Millionyearoldcarbon

Hun tar tak i skjorten hans

2008-10-14T22:58:00.000-07:00

,og samler det himmelblå skjortestoffet i de skjelvende fingrene sine. Samler store håndfuller med blå hud. Han river seg løs. I et voldsomt utløp kommer hun seg til døren, tar nøkkelen og vrir om. Døren låses igjen med et hult klikk. Gi meg nøkkelen, din forbanna hore. Ikke dra, skriker hun. I ansiktet hennes: mascara skrudd utover alt som gammelt blekk på en plakat i et forblåst gatehjørne, ensomt, vått, rått. Munnen hennes: flerret til et desperat snerr, slik ulver forvrenger sine primitive ansikt når de vet, vet, vet at de er overmannet. Alt han ser er munnen hennes, tennene hennes, tungen hennes. Og øynene. Flerret åpne.
Gi meg den jævla nøkkelen. Nå! Hyler han. Jeg vil aldri se deg igjen, ditt forbanna vrak. Han tar et steg mot henne, men hun stiger med uvøren, umenneskelig fart bak stuebordet. Du kan ikke dra. Tårer strømmer nedover ansiktet, underleppen dirrende som en forbanna mandolinstreng. Hun holder nøkkelen så hardt at knokene hennes blør hvitt. Hvis du ikke gir meg den nøkkelen kommer jeg til å knuse dette bordet!
Ansiktet hennes endrer seg plutselig. Hun reiser seg høyreist. Låser ham i blikket sitt. Du får ikke lov til å dra. Du skal bli her. Han fnyser av henne. Spytter nesten på henne. Men. Men. Men det er noe, noe der, noe i de store øynene hennes, i øyekroken. Et tau. Han klatrer opp tauet, inn i øynene hennes, inn bak øynene. Og der ser han. Han ser at hun mener det. Leppene hans: formet i et hånlig snerr. Visner. Du får ikke dra. Du blir aldri kvitt meg. Du skal sleike sårene mine rene. For alltid. Og hun åpner den knytte neven sin. Åpner den mot flombelysningen i taket. Og der. En åpen håndflate. Tom. Ingen nøkkel.
En dyp fure mellom brynene hans. På pannen. Han stiger bort fra bordet, bort fra henne. Mot døren. Fingrene hans folder seg rundt messinghåndtaket som en kjøttetende sumpplante rundt en flue. Døren er låst. Han snur seg mot henne og ser henne tre frem fra gjemmestedet sitt. Stige frem fra bak bordet.

Jeg ville kutte av deg beina. Sier hun. Sier hun. Slik at du ikke kan flykte fra meg.

Mamma sin hage

2008-06-14T11:23:00.000-07:00

Mamma tok med seg tre unger(som snart skulle bli fire) og flyttet inn i et rekkehus hun egentlig ikke hadde råd til, uten utdannelse, uten familie, uten venner. Hun jobbet seg til to senebetennelser på et massasjeinstitutt ni timer hver dag, med tre barn som var mellom 8 og 14 år gamle. Det var nesten ingen penger, det var pannekaker tre ganger i uken for å få råd til å kjøpe kjøttdeig de andre dagene. Det var ingen nye klær, ingen nye sko, ingen nye møbler.

Hagen utenfor rekkehuset var en grusplatting med et stort hull, uten mold, uten planter, uten blomster. Det var ikke så mye en hage som en liten parkeringsplass med støv, sand og grus.

En ørken som ble til voldsomme sandstormer ved et lite vindkast, en grussavanne med bare spinkle, krasse gresstrå.

Mamma kjøpte et halvt lastebilplan med mold, med skitten, stinkende, sur jord. Myrjord, kravlende med gamle røtter, med barkbiter, med halvfordøyde, halvnedbrutte kvister som anorektiske hender og bein, utmagret, sultne, halvdøde. Akkurat som henne.
En helg, etter ni timer på jobb, med en og en halv senebetennelse spadde hun jorden i fossende regn. Den eneste beskyttelsen hennes var en muggen, hullete regnjakke. Alene med en lånt spade, alene med et halvt tonn jord og en gjørmete grusshage. Spadetak for spadetak, gram for gram med sur jord. Hver eneste kraftanstrengelse målt i muskelutmattelse, i gisp, i iskalde føtter, i såre, såre, såre armer og skuldre.
Etter tre dager i regn, i søle, i total fysisk utmattelse hadde hun fylt hagen med jord.

Ingenting ville vokse i jorden. Hun fikk til slutt potetplanter til å vokse, såvidt, halvutmattete, hengende stilker og blader, gispende, hvite potetblomster. Knudrete, morkne poteter. Hun lot disse vokse, i et år, i et år til. Hun kalket jorden. Hun ventet.

Etter noen år rev hun opp potetplantene, rev opp røttene deres igjen, bøyd halvnaken i brennende sommersol, kuet og solbrent i ferien, rivende med senete armer og seige bisceps, løftende på blader, kvister, hver eneste lille potetrot som minte henne for mye om menneskehår. Det var som om hun rev opp mer enn bare poteter. Øynene hennes var våte, fjerne, full av smerte, full av ting hun snakket om bare i stillhet, ting hun bare tenkte for seg selv.

Hun utslettet potetplantene etter at de hadde gjort jorden mykere, bløtere.

Så plantet hun gress, et tre der hullet i grushagen hadde vært. Hun tok en høytrykksspyler og sprøytet bort mose som vokste på steinplattingene, plantet fire typer roser, plantet redikker, plantet små, vakre jordbærplanter.

Nå, mange år senere, etter enda et barn og mange søvnløse netter står hagen i full blomstring, full av sjeldne rosetyper og potter fylte med små, vakre blomster som vokser unikt og forsiktig, uvant med varmen og den gode jorden i den lille hagen utenfor rekkehuset.

La meg fortelle om sluket mitt

2008-05-21T01:21:00.001-07:00

Sluket mitt på badet ble tett.

Jeg bor i et østblokkhybelkompleks fra 1700-tallet. Antall mennesker(and I use the term losely) som har brukt dette rommet og nettopp badet som jeg nå kaller mitt bad er sikkert astronomisk. Har du noen gang tenkt skikkelig over hvordan du bare er kvasi-nedbrutt organisk materiale? Akkurat nå mens du leser dette skiller huden din bort døde hudceller, mikropartikler som blir airborn, suspenderes på usynlige, ikke-skimtbare luftstrømninger. Og det er bare huden din.

Alle de som har bodd her siden 1500-tallet og benyttet nettopp MITT do til gudene vet hva har derfor ekskretert sine hudceller, sine kjønnsceller, hudsekker, talg sprutet på speilet, ørevoks og alle de andre komponentene en nihilistisk kan kalle et menneske. Sluket på badet mitt ble tett. Og jeg viste umiddelbart at samtlige år med andre folks voldtekt av doen har nå kulminert i sluket; en dusj hver dag(ja, jeg har ikke separat sluk til dusjen, alt går ned i samme høl), to tannpusser, tre-fem ulike håndvasker og samtlig annet i mange år er dømt til å sette sine spor. Så nå ble sluket mitt tett. Tett av alle disse menneskenes synder. Eller noe.

La meg fortelle om sluket mitt. Det er et slikt et våtsluk som oldemor har i vaskekjelleren sin(og det sier egentlig alt). Denne type sluk er konstant fylt med vann, et sjakktrekk av en strategisk plan for bedre hygiene. Et yrende miljø for samtlige bakterier, sopp, prokarya fra fordums tider.

Jeg fant ut at jeg ikke kunne leve med et tett sluk, der jeg stod, naken ut av dusjen, vann utover gulvet, sluket potte tett. Jeg var trøtt og sur og ville bare legge meg, og tankekapasiteten min var nok ikke på topp, for jeg løftet bare på risten og tok hånden ned i det våte sluket. Ned, under, dypere, dypere.Det var muligens når jeg kjente hele hånden, opp til håndledded, begravet i en symbiose av svampeaktig, hårete slim at jeg kanskje forstod at dette ikke var noen god ide.Og når jeg først begynte å rote oppi herligheten vokste en myrgass opp. Det hele var nesten bibelsk i sin grusomhet. Vagt annerkjente jeg episodens groteske natur, men jeg var for kvalm til å finne styrken til å le av det(dessuten var jeg alene, og hvem er det som sitter med hele jævla hånden begravet i slim og ler alene på en søndagsvkveld, liksom)Desperat begynte jeg å klore opp store tjafser med soppmosehybridet som hadde slått seg til der nede, skrape bort menge på mengde med svargrønt slim, i håp om at hvis jeg bare fikk litt tilstrømning med vann så ville hele greien bli suget ned og bort fra livet mitt.

Dessverre ble det bare verre og verre, og svarte flak kom dansende som flortynn, beiksvart papirkonfetti fra sluket, kom sirklende rundt de nakne beina mine der jeg stod krumbøyd over sluket. Snart stod jeg nedsunket i svart blekk, spytt og sæd og hårsekker og halvnedbrutte hudceller fra alle de som har bodd her noensinne.

Typisk meg at jeg måtte få oppvasken, liksom.

Kvasidesperat og på randen av et sammenbrudd stormet jeg mot kjøkkenet, fant en gaffel, og begynte å hamre løs nedi sluket med gaffelen. Lyden av taggene på metallgaffelen som slafser seg inn i slimet hjemsøker meg fremdeles.

Når jeg endelig klarte å få ut all smørjen og vannet kom strømmende ned i sluket følte jeg at jeg aldri kom til å bli den samme igjen. Et eller annet sted, distansert, funderte jeg over om slike ting skjer med noen andre enn meg. Og så ble jeg stående der, merket av svart og mosegrønn og gallegult, en levende tapestri av andre menneskers bortkastede liv.

Til slutt måtte jeg bare kaste gaffelen. Jeg ble for freaket ut med tanken på at hver gang jeg i fremtiden kom til å bruke en gaffel, så kunne det være nettopp denne jeg satt og spiste av.

Jeg føler det er en slags lekse her, et eller annet sted.

Om å dø på innsiden

2008-03-06T01:51:00.000-08:00

Jeg orker ikke å ta en FORBANNA gasskromatografbestemmelse av indre standard EN gang til!!!

La oss spole litt tilbake* fancy sånn baklengsspoling som er på film og sånne sssssssssshhhh-lyder*. En gasskromatograf er en stor ovn, med en lang, veldig tynn kveil inni som brukes til å bestemme ulike forbindelser(drit i hvordan, du skjønner det ikke uansett).

EEEEnyways. Nå har jeg gjort dette tusen ganger, og hvis jeg må gjøre det EN gang til så skal jeg faen meg kvele meg selv med gasskromatografkolonnen. Men først så skal jeg samle alle som har klart den øvelsen i et gassrom og så skal jeg kvantitativt bestemme DEM med gasskromatografiske metoder. Ha ha, revenge på alle som er bedre enn meg!

Nå skulle de labingeniørene "snakke sammen". Det betyr at resultatet mitt sikkert er heeeelt på styr og er totally like ti promille over gitt verdi, og faenfaenfaen.

Faen.

Why OH why ble jeg ikke bare negledesigner?

Frø

2008-03-01T12:55:00.000-08:00

Det er fire frø i den åpne håndflaten hennes. Skjelvende fingre plukker ett av de fire frøene opp, lukker med to tynne, avlange fingertupper rundt den voksaktige overflaten. Hun planter den på leppene, mellom dem, biter med fortennene, sluker frøet med den mest voldsomme forsiktighet hun kan påkoste seg. Så gjør hun det samme igjen. Og igjen. Og igjen.

Hun har alltid følt seg forfulgt av speil. Hun har alltid hatet og elsket dem, på samme måte som hun hater og elsker seg selv, og på samme måte som hun endrer speilet rundt den nakne aksen av den nakne kroppen hennes, endrer hun den nakne kroppen sin rundt speiloverflatene. Tingen med Narcissius var ikke at han var så forbanna forelsket i seg selv at han ikke kunne se bort. Tingen med Narcissius var det at han hatet seg selv. Han hatet seg på en måte som også er kjærlighet. Narcissius var forelsket i det verste i ham selv. Det var derfor han druknet.

Hun kan aldri drukne i speiloverflatene sine. Aldri.

Sengen hennes sluker henne levende og rå, og madrassen blir klissete i sin egen skumgummivirkelighet. Hun klarer ikke å løfte på hodet, og håret er klistret til puten. Hun er mer sliten enn hele menneskeheten til sammen. Det gnager i beina hennes, som små dyr, som små, blinde krepsdyr i månelyset, og øynene blinker fra et sted langt borte, et sted i hodet hennes hvor det bare er fred. Hun trenger ikke lys, eller renselse eller skjønnhet. Bare fred.

På en måte er hun mer levende enn noen gang før, når hun står i dusjen og kjenner vannet strømme over henne, for utslitt til å bevege seg, stående likstille som en statue. Fingrene hennes, skjelvende og iskalde, søker over overflaten av det som er henne, kroppen hennes. Hun finner hulrom med glede, bein og ankler og ribbebein. Hun samler huden på hver krok og avskylige del av grotten som er henne, og kjenner omfang av hud.

I speilbildene sine er hun et merkelig fremmed hybrid, en blanding mellom svart maling og polystyrene.

Kjole

2008-02-17T14:40:00.000-08:00

Hun danser for ham, i kjolen, svart og silkemyk, glatt, blekk som renner over de hvite lårene hennes, gjennom, gjennom. Hun glir, glir, glir, bare for ham, og selv om han ikke ser på henne fra bordet langt borte fra andre siden av klubben, så vet hun at han har henne festet i sideblikket, festet som den svarte tyfonen hun er.

Han er redd for henne. Han vil ha henne.

Lysene og alle de andre som danser er bare støvfnugg, og svettedråpen som renner nedover svaien i ryggen hennes er gud, og hun er gud, inkarnert, med hoftene og brystene og kløften, bøyd over seg selv som et overbugnende fruktre, og hvorfor ser han ikke på henne, alt er for ham, alt.

Krigers, amazone, forbanna Artemis, sminke svart og krass og linjert, rammer og lukkete paranteser, krigermaske.

Hun har barbert hver eneste lille detalj, hver kurve, hver eneste fuckings forbanna kløftig kurve, så hun drikker mer, bare enda mer bitter drikke, alkohol brennende og stikkende i halsen, akkurat slik hun liker mennene sine, svarte og harde og voldsomme, og kjolen er så trang, den er så trang, men hun slikker seg om munnen, kjenner hvordan drømmedrømmemusikk får alt til å bli bedre, men kjolen er så trang, hun klarer ikke å puste. Men hun ser så bra ut, kjenner hvordan korsettet strammer, strammer, glir hendene igjennom håret, krøllete og ravnsvart. Hun er ikke som andre jenter. Du kan ikke rette på krøllene hennes.

Blodrød lebestift, utover alt, smurt og hard og rå, bare munn og leppe og gumme og tenner, kritthvite tenner, vampyriske og skarpe og uten kompromiss, og hvorfor ser han ikke på henne, dansende på dansegulvet, et kosmisk fenomen omringet av fallende stjerner og supernovaer, diskolys, og drømmemusikken som glatter det ut, glatter ut lebestiften, og hun svetter, håret klistrer seg til ansiktet, til det hvite, bleke, skrikende ansiktet.

Og kjolen er så trang, og han vil ikke se på henne, og sminken renner. Og han vil ha henne, hun vet det, vet det, vet det, og hun skubber bort andre folk, ansiktsløse, skraper med neglene sine, hater dem, hater ham, hater ham og gudløsheten hans, og skoene hennes, tusen meter høye hæler og blodrøde, som munnen som øynene som blodet hun vil se sprutende fra ansiktet hans hvem tror han at han er drittsekk fuckings forbanna idiot.

