For a very, very long time I’ve been very, very excited about today. You see, yesterday I had my last exam this semester, and that means that today is the very first day of my vacation. It’s a day I’ve dreamed about and planned in a hundred different ways many, many times. There is only one tiny, little problem.
Today is boring!
For one, it’s rainy. The first day of your summer vacation isn’t supposed to be rainy, dammit. I’m pretty sure that’s a rule. I know that I wrote it down on a piece of paper when I was a kid and gave it to my mum so that she could mail it to the king. That was ages ago, so it should have made its way into the lawbooks by now. As if that wasn’t enough, it’s also windy, which means that if you venture outside with something resembling an umbrella, you’re going to take off, Mary Poppins-style. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy flying, but I’d rather do it sitting down and with a stewardess serving me snacks, drinks and offering to fluff my pillow.
Just a little while ago, Pooch and I spent 20 minutes staring at an ant, just to see what it would get up to. Everybody knows that ants, although seemingly boring, are all psychotic maniacs. I know this for a fact, because I live in a very old house which is full of these delinquents. Only last summer I caught the little bastards trying to chew their way through the walls.
Even Pooch - who might not care much for the deeper philosophical conundrums in life – has insight enough to understand the evil of ants.
This particular ant, though, went on to crawling up the toilet bowl and falling in.
I flushed it.
I feel a little bad about that.
A very, very little.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Chasing that pink dragon
I had an appointment to go get my hair all pretty and shiny on Monday. It was about time, as tall people were now able to see my natural haircolor. Filled with joy and excitement, I skipped across the bridge and down the hill to where the salon is.
“Closed every Monday,” said the sign on the door.
Still, the hair dresser had clearly told me Monday on the 21st. I waited. And I waited, and waited and waited, but no one came. I even peeked through the windows, into the darkness beyond the L’OREAL posters, to see if maybe she was hiding under the desk.
It seemed clear that nobody would be making my hair all pretty and shiny, so I started to walk home. As I passed by the store, my stomach grumbled a bit, and I decided to go inside to buy a sandwich, or something. I spotted them quickly, stuffed full of chicken and lettuce and sitting on a shelf. And between them and me, behind the glass doors of the refrigerator, stood my old demon – strawberry milk.
Someone had come up with the clever idea, that you could fill plastic straws with strawberry milk powder which would then flavour the milk. I was just going to look at them, I thought, as I walked over. As I came closer, I could spot my own reflection in the glass. My hair looking distinctly un-pretty and un-shiny. Before I even knew what I was doing, I’d opened the door and placed a box of the straws in my little plastic basket.
“This is wrong,” I thought, but didn’t put them back.
So now I’m dealing with my strawberry milk addiction again. I know how it’s going to play out. The way it always does. I will gulp down the stuff until I can’t even look at anything pink without feeling violently sick. After I reach that point, it will continue for about a week. Then it’ll be over.
For now…
“Closed every Monday,” said the sign on the door.
Still, the hair dresser had clearly told me Monday on the 21st. I waited. And I waited, and waited and waited, but no one came. I even peeked through the windows, into the darkness beyond the L’OREAL posters, to see if maybe she was hiding under the desk.
It seemed clear that nobody would be making my hair all pretty and shiny, so I started to walk home. As I passed by the store, my stomach grumbled a bit, and I decided to go inside to buy a sandwich, or something. I spotted them quickly, stuffed full of chicken and lettuce and sitting on a shelf. And between them and me, behind the glass doors of the refrigerator, stood my old demon – strawberry milk.
Someone had come up with the clever idea, that you could fill plastic straws with strawberry milk powder which would then flavour the milk. I was just going to look at them, I thought, as I walked over. As I came closer, I could spot my own reflection in the glass. My hair looking distinctly un-pretty and un-shiny. Before I even knew what I was doing, I’d opened the door and placed a box of the straws in my little plastic basket.
“This is wrong,” I thought, but didn’t put them back.
So now I’m dealing with my strawberry milk addiction again. I know how it’s going to play out. The way it always does. I will gulp down the stuff until I can’t even look at anything pink without feeling violently sick. After I reach that point, it will continue for about a week. Then it’ll be over.
For now…
Pic by sindrityr for www.flickr.com
Monday, May 21, 2007
Meet Mr. Green!
For those of you who have been paying attention, you might recall that last year I mentioned that my lawn mower was the devil. Whenever you turned it on, thick clouds of smoke would well from it, oil would spatter everywhere and it would make a sound like a hundred mice being slowly squeezed to death. For this reason, I was now ready to mow my lawn for the first time this season with a brand new, hopefully non-demonic, and very orange mower, which I decided to name Mr. Green.
So there I was, in the middle of my garden with Mr. Green, surrounded by far too tall grass. I pulled the starter-thingy and the engine roared to life. Or…well…“roared” might be an overstatement, it was more like an enthusiastic fart. Still, it was a nice change from the usual 20min battle it had been with the old devil spawn.
Thus far everything was terrific, but there was one itty, bitty little detail for which I was completely unprepared – the back wheels that moved all by themselves.
So the engine came to life with a loud fart and all of a sudden, Mr. Green blasted forwards, clumps of grass flying in all directions. I hung on for dear life, while the little voice in my head (Toots) yelled “GHOST! It’s a GHOST!”
Luckily the rational part of my brain, which is called Bergerac, decided to join us. “Perhaps you should let go of the handle,” it suggested. I did, and the mower's enraged attack of the garden seized immediately.
