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So I thought of myself, why not create a beautiful template, that would make you squeal pinch your nipples in childish delight.

But then I thought: no.

And then I thought, why not leave the blog where it is, and let the masses come, and gape at its positioning, handpicked by the adress scrambler of my internet provider, but no. Transport the motherfucker to a web-hotel where you have absolutely no idea where to go or what to do seemed much more...good.

And then I thought, why not save yourself the trouble of looking like a complete moron in your brother's view, asking him silly questions like "How do I change the colour of this column", or "Why are swedish men idiotus maximuses?" but hey. I'm just not that sort of girl.

So afters hours of climbing walls, chewing nails and whining to a brother halfway across the globe - and probably thanking his lucky stars for this - our combined efforts finally paid off.

I (and little Brother-man) bring you the newly standaradized Power Mad. And if you, like myself, are wondering "Dude, where's my archives?" then I would probably think that that was a very good question. Finger-licking nipple-squeezing good, in fact.

"...You and me baby, ain't nothing but mammals, so let's do it like they on the discovery channel."

The first sign that a budding relationship is going to get bad, very bad, bad like an armpit bad - it's by terminology the object of your affection uses.

These are the no-no's.

"Okay, let's run." (after realising that the bill for dinner has mysteriously dwindled to 35 crowns for no apparant reason while he was in the bathroom.)

"Spleenie"- that he calls you by your online screen name as opposed to say, your real name. Despite repeated slaps and screams of "SAY MY NAME BITCH!"

"You turn me on, baby" is replaced by the phrase "My body is prepared for you." You can hear by the slight tremmor of his voice that this is possibly the greatest honour that he can bestow on you, ever.

"I find you very f*ckable" as opposed to, say - "You look very pretty today." Or "Your hair smells good." I would have even settled for a "Your eyes look less beady today than they usually do." I would have settled for less.

Makes you want to get double jointed so you could kick yourself in the dear-e-air. Keep in mind that I'm not excessively violent, I'm not even remotely violent, I wouldn't steal candy from a baby unless it was like a bar of Snickers or Mars or maybe even Twix in a pinch, I'm just tired of the little traditional 'pock' sound ones head makes after ramming it into yet another metaphorical wall.

Lions and Tigers and Berries, Oh My!

"We need to defrost our freezer." he says, obviously drunk.

"Ah, but here is the catch 22- to defrost the freezer, we need a freezer." I say, obviously intellectual and well-read.

"We can throw 90% of this stuff away anyway." he says, drunker by the minute

"My berries? you Would throw MY berries?" I say, with a smack on his head for emphasis

"They've been in here for two years." he says, wincing.

"I've been saving them for a special occasion." I say, with no smack on the head, nothing works on this man.

"Food poisoning?" He says.

In the end, I did bake a pie. But not with the berries in the fridge - they are two years old for Chrissakes. But my mother picked them, which means I can't throw them out. Mothers have a freakish ability to tell and re-tell stories of the times they were picking berries for you and almost threw out their back. Or stumbled over the some mulberry bush or the other and almost broke their left eye. Or got chased down the mountains by bears, like that's really true. Or got eaten by a bear but "no dear, I'm allright now." In any case, when that day comes, you don't want to tell your ma that she sacrificed herself to whatever pine forest tribe of her choosing just to put fruit on your table just to have them crammed into the neighbours' trashbag.

Come the winter of her life and You'll be applying hemmorid cream for years and years, my freind. (Although I tend to use that term loosely with ass-touchers in general.)

Ah, the morning after.

A term used to describe any number of situations, usually of the liminal kind. The morning after you have misplaced your head at your hosts place. Will you find it? There's no gaurantees. And even if you did, would you want to?

The morning after you have slept with your boss' wife and woken up to realise that it was your boss in drag. Will you get over it? Will whiskey and tablets help you?

The morning after you've decided to take your last breath of air and find yourself in the emergency room. White walls blistering in their sterility. Would you want to cry? From releif? Dissappointment?
At all?

How are your liminality express itself?

