Can You hear Me Major Tom?

Well, the twelfth will se me blogging from another location - two houses down from me. A second floor apartment with a view. I doubt there will be anymore blogging about the ilustrous Dan, seeing as how we're not parting on the best of notes. Slight difference of opinion, me thinking that he is a stark raving mad pathological lunatic  with bad hair -  and him thinking that no, no he doesn't think he so at all.

And me, I'm sitting in the smack dab middle of a kigdom of litter. Litter litter, all around, and not a drop to drink except something undefinable on the floor which has been there for three days now and refused to co-agulate. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what scares me more, moving from my tree-roomer or this.

Sitting here and listening to a leaving home album, inevitably including The Beatles' "She's Leaving Home", a couple of Iggys, a couple of Bowies. Woe is me. Because woe IS me. I'm miserable. Thee's no fun in running around naked in a one roomer, you can only get so far, whereas in a three-roomer, you're practically streaking across a football feild if you close your eyes, which is not recommendable, but you get the idea. Running around naked in a one roomer naked is just sad and uneventful, in comparison.

Siblings Inc.

Old Age and Wisdom provide no leverage whatsoever when your brother repeatedly jabs his fingers in the air, tickling what would have been you if you had been standing 2 feet closer.

The mental anguish of this the brother's gruesome jedi-finger trick is enough for anyone, regardless age and obvious superiority, to abandon all self-respect and race towards the kitchen (with a brother in pursuit) kicking away small mats and tiny cousins, and screaming at mom to TELL HIM. TELL HIM MA!

It's nice to know that despite five years apart, and a just as big age difference, some things still stay the same.

Departure Hall Booth-girls and E.R doctors

Time floats by diferently while sitting in the booth. It is swallowed up in chunks, in gulps. Your day does not tick in minutes but rumbles by as busses. You measure your day, your days, your life even, in departures, turning the booth itself a metaphor in a way.
I doubt that you have to be as priveleged and booth blessed as I to do the same.

Day 5 (FIVE) of morning shift and I'm getting tired of shady looking men staring at me with their sticky eyes while silently passing by. You can see a trace of disappointment in their eyes - the kind of hurt but cautiously hopeful look that only comes with the realization that not all girls in booths spontaneuosly throw all their clothes off and start pumping their thighs in time with the bass-beat of Gunther's "You touch my tra-la-la".

Though I wouldn't mind a fiver or two, once in a while.

Herpes & Half Truths.

So yes, I've been less than active on my updating, due to that I've been considering the ethics of the material. Andreas might have been right when he described this as a collection of half-truths, embellishements and lies except for the lies part. And most of it, come to think of it. But when you present a certain image of yourself that might be more cynical and sarcastic than truthful, then misunderstanding is bound to arise? Which is the root of the matter when it comes to where Dan is involved. Could I have been someone I maybe wasn't for a year and a half? And if so, what of the blog? Should I moan about the suckiness of life and menstrual pains that are badness incarnate instead? Deserves pondering.

But then again, who has the time. A much more interesting situation has stumbled into the path that is my life.

Him.

We spent time that should have been used sleeping inventing expletives, their uses and their reprocussions. "Shit-curtain" was up there right along with "ass-chest". Take them into your mouth. Play with them, play with them like they were geisha balls. Orifice optional. This is what we did, except the playing was limited to verbal such, not any geisha grossness. (What were you thinking?)

And He fills my heart with a love that is hard to explain. Though if I tried, I'm sure the words asschest and shitcurtain are likely to pop up once or twice, like the geisha balls they are not. But then there's the whole comittment thing, which is like Death is what I hear, or at best, like The Herpes - which you can put cream on, but it never really goes away. Much like Comittment. Comittment is like waking up with a horse's head next to you in bed - except it's comittment. With morning breath to match, morning breath to probably send you off the deep end, but not far enough to get you, you know, comitted. Haha.

