2011 is so 2009

Its New Years Eve, and once again time for yet another year to end and a new one to begin. 2011 was both a terrible year and an amazing one; I have never cried nor laughed as much, as during the past year, and for that I am greatful. However, apart from the impending inebriation and following hangover, New Years Eve also symbolizes something else; the beginning of something new, a clean slate, tabula rasa if you want to be pretentious (Hint: I want to.) The problem is, every year since I was ten, I have the same New Years resolution: To live a healthier life, to stop eating myself into the grave, to let myself be happy more often and to become president. Unfortunately, the last one is the easiest of the resolutions. So, this year, I have decided to make New Years resolutions that are fail-proof - I cannot fail to keep them. Thus:

New Years resolutions for 2012

1. Wear clothing when I leave the apartment.
2. Occasionally chew my food.

3. Digest said food.
4. Breathe on a daily basis. 
5. Talk to people.
6. Eat things with colours in it.
7. Watch TV. 
8. Blink every other second.

9. Kiss my boyfriend. And cat. Possibly make them kiss each other. 

10. See a shrink.


A happy new year to you all!

This might be one of the best things I have ever seen.

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/1a0C2j/www.avclub.com/articles/oscar-wilde-takes-on-jersey-shore-hilarity-ensues,55071/

Laughable pictures of the day

Today I am being very unfunny, so I'll just post pictures that usually cheer me up, but for some reason doesn't manage to do their duty today.

"Your ugly shirt is ruining everyone's Christmas" and other holiday carols in my family

So, here in Sweden its Christmas Eve and therefore time for a weekend enclosed in a small room with your entire family, frantically trying to keep up with the hysterical perception of Christmas being a "calm and cheerful holiday". It really isn't.

 In striving for tranquility and coziness, most families would sacrifice their firstborn for the perfect house decorations, the perfect Christmas dinner and the general appearance of a loving home, whilst all family members end up having a stress-induced ulcer because they bought both silvery and golden glitter and because IT WILL LOOK LIKE A PROSTITUTE DECORATED THE FUCKING CHRISTMAS TREE IF WE HAVE BOTH SILVER AND GOLD and "To prevent you from starting sniffing glue, here's a tool to help you cook a stew" IS NOT A SUITABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT RHYME! In conclusion, Christmas is usually terrible. You spend the entire month of December trying to look for gifts for friends and family - but not just gifts, but personal gifts. The personal part is very important, the gift is supposed to symbolize your eternal friendship and how well you know the receiver and it should be intimate and thoughtful. I'm thinking of just starting to hand out my body parts to family and friends, it doesn't get more personal than that. "Mom, you know how I was a very angry teenager and used to give you the finger? I thought that now when I'm moving out, you should at least get the finger to have something to reminisce about. Love you!"

Not only should the gifts be personal, they should also be expensive. People just don't appreciate homemade gifts anymore; every time I gave my parents a drawing filled with gold-sprayed macaroni glued to a cardboard, they just looked at me with utter contempt. I put a lot of effort into making that, especially for a 18-year-old. No, gifts are supposed to be very expensive, preferably so expensive that you cannot afford food with colours for the next two months. However, at the same time, the gift is supposed to show what benevolent character you possess; because there is always one bastard ruining everyone else's gifts by giving a goat to a starving family in Cambodia and then giving you a conceited smirk whilst saying something like "Oh, you bought him an expensive DVD-player? Well, I'm sure the starving children would have loved eating for once, but they'll propably understand the importance of watching Die Hard 2 over and over again."

To be fair, this year's Christmas is different. People are calm, not many presents have been bought or exchanged, we have no plans for the entire day and I can actually relax and be with my family in a ordinary loving fashion, just being happy and co-existing in bliss.

I reckon I will destroy that bliss when I do my Tom Waits-interpretation of Santa Claus and pass out under the Christmas Tree with a bottle of whiskey. Tradition is tradition.

Kim Jong Il is dead. Kim Kardashian is still alive. I sense that there has been some kind of mistake.

I tried to be productive today. All it led to was that I came up with an awesome pitch for a movie: Alien vs sexual predator.

That is all. 

"The awkward moment when her Lady Jane is odorless"

Reblogged from http://www.robinwolfe.com/victorian-porn-friday-10/

This excerpt is from “Memoirs of a Young Rakehell” by Guillaume Apollinaire. Published in 1907.

And with that she took her leave. That evening, after having eaten a hearty dinner, I took some wine, ham and dessert back with me to my room. The chateau was soon asleep. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Madame Muller came in. My heart was beating like a triphammer. I embraced her, and gave her a French kiss, which she returned. I undressed quickly and showed her my prick in a most presentable condition.

“Don’t get so excited,” she warned, “or we’ll waken the whole house and set the tongues to wagging.”

She bolted the door. I fastened her mound in a tight grip, and found it slightly swollen, and her clitoris extremely hard. I stripped her down to her petticoat, and lifted it high. Seeing her dressed you’d have taken her for thin, but she wasn’t in the least. In fact if anything she was on the fleshy side. Her dark pubic hair, I noticed, climbed all the way up to her navel.

She must just have washed, for her Lady Jane was odorless. Then I stripped her completely and was amazed to find how firm her breasts were. They were only moderately large, and her nipples were set in a small field of light brown hair.

Lifting her breasts, I saw that she also had some short, fine black hairs underneath. Her armpits were likewise covered with hair as thick as a man’s.