Og hun får ikke puste. Kjolen er så trang. Den er så trang.

Gammelt papir

2008-01-17T06:11:00.000-08:00

Og så står du der, på et kjempe travel postkontor, med en million folk som klistrer igjen konvolutter eller sender pakker eller sleiker på frimerker; og så står du der, med tre egne konvolutter, identiske, bare med ulike adresser på.

Og så kjenner du litt på vekten av papiret, på vekten av konvoluttene, vekten av ordene som du har skrevet selv. herregud, det er for dårlig. herregud, det er skrivefeil. herregud, du kan ingen ting, ditt ubrukelige, pløsete dyr.

Du poster brevene, ser dem skli upersonlig ned i et traug med annen post.

Av en eller annen grunn føler du ingenting.

Can you see my pocket knife?

2007-12-24T14:35:00.000-08:00

Dette skal egentlig være et innlegg om jul og hvordan julen egentlig ødelegger for det som skal være jul, du vet, sånn Disneyjul-ting, og om hvordan folk prøver å kompansere for hvordan de hele tiden taper og taper og skuffer og skuffer ved å kjøpe de beste og dyreste gavene, de fineste juletrærne, de beste pinnekjøttpinnene fra rasesauer i fuckings Hallingdal, dyrket på organisk dyrkede røbeter og turnips fra Arigada eller et annet krigslammet, afrikansk land.

Men det gidder jeg ikke.

En kan si mye rart om julen, mye har blitt sagt før. Mye bra, mye dårlig, meste parten helt greit artikulert, slik det er om det meste. Men akkurat nå vil jeg helst si:JEG ER SÅ FORBANNA METT!!!!!

Helvete, jeg skal 2tally aldri spise igjen! Jeg dør, jeg dør, jeg dør!

En god og asketisk jul til alle kjente/ukjente.

Stein

2007-12-08T07:03:00.000-08:00

Den gamle mannen ser på fjellet.

Det reiser seg uavbrutt, ensomt og enormt, reiser sitt snøhvite, granitthode mot universet og kosmos. Furer og elver og daler tegner et grusomt, arrogant og vakkert ansikt, et steinfjes, konstant i sin egen forutsigbarhet. Han vet, for han kjenner det på huden i stille sommernetter, de iskalde, arktiske vindene som leker på hodet på det fjellet. De herjer over skuldrene hans, over de tre stubbene som en gang var fingre, over det nakne, åpne hullet der det skulle vært nese.

Den gamle mannen, hud som lær, solskadet, godartet hudkreft som klatreeføy oppover øynene; den gamle mannen kjenner fjellet. Han kjenner sprekkene, han kjenner de iskalde elvene, de store slettende som om våren vokser til liv med gress og gule blomster. Han kjenner de skjulte, ukorrupte mineralinnsjøene der hvor det bare er en moseliknende, algevekst som dekker bunnen, som tapestri, som mørkegrønne vever som sakte, sakte, sakte danser i strømmen.

Han kjenner grensen, det magiske, forflytende område; udefinerbart men alikevel alltid tilstede, den grensen der det golde viddelanskapet forfrostes til arktiske isbreer, hvor stormer så kalde som månen herjer.

Det stedet hvor snøen kommer, store krystaller, lukten av ozon, brennende som uren røyk, den lette luften som nesten blir til skyer.

Han og fjellet, bundet sammen, ubønnhørlig på en måte han ikke har vokabular eller interesse i å formulere. Stein, metalliske blodårer under den sprukne fjellhuden, som hans egen hud, ru og herjet og eldgammel, hans hender som fjellets never, hans hjerte som fjellets hjerte, metallisk og flytende, dypt begravet, holdt i sjakk som en hemmelighet.

Og han spør seg, som han gjør, når han stirrer på fjellet, hypnotisert og fortrollet og bergtatt, når han kjenner gåsehuden bre seg langs armene, oppover brystet, når han kjenner, i et stakket øyeblikk, den velkjente kulden som nesten tok livet hans, kulden som omfavner ham som en kvinne han elsket en gang for lenge, lenge siden; han spør seg selv om dette er begjær.

Er dette begjær?

Han tar en neve med stein, langs fjellets fot, der det finnes trær, våt og mørk skog. Han tar en neve med stein og holder dem hardt i neven, helt til en hvithet blør på knokene.

Han holder hardt, hardt, hardt. Redd for å gi slipp.

Og han tenker:

dette er litt av deg.

Og nå eier jeg deg.

And through the life force and there goes her friend

2007-12-01T13:05:00.000-08:00

Det er ørken. Det er stille. Det er tundra.

Fremmede, livløse månelandskap. Kalde, og golde og gudsforlatte.

Og et eller annet sted, til en eller annen tid brytes stillheten. En tone. En akkord. Det er ikke en melodi enda. Bare et ord, bare en hvisken. Bare en liten del av tundraen som smelter. Bare en regndråpe i ørkenen.

Du vet du ikke kan stoppe det. Du vet du er maktesløs. Du kastes ut i strømmen, i fiskestimer, blandt undervannstang som likfingre, blant merkelige vekster og dyr.

Og du vet du er ubeskyttet, naken. Du vet du ikke kan gjøre noe annet enn å holde pusten, løfte hodet, rette ryggraden rett som en stang. Du vet du kommer til å ønske du var død. Du vet du kommer til å skrike, gråte, le, elske, bli elsket, hate, bli hatet. Du vet du kommer til å få blåmerker, hevelse, spytt, blod. Infeksjoner. Rekonvalesens.

Du vet at du ikke kan stoppe det.

Det er dette som er livet.

I sin enestående, komplekse, forferdelig irriterende, frustrerende og skjønne enkelhet.

Du er en opprivende gnist. Ordet som bryter den store stillheten, dråpen i ørkenen som firgjør et voldsomt liv rett under sanden. Du er gresset som vokser på tundraen.

Det er lett å være negativ, å miste troen på livet. Det er lett å la hjertet visne, å la seg selv dø. Det er lett å gi seg selv til maktesløsheten, å se polisene smelte, å se seg selv bli til aske.

Men du, kjære, vakre lille menneske, navnløs, nyfødt. Du, nesten mitt eget barn, du, en opprivende gnist, en enestående strålende frigjøring av kosmisk liv.

Du; du fyller meg med håp. Og liv.

Velkommen til livet. Det kommer til å bli en interessant reise:D

Gratulerer masse Cassandra. Du kommer til å bli en god mor.

Alex

Kanskje hvis dette bloginnlegget er morsomt nok at noen vil elske meg

2007-11-28T05:59:00.000-08:00

Fra xkcd.

Julepuke

2007-11-21T05:18:00.000-08:00

Puke, jeg blir så totally kvalm av alle de ekle folkene som bare snakker om julebrus hele tiden. Ooooo, julebrus er så godt, ooooo, når julebrusen kommer VET du at julen er der(sies med ekkelt smil om munnen), ooooo, julebrus er så forfriskende.

Here's a secret, suckers: Julebrus er bare vann, noe rødt, sukker og kullsyre. Hvordan kan noen like det? Det er akkurat som de ekle fyrstekakene som de hadde på Nille i gamle dager når jeg var ung. De til 19.90 som var laget av stearinlysrester, gamle doruller og tanntråd. Julebrus er for brus det Nillefyrstekaken er for kakeverden. Eller som Lena Alexandra er for musikkverden, eller det Adam Sandler er for filmverden, eller Ari Behn er for litteraturverden.

Og hva ER det med det derre " når julebrusen kommer VET du at julen er her"-pjattet? Herregud, mennesker! Julebrusen kommer i august, rett før skolen begynner igjen! Og julen er bare en teit komersiell ufunksjonell emosjonell betent graut uansett! alle vet at Jesus(som er en dame) ble født i Januar! Og du får faen ikke noe gave av meg til jul, og hvis du får en gave skal det være forgiftet julebrus!

Så fuck julebrus! og fuck sånn teit "ooo, grahns julebrusen er best!" DET ER AKKURAT DEN SAMME JULEBRUSEN UANSETT HVOR DEN KOMMER IFRA! Dette er ikke et stort debattmoment! Jeg hater, hater, hater når freaky emofreaks sitter og diskuterer til den store gullmedaljen om hvilken julebrus som er best. Hint: Julebrus er IKKE en nøye gjennomtenkt, veldig ulik oppskrift! Det er det samme, uansett! Gawd! Get yourselves some lives!

Ghost pigments on a scaly line

2007-11-14T09:23:00.000-08:00

Hun går liksom forbi meg, med ryggen til, og jeg vet ikke hva hun heter. Jeg ser bare bakhodet, hårfargen helt ubestemmelig. I ettertid har jeg ingen anelse om det var musebrunt eller flaskeblondt. Hun kan være en Kristine. Kanskje en Silje. En Kitty under rette betingelser.

Det er iskaldt, for plutselig kom vinteren, og når jeg går bak henne for å komme meg til skolen hveser jeg ut store spøkelsesaktige ekshalasjoner, skygger og figurer leker i røyken som siver utfra neseborene mine, og jeg tenker på at jeg holder på å dø fordi jeg er så kald, og jeg tenker på at jeg ikke klarer å få boken min til å virke, og jeg tenker på en teit reklame jeg så i går, og jeg ler litt, for jeg tenker på noe morsomt, kanskje det er puke, puke, puke, eller noe annet. Jeg vet ikke.

Helene eller Anita eller hva hun heter går foran meg, og plutselig.

Plutselig.

Faller skjerfet hennes av ranselen.

Det faller raskt, tungt. Med overraskende mye lyd. Mot den kalde asfalten med isrim mellom asfaltporene.

Hun ser det ikke. Hører det ikke. Og Hilde fortsetter å gå.

Jeg stopper i stegene mine, ikke raskt nok til at det kan dektekteres, ikke raskt nok til at det ser freaky ut, for det er like totally viktig at ingen tror jeg er freaky eller totally en stalker. Men jeg stopper, fryser til bister is mellom alle folkene som skal på skolen tidlig om morgenen.

Og jeg vet, mens jeg konfronteres med det hvite skjerfet som ligger på bakken, mens jeg konfronteres med de iskalde spøkelsespigmentene som er sydd inn i fibrene som sølvtråder; jeg vet at jeg ikke kommer til å løpe etter henne.

Akkurat i det jeg begynner å gå igjen, akkurat etter jeg løsriver meg fra den lille forsteinelsen min ser jeg rett inn i en dames øyne. Jeg vet ikke hvem hun er, hva hun heter, om hun liker sm eller tenner på isoporbiter formet som kjønnsorganer. Jeg vet null om henne.

Men idet blikkene våre lenkes sammen, igjen bare i et brøkdel av et sekund, så forstår jeg at hun også så skjerfet falle.

Og vi vet, begge to, akkurat samtidig, at vi er av samme natur.

Hun snur seg, denne damen, og går til venstre. Jeg ser så vidt på ryggen hennes og det hvite skjerfet idet jeg tar til høyre.

Jeg kommer aldri til å følge etter noen som mister et skjerf.

Aldri.

Prettiest mess you've ever seen

2007-11-11T13:33:00.000-08:00

Herregud, jeg hater homoer! Ekle, prydkarper med paljetterrusbrusdrikkendemedsugerør. Puke, puke, puke! Det verste med alle former for stereotyper og klisjeer er at de som oftest er sanne. Ikke for alle, ikke alltid. Men ofte. Litt for ofte.

Finnes det noe mer kjedelig og uoppfinnsomt i denne utrolige verden hvor du kan være hva som helst, enn å være en stereotype? Når du kan gå med farger trer du bare en platt, varm, stikkende, nikotinfarget genser over skuldrene. DET er en stereotype.

Jeg orker ikke å gå i detaljer hvorfor jeg fikk dette utbruddet. Det betyr ingenting, egentlig. Det som betyr noe er at jeg har drukket sammenhengende i totally tre dager, og det er totally mye for å være meg. Og nå har jeg raspet opp halsen min, og jeg hoster opp noe greier som jeg er rimelig sikker på er biter av mandlene mine.

Totally mcfreaky!

Og jeg føler at denne bloggen bare handler om at jeg klager og sier at jeg totally luv PJ Harvey, så jeg skal ikke snakke om hvor mye jeg elsker 4 Track demos og Is this Desire.

Her er et gammelt bilde av Luna-hund.

Okay, så det er på norsk nå

2007-11-08T10:17:00.000-08:00

Jeg tror kanskje jeg skal skrive denne bloggen på norsk, fra nå av. Når jeg begynte å skrive i denne delikate saken, var engelsk mer "moi toungue due Recheloir"( Det var bare noe jeg fant på, men det hørtes fint ut, nescafe?). Uansett, jeg tror den skal være på norsk fra nå av. Ikke akkurat som om det har noe som helst å si lizm, whether denne patetiske bloggen er på norsk eller engelsk. Whatever.

Jeg fant et dikt fra bok nummer to som jeg nettopp så litt igjenom:

SKADI
By Richard Evans Baye
She entered the reception like some minor abrasion
A wound in the centre of the universe
Legs like milky tree-stems
Hair even whiter still

She makes me think of some mythological
Creature
A siren, a goddess, a valkyre
Banshee
She drags me to Norse peaks
with bone-like dust on the tops
She drags me into wind that screams
She drags me to Viking thieves

Like that Norse Goddess
Skadi
A giantess of frigid blight
Her white hair is a flutter
As she moves down the reception-hall, closer to sight

She asks me for a room
It’s on fourth floor
Her voice is still as she thanks me

I think about the name
Skadi
That someone told me that
“skade”
Is the Norwegian word for
Harm

If she is the harming or the harmed
I do not know
The bet is on a fair share of both
But what is sure is that there is great
PainUnder her black, silky cloth

She vanishes into the elevator
The machinery carrying the weight
Of A
God

Later she flutters, returns
Her hair like Medusa’s snakes
Strands moving around, the shade of many milks
A tear gathers in her eye
Skadi blinks
Colorless arms creates gales of fury
Skadi’s steps upon the cold rocks
The eerie sounds of keys in locks
A trail follows her
Cosmic, glittering, lethal, glacial

Frost

Plutselig kom jeg tilbake til den tiden jeg skrev bok nummer to. Det livet virker livsaldre siden, fjernt og hundrevis av mil borte. Nesten en fantomsmerte.

Weird how time disstorts things.

Don't repproach me about how empty my life has become

2007-10-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

Okay, so the new Pj Harvey record, White Chalk, is unbelivably beautiful and haunting and inspirational. And ghostly. And my immense respect for dear old Polly Jean is, if possible, only increased. An astounding achievement that made me cry a little on the bus home from somewhere, just a few tears, but still.

And also, my book is going along, if slowly. I always switch between hating everything and loving everything. Does that mean i am doing fine? Does that mean I have failed totally and have, like, no talent and is a major screw-up with nothing artistic in me?

Who the fuck knows!

And also, lots and lots of school work, lots of lab where I keep spilling, like, really dangerous chemicals on my hands. Cancer, cancer, cancer. The cancer wagon is pulling up beside me, mrs Cancerous Cancer slipping on a brand new cancer glove, ready to touch me.

Pagan Poetry

2007-08-18T04:40:00.000-07:00

Fuck. I hate old people. Especially on the bus. first of all, why are there so many old people? There should be a lot less, since I am constantly hearing about old women drowning in the bathtub and getting locked in elevators for three years before someone discover them and things like that. Regardless of all these merciful stabs at the "old-people-population", old women and men and the things in between seem to be thriving more than ever. Its really horrible.

And now to the point. Old people in the bus. Every old person takes the bus, because they are too lazy to walk( this is the truth! My grand-grand mother refuses to walk longer than to the mailbox, because, "she was fit when she was young, why should she be fit now?"). So all the gazillions of old people in the world flock to the bus, that I, a poor student, has to take many times a day.

