious to the left.



Here's the extract from my old home page, about this wonderful girl - and the problematics of Christmas when you're unemployed.

"It's hard to be an accomplished individual these days. You have to wear the right clothes, drive the fastest cars, have the phattest girl on the block, preferably not be the fattest guy on the block, and you must have a job. You have to have a job. I'm trying. If not for the money, then for the feeling of satisfaction over a job well done. Which brings us back to the original problem - you have to have a job first. Every time Christmas rolls round the bend, I think about sinking as low as getting a job at Mac Donald's. The only thing that has stopped me is the video they show you on the first day. You are placed in a little room, with a big television, and a one-hour video on the importance of customer satisfaction. I haven't seen this for myself, but I've heard stories of Ronald MacDonald's head spinning round and round, while he repeats "The customer is always right!" Wiiiiiirr! "The customer is always right!" Wiiiiiirr! "The customer is always right!" At some point in time you expect him to break out the pea soup, but he never really does. My issue is that I just don't have that one hour to waste on a video that tells you that you are not good enough unless you wear that M seal of approval.

I might not have any fancy M's or diplomas that officially establish my success as an individual. But I do have the K-girl seal of approval. And at the end of the day, that's good enough for me. You don't know who K-Girl is? I'll tell you. K-Girl is Finnish. Finnish people are known for their drinking habits and their skills in knife wielding. Every self-respecting Finnish family has something known as a sauna in their back yard. This is where they 'hang out' or 'Koskenkorvar' as it is called in Finnish. The Finnish family enters this little shack after the evening drink and the traditional rolling in snow. They then proceed to mercilessly beat each other with little clusters of sticks. Why they do this is a mystery, since they speak a language no other country speaks or cares to understand.

K-Girl came to Sweden to learn the language. I, being the Good Samaritan that I am, took her in, in exchange for half my rent. Judging by what I had heard of her sort, I thought that she might be perfect as a conversation piece, should I and my friend ever decide to throw a party. And perhaps, perhaps if I were lucky, she would build a little sauna in my backyard. No such luck. What I got instead was a friend for life."

This was, of course, before I cut my hair (metaphorically) and got a job (wishing it were metaphorically).

Oh Nightshift, how I loathe thee.

Then vs Now

From a House for Mr. Biswas, 1961.
Mr. Biswas's first submitted article to The (Trinidad) Sentinel sounds a bit like this, and was pretty much a sign of the times back then, from what I've heard.

'Daddy comes home in a coffin' by Mr. Biswas :
"...Well, I have news for you kiddies. Daddy is on his way home. Yesterday he passed through Trinidad. In a coffin."

Carol Matoo published in the (Trinidad) Gaurdian, 10/12/2003 sounds a bit like this:

'Mom recalls Mt Hope ordeal - Baby she will never cuddle':
"Saleema Baks will never know what it would be like to hold her baby boy in her arms. She will forever yearn for the child she never got to hold and cuddle, and share the Christmas holidays with."

I'm not quite sure what to make of it. Whether to laugh or cry, if it's tragi-comedy in my heart or just a speck in my eye. One thing I can say for sure- us Trinidadians certainly seem to have a flair for drama.

bro

The abbreviation *bro', by the way, means 'bridge' in Swedish, and I find that relevant somewhow.
You'll have to forgive me for the lack of humour in recent posts, especially you, my love K-Girl, but I can't seem to find it this week. I made a pact with myself once to delete all such posts that weren't written with me laughing, but that's a form of censorship I can't much support.

Tommorow, we're having one last group CW10 meeting, (last Creative Writing session for the term, and basically, forever) and I find it a bit hard to come up with comments, mostly because I'm aware of my own shortcomings. Seems like going against that passage in the bible (Halleluja) that goes something like "Don't mess with the speck in your bro's eye until you've picked out the log out of your own". Which seems like a pretty fucking morbid parable, but hey. Like walking around with a log through your skull. It's Clive Barker and Jesus, I tell you.

Also find it hard coming up with reasons to go. Because saying goodbye is never easy, and if you skip it, then, I suppose in a way, the possibility to do so is always there, waiting for you. You can go on pretending that the class is still there, carrying on, every other tuesday, it's just that you're choosing not to go. But it's your choice. And somewhere out there things are carrying on as usual and on hold - for you. On pause. Damn you winter : your ice-clad death traps and your ends-of-term.

