Peaches En Regalia and Catholic Chicks.

[No writing should ever be done without listening to Frank Zappa's masterpiece "Peaches en Regalia".]

Now don't get me wrong, I have all the respect in the world for Catholics. Once upon a time, I was a catholic myself, going to a Catholic primary & secondary school, wearing the Catholic...thingies. And being generally Catholic. I bought the prayer beads man, I did my time. Then I moved to Sweden and started having crackers in bed and sex on a sunday. Yippie-kay-yay, baby.

But having faith thrust at you via the school system and being mauled by faith on the tube are two entirely different things. Rosie and I first met on the subway, when she approached me asking if I was Spanish. I was flattered. I always did think I looked Spanishy. "No, amigo", I answered. She also thought I was 17, and I always did think I looked Spanishy. She then wanted to know if I prayed. I should have heard the warning church bells right then and there, but I was Spanish! And Seventeen! I answered "maybe". Did I go to mass? Maybe. Did I have a cell number so she could call me - to prayermeetings? With the local church group?

- And there I am fresh out of 'maybe's' and equipped with a mobile phone. Now, I managed to dodge her calls several times, but keep running into her by some sadistic twist of fate. Each time, she wonders why I haven't called her yet and have I found Jesus. Often in the same breath.

Tonight I met her on the train home (she lives one station away from me) travelling home with another Catholic freind of hers, meaning that I now have two Catholic freinds by proxy.

If

I

had (truly)

1) lost my phone

2) erased my phone lists by mistake.

before - then I had now done all of the above a-gain and yes, would gladly give her my new number for my new phone, schmuck that I am. I had no real choice. I couldn't say no, cause she's Jesusy and all. Should I die and be two inches away from being fried alive for a million years, she might be the missing link that pulls me back into the heavens and the hotties - as opposed to now, where she is just the missing link fullstop.

Plus there was also the chance that she would call my phone after I had entered my number into hers to check to see if it was really mine. Which she did. From a pink phone. With a Hello Kitty screen saver Logo. And a Winne The Pooh Shell. And I know I have a tendency to exaggerate sometimes, but I would never kid about WINNIE THE POOH. That's like the anti-Jesus, which makes me wonder exactly who Rosie is. Like that movie, "Who is Julia?" with Mare Winningham, which is enough to depress the heck out of you right there. Anyways, in the movie they operate a dying woman (Julia) 's living brain into a brain-dead living body, raising questions like, hey! "Who is Julia?" Very provocative indeed. Much unlike Mare Winningham.

Much like Winnie the Pooh and people who have Winnie the Pooh shells on their mobiles. Who are you Rosie? Does Jesus Save or does Jesus Enslave you in Hellishly Poor Taste, Rosie? Do you want to have me at your bible meetings or do you want have my spleen for dinner Rosie? With DILL, Rosie?!?!

So many questions, so little oppertunity for her to answer these. As I said, I have caller ID.
And I'm not afraid to use it.

hello, please let me introduce myself.

Since I turned 25, I've matured. I therefore thought it fitting that we get properly acquainted. This is a one-time deal only, so for you who think that my writing is painful and blaaargh and owee and all that, Yea! Though you walk through the shadow of the valley of Me, thou shalt not fear. One time offer only. And a re-cap from time to time. Maybe tomorrow.

Hi.

My name, as you may have guessed by now, is not Creep, but Jenny.

I am 25.

And puff goes the magic - I'm a single Stockholmer and I'm bitter. I'm hopelessly in love with the wrong man on any given day except Sundays which is God's day. I am not religious, though I find myself pursued by pamphlet waving religious people more often than I'm comfortable with. One of these Catholic schmos conned me out of my phone number today. Except I have caller ID. HAHAHA.

I'm your average working class schmuck, forced to work in a ticket-booth to pay off various debts I have amassed. I have no real intentions of paying them off, but telling people that you're working to pay off debts generally generates sympathy, and sometimes, people will buy you coffee. These people I call "friends" - except on casual Friday when I refer to my Spanish freinds and other people with funny lisps as "Amigo."

I live in a 3 roomer apartment with my roommate Dan. Dan is an ass. But enough about him, more about me.