And here's the thing. They are not content on standing. In fact, they fucking EXPECT to get a seat, even though they KNOW that the bus will be really full so people are standing as tight as possible(a good opertunity to rub yourself against strangers until you climax and they will never know who stole an orgasm from them). And here they come, in busloads, these old people who stand next to you, breathing down your neck, the aromas and smells of old things and rotting things driving you mad.

And of course you stand up. Because its the polite thing to do. And we are so fucking polite, aren't we?

But the hellish experience isn't over yet!

When you finally offer them your seat, they start a long charade about how they don't need to sit, and you can just sit, and they have been standing around for years and demonstrating (all old people are dramaqueens) how rickity and frail they are and pretending to shake visciously every time the bus turns etc. And no, they don't need to sit.

And then, because you are so fucking polite, you are forced to INSIST. And when the fucking old dumps of stained and tainted flesh in the middle of disinigration FINALLY sit down, you can't go anywhere because the bus is so full, so you have to stand next to the old person from hell.

And of course, this initates a conversation.

So not only did you fucking have to stand, you are also now trapped in a conversation whith cunt or dick from hell, telling you how they just had an operation and would you like to see the scar?

I HATE OLD PEOPLE!!!

About writing thing in drunkness

2007-06-24T14:23:00.000-07:00

I can only vaguely remember writing that last entry last night. The part where I talk about how everyone wants me is really amusing to me. I suck.

So.

I saw Zodiac today, and in the middle of the film I had finally recovered enough not to shake, and then I walked home and listened to music. Now I am going to play Silent Hill 2 and have the shit scared out of me. And then I MUST finish chapter 12.

This book is after all going to be finished in the run of this summer.

And tomorrow I am going to run and hang with people.

The whores hustles, and the hustlers whores

2007-06-23T17:50:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I ony write in this blog when I am wrong. to write that one sentence(and this) I made a million spelling-errors.

For some strange reason I remember my totally best friend in my early years, who had the same name as me. We were constantly together, and he made a trifork for me, because we wanted to be the Power Rangers and I was to be Billy, who had a triforce. He made it out of wood, and nailed it together himself with a hammer and nails. Maybe he was the first who loved me.

I don't know what I am doing. A lot of people want me. But I don't want any of them. Maybe I am too picky. Maybe not. Who the fuck knows?

I love PJ Harvey. Stories from the citiy stories from the sea, is absolutley great. I love her. I love many things. I love my book.

Argh!I am drunk. Goodbye.

Smokey Joe wants a revelation

2007-06-09T09:00:00.001-07:00

Don't you just hate it when lesbians force you to drink, a few days before your last exam?

You know when

2007-06-01T03:56:00.000-07:00

you have an oral exam in the stupidest course ever, and you have memorized the book to every fucking little detail, and you feel that the membrane and the fabric of your brain is very close to erupt in an overload of information, and you come in there, pretty sure that it is going to fly by pretty painless, and you start talking, and your examinator use every sentence you say to put in some invaluable, unimportant, irrelevant comment about what country has Grotthaus(who in and of himself, through three hundered pages with chemistry and history only has one small theory, and STILL you remembered him) as their national chemist? And you go by, and try to weave in as much of the syllabus as possible, to show that you understand the connections and the contexts, and every time you connect people and theories, your stupid examinator just cuts you off. So, in the end, he ends up talking more than you. And then, to top it, he uses ten minutes to go on and on and on about some spelling errors in your semester assignment that you used tons of time on and that ended up not counting on the overall grade, because, your examinator lied to you, and then, just to make everything perfectly fucked-up and irritating and just to hellish to have a name, he tells you to be less enthustiastic.

I simply love kjem 204.

And now it is raining, and you have to go to work and be screamed at by old people, and honestly, you don't want to know your grade because that would just be the final blow in your face and the last acknowledgement about how much time you have wasted, and then, when you collaps in your own body and think that all that is you have died finally and endlessly, you remember that you have two more exams left.

Joy of joys.

And I haven't written for, like, years. And the gym, that is also one of the many examlocations is closed to about half four, because people have their exams there, and I want to run.

And in the end, confronting all this, I catch myself in thinking: why the hell does it matter? Its just grades, and not objective ones even.

I base too much of my personality on being good in school stuff.

Theme of Laura

2007-05-24T09:20:00.000-07:00

Okay, examreading-and-never-feeling-that-I-read-enough-and-becoming-depressed-and-it-rains-here-all-the-time-and-a-zit-near-my-nose-that-I-can't-see-but-hurts-like-fucking-hell.

That's my mood.

And I am sooo looking forward to the end of this horrible exam-crap. And tomorrow I am working 12 hours. Hopefully I can get some memorizing of boltzmann distributions done while I am working. Maybe I won't.

And I stumbled across the silent hill movie that people hate, and I actually liked it, even though the girl was a totally stupid pee actor in the beginning. And I remember those waken nights playing that game, too freaked out and fucked up to sleep. Few things scare me. But that game really, really hit a nerve with me. We use to think that everything real is constituted by love, by laughter, by feeling great. But there is also great truth in fear. And that game is a really interesting way to tell a story, and very intelligent, also. Especially the second game, I think, even though I haven't bought it yet. i want to, though...

Lime, urine and bone

2007-05-08T05:19:00.000-07:00

This one class i am taking, a total scam of a class I just took to focus on statistical thermodynamics which is crazily complex and strangely beautiful, is about the history of chemistry. It is lead by this Swede who wears the same strange pullover day out and day in, has huge, craggy teeth and lived through most of the French revolutions.

Now I am reading the syllabus, which is a book that has to be printed up by the institute because it is no longer in print and is basically a remnant from the Alexandrian library itself.

I am at that place in ancient history where they find out that air is something. The way they found this realy brainer out, was that they took a giant cone with a hole and put it in water and saw bubles. Ergo sum, air is something.

This is just great.

Also, the early alchemists boiled urine with excrement and lime and bone in hope to produce gold. In fact, they did not produce gold, only a strange, guey soup. Maybe they ate it afterwards.

And also, I love those horribly gay Greek philosophers that, on the basis of nothing, conclude that everything is something, maybe its water or mist or simply something empirically named boundless that we cannot see and cannot feel.

God, human history is so deeply depressing.

Penus

2007-04-27T10:05:00.000-07:00

I downloaded some wierd porn where everyone wears top-hats. How wierd!
Then the phallic top-hats freaked me out, and I got nothing out of it.

Oh well...

Get out of my garden

2007-04-14T10:13:00.000-07:00

I snapped at a customer today at the fucking place where I work. It was all very pukatronic. But I didn't really snap. I should have. but I have never met such a seriously freaky person before (and that is saying ALOT) so I was too focused on observering her, sort of stricken with flabbergasted fascination.

if you feel that stories without punch-lines or points are stupid, please feel free to find some good porn instead of reading on.

Had a customer. Older woman. Let's call her Kitty Jasmin. Then another woman came, whilst the first woman, kitty Jasmin, was putting her wares in bags. At work this week we had an enormous 10 kroner marked, where everything costs 10 kr. Its amazingly white trash. The second woman (let's call her Freak) had a cart FULL of things, all from this 10 kr marked. Now, for every thing I pulled through the register, she asked me: " What does that register at, how much was that, did it register at 10 kr, because that was what it costs, see here in my shitty brouchure".

ME: Everything that is supposed to cost 10 kr will register at 10 kr, or else I will tell you.
Freak: Okay (pause) but does that register at 10 kr?( And then she just went on as before)

Anyways... Her heap of shitty things to 10 kr started to lean towards the heap of Kitty Jasmin, who, because she is old, use an enormous amount of time to pack her things. And then Freak just SNAPPED!!

Freak: Oh my god, she is stealing from me! She is stealing! See, my things are falling over her things, and she is stealing them from me!
Kitty jasmin: What?? I know what is mine. Of course I am not stealing.
Freak: You are stealing!
Kitty Jasmin:(Is she for real)
Freak:( Looking at her enormous heap of shit) I can tell that a washing brush is missing! You have stolen it! I know you have!

Turns out, Kitty Jasmin had by accident packed a brush that belonged to Freak, and that drove me crazy. Freak made a huuuuuge deal of this, as if it was done on purpose, when it was an honest mistake. It would have been so much more satisfying in Freak making a big fuss about Kitty stealing if she HADN'T been stealing. (I still wonder how Freak managed to spot, from her gazillion things, the magic, missing brush. Anyways)
So, I finish with Freak's wares and I leave the register to go to the bathroom.

Freak: You can't leave.
Me: Why not?
Freak: because that woman has probably stolen more things from me.
Me: .... I think it was only an accident. I mean, its just a lousy brush.
Freak: No, it wasn't an accident! She stole it and she has probably stolen more from me!
Me: Well, what do you want me to do given the very unlikely event that she has "stolen" from you?
Freak: You have to watch my things so I can run after her!
Me: this place is huge and she left a long time ago. You will never find her.
Freak: (scoffing) YOU HAVE TO STAY!
(The prospect of staying there and having to listen to her was simply too much for me)
Me: I have to pee.

When I come back, there is a HUGE, ENORMOUS, TITANIC puddle of juice. Turns out Freak had "by accident" lost a carton of juice. How she managed to make that carton break is beyond me. A carboardcarton doesn't simply break because you lose it and it falls to the floor. My guess is she did this by purpose. The result was, regardless of which it was, that I had to run all over the big place I work to find a mop, then mop up her mess whilst having to listen to her say over and OVER and OVER that Kitty Jasmin had probably stolen more of her things.

Me:(Finally finished with mopping the sticky juice)
Freak: Didn't you bring me another juice?

---

God, I hate my work!

Wrap yourself around the tree of life

2007-03-28T09:59:00.000-07:00

I just made chicken in sweet and sour sauce, and I think I finally got it right. Its just about using the right stock, using the right balance of spices and getting the balance of sweet and vinegar right. And I think I just got it.

What a totally boring thing to go around talking about. I must be very uninteresting. Like, this is the first thing I thought I should write about. God, I am my own mother.

I feel so tiered. Like all the time. it might be due to the fact that I spent seven hours on the lab today dancing in the midsts of poisonous gases. This one class seems to revolve around doing analysis to find out what chemical salts there are in any an unknown sample. And that means a lot of work, using logic, using a gazillion tiny, tiny beakers and washing the gazillion of tiny, tiny beakers because you only have like seven. And walking around in decomposed sulphur gas, which is mainly H2S, and that's the gas that forms when eggs decompose. Wonderful.

I am torn between wanting to sleep and wanting to eat chocolate.

Cweap.

Little fish, big fish swimming in a water, hey man give me my daughter

2007-03-15T11:43:00.000-07:00

Totally stuffed from using my stipendslashloansslashpay-check on Chinese food and Cds. Was really going for a run, but I decided against it since I'm seriously about to fall asleep.

There is a lot of frustration beneath my skin, of the artistic side. The chapter I am working on refuses to work. Yesterday I was so angry I hit my keyboard, so the 1-key fell off and now there's just some macaber hole with a guey little thing that I always miss when I try to hit it.

Crap.

mentos and alcohol and strange things on the bus

2007-03-10T18:43:00.001-08:00

I am drunk. Its true! I am really, really drunk! And i waited for the nightbus for eighty million years and it sucked and I saw someone i know making out with someone I don't know.
How wonderful.

When I bought vegetables today at the store, there was a pack of mentos forgotten by someone next to my wares and I just put it into my own bag and now i am eating the stolen mentos and I bought a coke from the hellish automat outside my building.

And I am listening to Don Juan's reckless daughter.

Just found some grapes from the fridge. Tastes okay, I guess. not really tiered. Not really awake. Kinda wanting something fried and salty. Kinda wanting something mushy and sweet.

Strange.

Everything is so strange...

...

I miss my camera! Some old pics...

2007-03-07T11:40:00.000-08:00

Hey, I am being clever here!

2007-03-06T05:19:00.000-08:00

Do you think Magrite thought: Shit, I made the apple too big again?

No wings. No miracles.

2007-03-03T02:38:00.000-08:00

I am trapped.

There are many like me, here in this place. They walk and digest and fornicate and excrete like any other form of life in these dirty streets. They have horrible acne, some of them. Tiny breasts. Stretch-marks on their flabby guts.

Clad in dirty-brown and grays, hats and glasses, stuble and wrinkles and horrible fashion-tastes, matching yellow with screaming pinks and silly hats and ugly, ugly little things.

Anguish. Pain. Loneliness.

We are not above these things. Not raised or erected or suspended. We are not above anything. If we were, we would not have come here, driftet here across gleaming distances too great to imagine, too small to matter.
We are stardust. We are silvery. We are specks of dust, mere heart-beats and slow beats and chords.

And I am trapped.

We are bound to logic. To rules. to predetermined numbers and figures and schmes and graphs. We are not above these things. We cannot defy logics and the mathematic cirquits that run through everything like metal-
wires and ivy.

No miracles.
No wings.

Not even feathers.

Some of us forget. Not entierly, of course. But slowly. Slowly. Some of us yearn silently and mutely, but never raise voices. The voices tuned, ages ago, to fine instruments of strings and resonance; now used for orgasmic cries and furious bellows and tiny, tiny hick-ups and alcoholic mutterings.

No miracles.

No wings.

And I am trapped.

God of Cries

2007-02-23T11:59:00.001-08:00

The God of cries is man and woman. She is not half woman and half man. He is not a symbiosis or a collection or a union. The god of cries is everything. She spans and drifts and churns, and he is teeth and mouth and lips and vulva and sperm and cunt and cock.

He has been called a tower, a maze with soft, round stones that are hard, with secrets in the lowest chasms and melodies in the highest peaks.

The God of cries never thinks. She doesn’t speak. But he sings, through the teeth and the pubic hair, like a slithering melodious cry that shakes and sends shivers through the bones, like wet and hard kisses that starts in the neck and sends jolts of eclectic, jolting rushes down the back and ends in the thigh.

Like spasms. Like spasms of sounds.

Some say the God of cries is sad. Some say its tragic.

But really the God of cries is a sect. A platform with vinegar and viny growths with tiny, hard, juciy red grapes that are blackish like hair. And the prayer is masturbation. And the bible is porn. And the hymns are heaving breaths of ecstasy and laughter and creaking beds that fall together and the rythmic pulses and beats and throbs that sooner or later sound just like the cries that the God of cries sings.

And sings.

And sings.

