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