Oh the humanity.

Andreas was shredding the potato we needed for his fabulous potato au gratin a few nights ago when he starts jumping around hollering. He put his thumb under the sink to wash off the blood.

"Is it bad honey?"
"No, no, just a scratch."

I glanced at the peel in the sink. Potato peel, potato peel, potato peel, chunk of flesh.

"Honey?" I asked, holding out the grater at a comfortable arm's length. "Is this You..?"

"No! It is potato!" he snarls. And then he looked at his thumb. "Oh God. It IS me!!"

This is when Andreas' hyperventilating began. In a way it felt horrible, I don't generally enjoy pieces of body falling off. But it also felt pretty neat. No, it's not as terrible as it sounds.

I had always thought I was a wuss for hyperventilating when I get finger wounds. That severed limbs are things of amusement to be carried like trophies above one's head while dancing one-legged dances.

That a splinter lodged in a finger was a reason to just sit down and die, right there.

But the potato peel incident showed me that I wasn't the only one with that phobia. It's neat having someone who has your interests, shares your disinterests, or even fears. Or someone with whom to instill fear.

Sure, it might have taken me a bit off-guard hearing Andreas' scream overpower mine that first time we were in the same room and simoultaneously spotted a spider - but what reassures me is that neither of us feel the need to wear the pants in the relationship. There will never be a bow-legged shuffling towards the offending object or critter, accompanied by a "Well look here little lady". Just shrieks all around. What comforts me I guess, is the the confidence that someone will love you despite your faults.

Most people, it seems, hate seeing their fear reflected in others. If you, for instance, have a lazy eye you can never quite stare someone with the same lazy eye in the eye. There's something shameful about having your inadequacies or predicaments mirrored. You will never see a ceiling as interesting - all eyes fixed - as the one in the venereal disease waiting room. For the same reason you never find a cardboard hobo duplex. That kind of proximity is painful. And possibly hazardous from an infrastructural standpoint. I mean it's cardboard.

Maybe we need to scream a little more, instead of walking around like everything is dandy. Sympathy sprint with friends running away from bugs, laugh together when you realize it's just lint. Cry together when the lint turns out to be a flesh eating ladybug. Group hug your friends and your mutual weaknesses.

I had a point with this ramble. Maybe it's in keeping with the theme that just I round of by saying that I might have missed it. But that it's okay. I'm only human. I'm hitching up my cardboard box next to the rest of you 6 billion deeply flawed, but perfect-all-the-same fellow humans.

Monday Morning Musical Chairs.

I hate it when you've just gotten into the shower and realize that you forgot to go number one. It's tempting in two ways. The water is warm, nice, streaming down your back, you going right there would be poetic in the sense that you're identifying with one of the elements. You going right there wouldn't be that much of a big deal, any and all evidence will be washed away.

But.

If twelve years of Catholic school has taught me anything, it's that Baby Jesus cries when you steal, commit genocide, and pee in the shower.

Why I oughta...!

Not wanting to risk wrath by holy drool or locusts, I did the ants in your pants dance and stuck it out. Not everyone is as lucky with the willpower and fear of God that I have.

Andreas experienced that first hand the other day on the subway.

If you're like me you always feel your seat before planting your ass on public property. If you are like Andreas, you plunk down in the first best spot and smirk at the old lady you raced past. Monday morning musical chairs. This particular morning Andreas arrives at work and spends a few hours there before realizing that something doesn't smell right in pantstown,. There's a certain stink in the air that he can't quite identify, a certain wetness in the seat of his pants that he can't quite make out the particular nature of.

Andreas does what any man in his situation would do. He pulls his finger across the mark and brings it to his nose, as it slowly dawns on him.

I imagine his eyes first peering upwards in contemplation, forming slits as he narrows down the options, and widening in terror at the shit on his hand.

What follows is the mandatory ants-in your-pants dance as you try to make as much space between your ass and your pants as possible and damning skinny jeans to hell. It happens to the best of us. The piss, the shit, the dirty dancing. Not "Dirty Dancing" in the sense that its inherent youth sexuality instills fear in Kellerman parents everywhere at Kellerman's, but because it makes us look like infantile anal-retentive children.

And then, there's always the good old fashioned crazy dance that mind-controlling Conga Cats compell you to perform.

Because you see, not everything odd and random in life can be explained by too much diet soda, sloppy subway winos, or epilepsy.

Ini, Mini, Micro.

These are your average peanuts.

The average peanut is about 4 centimeters long.

Tiny horse is exactly 11 peanuts tall.


14 year old Jyoti Amge is 13.5 peanuts tall.



Of dubious age (matched by a dubious hairstyle) Aditya 'Romeo' Dev stands short at 21 peanuts.

Life is so much more interesting when you can quantify height in peanuts.

Peanuts everywhere Approve:

Swe-frenglish - Is a faux pas a faux pas if articulated by the faux?

There's nothing wrong in dressing up as one of your favorite rap-artists. There is something wrong with the question posed last. It just kills me. In response I'd like to mention that coincidentally, it's also terribly politically incorrect to call a "fucking retard" a "fucking retard". And yet, here we are.

Yes, I do realize the terrible irony of using a very offensive term to criticize another, but it's redeemed by the knowledge that Marie never, ever will.

On the topic of idiocy - which I love the best - are these folks:

Exhibit A: "Did not eat rice, restaurant throws them out"

-Metro, Feb 02 2010.

Poor, poor A and M above had been feeling a bit dumpy lately. So they did what half the rest of the first-world fatties are doing: they attempted to get skinny by sticking to a low-carb diet! It's as simple as 1,2, 3.

Step 1 - Deciding what to eat.

Requirement : a low-carb diet to reduce the fugly.

Downside: Oops! Meat and fish cost a LOT

Solution: Cheap buffets.

