A Midsummer Night's Dreamboat.
Sunday
IDIOCY
I'll be at my new job in exactly 10 hours.
At the interview I was asked why I wanted this particular job.
"That's easy!" I replied, "I'm a people person. I love helping people!"
But I lied. I hate people. I don't like helping people, I like tripping them up. I confused the two momentarily - easy mistake during the pressure of a job interview.
And so in retrospect, accepting this job was an extremely bad move on my part. And I have four months of customer service to remind me of this. Do me a favour, dear reader - don't call customer service until September. Since I can't mention the name of the company I'll be working at in the blog, just refrain from calling any customer service anywhere.
You can work things out on your own. I know you can! I have faith in you. You'll be a better person for it!
Help me to help you by not making me help you.
At the interview I was asked why I wanted this particular job.
"That's easy!" I replied, "I'm a people person. I love helping people!"
But I lied. I hate people. I don't like helping people, I like tripping them up. I confused the two momentarily - easy mistake during the pressure of a job interview.
And so in retrospect, accepting this job was an extremely bad move on my part. And I have four months of customer service to remind me of this. Do me a favour, dear reader - don't call customer service until September. Since I can't mention the name of the company I'll be working at in the blog, just refrain from calling any customer service anywhere.
You can work things out on your own. I know you can! I have faith in you. You'll be a better person for it!
Help me to help you by not making me help you.
Wednesday
Gondolen
As always, Gondolen was wonderful. When you're that high up it doesn't matter how low you might be feeling. If only briefly, there is the city laid out before you, and for you alone. And there you are, pretending to crush tiny ant-people heads between your thumb and forefinger.
Add a plate of gourmet food to that and ten years' worth of birthday blues are blown away.
On our plates were a menagerie of delicacies: baby lamb, sander and scallops. But also gracing Andreas and I with its presence was the more elusive camel.
Seems that after the mandatory post-nicotine weight-gain, Andreas' dress pants did not fit him as well as they had last year. The buttocks looked allright enough. Andreas' regular visits to the gym had paid off in the form of two succulent, perfectly round orbs. Unfortunately the same went for the now too-tight front, also displaying two succulent, perfectly round orbs.
So all respect to Gondolen, their gustatory and olfactory delights which never fail to deliver, but the visual cake was taken by the camel toe.
(Wasn't as bad as this)
Tuesday
So to experiment: Keywords: "Saggy Bags, Birthdays, Hovercraft"
I have a very smart brother who knows how to do very nifty things with the internet. The other day he was kind enough to look up which pages were viewed the most in this blog.
The top two didn't really surprise me. "Why not to shave your pussy" and "Freeze it's a stick up your butt" both have an erotic twang to them, and might be of particular interest to genetalia afficionados in general. The third one, however, was called "The Case of the Receding Eyebrow".
And so I guess there's something for everyone, and that's nice.
But why judge. I once knew a guy who was turned on by women with lazy eyes. I can understand this. There's something sexy about a woman who could be looking at you, or the greased-up, juggling naked hunk to your left. Given her condition she could be dedicating one eye to each one of you. How exciting for you! There is an air of unpredictability surrounding these people, and it is this unpredictability, rather than the (strabismic, anisometropic, or occlusion) amblyopia - that I guess is pretty hot.
Something that's NOT for everyone is turning 29. And fine, okay, maybe you had a little sister who got cancer and didn't make it past 28 and boy would TWENTYNINE have been a blessing to her - THEN maybe THEN is 29 a useful age. But I wish somehow that I could have just skipped to thirty. Because I know what I will have accomplished by the time I'm 30.
I will have written a best selling novel , gotten my PhD and I will have had a record go platinum by word of mouth alone, before the record has even been recorded, that's how amazing I will be.
29? It brings with it not so much. Except for the realization that what you've done in life amounts to about $2:50. That, and the horrible realization that you can't call the extra weight around your mid section "baby-fat" anymore. But that that's okay because you're also one year closer to hiding this bulge with your increasingly vertical breasts.
But to be honest, these pangs of fear and regret that accompanies every birthday is nothing new. It hit me when I was 20, and it's going to get me a brand new hover-Porsche when 40 rolls around. So when it all boils down, becoming one year older is just not that much big of a deal.
So Happy Birthday Me, and buck the fuck up. Try to stay away from the cake tonight, your breasts aren't quite there juuuust yet. There's comfort in that.
The top two didn't really surprise me. "Why not to shave your pussy" and "Freeze it's a stick up your butt" both have an erotic twang to them, and might be of particular interest to genetalia afficionados in general. The third one, however, was called "The Case of the Receding Eyebrow".