Wierd when high on coffein

2007-02-13T13:26:00.000-08:00

SWEAT

I thought it was kinda wierd when my boyfriend said he had something ”fun” for us to do. Usually, he is not the type to initiate anything fun.
I was, because he is a complete fugly, boring jerk, very suspiscious.
His idea for fun meant lying naked on the floor, wrapped in specially importet seaweed, listening to whalesounds on a CD and pretening being born.
Suspiscious indeed.
So, anways, opening the door, I entered his crummy appartment which looks something right out of an add on how screwed up you might actually end up if you go to art school and learn how to draw your inner space. Naturally, my fucked boyfriend failed that task, just drawing a rectangle with a bed.
He sucks.
His innermost, sacredmost space is a rectangle room with a bed.
Anyways, opening the door, I could tell he was excited. He gets interesting little shudders around his eyes, like something poking under his skin. Its really gross. I can’t believe I loved him.
He took my hand, and he was clammy, and he dragged me into the bedroom, which smells like bananas, and on the floor there was a present, wrapped with a lavishly embrodiered paper and ugly piece of string that I bet my nipples on he just had left over from that time he made a statue out of string. The statue was supposed to look like a figure. But then the entire thing collapsed upon itself, and the string-statue ended up what it started as. A ball of string.
The lame bastard had obviously packed the present himself, because it looked like a guy with Downs, high on LSD and diet-pills could have done a better job. There was discared pieces of tape strewn all over the place. On the walls. On the floor. Even on his pants.
“Open it”, he whispered in my ear, pressing his small, little, purple, jagged penis against me.
“It isn’t a jack-in-the-box, right?” I moaned.
He snorted.
I hate it sorely when he snorts.
So, him shaking like an anemic palm-tree to pitiful and stupid to bend over and die hovering over me, I opened the present.
At first I didn’t know what to think.
And that happenes rarely with me.
It looked like an enormous plastic balloon. Like a condom, only hugerer and more appalling.
“What. The. Fuck. Is. This?”
He went to his knees, and I could tell that he was rock hard, if the rock was a tiny litte discared piece of cement on an old parking lot in Mexico. He kissed me with the fugly lips like snorting cocain on the floor and shuddering and crying because he pushed his wheel-chaired grandfather over a small bridge when he was a kid because the grandfather touched his “special place”. What a lame-o!
And then, that throb around his eye going off, he whispered:” I want you to take it on.”
So I did.
I undressed, threw my clothes at him, and the buckle on my belt hit his eye, so I liked that, and then I stepped into the huge plastic thing. It stuck to my skin. It was a carpet, a veil of this thin but durable marverlously sacred and beautiful polymer.
“What is it?”
“its a fetal membrane. I want you to be a big, horny child, unborn. And I want to watch you.”
So I did.
I put the fetal membrane around myself, its comforting walls sealing him away, and I put my face close to it. Soon, I began to sweat, and the sweat dripped from my skin and stuck to the plastic, gluing me close to it.
I could tell that he was jerking off.
His purple penis was looking at me.
I didn’t care.

And through the life force and there goes her friend

2007-02-10T03:42:00.000-08:00

This is the first free-saturday I have had for ages and ages and years and years. So, woho, I don't need to sit chained behind a register whilst the consuming-paper dolls fly by with their fat children and their bearded women who are so frustrated and lost in their ivy-climbing gardens and their yellow checkered kitchens.

So freedom for me.

I have to get a LOAD of chemistry-work done, with entails tedious searches for mechanisms for the reaction between K4Fe(CN)6 to prove the Fe3+. Gawd! What the fuck is this?

Need to write more. Need to write more. But my time isn't mine any longer. if anyone ever asks me what it means to grow up, I would say that it is about losing your own time. The hours are still there, of course, but they are not your own, like shiny marbles in a purple veily pouch, lost one and one.

Going for a run. Want to spend some time in the sauna. Get so steaming hot all the toxins and all the shit and every fucking bad thing that ever, ever happened to me will seethe through my too-big-and-hideous pores.

Yes.

Yes.

Then I will write. About isabella Høst. And her water. And her oceans. And her piano of stone in the stormy shores.

Familia

2007-02-02T13:00:00.000-08:00

My littlest sister is on a sleepover in my new house, which isn't a house so much as a tiny room connected to a slightly tinnier room. My other sister is going to her first ball today, and she had her hair done like, for a gazillion hours, just like in TV, and she had a pink dress bought for money saved through years. And my other, other sister is at her boyfriends, and they like to sabotage christmas by making out until my mother flips.

And I am here.

There are pink little shoes in the hallway.

And two glasses on the table.

AAAAWKWAAAAARD!

2007-01-30T11:56:00.000-08:00

You know that show with people dancing? That's so embarrassing! I mean, jesus!

here's a funny picture. She's a lesbian writer and she has sex with men only to emasculate them. She likes to have her stereo on full and dance, and she loves tight, tight shiny pants. She makes pottery out of claydeposits.

Something I wrote.

2007-01-15T14:21:00.000-08:00

Healing Rain

The worst thing about fatal sickness is that it kills your mind long before your body. That and the whole writhing in agony part.
It bites and bites, stripping away all that is your basic humanity until you are reduced to just the basics of humanity. Sure, you breathe, you shit, you pee, you caugh.
But all the other things, all the parts of you that remembers those days when you could really and truly feel there was something more to the self than basic chemical and biological functions. Well, those days are gone.
You bleed them through your sweat.
You respire them through those painful, heaving coughs that leave you just too fucking exhausted to even turn in the bed, to raw and bloody and defeated to even open your eyes. The bed you have stayed in for so long you feel it has become a part of you. Like a third, freakish leg.
Just another handicap.
Just another pittiful little ugliness.
At first you feel yourself dwindle and wither, feel the muscles that used to carry you to the tallest places, that could plunge you to the lowest, that could support you in walking, dancing, making love, making dinner.
All those muscles die away.
Tiny, tiny implosions in your body. Like the seconds.
And then, time passes, and you don’t feel the person you used to be any longer, you’ve forgotten, and you don’t feel the memories. Only vaguely, like the fever-induced hallucinations, or that familiar, sweet and bitter hole that the painkillers dig for you.
And then you stop noticing that you are dying.
And at that prescise moment.
You are really dead.
It is irony, that whole thing with the rain. And I cried when I learned the truth of it, cried like I have never cried before. It hurts to cry when you are sick. Your whole body is propelled into a spasm-hell that justifies those long, long, long hours of staying perfectly still because you fear the pain of moving, of turning your head, of even opening your eyes.
And that is what I am.
Immobile.
Nothing.
I have made peace with it. I had to. They don’t let you die here. I have tried to die. I have tried so bad. Irony served me a sardonic blow here as well. Too good health, they tell me. So you will last long.
Lucky me.
Lucky me.
I had to make peace with being nothing. With not being able to move. With not being able to walk. With having to endure someone putting a pipe inside me that drains the piss away. With having to endure someone washing me with an indifferent swamp, suddenly trembling because I remember washing my daughter this way, with washing lovers this way, with washing the kitchen in this way.
I won’t let my daughter come here.
I wouldn’t be able to bear it.
It’s been years.
I watched the rain when it fell. It was around noon, I remember, because I was waiting for my bath. When you only lie completely still, you have these completely trivial, boring things as major landmarks in your life. Eating. The night shows on TV. Bathing.
The rain came out of nowhere. It came suddenly and violently. I remember being astounded, because such things don’t normally happen. Rain doesn’t spontanously compose. I mean, its just water, and water doesn’t come from nowhere.
From a blue sky amazing clouds billowed and formed, gathering and coagulating in a wild dance that took my breath away, swirling and dancing and moving like a wild, wild flock of gray swans.
And then the rain came.
There was something strange about it. Even I could tell from my bed through the window, locked and gagged. There was a luster, a gleam, a strange whitness to the rain of purity that vanished from the eyes if focused upon. Shivers developed on my body, my pale, skeletal, sick body. I started shaking slightly.
The fine hairs rose in awe.
And just as suddenly that the rain had started, it vanished.
The clouds evaporated.
And there was only the sun.

The hysteria started moments after the rain had ended. I heard it in the halls. And it lasted, and lasted, and lasted. I wanted dearly to know what was going on, and I tried to move, a thing I had long learned to despise and not even try. But the sounds and the laughter and even crying commenced, and it lasted. And even though I knew it would cost me dearly, I sat up on the bed, stiffling the growing spasmatic coughs, coming to my legs in a way I had not stepped on them for ages, feeling unfamiliar nerves awokened in the feet, and I, and to this day I don’t know how I manged, dragged myself to the hall.
There was a swirl of people, and I gasped, and someone came over to me and said, excited:” I was outside, in the rain, and the water fell on me, and something happened inside me, inside. And now I feel completely and utterly well.”
It was only later that I recognized the voice of Mrs. Stragazzito, the woman who had liver-cancer. A few days later, tests confirmed that, yes, she was for all matters and purposes completely healthy.
This happened to almost all the other patients who were outside in the rain. The rain washed their sickness and ailments and illnesses away, drained it off them, freed their souls of this anguish.
Cancer, HIV down to only genital warts.
All vanished.
Just like that.
It was all over the news, but no one could explain it. I know, because I watched every talk show and every news broadcast with fervent fascination.
And each time there was an interview with someone from the hospital who had been freed,who had been cured, and each time there were pictures of people I had know for years who had been lying in agony and pain running around, a part of me I didn’t know had been salvaged from the sickness died.
And I experienced a whole new kind of death.

His eyes were the color of the sand and the sea

2006-12-31T07:27:00.000-08:00

I have hated New Year's Eve, for like, ever. In many ways, its like Christmas. Christmas and New Year's are like freaky twins both with matching interesting skinillnesses. Christmas, like the greatest of the twins, is the subject of intense and toiling planning, analyzed and scrutinized and planned and mapped so much, expectations rising like blood to the head, churning and burning, and so, when the day finally arrives, everything is just, slightly... off. And it is never really as magical or mystical or beautiful as projected by your own mind or stupid TV shows.

And so you sit there, mopping up your broken dreams along with the firneedles from the tree you chopped down, illegally, because you waited too long to buy it(if your like my mother, that is).

People act like New Years Eve should be this culmination of the year, like that single arcane moment when everything comes together, all the moments in a whole year, every moment of laughter and joy and all that shit, coming together, materilizing like a multicolored mist, swallowing you like a cockhungry Asian freak.

Now wonder it always turns out to be boring and shitty.

Last New Years, I spent listening to Little Earthquakes at twelve, completely alone.
It was wonderful.

And then I wonder, and I do this all the time, is it reality that makes New Year's shitty, or is it the fact that I might have convinced myself it will be shitty. i don't know. But I'll try to make it cool. i'll try.

And New Years should be a time where not only the laughter and the joy meet together, but also the pain and the anguish and feeling like shit and hating and fretting and being thin skinned, like covered in eggshell, like naked and vulnerable. Because that is a part of life.

And the joy and the ardor and the pain meet, like silver and metal and gold.

And there is only the memories and who we once were.

People I love

2006-12-27T00:18:00.000-08:00

I love Terry Goodkind. To be thirteen again and discover him, to really trully and utterly let him again open me up to the greatness of the written word. I think Terry Goodkind made me want to read, not only for the pleasure of reading, but for some higher purpose as well. He was the first author to crack me open, to show me the strenght of the story, and even though I do not agree to the extremistic nature of objectivism, I certainly can relate to the basic notion of the beauty of life. And I just finished Phantom.

I love Neil Gaiman, because he is kind of wierd, because he has the capacity to shroud reality with fantasy in a way I don't know if I will ever be capable to, not that I would want to write the stuff he does; I like to stick to the contemporary stuff. It simply does more for me. But I love Sandman, both from a writer's and an artist's point of view. Not that I am neither, but you know. I can pretend.

I love Haruki Murakami, because he is kind of wierd, and he kept me up all night analyzing(ha ha, anal) Lederhosen and all the other strangely titled short stories of the Elephant Vanishes. I like holding his hand and letting him help me ease my own head. Like learning to let go to your own creativity and not always knowing, in painstalking detail, exactly what every faucet of your writing means.

I love Thomas Dybdahl, because his music exists on a totally fundamental level.

I love Laurlyn and Avan. In all their guises.

Its coming on Christmas...

2006-12-25T06:11:00.000-08:00

Just a little thing

2006-12-08T02:11:00.000-08:00

If I'm ever going to post anything here, I'll have to be a little more uncritical. Or else nothing will ever be postet. From now on this blog will be a sketchpad, okay? Here is a wierd thing I wrote:

My penis is clean, okay?

Okay, so I have a really intense relationship with pee.

This is not an amazing thing, given that I have a really intense relationship with many things. For one, I have an intense relationship with porn of any kind. The wierder and the more spesific the porn, the better. Like twins both with one leg wrapped in bublewrap whilst they sing ba-ba-blacksheep, or six men building something, and you wonder what they are building, and you get so wrapped up in what they are building that you forget that they are hot and kinda naked, and everything that goes around in your mind, churning and churning, blending and mixing and shaking is what are they building?

Turns out, they are building a bed. And then they have sex on the bed, and in some small way, you feel let down.

Like the wierd porn-thing, I can’t really say why pee is fascinating to me. Like the porn, the intense, magnetic attraction isn’t really sexual. It’s not like I secretly want to be naked in a brown tub whilst some fat Swedish man pee on me. Or pay someone to pee in a bottle and send it to me. Someone asked a friend of mine to sell him a bottle of pee. It was to be sent via mail. And I kept wondering, when this bottle of pee turn up at this freakish stranger’s place; what is he going to do with it? Is he going to just stare at it, keep it in a shelf and feel delight in knowing that this is someone else’s discared nutria? Is he turned on by urea? These are the things I think about and find strange. Of course, the fact that a stranger asked my friend to send him his pee: well, that’s just normal.

On further reflection, and I find an amazing amount of time to reflect upon these things, it’s not even the pee in itself that attracts me. It might be just the thing that it comes out of someone. Like puke. And sperm.

Both of these are things I am interested in.

It’s like there is something amazingly intimate about something that has passed through the somebodys individual catabolism. It’s like there is something astoundingly remarkable about matter that has been digested or modified or sucked the energy and nutria out of.
Like a hair, only more personal. Like a kiss, only more individual.

Whenever I am talking and forget my point or a word; instead of just laboring endlessly, flicking my fingers and shaking my head, doing gross overracting to establish that I just can’t think of what it was I wanted to say, I just fill in with the words sperm or pee or puke. You know the way kids say thing all the time to fill in for other words? Like, you know that thing in the thing? Well, I do that with pee or sperm.

This allows for all sorts of strange episodes, like telling your mother to fetch the sperm or telling a friend to pee a little louder and not puke on the sperm.

I mean, sperm is really gross. It’s this sticky, kinda chunky guey thing that spurts out of you and hits you in the eye so it swells up and turns a viscious red, a big sign that tells the world:” Yes, I am a lonely freak that wanted just a few minutes(hey, who are we kidding?) of not feeling pathetic and envious of everyone actually having sex with bodies, and now you all know.” If you ever see a guy with one really red eye, you know what it means.

Sperm can also hit objects and the wall. If it hits the wall, it might be hard to get it off, especially if you wait. Now, no one will have sperm hanging on their walls for long, unless that is like a wierd sex-thing, but sperm has a tendency to sort of clump, coagulate, when out of your penis. And that just adds to the whole general yukiness of sperm. Even as a gay man, I can’t really find joy in getting sperm all over my face. In fact, it’s kind of annoying, like the byproduct of sex, like sex’s answer of the lactic acid. And it has a really strange smell. And someone tells me it tastes salty. Not that I would know anything about that. I mean, if you masturbate and the sperm hits your eye and the wall, it might end up in your open mouth, in which case you are seriously fucked. And you catch yourself in thinking:”Oh my god, I just swallowed my own sperm.”
Pee is also kinda gross, but not nearly as gross as sperm. I actually never really feel the real urge for washing my hands after peeing. People always get really freaked out when I tell them this ( I often introduce myself to people by telling them that I rarely wash my hands after peeing). They argue with eyes round and big with disgust that you get pee on your hands. This is true only if you pee on your hands. Which I rarely do. And when I say that, that look, that particular, very recognizable look that I know so well, the look like the penultimate judgement before complete and utter social outlock flare up, and they say that, well, I touched my penis. Which is really kind of an insult. It’s not like the penis is dirty. Sure, bacteria might flourish there, but I wash every day. My penis is clean, okay? And then they say, scoffing, that pee is dirty. Well, its not! Pee is completely sterile! If it was dirty and boiling with bacteria, you would be dead, okay? Freshly squeezed pee is one of the cleanest things ever. You could totally use pee to clean surgery tools. Just have a man stand by with his penis hanging, and someone could use it like a tube and just hold it with two fingers and lead it around to where something has to be sterilized.

Then they leave, these strange people with their strange limitations.

So much for that friendship.

At least I have my porn.

My penis lives its own life. Not really in normal, day-to-day life. Then it just sits there. There aren’t really that many arousing things that happens studying chemistry. It’s not like I am turned on by relativistic effects, or orbital theory, or the stabilizing of protein structure. And the gym is just old men and old women. And work is just freaks.