What surprised me most as I examined her more closely, were her well raised buttocks, whose cheeks were set close together. Along her backbone ran a fine line of black hair, from top to bottom. The sight of all this healthy fleece caused John Thomas to harden even more.

I ripped off my nightshirt and straddled the lovely creature, whose rhythmic movements set my pickle slapping back and forth against her belly.

We were in such a position that we could clearly see ourselves in the mirror. I led her toward the bed, where she sat down and said: “I know you want to see all of me.” She raised her legs and displayed her hairy cunt right up to her pot hole. I immediately set to tonguing her, and lingered at the task for quite some time. Her lips began to swell. When I went to insert my tool, she laughed and said: “Not like that. Get on the bed.”

I asked her to please use the familiar “thou” form with me, and to allow me to do the same with her.

I got onto the bed. She climbed on top of me and I thus had her whole beautiful body before my eyes. She told me to play with her boobies. Then she grasped my prick, paraded it awhile against her love lips, and at the same time asked me to be sure not to come inside her. Then she suddenly shoved my tool in right up to the ballbearings. She was riding me so strenuously that it was almost painful. Round about that time she came, and I could feel all the warmth of her cunt, hear her heaving sighs, and see her eyes roll back in her head.

Realizing that I was also on the point of coming, she got quickly to her feet.

“Hold on a minute, young fellow, my lad,” she said in a voice still trembling with emotion, “I know still another that’ll satisfy you without making me pregnant.”

She turned round; her buttocks were now facing me. She bent down and took my prick in her mouth. I followed her example and began tonguing her love lips, lapping up the female love-juice which tasted like a raw egg. She stepped up the play of her tongue against my glans, and with one hand she tickled my balls and buttocks, while with the other she gripped my penis.

I stiffened with pleasure. She thrust my prick as far in her mouth as possible. Her most secret parts were staring me full in the face. I seized her buttocks, and plunged my tongue into her pothole. I lost control of myself and ejaculated in her mouth.

When I recovered from my momentary rapture, she was lying beside me and had pulled the blankets up over us. She was caressing me, thanking me for the pleasure I had given her, and asked me if I had enjoyed it as much as she.

I had to admit that I had enjoyed that position even more than normal coitus. And then I asked her why she hadn’t let me come inside her, since she was married.

“For that very reason,” she said. “My husband is impotent, and can tell whenever I cheat on him. Oh, God in Heaven! what I have to put up with from that man!”

I asked her to tell me all about it. She said that her husband could get an erection only if she beat him with a rod until she drew blood.

She likewise had to let him strike her, but only with his hand, and now she was so used to it that she enjoyed it more than it hurt her. He also made her peepee and shit in his presence, so eager was he not to miss a trick. And he got especially worked up when she had her periods.

After she had struck him fifty or even a hundred times, she had to hurry and slip his half-erect member inside, for otherwise it fell limp, except when she licked his buttocks or let him lick her between the toes. Whenever that happened he was able to keep a good hard on, but all these things were pretty disagreeable.

“And on top of all that,” she concluded, “the old rascal spends all his time in church.”

Her story had aroused the flagging spirits of my John Thomas. Madame Muller had hastened the resurrection by tickling my balls. She had me get between her legs, and turned over on her side. She scissored my buttocks with her legs, so that we were both lying on our sides, face to face. It was a good position, allowing us to lie closely interlaced, and at the same time leaving her titties exposed to my tongue.

I was holding her cunt, which the bout of pleasure had caused to narrow, with my hand. Both of us thrust our fingers into the other’s arse-hole. I let my prick slide softly into her cunt, and began to rock as before, sucking her nipples all the while.

I kept my finger moving in her throbbing arse-hole. She came a second time with a cry of delight. She had taken hold of my balls from behind and was squeezing them so tightly that she hurt me, and I had to ask her to let them go.

After having caressed me gently, she turned her head toward the pillow, so that her magnificent buttocks were prominently displayed. I had her rise to her knees and lift her buttocks high. I sent a wad of spit flying into her pothole, and thrust my prick in easily. At each stroke I felt my balls bounce off her buttock cheeks.

She kept telling me how good it felt. I could touch her hairy cunt with one hand and fondle her breasts with the other. Just as I was about to come I started to withdraw but she contracted her buttock muscles around my glans, and I ejaculated squarely into her arse-hole. Afterwards she told me that that was the first time she’d done it that way, and that, although it had hurt in the beginning, in the end she’d enjoyed it.

Feeling my prick harden in her buttocks hole, her sensual forces had awakened and she had had another orgasm at the same time as mine.

“But that’s about enough for today,” she decided, smiling.