I'm 25. I just turned 25. Yesterday actually. I'm having a get-together at a rock-pub in the Old Town later tonight, something which looks more like the birthday scene out of Nick Hornsby's "High Fidelity" than, well. I don't have anything to compare with. One could say I am über High Fidelity. Except that I don't have the main character's extensive record collection. I do, however, laugh at people without extensive record collections. I don't really know why. I think it's some sort of reflex. Like yawning when other people yawn, or trying to shove your fingers down the throat of someone who is yawning. It's God's Will.

I'm messy. Very messy. Sometimes, I relate this to having an artistic mind which is a bit of a euphemism right there. I have been told that my stick figures are very advanced, Kama Sutra-esque is what I've heard, and that seems to justify the whole big mess. Sometimes I clean. I clean just about as often as I get laid. You might say that I clean my room when there is a chance of me getting laid. Which means that cleaning in my spare time, just for the heck of it, a bit anti-climaxic, in many, many ways - like eating a whole box of cereal only to find out that "Hey, man, where's my plastic toy, man??". Oh, and because I haven't been candid enough here, I'll add that cleaning is pointless because I never get laid anyways. It's not that I don't try the traditional five-minutes-before-closing-time-punch-and-drag "Must punch! Must drag!" - tactics that are so popular at pubs, it's that when people ask why I chose them out of a crowd of fifty other rejects, I tell em like it is.

"Why me?" (ah, these men and their silly little existential questions)

"Because you were the tallest here...?"

"HAHAHA! No, really."

"Because my eyesight is majorly sucky and you are the easiest to spot in a crowd."

"HAHAHA! No, REALLY really."

"Okay, whatever."


I don't say these things because I'm evil, I say these things because I think that honesty is important. And- yet to be proven- an attractive quality in a woman -> Yet to be proven as well, since it so happens that I've been told I'm not particularly feminine, which is sad. Course, no- one has phrased it in terms as discrete as these 'not-particularly -femenine' - people prefer to refer to me as a lumberjack, which is not - well it's just not very nice is it? I would like to change this. So on Monday I'm getting a chic haircut and a chic-er dress. Maybe pink. Maybe purple. Maybe transparant. Because I would honestly like to look nice for a change. Because Honest Lumberjacks just don't get far in this world. Just because.

But while I'm not being a lumberjack extraordinaire, I try to write music. Or lyrics. Or I don't so much write lyrics as try to avoid the people for whom I write lyrics. I'm just not very good at writing on demand. Something about artistic freedoms and stick figures, I don't know.

I suppose this last bit should be filled with likes and dislikes, "Hey, that book was really groovy", or "That Jackie Chan, well...hey. That Jackie Chan", but no. Some things should be left up to the imagination- and for later blogs. Like tommorrow's "The Birthday party for One" and "Catholics Call me at Night and breathe Funny into the Phone" and the ever-popular "Don't hate me because you're so goddam ugly." Together with the regular ticket-booth rantings, of course.

Love, Peace and Lumber,
Jenny.

(oh: and Jack Black is so playing me in the movie)

Feeling Pretto?

Or ever just wanted to know if you've got what it takes? In any case, should you think that your writing skills are up to par, test yourself at the link included here. I beleive it's safe to say that I've fallen in love with the people behind this.

Departure Halls.

And finally, the end is drawing near. It feels as if the evening new's headlines should be proclaiming this somehow, that "The End Is Near". I have two nights left of my night shift week. And I am tired. I am spent.

This is what happens when you have a steady stream of seven hundred faces or so passing you by : if one of these customer (verbally) abuses you, the anger stays with you while the face does not. Your clenched fists, hidden under the counter shake with both anger and fear for minutes after and you do not know where to direct your blows, metaphorically or otherwise, when all the faces you see run into one. This also means that should the cause for this anger return for seconds, or for belated and useless apologies, they would be greeted with the same blind smile or indifference that every new customer that followed him is. That's not right. And what's even less right is that here are people, carrying luggage and life histories - here they come and there they go, all ending abruptly. Escaping through their different gates and, and if you will allow me the cliché, the great unknown. There is never any time for closure. Stay a spell, and talk to me. Tell me where you came from, and where life has you go. And where you hope to go.

