We all wish.

Wasting Time.

The skin I live in. In. Skin. The skin.

As a veteran acne-ridden non-teen, there's a lot I've had to get used to, that other people don't even seem to think about.

My best friend sleeps in her bra sometimes.
Now... I can't think of a single reason why that'd be comfortable. But the point is...
I can't do it at all. My back would freak out.

I can't sleep in make-up either.
I can't sleep on any of my cheeks, nor can I lean on them...
I can't touch my face. I can't scratch my face.
I can't go too long without showering.
I can't wear make-up indoors for more than... four hours. Six, if I'm outside.

I don't do sleep-overs.
I don't do "surprise visits" (= don't expect me to open the door if I don't know you're coming)

My life is.... rules.

So fuck you if you sleep with make-up on.

...I want your life.

Read my dead eyes.

Thanks.

...is a man's best friend

I've always wondered what tweeters -- ACTIVE tweeters -- are like in person. How does a full conversation play out with these people? And do they ever make eye contact with the person they're (supposedly) talking to?

The most probable answer is:
All active social media-ists are near non-existent in reality.
You choose your own platform in life, I suppose.

--

My platform has become this very couch I'm sitting on.

                    It's blue.

             It's medium-sized.

2% cotton and whatnot, 98% love.

You could say that this couch represents the way I choose to live life now. It's comfortable and doesn't judge me for who I am, or what I happen to not be able to do.
It also allows me to watch A LOT of TV, in full pyjama gear.
To slouch down and write diary updates about LIFELIFE and everything I want to stop thinking about.
To relax. To eat. To give and receive hugs.

Final Wisdom:

Since stress and sadness and war and hate and jealousy and angst and delayed homework and societal pressure and general OCD is near inevitable; get a nice couch.

Your couch loves you.




Too bad it's not ACTUALLY my couch.




I need to make videos.

The short short story of something not so short

This is the story about a man with expensive glasses and bare feet.
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.

----

This is another post about the ridiculousness of the human race. I've done many of these, I think. But it's like an endless pit of inspiration. It really is.
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.

Seriously. 

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,
I'll return.

The question is:


How personal is too personal?


This, coming from someone who just wrote a long post about something she later realized could be summarized with the fantastic abbreviation T.M.I.


Blogs.


Damn it.

Fragments

Just realized that my way of taking pictures, sans half-of-my-face, enables me to do things like:

You could say I'm... "without to-do:s" today.

A few days ago I tried out a new video-making technique. I call it the "whattheheck"-technique. Basically, all you do is turn on the camera and start talking. I ended up making a video about my credit cards. 

Didn't even make it to the cutting board.

----

Going to London on Friday.

Well, that escalated quickly

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. 

"And I never met a madman

Who didn't have a cause

And I never met a pervert

Who didn't have a broken heart"

I'm not saying I believe every man is good deep down. Sure, I've learnt that some people are rotten, rotten. But at least I believe that there's a reason for that damage, and that it could've been avoided. I believe that if I'm the person that waits and smiles and listens, that at least one person will have the chance to avoid that damage.

There was a girl in my high school class with a wonderful smile.

It was comforting in the way that being cared for when you're ill is comforting. In a sense, it was warmth in teeth form (but way less creepy-sounding).

Whenever I had to speak in front of my class; I would breathe in, look at her and feel my fear fading away. In some ways, she got me through high school.

To be honest,

we weren't even that close.

I barely ever spoke to her.

But even something small; like a warm smile, can save you.

This is me defending my tendency to trust the world a bit too much, for a bit too long.

Okthanks.

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.

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.

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.


Okthanksbye.

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?



http://www.youtube.com/user/MaxieMagyx

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.

----

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.
But.
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.

THANKYOUTHANKYOU.

G'night.

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.


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.

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?

One of the many reasons I have to take deep breaths in my own company

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.

But.

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.

The concept of penpalling

I got a message from an old penpal a few days ago. Suddenly I was hit in the face with all of these memories of people I've known but never really known.
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.