Now I have a freshly mowed lawn, although it is a bit funny looking, seeing how I haven’t quite worked out the aim just yet.
In further news, I had an exam on Friday. There are two things in this world that make me incredibly grumpy, if not straight out malevolent, and those two things are 1) gardening and 2) exams. This means that this past weekend I was so grouchy, I just wanted to rip someone’s head off and then make my way through town and beat people to death with it.
I didn’t, though… I wasn’t me, and you can’t prove it.
So there I was, in the middle of my garden with Mr. Green, surrounded by far too tall grass. I pulled the starter-thingy and the engine roared to life. Or…well…“roared” might be an overstatement, it was more like an enthusiastic fart. Still, it was a nice change from the usual 20min battle it had been with the old devil spawn.
Thus far everything was terrific, but there was one itty, bitty little detail for which I was completely unprepared – the back wheels that moved all by themselves.
So the engine came to life with a loud fart and all of a sudden, Mr. Green blasted forwards, clumps of grass flying in all directions. I hung on for dear life, while the little voice in my head (Toots) yelled “GHOST! It’s a GHOST!”
Luckily the rational part of my brain, which is called Bergerac, decided to join us. “Perhaps you should let go of the handle,” it suggested. I did, and the mower's enraged attack of the garden seized immediately.
Now I have a freshly mowed lawn, although it is a bit funny looking, seeing how I haven’t quite worked out the aim just yet.
In further news, I had an exam on Friday. There are two things in this world that make me incredibly grumpy, if not straight out malevolent, and those two things are 1) gardening and 2) exams. This means that this past weekend I was so grouchy, I just wanted to rip someone’s head off and then make my way through town and beat people to death with it.
I didn’t, though… I wasn’t me, and you can’t prove it.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
I'm a grown-up, I am!
I’m waiting impatiently to hear back from the universities where I’ve applied to my masters’ degree, including Hellhole U.
Year ago, long before I wanted to be a brilliant scientist, I had a dream of becoming a lawyer. This dream was formed inside my tiny head way back when I was only a little horror, based on one very simple thing: the hit television show known as “LA Law”. More specifically, the power suits and briefcases worn by the women in that show. I liked the hairdos, as well.
For year and years, the idea remained there, until the time came to start applying to colleges. That was the first time I ever really asked myself why I wanted to study law. After careful consideration, I came to the conclusion that power suits and briefcases (even really, really fancy ones) probably weren’t the right foundation for a career choice.
As a kid, I had all sorts of ideas in my head about what it was to be “grown up”. Once, for example, I found a 100kr bill (a fortune for a nine year old kid like me) abandoned at the side of the road, just outside my school. I decided to be mature, so I instantly picked it up and ran back to school, where I handed it in to the principal, in case it’s owner would come looking for it, all the while hoping that nobody would so that I might get it back. Now I’m a grown-up. It says so on my birth certificate. Sort of. If I found money on the street now, I’d pick it up, put it in my pocket and be on my merry way, because that is the grown-up thing to do.
Also, when I was little, I dreamt about the day that prince charming would come climbing in through my bedroom window at night and… well, I dunno… sing me a song, or something, I guess. I was a kid, after all.
The grown-up thing to do if someone comes crawling through your window in the dark, however, is to scream, hit them on the head with something hard and call the cops.
All in all, I’m glad I’m not a kid anymore.
Year ago, long before I wanted to be a brilliant scientist, I had a dream of becoming a lawyer. This dream was formed inside my tiny head way back when I was only a little horror, based on one very simple thing: the hit television show known as “LA Law”. More specifically, the power suits and briefcases worn by the women in that show. I liked the hairdos, as well.
For year and years, the idea remained there, until the time came to start applying to colleges. That was the first time I ever really asked myself why I wanted to study law. After careful consideration, I came to the conclusion that power suits and briefcases (even really, really fancy ones) probably weren’t the right foundation for a career choice.
As a kid, I had all sorts of ideas in my head about what it was to be “grown up”. Once, for example, I found a 100kr bill (a fortune for a nine year old kid like me) abandoned at the side of the road, just outside my school. I decided to be mature, so I instantly picked it up and ran back to school, where I handed it in to the principal, in case it’s owner would come looking for it, all the while hoping that nobody would so that I might get it back. Now I’m a grown-up. It says so on my birth certificate. Sort of. If I found money on the street now, I’d pick it up, put it in my pocket and be on my merry way, because that is the grown-up thing to do.
Also, when I was little, I dreamt about the day that prince charming would come climbing in through my bedroom window at night and… well, I dunno… sing me a song, or something, I guess. I was a kid, after all.
The grown-up thing to do if someone comes crawling through your window in the dark, however, is to scream, hit them on the head with something hard and call the cops.
All in all, I’m glad I’m not a kid anymore.
Friday, May 11, 2007
The doggie cloud prophecy
The other day, when I was out walking the dog through the farmlands of Hellhole, I saw something interesting. This was unusual, because Hellhole isn’t exactly crammed full of interesting stuff. It was a cloud, to be specific. Now, you might be thinking that clouds aren’t all that exciting, but this one was different – it looked like a dog with enormous ears chasing a cat.
“Hey,” I thought. “I have a dog with enormous ears, and she likes to chase things.”
At that very moment, the pooch’s ears pricked up as she spotted something on the other side of the field. “Mjau,” said the thing. That was pretty much the only invitation the pooch needed, and it shot across the field like a white arrow with lots of hear on it and huge ears. It as if the cloud was some sort of prophecy.