As for alternative a - a night of heavy sipping´- its morning after punishes you. Two mosquitos come to mock you by the dozens, creating such a powerful ringing that you can't be sure if it is the world that has finally decided to give up one great death rattle or if this sound is an imaginary sound emanating from and staying within your head. A post - drunken state will leave you not quite knowing the difference, in contrast to the drunken state had you convinced that everything that spouted from your mouth was the god-honest truth and that the regurigtated dip sauce is Art.

And that it was allright to strip.
And that no-one will press charges.

Howling at the Moon.

Hennes & Mauritz latest ploy is draping a mile wide banner of a bikini-clad Brazilian butt across the building of one of Stockholm's biggest shopping centres.

I've never been particularly involved issues of the political kind, guess I'm just stupid that way, but one thing is for sure - Hennes & Mauritz just lost one more customer. Dior, here I come.

In completely unrelated news, my arch enemy the gynecoligst Ricardo Hernandez has summoned me to another pap smear appointment. This is the second time in six months! Do I sense potential romantic interest?

The plot thickens.

Gabba Gabba HELLOHEYHEY!

There was a little kid sitting in front of my on the bus home today. He kept standing up in his seat yelling "hello! HEEEELLO!" at anyone who would listen. He went absolutely mad when another little tyke boarded the bus and soon they were facing each other, two inches apart, screaming "HELLO HEYHEY HELLO HEYHEY" at the top of their little lungs.

I'll never understand little kids. What fascination they find in their Hare krishnaish mantras and why they are insist on running around on five inch legs even though they know they look generally moronic. Like funny little dwarves but with proportional arms.

Which is a certain date, Mr. 21 year old - worries me. Dan insists that a 21 yr old is a great catch. In fact, he had a good feeling about him. On the other hand, this is Dan's opinion we're talking about, so Mr. 21 might as well be the uberdemon Hairyassius from the sixth circle of hell.

Besides that - there's a four year difference! A four year difference. Have I no shame, woman. Four years means that I've exceeded his sexual partners by about, oh, say, million. It means that he's probably got all these high hopes that are going to topple over into a missionary, because hey, I'm Catholic. It means that he's all bright eyed and thinking that life will give him something that I know reality will rip away from him like it was a piñata that he busted open but he couldn't get his blindfold off fast enough so he didn't get the good stuff. A jelly bean, perhaps. Maybe a dinner-mint.

Do I pop his piñata, or not pop his piñata? Both so lucrative! The angst, oh the angst.

And maybe - maybe he expects me to be - if not a sexual guru, then just a plain-clothes guru. A guiding light. Well, I'm not a guiding light. My teeth shine in the dark, but that's about it. A sailor's salvation, but something to base a relationship on? Deserves pondering.

It means that while I'd like to discuss things...well, things of great importance, like artsy things at the dinner table he'll be busy swishing around his peas and carrots and trying to make them mysteriously dissappear under the carpet. Like I wouldn't know where to look. I would know. Or better yet - I would sense. Because biologically I am a woman - equipped with breasts and thighs - and breasts again, meaning that I also have this natural mother's intuition thing that is the most amazing and powerful radar in the WORLD and senses ALL badness in the entire world. I can find every hidden chick-pea within a five mile radius on a clear day, just like my mother used her sixth sense to find my extensive collection of school lunches once.

Threatened with no tv during the weekend if I didn't eat my school lunch during the week, I had devised the brilliant plan of hiding them under my bed. Not just under the bed, but under a mat as well. She found them. Course, this was after two weeks. And she had the trail of ants to tip her off. And the stench. And, okay shesaw me hide food with her own eyes that last time. (My mother's radar is sweet, but slow.)

Super-mom radrar goes blip again seconds before she stumbles upon my year-or-so old storage system for boogers. You could see her eyes well up with something that could have been, on a good day, say pride, but alas. Such was not the case.

"I had to sit with a spatula and scrape your bedpost for a whole hour!" she cries, when I get home from school that day, her voice almost cracking - a very bummeresque situation. But what the crap do you do with snot, white bread and eggs when you're 8?

