Expectations (Also, why is there never any cake when needed?)

When I started this blog, I intended it to be an comical outlet, somewhere I could write whatever I wanted without a care in the world and then just stop telling cancer jokes at childrens' birthday parties. A task we all must manage sooner or later in life, basically. The problem is, blogging is not really something that you spontaneously can do, at least not if you are a self-conscious, charmingly hysterical woman who constantly compares herself to all the other amazing comedians and bloggers out there (After first finding Hyperbole and a half and Steammeupkid, I cried for an hour, knowing that I could never reach their level of awesomeness) and can't even puke her guts out after a night of binge drinking without thinking "What angle does my ass look the best from when squatting in the bathroom and does my foundation match the contents of my stomach?". Basically, I am the worst suitable person for running a blog that is supposed to be funny, but mainly just ends up being relatively forced. And it does not really help that blogger.com informs me that it saves my draft every ten fucking seconds, because GOD FORBID the internet should be deprived of inspiring quotes such as "Iwantcakeiwantcakeiwantcakebutimuglyandiwantanowlbutfirstcatandthenadwarfimgonnawatchgameofthronesandjustdiealonewithmycake". So, my new aim is to not be so hard on myself; comedy cannot be forced, as proven by my earlier entries, and not feel bad about myself just because I can't produce 10 awesome jokes  everydayabout genocide or misscarriages or whatever kids these days find funny, but that I'm good enough. I know that young women everywhere hate themselves for not being able to come up with witty sex puns on a regular basis, because that's an ideal which is being forced unto us by the media, so to all women out there - it's not the reference jokes that count, it's how big your boobs are. Spread the word, together we unite!

It's not alcoholism, it's just internal decorating

I just realized how something as trivial as listening to a certain artist or referring to a certain author can make all of life's miseries and tragic behaviour seem not only acceptable, but chic. I myself am obsessed by Victorian veneral diseases such as syphilis and the whores who spread them (You have to admit, everyone who's somebody of importance have had syphilis. It's the Mac Computer of the 19th century), and I devour books about my favorite boys Oscar Wilde, Charles Baudelaire and Friedrich Nietzsche, who all had a certain thing in common; the urge to go out on parasyphilitic rampages and then write a poem whilst they took a shower in absinth and dwelled in their beautiful misery. If you drink alone by the dinner table whilst a re-run of Simpsons is on in the background, you are just sad. Borderline psycho. However, if you fling yourself into a divan, drink a whole bottle of whisky in one sitting and then write a short novel about how nice it is to throw up, then you are a fucking artist. If you avoid contact with other people, you are a socially inept human being. If you dress in dark clothing and smoke cigarettes in holders, you are Le Artist who takes a stance against the demoralized capitalist society. I've been drinking writing my entire life, and to this very day I have never once felt very... authory. (Look at me, making up words and everything. How groundbreaking.) I think that I might have try another approach to create my image as a decadent author; accordingly to the success rate of my predecessors, I must either resort to heavy drugs and absinth or defy any relationship which is not based on me paying people for intercourse. I do love my whores. In an instant, new possibilities were revealed to me - I wasn't using tobacco because I thought it makes me look cool and death-defiant and allowed me to act like a Russian mafioso (YES I CAN, IT SAYS SO ON THE PACKET!!), I was using tobacco because I had realized the emptiness an meaninglessness of life and the absence of an absolute moral or an eternal soul. I wasn't drinking because I wanted to be drunk enough to talk to complete strangers, I was drinking in order to let my creativity flow freely. I wasn't locking myself into my room just to be able to play Pokemon for 6 straight hours, I was retreating to my humble abode to reminisce of love and loss and losing myself in the creative process. It was impossible to do something irresponsible, because it was all part of the image - the image of the bohemian, the decadent libertine, the grieving genius. And everything could be saved with just one simple reference.

Friend: Hey, what's up?
Me: Nothing really. Just walking alone in the dark with a half empty bottle of Jameson, crying. You?
Friend: Dude... That's sad. How are you?
Me: Oh, don't worry; I'm listening to Tom Waits.
Friend: Oh, OK then.

See how I saved that possibly awkward situation? I have an effing GIFT! I should have a superhero named after me, something like "Hipster-woman" or "Pretentious douche-lady". Kids today need more role models who pass out in their own vomit. Teaches them to follow their dreams.

This yahtzee totally makes up for me being unemployed and broke

I have always been known for taking great pride in accomplishing rather small and redundant tasks; it will always be easier to be able to sing all of the Disney theme songs in a highpitched tune whilst dancing undignifyingly and scaring the children to tears than to pay your bills in time, be in charge of your life and other trivial and meaningless things. I live for my art. However, last night I think I overstepped a certain line. Or rather made cartwheels over it while singing the theme to The Little Mermaid, but you get the point. I was playing Yahtzee with my family and my new boyfriend (oh yes, I do know how to party down on a saturday night!), and tried my best to make a good impression and keep my family from actually being themselves. That's how genocide starts, you know. The thing is, I made a beautiful thing last night. I scored Yahtzee TWICE! And as a humble and responsible adult, I of course broke out into something straight out of Scarface or the Godfather. 

Me: "YAHTZEE! AGAIN!"

