26, 27, 28.

It's THAT time of the month again. And I don't mean to complain, but it's got to be the handywork of the devil.

If God had meant for women to look like doughnuts he would have sprinkled sugar on us. Instead, we look like shit and nobody wants to eat us.



I mean like, nobody.

It was time to go.

Sent mother and brother off to England (en route to the island) this morning, and thus ends their two month visit. The airport taxi arrived at 9 a.m sharp, and it took mom exactly twelve minutes for her Northern shyness to wear off and to decide to talk about death.

Ma: "Well, your card says you're Leif Eriksson?"

Driver: "Yupp"

Ma: "Well, we're flying off to England."

Driver: "Ah!"

Ma: "Not too excited about flying, what with all these bombs going off everywhere."

Driver: "Yupp. I remember that whole September 11th incident. And then these three plane crashes in recent days."

Ma: "Me too. Don't think anything will happen to us, but when you have to go, you have to go."

Driver. "It's uncommon to crash though, but since so many people die all at the same time, it's more of a tragedy than them going off one by one".

Ma: "When it's your time...."

I had to intervene. They were minutes away from scaring themselves into a frenzy and forming their very own support group right there and then. I am Jack's voice of reason.

Did they have to discuss a topic as morbid as plane crashes, I asked.

The car lapsed into an uncomfortable silence after ma agreed that the conversation topic might be a bit unfitting. The driver apologised as well, for safe measure. It took exactly two minutes for mom to find a new conversation topic.

Ma: "I mean, more people die in traffic accidents anyway. We could crash and explode right here right now, if it were our time."

God Bless her heart.

Langorous and luscious, I like, I like!

"...Supposedly a teaser intended to tide us over until their full length release, XX's EP XX is a luscious burst of trip-hop. XX's heady instrumentation swoons and undulates like thick water beneath the languorous vocals of XX. Ms. X, who channels the brittle melancholy of Beth Gibbons as well as the exotic sensuousness of Jennifer Charles, rides the rich wave of the music like a jewel-encrusted mermaid. This is the sort of music that Odysseus heard while passing the sirens on the rocks: blissed out downtempo filled with the seismic rumble of fat beats and crackling melodies over which an angelic voice yearns for succor and salvation. Go now and get this one. Come back and read the rest of the page when you've got this loaded into your MP3 player."

Well, works for me.

Wish I could be as enthusiastic as the reviewer, but I have a tendency to duck for cover everytime someone uses good words to describe something I might have, MIGHT have had a hand in. You never know when they're going to take it back and start laughing at you instead. And pelting tomatoes. Oh god, the tomatoes.

Black Sabbath rules ( at least where overflowing toilets are involved)

Okay, to be quite honest, the lady in the picture below is not really me. But I'm pretty sure that she's a Bavarian of some kind, and that God must not love her very much. Oh, and those sunglasses? 3 Euros at the most, and even that's a stretch.In keeping with the shirt, I suppose. Girl got a theme going.

It is currently 01:40 a.m, and me and the boy are on call. And when I say "the boy" I mean me. I'm usually the one who gets woken up at 2 a.m. in the morning from his job and mobile ringing - and I'm usually the one who pokes him for some five minutes or so trying to convince him that it's work calling. No, it's not a prank call. Booty call? Surely You jest man. I've never understood the point of the 2 a.m booty call. You've usually slept long enough for your breath to smell like Death himself has died in some cruel, cruel way, and too little to care if you climax or not. And that my friend, is a dangerous road to follow. Once you stop caring about yourself, you stop caring about other things as well. Like Mojini, the WWF panda you've been sponsoring and receiving letters from for the past two years. No longer shall you hear her gleeful account of her new Nikes.

But us being on call is not the only reason I'm up at this foul hour. The absolute chief reason being that I'm trying to suck out the life of every moment I spend in Stockholm during this summer, seeing as how every other moment (saturday to wednesday) is spent in Norrbo, where neither internet nor cable exists. It's the perfect place for reading, if you were so inclined, or trying your hand at writing, if you were unemployed, but if you don't fall into either of these two categories, well then. Well Then.

This Wednesday I travelled down to Stockholm with the hope of spending my time in civilisation as best as I could (can). The buss trip itself didn't exactly bode well. First off- it lasted five hours. Second off, after this horribly cramped mode of travelling (where are the bleeping hovercrafts?) ended, I had at least another hour´s worth of travelling to look forward to- from the station to my Andreas. The Logical thought while on such a journey of course, is to use the bathroom at some point in time, preferably an hour and a half or so before reaching the final destination so you're safe for another couple of hours. So that's what I did. And then I clogged the toilet.

A little something in my defence - I did NOT do the number two. I did the number one, and what's more is that I completed this ritual with three sqaures of toilet paper. For some reason though, the toilet had decided that mine was the final drop - (HARHARHAR) and that it didn't want to empty itself anymore. Oh, it filled up with fresh water allright, but that was about it. I stamped on the floor-situated flush button repeatedly, only to have more liquid filling the bowl - and filling the bowl. After assessing the situation and a couple of more flushes, I surrendered and went back to my seat.

Luckily, I was seated in the back. not the way way back, I was sitting in row fifteen of twenty, which gave me a 75% chance that someone in front of me would have to go next. The good thing with someone in front of you using the bathroom is that they would never have seen you go in the first place. With any luck, they would blame any one of the people in the rows behind them. We would ALL bear the collective guilt. With better luck, this person would scuttle back to his/her seat bearing the collective guilt by himself, knowing that in restrospect, it had been no luck at all to have nabbed that coveted seat next to the driver. The whole bussload behind him would think that it was he who had filled the toilet. The scenery from his prized seat would in no way compsensate this terrible shame.

God, however, must have as much love for me as Bavarian lady below. He put the children in the back of the buss. About five minutes after I'd been the proverbial straw that broke the tank's back, a kid rushed in - then out - shouting that the toilet was FULL, in a voice and tone that would possibly only be appropriate for the third coming of another Geore Bush. His/Her mother shushed him/her, telling him/her to flush the toilet, getting up a minute later only to attempt this herself, repeating "I don't understand this! I just don't understand this!". I listened to the toilet being flushed some four five times before slipping on my headphones.

So I say thank God for Black Sabbath, I say, thank God.
And, at 1:40 am in the morning and still going strong, thank God for Stockholm. I have one more day left and so much more left to give, take and flush.