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.