I drew a deep sigh and waited for the unavoidable: the part where the pooch starts to catch up to the kitty and realizes that she just might get her ass kicked. At that point, her brain starts to doubt the wisdom of her decision. However, it uses several seconds to transport this hesitation to the rest of her body. This is probably because said brain is very small. Very, very, very small.
This is the part where I call the pooch back. She is then so relieved that I stopped her from doing what she was about to do, I’m immediately elevated to hero-status.
But you know, in movies and such, prophecies always give you more than 30 seconds warning. I’m writing a letter of complaint.
“Hey,” I thought. “I have a dog with enormous ears, and she likes to chase things.”
At that very moment, the pooch’s ears pricked up as she spotted something on the other side of the field. “Mjau,” said the thing. That was pretty much the only invitation the pooch needed, and it shot across the field like a white arrow with lots of hear on it and huge ears. It as if the cloud was some sort of prophecy.
I drew a deep sigh and waited for the unavoidable: the part where the pooch starts to catch up to the kitty and realizes that she just might get her ass kicked. At that point, her brain starts to doubt the wisdom of her decision. However, it uses several seconds to transport this hesitation to the rest of her body. This is probably because said brain is very small. Very, very, very small.
This is the part where I call the pooch back. She is then so relieved that I stopped her from doing what she was about to do, I’m immediately elevated to hero-status.
But you know, in movies and such, prophecies always give you more than 30 seconds warning. I’m writing a letter of complaint.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
A funny
Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's SUPER-JOKE!
Pete and Eric were twins. Pete owned a run-down boat and accident would have it that the dingy, old thing sank on the very same day that Eric’s wife died.
Some time later, Pete ran into an old aunt who, mistaking him for his brother, told him how sorry she was for his terrible loss.
“Oh, I don’t know…” answered Pete. “Quite frankly, I’m glad to be rid of her. She was rotten from day one. The lower half was completely wrecked and she smelled of old fish. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she leaked constantly and had a huge crack in the back, not to mention a fairly sizeable hole in the front. Every time I used her, the hole got bigger. I suppose that what broke her in the end, was that I rented her out to four guys who wanted to have fun. The idiots all tried to get in at once, so she cracked in the middle. But it’s no big deal. I’ll just have to start searching the ads for a new one.”
Pete and Eric were twins. Pete owned a run-down boat and accident would have it that the dingy, old thing sank on the very same day that Eric’s wife died.
Some time later, Pete ran into an old aunt who, mistaking him for his brother, told him how sorry she was for his terrible loss.
“Oh, I don’t know…” answered Pete. “Quite frankly, I’m glad to be rid of her. She was rotten from day one. The lower half was completely wrecked and she smelled of old fish. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she leaked constantly and had a huge crack in the back, not to mention a fairly sizeable hole in the front. Every time I used her, the hole got bigger. I suppose that what broke her in the end, was that I rented her out to four guys who wanted to have fun. The idiots all tried to get in at once, so she cracked in the middle. But it’s no big deal. I’ll just have to start searching the ads for a new one.”
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Spring springing and sumo gymnastics
Spring has sprung. I know this for two reasons:
1) The other day I picked a gigantic tick off from behind the pooch’s ear, where it had settled quite comfortably in the soft, downy fur with its enormous, blood swollen ass in the air, like some sumo gymnast. Now that ought to be an Olympic event, if you ask me. I’d watch a sport like that.
2) Yesterday I gave the pooch a bath out on the porch. There’s not a creature on earth who hates bathing as much as the pooch does. She’ll take cover under the couch as soon as she sees the shampoo bottle. The trick is to wait until she’s not paying attention – which isn’t as easy as it might seem, since the pooch thinks I’m the most fascinating thing ever created – and then take care of the bath preparations (bucket with water, sponge, rubber gloves and shampoo. Not very complicated).
When it comes to the actually bathing process, she is somewhat conflicted. She hates the getting-wet-part but she quite enjoys the getting-the-shampoo-massaged-into-her-fur-part. After all, who wouldn’t? That’s my favourite part whenever I go to get my fur… uhm… hair done.
Anyway, her conflicted emotions keep her from running away, even though I’m sure she entertains the idea, long enough for me to bathe her properly. Once the bath is over, however, she storms around in a fit of joy so overpowering that it’s difficult for me to dry her off properly.
So you see, it’s spring. Although I suppose you might have noticed that yourself by now.
1) The other day I picked a gigantic tick off from behind the pooch’s ear, where it had settled quite comfortably in the soft, downy fur with its enormous, blood swollen ass in the air, like some sumo gymnast. Now that ought to be an Olympic event, if you ask me. I’d watch a sport like that.
2) Yesterday I gave the pooch a bath out on the porch. There’s not a creature on earth who hates bathing as much as the pooch does. She’ll take cover under the couch as soon as she sees the shampoo bottle. The trick is to wait until she’s not paying attention – which isn’t as easy as it might seem, since the pooch thinks I’m the most fascinating thing ever created – and then take care of the bath preparations (bucket with water, sponge, rubber gloves and shampoo. Not very complicated).
When it comes to the actually bathing process, she is somewhat conflicted. She hates the getting-wet-part but she quite enjoys the getting-the-shampoo-massaged-into-her-fur-part. After all, who wouldn’t? That’s my favourite part whenever I go to get my fur… uhm… hair done.
