Tuesday, November 6, 2012
It starts with him waiting on a bridge; not shy yet shy; so sweet yet darkened;
waiting for me, you see.
The middle is all confused and muddled, heart-wrenching and too brittle to touch.
But the point is the end, just as the end is where all the points add up and connect.
Nothing matters but this: he holds me, and I hold onto him.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Of course, it also ties together with WHY I'VE BEEN COMPLETELY FUCKING AWOL these past couple of....... forever.
I love you. I'm sorry.
Bill Burr, the comedian, said: "You know what's weird; anytime I think about killing myself, it's NEVER about anything big. It's always little things".
Flashback to this morning when I was lying cheek-down on the floor, day-dreaming about either jumping from a tall building or shooting myself in the face, because of an email I got from the people who, apparently, cannot fix my phone.
I chose the shoot-myself-in-the-face option by the way, because of an inherent fear of falling. It's like a vertigo thing. Except way less swirly, and more panic-y.
But.... I don't own a gun, so...
Here's the thing. There are two types of: "I want to die".
There's the type where you actually genuinely want to go kill yourself,
and then there's the type where you, exhaustedly, just want to give up on living, because of stupid everyday-things that won't matter in ten years' time.
There's a huge difference.
The first type has happened only once. I'm not kidding when I say that I left my house at around ten in the evening to walk into town (one hour away) and jump off a bridge. I texted my best friend to tell her this, and got the answer: "Ehm. Ok.."
.......... That still stings, by the way. Just.... Just, ouch.
Anyway, this isn't about that. This is about me wasting time with type number 2, because of financial issues. (Woopedidoo)
Basically, everything I own is breaking down, and I can't afford to fix all of it.
That is all.
I know that I easily fall into small depression-like states, and that this sometimes affects the people around me. I feel bad about that. I do.
I used to be much better at handling my emotions. Now a days, I'm more like a child than I ever was as a child. I still remember walking down the road with my father after a movie, stating that "this type of entertainment is important in order to distract people from their everyday, boring, lives" (Wise-ass).
I was so sure of what life was, as a 10-year-old, and yet didn't know the meaning of "stress", "worry" or "fear". I was such a happy little idiot.
And I still am.
I just forget that sometimes.
I forget. I do what I feel I need to do in order to numb myself down. I get worse. I go to bed, thinking it's all over. I wake up, and I remember again.
This is my cycle of unnecessary human behaviour.
At least I'm smart enough to know it's dumb.
If I ever get my laptop back,
Monday, October 8, 2012
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
I don't know how many times I've found myself in this place (school)
this late (23.40)
doing everything except what I'm s'posed to be doing (school work)
At least I'm the kind of person with a naive drive to want to do good. I'm the kind of person that continues to believe in the good of mankind. The kind of person that holds up doors, donates to hopeless and uncredited organisations, waits for hours, refuses to unfollow, shares, listens and smiles; because I'd rather be naive than bitter.
I love the song "Earthman" by Poets & Pornstars.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Say you're on the bus and this girl in front of you, wearing a beret and suspenders, says something H.I.L.A.R.I.O.U.S.L.Y vapid; obviously, your first knee-jerk reaction is to tweet it. Tweet it, so the whole world knows not to say stupid things while wearing suspenders.
No smartphone. No tweets about beret-girls.
Tweeting sans smartphone only creates tweets of the worst kind. Tweets in the form of links to articles and tumblr. Tweets about wanting to drink coffee, but not having any coffee left in the bag -- that -- used -- to -- contain -- coffee.
Tweets linking to blog posts.
This is why I'm absent from Twitter-ville.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
This is the image I just sent in to my insurance company:
Holding a non-smart phone (a dumb phone?) is like holding a baby to me. I don't know what to do with it. It doesn't have that many functions, and the functions it DOES have are all extremely under-developed; to the point where you feel like you're losing IQ points just by associating with it.
Of course it's lame to miss a piece of technology this much,
but it's like they say; you just don't know what you've got until it's gone.
Fuck it, let's go all out and make this an HOMAGE to my Samsung.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
after having had three consecutive dreams about my father dying.
(To make matters worse, I think the dream before that was about that girl from The Grudge. Or The Ring. Or One Missed Call----- Hm. You know, for a country so good at being technologically innovative, their creativity sucks, cinematically speaking.)
I used to dream about my father dying all the time when I was around 13. But at least then I could sneak into his and mum's bedroom and snuggle up for a bit.