And so I guess there's something for everyone, and that's nice.
But why judge. I once knew a guy who was turned on by women with lazy eyes. I can understand this. There's something sexy about a woman who could be looking at you, or the greased-up, juggling naked hunk to your left. Given her condition she could be dedicating one eye to each one of you. How exciting for you! There is an air of unpredictability surrounding these people, and it is this unpredictability, rather than the (strabismic, anisometropic, or occlusion) amblyopia - that I guess is pretty hot.
Something that's NOT for everyone is turning 29. And fine, okay, maybe you had a little sister who got cancer and didn't make it past 28 and boy would TWENTYNINE have been a blessing to her - THEN maybe THEN is 29 a useful age. But I wish somehow that I could have just skipped to thirty. Because I know what I will have accomplished by the time I'm 30.
I will have written a best selling novel , gotten my PhD and I will have had a record go platinum by word of mouth alone, before the record has even been recorded, that's how amazing I will be.
29? It brings with it not so much. Except for the realization that what you've done in life amounts to about $2:50. That, and the horrible realization that you can't call the extra weight around your mid section "baby-fat" anymore. But that that's okay because you're also one year closer to hiding this bulge with your increasingly vertical breasts.
But to be honest, these pangs of fear and regret that accompanies every birthday is nothing new. It hit me when I was 20, and it's going to get me a brand new hover-Porsche when 40 rolls around. So when it all boils down, becoming one year older is just not that much big of a deal.
So Happy Birthday Me, and buck the fuck up. Try to stay away from the cake tonight, your breasts aren't quite there juuuust yet. There's comfort in that.
Sleeping Beauty, (a Crouching Tiger.)
Last night I crawled into bed next to Andreas, a good hour or so after he'd fallen asleep.
No sooner had my head hit the pillow than Andreas sits up, momentarily freezes as if to ponder his next move, and shouts a long, hearty "AAAAAAAAAHAAAAA!" to no-one in particular, save maybe the space of air directly in front of him.
It's the hearty kind of "AHA" that seems to imply that Andreas now found the opportunity to put into action his most brilliant plan yet. It seems that tonight's "plan" has been that of just pretending to be asleep upon my arrival, in order to jump up and surprise me.
It has not, however, been a sleepless wait on his part because Andreas is still asleep as he turns towards me, throws his arms around me, and kisses whatever bare area of skin he comes across. Then, just as suddenly as the barrage of affection had begun, it ends.
Andreas wordlessly turns back around and settles down into his customary foetal position. As with all previous times, he recalls nothing in the morning.
So you understand why I am content. I have a best friend who, a quiet man by day, is a sleeping, swooping romantic by night.
Also I finally quit my job. So I think I'm entitled to that extra little bit of love for finally growing a pair.
No sooner had my head hit the pillow than Andreas sits up, momentarily freezes as if to ponder his next move, and shouts a long, hearty "AAAAAAAAAHAAAAA!" to no-one in particular, save maybe the space of air directly in front of him.
It's the hearty kind of "AHA" that seems to imply that Andreas now found the opportunity to put into action his most brilliant plan yet. It seems that tonight's "plan" has been that of just pretending to be asleep upon my arrival, in order to jump up and surprise me.
It has not, however, been a sleepless wait on his part because Andreas is still asleep as he turns towards me, throws his arms around me, and kisses whatever bare area of skin he comes across. Then, just as suddenly as the barrage of affection had begun, it ends.
Andreas wordlessly turns back around and settles down into his customary foetal position. As with all previous times, he recalls nothing in the morning.
So you understand why I am content. I have a best friend who, a quiet man by day, is a sleeping, swooping romantic by night.
Also I finally quit my job. So I think I'm entitled to that extra little bit of love for finally growing a pair.
Thursday
If I wasn't so gay for Andreas I'd go straight for Sia.
Next to Donna, she's probably the most beautiful woman in the world.
Sia, if you're reading this - return my calls. Why won't you return my calls. I swear, the dead pigeon was just a joke. Sia.
Sia, so was the other dead pigeon.
Wednesday
No snus no snus
Course, the fact that I'm giving up Snus might have something to do with the last post's bitterfittaness (as the Swedes say).
The last time I tried to give it up was just before the start of summer 2006. I was off for some three months, which means a total two weeks into the job I'd just bagged. When the stress of work became too much, I went back on the patch. When the contents of lunch talks dawned on me - fluff and I think it was puppies back then - I popped a snus or two in alongside the patch. When the terrifying voices in my head turned out to be customers - who were very real, the world became a very strange place.