Anyway, her conflicted emotions keep her from running away, even though I’m sure she entertains the idea, long enough for me to bathe her properly. Once the bath is over, however, she storms around in a fit of joy so overpowering that it’s difficult for me to dry her off properly.
So you see, it’s spring. Although I suppose you might have noticed that yourself by now.
Monday, April 30, 2007
My empty head
I’ve got nothing. Less than nothing, even. My brain is an empty space full of boxes and spiderwebs. Yes, things can still be empty even though they’re full of boxes and spiderwebs. Those things clearly don’t count.
And I'm grumpy. Kinda like this:
And I'm grumpy. Kinda like this:
Thursday, April 26, 2007
My little alien-sister
As I may or may not have mentioned – probably didn’t – I have a little sister. A little sister who is doing that whole Scandinavian tall thing that I never got the hang of. We’ll call her V.
When we were kids, V developed a somewhat unusual interest: zits. She was fascinated by the whole pimple-popping-process. As soon as one appeared on her face, she’d kill it off and emerge from the bathroom with fresh claw marks on her skin. So far she wasn’t so very much unlike most teens, myself included, but the thing that set her apart, was the fact that once she had squeezed her own zits into oblivion, she started looking around for other people’s.
There was this one summer where her somewhat unusual hobby peaked. And at that particular time, I was lucky enough to have a tiny pimple on my forehead. To regular people like you (possibly) and me, it would be barely noticeable, but to someone like V, it stuck out on my face like a howling, red siren.
After a great deal of begging and pleading, she still hadn’t succeeded in getting her hands on it. V, the zit serial killer was getting desperate for her next casualty.
One rainy day, while I was sitting in the couch watching some mundane teen show, she decided to make her move. Without a sound she slipped down behind the sofa, where she waited quietly for a moment before pouncing.
Have you ever seen Alien? You know that part where the squid-hand-monster-thingy comes out of the egg and latches itself to some screaming victims face? It was like that. I did, however, manage to fight her off before she could lay her eggs inside my chest.
These days she claims to limit the hobby to her husband. Poor bastard.
When we were kids, V developed a somewhat unusual interest: zits. She was fascinated by the whole pimple-popping-process. As soon as one appeared on her face, she’d kill it off and emerge from the bathroom with fresh claw marks on her skin. So far she wasn’t so very much unlike most teens, myself included, but the thing that set her apart, was the fact that once she had squeezed her own zits into oblivion, she started looking around for other people’s.
There was this one summer where her somewhat unusual hobby peaked. And at that particular time, I was lucky enough to have a tiny pimple on my forehead. To regular people like you (possibly) and me, it would be barely noticeable, but to someone like V, it stuck out on my face like a howling, red siren.
After a great deal of begging and pleading, she still hadn’t succeeded in getting her hands on it. V, the zit serial killer was getting desperate for her next casualty.
One rainy day, while I was sitting in the couch watching some mundane teen show, she decided to make her move. Without a sound she slipped down behind the sofa, where she waited quietly for a moment before pouncing.
Have you ever seen Alien? You know that part where the squid-hand-monster-thingy comes out of the egg and latches itself to some screaming victims face? It was like that. I did, however, manage to fight her off before she could lay her eggs inside my chest.
These days she claims to limit the hobby to her husband. Poor bastard.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Why I'm not a superhero
Every once in a while, I can’t for the life of me figure out what to blog about. Most of the time, it’s not something that an internal rant won’t fix –I’m very good at ranting – but, believe it or not, my life isn’t really all that remarkable. As far as lives go, it’s pretty run of the mill. Don’t get me wrong, I’m perfectly fine with that. I never harboured any dreams of being some spandex-wearing, cape-sporting superhero with my underpants on the outside of my outfit and a secret identity. When I take off my glasses, people still recognise me, and that has its advantages.
Really, it’s just as well that I’m not a superhero. First of all, a superhero has to drive a really cool car or plane, or something. I have a bike. Granted, it’s red and shiny with a handy basket, but it’s not quite the same thing, is it? I can’t quite see myself instilling fear into the heart of evil-doers while pedalling down the street on my trusty bicycle, cape flapping in the wind.
Also, superheroes have some sort of secret hideout. I don’t really have one of those, unless you count Hellhole itself.
Another thing that I don’t have to deal with, since I’m not a superhero, is saving the lives of that moron who always gets himself/herself kidnapped and strapped to a rocket aimed at the moon or slowly lowered into a volcano, or something equally ridiculous. I like to think that most, if maybe not all, of my friends have more sense than that.
Maybe it’s the tight material of their oh so clever disguises cutting off blood circulation to their heads that makes the average super more likely to befriend the dumbest, least observant people on earth. I’m not a psychologist or a tailor, so I have no way of knowing.
No, I would much rather be a supervillain. Sure, their dresscode is pretty preposterous, but the good guy bodycondom doesn’t seem to be mandatory. Also, I kinda like the thought of strapping someone stupid to a rocket.
Besides, I have a really fabulous evil laughter that I developed and at the moment I can’t really share it with people without them staring at me funny. When you’re a villain, these things are appreciated and will only increase people’s respect and fear of you.
Really, it’s just as well that I’m not a superhero. First of all, a superhero has to drive a really cool car or plane, or something. I have a bike. Granted, it’s red and shiny with a handy basket, but it’s not quite the same thing, is it? I can’t quite see myself instilling fear into the heart of evil-doers while pedalling down the street on my trusty bicycle, cape flapping in the wind.