Doctors without boundaries

So, I went to the doctor today. As I have mentioned earlier in this blog, I am a bit of a hypochondriac, so check-ups without any real reason comes as no surprise to my doctor. He just looks at me, shakes his head and wonders why I would even ask if there was a chance of me having testicular cancer. Apparently "I have felt a bit lumpy lately" does not suffice as a probable symptom. It doesn't really help that I believe that doctors can see cancer just by looking at a person or smell it like one of those truffle-hunting pigs, and that he is some sort of tumor-whisperer and can talk to all the little cancerous beings in my body and ask them why they keep following me and they could answer that my body was really pissed off at me for living off of marzipan for 20 fucking years and that this was sort of their way of an intervention. Or murder. Cancer is a mean drunk. The problem is, I did not expect what happened today. Today he started asking me things. Personal things. Like how I treat my liver. I told him that was hardly any of his business and that my relationship to my liver is complicated but we are trying to work things out and going to counseling together with Doctor Kahlua. He continued his rampage through my personal life by asking me how many sexual partners I am currently having (Which gave me performance anxiety - I only have one, is that not cool anymore? Has trading veneral deceases become the new Pokemon-game? "I'll give you my glittery Syphilis for the level 50 Chlamydia"), if I smoke or if I consider myself a healthy human being. I suspect that it didn't really help my case that I laughed out loud when he asked me the last question. I am aware that considering my diet (meat, meat, bacon, candy, chocolate, more candy, half a pound of marzipan, meat, meat, whisky, meat) and my aversion to physical activity (do you know who also liked physical activity? THE NAZIS. Coincidence? I think not.), I might not live a very long life, but I can handle that - I live a life I fully enjoy, and that's the end of it.
In conclusion, I do not have any symptoms of actually having cancer despite me frantically flashing suspicious-looking birthmarks to my doctor every five seconds, so that's always nice. Now I can go back to worrying about my future, the health of my family, death in general, the inevitable disintegration of mankind and Fox News. The last two sort of coincide.

Letter to my liver: Lie back and think of England

There are no words to describe the hangover I'm having right now. Well, there are words, but they tend to describe female genitalia and the wrongdoings of goats, so I'm going to avoid them. However, if I should give it a try and describe the immense headache I am currently experiencing, it would be somewhere close to the feeling of having your brain sliced up into a Rubik's cube and then twisted around. And then a dog puked on it. You get the picture. I was stupid enough to drink half a bottle of whitetrash absinthe (the kind with green food dye and absinthe spelled with a z) and then decided to complete all the tasks on my things-I-will-not-remember-tomorrow-and-why-are-there-cookie-crumbs-in-my-bra-list, such as motorboating female acquaintances, frantically dancing to Aqua and deepthroat an entire pie. Whatever happened to the exciting and deliriously jaunty drunken rampages of the 19th century? When two properly dressed Victorian gentlemen could have some fine cognac, smoke a nice cigar and then dress up as poor people and dance along the streets whilst frenchkissing geese (the moshpit of the Victorian era, mind you). These days, its just drinking absurd amounts of hard liqeur, fighting over which Spotify-account to use, climbing through windows with the precision of a Mission Impossible-agent raised just a tad too close to Tjernobyl and exchanging drunken slurs with the main theme being "I have only known you for three minutes and I kind of threw up on you and I suspect that you are actually a traffic stop sign but I THINK YOU ARE MY BEST FRIEND". And instead of waking up in a chic whore house with opium to cure the worst of the hangover, you wake up fully dressed in your shower with eating utensils shattered around you without a clue regarding what you were going to do with said utensils and your liver clenched in fetal position trying to call social services. All types of alcohol have their own very unique impact on me (and I mean unique as in "that kid who still demands to be breastfed at the tender age of 12 is so lovely and unique!"); vodka turns me into a lesbian bulldozer, absinthe into everyone's therapist whether they like it or not (I have been known to chase people around screaming "GET BACK HERE, WE HAVE TO DISCUSS YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH YOUR MOTHER! CLIMBING OUT THE WINDOW TO AVOID ME IS A METAPHOR FOR WANTING TO RETURN TO HER WOMB!!") and wine transforms me into what I perceive as a well spoken, extraordinary ladylike and intelligent woman with clever puns and wits in abundances, but what from what I have gathered is more like a studdering maniac trying to auto-tune Oscar Wilde-quotes and trying to make all the men present agree to meet me in a wrestling competition.
And yet, it was a glorious evening, and I would do it over again a thousand times. Now, you'll have to excuse me; I have to try to remember what the hell I did last night. I bet it was volunteering for the homeless and doing algebra. Sounds about right.

"What is my purpose in life?", "Why do I even bother to go on?", "Where is the fucking cake?" and other philosophical questions I often ask myself

So, I'm a bit depressed right now. I'm not sure if it is because I failed my last exam to the extent that I truly believe that if I had thrown up on the exam paper, I would have gotten at least 5 points more than if I hadn't thrown up on it. However, for some reason I'm not sure if I want my academic attempts to be lined with small, non-digested pieces of cookie dough and leftover pizza. I know, I demand too high standards of myself.
Add to the misery that I have been sick for about two or three weeks now, mainly spending my time with watching Black Books over and over again and discovering that I am awesome at multi-tasking - I manage to do the dishes and hate myself at the same time. Such a time-saver, I'll tell you that. No one pulls off emptying the cat litter box and simultaneously criticizing their looks, intellect and personality as I do. I should write a book aimed at busy women, some sort of how-to guide with suggestions on how to fit a daily hating yourself session into any busy lifestyle. Sort of a "You can have the cake and shit on it as well" situation.

Well, I'm going to go on being bitter for a while, reading my new Bertrand Russell book about how to lose a god in ten days or something like that. Since I have been an raging atheist since the tender age of ten, I tend to distance myself from people who claim that God is constantly watching over them. I just know that if there for some reason is a deity, and if he is watching over my life, he would be just like one of the loud teenage girls in cinemas watching a scary movie, going "OH NO DON'T GO IN THERE, THE MURDERER IS STANDING BEHIND THE DOOR!!!!", but probably more "OH NO DON'T EAT THAT ENTIRE CAKE, YOU WILL SPEND ALL YOUR DAY FARTING BECAUSE YOU THINK THAT YOU HAVE A REBELLIOUS FUCK-ALL ATTITUDE FOR NEGLECTING YOUR LACTOSE INTOLERANCE!"   And then God would watch as life killed me with a steak-knife, throw popcorn at the screen and text constantly with his BFF.