Because you meet hundreds of travellers each day, and all that remains is a spectrum of smears. Smears, unexpected smiles and unwelcomed yells stay, so do the chemist's cupbaord of lipsticks lingering in the air where Your mouth once formed Its lovely little o's and ah's. Is it not sad that Your scent, having crept under the glass and intoxicated me and stolen my heart with You, away to Barbuda, away to Russia, away to London - that even that, captivating and cruel, dispells within minutes of Your departure. Sometimes I tuck Your bills away, in hopes of saving the perfume for later. Most times, your ball of bills, just as the fingertips that once touched them - become smears as well.

How sad to think - if you will permit another cliché - that at the end of the day, your life is filled with a collection of smears. And how terrible to know that You have been reduced to a smear Yourself. A scent, a gesture, a sigh.

Taming the Shrewd Businessman.

Night three in a seven-day night shift week : a grammatic vulgarity, but how kosher are you at one am in the morning, I ask?

During my workday, I get two breaks, during which someone from the upstairs department sets me free for ten & thirty minutes respectively. Tommorow is K's turn. I could be more thrilled.

I seem to get along with mostly everybody, except the Satan of the Sixties music - and K. K is one of the 'bosses'. K never smiles. When he does smile, it's usually a disturbing affair since it's so rare - at least when it comes to smiling in my company. I asked a co-worker if she felt the same way, but no. "It's just a matter of getting him to like you." Thing is I've been as adorable and sweet as anyone can be without being cannibalized while innocently walking down the street - and still nothing.

Kaputt, with a big K.

The last time I interracted with this man was when he was in my booth instructing a newbie on how to carry out the trade. I'd just finished my morning shift, meaning that the booth was about 30 degrees celcius. I like my inner organs warm and toasty. Now, the way I see it, when you meet a newbie, you have to quickly establish your position in the scheme of things. This allows you to later take the newbie under your wings and if you're lucky, get your own slave. And this you do by showing the newbie that you are have an easy-going, relaxed relationship with figures of authority. Show them that you're cool! Casual! 'If you want to be like me, newbie, cool! (And casual!) just creep under my wings.'
(Who's your daddy, bitch?)

"Creep likes her booth tropical hot, she always turns up the heat to max." K tells the young 'un when the latter comments the heat.

"HAHA!" I laughed. "HOHO! Wasn't me no! You big fat liar you, K!" I say, rolling my eyes, and thus establishing my coolness. And my calmness. If you can call your boss a liar, that must mean that you have a bond of trust that allows for jovial accusations?

And sometimes it just means verbal suicide. K gives me a look as if to imply that he is in fact a small skinny liar. Upon realising that I had no place in the grand scheme of things - and was furthermore risking my spot basking in the periphery, I quietly left the booth. Sometimes, I wish life were as simple as establishing your place in life by lifting your leg & sprinkling the tree of your liking. Or gathering twigs-a veritable P L E N T I F U L N E S S of twigs, and pecking at anyone who threatened to sprinkle yours.

Coffee but no TV

Jonte's preparing to throw his tv out and is documenting his steps towards the window. This is the glorious thing about blogs - you watch people evolve - depending on their whims and situations and your subjectivity. There's magic and there's madness and only a few clicks in between.

Crispy, like Me.

So as everyone knows, the flu is going around. Clogged everything, tonsils the size of - well, now is just not the time to try to eat chicken nuggets and peas as always, are optional.

Dan got hit first, so I thought I'd try my range of Island flu medicine mixtures on him. Some real, some admirably imaginitive. First up- five tablespoons of salt in lukewarm water for the sore throat. His eyebrows ganged up after his first gargle. It doesn't feel right, he proclaims. I throw my hands up in the air like they tell you to do in that music video.

"You hopeless hopeless man. Here I am, slaving my ass off all day to try to make you feel better, and what do you do? Lay around and watch day time soaps and eating bonne-bonnes! FOOL! GARGLE!." Never before had I seen such a blatant lack of respect for gender-roles. Nevertheless, I assured him that this cure had been handed down through at least seven generations. (BS, of course) And did he know that my grandmother's great uncle had been a slave? From Gambia the Mother Land itself?! Which is neither BS nor relevant, but I thought it added legitimacy. He gave it another go.