But when I drink, my penis’ head grows larger than my own, brain-wise, and it becomes an independent part of me. Sometimes, dancing or something, I might accidentally touch myself and think:”Oh my god, I am hard” and this comes to me like a complete surprise. Worse is it if I am at a toilet, and the one booth is taken(see, I also have a really intense relationship with urinals, mainly, I hate them) and I end up standing next to a billion other men, their slack penises hanging out and clear to brown pee singing down the metall, and I suddenly, as I yank it out, realize that it is erect.

Now that allows for extremely akward situations.

And it’s not like I can say:”Hey, I didn’t know I was hard.” That’s like Hitler saying he thought concentration camps were health farms or Pauling saying he really didn’t know proteins.
So then I just stand there with my absolutely enormous erection sticking out in a sea of drunk men peeing.

Now I just check sometimes.

Hello Mr. Penis, are you hard?

A few pics

2006-12-07T07:21:00.000-08:00

JIll Soloway, Saloway, Solaway etc

2006-11-28T08:00:00.000-08:00

Jill Soloways says she checks even mispelled incarnations of her own name in google. So I hope she finds this. If she does, well, she will know someone who just happens to be spontaneously decomposing over glycolysis and got a C on his wonderful article about protein targeting and the calnexincycle mentioned her just off-beat. She has started blogging again, so everyone rejoice.
(Not that anyone reads this. But in my own head I'm like super popular and people love me)

Of course, this post isn't really about Jill Sallowai. Even though she is fabelous and wonderful, like so many others. This post is really about me never being able to let go when I get a shitty grade. Why do I constantly vy for acknowledgment from a completely unpersonal form of authoral figure?

Why can't I just like what I do, and not think of the fact that I have to know certain things to painstalking detail, have to memorize all the fucking enzymes that catalyze the fucking glycolysis and the fucking gluconeolysis and the fucking metabolic fucking pathway?

Probably because my way of diversing myself from the other fucking entities of normality has been by being smart, being creative, being a talker, being a homosexual, being intersting. So if I am not smart, that means I am one less defining characteristic away from being really interesting, and one closer to being just a part of uniformality.
And in a way, my yearning to be special sort of makes me just as dull as everyone else.

It's a lose lose situation.

In other news: Done Neil Gaiman's Sandman, love it, still stuck on chapter 3, but not because I am really stuck, but because I haven't had time or energy. Done Choke, the Paulhaniuk book, done Burgess, done Sigur Ros.

Think you can die from being oversexed?

PS: Took the picture a cold Monday morning, waiting for the bus. The letters spoke to me.

Fuck

2006-11-18T13:17:00.000-08:00

Okay, so what is there to say? Kind of a lot, as it always is. But I'm not going to say all of it. First of all, artist-wise, the three chapters I was so proud of were lost in the horrible computer-virus oblivion where the laptop just collapsed under the weight of so much porn. I have been lucky for so long, being able to download like, a gazzilion tons of virtual stimuli, and hence everything had to go straight to hell sooner or later.

So that's that.

I had a really interesting experience with puke and vodka last weekend. Without question this is going into the book in some incarnation, and someone made a film out of my touch-a-lesbian-in-a-really-gay-way-dance and posted it on youtube. Maybe I will use this as well. I have not seen this film, and I never, ever, ever will. I'll probably decompose.

Other things that are on my mind:
-exams getting closer and closer, in fact, so close breathing is getting harder. All my classes this semester are of course ridiculously hard. So fuck me, I guess.
-Reading more than usual these days. Chuch Palahniuk, Murakami. And Burgess. Liked Clocwork Orange. Need to see the film.
-Feeling guilty about not writing enough. Have to go down and do it afterwards. Finish the next part of chapter 2.
-Someone with a hidden number has been calling me a lot and I thought it was a sadist or something. Turns out it is a Freundin in Brazil.
-Lot of good music. Love Sleater-Kinney. Love Thomas Dybdahl.

It's easy like one two three

2006-11-14T06:32:00.000-08:00

When I get my pay from where I work I'm gonna buy a camera. And I'll post pictures. There are all sorts of funny little ugly things I could write, but I'll just take a long crap in stead.

Maybe she's just pieces of my you've never seen.

Lost highway

2006-11-03T14:12:00.000-08:00

I always feel so guilty about this blog. It's a strange thing. I like to write, in fact, it is a very important part of me. And I really like this blog, because it allows me just to open everything up. Not that I don't do that, like all the time, but you know...

Downstaris Lost Highway is on pause. I don't know why, but I pause it all the time because I want to draw. I don't know if I like, hate, despise or love David Lynch. Part of him is a big, fat phoney I think. But what the hell do I know. Have I written a ton of movies? Let me check my CV. No, I haven't.

The writing of my third novel is going great, I think. And my mother is watching some strange drama on the reich channel on the television. Wierd. And now she switched to a woman showering, and she didn't want to watch that. And now she is watching that crocodile frek who died. For some reason that was fun, so she stopped changing channels.

Are we related?

One of the characters in my book is a sworn Placebo fan.

My feet are wet

2006-10-25T04:35:00.000-07:00

and there are so many things I should be doing. It's really sad how much time I use feeling guilty about all the shit that I should focus on, instead of sitting in this lousy computerlab(why is it a lab?) and just surfing away my time.

The celing is transparent, so I can see the fall rain and hear it too. It's kind of intimate, and I would love the rain had not my shoes been completely fucking miserably wet.

It's much easier to like something when there is a piece of cheap plastic between you and it.

So, yesterday I sat up until late, getting high on coffein and feeling guilty because I would skip the first lesson, and now that I am here it turns out that there isn't so much I have to do, which has been a lot this semester. Now is the time to repeat and digest!
Fuck digesting.

I don't really feel like anything. Wait, I feel like eating candy. Chocolate.

Time to do something. Read thermodynamics. That's what'll do.

And then I'll eat.

Everything ends

2006-09-26T04:43:00.000-07:00

People die.

It's true. Of course we die. Nothing is for ever. Even the mountains were once born, spawned from the magma of creation. And the mountains must also bend their white head to the sand and become the sand like their father-mountains before them did.

Of course we die. There are wars. There are conflicts. There are viruses and bacteria and AIDS and guns. And there are freak-accidenst like getting a golf-ball in your head whilst reading Atlas Shrugged. Of course we die.

And yet, when death comes to us, in a vicinity we can comprehend, not war-struck Africa or plagued Southern America, but just a few miles east of us, we are totally and utterly shocked.

Agasht.

Not because we ever thought we would last forever. We know we won't. We are shocked because we now see, fully, without any room for doubt, that death is a sporadic bitch. Death wears a pink bolero and she has nice boobs. She keeps men uneasy because she has no plan, no agenda, no set of motion they can ever fathom, and she scares the shit out of women because they know the danger of someone on a tune that no one else can relate to.

Death comes. Planless. Not on a schedule. Not with a calender or a watch.

She takes the life of a young man falling of a balchony, suddenly, devistatingly.

Did this young man help her? Did he give her a hand to ensure his own end?

He might have.

We will never know. As well as we will never know him.

Probably, weighing the simpleness of mere statistics, he would have been a very uninteresting sort of person. Boring or childish. But that changes nothing.

The frailty of our lives, that we are simple goose eggs with legs, cracked and ripped to pieces as easily as the touch of death's pink nails is an important lesson.

So if you ever see a woman with a pink bolero, looking up, looking down...

RUN FOR YOUR LIFE

The alchemist and his castle

2006-09-20T04:48:00.000-07:00

and there he was, under the broadness of his own profession, sloped in his castle with his gloves and his glasses and the light and the instruments and their sounds and smells and things.

Drowning in his shelves of items and flasks and impliments, of crystall-dusts and shining objects and the glass and the metall that gleams dully and perfectly at the flame of magnesium, the parchment with his own ink in the letters and figures and diagrams in the cellar beneath the sky that he tries to understand with its stars that he journies and memorates within its own perfect rubber instances of powedery substance that boils fitfully into homogenous nothingness as he peers out of his window and notices, astounded, that it rains.

My beanbag is a Beauty Queen

2006-09-17T09:01:00.000-07:00

Boys for Pele is incredibly beautiful. Like serious shit.

I could go on and on.

But for once, I won't.

Thermodynamics, the art of saving documents in Word

2006-09-11T02:14:00.000-07:00

Going to the University is the source of many perks and joyous occations, as the really spitzy parties the faculty holds on some small, dank room on the third floor where only the German exchange students come to because they are too fucked-up to talk to other people under normal settings, or, which is the funderfullest of them all, getting up at 6:30, taking a horribly stuffed bus like some macabre Thanksgiving turkey, falling into an ugly auditorium, so proud of yourself you could cry because you actually managed to get up on a Monday to go to thermodynamics only to have the professor use two fucking hours to show you the three groundbreaking, amazing ways you can save documents in Word and where the laboratory is, on some sketch on the blackboard that a three year old with Downs could have done better.

How wonderful the University is! Now awaits the reading-hall, which looks and feels and smells pretty much like the concentration "showers" that Hitler so aptly used.

Judgement of the moon and stars and hamburgers

2006-09-03T04:36:00.000-07:00

I think I drink simply so I can eat hamburgers. It's really kind of really sad, really, kind of. I ate two hamburgers yesterday night, right after each other, and the sour-cream/ketchup lettuce-thing fell down on my thigh and left an ugly stain.

How decadent. Like really gross hedonism just under the surface, unleashed by the simple cataclysm of alcohol. I like thinking that the traits people present when drunk are just exaggerations of who they are, like when people get violent when drinking, or, like me, really gay and hugging everyone, and, also like me, eat a lot of crap.

I have to seriously go on a diet or something. All that beer, all that crap.

Oh well...

Penus

2006-08-27T09:52:00.000-07:00

I don't really have that much to say. Soon I'm going for a run, because I ate chocolate yesterday, and a lot of it, so I felt sick. It's raining outside, so it will be a soaking experience, kind of deep and spiritual, journeying into the rain and out to the sea.
I am thinking about what music I will listen to, but it's so hard to concentrate because the TV is on and my little sister is watching Disneychannel and a promo about talking cars.

"Etter en stund kom folk bort til meg etter filmen og sa, gud, jeg trodde faktisk de var snakkende biler."
quote from someone who made the film.

Crap-

Taking a break from smutty recreation

2006-08-21T04:09:00.000-07:00

Ok, biochemistry is like serious shit. Just got the book for the advance class(I haven't taken the first class) and I am having a freak out, right this instance. The book is like, a billion pages long, each page as thin as overly possible, attempting to push the material as far as possible, the molecules just barely holding themselves together because the paper is so thin!

See, it's already in my blood!

On a general basis I can conclude that there is simply too much information!

Gold dust

2006-08-17T04:34:00.000-07:00

You said -
You raced from Langley -
pulling me underneath
a Cherry Blossom
canopy

Still still

2006-08-14T02:15:00.000-07:00

Too much pRessure. Too much weight. Overwhelming by its sheer scope and grandeur, simply unfathomly grEat and vast and enormous, this thing we call ourselves. Giants, titans, mountains and spires and Bridges and ramparts and old things, ancient things, inherit things, things of maddness and evIl and attrocities and rage and defiance and screaming in the morning sun with the quivering dewdRops and dreading the night and the spies and the dark things, the little things, the bugs and The worms like gossamer threads in the mould with their hairy little limbs, slimy and wrigly gross tHat fit in the cavities and that crawl in your nose and ears and into your eyes and bettwen your teeth and the smell of the rot and the decay and the shit and the dust and the urine and the end.

Just like that.

The end.

Hammer, ice and... freon

2006-08-08T03:02:00.000-07:00

We have a refrigerator. This might not be an overly exciting way to start this post, but it is the truth, and that is at least something. We have to defrost it sometimes, and to speed up the process that is a long and laborious one at that, having no fridge for the better part of a whole day, and having water all over the place; I deviced a cunning way of getting the ice out quicker.

In fact, it was so cunning, it was cunting.

With a screwdriver and a hammer I just slashed out the ice, even though my mother constantly informed me that I HAD TO BE CAREFUL, because there is a little wire far at the back that connects with the small freon chamber, the gas that makes the fridge work. If I hit that, all hell would break lose. I defrosted the fridge, time lapsed, I defrosted the fridge again.

Each time my mother polietly informed me that I HAD TO BE CAREFUL, because there is a little wire far at the back that connects with the small freon chamber.

After having worked a lot, I came home around nine in the evening and my mother wanted me to defrost the fucking fridge, I told her that no, I am to tiered, so she decided to do it herself.

At two thirty in the morning, I am dragged out of my deepest REM-sleep, completely disillusioned, completely having no idea who I am, where I am, what I am, what time it is, why I have a penis... All those things.
Hysterically, from the other side of the door, I hear my mother screaming

"I hit the wire and got a big spill of freon-gas right in my face! Is this poisionous?! IS IT?!"

I couldn't answer her, most because I don't have any first-hand knowledge of the abilities of freon(my mother thinks because one studies chemistry one has intimate knowledge with the over 19 billion compounds around).
The point is, the entire situation was so absurd, so stupid, so strange, and so utterly confusing that all I managed was to moan some words that it wasn't and fell asleep again.

My mother ruined the fridge and ended up shaking in the night because she thought she was going to die. For some reason she thought the house was going to explode. I don't know why she thinks the consumer-market allows toxic and highly reactive/explosive gases in normal household-objects.

When I told her all this, she was just angry.

So now we have a new fridge.

Hate

2006-08-04T01:33:00.001-07:00

I hate you, dear spinning instructor Anders. It's true. I hate you so much I seriously had to hold back from just raping you with a stone statue from the medieveal ages, formed to look like Skadi, the frost giantess.
Spinning is so stupid and silly and unnatural that it hardly needs help from you. Why do you say "are we ready?" all the time, scream it over that stupid loudspeaker system so everyone becomes deaf. No one says "yes". Everyone just mumbles annoyed.

Are we ready?!
(Grunting)
ARE WE READY!!!!!!!!!!!
(More grunting)
Well, okay then.

I hate the fact that you sing along to your questionable repetoar of music that you have selected from CDs you found in the 90 cent bin at your local gas station. Why do you do that? Especially dumb is it when the song youhave selected is just "I want it all" again and again.
And I also hate the fact that you are so willing to share information about yourself. Why the fuck do I want to know that you have as much warm-water as you want and that you need to get home because you want to watch a rerun of Hotel Penis?
Fuck you asshole. I am going to complain about you.

C U in hell!

Like moth to a nose

2006-07-31T02:43:00.000-07:00

Around four in the morning I woke up because I felt, very clearly, something trying to get into my nose. I woke hysterically and started to slap wildly around myself, among other places, my own face, and then I couldn't sleep in fear of things getting into my orofocieses(or however you spell it).

I started a story called "My first venereal disease" yesterday, but it never developed properly. After I finish Whisper, I hope to start my third project, which hopefully will be in Norwegian. But I have totally forgotten how to write Norwegian, and I need to rediscover it, so I have a big list of Norwegian books I will try to borrow from the pathetic library where they have only books on orgasms and labia.

By the way, I still hate this blog.

Court and Spark

2006-07-20T11:45:00.000-07:00

I just applied for a part-time job and for some reason it seems to me to be imperative that I get it. Like my life will end if I don't. Wonder why.
And my application was like serious shit as well, and I caught myself laughing at the crap that sometimes comes out of me, though through my fingers and not my rectum. The other side of the really suck-up application is of course that it is ridiculously well-written. It's like the best piece of writing I have ever done. Which is, like all other things, amazingly sad.

Currently doing Chapter 18, which is called Treacherous Ruby, and even though the writing has eased up because I feel totally uninspired when I just sit around and wallow in my own boredom, it is now finally good. So yeah, Jesus.

