lördag 31 december 2011

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!

måndag 26 december 2011

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.

lördag 24 december 2011

"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.

onsdag 21 december 2011

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. 

torsdag 15 december 2011

"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.

onsdag 14 december 2011

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.

måndag 5 december 2011

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.