Also, superheroes have some sort of secret hideout. I don’t really have one of those, unless you count Hellhole itself.
Another thing that I don’t have to deal with, since I’m not a superhero, is saving the lives of that moron who always gets himself/herself kidnapped and strapped to a rocket aimed at the moon or slowly lowered into a volcano, or something equally ridiculous. I like to think that most, if maybe not all, of my friends have more sense than that.
Maybe it’s the tight material of their oh so clever disguises cutting off blood circulation to their heads that makes the average super more likely to befriend the dumbest, least observant people on earth. I’m not a psychologist or a tailor, so I have no way of knowing.
No, I would much rather be a supervillain. Sure, their dresscode is pretty preposterous, but the good guy bodycondom doesn’t seem to be mandatory. Also, I kinda like the thought of strapping someone stupid to a rocket.
Besides, I have a really fabulous evil laughter that I developed and at the moment I can’t really share it with people without them staring at me funny. When you’re a villain, these things are appreciated and will only increase people’s respect and fear of you.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Wanna find bliss? Come to Helllhole!
Tom recently suggested to me that I’d write something about why people should move to Hellhole. After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that this is a very good idea. As a matter of fact, the house I’m currently renting is being sold in the fall, so if anyone, after reading this article, should begin to feel overwhelmed with the need to spend time in this fascinating town, they’re welcome to buy this humble abode.
First of all, Hellhole isn’t really called Hellhole in real life. As a matter of fact, it has a name which means bent. It lies in a larger geographical area which roughly translates into “place with sheep”. And indeed it is. This is the place to come if you want to knit your own sweaters, people.
But that’s not the only advantages, of course. Our brilliant politicians have come up with inexpensive ways to fill our lives with thrills and excitements. Who needs to go to amusement parks? Not us. Perhaps you want an example? Well, you know those nifty lines that they paint on roads so that you can cross safely without being smeared all over the concrete by passing vehicles? Well, here in Hellhole, those haven’t been repainted since I was a kid. Over the years, they have become more invisible than Britney Spear’s underpants. All of the locals know that they’re there and will gladly step on the breaks if you feel like crossing the street. Should the car racing towards you be from out of town, however, you are about to have a very exciting day, indeed.
Do you harbour a dream of joining a sect? Well, then this is the place for you. We have them all. And if you can’t find one that meets your fancy, you could just start your own. Since pretty much the whole town swims in the same gene pool, they’re not very complicated, and are easily recruited into these sorts of things. I would like to take this opportunity to point out that our family moved in from out of town.
Or perhaps you’re just one of those people who have difficulty keeping track of what you’re meant to be doing in the coming days or perhaps of what you have done in the past? That’s certainly not a problem around here. Just ask anyone and they’ll gladly inform you. Even if it’s someone you’ve never laid eyes on in your life. It’s like being famous without ever having lifted a finger. Fame without the hassle, with other words. For example: only very rarely will someone follow you home.
And where else would you get the golden opportunity to step outside your door in the morning, perhaps in search of a newspaper, only to step on some inhabitant of the surrounding woods with sharp teeth. Yes, folks, we have things living in the woods with teeth. Most of them are badgers. But there are also bunnies and deer. You don’t think those last two sound very exciting? Well, think again. The deer bring ticks with them, and that always makes life more interesting, especially if you have pets of your own. The bunnies tend to sneak into your house, hide beneath furniture and then jump out really fast, which can be quite a thrill. Just make sure your pacemaker is on, folks.
Speaking of mail – the mailmen enjoy spicing up our lives by placing your mail in other people’s mailboxes all around town. Every day is a treasure hunt and what could possible be more fun? Not much, I say.
With other words – come to Hellhole! It’s a wonderful place to settle down and your kids’ll love it.
First of all, Hellhole isn’t really called Hellhole in real life. As a matter of fact, it has a name which means bent. It lies in a larger geographical area which roughly translates into “place with sheep”. And indeed it is. This is the place to come if you want to knit your own sweaters, people.
But that’s not the only advantages, of course. Our brilliant politicians have come up with inexpensive ways to fill our lives with thrills and excitements. Who needs to go to amusement parks? Not us. Perhaps you want an example? Well, you know those nifty lines that they paint on roads so that you can cross safely without being smeared all over the concrete by passing vehicles? Well, here in Hellhole, those haven’t been repainted since I was a kid. Over the years, they have become more invisible than Britney Spear’s underpants. All of the locals know that they’re there and will gladly step on the breaks if you feel like crossing the street. Should the car racing towards you be from out of town, however, you are about to have a very exciting day, indeed.
Do you harbour a dream of joining a sect? Well, then this is the place for you. We have them all. And if you can’t find one that meets your fancy, you could just start your own. Since pretty much the whole town swims in the same gene pool, they’re not very complicated, and are easily recruited into these sorts of things. I would like to take this opportunity to point out that our family moved in from out of town.
Or perhaps you’re just one of those people who have difficulty keeping track of what you’re meant to be doing in the coming days or perhaps of what you have done in the past? That’s certainly not a problem around here. Just ask anyone and they’ll gladly inform you. Even if it’s someone you’ve never laid eyes on in your life. It’s like being famous without ever having lifted a finger. Fame without the hassle, with other words. For example: only very rarely will someone follow you home.