Now, you'll have to excuse me, as I have to go and bribe my cat with salmon in exchange for love.

                                                It is important to stay positive.

The city that never sleeps (but still won't hesitate to pass out drunk in your shower)

As I earlier mentioned, I went to New York for the first time a couple of weeks ago with my parents and my younger brother, and despite my aversion to flying managed to arrive safely without too many panic attacks on the plane (Hey, we all know that "Place your seat in the upright position" is an obvious code for "We are about to crash and die die DIE".) I did however manage to get blatantly drunk on Kahlua and six thousands cups of plane coffee in order to calm myself down, so I arrived at Newark a happy drunk. From what I can recall, I watched the same episode of Parks and recreation four times and tried to steal desserts from other passengers. Yes, I am THAT classy. We then took a cab to the hotel, situated in Midtown, and after gawking at the by-passing actor Hugh Jackman and realizing that America really is the land of possibilites (possibilites to get a heart attack) we got acquainted with the neighbourhood around the someone hectic Times Square and received strict orders from the hotel manager not to have any crazy parties in the hotel room, which I frankly thought was kind of unfair - you really can't have a proper family vacation with your family without passing out drunk on top of a hooker in a hotel room! What would we otherwise put in the family christmas letter?

                                                             Times Square

                                                                     Central Park

                                                              Where I spent most of my trip

                Come on people, you can see the "Made in China" labels! Evolution, it's a passing trend,      just like democracy and white jeans. 

                                                 Fell in love with this cow.

                  Went to an absinthe-bar in hipstery Williamsburg, ate oysters and found a friend. (Not alcohol  this time. That was a friendship bracelet gone to waste.

                                                             Was thrown out of Ladurée.

                                                                 

                                                             Visited West Village

Met the presidential candidate of the Republican party

                                                             

                                                           Went to Obscura and fell in love with Evan and Mike - two of the most interesting, kind and well read people I have ever met. I wish I could have bought them. Hey, they have sold weirder things in the shop. 

                                                            Wanted to buy everything, but US customs went all buzz kill on me and prohibited me from bringing pure 1950's ether onto the plane. YOU'RE NOT MY REAL MOM!!

                                                              Saw God. God swears a lot. 

And that's pretty much it. To sum things up, I fell in love with New York, but as I landed in the middle of the whole Herman Cain sex scandal I can only say that my perception of American politics are as pessimistic as before. As I was jet lagged I woke up earlier than everyone else and decided to walk the streets, and witnesses the hobo raid that takes place every morning, when the police removes all homeless people from the fancier streets so people won't have their shopping experience tainted by reality. It made me sick, how one side of Manhattan was filled with special fast food restaurants for people's pets, and that another showed signs of poverty, abuse and inequality. And yet, politicians depicts the situation as taken care of by the benevolent supermen called police men, just trying to relieve the rich from the burden of seeing the less fortunate suffer. Sure, my country's welfare system isn't always functioning as properly as I would like it to, but after spending only a week in the United States, I realized that their welfare system is just like a superman; but instead of arriving in time, it arrives three hours after you needed help, and then shoots you in the foot.

Phlegm and the city

I'm back from New York. I am also very sick. This might be related to me living on donuts for a week, so my immune system is probable as resistant as putting a gang of crying babies in the front line of an army. That scenario would however make the film 300 MUCH funnier. I will tell more about the trip as soon as I'm well again, right now my throat hurts so much that I can't speak, and the only sign language I know are the signs for menstruation and rabbit. Everyday conversation, that is. So for the next few days, I am confined to my room with a computer and a box of tissues. That sounded very wrong. Anyway, the only thing I can spend my time with is to sit by the window, watching the rain pour down and listen to love songs, but as there are a few obstacles (1. It is not raining 2. My view of romantic music is Rage against the machine) I am condemned to staring dreamily into my cat's anus while he tries to reach the piece of cat food on his foot. I should write love novels.

Today's funfact: The ancient Greeks believed that the vagina was an inverted penis, and if women ran, it could fall out. If that isn't an argument against jogging, I don't know what is.

Fuck yeah nihilism

http://www.smbc-comics.com/index.php?db=comics&id=2415#comic

I have only been in New York for four days and already have a list of 5 things I hate about America

1. A pair of nuns in a Hummer-car almost ran me over. Enough said.
2. All Americans bake a lot better cupcakes than me. By comparison, mine look like the dead hooker dragged up from the water in an episode of CSI version of a cupcake. Presentation is key - Martha taught me good.
3. I witnessed a woman bumping into another woman by the cashiers in a supermarket - a situation that in Sweden would be solved by two simultaneous nervous giggles and a "OH MY GOD I AM SO SORRY!". However, in a wonderfully American fashion, the women started to argue and resolved the situation by a mature "You fucking bitch" and stormed off in separate directions.
4. I am not only fatter than most women here, I am also TOO THIN in comparison to all the 300 kg people who has a very close and intimate relationship with their fryer. It's like I can't win. And I also saw Minnie Mouse doing the walk of shame home at 6 am while drinking a beer. Media really does inforce crazy body ideals on today's youth.
5. The overly cheerful and welcoming personnel in all stores, ambushing me with a word blitzkrieg of "OMG WELCOME HOW ARE YOU LOVE YOUR HAIR LOVE YOUR FACE LOVE YOUR TONSILS PLEASE TIP ME UNTIL I VOMIT!!!". They might not have said exactly that, but I read between the lines.