Mother: "Look at her go. She is so proud. Let her have this moment." 

Me: "I AM THE MUTHERFAKKIN CHAMPION!!"

Brother: "Someone tampered with the dice."

Father: "I don't like spending time with any of you."

Me: (doing an Italian-American voice): "FIRST YOU GET THE MONEY, THEN YOU GET THE POWER, THEN YOU GET THE WOMEN!"

Boyfriend: "I think that you are taking this a bit too seriously."

Me: "Here you go, buy yourself something pretty", and stuffs a bill down the cleavage of his shirt. You know, to make him feel special and loved.

Boyfriend: "Ehrm.. Thank you?"

Me: "I buy you diamonds. I take care of you. But if I ever catch you disrespecting me, I will..."

Mother: "Rebecka, what have I told you about threatening your boyfriends? Not before dessert, that's what."

It is important to acknowledge when you succeed in life; there is no point in covering up your awesomeness by trying to be humble. I don't need to be humble. I scored motherfucking yahtzee TWICE! 

Kittens - a cynical woman's worst enemy

I have during the years created a quite solid reputation as a stern, cynical and sometimes straight out disgusting girl with a tendency to say inappropriate things when nervous and being chronically afraid of pregnant women (they have another living parasitic thing inside of them!!! Has nobody seen Alien vs Predator?? Don't tell me I didn't warn you.) My sense of humor is upright abnormally politically incorrect, and I am seriously considering printing businesscard with my name and the sentence "I'm not a nazi, it was just a joke!" as a social procaution. But there is one thing, that completely shatters my bitter exterior and sends me into a downward spiral of "OMFG ITS SO CUTE I WANNA EAT IT AND PUKE IT UP AND SNUGGLE WITH IT UNTIL I DIIIIIIIIIE"s and "LOOK AT THE LITTLE FEET, OH THE LITTLE FEET! STOP STARING AT THE NEWS ABOUT ALL THOSE DEAD PEOPLE, LOOK AT THE GODDAMN LITTLE FEET!" What it comes down to is to prioritize.

Let me introduce you to my very own kryptonite: Nietzsche. And I love him even though he doesn't have syphilis. But just because I am of a very forgiving nature.

Wife-beatnik, at your service

My ego and I have had quite a complicated relationship ever  since I hit puberty; most of the time we get along just fine, smalltalk about the weather and part as friends - sometimes we are even the best of friends (always when alcohol is involved), the BFFs of self confidence, and my ego supports any spontanious whimsy of mine, for example, to try to put on an Oscar Wilde-play using onion rings at the bar or my decisive yearning to try to surf on top of a police car (if they didn't want people to dance on top of it, why put on the funloving untz untz light?) But the past few years, I have grown quite tired of being polite towards my ego. I can sometimes catch my self esteem glancing at other people's egos, wearing those tight little skirts to show off its taunt perception of my worthiness as a human being and letting all sorts of people eyeball the goods - the diploma from the creative writing competition, relatively sufficient grades and acceptable looks. Well, I have put enough of this crap - it is time to teach my self esteem a lesson. Putting on the wife beater shirt, thrusting a big piece of snuff up my lip, and   chasing my ego down, trapping it in a corner with a raised palm.

BITCH I TOLD YOU NOT TO MAKE ME FEEL GOOD ABOUT MYSELF!!
Please, you have been drinking. Please, not in front of the children; don't let Potential and Perception of body see you like this! I promise, I'll be good!
BITCH YOU BETTER BE GOOD! SO IF I ASK YOU "AM I GOOD ENOUGH?", WHAT DO YOU TELL ME?
I'll tell you... I'll tell you... You are good enough?
*SLAP*
WHAT DO YOU TELL ME?
That you are fat, worthless and ignorant, and that you spend too much time on the internet.
THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! AND WHEN PEOPLE ASK YOU WHERE YOU GOT THE BRUISES FROM?
I'll tell them I fell down the stairs.
GOOD GIRL! HAVE ANOTHER SLAP!


It is important to keep your ego in check -it asked for trouble with its "you are beautiful because you are you" - LIES UPON LIES! Now bring me a beer.

An introduction

Hello, fellow procrastinators. I've done something so radical, so groundbreaking that scientists worldwide gasp of chock and amazement and women approach me in the streets, begging me to bless their babies' foreheads with a tender kiss - I've started a blog. So yeah. Take that society.

This blog will probably just be an outlet where I can write and say things that generally just make people throw things at me and chase me with pitchforks and torches ablaze. Apart from my mothertongue Swedish, I am also fluent in awkward silence as well as drunken gibberish, with a P.h.D in ruining family dinners by using sentences such as "I think I would be really lousy at committing genocide - I mean, I'm such a procrastinator. I would probably start the day with checking facebook, reading a few blogs, calling a friend and drawing quirky genocide-to-do-lists before actually getting on with the task at hand."

                                           Fuck iPad, I want this for christmas. 



Interests are dressing up my cat Nietzsche in bowties and letting him play with such wonderful toys as these, replacing friends with memes, googling "how conjoined twins have intercourse" and studying history at Lunds university in Sweden. I used to have a life which prohibited me from blogging, but thankfully I have now had that pest taken care of, so now I'm free as a bird to spread my literary faeces across the internetz.