I can't snuggle up with anyone right now.
Doesn't it feel like your brain wants to torture you,
Anyway, the kicker is:
Tomorrow is dad's birthday.
Friday, September 21, 2012
1) Why are you called that?
2) Tell us about your favourite school teacher
3) What's the strangest food you've ever eaten?
4) Tell us about your first gig
5) What is your favourite place in the world?
6) Who do you want to answer the survey next?
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
This will be great for everyone involved.
|Apparently, I thought that color was perfect for my face. It also went very well with my mullet.|
|Apparently, I thought this pose looked 1) sexy, and 2) natural. That hint of a brace-filled smile was the perfect finishing touch.|
|Apparently, I was sad enough to cry, but NOT SAD ENOUGH to NOT take a picture of it. Deep shit.|
|This, right here, is an image of me poetically touching the letters spelling out the name of my then-crush "Boyband extraordinaire" Yamapi, with a bit of hand-art thrown in. This picture is perfect.|
|This girl does not know how to boogie down.|
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
But let's talk music vs memories. No, I mean, music slash memories. Music and memories connected to it. There we go.
A few years ago I decided that my favourite song was going to be Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson. I decided this, knowing that I would eventually find a song that meant so much more, and that I would want to change "my favourite song" to that specific song. But I put up a rule. I said: "No." I said: "It will be against the rules to remove the title "favourite" from Smooth Criminal. The title is permanent".
This, to avoid chaos.
I hate chaos.
I like structure.
I love rules.
So my favourite song is Smooth Criminal, by Michael Jackson.
But these are songs that actually matter:
Stranger in Moscow by Michael Jackson
You might laugh at me for saying this; but I was well and truly sad when M.J passed away. I was one of those people who started long and torturous debates against people who believed him to be less than innocent. I remember writing on paper with crayon when I was six-ish that my two favourite things in the world were Spice Girls and Michael Jackson. I bought his albums and wore suspenders.
The week after his death, I wasn't fun to be around.
I started fights with my parents, where-in my dad told me M.J's greatness was overrated, and I told him to shut the fuck up (this was, and still is, the worst thing I've ever said to him. I'm not kidding). My mother turned red in the face and told me I was horrible for not reacting as badly to the death of my relative.
One day, I had this song on repeat, and it was like the world started moving in slow motion. I swear I could see people's movements slow down before my eyes.
That was the day I stopped crying in the bathroom by myself.
What the connection between those two things is; I don't know.
Oh, and no. Still no exaggerations for comedic effect.
Utan Dina Andetag by Kent (Bad translation: Without you breathing)
My best friend once made me a CD with her favourite songs, and told me to listen to track number **insert correct number here**. It was this very song, and she told me to listen to the lyrics and think of them as her words to me.
We have a very strange and close relationship.
I still have that CD, and I remember the cover being pink and custom made, with the words: "To Pi-chan".
We were lame.
But I think it's sweet.
Now, I just said that I have rules against changing my favourite song, but for some reason if you click on this video and watch it on youtube, you can see my comment at the top, saying: "This is my favourite song of ALL TIME!". So I guess I've already screwed this.
This song was introduced to me by my brother when I was around 12 (major guesstimation). My brother is a very strange man. I've asked him several times what kind of music he listens to, and his answers have been things like: "I like background music" and "I don't listen to music". And yet he introduced me to the most powerful ballad I've ever heard.
He introduced me to the messiah of depressing song lyrics.
He introduced me to a song that I would spend the next eight years listening to, religiously.
This song is about a woman who sees love as a disease. She sees her falling in love as a weakness, and condemns herself for it.
The bridge still gives me shivers.
When I die I want this song to play at my funeral.
There will be tears.
It's also a very, very good song.
If you're not familiar with Birdy, you should also listen to her version. (JUST A TIP)
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Right now I'm grieving the loss of my first and best blog. It was called
The problem was: my readers were all members of my family. My parents read it. My siblings read it. My dad's ex wife read it.
I got IRL comments about mistakes I had made, or things I "maybe, probably, possibly shouldn't say because of potential consequences in my adult life" and so on, and so forth.
One night I got a call from my dad, who simply HAD to mention that I had mixed something up, and given false information in some way.
I freaked that night.
I freaked the fuck out.
I deleted my blog.
I deleted four years worth of genius nonsense.
Before that I had always been very strict in my stance against "you shouldn't write that". I always refused to delete posts, no matter what I had written in them.
....Except for this one time, when I (for some reason) decided to write my first and only emo/angst-post, about my utter lack of hope and will to live.
That post died about 2 hours laters.
Oh, the shame I felt about feeling feelings and all that.
Today I regret my decision. I regret most of my decisions. But that one, especially. That one.... haunts me.
Don't get me wrong. I love throwing things out. I love giving things away. I love the feeling of owning less objects, because it makes me feel free-er. It gives the illusion of zero responsibility and accountability.
But deleting that blog was like deleting my 15-year-old self.
She may have hated herself, but I appreciate her for the weirdo she is. Was? Uh, who am I kidding. I've barely changed at all.
Lesson: Throw away all those magazines you've already read. Give away clothes you never wear. But keep your thoughts; because in five year's time, you might need them again.
And DON'T DELETE POSTS.
If anything, it could provide some poor, bored sucker with a few minutes worth of entertainment. Schadenfreude and all that.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
When you're a uni student, that sentence doesn't really mean as much as it used to.
Tomorrow at 10, life will be the same as it is now, with a few minor differences.
When I was in middle grade I used to cry every last day of summer. I would curl up into a ball of misery in my bed a bit too early, just so I'd have more time to cry before falling asleep.
I really did hate school back then. I'd spend my afternoons alone on the balcony, daydreaming about different -revenge scenarios- to the somber tune of Evanescence - Tourniquet.
I'm not exaggerating this for comedic effect.
Tell me to remember something fun from my days in junior high and I will only think of the time when my friend fell through this massive table and consequently injured both her noggin' and buttoxxx (that's how it's spelled now). I have rarely laughed as hard as I did that day. At her misery. With love.
Starting uni again is like going back to your regular life. It's like coming back from a vacation you never really wanted in the first place. It's like meeting up with the people you love after being forced away from them.
Here's a short film me and two lovelies made in a few hours yesterday.
It was for a contest we didn't win.
What other kinds are there?
Monday, August 27, 2012
I still have my diary from first grade and onward. It's a yellow, sort of touristy thing, with a small lock that is absolutely useless.
The first entry goes something like: Hello, my name is Kaisa and I'm seven years old. Today is my birthday.
It's very sweet. Very odd at times. Nothing too special.
Here and there you find these corrections written with blue ink over the original writing.
Things like changing the ages if the people I'm talking about, or correcting spelling mistakes.
So. Ergo. When I got a bit older I went back to my diary, read it and corrected the mistakes I did when I was seven years old.
I'm so anal I can't even stand it.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Because that's what having penpals usually means.
You start talking to them out of nowhere, you tell them your deepest darkest secrets, and then you never meet up and probably never get past the 6-months-mark of being acquaintances.
It's such a weird concept.
I was fifteen; lonely and misunderstood. I had this dream of escaping and becoming someone else. Moving to Japan. Writing a book. I talked to people who understood that. I talked to people who thought of travelling half-way across the globe as no biggie, as long as they had someone to connect with.
When I was 16 I had a friend who was around 23. He hopped on a plane from Australia and visited me on a weekend in the middle of the winter. He couldn't stand the cold and we never had anything to do, but he kept saying how much he appreciated talking to me. He seemed sad.
My parents had one rule and one rule only; Don't follow him up to his hotel room.
So of course that's where we spent all of our time.
"People don't travel to other countries just to rape people, mom!"
He visited me once more, and then on a sunday afternoon when we had to say goodbye he started crying and told me he loved me. "You don't understand," he said. "I do", I said. He held my hand and told me "Don't go".
I was 16.
I left and never contacted him again.
When I was 17 I talked to men who fancied themselves experts on human behaviour. One of them had grandiose plans of escaping the korean military and studying psychology in Canada. He loved sociopathy tests and took them over and over again to make sure he actually was cold-hearted. The other, an actual psychology student in Canada, only ever had plans of dismantling me like a special-edition-barbie. I told him his words had no effect on me, and then I took long, somber walks to try and analyze what he'd said. All he ever did was keep laughing at me, because he knew he'd won.
Not all of them were sociopaths. Not all of these acquaintances ended badly or dragged me down.
I remember having wonderful conversations. Learning. Teaching. Listening to complete strangers talk about their insecurities.
I remembered all of this when I got that email a few days ago. How the baseball cap I got as a gift once is still hanging in my closet; untouched.
I got that email a few days ago. It was made up of one sentence. I decided almost immediately that I couldn't answer it. Some things you simply have to leave in the past.
We live in a world where we tell our life stories to strangers we'll never meet, not knowing how we'll affect them in the future. It's all so simple and bizarre.
A weird concept, yes.
Friday, August 17, 2012
I met my grand parents for the first time today. It was at the "new" cemetery in my dad's home town (village I should say. Miniscule gathering of homes in the middle of nowhere I should say). Somehow I felt I was a disappointment to them, because of the 80s punk band hair-do I was rockin. Like, had they been alive they would've frowned upon my poor choices in life.
You know there's a hair-dresser-fudged-up-my-bangs-story here, but I'm not going to tell it. Not now!!
As me and my dear father looked down at the graves of his family I suddenly realized most of them were alive during both world wars, and felt the need to express how weird that was. To me.
My father nodded and looked somewhat somber. I then came to a second realization, which was that he had been alive during the second one. This was even weirder.
"I got to experience the after-math, especially. I was... Nine or ten when I ate my first orange."
I didn't understand, really.
"Oh, but that was nothing compared to my first banana. It was so sweet, you know? Heaven."
I could've nodded here and taken in the information. Pondered about the changes in society and my own luck. But, at the mention of bananas my mind went stiff in discomfort and spelled out "c.a.r.b.s" with pure horror in the back of my head.
I then hated myself and pretended to listen to the continuing story.
Basically, I spent the day watching my father reminisce in secret sadness, while I felt lost and bewildered on roads filled with gravel instead of concrete. We entered the church where he was baptised, and the first thing I managed to do was cuss.
Good thing my dad's deaf in one ear.
Not that he would've minded. He looked so peaceful.
I'm sad that so much if my father's life has passed him by. But I'm glad I have him to teach me about the sweetness of bananas, and the calm quiet of a simpler Friday.
Here we go.
Lately, people have been telling me I look like a lot of people. People that aren't me.
Let's go through a list of people that I apparently look like (other than myself, of course. I do, though, think I look somewhat like myself... from certain angles)
Florence Welch (from Florence + The Machine)
|Definitely don't own that shirt, though.|
Jennifer Morrison (from House M.D)
|Definitely don't pose all sexy like that, though.|
Jayma friggin Mays (from Glee, or some'n like that)
|Definitely don't have that fab hair, though.|
|Definitely.... just don't, though. Right?|
I look like none of these people.
Gotz tah goh cut mah bangs naow.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Tomorrow will be awesome. That is my motto in life. You can borrow it if you want.
My future, as I see it, will consist of the following factors:
-Extra uni studies
-London travelling (!!!)
That last part is definitely crucial enough to make the list.
The only thing that I can't seem to make myself look forward to is reading. I wonder what has happened to me. I wonder why I can't seem to make it past the first page of all the books I pick up.
My only hope right now is Enshadowed. The book I mentioned in my last post. And when I say MY ONLY HOPE, I really, truly mean it in that Star-Wars-Dramatic kind of way. Because reading is serious business.
I filmed a video today, but am unable to edit it because of spilled-water-on-my-laptop-because-I'm-an-idiot issues. (I really should not be allowed to own anything. At all.)
I say the words sex and slut a lot in this video. That might be something to look forward to.
//Girl in need of good news
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
This is a common factor in my life. I seem to exude som kind of natural bitterness. I cannot help it! I am far too happy in my unhappiness to stop.
Just know that through every complaint, sad comment or ominous ponder, I am smiling.
Or at least smirking.
I'm a smirker.
Want some happy news? This is coming out soon:
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Here's a scenario:
You get that well known feeling of wanting to cry. Like your body and mind needs it for some reason.
I'm not an expert, but crying should have some sort of purpose. Some sort of underlying biological explanation. Something which makes it more than just a sign of being wimpy.
Anyway, you get that feeling....
But you can't do anything with it. You're stuck. You suddenly remember that this happens all the time. That you can't cry. You've lost the ability to cry.
///twenty and dry
That worry disappeared as I got older (and wiser) though. Somewhere along the line of growing up you realize how normal, boring and human you are; especially when you go away for a week and start bawling at the thought of not being able to see and talk to your best friend, neighbour's cat, dad, mom, brother, plant, whatever, etc..