Then there's the matter of calling all your freinds in quotation marks and telling them that hey. I am now a comitted woman, yes, someone has made an honorable woman out of me. No, we cannot keep seeing each other. No, a blow job counts as cheating. No, it does not help if you put a paper bag over your head. Oh, it's a WWF bag you say? *Click*

But he fills my heart with a love that is hard to explain. Though if I tried, I'm sure I'd mention things like that I miss him when he's not around and that life without him is like life without a leg. Viable, but not without problems in transportation. No, he does not have a car. Yes, this was a terrible analogy. But cars and me don't mix anyway - not after my Rumanian freind in quaotation marks who used to drive stoned and drunk, who dragged me on national television and who tried to marry me off with one of his freinds. All true. Furthermore, as far as comittment goes, cars tend to lend people a mobility that usually means you can't track them down and give them a piece of your mind unless you can keep up with them in a car of your own. And I have no car of my own. I have a public transport pass and a Herpes-infected Horse's head on my hands. Anologize that.

He makes me painfully aware of my body. And this is the problem with developing relationships with freinds. Whereas before I could have sat in my living room my belly hanging out over the edge of my pants and hoisted unto the coffee table, now I want to look nice. Abandon the comfy pants. Away with them. When it might have taken half an hour to get home to his place before, now two hours are spent searching for Surfaces That Reflect Things to check if the hair's allright and all that. The sides of polished cars, shop-windows, acne ridden teenagers, God bless their hearts. Stomach in, chest out! (But he's your best freind!) Stomach out, chest sag. (But you love him.) Stomach in, Chest out. (But it hurts!) Stomach out. Chest where-ever.

Chest everywhere, because suddenly you're transformed, from a mind into a mind with a body to go with it. No longer a decapitated brain you are, nosir. A brain with breasts. Possessing the power to not only stimulate with a sense of humour to die for and to die laughing from, but breasts as well. Considering my track record with numerous two-legged asschests and shitcurtains males who have usually neglected the first, I'm just not sure how to combine these. Attraction has always been limited to either or, never both at the same time. Some people consider personality the important factor and think of breasts and the body as icing on the cake, but honey, these breasts aren't sugar-based grossness. Someone apparantly likes them. Someone likes me. Someone might even love me.

A Freudian slip first placed the word 'not' in front of the 'might' in the previous sentence. And I suppose that says it all. You can try to teach me otherwise, Boy whose face I want to shower with kisses, but I'm 25 going on cynical who has has a hard time finding common ground between love and the other thing. The word shitcurtain comes to mind to fill out the obscure distance between, but I couldn't be quite sure.

My brother, the sensitive action figure.

What bonds my brother and I is that we don't have a serious bone in our body. Maybe the cochlea. Oh sure, we can be serious in some situations. Present us with the options of cake or death and we would probably chose- no, no. We'd choose death, but the funny kind of death. Like being part of a lemming soul-train, boogeying off a cliff and not living to tell the tale. Our only legacy a pile of furballs and flower-print bellbottoms. Sad, really.

Army enrollment entrance exams, for which my brother flew to Sweden to take last week, include tests of IQ, strength, and a psychologival evaluation. The strength tests worked out fine, he's pretty average in that department. The IQ was fabulous ( but would you expect less from any brother of mine) - and the psych tests, well...well then came the psych test.

"Has anything traumatic happened to you in your life?"

"Well, my dog died. Franz. He was a good dog he was..."(and with some afterthought, and tunelessly, and here we go) : "And Franzo was his naaaaame-o."

And that knocked about three points off his 1-9 point range psych exam. The psychologist leans a bit closer, straightening her glasses.

"Uhm, well. Would you then say that you are a little bit more sensitive than other people?"

My brother leaned a bit closer as well. And I suppose you can guess what happened next. He couldn't resist temptation, what - with it only two meters away from him, listening with a breathless attentiveness.

"Well...maybe just a tad." he mumurs with a slight tremor that would have made me proud.

Regardless, he walked off assigned the role of "group leader" provided that The Island releases its hold on him someday and lands him on this the colder continent.

Something Chinee this way comes.

Definately one of the most beautiful girls in the world. And the brother-in-law to be. Due month - December 2005, when I will be maid of honour and will, according to Trinidadian tradition, abduct the bride and hide her away in Rinkeby, Sweden.

It is also Trinidadian tradition that the wedding cake comes with.

