A towel and a star will open doors, I tell you.

It’s pretty daunting looking at a blank page. And especially a blank blogger post. I mean, I’d decided to start back writing about whatever random crap has decided to fuck up my day on any given day - but I made the mistake of going back to the start and seeing what Old Young Me had to say.

What I found was that Old Young Me was pretty damn smart and quick-witted. I’m willing to bet that she was also about 20% more attractive than me, and that whatever boobiage she had was about 40% perkier. Mine kind of just look sad these days, dipping downward so as to reflect a generally more sadder, more realistic outlook on life. By now I, for example, know that:-

• Whereas Old Young Me wanted to look my best for Andreas, Old Regular Me settles for getting dressed in the morning.
• Whereas Old Young Me would consider looking all super-fine in goth-garb and broody to the ultra-max, Old Regular Me thinks a sunny disposition and a towel is fine.
• Whereas Old Young (foolish) Me would have only used a towel to dry herself, Old Regular Me thinks that a towel is useful for both drying oneself AND as a wrap, a turban, a way to hitchhike your way through the galaxy, and as something that is quite handy in that it has a whole four corners for cleaning one's ears and, at times, random cat throw-up.
• You can get the best, cheapest multi-purpose towels at Swedish superstore 'Överskottsbolaget'.
• Överskottsbolaget does not appreciate it when you walk in in a towel. Even if its with their logo. Especially if it's with their logo.
• And you know what, I don't really think that you have the right to be uppity when you sell products called "canned Entray Côte" or "Sneekers Bars".

The gist of it being, I think I need to start emulating Old Young Me a bit more. Be a bit snazzier. Not in the way that I'd tack gold stars stickers to my terry cloth wrap, but just you know - more pizazz. Maybe challenge myself to do something new everyday. I could totally challenge myself to do something new everyday.

Or at least every other day. As soon as next year, even - it's the long term investments that pay off, right?

Fuck it, gold stars aren't that bad when you think about it. When I was young, getting a gold star sticker in your book meant that you were somebody. So that must count for something. I could totally be somebody special again.


Totally.

I love death

Lodger's video and lyrics pretty much hit the spot: "a man can get a few dimes / a man can get it up few times". And that pretty much sums up the cyclical nature of the puny human life. You're born, grow up, have babies, work, take a piss ever so often - and then die. The End. Congratulations.

Of course, I doubt that Lodger has factored in frequent trips to the Caribbean into their somewhat morose equation. Which is where I'm heading in two months, for a month of sand, sea and completing a master's degree.

To be followed by babies, work, taking a piss ever so often, and then death. The End. Maybe my Caribbean 'fun in the sun' stint - and the inevitable sand in the vagina - is implicitly categorized under 'work', because God knows that desperately scraping it out isn't the sextravagnaza it's cracked up to be. But it's one way avoiding the other option of walking like you have an unruly invisible horse between your legs.

(somethingawful.com)

But speaking of (hobby-) horses, pursuing those last Master's points means that I'm pretty much coming to an end of the whole degree thing at the university I'm attending. Which means that given that everything falls into place, I should by the end of it all have enough qualifications and fancy pieces of paper to land me a fine job pushing burgers at MacDonalds. But I still do believe that having and English Lit degree will mean having the upper hand while there, as I'll be able to conjugate my nouns into plural form. Which means that I'll be able to offer one customer more than one burger at a time.

And there's alot to be said for that, which I won't. Firstly because it's too damn depressing a thought in general, secondly because I have to run out and find an appropriately formed spatula for my upcoming vacation drudgery.

Ah, woe is me. You'll find me at the sun-screen section with a smile on my face and some spare "-s" or "-es" on my lips in preparation of lesser things to come.

Cats, but not the musical variety.

If nothing else, owning cats makes life a whole lot more interesting. Sure they wake you up by hacking up a lung in the middle of the night because they misjduged the sheer enormity of their midnight snack - but in return their presence makes you more imaginative.

Here's two terms I was forced "imagine up" this morning:

A) Exhibition Puke
The thing you congratulate yourself on quickly spotting as you stumble out of bed.

This is also known as Decoy Puke if you, three seconds later, encounter:

b) Death. Trap. Puke.
A second puke in the area of decoy puke that you SLIP and FALL in while groggily continuing down the hall, too damn busy patting yourself on back for the first - and what you thought was the only - find.

Great way to start the day!

Here's the culprit in question: