Sunday, September 30, 2012

Twhore stands for Twitter/Tweet-whore -- It's not very inventive

Tweeting without a smartphone is like eating an un-buttered sandwich. The experience is dry and flaky and weird! And it's JUST NOT NATURAL.

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 who we are now

This is the image I just sent in to my insurance company:

Breaks my heart.


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

That one about dreams

I had a hard time getting my act together this morning,
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, sometimes constantly?

Anyway, the kicker is:

Tomorrow is dad's birthday.


Friday, September 21, 2012

Next up....

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

Laugh at thyself

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.


You THOUGHT I would put up pictures of me holding a banana, trying to look like a prostitute. I found NO SUCH PICTURE.
But this level of embarrassment is high enough for a wednesday night.


Tuesday, September 18, 2012

That one about music

I wish I could give you a unique soundtrack to this post --and all the other ones-- filled with songs that matter and inspire. BUT that would entail creating playlists for every single post, which I am regretfully way too lazy to actually do.

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.

Infection by Onitsuka Chihiro

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.

Skinny Love by Bon Iver

This song is actually about a relationship that is too fragile to work. But when I was younger I saw it as something else.
I remember seeing the sentence: 

"Love that's too skinny to survive. It's not properly fleshed out, and is doomed to fail"

I listened to this song in an ill state, and found help.
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)


Those were some out-takes, I guess.

Writing is perfect for when you need to relax for a while.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Mixed languages

I feel like my life has been put on hold. I don't have time to breathe; I'll have to breathe for two next week, to make up for lost viver. (Tip: mix languages to create nonsense)


Right now I'm grieving the loss of my first and best blog. It was called Flummish Behaviour, and it was pure brilliance. That's not me tooting my own horn, so to speak; that's just me appreciating how ambitious and well taught in the art of bullshit I used to be. I wrote long posts about occurences that had never occured, and gave critique on important things, like Eurovision Song Contest and the color of the inner city buses in my hometown.
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.
Four years.

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.

If anything, it could provide some poor, bored sucker with a few minutes worth of entertainment. Schadenfreude and all that.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

That one post that was made in haste

School starts tomorrow at 10. 

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?