At any given break during that first month of work, you would have found me outside the personnel entrance - patch plastered to one arm, the snus-bulge under my lip only visible when I'd purse my lips to clutch a Marlboro between them.
But I wasn't doing lines back then! And I think that that is very important to remember - since there were few other redeeming factors during that tri-poison period. So no, no cocaine. Never tried it, never considered it, never will consider it, I don't think my nose needs to get remodeled anymore than nature has offered already. So no - no coke no coke.
The patch exited my life quickly, and the smoking on the side stopped after about a couple of month's adjustment to the rigors of work-life. After a while you find yourself used to the you you're expected to be, and there's no need to have anything dull the horrors anymore. It gets easier to maintain appearances after a bit.
Except, perhaps, when it comes to that one guy who insists on staying behind and hanging out with me for half hour despite the check-out lines and other customers. I don't know what he wants. But I can't turn him away. I can't talk to him either because I've got other people to attend to, so he just stands there, smiling. It's weird, but that's just work I guess. Or as Dr. Alban so succinctly sums it up:
There's quite a few of these people, who form relationships based on the fact that your hand has nudged theirs while handing over a receipt. Or those people who think that you going extra mile means that you want sacrifice your ovary to their cause. They're like Arrested Development's stairs car. You're just driving along, and suddenly someone has hopped on before you know it.
You don't really notice them until you crane your neck and glance up the stairs or have a look behind you to realize that you have a little club forming behind your shoulder and - you're not invited. I mean you really aren't. Because in these situations, who you are isn't as important as that you fill a space in the near vicinity. Your function is that of a comfort zone of some morbid kind, a perpetual party-hostess who's stuck in an open door that won't close.
But I'll be damned if the only thing I do to entertain myself while standing in that doorway - full breasted and ever perky - is smoke a cigarette or pop in a snus. I'm not good with dealing with people with notions of misguided familiarity - it breaks my mind. But I won't allow it to break my body. Let not tobacco be the cure for the cancers that sometimes sidle into the store. Because I mean, "It's MY life". You know?
Dr. Albans's got it right. It's my life.
If this job is going to kill me, it's going to be while I'm standing on my own two feet, back turned to the wall, kicking,screaming, tearing out testicles left and right and for you freaks - I will find that elusive middle nut - AND ALL THIS WHILE NICOTINE FREE. I'll be all like "Look who's talking now biotchus!" which, I believe is the message Dr. Alban tries to send here, is his own esoteric way:
Yeah, Look who's talking now. It'll be me talking. The ho with the mo backbone. AND the mo amniotic fluid. Because the day I quit will be the day I be effing reborn. And I won't be one of those yellow withdrawal babies again (thanks mom), I'll be a young - albeit surprised-looking - healthy boy, possibly even born in Africa, apparantly:
Sometimes I think that Dr. Alban might not be the be-all and end-all to all of life's mysteries. I mean, if I do not l i t e r a l l y come back a tiny African boy, then I must believe that the Doctor's message is a metaphorical one. Dr Alban does take some imaginative interpretation sometimes. To be fair, he's just not too versatile or wordy when it comes to his words of wisdom aka lyrics. The whole TWO songs that the dentist has made both comprise like the exact same lyrics of "no coke no coke" alternately "work work, work work". Although to be fair, the two songs weren't exactly the same, I think one was a Smurf Hits version.
One nicotine-free week down, a lifetime to go.
(Disclaimer for you non-Swedes: Dr. Alban is one of the most tragic things to ever be produced by the Swedish music industry. The above is irony. Except for the part about quitting snus. )
The last time I tried to give it up was just before the start of summer 2006. I was off for some three months, which means a total two weeks into the job I'd just bagged. When the stress of work became too much, I went back on the patch. When the contents of lunch talks dawned on me - fluff and I think it was puppies back then - I popped a snus or two in alongside the patch. When the terrifying voices in my head turned out to be customers - who were very real, the world became a very strange place.
At any given break during that first month of work, you would have found me outside the personnel entrance - patch plastered to one arm, the snus-bulge under my lip only visible when I'd purse my lips to clutch a Marlboro between them.
But I wasn't doing lines back then! And I think that that is very important to remember - since there were few other redeeming factors during that tri-poison period. So no, no cocaine. Never tried it, never considered it, never will consider it, I don't think my nose needs to get remodeled anymore than nature has offered already. So no - no coke no coke.