Step 2 - Visit a Sushi Buffet

Upside : Lots of fish

Downside: Surprisingly, Rice! Even though evidence of the presence of copious amounts of rice was offered by the fact that sushi (rice+fish) was the main component of the buffet in question, and also that the NAME of this particular restuarant was, coincidentally "RICE", Malin and Annika were distraught at the fact that rice was part of the meal.

Solution: Pick out the minimal pieces of salmon, throw away the rest.

Step 3 - The Tricky Bit

Upside: Selective Sushi Buffets = all protein you can eat for a very small sum of money

Downside: A waitress, keen on keeping the net profits and her salary constant will, in time, discover your con and kick you out.

Solution: Contact a newspaper and offer your saddest :( face if you get caught - in order to complain about the highly unfair treatment ( for :(, see Exhibit A).

I hope I'm not the only one puzzled by the idea of calling a paper and complaining that basically,"oh no restuarants do not budget for half their food being thrown away".

Granted, rice does not cost much at all. But there's a lot of people who would love the privelege of being able to have food to spare, and the common-sensical fact of the matter is that rice will fill you faster than random bits of fish will. Sticking to the fish alone reduces filling-ability, and therefore ceach mouthful will, essentially, cost more. It's not that hard an equation, and the solution is simple, albeit more expensive - sashimi.

If a restaurant, on the other hand, offers a package deal - as in sushi (rice+fish) - and it does not fulfill your standards, forcing you to go get free refill repeatedly ad infinitum, then clearly your problem is less about the food than your apparent possession of a pinhead.

"...W.T.F"

But I do like the kid caught up in the middle of all this literal and figurative crap. He looks pretty blasé about the whole situation, biding his time until he acquires the vocal skills to look his mother square in the eyes and say - with utmost clarity - the single syllabled "Fffool".

So you see, in the end I really don't have any ill-will towards Marie or her intellectually challenged and literally like-minded when push comes to shove. In fact, I wish Marie a very fertile womb, filled with many, blasé and vocally-skilled children. Because I'm generous that way.

And I'm hoping the children will be too, in that delighfully mono-syllabic way.

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:

Cell

I lost my telephone again. I’d had it for some six months after losing the old one on a bus – and I guess that in its own sentient way this new one knew that his time had come too - it was time to slip away quietly on the bus.

I’ve heard about cell-phones exploding in somebody’s ears, cell-phones protesting their status as objects or objects of statushood through self-immolation, severing major arteries in their violent departures. My cell-phones however, prefer to slink off quietly, stay behind on the bus and hope for a kinder owner. Maybe an owner who will use them for more than just ordering pizza or, when the mood falls in, a kebab.

I don’t mind losing a bit of equipment or electronics or gadget, whatever they’re called these days. Material things have never meant that much to me. I’m glad for my comic book collection, but I’ll get rid of them if I have to, my Lois and Clark DVDs are still wrapped in plastic, I enjoy the idea of things rather than the thing itself. At the same time, I don’t like the thought of someone else touching my stuff. Not the tangible stuff per se, but the photographs I’ve taken. They’re not special by any means, but they’re a glimpse into my personal life. Neither do I like the idea of someone discovering the long list of outgoing calls to pizza places. My pictures of Andreas. My lack of incoming text messages. The vast amount going out, into an empty space it would seem. Me expressing love for someone. My mother telling me, in her own special way, that she” l0Ves” her “dcgghter”.

These little misspellings, oddities and fast food orders that make up our selves and our lives.

I think that the trouble is that the cell-phone is too exact a reflection of who you are rather than a lacking one, and that might be what makes me uncomfortable. Not that someone in some poorer suburb of Stockholm - say Danderyd perhaps - might be counting his lucky stars to have found such a magical thing as a cell-phone, whose sale will surely save his family from starvation. Rather its the thought that before selling it, he might laugh not at the quirky road-signs in my cell-phone album, but the person he imagines to be behind it. A slightly overweight greasy Calzone-lover. Someone with a somewhat simple sense of humor, what with a snapshot of “Restaurant Hos” (Hos!). His smirk at someone who either has a boyfriend that could have done better, or someone has an obsession for creeping into that particular boy’s apartment and taking pictures of him while he sleeps.

The sad thing is not this fool on of the brink of poverty laughing madly at the mental picture my cellphone might conjure, but the fact that it wouldn’t be too far from the truth. Losing a phone I guess, reminds you just how simple you really are. Just a bit of this and that. A fragment. A face of the street, a silly-looking snapshot on someone else’s phone – a cellphone which like you, might one day decide to stay on the bus 21 while everyone else gets off, resuming the life that continues outside.

guadeloupe #2 - Some Glimpses of Guadeloupe.

Petite Terre




Surprisingly, also Petite Terre.



The Night-Sky of Northern Basse-Terre.



Fort Royals reception area by day and -



by Night.





Stormy skies.



...are the perfect excuse to relax in your room with a beers and some ho's (Mr. Ho's)



Besides, you never know when you might be hit by a lightning bolt to the throat.



Guadeloupean Hermit-Crab



One of the less shy hermit crabs.



One of the less shy Petite-Terre iguanas (Petite-Terre houses some 10 000 iguanas, and even more hermit crabs).



Coconut?



Working on that last essay.



My Beautiful counterpart enjoying the beach in the meantime.




A guide trying to escape his tour-group.




Pineapple fields, forever.



Hemmingway's in Deshais. Their specialty is fish, meat is definitely their and your last resort.



Jump.



The perfect New Year's Kiss.



The end.

Guadeloupe Report #1: The Average Langley Fort Royal Hotel visitor.

Middle aged, white, male, and dressed in culinary-related swimwear.





Fucking eclairs??
I did NOT pay for four star hotel to see this shit.