The collective voodoo doll. How do you do that voodoo that you do.An excellent way of improving booth-life came to me this morning.The collective voodoo doll.Everytime someone aggravates th heck out of you, you stick another pin into a doll - a collective representation of all the evil in the world. This encompasses all the people who make up their own timetables and don't understand why their busses aren't running according to schedule. It applies to all the people who can't read, and walk up to you, asking for tickets to destinations that probably don't exist and that we don't offer services for anyway."Uzbekestan, please."(pointing at sign over my head). " A-i-r-port coaches. We run the busses to the a-i-rport.""You mean to say that you won't sell me a buss ticket to Uzbekestan?""I mean that we have busses that run to the airports alone. And tickets to match.""This not including Uzbekestan?"It applies to all the regular schmoes who ask me why exactly they are expected to know where gate 21 is situated. How were they supposed to know that gate 21 was behind their back all along. How. And how am I supposed to know that you are not a senior and not interested in the senior discount but that your skin is just trying to crawl off your body voluntarily. How.It applies to all the men who sneak by staring at you longingly but confused because they cannot comprehend the fact that some girls, in some booths, do not spontaneuosly take all their clothes off and start pumping their groin at you. It applies to all Russians. It's, simple, neat, and pinfull.

How do you do that voodoo that you do.

An excellent way of improving booth-life came to me this morning.

The collective voodoo doll.

Everytime someone aggravates th heck out of you, you stick another pin into a doll - a collective representation of all the evil in the world. This encompasses all the people who make up their own timetables and don't understand why their busses aren't running according to schedule. It applies to all the people who can't read, and walk up to you, asking for tickets to destinations that probably don't exist and that we don't offer services for anyway.

"Uzbekestan, please."

(pointing at sign over my head). " A-i-r-port coaches. We run the busses to the a-i-rport."

"You mean to say that you won't sell me a buss ticket to Uzbekestan?"

"I mean that we have busses that run to the airports alone. And tickets to match."

"This not including Uzbekestan?"

It applies to all the regular schmoes who ask me why exactly they are expected to know where gate 21 is situated. How were they supposed to know that gate 21 was behind their back all along. How. And how am I supposed to know that you are not a senior and not interested in the senior discount but that your skin is just trying to crawl off your body voluntarily. How.

It applies to all the men who sneak by staring at you longingly but confused because they cannot comprehend the fact that some girls, in some booths, do not spontaneuosly take all their clothes off and start pumping their groin at you. It applies to all Russians. It's, simple, neat, and pinfull.

India killed the blog star.

"They took the credit for your second symphony.
Rewritten by machine and new technology,
and now I understand the problems you can see.
Oh-a oh"

-The Bugles "Video Killed the Radiostar"

Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a beauty mole, but I believe I'm getting old. New technology, all about communications, has stopped talking to me. The Little person. The Getting Older Person. The 25 year old person Who is probably aggravating The Old People by complaining before her time. Harharhar.

But the point is that I've been surfing through the features afforded me by my friendly webhotel, casa du frére, and I understand nothing. N-o-t-h-i-n-g. Take statistics, for example. What is does is that it displays some information about what sort of..something the visitor is using. One of these randomly chosen users is described as using - "KHTML, like Gecko". Which is just so gosh-darn dandy now.

While I'm strangely touched by the fact that millions of people somewhere in India are using their nimble little fingers to keep track of who has seen my little space in the world - and that they are taking the time offer to some sort of explanation about my visitors - "KHTML, like Gecko", well it only serves to frustrate more. KHTML - what is that? Gecko is a what? "KHTML is like Gecko" is a whowhatnow?

Now compare and contrast to KTH's language translator, very useful if your mother tongue is English and not Swedish, and you stumble over that one swedish word you don't recognise - or vice versa - and the additional information it offers! Sometimes it has exactly the same effects as this statistics-taker on my site. It makes you feel extremely unsmart. While checking up the swedish word "härjar", which means 'ravage' or its equivalence in english, the service also offers a few examples of how the word might be used. The swedish term for "The flu is going around" - "Influensan härjar" is transformed into - Drumroll - "FLU IS RIFE".
'Rife'? Rife like Gecko?

FLU IS RIFE! Sounds like something you'd put up there on a plaque, right next to "The end is NEAR!". And for some of us technological dinosaurs desperately clinging on to and trying to understand the strange bleepings of our Nokia 3310's, for those of us helplessly screaming "E.T! PHONE HOME!" into the wrong end a little too often for comfort - I suppose the end is near.

Putting Thought into Meaningless things

On my way home from the City I noticed a bottle rolling around the floor of the train. And empty wine bottle, but a bottle all the same. It would have been just another bottle if not for the card attatched to it, filled with about four or five scrawled signatures. I found it slightly sad that a bottle that had had some thought put into it - and not the usual "Friday! WOOOOO! Drinkdrinkdrink! WOOOOO!" thought - had been abandoned. It had meant something to somebody, sometime, this bottle.