And, you know, the whole million different wars and 1 % of the population controlling 40 % of the GNP thing, but that's not as relevant as the previously mentioned problems. Seriously, USA, shape up!

Can't sleep because then the terrorists will win

I am crazy scared of flying, especially ever since 9/11, and tomorrow I will embark on a journey to New York. On a plane. For 8 hours. 8 hours of me staring suspiciously at everyone, treating every child as a potential bomb pinata and lying in fetal position in my seat while compulsively repeating "Everything is fine, everything is fine, you're not going to crash and burn and die at all, everything is fine" while laughing hysterically. You know, the mature way to handle phobias. I keep googling statistics on the percentage risk to die in a plane crash (1:6000000), which should be reassuring, except that I just know that I will sit and expect to be that single lucky  one to die strapped to an uncomfortable seat with an annoying child kicking me in the back until the very moment we crash. However, the internet comforted me by informing me that "it's a comfort to know that to die in a plane crash is remarkably likelier to happen in a developing country than in any of the economically stable countries". It's like the Wall Street security blanket; to go down crashing, but at least be consoled that this will probably happen to some poor people as well sooner or later.

On second thought, I'm probably okay with crashing with a plane. I mean, then I can buy tons of those expensive sodas and peanuts and fancy champagne and then, because we are crashing and dying, never pay for them. Ha! In your face! Guess who's laughing now!


Oh. Right. No one. Because I'll be dead.

(If I actually die tomorrow, this will be such a cool post and I will get tons of readers. Immortality is so easy, suckers.)

Changing your boyfriend's pizza topping and other S&M things that I am into

I have always been intrigued by the forbidden, the decadent, the danger with different sexual paraphilias (odd sexual preferences) and consume enormous amounts of victorian erotica and Marquis de Sade, yet I am when it all comes down to it, quite a prude. And it is really starting to bother me. When being asked by slightly drunk girlfriends the question "Are you a naughty girl?", I always giggle and respond in my head with "Well... I don't know if I should tell you this, I mean, I don't really know you, but sometimes I go to bed without flossing. Yeah. Freaky stuff, right?" and then I drink more until i pass out in my own vomit and everyone misinterprets it because they just don't understard performance art. So bourgeoisie. Just the concept of going to clubs in order to get laid is so foreign to me, to be able to go up to someone in a club and then just leave with that person - I mean, with all of that loud music, how will they even be able to hear my awesome jokes about ways to turn circumcision into a crafty hobby for the whole family, which as we all know is the straight way to a man's heart. I like to think that I would at least like to know the guy's name before all the latex harnesses and sex swings come out. I know, I'm such a romantic. However, I believe that sadomasochism must develop and become more sinister, more genuinly hurtful. Because seriously, hanging someone upside down from the ceiling and then whip him or her sounds more like a normal diet show than sex - the truly depraved treatment of your spouse is so much more accessible than ball gags and nipple twisting; it is already there in your everyday life.

So, my ten alternatives for new, kinky S&M adapted to the lazy and insidious:

1. Not putting on the cap on the toothpaste after using it

2. Putting CD's in the wrong covers

3. Forwarding chain mail

4. Leaving clipped toe nails in the bathroom sink

5. Intentionally tripping your spouse whilst he/she is carrying food

6. Buying fruit when your spouse asked for chocolate because "fruit is candy"

7. Putting the spark back into the relationship by doing something new; like killing a hobo or start robbing banks. Because nothing says reconnecting as a couple like couple's killing spree. Makes your spouse feel included.

8. Telling all of your boyfriend's friends that he secretly cries to How I met your mother.

9. Spoiling the end of that film he been wanting to see for months.

10. Secretly switch his pizza toppings to something he hates. 

Remember; a black eye will hurt for a week, but a lost pizza topping will hurt for months. 

How I have a boyfriend is beyond me.

I will not eat until Tibet is free (Or until the salmon comes out. Whatever occurs first.)

                        I will cling to this chair until justice is served. And by justice, 
                       I mean nicer food than that wholesome crap you're giving me right now.

To put it in simple terms, my cat is on a hunger strike in order to protest to the new, totalitarian regime change in his diet; I switched his daily salmon mousse with proper cat food. I am a veritable Kim Jong Il, I know. What's next - telling him that he can't wake up my boyfriend by biting his nose? WE SHALL OVERCOME! The problem is, that my cat is the best martyr in the world. Right now, despite him being fully aware of the huge amount of food that is on his plate, he is painfully dragging his starving body around the apartment, staring at me with begging eyes that either says "You could end this suffering so easily, why won't you give me food from your plate? Do you really expect me to eat this peasants' food?" or "When the revolution comes, I will end you." As a proper protester and probably influenced by the current occupation of Wall Street, he has occupied all of my pens and my only chair until change has been made.

I'm probably going to have to hide all my matches and lighters. If any cat would go all "Tibetian man sets himself on fire during protest", it would be mine.