Listening to Muse and marvelling over the melodrama in Space Dementia, which is so perfectly balanced with everything else -decadence, beauty, crashing & clinking piano - that it is a true work of art.

"Space dementia in your eyes
Peace will arise and tear us apart
And make us meaningless again"

And I suppose there's truth to that.
But they're not gonna get us, K.

No.

Holding my breath.

Happy Birthday

Bro.
Wanted to be the first & last person to officially congratulate you on this your official birthday.
And whoop, there it is. Hope you had a good one, love.

Oh say can you see

And though the holes were rather small, they had to count them all -
now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall

so

As I was saying, it's just that sometimes, I think that life is too surreal to be taken seriously. Or maybe surrealism is the norm and the afternoons when you're sitting in front of your computer, sipping coke and picking lint out of your bellybutton is as anomaly as you get. In any case, you can't survive unless you have a smirk lying around. And on some days, you just can't but help laughing all the way.

And that, my pet, is glorious.
Hilarious, even.

Andreas by Night and After Whiskey.

Quoted quite freely from a phone conversation a deux, during which, Andreas often chooses to fill the uncomfortable silences with beatnik poetry.

"Oh Nazi, how I loathe thee.
I watch you out of the corner of my eye like a bad nightmare receding into the night.
How can you tell who is a Nazi?
Well if you play march music, they all start marching. That's how you can tell who the Nazis are.
And if you look at them from the corner of your eye - don't stare directly at them or they will stop - but if you don't stress yourself to see them, you can see them building motorways.
Then you'll see them.
Nazis.
And then just play some march music.
Nazi, how I loathe thee."

Me myself, well, it's 'Party, how I loathe thee'. Dan's 25th birthday party takes place tonight, which is a shame, it involves socialising with humans and getting very very drunk for other reason than being able to give the appearance of enjoying home-made banana cake. Damn that banan cake. Never known anyone who liked banan cake who wasn't a fruit-fly.

There'll be candle-blowing & gift giving, and, if I'm extraordinarily lucky, a pinata. Never understood the gift giving part. We should be celebrating mothers! That little pink blob is no Indiana Jones! Tell me, Foetus, when last did you try to escape a stone rolling down a hill by running directly in front of it, and then escaping in the very last minute by grabbing one of the ten million vines hanging above your head?

When last did you try squeezing yourself out of yourself for seven hours straight without morphine?

Have you ever even been to a lamaze class with thirty other big-bellied women of dubious hygein?

You
deserve
no
cake you wine infested sock-monkey.

[haiku, traditional.]

party it is.
And may god have mercy on my soul, but I'm a sucker for celebration.

Oh Dear Sweet jesus.

Today is the day that the last assigment for Creative Writing is due.
I beleive that the correct title of the production would be "But I digress."

What we have learnt so far-
Conversation can successfully be incorporated into your writing, because the world does not revolve around you. You can however create the illusion of the world revolving around you by stealing all of Andreas best punchlines and making them your own.

Andreas makes a great CCCP - Crisis center...cupport person. During the writing of this last assignment, every two lines was followed by the dialling of his number and a mantra of "I'm DOOMED! DOOMED!". Dan serves the same function, but does not get the same credit since he lives with me and has no choice.

A second glass of wine never cancels out the effect of the first glass of wine.

I have lost all control of tense. Trying to throw in setting, conversation AND metaphors has a tendecy to canacel out all other brain activity, leading to a repetitive "But I digress" to throw you back into the 'right' tense and give the reader some form of time/space continuum. Remove these three little words and increase the risk of the world exploding into an F.

I'm Doomed. DOOMED!

If you are inept at forming metaphors and similies - try throwing in a 'like' between two a noun and a verb/adverb. "Water like, ran." "down the standpipe like quickly." Embellish! "down the standpipe like very quickly indeed! Oh Like water how it did ran!" or my personal favorite - "Can't catch me, I'm like the gingerbread man for I run LIKE THE WIND!" ( and so on, and so forth.)
There is no end to the possibilities.

I should move this to the CW journal section but since some entries have yet to pasted I'll put this on hold.

Pow-wow

Read Dan part of my blog for the first time tonight.

"But you're not Chinese!" he says.

"Yes I am. Can you not see the slanty eyes? This means that I am Chinese."

"Dude, you're Swedish."

"Have you ever befreinded and studied the ways of what you claim to be a real Chinese person?"

"No."

"Well then you're not the most reliable source in this matter."

"But you're not Chinese!"