It had probably been a gift.

Reminded me of the time we were all about fifteen, zitty and awkward, and pooled our money to purchase a birthday gift for certain Andrea. It was a cd, if I recall correctly. I also recall the look on her face when she first laid her eyes on the cd - she was torn between dismay and enchantment, but not literally.

It is the look one gets when one realises that there will only be this one gift - even thought it might be Offspring and all. Thing is, the gift set us all back a month's allowance. (Except for the poor one in our quartet who probably had to go without food, or shoes for a month, maybe sell her spleen on the blackmarket which if true would have been very sad indeed) - but I suppose Andrea would have preferred five cheap gifts as opposed to that one co-op gift. Maybe she thought us insensitive.

In retrospect, we were insensitive. On the other hand, in retrospect al-so, she wasn't our freind. We might have shared some common interest, like Offspring, or her cable tv, or her cd player, but apart from that, very little was known about Andrea. One day, she was there, next to us having her allotted school-lunch aloo pie; the next, nothing.

It was rumoured that she was a hairy woman, but then again, I could be romanticizing.

The No-No's for the "Yes! YEEES!" During one of our philosphical evening chats, Dan posed the question of why women, as a rule, are so quiet in bed. Shy, if you will. Well Dan, here's your answer. Along with some other useful information/tips I've gathered during my years as a hypothetically loose woman.TRIM.It's no fun when you go down under to discover a rainforest, complete with a dazed looking minister of agriculture walking around, wondering what exactly went wrong. Nobody. Regardless sex. Hair does not grow that freakishkly long unless you're dead. There's milk, meats, vegetables and cereals. These are the four main foodgroups. Hair is not a food group. Don't go making up a food group.PUCKER, DON'T SUCK HER.When kissing, avoid, at all costs, "The Helicopter". While using the pelvis to propell your extremeities into immitating the movements of a helicopter may be a fun party trick while entertaining small groups of freinds and family, it is not to be practiced by the tongue when kissing women. The female mouth is not a smoothie-in-waiting. It is equally as unattractive to suck her face off, at minutes at a time. Signourey Weaver didn't have't put up with this crap in ANY of the Alien movies, neither should we.SMELL GOOD.Don't smell bad. Smelling bad is, as the name implies, bad. At times, we women have ourselves to blame - since we so willingly curl up in the nooks of your arm. This is the part of the arm that involves the armpit. Don't let it smell bad. I realise that sacrifices have been made from the dawn of time, and that to curl up in the nook also means smelling the funnies. But this does not have to be so. Let's learn from history, shall we? When we hunted in packs, aspiring to capture the elusive mammoth for example - Not rarely did we lose a couple of hunters along the way, some to the tusks of angry mammoths, some for fun. Spears and screams of "Nono! Don't do that with your Giant Tusk, You MAMMOTH You!" have been indirectly proportional to the rise of extinction and heavy artillery. New development also involves Axe. Ipso faco: We do not need to lose any more hunters, we do not need to lose our nooks. Rinse, repeat, Axe. Rinse Repeat, Axe. Let this be your mantra.TRY NOT TO COME IN YOUR PANTS.It's understandable if you're a virgin. It's understandable if you happen to wet yourself and try to pass it off as a wet orgasm. It's understandable if you have ebola, cause you like bleed and stuff. But DO NOT wet in your pants unless it is absolutely necessary or a cover up for something else. Part of the joys of love-making are in the afterplay. And playing the game "Who will sleep on the wet spot?" It's my theory that important dymanics of any relationship are established after that first time, and that the wet spot plays an integral part. He who folds first will forever be known as the one who will also do the cooking. The cleaning. He will be the maker of doilies. Anything else would be messing with the delicate balance of power and veritable forces of nature. And coming in your pants, well. Unless you're like me and keep used underwear in bed, it complicates things. The expression is "Is that a rocket in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?", not "Are you a sad little man?" - and nothing else.DEAR DAN WHO IS MOVING SOON:And now for Dan's questions- why are women, in general, so quiet and shy in bed? personally, I'm not too good at the shutting up front. In fact, I'm very good at giving instructions. Not the "Oh Don't do that with your giant tusk you" - good, more of 'Gollum' good. "It pouts the lips with its mouth.""Wha...?""IT POUTS THE LIPS WITH ITS MOUTH!"Minus the "My preciousss" of course, no time for small talk. Right. So it appears that the spectrum rests hinged on the creepily quiet and the morbidly insane. Well, Dan, I have no answers for you. Especially not now that you are leaving my humble abode that was your humble abode as well before you decided to leave it. But I wish you all the best. And all the morbidly insane, in the world, ever. In fact, I hope you become one of those vegosexuals who can't pass paprika without a quick fondle and receive many disturbed looks from elderly women. Who don't want you either. Sod.

