Happy Birthday to We.

The blog is one year old today.
Happy birthday to us!

For the record, it seriously annoys me when people walk up to the booth referring to themselves as "We." "We'll take a ticket to Arlanda". "We will pay with cash." "It puts the lotion on its skin". HA!

One of you does not justify you calling yourself "We". You are not leeegion. You might be big enough to qualify as two - but that's still no reason, is it?

We are not amused.
But we are one year old.

The Germans make me feel poor - more booth-strife.

I don't really know exactly what it is I do that makes people go mad.

My first four boyfriends decided to flee the country (America, Spain, and Skåne respectively). My first two roommates thought that I would be better off living somewhere else. (Hudiksvall, Hell.) My last hamster continuously tried to escape under the cracks under doors, until the day it got cancer of the gonads and found Jesus. Hopefully literally.

But it doesn't really end there. The tourists are next. Because my reign of terror has now reached the hems of my booth. Albeit I've gotten used to the regular weirdos, who were weird before they knew me, those who tape shut my both door and those who confide in me about conspiracies to whack them in their sleep, but today I met The German Tourist.

The German Tourist walks up to me with a perfectly fine one way ticket to oen of our pricier destinations.

"Skavsta?"

Yes, I smiled back at him, glancing at his ticket.
"It's gate 24, next one leaving in 15 minutes."

"How much?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"No. No. I GO Skavsta. How much?"

I pointed at his ticket, the front of which displayed the price. he starts thumbing a wad of twenties he fished out from his coatpocket.

"But you have a ticket?"

"I WANT TO GO SKAVSTA."

"But...the ticket? you have one already...ich bein Gut!"

"how much? Ticket!"

I informed him of the price again. The man wanted a ticket, and by golly, he was going to get one. Perhaps I'd been mistaken. Perhaps I'd dozed off while he was explaining his need for a second ticket and awoken confused and with yellow crud in the corners of my eye. A stupifying brain diease. A rare smarts-stealing dwarf dancing on my head. I don't know. I accepted the man's money and printed a new ticket for him. Upon which he quickly tore up his old unused ticket, in preference of the fresh ink that I presented, and quickly made his way from the booth, casting glances over his shoulder, possibly to makes sure that I was not in pursuit.

If neither he nor I was mad, I had to ask myself - why was this man tearing up money? Where do these people come from, that they can tear up money ? I'd like to live there. I would roll in their scraps, and feel just a shade more complete.

Take me to your No-No Place.

It's been over a month since I last blogged, because odeonweb.com seems to have gone belly-up. Without any warning or notice. Up theirs. Now welcome down my alley.

Went to get myself tested today for various veneral diseases, seeing as how spending a year and a half romping with a lecherous adonis I'd sworn to never speak to again. As luck would have it, the lecherous adonis was on the way out of the clinic as I was on my way in.

"Fancy meeting you here. Come here often?"

"Well...So, long time no see, you should like, come visit me."

"Don't know where you live."

"But you have my number"

"HAHAHAHA! Preseumptuos! I hate that in a man. Now go, scum of the earth. Relinquish thyself from my realms!"

Now, this is what the perfect conversation could have sounded like. It didn't.

"Fancy meeting you here. Knew I would. Come here often?"

"Well. So,long time no see. You should like, come and visit me."

"Yeah, okay."

Now, this was a lie, and gave me no points for the emasculation I had been prepared for months and months. Fies upon fies upon fies, I tell you.

The thing about veneral disease clinics is, in contrast to regular clinics, we're all there because we have trouble with the plumbing. At first glance you can tell which people are there because they've practiced unsafe sex, and which are there because of ingrown hairs. Which of these are hoping that one of these ingrown hairs is a penis in waiting. There are people wondering if their vaginas are meant to have that mysterious scent, which, unfortunately, and in most cases, they are.

"But, cod?"
"Yes, dear. Now salmon, hoho! THAT would have been a problem."

But I'd say that about 100% of us are there because we've had sex, or are at least have the pre-requisites. Me, I spent the full two hours in the waiting room admiring the parrots on the wallpaper, and looking down in my lap. If the uber-demon from hell of an ex partner had casually tapped me on the shoulder on his way out, there was no reason that there wouldn't be a another familiar face among those in the waiting room. While copulation is the most natural act on earth, it's still hard to admit to 30 + strangers that you've also discovered the yes! yeeees!-es of the no-no place.

And there you go - it's still the "no-no place". Some things never get as old as you are.

After having a nurse nudge the no-no's, I went to get my blood tested. you can never be too sure, it can never be recommended too often. The first nurse couldn't find blood, apparantly my veins are buried to deep under my skin, and too thin. She gave it another go on the other arm. She called another nurse who also drew a blank. And then aanother nurse - this if anything, the perfect safe-sex cmapaign. Keep your legs crossed or you get stabbed in the arm four times, by perfect strangers.

That, and the walk down the long and crowded hallway when it's time for you to collect a urine sample. It's admitting to the world that not only do you have rampant and shameless sex, you now also urinate in an equally as rampant and shameless way. All these people see of you is you walking down a corridor with a cup and a little tube in your hand. This is how you will forever be remembered.

The girl with the thin veins and the yellow, rich urine.
But it could be worse. You could have clamydia.