And I am like totally obsessed with Court and Spark, but only Court and Spark, not the whole CD. I don't think I really get it yet.

"Love came to my door
with a sleeping-roll
and a madman's soul
he thought for sure I'd seen him
dancing on the river in the dark
looking for a woman
to court and spark."

FUCKING SHIT,THERE ARE SO MANY THINGS I WANT!!!!

Strange documentaries I watched in my boredom-orgy
- With tumor for face
- Born without face
- Fat families
- 2 years and 50 kg
- Will and Grace

I am a hobo(and the thing that sounds like hobo)

2006-07-17T03:59:00.000-07:00

I think I might have to live on the streets, which will totally ruin my manicure. And I don't really have an attaire for being on the street, anyways. So because of these two reasons, I demand that the University of Bergen should put me in front of all the other people who also need somewhere to stay.

The whole reason I selected Fantoft(even the name hints of its slightly rustic and wierd and, well, frankly, horrible nature) was because, as someone said, "it wasn't the most popular place int the world." Therefore, by reason, few people should want to live there, and I will get a place.
Too bad the world doesn't spin because of logic.

And by the way, there are like a million stories about really gross things that people met when in Fantoft. There are supposed to be a billion cockaroches there, and those reeeeeaaally gross animals, those flat lice things that hide in the wall for years and years until they come out one night, when you are sleeping, and sits on top of you, draining you of blood before they go back to their space in the wall and stay there for another eight years.

And this one woman found larva in her pillow.
Pukatronic.

I am in for one wonderful, rich year...

Cunt

2006-07-13T03:58:00.000-07:00

Is this the moment when I say:"I think I've had too much"?

The tree and the light

2006-07-11T16:43:00.000-07:00

I don't care if this blog sucks. I don't care if no one reads it. It will be only for me.

I was just out jogging at 2 in the morning. The clouds were heavy and the light was waning when I came upon this light, just a normal road-side light. A tree's canopy had spread around it, so when a cold, gentle breeze drifted from the sea, the leaves fluttered, the reflection in the asphalt that was newly wet by rain was so amazing that I wanted to cry.

But I am not a woman, so I didn't.

There is so much beauty in the world and I am so lucky to be alive, even though I got a fucking C on one of my exams and I might not find somewhere to live.

I need to retain my perspective on things.

The preciousness of life, the beauty of everything that is, the sheer magnitude of everything that spins into the cosmic dust of presence.

Apathy for inconsistency

2006-07-10T03:29:00.000-07:00

I am starting seriously to hate this blog, now. Not really starting, but at the end of the long cresent of emotional development that leads just to sheer apathy over the inconsistency with which I have treated this blog.
But I don't like to think that anything is my fault, so fuck you and fuck this blog that is so boring I wanna puke.

By the way, I am eating oatmeal because there wasn't bread, and the oatmeal is really disgusting. It reminds me of brain-matter. And its sort of spoongy and horrible, swelling in your mouth like paper, gooey and sticky to the roof of your mouth.
And I added too much salt.

Maybe that is the story of my life. I add to much salt to everything.

Washings on two lines

2006-07-03T07:16:00.001-07:00

Just before I went to bed after 13 hours on a train, 8+ on a bus and then 7,30 on a train again, I put on the washing machine. A sack full of clothes barely filled the machine, and I used a little excess of that blue softener stuff, because I am so sick of my shirts smelling horrible after the washing machine disaster in Budapest.

When I woke up, my mother had hanged them out for me. That struck me as a very great kind of kindness.

Now the clock is soon half past four, my bioclock is fucked up and I my MP3 player is strange and will not work. Plus I am sitting in my bathrobe.

Travelouge...

2006-06-17T13:17:00.000-07:00

I was just moving all my Joni Mitchell CDs over to my MP3-player, and it just hit me:" Holy Jesus, Joseph and doggy-style Maria, in just a day I am going away." Because, well, in just a day I am going to take a car to a plane and a taxi to a train, and then I will travel so much I just become a shadow, forced to oblivion by the magic of Joni Mitchell's haunting, eerie and beautiful voice and lyrics.

I forgot to buy a hundred thousand cameras, so I just have to remember everything that happens, even though I would rather have photographic evidence of all the sick crap I am going to to in eastern Europe, journeying across the plains, the mountains and over rivers and lakes, through cloud-spires and nights and days.
I hope I won't get too drunk, but that is probably just because I am still a little hung-over from last night when I pig-danced at some strange place. It was fun. Then I slept in a couch and woke up like every fourth minute because I had to pee. That, however, was a little tiering.

I am not sure what I am looking most forward to. And that is because I, the biggest, fattest control-freak in the gaping universe have almost not planned anything at all. I haven't even bought a Lonely Planet book, so when we end up in Krakow we won't know how to find the sex-museums and all the cheap prostitutes.

Ha ha, by the way, my mom had a serious speech earlier about venereal-dieseases. She said that I had to be careful. And then she had a long monolog concerning the fact that I had to not be naive about my money and the passport, and when I told her I am not retarded and know these things, she was seriously insulted, as she usually is, so I felt bad and tried to act interested in the brand new information that I shouldn't flaunt thousands of (insert currency) when I bought something.

She is a very strange person.

Rita Chung

2006-06-08T03:47:00.000-07:00

As always happens as something I have been working on comes to an end, my mind wanders and begin to construct my new project. I have already figured out two of the characters, and one of the two is going to be called Rita Chung. She is kind of based of Amy Sohn(Don't know how to put up a link, so you have to google her if you are that fucking interested) and she is also going to be an anorxic, I think. I have written kind of a small journal for her, but it's on the other computer and I am not allowed to couple that computer to the broadband, because, frankly, I think my mother thinks I am going to download porn or something, which, of course, is true.
But she doesn't know that.
So it's all very unfair.

Alive and... well, not well, but alive.

2006-06-02T03:46:00.000-07:00

If someone was wondering:"Hey, what happened to that fat guy in that TV show" I can't help you because it is vague what TV show you mean and I never watch TV in the first place, and I have a golden rule never to watch any shows containing fat men because the show is so bad they have to bring in the freaks to make it worthwhile to watch it.

IF someone was wondering, however,:"Hey, are you dead?" then I could answer that, no, I am not dead. I am simply having my exams. And two of them are finished, and if I don't get AT LEAST a B on them, then I will not be alive any longer, I will be DEAD.

Thank you for your time.

Hamster-sex

2006-05-25T07:12:00.000-07:00

Genuine quote from an exercise from my text book in organic chemistry:

"Since all hamsters look pretty mych alike, pairing and mating is governed by chemical means of communication. Investigations have shown that dimethyl disulfide is secreted by female hamsters as a sex attractant for males. How would you synthesize dimethyl disulfide in the laboratory if you wanted to trick your hamster?"

I outlined the entire thing with orange pen and wrote:" PERVERT!!!!". And I wanted to draw a man with a tiny penis, but I never got around to it.

Everything is going straight to HELL

2006-05-21T05:37:00.000-07:00

That's right. I am having a complete break-down, melt-down, anything-down. I am falling apart, disintgrating before the ending of the world. I AM DYING! Or, worse, I am going to get something under a B on my exams. Which is, like, the worst thing ever. It's almost as bad as waking up in a bed with an exchange student with an icky the size of Northern America on my neck and sperm all over me... Eh...

The ironic thing is of course that I should be reading right now. But since the term ends in like, two weeks, I just can't seem to focus enough. I have another whole fucking week of reading organic chemistry and linear algebra(if I hadn't taken that course, I wouldn't have gotten that joke in Thomas Pynchon's novel "V", so the obscure Dr. Eigenvalue give-away made this whole hellish experience worthwhile.)

So fuck me I guess.

Resonating creation...

2006-05-12T15:22:00.000-07:00

There is something incredibly beauiful in a used contact-lens.

Diddler on the Roof

2006-05-03T07:25:00.000-07:00

Oh my GOD! Did anyone else see that? Stephanie just crashed in the Bold and the Beautiful! Is she going to have amnesia? Is she going into a coma?Is she going to have a brain transplant so she becomes that bitch Amber who went to her mother to have the child and then the child died and then she ripped off Tiffany's wedding dress?

Oh, by the way, that had nothing to do with anything. So file it under irrelevant(which is now, officially my favorite thing to say. That can also be filed under irrelevant.)

To be honest, this post was really going to be about porn. You know, wierd internet porn or that cheap porn from poor countries from Eastern Europe where six guys are building something, which turns out to be a bed, and then they have sex on it.
This is by the way my favorite porn-plot ever and I laughed so hard I almost came.

It turns out I really want to make this post about the Bold and the Beautiful(look, it is in bold!) so I guess I am going to, then. That is what I love about this blog, it doesn't need to have anything to do with anything and can switch like a kaleidoscope.

This is a typical scene from the Bold and the Beautiful, but now my sister wants the computer so that's it I guess.

Everyone's waiting...

2006-04-29T15:18:00.000-07:00

The people who has any idea who I am and has watched any movie/TV-program with me knows that I basically hate the majority of movies/TV-programs. This includes but is not limited to LOST( Oh, nothing happens and everything is completely irrelevant and you never ever give a straight answer so why the fuck should we fucking care?) Desperate Houswives( You are all very unrealistic and boring and I hope you all die) and Letterman Show( YOU SUCK! YOU FUCKING FREAK!!!)

In the entire world, I have only one TV-show I am a die-hard fan of, and it is Six Feet Under, which is, sadly, finished.

Finito. The end.

This show really came to be a big part of my life, which is of course a really pathetic thing, but true nontheless. It was one of those things, searching so avidly for anything real in a world full of plastic, that when I first found it, I was just stunned.

I think I could say it affected my life in a way I had not experienced up to that point, and I can really say that the sheer beauty, creativity and just forcefull truthfullness inspired me hugely and have been an enormous influence on me.

Many times I used to imagine myself working as a writer on the show, and I really know the names of all the writers, which is also really sad, and I am a big fan of Jill Soloway, even though her book was very expensive off Amazon.
I haven't bought it yet, by the way.

So now that is over, and, teaching that everything ends, so did this show. Mournfully and clad in my black funeral suit, I dig with the shovel and pour warm earth over it.

Never was a cornflake girl

2006-04-26T06:56:00.000-07:00

but my feet are really cold...

Nails and teeth and cherry blossoms...

2006-04-21T06:45:00.002-07:00

Once I thought that my first book should bear any of the three names above, and I just thought about it now because my nails are really starting to get long.
You can file that under irrelevant.

I tried to find a picture using google and using "irrelevant" as the search term, but I just found a lot of crap, so I am sorry to all those who feel that reading stuff is much easier if you have a picture or two, but I couldn't find a picture.
You can also file that under irrelevant or possibly "wasting the readers time".

In other news, I just bought a new Tori Amos CD, Under the Pink, and I love the number 3 track, Bells for Her.
It is very poignant and haunting, and when they do the film of the book, I know exactly what scene it should be it and how the shoot should look. It is at the very end, the chapter called "A woman and the sea".

I am going to listen to it now.

There is so much horrible, malicious crap out there

2006-04-15T13:41:00.000-07:00

that when something good comes along, I am just really excited. Susie Bright is one of these things. Of course, she is not a thing at all, and she hasn't recently strayed into my life.
She has been present for some time.

For anyone not familiar with Susie Bright, she is really this extraordinary feminist sex-writer, this liberal, fighting-for-everything-good-and-true champion of free speech sort of person.
And I really love her.
I would be lying if I said I had actually read any of her numerous erotic stuff, so I am about to order them of amazon.co.uk. What I have read, however, is her blog, which is this beating heart-string about things going on in the US, which I of course wish I could be a part of but really can't, because, basically, I am stuck her and don't have the guts just to leave it all and become a waiter in LA or whatever.

Anyways, I really admire the strenght of her voice and her crusade against this malicious sex-struff coming from the conservative lair, and especially against anything seperating itself from white male and female in one sex-position with the lights out and the woman hating every second of it.
I hope to mirror some of the oppinions we have in common in my own work

"Keeping people neurotic and depressed and ignorant and self-doubting is oppressive. "

So, clits up everyone, and sex and freedom and enjoyment to everyone out there, even those who sleep with branches in their beds and climax by rubbing themselves against trees.

Here are som friends of mine:

2006-04-12T04:48:00.001-07:00

This is a friend I met on the internet posing as a fifty three year old Catholic priest, and her name is Shaniqua.

This picture was taken on a day we were out looking for butt-pluggs and we went to Wal-Mart and she found this fucked-up Winnie the Pooh thing and she said it looked like it had Downs and then I took a picture of her and I said that, on the picture, it looked like she had Downs and then she hit me with the fucked-up Winnie the Pooh thing and she was raped by three Venuuelean guys on the parking lot.

This guy used to be a female spinning-instructor until that fateful night when he woke up and found that he had been in a coma for sixteen years.
I took this picture of a freak on the beach where I usually hang out and have sex with children, and my friend just popped up.
(You didn't think the guy I was talking about is that disgusting old person with the tooth? It is the freak in the background! Jesus, some people are soooo sick, assuming I am making fun of people because they are ugly as sin!)
Anyways, that woman sort of leaning in is the mother of the taxi driver of that guy in the movie who was the slutty neighbour on the WB.

I don't have any more firends than these two!

Fruity yet strong

2006-04-07T03:16:00.000-07:00

Freak out!

2006-04-06T04:10:00.000-07:00

Anyone taking buses on like a regular basis has a few alarming/upsetting/horror stories/anecdotes of their own. It seems an inescapable fact that the dregs of humanity linger in the buses, drawn to the cheap décor and the furry seats, it’s almost their natural habitat. It is where they can have sex with their brothers and eat cat food.
It’s like that game where you have to have the chess-pieces and you go through a bus to get to the police station( the one person who got that reference: You are seriously fucked-up!)

So, aaaaanyways.
Here I was, on the bus, a fat man having me trapped against the window and the radiator so my thigh is slowly burned to crispy snacks.
He gets off, in fact, most of the bus gets off because only freaks and women live where I live.
And I, because my legs are as long as other things that are long, like long things, rest my long legs delicately on the set across me.
A freakish, ancient man tells me, shaking and quivering with anger, to get my feet down. I look at him a long time with what I imagine must be my signature shot, like:” Who the fuck are you? Do you really think you can talk to me?!” And I just sort of snicker, sort of evilly, sort of poison green/venom dripping from my fangs sort of snicker and I don’t move my fucking feet an inch!
And then!
AND THEN!
He walks over, sort of a wooden walk because his legs are erased from age and his heart pumps blood only two times a minute, he walks over to the driver and tells on me!
Can you believe that?
It’s so petty it deserves another color.

Petty.

And here is the most annoying part, the fact that I seriously should have freaked out and screamed at him and most people know that if I just open my mouth, the most amazing things can come out( like the new wonderbra) but I just froze!

Fuck!

Shit!
Ass!Penis!

In other news: Oh, who am I trying to kill, I mean, kid. There is no other news!

For anyone still caring...

2006-04-03T11:39:00.000-07:00

The first draft of my book is finished and I jused three hours yesterday rewriting one third of chapter one. And now I hate it.

Sometimes I wonder if it is all worth it.

And I can't give myself a prostate-orgasm, no matter what!

Yeah, so like, fuck you!

2006-03-30T10:38:00.000-08:00

I wrote this reeeeally weird sort of monolog-thing some time ago and I re-read it today. It was about this guy who had just broken up with his girfriend and was sort 0f going on a rant about various things he hated about her. At one point he showed the fictious audience this really grotesque self-made rendition of his late girfriend's vagina and said:" This is a picture of the only part of you worth having a discussion to" and then he went on reading from this list of things he hated about her written on toilet paper whilst he was taking a dump, but he had no more toilet paper, so he ended up wiping his ass with the things he hated about her.
And then there was this totally bizzare musical number and something with a cheese-hate...
I have no idea what was wrong with me when I wrote this and I just pray it should never get out in public. Why don't I delete it, then?
Because it was really funny, but only to me.