I'm a genius

I just found out the perfect way to whine about your sad life without sounding pathetic. GOOGLE TRANSLATE EVERYTHING TO FRENCH! Watch how I transform this seemingly depressing statement:

"I cried myself to sleep last night because I was eating Nutella out of the jar and watching TV and then I saw this skinny girl on Top Model and then I tried to make my cat hug me but he thought I was being weird and shat in my shoe."

Sad shit, right? WRONG. Pressing Google Translate button...TA DA!

«Je me cria de dormir la nuit dernière parce que je mangeais du Nutella du pot et regarder la télé et puis j'ai vu cette fille maigre sur Top Model et puis j'ai essayé de faire mon chat me serrermais il pensait que j'étais bizarre et chié dans ma chaussure. "


See? Now, suddenly I seem like a hip, Sylvia Plathy-like depressed person who spends all her days smoking cigarettes and writing novels about the meaningless of life. Which I usually do too, if you switch the word "life" to "any chocolate containing raisins". But you know, Sartre would have approved. He pretty much thought that everything was meaningless, but I imagine that raisins were at the top of the list.


Dylan Moran probably noticed this magical phenomenon before me. I am willing to accept that. In return, I expect his body in my bed. Like now. 


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZWZZRZDcSQ 

Math. It kills people. Well, people who do math sooner or later die. Coincidence? I THINK NOT!

((p <--> q) & (r v s)) ---> t

WHAT.THE.HELL.

I am studying for a philosophy exam regarding deductive arguments and critical thinking, and I just presumed that we were going to sit and judge people on TV or just find reasons to hate our bodies; much like I usually use my capability to think critically.  BUT THIS IS MATH. MATH. Not even real math, just the kind of made up math that's scribbled on the black board in bad pornos where the teacher goes "You've been a naughty girl" and the student's parents are like "Um, this is a really weird parent-teacher conference" and the girl is all "Aren't you the janitor" and the teacher is all "You've been bad" and the parents are all like "YEAH, WE KNOW! SHE STABBED SIX PEOPLE WITH A PAIR OF SCISSORS WHILE HUMMING WAGNERS RIDE OF THE WALKYRIES!" and then everybody have sex. I might have confused porno with real life again. It is possible. But still a valid point.

Right now, I am so depressed that the mere thought of studying is making me want to go ballistic. However, since I am quite terrified of the idea that people would perhaps think lesser of me if I committed a school shooting (It will always be awkward at dinner parties after that, you just know it.) I just resorted to a more passive aggressive version and printed about 100 unnecessary papers from the school printer just to take a stand. Yeah, that's right world, I FUCKED YOU UP GOOD! You might not notice the ramifications right now, but in like 50 years when all the forests are dead and presidents does pole dancing for money to afford the national budget and they have stopped producing vanilla flavoured alcohol (Armageddon, pretty much), then, THEN, you will feel the pain!

Meh, this is ridiculous. I'm just gonna take my suicidal "fuck all" attitude and complete lack of respect for my own life and go to bed without brushing my teeth. Yeah. I'm practically the guys from Fight Club.

All my quirky OCD:s and neuroses

I am not one to brag, but I have suffered from severe depression for about four years, crippling anxiety attacks and eating disorders. Yes, I know, impressive, isn't it? And I'm only 20; doesn't it make you guys so jealous that a girl of mere 20 years ALREADY has established a healthy self-loathing perspective? I'm like the Beethoven of depression, seriously. Having been recently inspired by The Bloggess's openhearted honesty about her disease, I think that this is a good a time as any to just broadcast all my madness into the safe, motherly arms of internet, who would NEVER betray me and show this to my future employers. Here goes.

1. I have had OCD:s since the tender age of 5, when I started to compulsively check the whereabouts of my family, and if they weren't within a few meters reach, I would panic and be convinced that they were all dead and it was my fault. This escalated to the point where I forced all my family members and friends to promise me to never die, even though I was fully aware of the impossibility of such a promise. I mean, pinkie swear must kick cancer's ass, right? RIGHT? As I grew older, this OCD developed into a habit of telling everyone that I loved them before we parted ways, as I was convinced that they would die in a terrible car crash or be eaten by raccoons or some other highly likely scenario. If I for some reason had forgot to tell for example my mother that I loved her before she went to work, I would cry hysterically until she proved that she was alive once an hour. Even though this anxiety has become easier to manage as time passed, I can still wake up in the middle of the night, crying  because I am absolutely sure that my grandmother is going to die due to the fact that I forgot to call her the other day.

2. I constantly compare myself to other women in the department of writing humorously; I have actually been crying whilst reading the Bloggess, Hyperbole and a Half and Steammeupkid just due to the sudden realization that I can never be that funny, and that I am kidding myself with starting this blog and aspiring to be something which is so obviously out of my reach.

3. I am very paranoid. Not in the "government ate my baby and have replaced my hands with metal detectors when I sleep" (THAT WOULD BE AWESOME!) sense, but in the sense that I constantly believe that people hate me and spend all their time awake with marathon sessions of talking about how boring/sad/unfunny/ugly I am. Then I force myself to think with my reason instead of my gallbladder and consider the fact that maybe the world doesn't revolve around me being terrible (sounds silly, doesn't it? Like a new Creationist movement), and you know what I do then? I become depressed because nobody cares enough about me to hate me. I'm like the North Korea of socially awkward people; I make terrible jokes about hobos and genocide, yet people let me be, because I am really no threat to anyone - I'm like a dictatorship that has really let itself go, a mere shadow of its younger, hotter self; letting the population die of starvation and with a capital filled with overly ambitious building projects, but the U.N. says in an empathetic voice "can't we just let her believe that she's a nation that actually matters? Just for a while? Throw her a bone and let her select her cat to be foreign minister, where's the harm?"