And where else would you get the golden opportunity to step outside your door in the morning, perhaps in search of a newspaper, only to step on some inhabitant of the surrounding woods with sharp teeth. Yes, folks, we have things living in the woods with teeth. Most of them are badgers. But there are also bunnies and deer. You don’t think those last two sound very exciting? Well, think again. The deer bring ticks with them, and that always makes life more interesting, especially if you have pets of your own. The bunnies tend to sneak into your house, hide beneath furniture and then jump out really fast, which can be quite a thrill. Just make sure your pacemaker is on, folks.
Speaking of mail – the mailmen enjoy spicing up our lives by placing your mail in other people’s mailboxes all around town. Every day is a treasure hunt and what could possible be more fun? Not much, I say.
With other words – come to Hellhole! It’s a wonderful place to settle down and your kids’ll love it.
Pic by Billypalooza for www.flickr.com
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Yawn!
Hello, my name is Choochoo and I’m an insomniac. (You go: Hi Choochoo!)
These past few days it’s been particularly bad. I go to bed early and spend the next few hours trying spinning like a top, swearing and taking my growing frustration out on my pillow. It’s a good thing pillows don’t bruise, or I’d have been put away for abusing the poor thing. I would have forever been known as a pillowbeater. In a small town like this, word gets around quickly. All the while, the pooch stares at me and no doubt wishes that I would just shut up, already.
A few years ago, I went to see a sleep specialist who gave me a long list of what not to do and a tiny little list of what I ought to do. That’s what it’s always like, ain’t it?
One such advice was to leave my bed once I’d been awake for about twenty minutes or so, to read a boring book or go to the bathroom. I wasn't allowed to look at my watch, though, to see how long I'd been trying to sleep, so I had to guess. And since five minutes feels like an hour when you're basically just staring at the ceiling in the dark, well... Let's just say I got plenty of exercise. Who the hell needs a stairmaster when you have a sleeping-disorder? Not me.
These past few days it’s been particularly bad. I go to bed early and spend the next few hours trying spinning like a top, swearing and taking my growing frustration out on my pillow. It’s a good thing pillows don’t bruise, or I’d have been put away for abusing the poor thing. I would have forever been known as a pillowbeater. In a small town like this, word gets around quickly. All the while, the pooch stares at me and no doubt wishes that I would just shut up, already.
A few years ago, I went to see a sleep specialist who gave me a long list of what not to do and a tiny little list of what I ought to do. That’s what it’s always like, ain’t it?
One such advice was to leave my bed once I’d been awake for about twenty minutes or so, to read a boring book or go to the bathroom. I wasn't allowed to look at my watch, though, to see how long I'd been trying to sleep, so I had to guess. And since five minutes feels like an hour when you're basically just staring at the ceiling in the dark, well... Let's just say I got plenty of exercise. Who the hell needs a stairmaster when you have a sleeping-disorder? Not me.
After one quick look at my bookshelf, I decided that my boring books were much to boring, and I would rather knock myself unconscious with a mallet, thank you very much. So off to the bathroom I went. Again and again and again. By morning I had been to the little insomniac’s room so many times, I was starting to feel dehydrated. I was also exhausted from running up and down the stairs. However, I was wide awake.
Better luck again tonight, I suppose. Maybe…
Better luck again tonight, I suppose. Maybe…
Moon pic by Nadar for www.flickr.com
Thursday, April 12, 2007
A use for an angry wolverine
Over the years, I have come to the conclusion that about 95% of everyone I meet are either completely uninteresting or just plain dumb. Come to think of it, the phrase “dumb” isn’t really accurate. Being stupid is a character trade. And idiot simply can’t help it, and therefore he or she can’t really be held responsible for their idiocy. I suppose you’d have to blame the parents, or something. Ignorant is a much better word.
I count the people wise enough to read this blog among the upper 5%, of course.
With those who are just uninteresting, there’s no major problem. All I have to do is ignore them until they go away. The ones that are dumb/ignorant, however, aren’t that simple. They don’t have the intellectual insight to go away. Not only that, they insist on giving you their shockingly uninformed opinions on every little thing, regardless of whether you want them or not. Most of these belief they probably just invented themselves, most likely just after waking from a nap before their brains were fully conscious of what was going on. But the issue of whether or not such a person’s brain is ever fully conscious, is another matter.
Sometimes I come up with ways to hurt them. I have previously fantasized about probing them with sharp sticks. Then I advanced to burning sharp sticks.
My resent idea, however, is my all time favourite: live wolverines.
How cool wouldn’t it be if you could find a way to smack such a person with one of those? The only problem is, that picking a wolverine up by its tail and flinging it at people, might be somewhat tricky. There’s the whole issue of getting your head bitten off.
The seemingly best solution would then be to throw it at them from somewhere above. However, I don’t want to be too high up so that I’ll miss the sights and sounds of my little experiment. Perhaps a small crane or a fire truck would be best.
I’ll give it some more thought and get back to you.
I count the people wise enough to read this blog among the upper 5%, of course.
With those who are just uninteresting, there’s no major problem. All I have to do is ignore them until they go away. The ones that are dumb/ignorant, however, aren’t that simple. They don’t have the intellectual insight to go away. Not only that, they insist on giving you their shockingly uninformed opinions on every little thing, regardless of whether you want them or not. Most of these belief they probably just invented themselves, most likely just after waking from a nap before their brains were fully conscious of what was going on. But the issue of whether or not such a person’s brain is ever fully conscious, is another matter.