I feel like there is this massive library of things I have said and written which makes me look like an ass, so maybe I am an ass.

In other news, Hitler is dead.

Magdalene Launderies

2006-03-28T08:07:00.000-08:00

"I'll never talk about it at this level again, but let me ask you. Why have I survived that kind of night, when other women didn't? How am I alive to tell you this tale when he was ready to slice me up? In the song I say it was Me and a Gun but it wasn't a gun. It was a knife he had. And the idea was to take me to his friends and cut me up, and he kept telling me that, for hours. And if he hadn't needed more drugs I would have been just one more news report, where you see the parents grieving for their daughter. And I was singing hymns, as I say in the song, because he told me to. I sang to stay alive. Yet I survived that torture, which left me urinating all over myself and left me paralyzed for years. That's what that night was all about, mutilation, more than violence through sex. I really do feel as though I was psychologically mutilated that night and that now I'm trying to put the pieces back together again. Through love, not hatred. And through my music. My strength has been to open again, to life, and my victory is the fact that, despite it all, I kept alive my vulnerability."

Tori Amos

---

There is not much left to write in the first draft of the book. The climax is half-finished, and it was much easier to write than I thought, even though it will be better when I have finished the second draft and have the weight of everything else on my finger-tips.

It feels like only a few weeks since I started writing when everything was vague and conceptual and shady and just thinking about all the things I had to think through, all the times I thought:"What the fuck is the point of this? who the fuck are you, with your limited life experience to sit down and write something that is supposed to be real?", well, it's just numbing.

So here's to me!

Cheers!

Man imitating cloud

2006-03-16T09:50:00.000-08:00

This is "Limbo" by Odd Nerdrum and I am shocked still by its beauty.

Oh my sweet God, this is just too fucking perfect!

2006-03-14T06:50:00.000-08:00

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=5464505634137914176

Watch that link before reading on. It's not too long, just about 5 min and it is taken from that Fox show "Trading Spouses". I want you to have seen the entire thing! It is so fucking perfect that it almost makes me hard just to watch it.

I honestly don't really know what to say to top that film and that woman ugly as sin. I just don't have the power to overdo her...

I just can't shake the disgust of ugly TV programs

2006-03-06T14:06:00.000-08:00

Things I hate and why I hate them:

- "Three Wishes"

Just about five minutes with passive television watching made me feel dirty and ugly and meek. This show is mastubatory aid for WASPs where the single mother feels guilty about being single and her last wish is she gets to go to the local church and her father tells her that she is proud of her. God, what dribble!
How can anybody stand this complete desecration to anything sacred?!

- "Desperate Houswives"

The reason I hate this show is basically because my mother loves it and told me, in such overwhelming confidence it was disgusting that the "wives" resembled Six Feet Under a lot.
...
I mean, this show is just so fucking empty! These old women just stay the same! There is no emotional or spiritual evolution, just the same lame whimsical music in the background that tells you how to fell, just that very familiar thing where the plot focuses on some criminality so to create excitment and an illusion of forward motion where none exists.
The fact that is so easy to see which sort of group this show is marketed and made for, this sort of wounded, middle-class, white with three kids and a husband that does not care sort of woman makes it even worse.

There is NOTHING fundamental here! There is NOTHING even remotely beautiful, touching, painful or even funny in this crappy shit-show!

- "LOST"

I reeeeally like the formate. I really liked the idea when I heard it. I thought it was going to be some sort of modern Lord of the Flies, only without the predictable end. I thought it was interesting in the beginning, but as soon as the show started to focus on all that wierd crap to create a diversion from what I was really interested in, I just stopped watching.

The characters are very predicatble. The hero is a doctor who is kind, the female counterpart is a good criminal... I HAVE SEEN IT BEFORE!
I really liked that Asian couple though. But I hated the fat guy. It was very obvious why he was there. Not on the island, but in the show.

And to now over to the things I currently love:

- "Angles in America"

It is still fucking good!

-" Chuck Palanhiuk"

Or in whichever way one might spell his name.

-"Little Britain."

"Yeah I know!"

Caught in my head...

2006-03-04T06:01:00.000-08:00

As always follows when I reach the end of the first draft of anything, I go back and re-read and hate myself for trying to think I can pull anything real off, much more so an entire book.
After some time, sometimes longer times than other times, I finally get over myself and itch to start re-writing and gather the millions of turbulent threads flickering everywhere.

I have some chapters left, I guess I can count the amount on one hand, and for some reason I just read this paragraph now and thought I should post it.
It is from the 13th chapter and to the three people who read this blog, not counting the Asian people and the women, here it is, completely out of context.

It is painful to me to post it because I know how entirely unperfect and unpolished it is. But hey, it's okay to be fragile too. Sooo...Here it is:

Laurlyn was sitting on her bed inside the small yellow house in her room. She was naked. Her curtains were open and outside she could see the brilliant starry sky, a half crescent moon luminously white, visible if she lay back.
The top of the world was a big lump of sheer blackness in the horizon, a breast or the back of a curled-up fetus. In an open palm she saw three shards of glass.
The first one was long and thin, its edges razor sharp, thin layers of olive running through the concurrent hue of bottle-green. The second was larger, flatter, the color of a remorseful blue, almost sapphire. And the third…
Laurlyn looked at it in her open palm, stared at it, tried to comprehend its full meaning.The shard was the only shard of the three that had been intentionally created rather than the other two which had been brought into conception through destruction. This shard had been meant to be a shard.
The shard had been formed into a delicate icicle of furious burgundy, edges softened and polished with meticulous care.
And of the three shards, this was the one she felt with greatest weight in her open palm, felt it deepen into her hand as if it was a cold lead bullet.
He had been an apprentice glass-blower, hard, rough and aglow like the molten sand he twirled around at the end of the iron tube he used to heave air into.
Laurlyn had seen him do it many times, create glass. She had seen him dip the glowing spheres of liquefied sand into different types of color-dust, coloring the glass with random patterns, with stripes that ran through it. She had sat transfixed and seen him sweat; see his great body in wetness by the air and the humidity and the sheer warmth of the fire and the exhaustion of constantly having to fill his lungs and empty them again.
In her memory of him, she saw the fury which he poured relentlessly into his work. She saw his great, hovering body sleek and glossy in sweat and soot.
And yet, when she thought about him in this way, Laurlyn could not help but remember those rare times she had seen him blow gently into the tube, a tender breath that created the smallest sphere of air inside the thin glass. She could not help see him with gentleness as he delicately worked the material, as he softened edges by polishing and as he held the finished product with an almost obscene amount of carefulness.
Nevertheless; him standing there, heaving and sweating before the great fire was the most potent image she had of him. As well as the time he had raped her.
It had taken her years to understand that he had raped her. Laurlyn had thought it was normal, that this was what sex was, that the dominating weight of his body pressing against her, forcing her to oblivion was the way it was meant to be.
It was always painful for her, but she never said anything. She never fished for something better. So perhaps it was willing rape he was guilty of.
He never said much to her, in or out of bed. He never told her what he was thinking. Perhaps he didn’t think at all. Perhaps he just existed whenever he either breathed life into the glass or was on top of her, pressing, moving, making no sound as he pounded at her with fury.
Laurlyn did not know.
The shard she now held in her hand seemed to drag light into it, casting strange reflections on her skin. Stains. Taints of blood, small smears and blotches and blemishes.
He had created that shard as an exercise, trying to see on which scale he could operate. He had put the sand and melted it to an almost incandescent liquid, cut a small portion off and colored it red with dust.
He had failed in his experiment and the sphere had collapsed into itself. But nonetheless, he had formed the failed piece of glass gently, his brow furrowed in concentration as great balls of sweat fell down his strong, bull-like neck.
Later, when the glass had cooled he had polished it meticulously and formed it into what always looked to her like a newly budded leaf.“You can have it if you want,” he had said when he had finished.” Or else I’ll throw it away.”
Laurlyn had taken it, amazed by how cold it felt in her open palm.
That night he had been especially violent with her, dragging her by the hair, throwing her around as if she was a rag doll, using her, driving her under and pushing her, kneading her as if she was the glass he worked with. His fingers were always rough and cracked from the material and the scalding heat, his hair seemed always wet as did his colossal body.
She had thought that in a way, she was like glass to him.
But he never treated her like he treated the glass, except perhaps the phase where he was blowing air, rough, angry air from his great lungs which expanded to monstrous proportions before emptying themselves to small flaps of skin.
She thought he had hurt her badly, that he had ripped her up. She was sore and there was a little bleeding. She told him. He let her be alone for a while.The wound healed, eventually, and he became a little gentler. But only a little, and only for a small period. It all went back to normal sooner than later, but the last times they made love he refused to wear a condom and Laurlyn did not know how to obtain any sort of birth-controlling items. It was another time.
The abortion she took was agony to her and came to haunt her as much as the death of Neil Asstor did. She named her dead child after him.
Laurlyn hated herself when she was with that man who created the glass. Laurlyn hated him. The inexhaustible sexuality that he kept vigilantly alive as he did the flame he used to melt the sand in, the roughness of his fingers, the stains, the sweat, the acrid smell of that fire and those sands and dusts…She hated all that.
But there was something, something she felt when she was under him, when his entire body was pressing her into a small dent in the bed… In those moments she never regretted it. She loved him in those moments, when he seemed to compress her and break her into tiny pieces.She was more glass then than she had ever been before or ever would come to be.But those moments were rare. Not the moments she was under him, but the moments she loved him whilst he was on top. Mostly she just felt the hate, the disgust, the anger with him, with his stilled tongue and with the way he moved. He was a big, slow animal. He was an elephant. An elephant working with glass.
Laurlyn hated him and she hated herself. Forgiveness was rare to her, and pity was rarer. There was not much left to break when they ended it for reasons he left unexplained, and he was not the one who had lead her to the top of the world to kill herself.

The miracle of fiber.

2006-02-28T07:01:00.000-08:00

I luuuve my fiber. Yes, that is right. Fiber is a miracle, equal to that time Jesus had made everyone alcoholic and decided to change wine back to water(sponatous jokes have a tendency never to work out, and lo and behold, it did not fail this time either)

Fiber, unlike the other major compunds you can eat(excluded are: semen and vaginal juices) are never ever digested in the normal sense of the word. Digested, yes, in the way that they pass through your system, digested no in the way that they are not broken into lesser molecules and thus no energy gain(calories for the layman) is freed from breaking the chemical bonds.
So, in short, fibers makes you feel full for a long period of time and you gain no weight, and, as an extra bonus, the fibers sort of rape the insides of your digestive tract, taking with them that nasty shit that gets stuck.

In awe I tremble before fiber.
Hello. Yes, you, strange fat man with lipstick and a dress. Have you heard of fiber? If you ate more of it, you might not be such a fat disgusting cross-dresser.

What is it exactly you are smiling about, anyways? You have no reason to smile. You are fat.

It's fucking hard to be me(and that is not a tagline for a porno)

2006-02-23T11:20:00.000-08:00

Yes, you read it.

There is like this stupid gang of teenage boys who live around my house and they are just this minute having a discussion(and by discussion I mean yelling-contest) about who stole the one beer that one of them had and was going to take home to his mother(?). Since they are like sixteen years old they are by Norwegian law not permitted to buy alcohol so this is the end of the world for them.
What freaks!

When I am at the gym the gang-leader is sometimes there, hanging out with the weights and being the king of his little realm. I want to date-rape him to teach him a lesson or two.

Once they hung around drinking by the place our post-box is.

Jesus, I just feel such overwhelming disgust. This sort of mindlessness that goes on, this complete blindness to things that really matter. It's like that horrible early-fourty-something husband with three kids and an overwheight wife whose highest ambitions in life is to get screwed(the wife being reluctant because she has virtually no sexuality) and watching television. My uncle is like that.
And I think it is really awful.

Just like that complete freak who called me one day and accused me of smearing shit on his door. I mean, just out of the blue. When I told him I had been on a trip and had the ticket right there in my hand(of course I lied, I just wanted to see how he would snake his way out of that one) he just said I could have made(like payed, like I am some sort of gang-leader) someone else to do it.
I will regret it to this day that I just didn't go mental on him and start screaming or something. I am too nice. I was brought up to be polite, even when strange freaks accuse me out of nowhere to smear shit on their doors.
It really made me want to crap in a plastic bag and send it to him in a nicely wrapped box and when he opened it, the shit would be strewn all over him.
I am laughing now, thinking about it.

27 minutes to the lecture begins...

2006-02-20T04:32:00.000-08:00

Yes, 27 minutes to the lecture begin. I am sitting in this computer-hall-thing and people are talking and there is one guy in front of me watching wierd porn.
With dogs or poop or something.

Now there is 26 minutes left, and that is according to this clock on the computer. The watch on my wrist say 25 minutes. Where did the one minute go? Jesus, I just lost a whole minute of my life, or rather, I never had it to begin with.
All the clocks around me are lying to me! I don't really know what the time is. I can live subjectivly now since I can chose whether to gain or lose a minute or two.

24 minutes left( or 23 if I am to trust my watch) and I am thinking about a field of heather with a lone, gnarly tree standing like some old woman in the middle of the place, proud and bent and erect and shuddering. I think I might have created this insanse play on those plains when I was a child. I played the girl and the bad guy.
But I was not the hero.

I have decided that the real time is between the clock on the computer and my watch. It seems a horrible thing to do, to comprimise any objective truth by setting it between to lies.
But then again, how else will I know the time?

21 minutes left to the lecture. It is a boring lecture.

20 minutes left and I think about the fact that I should write something really interesting here. To anyone who might object to me breaking the fourth wall:" Fuck you" because the wall is there to be broken. I always think it is funny when someone breaks the fouth wall, like in that show when that woman on that sitcom looked into the camera when she wasn't really supposed to. But I was the only one who noticed that anyways, so fuck me I guess...

17 minutes left to the boring lecture. I just cruised off for a few minutes, but I did not find anything interesting. It does not feel wierd to me that I am narrating my entire existence. I am determined to look at that girl by the computer who is reading a strange collumn about women who have genital warts.
There are illustrative pictures.
I want the girl to know I am watching her and I know about her warts.
It makes us seem like old friends.
Like fuckbuddies.

15 minutes left to the lecture and I am lying when I said I was going to use the time that was between the clock on the computer and my watch. In reality I am using solely my watch. I just lied so I could use that nice:"Truth between lies" thing.
It made me feel like a professional writer.

13 minutes left and the girl with the warts has gone. It makes me feel sad, like I knew her and she has passed away like the water I drunk before I started writing this that has passed through my system and now presses my cock for release.
There is water left in there, but also things I ate and things I digested.
Like urea.

12 minutes left and I wonder what will happen if I just posted this and did not finish.

This is dedicated to all women:

2006-02-02T04:10:00.000-08:00

The Pelvic Area of a Woman

I can’t give myself an orgasm any longer.

I just can’t. My friend Beatrix Boyle (who is a model for many major fashion magazines on like a regular basis) told me that she went through the same thing when her boyfriend turned out to be a straight cross-dresser and she saw him dancing around in her pink thong with a great erection sticking out, dancing to a song by Christina Aguilera; and the only thing that helped for her was to peel carrots and use them as dildos.

I tried that. I peeled the carrot as if I was to eat it. It looked like a thick, orange finger. I warmed it in the microwave because I had taken it right from the fridge. At first it was too hot, so I let I cool. But then it was just right.
I couldn’t come with a carrot.