"I know what I am, but what are you?"

Dan's blatant denial of my heritage kinda reminded me of the scene in Cannibal the Musical, where these Japanese people have decked themselves in feathers and war paint. We meet the Cheif when Bell, Part of an expedition to Colorado is passing through the cheif's camp.

Bell: Could you tell me what tribe this is?

Chief: We are...Indians.

Bell: Yes I see that, but what Indians?

Chief: You don't think we are Indians?

Bell: No, no, no, I just uh...

Chief: We have teepees!

Bell: Right! I see, but...

Chief: Look at aaall these teepees we have. Because...we are...Indians.

Packer: Yeah, they have teepees.

By Jove, I think I've got it.

After running around the house wringing my hands for the past few days (even took the day off yesterday) I woke up to realize that all was not right in my Little China. It was that time of the month again. Now, if there's one thing, you should never never ask a woman, then it's "You got PMS right now, don't you?" Chances are she doesn't, which means that you just shortened your lifespan by like forever. Chances are she could be like me, completely unawares of how her menstrual clock works and unawares of that that might actually be the reason for the waterworks, but very aware of how to get Kung Fu on your Ass. Which usually ends up in the Creep being tossed on the couch, repeatedly since Dan is slightly larger than me and does not understand the gist of "Stay Down Bi-atch!" after I've successfully pinned his ass to the back of my head.

"That time of the month huh?"

"You damn insensitive bastard!" (sputter sputter)

"No, I mean....I remember it was around this time last month..."

"YOU KNOW NOTHING! These are my feelings. You are hurting my feelings!!"

"Fair enough. That still doesn't answer the question. Do you or do you not want more cake? CAKEORDEATHCAKEORDEATH?!"

"Ick!" (sputter) "Ick!"

Feels like Nature's private little joke there. One day, you might have felt completely justified to go slamming the door to your bedroom. After all, he looked at you funny. Kinda Sneaky-like. Like the Sneaky one in The Good, The Bad The Ugly and The Sneaky One. No wonder why. Your body has been plotting against you and secretly collecting water for weeks, making you look like something that could independently float a small country should the need arise.

The next day, you notice that something is shredding your bowels. You keep expecting Signourey Weaver to run out of the bushes and kill you with fire. Directly after you realise what's going on, the inevitable "Ahaaa" feeling hits you. There was a reason for why you tried to rip off your roomates head and eat a pound of black forest cake at the same time the other day. Right after that, the guilt slaps you upside the head. Right after that, cool, calm rationalisation sets in and you realise that the poor sod that you chewed out yesterday probably deserved it any way. Preventative measures, let's call them. You are god's own Pest Control.

Funny thing is, I remember being completely happy the first time I found out what it was to be a Woman. I was in form two, which must have made me just about fourteen or so. I was the last person in class to get my periods, just like I had been the last person to get a bra.

"But you're only twelve!" Ma says.

"Ma, when the sun shines through the window, people can see my breasts."

"But you're only twelve"

"They tell me my breasts are pointy!"

"Creep, Does this....depress you?"

"Ick!"

I don't really mind having my monthly visits from Aunty Flow. What I do mind is the PMS. PMS rocks my world, and I usually slip off, into the deepest pits of hell. Nothing works. The VCR doesn't work? It's PMS, goddamn this PMS. The fact that you've never touched the VCR has nothing to do with this. Men have never experienced such misery, so you do your best to show them what it feels like. You put down your knitting for a week and take up emasculation instead. It's their fault, you know it is.

It's also their fault that we have wars. If women ran the world, there would be no wars. We would all sit down and discuss our issues in a calm and rational manner, over a cup of chamomile tea. And then, once a month, we would take our dainty little teaspoons, and stab each other to death.

Blugger.

Every once in a while, I make that call to Trinidad, to talk to my beautiful Donna. Donna, if you hadn't guessed, is the one that got away and never really stopped informing me of this. She was also my extremely bestest friend during my girl school years, and, when it all comes around, my one true love. As such, she is the person I call first despite the whopping 12 crown per minute cost. When the bulldozer of manure hits the fan and doesn't come flying back tasting like roses my fingers know which number to dial. I pour out my heart, and tell her exactly how odd life is. Donna will patiently listen and nod ( I can hear her nod) , and after the usual moment of respectful & reflective silence, tell me: "Karma. This is karma. This is your bad karma for leaving me."

There is something definitive about that this you just can't argue with.