Sometimes I come up with ways to hurt them. I have previously fantasized about probing them with sharp sticks. Then I advanced to burning sharp sticks.
My resent idea, however, is my all time favourite: live wolverines.
How cool wouldn’t it be if you could find a way to smack such a person with one of those? The only problem is, that picking a wolverine up by its tail and flinging it at people, might be somewhat tricky. There’s the whole issue of getting your head bitten off.
The seemingly best solution would then be to throw it at them from somewhere above. However, I don’t want to be too high up so that I’ll miss the sights and sounds of my little experiment. Perhaps a small crane or a fire truck would be best.
I’ll give it some more thought and get back to you.
Monday, April 09, 2007
The Pooch's great adventure
I had big plans for my Easter vacation this year. I was going to do absolutely nothing that had anything to do with work or school or anything like that. I figured I’d read scary books, watch the idiot box and definitely eat my chocolate bunny that I’ve been saving in the fridge for the past two weeks.It’s a rather large bunny, wrapped in shiny bunny-paper. I’ve picked it up a few times, studied it intently – I even weighed it once on the kitchen scale, just because I wanted to do something with it and the time wasn’t right to eat it just yet.
But in stead I got to take the pooch to the emergency room. On Friday she clearly didn’t feel well and on Saturday morning a friend of mine drove us to the veterinarian, who stuck thermometers up her ass (the dog’s ass, not my friends), x-rayed her (still the dog), said something about a stomach/intestine infection and trapped gas and proceeded to pump her full of medication before sending us home with enough drugs to turn my kitchen table into a full-blown pharmacy. Or at the very least a small drug lab, like the ones you see on NYPD Blue.
That day, my head was full of philosophical questions. Should I change the water in the doggie bowl again? Was the bowl close enough to the pooch’s bed? Did the pooch need to go out? If the pooch didn’t want to go out, should I worry about that? What should I do if she didn’t want to poop? What if she did poop, and had horrible diarrhoea? What if she started throwing up? Etc, etc.
Then the pooch farted. I immediately picked up my cell to inform everyone of the good news. Everyone was thrilled, of course. For the rest of the day, and then through the night, the pooch did her very best to gas me to death. That didn’t matter, though, as I stayed awake most of the night, anyways, to ponder my philosophical questions and see if she needed to poop.
She’s feeling a bit better today, and all of a sudden I remembered that not only do I have a blog in need of updating, but I also have a chocolate bunny which must be getting mighty cold and lonely by now.
Thermometer pic by http://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=User:Ali%40gwc.org.uk&action=edit for www.Flickr.com
Monday, April 02, 2007
The cookie ambush
You know what? I almost forgot to post anything today. I was distracted by a bag of chocolate chip cookies. There I was, going through the cupboards – in search of carrot sticks, of course – and I heard a tiny, little voice coming from the top shelf.“We’re lonesome,” it said.
I looked around, but couldn’t see anyone, so I grabbed my healthy snack and just as I was going to close the doors, the voice came again. “Please don’t leave us,” it said.
At that very moment, the sun peeked out from behind a cloud and sent a shiny ray of light in through my kitchen window. With an almost magical sparkle, it crept over my shoulder, into the cupboard and very gently touched the bag of cookies. I had almost forgotten that they were there.
Yes, I had. No, I hadn’t been nibbling on them for days. Oh, shut up!
“Take us with you,” said the cookies, and the bag stretched slightly in the sun.
“I can’t take you. You’re not healthy,” I objected.
“But we just want to sit on the table and watch TV, so that we won’t be lonely anymore.”
The cookies sounded very sad, indeed, and I couldn’t really see any harm in them just sitting next to me while watching reruns of Friends, so I brought them.
We watched in silence for a few minutes. Once again, I had almost forgotten that the cookies were there. Joey was sitting at the central Perk with Ross. He leaned forwards, about to say tell him something in confidence, looked around to make sure nobody would hear, opened his mouth and…
“Eat me” The voice came from the table, where a small cookie had somehow made its way out of the bag.
“I can’t eat you. You’ll make me fat.” I tried to explain why it and my waist line were natural enemies, and had just gotten past that part about how white sugar is bad, when I realised that the little cookie was sobbing.
“Please eat me,” it said. “Pretty please.”
I suppose one wouldn’t hurt, I thought, and put it in my mouth. It giggled as I chewed and swallowed.
Another ten minutes into the show, a tiny little voice sounded from my stomach. “I miss my mummy.”
And since I didn’t know which one of the other cookies were its mummy… Well, what else could I do? I had to eat them all. Anything else would have been cruel.
Cookie pic by Procsilas for www.flickr.com
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Another day, another tag
But this one’s got an award in it, so it greases up my ego in a very pleasant way. I’ve always thought that a freshly greased ego is a very important thing to have. I will now name five blogs that I like, thereby greasing said blogger’s egos. My reason for naming every single one of them is that they make me laugh. Sometimes I laugh with them. Other times I laugh at them. But there’s no point in splitting hairs, is there? Of course not.
The rules of the meme are as follows:1. Post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.2. Link to original source blog (which would be The Thinking Blog, I guess) 3. If you don’t choose to do either then please display your thinking blogger logo as shown on this posting.
And these are the lucky people, in no particular order:
O mighty crisis
Useless writing
To do:1, get hobby 2. Floss
My brain hates me, but I hate it even more
Alchemy anyone?”