4. I have phobias covering snakes, horses, birds, elevators, needles, psychopathic penguins, cancer, feline cancer, the zodiac sign cancer, cheese, avocado, clowns and mint-flavoured beverages.


OK, I withdraw the mint-flavoured beverage-thing. That just makes me seem weird.

"You're gonna be just fine" and other bullshit I tell my computer

I've had my little laptop for a few years now. I've named him Edgar and I would like to think that he is a squeamish, slightly pudgy little boy with freckles and a really unhealthy relationship to his mother (i.e. me). The problem that I have been encountering lately is that Edgar isn't feeling so good. To be honest, Edgar is quite sick. He won't let me install Word, he repeatedly shuts down my wi-fi connection just to draw attention to himself and he has a panic attack every time I try to play a clip on Youtube, convinced that he "is hearing voices". The thing is that I tend to view my computer as an overly-optimistic child with cancer, just due to the fact that even though all the systems are failing, even though the anti-virus protection is nowhere to be seen and a trojan horse is crapping all over the essay  I have been working on for days (backups are for weaklings, we all know that) even though all these things are occurring at the same time, he still ensures me that everything's gonna be just okay. He's ready. He's said his goodbyes to Youtube and funny memes of cats. And yet I have to promise him that as soon as the chemo is done we can go to Disney Land just to make the damn computer PRINT ONE STUPID PAPER. 

6 reasons why I would be the worst person to be abducted and killed by a serial killer

1. I have watched way too many episodes of Criminal Minds to be able to be content with just any every day torturing and killing; I would actually cause the serial killer performance anxiety with me yelling "You call that torture? My cat does worse things to me in the morning in order to wake me up! At least be a man and bring out the acid and blowtorches! Jeez, it's like I'm dealing with an amateur here, do you have references that back up the fact that you have killed twenty women? Because I am getting suspicious, to be honest. Oh, and you do this because your mother licked your face when you slept and you liked the feel of warm flesh? Sooo cliché. Retro isn't really appropriate when it comes to murder, you know."
2. When I cry, my entire body starts to produce snot and it shoots out of my nose like a damn waterfall. Trust me, there will be nothing aesthetic about this murder, you will just have to swim through all the snot just to get to the body parts you intend to hurt. So unless you want to drown in the hysterical body fluids of your victim, I would suggest that you'll pick someone more fitting to your task.
3. I have a cat, and if I don't play with him every three hours, he becomes depressed. And that's just mean, Mr "I love to eat people's eyeballs".
4.Considering that I spend most of my spare time in sweaty t-shirts and sweats, I would seriously see the fact that you picked me instead of a beautiful blonde as a creepier fetish than the fact that you kill women for your own pleasure. And I mean, you really don't want me to loathe you, do you?
5. When he would be finished carving my flesh, I would probably lean over and whisper something like "When you're down there, could you cut of some of the lovehandles and the fat on my tummy? I've been putting pounds like crazy the past year."
6. I am impossible to lure into a vehicle, as I am probably the most paranoid individual in the world. If I see an old lady fall and she reaches out a hand to me, I immediately run. Nice trick there grandma, I know that your psycho nephew or son hides somewhere nearby and just waits for little me to run to your rescue. I won't fall for that fake "Oh god, I think I broke my hipbone" crap. And tourists wanting help to find their way on the map can just give up right now, I see right through you.

The components of love (or possibly a murder-suicide situation)

Today I will embark on a journey to investigate a throughout history up until now completely untouched subject; love. I know, so original, right? I sometimes even impress myself with my extraordinary wits and innovation. Having spent much of my teens absorbed into stories of eternal love such as The Iliad, The young Werther, Doctor Zjivago and The Dreamers, all with joyous and satisfying endings, my conception of love has become just a tad distorted;  it is only love if someone either kills themselves in the end or spend the rest of their life in heart retching agony, longing for their loved one. Quite a leap from modern youngsters' notion of what constitutes love; a sequence of <3<3<3<3<3 on each others' facebook walls and then having a subtle and romantic "so... wanna fuck?" texted to them at 3 am. I remember being fourteen and having my first boyfriend when having a sudden epiphany: Would this boy cross seas to retrieve me from Troy? Would this boy endure emotional torment for years, never giving up hope of my return? Would this boy resolve to suicide if he realized that we could never be together? The simple answer was no; he would poke me on Facebook, drunk dial me in a very non-Romeo-serenade-on-the-balcony fashion and tell me I was probably a lesbian. I thanked him for enlightening me, hung up and returned to reading for a couple of years. Loved, lost and puked in boys' trash bins. Met a boy, loved him dearly for three years, and then one day woke up realizing that our love had faded away a long time ago, why I really couldn't say, and left was just the fear of losing each other entirely and at the same time the fear of never fulfilling our dreams, growing old, bitter and complacent.