And what the crap do you do with a 21 year old boy when you're a 25 year old quasi-woman?

All in a Night's work.

4 am in the morning finds me boiling a red hat I found on the pavement and expecting a call from a 21 year old boy - who I swear I did not know was 21 - and who thinks that he is going to show me a bit of swedish culture tommorow even though I have been here for seven years, the last part of which I might have neglected to mention.

Note to self: Try to stop doing stupid things.

Date Update

Well, that went well. I think that Rob captures the mood perfectly.

So what's Your Life Expectancy?

So they say that with every cloud there's a silver lining, meaning, logically, that for every silver lining you stumble upon there's bound to be a cloud to ruin your day somewhere not too far off. On top of that, all bad things, it's said, seem to come in threes. Meaning that logically, 75% of your life is bound to be pretty pretty crap infested. Plus, you sleep an average of 30% of your life away, leading to my Thesis Mostest Magnumus. Should you - god forbid - live to be about 100, then 83,5 of these would have probably been tending boils or fleeing grasshoppers or unsuccessully parting red seas like some people tend to do and then they drown.

Kinda makes you happy you had a sucky childhood - So you didn't get that Barbie for Christmas. Good for you! So your pet Sparky turned Cujo when you were five and now you only have two fingers on each hand and no prostrate? HALLELUJA BROTHER!

Why I bring this up is because I've had a run of rotten luck for the past week. Because I dated and was dated well, to boot - I got my allotted three strokes -

1. Got conned out of 1500 by customers who are 'always right'- which blows a bit since I had exactly 2000 to begin with after my bills were paid. (75%! Gone! Coincidence? I think not) It's no laughing matter. And even though I am not particularly religious, I did shake my fist at the sky and wonder what the heck was happening. I am not Job. Sandals and sunken cheeks does nothing for my complexion.

2. An elderly looking man hobbles up to me, equipped with mobile and battery charger in one hand, cane in the other. he explained that he wanted to make a call, but that his battery was dead and he had nowhere to charge it. Could I charge it? Of Course I could. The night gaurd I had been chatting with went round the back and tapped the booth door - "Don't do it. he's a junkie! You shouldn't encourage him!" I didn't listen. You just have to draw the line somewhere, you can't go mistrusting people. The gaurd came back to the window after the man left and shook his head, laughing. When the poor old man came back and started taping my door shut with scotch tape, the gaurd laughed even harder.

3. I got conned into buying Marcus Birro's "The Land Outside." Tacky, tacky tacky. The man makes good points about the outcasts in our society- every thinkable single kind - but he is no Joyce Carol Oates. And I know this, because I have read one of her books.
And all hail the king of the Power-mad world.

On the upside, the homeless man who had been a multi-millionaire (before some guy named "Björn" stole all his money and bought a hotel and a plane!) passed by my booth this morning and wished me God's blessings. I could not have been more mortified, after the short burst of warmth and graitute faded out. A good thing! Meaning three more bad things would follow. I can magine all three of them coming together and ganging up on me tommorow. Tommorow I am going on a second date with A.G, the BOY WHO KISSED ME, and the pre-second-date fears have already come a-haunting. What if I don't know what to talk about? What if I forget how to talk? (which is like "What if I forget how to swallow?" - just before a recording session starts and your mouth has turned into a veritable lake and you suddenly forget how to solve this.) It sounds very stupid, but it's a legitimate fear.

Or, Or! What if he is exactly like me. We laugh at the same jokes, mostly mine - but what if it doesn't end there? I mean, I wear my generic pants and shirts everywhere I go. What is he does this too? If I am predicable, what if he is too? Things can only go downhill from there. Being predictable means taking the same route to work everyday, wanting the missionary every sunday afternoon. Buying bran flakes as opposed to say fruity loops and choco-puffs. Bran Flakes! After a while, you could clock your day according to your bowel movements. And put two of these people together in the same house, well. I don't have to explain to you why synchronised flatulence never went to the Olympics.

Wish me luck.
But with 75 years left to live, I'd prefer if you wouldn't.