This is all silly, of course. But it does show how extremely over-analyzing I can be.
People around me should be aware. I over-analyze the shit out of people all the time. This is why I --for YEARS-- wanted to be a shrink. I thought that was my one true fate. I thought I was BORN to be a smart-ass , with heavy dark brown decor and all.
Funny enough, the people who veered me off the path of psychology were all actual sociopaths.
But that's a story for another time!
WHY am I bringing this up? (Real question: does it matter? Hm)
I googled the difference between a "psychopath" and a "sociopath", and apparently there is no REAL difference between the two, according to dictionaries. There are, though, "debates" about the small differences between them.
I was shocked to hear this. Shocked!
Somehow, the thought of being a sociopath was ok,
but if there's one thing I'm not; it's a full fledged psycho.
I just kind of feel like I want to go back in time and tell myself to google stuff properly.
This post is over.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
....one writes jibberish in hope of tiring oneself out.
In all honesty, this Sunday has been all about the search for self love (a best selling novel by Nicholas Sparks?). If you're like me, you barely know what this term means. To love oneself. Bizarre to even think it.
You sat in your chair, behind your desk, when your teacher told you how special you are, and you pondered whether or not the act of NOT wanting to stab yourself in the chest counted as self acceptance.
I'm here to tell you that it kind of doesn't. It just means you're not bat shit crazy. (But then again, what do I know?)
I recently changed my alarm text. (you know, the little message that pops up when your alarm goes off on your phone.) I've always had a message like "get up you fat cow!!", with the logic that personal insults will set me off and wake me up properly (although, in all honesty, it was probably also to remind me that sleeping in is bad for your metabolism.... Or so i've heard).
I've never thought much of it, really, until recently. Suddenly the text seemed unnecessarily rude. Like the world isn't mean enough, anyway.
I changed it to "wake up <3" (yes, heart included).
Call me sappy, if you like, but once you've survived your teens, it's time to stop feeling so much hatred. Society doesn't want you to love yourself. That would mean you'd stop comfort eating and staring at your TV 24/7. It would mean you'd stop putting your life in the hands of men in power, and start thinking about what actually makes you and the people around you happy. It would mean you'd stop spending so much money on products that are meant to morph you into a stick of glossy perfection.
But screw that. Be all rebellious and shit.
I don't actually know how to love myself, but I know that waking up to the words "fat cow" doesn't help.
I'm sure you do a lot of things to make yourself even more miserable. So stop it.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
I hate it when people don't dance. It makes me angry to see them standing in pairs, groups and other various constellations AROUND the dance floor instead of ON it.
-I have spent an hour picking out this dress.
-I have spent a lot of money getting this drunk.
-I can't hear what you're saying anyway!
-Just look at the DJ! LOOK AT HIM! He's going to cry himself to sleep tonight.
And then you're out there- Jumping around like a maniac, almost causing your friend's death in a dangerous tripping-on-shoelaces accident, hoping that this will inspire this room, this place,
You're filled with HOPE when a lean Tom Wellington look-a-like steps out of his comfort zone and hesitantly creeps out into the area-in-which-people-are-supposed-to-dance. He's waving to his friends, silently pleading them to follow him.
This is insecurity in human form.
This is a man on the verge of either crying or running home. He looks back at me for a second. I'm helping my friend spin around like a ballerina, while mimicking the moves of a feathered beast. I stare at him, judging him for what he's about to do.
He leaves the dance floor.
With his defeat I felt defeated as well. We left with our heads held high, and our hearts pounding with both adrenaline and frustration. To add to the general misery; we were broke and freezing.
Somehow, we were able to end the night with a few laughs and an agreement on the OKness of our experience.
But the point still stands.
I hate it when people don't dance.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
This is just me trying out my word-mixing-and-meshing-skills. This is my saying "hello", "hi" and "welcome!".
This is me telling my old blogs to go away --far, far away-- and let me have this one, perfect, unbreakable blog that doesn't get thrown in the trash because of insecurities, boredom or annoyance over my parents' incessant corrections and comments on how I choose to write down my thoughts, free for all to see.
(Let me make on thing very, very clear: I love my parents, and never mean them any harm, no matter what I sometimes happen to end up saying to or about them. Love and hugs.)
So far things are going OK.
I've managed to 1) insult myself, 2) possibly provide my mother with new material and 3) create passable sentences.
I'm blogging again.
Deal with it.