The patch exited my life quickly, and the smoking on the side stopped after about a couple of month's adjustment to the rigors of work-life. After a while you find yourself used to the you you're expected to be, and there's no need to have anything dull the horrors anymore. It gets easier to maintain appearances after a bit.
Except, perhaps, when it comes to that one guy who insists on staying behind and hanging out with me for half hour despite the check-out lines and other customers. I don't know what he wants. But I can't turn him away. I can't talk to him either because I've got other people to attend to, so he just stands there, smiling. It's weird, but that's just work I guess. Or as Dr. Alban so succinctly sums it up:
There's quite a few of these people, who form relationships based on the fact that your hand has nudged theirs while handing over a receipt. Or those people who think that you going extra mile means that you want sacrifice your ovary to their cause. They're like Arrested Development's stairs car. You're just driving along, and suddenly someone has hopped on before you know it.
You don't really notice them until you crane your neck and glance up the stairs or have a look behind you to realize that you have a little club forming behind your shoulder and - you're not invited. I mean you really aren't. Because in these situations, who you are isn't as important as that you fill a space in the near vicinity. Your function is that of a comfort zone of some morbid kind, a perpetual party-hostess who's stuck in an open door that won't close.
But I'll be damned if the only thing I do to entertain myself while standing in that doorway - full breasted and ever perky - is smoke a cigarette or pop in a snus. I'm not good with dealing with people with notions of misguided familiarity - it breaks my mind. But I won't allow it to break my body. Let not tobacco be the cure for the cancers that sometimes sidle into the store. Because I mean, "It's MY life". You know?
Dr. Albans's got it right. It's my life.
If this job is going to kill me, it's going to be while I'm standing on my own two feet, back turned to the wall, kicking,screaming, tearing out testicles left and right and for you freaks - I will find that elusive middle nut - AND ALL THIS WHILE NICOTINE FREE. I'll be all like "Look who's talking now biotchus!" which, I believe is the message Dr. Alban tries to send here, is his own esoteric way:
Yeah, Look who's talking now. It'll be me talking. The ho with the mo backbone. AND the mo amniotic fluid. Because the day I quit will be the day I be effing reborn. And I won't be one of those yellow withdrawal babies again (thanks mom), I'll be a young - albeit surprised-looking - healthy boy, possibly even born in Africa, apparantly:
Sometimes I think that Dr. Alban might not be the be-all and end-all to all of life's mysteries. I mean, if I do not l i t e r a l l y come back a tiny African boy, then I must believe that the Doctor's message is a metaphorical one. Dr Alban does take some imaginative interpretation sometimes. To be fair, he's just not too versatile or wordy when it comes to his words of wisdom aka lyrics. The whole TWO songs that the dentist has made both comprise like the exact same lyrics of "no coke no coke" alternately "work work, work work". Although to be fair, the two songs weren't exactly the same, I think one was a Smurf Hits version.
One nicotine-free week down, a lifetime to go.
(Disclaimer for you non-Swedes: Dr. Alban is one of the most tragic things to ever be produced by the Swedish music industry. The above is irony. Except for the part about quitting snus. )
Tuesday
I came to talk about the Inventory Blues, but Inventory fucking rules.
Maybe I'm an asshole -
Okay. I know I'm an ass. I voluntarily cut 45 minutes of lunch after I realizing that:
1) there was a heck of a lot of work to be done. Inventory, inventory, INVENTORY! And - Unpaid work-time is the shizznit when:
2) my lunch lady friends are intent on discussing crazy cute kitten behavior, and crazy hot Will Smith.
Are you supposed to feign interest for the benefit of fitting in at work? I've never quite understood. Laughing along would mean not being true to yourself, but since the self is defined within the framework of a meaningful social network you have to obey certain social rules eh? Tricky that.
But I will be fucked HARD and LONG and IN the NOSTRIL before I let my voice crescendo ten fucking decibels while talking about the ripple of random man muscle or the whisker of someone else's bag of cat-hell.
Cats are like babies in that way. You're probably the only one who's ever going to see that your kid has more potential than that of winning the "Mare of the Year, Wisconsin" - as an entrant, not as person with actual horse.
You're probably also the only one who thinks that that way your cat looks at you when you do that thing and oh god you-jes-gotta-be-there is a phenomenon where you don't gotta be there, because obviously your stunning descriptive skills and your Jesuscat transcend the need for actual first-person witnessing of these Kodiac moments.
Jesuscat. Heh heh.
You can take your Jesuscat and shove it up your Midday-mass.