"It's not working, I feel nothing!"

"Well, see, that's because I forgot to put the ginger." I added water I'd boiled ginger in.

"Still not helping!"

"Course not. I didn't put any grated pomme-de-terre in it"
(French always adds legitimacy)

"What the fuck is a pommetootah?!" (Luckily, French is Greek to some)

"Nevermind that, you. Lime is an excellent substitute."

His courage failed him after the pepper sauce, poor thing, so I broke out the island-bought and by-father-left cough syrup. Seemed to do the trick. Except it's the kind of medicine that gets you a little less energetic, and a little more philosophical. This turns out to be a new experience for Dan and the Downfall of Being Good for me. Suddenly there are theories littered all over the apartment, and despite his lethargic movements, Dan manages to find himself no further than five meters away from me - at all times - trying to share these theories. There's monologues about gender roles, life after death, and global warming. Even quality bathroom time - a sacred time reserved for a woman and her shower-head alone - is marred by Dan shouting through the key hole, wondering why fries are so crispy on the outside and so soft on the inside "Much like you, Creep, much like you".

I think that this is what people call (instant) karma. Or ka-ching - all boils on what side of the podium you're standing on.

Lists are for Losers.

So as you may have noticed from the morose reflection below, 25 is coming up. I won't specify dates here because of a very complicated situation involving social numbers and this unfortunate incident in Mexico. ANYWHO - I'm not quite sure why people make such a big deal about it. I'm not quite sure why I make such a big deal about it.

Ten things that tell you you're getting old - this being my own personal list and not a general one:

1. After having received your hefty paycheck)
"Let's not shop here - Let's go to the supermarket twenty minutes away and check if they have expiry-date-tommorow half priced goods in their half-price bucket" Well. On some days, there's some pretty neat stuff in the half-price bucket. Found salmon there once. You know how hard it is to get good salmon these days? Might as well go for the cheap stuff, is all I'm saying. Mystery meat goes for like two cents a pound! Niceness!

2. "Maybe I should get a pant size two sizes too big instead, they're bound to be a bit more comfy?" I have a thumb-rule when it comes to buying pants and shoes- if they involve unlacing and re-lacing, they're no good. Pants, like shoes, should slide off like butter, at will. (Convenience factor- 8/10, slut factor- one million thousand.)

Well, no, not really - I'm a pee-er, not a lover.

3. "Let's get 2 stretchy pants in the same color and cut so that if I accidently cut a very large and unfortunately (strategically) placed hole in one, I'll have a reserve! Yes, I know they're two sizes too big, but they're half-price!"

4. You have a hard time comprehending that people born later than 1985 can walk and talk on their own.

5. Babies start making sense. Not in the way that you suddenly undersstand the symbolisis behind their oustretched and proud offerings of pooh, but they start looking like something that's good to have. Imagine the money you can save on the circus when you have things that roll and topple over for free. Maybe you can train them to make and bring you coffee. Maybe you can have many babies and have a coffee army to reckon with. Don't fuck with us, man, we are Ahab.

6. The term "When I was young, we HAD no stretchy pants!" starts making sense. The follow-up "We had to use grass and cowdung!" takes a little getting used to.

7. You spend the first two hours speaking with someone new on MSN discussing the boil that's just erupted on your ass-cheek (Damn ingrown ass-cheek-hair!) - and other miscellaneous ailments. 26 will see you delving into the world of hemmroids - from there, you're pretty much lost to the world.

8. All your freinds start getting married. Usually with each other, making life a sort of musical chairs, except you have no idea it's going on, until you find that the comfy mood music in the background has been stopped and there you are with no-one to sit on. There you stand, the cheese, alone, in a frumpy cheese-yellow dress that you've used the ten consecutive times you've been asked to be the (old) maid of honour. You get loads of free cake, but no honies. On the upside, you have plus-sized stretchy pants for the reception. And if you spill on them, you have a spare pair.

25

I'm turning 25 in a bit and I'm still scared of the dark.

Maybe the scientists have been digging in all the wrong places - maybe The Missing Link is all over, all around us, a group of 25 year olds still searching for things to bury ourselves in. Our place in the world.