During one of our philosphical evening chats, Dan posed the question of why women, as a rule, are so quiet in bed. Shy, if you will. Well Dan, here's your answer. Along with some other useful information/tips I've gathered during my years as a hypothetically loose woman.

TRIM.

It's no fun when you go down under to discover a rainforest, complete with a dazed looking minister of agriculture walking around, wondering what exactly went wrong. Nobody. Regardless sex. Hair does not grow that freakishkly long unless you're dead. There's milk, meats, vegetables and cereals. These are the four main foodgroups. Hair is not a food group. Don't go making up a food group.

PUCKER, DON'T SUCK HER.

When kissing, avoid, at all costs, "The Helicopter". While using the pelvis to propell your extremeities into immitating the movements of a helicopter may be a fun party trick while entertaining small groups of freinds and family, it is not to be practiced by the tongue when kissing women. The female mouth is not a smoothie-in-waiting. It is equally as unattractive to suck her face off, at minutes at a time. Signourey Weaver didn't have't put up with this crap in ANY of the Alien movies, neither should we.

SMELL GOOD.

Don't smell bad. Smelling bad is, as the name implies, bad. At times, we women have ourselves to blame - since we so willingly curl up in the nooks of your arm. This is the part of the arm that involves the armpit. Don't let it smell bad. I realise that sacrifices have been made from the dawn of time, and that to curl up in the nook also means smelling the funnies. But this does not have to be so.

Let's learn from history, shall we? When we hunted in packs, aspiring to capture the elusive mammoth for example - Not rarely did we lose a couple of hunters along the way, some to the tusks of angry mammoths, some for fun. Spears and screams of "Nono! Don't do that with your Giant Tusk, You MAMMOTH You!" have been indirectly proportional to the rise of extinction and heavy artillery. New development also involves Axe. Ipso faco: We do not need to lose any more hunters, we do not need to lose our nooks. Rinse, repeat, Axe. Rinse Repeat, Axe. Let this be your mantra.

TRY NOT TO COME IN YOUR PANTS.

It's understandable if you're a virgin. It's understandable if you happen to wet yourself and try to pass it off as a wet orgasm. It's understandable if you have ebola, cause you like bleed and stuff. But DO NOT wet in your pants unless it is absolutely necessary or a cover up for something else. Part of the joys of love-making are in the afterplay. And playing the game "Who will sleep on the wet spot?" It's my theory that important dymanics of any relationship are established after that first time, and that the wet spot plays an integral part. He who folds first will forever be known as the one who will also do the cooking. The cleaning. He will be the maker of doilies.

Anything else would be messing with the delicate balance of power and veritable forces of nature. And coming in your pants, well. Unless you're like me and keep used underwear in bed, it complicates things. The expression is "Is that a rocket in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?", not "Are you a sad little man?" - and nothing else.

DEAR DAN WHO IS MOVING SOON:

And now for Dan's questions- why are women, in general, so quiet and shy in bed? personally, I'm not too good at the shutting up front. In fact, I'm very good at giving instructions. Not the "Oh Don't do that with your giant tusk you" - good, more of 'Gollum' good.

"It pouts the lips with its mouth."

"Wha...?"

"IT POUTS THE LIPS WITH ITS MOUTH!"

Minus the "My preciousss" of course, no time for small talk. Right. So it appears that the spectrum rests hinged on the creepily quiet and the morbidly insane. Well, Dan, I have no answers for you. Especially not now that you are leaving my humble abode that was your humble abode as well before you decided to leave it. But I wish you all the best. And all the morbidly insane, in the world, ever.

In fact, I hope you become one of those vegosexuals who can't pass paprika without a quick fondle and receive many disturbed looks from elderly women. Who don't want you either. Sod.