It's not that I didn't want to contribute. I would have loved to have the discussion of Will Smith's "THE LEGEND" (not to be confused with "I AM Legend"), (actual movie) spin off into maybe - Scientology, or the novel the film is loosely based on: I do not find these topics to far-fetched. Or, maybe I'd have joined in if the cat-chat had evolved into...well. Why not the mechanics of giving head. Oh nonono - there's an OBVIOUS connection. And if there isn't, there should be. Because I'd rather be choking on cock than be lapping up this kind of shit.
I'm not a conversation fascist. I'm not same-sex hater. I love women passionately, just not all the ones I work with. Nor all of the men. I'm an equal-opportunity misanthropist, and you better keep your lunch-box away from me unless you're willing to talk grown-up.
Or maybe I AM a conversation-fascist. A stupid everything-sort of fascist. A scared-of-having-someone-else-or-their-thoughts-matter sort of fascist. Maybe.
I'm generally scared of relationships- fine, but where does one draw lines? How to divide 'plain old honest disinterest in the mundane' and 'fear of rejection'? Maybe I don't reeeaally hate your cat. Or that way that you raise your voice when you find yourself excited, I'm someone gets off on that, your boyfriend obviously has little choice. I'm sure there's beauty in everything, even You.
Maybe I'm just scared that once having let Your lifestyle, the comfort of Your voice penetrate me, I might once again find myself alone and standing there like one of those silent movie mimes turning their pockets inside out, luckless, lintless and alone.
Eh, who am I kidding. Some days it's all just as simple as that I like counting tools better than socializing with them. Sucks to be you I guess.
Okay. I know I'm an ass. I voluntarily cut 45 minutes of lunch after I realizing that:
1) there was a heck of a lot of work to be done. Inventory, inventory, INVENTORY! And - Unpaid work-time is the shizznit when:
2) my lunch lady friends are intent on discussing crazy cute kitten behavior, and crazy hot Will Smith.
Are you supposed to feign interest for the benefit of fitting in at work? I've never quite understood. Laughing along would mean not being true to yourself, but since the self is defined within the framework of a meaningful social network you have to obey certain social rules eh? Tricky that.
But I will be fucked HARD and LONG and IN the NOSTRIL before I let my voice crescendo ten fucking decibels while talking about the ripple of random man muscle or the whisker of someone else's bag of cat-hell.
Cats are like babies in that way. You're probably the only one who's ever going to see that your kid has more potential than that of winning the "Mare of the Year, Wisconsin" - as an entrant, not as person with actual horse.
You're probably also the only one who thinks that that way your cat looks at you when you do that thing and oh god you-jes-gotta-be-there is a phenomenon where you don't gotta be there, because obviously your stunning descriptive skills and your Jesuscat transcend the need for actual first-person witnessing of these Kodiac moments.
Jesuscat. Heh heh.
You can take your Jesuscat and shove it up your Midday-mass.
It's not that I didn't want to contribute. I would have loved to have the discussion of Will Smith's "THE LEGEND" (not to be confused with "I AM Legend"), (actual movie) spin off into maybe - Scientology, or the novel the film is loosely based on: I do not find these topics to far-fetched. Or, maybe I'd have joined in if the cat-chat had evolved into...well. Why not the mechanics of giving head. Oh nonono - there's an OBVIOUS connection. And if there isn't, there should be. Because I'd rather be choking on cock than be lapping up this kind of shit.
I'm not a conversation fascist. I'm not same-sex hater. I love women passionately, just not all the ones I work with. Nor all of the men. I'm an equal-opportunity misanthropist, and you better keep your lunch-box away from me unless you're willing to talk grown-up.
Or maybe I AM a conversation-fascist. A stupid everything-sort of fascist. A scared-of-having-someone-else-or-their-thoughts-matter sort of fascist. Maybe.
I'm generally scared of relationships- fine, but where does one draw lines? How to divide 'plain old honest disinterest in the mundane' and 'fear of rejection'? Maybe I don't reeeaally hate your cat. Or that way that you raise your voice when you find yourself excited, I'm someone gets off on that, your boyfriend obviously has little choice. I'm sure there's beauty in everything, even You.
Maybe I'm just scared that once having let Your lifestyle, the comfort of Your voice penetrate me, I might once again find myself alone and standing there like one of those silent movie mimes turning their pockets inside out, luckless, lintless and alone.
Eh, who am I kidding. Some days it's all just as simple as that I like counting tools better than socializing with them. Sucks to be you I guess.