The rules of the meme are as follows:1. Post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.2. Link to original source blog (which would be The Thinking Blog, I guess) 3. If you don’t choose to do either then please display your thinking blogger logo as shown on this posting.
And these are the lucky people, in no particular order:
O mighty crisis
Useless writing
To do:1, get hobby 2. Floss
My brain hates me, but I hate it even more
Alchemy anyone?”
Monday, March 26, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Welcome to Stalkers R Us. How may I help you?
Last time I discreetly touched on the topic that I had en exam yesterday. It is now today, and yesterday went bye-bye. So have the exams. It wasn’t completely horrible. As a matter of fact, it rarely is, although I’m always quite convinced that it will be beforehand. I came, I wrote, I went home and watched The Singing Detective.
In between I tried to find a replacement for the jeans I tore when I was climbing a fence, and the fact that nothing fit me properly and the hostile light in the clothing booth made me feel fat for a couple of hours. Then I got over it, ‘cause I’m not fat, dammit. When I got home, I ate cookies out of spite. I briefly thought about staking out the store, just to see if those tiny-size-people actually exist, but that would have been boring, because such a person would obviously be twelve years old. You can get in trouble if you stalk someone who’s twelve. I’ve seen that on the news. Of course, you can get into trouble by stalking anyone, really. But some people might like it. I think some of the elderly that I worked with last summer would have enjoyed being stalked.
Hey, maybe I could set up an agency? Stalkers R Us. It would be like an escort service, only completely different. In stead of conversation, the chance to impress your friends with Mr. (really good at pretending to be) Perfect and possibly the opportunity for some form of sweaty activity, we’d offer phone calls featuring heavy breathing and groaning, lots of reasons for your friends and family to show their love and concern through worrying about you and the thrill of having your underwear go missing.
How’s that for brilliant?
In between I tried to find a replacement for the jeans I tore when I was climbing a fence, and the fact that nothing fit me properly and the hostile light in the clothing booth made me feel fat for a couple of hours. Then I got over it, ‘cause I’m not fat, dammit. When I got home, I ate cookies out of spite. I briefly thought about staking out the store, just to see if those tiny-size-people actually exist, but that would have been boring, because such a person would obviously be twelve years old. You can get in trouble if you stalk someone who’s twelve. I’ve seen that on the news. Of course, you can get into trouble by stalking anyone, really. But some people might like it. I think some of the elderly that I worked with last summer would have enjoyed being stalked.
Hey, maybe I could set up an agency? Stalkers R Us. It would be like an escort service, only completely different. In stead of conversation, the chance to impress your friends with Mr. (really good at pretending to be) Perfect and possibly the opportunity for some form of sweaty activity, we’d offer phone calls featuring heavy breathing and groaning, lots of reasons for your friends and family to show their love and concern through worrying about you and the thrill of having your underwear go missing.
How’s that for brilliant?
Monday, March 19, 2007
Huge, mean, evil exams.
On Wednesday I have a huge, mean, if not just plain evil, exam. I don’t like exams. They freak me right the hell out. I’m studying like a real hero (wearing shiny, colourful pantyhose), until Bergerac (my brain) feels all soupy and strange.
My head is currently trying to figure out whether it should spin around of just go for some sort of explosion. Its inability to decide makes it sit on my shoulders in a very normal fashion, though.
All my thoughts are very slow today. I wonder if that’ll interfere with my hero-studying. Sometimes there are periods where I don’t think I thought anything at all. And then there are periods when I think sounds. Usually something along the lines of “grumpf”. A long, slow grumpf, of course.
As usual, I have all sorts of plans for what I want to do when I’ve survived my exams and I have time on my hands again. Not to mention in my shoes, behind the cups in the cupboard and in my right pocket of my favourite jeans (which I tore the other day when I was climbing a fence). I want to watch tons of movies, read books that have no -isms in them, stalk Jensen Ackles and so on and so forth. And as usual, I’ll probably just have the energy to vegetate in front of the TV and go to bed early.
My head is currently trying to figure out whether it should spin around of just go for some sort of explosion. Its inability to decide makes it sit on my shoulders in a very normal fashion, though.
All my thoughts are very slow today. I wonder if that’ll interfere with my hero-studying. Sometimes there are periods where I don’t think I thought anything at all. And then there are periods when I think sounds. Usually something along the lines of “grumpf”. A long, slow grumpf, of course.
As usual, I have all sorts of plans for what I want to do when I’ve survived my exams and I have time on my hands again. Not to mention in my shoes, behind the cups in the cupboard and in my right pocket of my favourite jeans (which I tore the other day when I was climbing a fence). I want to watch tons of movies, read books that have no -isms in them, stalk Jensen Ackles and so on and so forth. And as usual, I’ll probably just have the energy to vegetate in front of the TV and go to bed early.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Do you find me odd?
| You Are 24% Abnormal |
 You are at medium risk for being a psychopath. It is somewhat likely that you have no soul. You are at low risk for having a borderline personality. It is unlikely that you are a chaotic mess. You are at medium risk for having a narcissistic personality. It is somewhat likely that you are in love with your own reflection. You are at low risk for having a social phobia. It is unlikely that you feel most comfortable in your mom's basement. You are at low risk for obsessive compulsive disorder. It is unlikely that you are addicted to hand sanitizer. |
Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not a psychopath, but I'll buy the no-soul thing. Especially after my last post. And I DEFINITLY don't have obsessive compulsive disorder. I'm completely random and unorganized.
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