And then I met him. He made me laugh until I couldn't breathe, he woke me up in the middle of the night, giddy as a child, telling me he had the best dream ever about dried alcohol and then fell asleep before I could anwer and rushed to my side to comfort me, even when I was hysterically sobbing because I had read a book by a woman of my age who wrote much better than me and wanted someone to hold me and draw Hitler moustasches on the author portrait. A mature way of handling jealousy, pretty much. So from what I have gathered so far, the components of love are trust, affection, similar life goals and a mutual love for dwarves and fetuses in jars. How this hasn't dawned upon all the authors of couple therapy literature is beyond me. Love hurts, and it should, but it is all worth it when you are curled up in a boy's lap, laughing hysterically at an article about a dwarf who shares the exact features of Gordon Ramsay, works in the porno industry and commits suicide by letting himself be eaten by racoons. If that isn't love, I don't know what is.

The day that must not be named (except in every possible political discussion)

A few days ago, the 10th anniversary of the tragic events of 9/11 took place, and I can't say that I proceeded unaffected during the day, seeing terrorists everywhere and actually stopping what I presumed was an attempt to detonate a suitcase bomb, but might have been just a guy forgetting his suitcase in a train station and the police blowing it up just because some paranoid chick was certain that Malmoe was supposed to go up in flames. I remember vividly the 11th of september 2001 as a horrifying day, not just because I was eleven and convinced that purple hair mascara was an everlasting trend, but because of the fear in my parents' eyes when they hugged me and told me that bad men had crashed several planes into buildings in the United States, and that thousands of people were dead as a result of it. I reacted as sympathetically as only an eleven year old can; asking what was for dinner and if I could get a pet. I was already then a very perceptive child. But the one thing that I managed to understand from the news was the fear of doing things which would "let the terrorists win".  This included not eating any foreign food (just wholesome American food like pizza, falafel and hamburgers), helping elderly Pakistani women cross the street and propose any political action that does not lead to the death/misfortune of poor people. Simple, understandable obstacles in life to be avoided, so to say. I don't know the reason I wrote all this, I was just watching the Daily Show and Colbert Report and wondering how a clown like Glenn Beck can have such an influence in this so called enlightened country. How Obama manages not to just walk out of the White House screaming "Fuck this shit, go ahead and destroy this country, I've had enough of you all!" is beyond me.

My kitten: 12 weeks old and already a manwhore

I just found out that my kitten, whom I am supposed to be able to take home next week, has been diagnosed with "Feline Chlamydophila"; kitty chlamydia. As I have named the kitten Nietzsche, my first reaction was "Chlamydia? No no NO YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO CONTRACT SYPHILIS, JUST CUTE SWEET QUIRKY SYPHILIS!" as a good and caring cat owner. He is so lucky. After I calmed down, I spiraled into a googling frenzy and read every single article available online about cat chlamydia and what I have gathered, this is serious business. I'm going to have to shower, change my clothes and use disinfectants every time I wish to visit my friend's cat, and once you have contracted the disease, you will be contagious for the rest of your life. And the poor thing hasn't even had any sex, he contracted it from his mother at birth! He can barely eat by himself! He's a virgin with an STD. It's like the depressing trailer trash version of Holy Mary's virgin birth. Now he's probably going to be forced to call all his former kitty acquaintances, and man, that is going to be a bummer, since it's basically just his brothers and that sofa that he likes to rub his bum against.

“God is dead. Marx is dead. And I don’t feel so well myself.” – Eugène Ionesco

George RR Martin; The Chris Brown of fantasy authors

I have recently been introduced to the amazing series of novels included in "A song of Ice and Fire" and the television series called "Game of Thrones", and am consequently as obsessed as possible when it comes to reading, discussing, re-watching every single episode and crying every time one of my beloved characters die. And trust me, they tend to do that A LOT. I am currently reading the last pages in the second book, "Clash of Kings", and towards the end, I just couldn't endure it anymore and hid the book until I felt emotionally stable enough to process the events which took place. Because something you must know before you begin to emotionally attach yourself to these marvelous series of novels and television episodes; Game of Thrones/ASOIAF is exactly, and I mean exactly, as evil and unjust as reality, but filled with dragons. Most of us have been raised on sugarcoated Disney films where the good guys always triumph, the evil ones perish and the princess get the prince. And no one is a dwarf or fucks his own twin sister. BORING. However, one positive aspect of Disney films is that even though you are aware of the storylines' total detachment from reality and reason, you like it. You want the princess and the prince to live happily ever after. You want the kingdom to blossom, the peasants to be well fed and content, the good to always win over evil, because these fantasies are something we need to be able to withstand all of the real world's misery and injustice. The problem that now reveals itself is; if the Theodicy Problem can be applied to question the existence of a deity when the world is filled with evil, can it also be applied to question the character of George R.R Martin, when he kills ALL OF MY FUCKING FAVOURITE CHARACTERS. I have since starting to read the series become a heartless and cold monster, distancing myself from loving the characters too much or getting too attached, as I very well know they could die a gruesome death on the following page. However, I know that I will never be able to leave this series; I must follow it to the end, despite the pain it forces me to endure. George R.R Martin is like the Chris Brown of fantasy authors; he beats you up every saturday, you leave him and cry your heart out and promise that this time, I will leave him for good, that this time, I deserve better than to be endlessly hurt this way. And then one day, he stands outside your apartment with a few sad roses and promises to never hurt you again, that this time it will be different, and that it really was your fault that he hit you (you did nag a lot, and therefore he became mad at you). And you think, just one more chance. I'll give him just one more chance, then that's it. 


However, in just a few days, you sit there, sobbing into the book and quietly asking yourself "Why do you constantly go back to this? Why?"


You know why? Because it is one of the best book series I have ever read. That's why. 


But if he hurts Tyrion, I will fucking kill him. Self defense, of course.