Beatrix Boyle told me about one of her friends, Harper Estelle, who also tried the carrot thing but could not come with it. She ended up using some bigger vegetable instead and could definitely, super strongly come with that.

I tried something bigger. I went to the market and asked for the biggest zucchini they had and the teenager who was working there looked at me as if I was one of his underdeveloped, sexual fantasies come real.

I just stared at him and glanced at the area between his legs where I could swear I saw some definite swelling.

I was part of some teenager’s fantasy. I was being mixed in with the whores in the music videos and the actresses of seedy Hollywood films about marriage and commitment and sex. I could see the film in my head, could see myself clad in tight jeans and pink blouses which left nothing to the imagination except the three, small molls I have on my left breast right under the nipple. I could see myself on a bed, accepting pizza guys with extra sausage and plumbers and hairy men with big cars. I did not like this film, so I switched it off and watched a cooking program instead with a vivacious British woman who deep-fried Snicker bars.

I brought the zucchini home, hidden in an entire plastic bag for the purpose of secrecy, and I made myself ready for it, the zucchini being a very big zucchini and I oiled it with baby oil and I oiled myself with baby oil, oiling everything except a baby with baby oil.
But I could not come.

I could not come with the zucchini.

I woked the zucchini and the rest of the carrots and ate a low-carb, low-fat, high protein meal, fantasizing about what would happen if I just walked around without any clothes on, being molested by seventy year old men with flaccid guts and hanging breasts and limping penises and hair on their backs and no hair on their heads or fifty year old leather-clad dominatrixes with whips and strap-on cocks.

But I could not come to this fantasy, with or without any vegetable, least of all the half-digested zucchini.

So I just walked around some more, not being able to walk around without any clothes on, a dangerous, furious buzz in my head as I am flying from work to the gym, thinking that I can harness this sexual energy in some other media, use it to pump up those triceps I am worried about because I feel that they in a few months will look exactly like the triceps of my grandmother.

I always feel like a duplicate version of my grandmother, of course, a younger grandmother than I remember, but still… I watch my triceps and I especially feel like her.

Those great, upside-down wings of white, wobbly flesh that seemed animate with a life of their own. They were waving hours after she had waved us home. I remember the slack fat sticking out of her summer dresses, her smiles regardless of this fat, her round, homely, womanly shapes hidden poorly beneath that summer dress that was almost a tent.

I don’t think my grandmother ever came. She lived in a time when the female orgasm was a myth. It was proven that female swans could not have orgasms.
I feel bad for my grandmother.

But I still cannot come.

When I was at the store again after having lifted small manuals while checking out the asses of those young men boiling with testosterone, oozing out pre-cum and sweat; I saw something strange.

This woman, seeming infinitely younger than me, wearing a highly professional but still sexy outfit (you know, black hoes which made her elegant, thin legs seem as if they were the softest things in the universe, a black mini-skirt, a white blouse, earrings, lip-stick, lip-gloss, some lip-sealing agent which I read about in Cosmopolitan which makes the pores in your lips constantly breathe so it seems you just took collagen or something). This woman, yes, this arch-woman, this contemporary extension of any kitchen, this doll, this sexy, secure… thing, this perfect product of human evolution, this perfect gift to any man, this perfect construction, this perfect chemical equilibrium between fat, bones, ass, tits, skin and muscle, was on the dirty floor, heaving, groaning over some massive pelvic area of a woman shaped out of cheap, gray plastic. There were buttocks, firm and tender, there were the higher ends of thighs, a small crack but no hole for a cunt(my dictionary says that this is a non-existent word, which makes me very angry. Cunt does not exist, just the same way the female orgasm does not exist; but I just added it to the dictionary, so now everything is going to be okay) and this woman was trying to apply this ridiculous thong, black-laced of course, to the massive pelvic hips of this statue.

She glanced up, saw me, saw my made-up face, the gloss and the cream applied after the triceps work-out at the gym and she glanced down and saw that I carried a squash in my hands, like some massive, black cock.

There was a furious, merciless contempt in her eyes and around those breathing, open-pored lips.

I could not come with the squash, either. But I bought a pair of those thongs and now I wear them all the time.

But I still cannot come.

So now I have given up vegetables and I no longer listen to my friend Beatrix Boyle and her cross-dressing boyfriend. They went underwear shopping together yesterday. Luckily they are the same size.

I remember the time I came four times, which seems so long ago that I feel like I am two billion years old, and I wish I could say I had the four orgasms with some hot, beautiful, funny, smart guy who I was desperately in love with(why do I wish that?). But it wasn’t. And I don’t know why I wish that I was.

He seemed painfully beside the point, just excess material, just filler, and not filler in the sexy, intercourse-y kind of way even though he was filling me perfectly at the time.
It reminded me of those strange spiders in the Amazons where the female is this great, swollen, hairy monster and the male is this tiny, little thing. The male deposits his seed into the spider woman and then he either dies or is eaten by the woman.
That guy had nothing to do with my four orgasms. He thought he did. But he was just flattering himself. I gave myself those four orgasms.

But now I feel bad I used him and did not please his ego more, so I cannot come all the more.
Instead I watch a reality show about weight loss and I glance over at my triceps and then switch the channel to this strange, homoerotic music video and I watch tight asses all over again. I drag a pillow up and down my vagina.

But I still cannot come.

When I am a the gym again, desperately trying to tighten my slacking stomach inspired by the women who had lost like four billion pounds combined and looked great on the reality show, I delicately hump the seat of the abdomen cruncher and feel myself become wet.
I am very close to an orgasm. But then this other woman who I at first believe is naked but who turns out to be wearing a brown lycra suit asks me rudely:” Are you done with that seat soon?” and I feel embarrassed that this boy with breasts saw me do it and I go to the showers and apply more make-up.

I feel tremendously old. I feel like a cracked, weather-torn stone on a beach, surrounded by white, trimmed, rounded and soft fragments called sand.
When I come home, the lust I got rubbing myself against that firm, black seat of the abdomen cruncher is gone and even though I light candles and dim the light and light incense and listen to Tori Amos I cannot come. All the magazines are lying to me.

I listen to afro-American female jazz artists, to feminist women singing about being strong, being independent, being part of an all female revolution to reclaim this dying earth from the dirty nails of the men who destroy it.

But I cannot come.

Even when I oil myself with fragranced lavender oil and massage my breasts and finger myself I cannot come.
Instead I fall on the floor because the oil has somehow gotten under my feet. And I hit my head against the frame of my huge bed and I feel stupid.

Why can’t I come?

I just can’t, can’t, can’t come.
I am probably damaged goods. I can feel the desire, the lust, the hunger, the unholy sex-drive, the furious yearning, the despairing ache for sex. I can feel it so close, right under my increasingly dangling flesh, right under my pumped-up, hard triceps. I can feel it so close.
But I don’t know how to use it.

It has nothing to do with love. I remember seeing a show about two guys saying that a woman has to be in love with a guy before she can have sex with him because she is so grossed out by his penis. The penis is somehow a grave insult to a woman, like being told you have a big ass or that your stretch-marks from giving birth to a hundred children are too visible.
I don’t think so. I love cocks. I love men. I want to have sex with a hundred thousand men, and I don’t need to love any of them. It has nothing to do with love.
But why then can I not make myself come?

This must be the end for what else can it be?
This is the end of my sexual self. I shall seal my lust, my desire, my endless surplus of sexual energy that it is taboo for a woman to have and seal it into a small box and use a lot of time to wrap it in nice silk paper and a ribbon with hearts, just like a woman should. I shall add a card that says:” Here it is. You have wanted it for so long.”
But I don’t know who I shall post it to.

I feel like this is the funeral of some dear friend, some friend who has been with me for years, some essential, beloved, intimate friend. The only person in the world who gets me fully, the sole individual in this entire realm who understands and fathoms and comprehends and apprehends me in my entire solid being, undaunted, unchanged. Whole.
And I am standing there, watching her fall into the earth, watching the morbid lilies and the dull roses and the lead sky and the choir boys with their small swellings between their legs sing the undertaker’s melody.

I am watching her white dress with the red blotches, watching her pink vagina throbbing, watching her skin newly born and sweaty, watching her partially opened lips, screaming or crying, watching her raw fingernails with skin of some man’s back underneath.
And I am watching her fall into the grave.

But at least I had her for so long, they tell me. At least you had her for this long time. That’s more than most women get. At least you knew her. At least you have felt her fully, experienced her, talked to her, touched her.
At least you knew this woman.
My sexual self dies when I am twenty three years old.

I cannot come any longer.

Not even with a zucchini.

Good question

2006-01-31T10:52:00.000-08:00

In exile...

2006-01-28T03:32:00.000-08:00

This post is given to you not from my home where I usually write these little nuggets of human waste, but from a public library, because, the world being highly irrational and malevolent, the internet connection is fucked up.
This makes me angry.

Yesterday when I was at the store to buy yogurt and fruit after my work-out, I saw a woman in highly professional get-up(hoes, mini-skirt, blouse etc) on her knees, on the dirty floor, moaning and groaning as she tried her best to pull a black-laced thong on the plastic representation pf the pelvic-area of a woman.
The pelvic-area was made of a horrible, brown-gray synthetic material and contained only the upper thighs, lower adomen and the vagina(even though there was, stricktly speaking, not any sort of hole).
I just stopped dead in my tracks, stared at her openly, and swore to myself that I had to use this somehwere.
It struck me as a very eloquent symbol. So now all the feminists out there can be happy because I aided their cause. I hope you send me a button soon as well as a handbook on how to be an angry feminist.

On a completely seperate issue, I am still pretty pissed about not being able to use the internet at my house, and now I feel I want to murder someone.

Never underestimate the power of one word:

2006-01-26T06:22:00.000-08:00

Confusion, agony, stasis, perception, clairvoyance, annoyance, acceptance, rejection, corruption, elevation, migration, aggrivation, implication, indiscision, trembling, quivering, quaking, falling, dying, laughing, learning, loving, moving, swaying, thinking, growing, turning, bending, stalling, stealing, trusting, failing, lying, crying, DYING.

Yes, I am dying. I am mortally wounded. I am fatally limited.

Curb your enthusiasm about Curb Your Enthusiasm

2006-01-21T03:18:00.000-08:00

I don't get this show. Larry David is so friggin' annoying! And if he is so rich, why does he look like a slob all the time?
It just irritates me that the people get in so much trouble over so small things. Like don't having change for the parking or not being able to buy the bracelet because he looks unkempt.
And most of the time the actors just talk simultaneously so all your hear is this cackle.

It was funny when the old woman ripped apart the sheet with the directions.

There is so much beauty in the world...

2006-01-20T04:15:00.000-08:00

I'm going to see the latest Sam Mendes movie today, Jarhead, and I am really looking foreward to it. Regardless of piss-temperated reviews from Norweigian press it looks promising. And of course, wonderful Thomas Newman has the score.

Today I found 10.000 kroner on my account which weren't supposed to be there, but then I checked my records and found out that they were supposed to be there. For a moment I thought I had earned a lot of money from nowhere, but I hadn't, so that was stupid of me.

I have been reading two books simultaneously. A Man in Full by one of the Wolfes and Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan. The first seems promising, even though I don't quite know where he is going with the book, the second is strange and I think I don't get it. I understand only fragments of it. Brautigan just jumps, leaps from episode to episode, from place to place, and even though it is supposed to be like that, I find it hard to catch that elusive plot down.
I read somewhere that Richard Brautigan was a terrible person. The book makes him seem anything but.

I have bought an Alanis Morrissette CD, and now she is my new muse. There is so much energy in her songs. They thrust me foreward, lunging me into motion when I just want to be static.

FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!!

2006-01-19T10:40:00.000-08:00

You know what, there is nothing more in this world I hate more than you. And that is a strong statement coming from someone with such an overwhelming surpluss of hate.
FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!
Who the hell do you think you are?! You little, pitiful, pathetic, malcontented, vicious, ungrateful, blind-as-a-fucking-bloodsucking-bat! What puts you in this position, this pedestal and throne of human misery, you victim, you shallow, on-your-knees screaming hysterically, causing my spines to shrink, crying in your room with the music just loud enough to be called loud but shallow enough so I can hear your whines over that disgusting depravity you call music.
A woman screams:" Why have you forsaken me?! WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?!"
FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!
Do I feel pity now for my arguments, for that moment I thought I would hit you flat with my hand, that moment I felt my adrenaline as a furious bellow from the molten cracks of my deepest most humane hate. Epic hate. Epic disgust.
Do I feel sorry now for those things I said, those words perhaps even more vicious than yours? Do I regret, do I also feel the pain of hating you?

Can I forgive your ultimate blindfold, the way you stumble through life, taking credit for anything good, blaming the bad on other people? Can I ever find it to be peaceful next to you, not feel the astounding weight of our spoken bible-pages and the pressure of the way I can't seem to forgive you for your blindness.
You stupid, little child.
What do you know?
What do you know about me, about anything since everyone has sheltered you like some fragile egg with cracks like painted patterns of fairy tales. Who are you, you camelon, you slime, you fucking princess.
The world is not yours. The meek shall not inherit the world. The world is evanescent, you are not.
You have taken too much.
You have claimed it all.
And you now have nothing except my hate.

238

2006-01-17T03:38:00.000-08:00

238

Random facts

2006-01-15T05:53:00.000-08:00

- Jaber Al-Ahmad Al-Jaber Al-Sabah is a real name.

-

This compound is called Pactiaxel and contains many functional groups which we who study chemistry can use as mastubatory aid(Yes, it is offical, that is my new favorite word) There are ketones, aldehyds(on second thought, no. There are no aldehyds in this molecule), hydroxyl-groups, aromatic hydrocarbons... The list goes on and on.

- I enjoy things I can remember.

- The five major groups of fungi are decided by the fungi's respecitve sexual organ. For example, the Chytridiomycota produce zoospores that are capable of moving on their own through liquid mesnstrua by simple flagella.

- There exist people somewhere in the world with skin as dark as the night!

- Fun with Dick and Jane is not a porno.

- In a pornographic video, six guys builded a bed and then had sex on it, which I thought was very funny. I want to use this in my writing somwhere.

- Three is larger than one and two-thirds.

- Anders Olsaker's penis is 15 cm long(or short) in erect form. This is about half the lenght of my penis in erect form, so my penis is 30 cm long and I am the bigger man! Therefore I win.

- The koala-bear female has two vaginas and the koala-bear male has a forked penis.

- Green is a color.

Another addition to things that really annoy me...

2006-01-14T07:05:00.000-08:00

- That horrible Sit-com FRIENDS which once was the rest of the words weekendly mastubatory aid. I mean, it's just so unrealistic. Yes, Joey, you like food and women and you are dumb as hell. Yes, Monica, you are a cleaning freak. Yes, Chandler you are sarcastic.
But who the fuck cares?
Here is a micro cosmos of every FRIENDS episode ever concieved:

INT. THAT FUCKING CAFEE WHATEVER IT IS CALLED - Day

CHANDLER, JOEY and PHOEBE sit and talk.

JOEY
I am stupid. I am hungry. I had sex with a hundered women last night who find my continuously corpulent body attractive. I am starting to become fat, and this is season nine.

CHANDLER
You are just like some famous, fit guy. Except that you are not famous or that you are not fit.

JOEY
(Happy, carefree)
Yeah! I'm a guy!

PHOEBE
I had this dream once I was a guy.

CHANDLER
What did you do? Did you, like, touch yourself?

(For some reason unknown to Man, the audience are now laughing so heavily it creates an artificial, highly uncomfortable vacuum in which the "actors" try to act normal)

PHOEBE
No! I wrote a song about it since this has been a concurrent theme through the series. Shall I sing it to you?

(No one say anything.)

JOEY
Hey! There is a muffin over there... And its held by a beautiful woman! This is my lucky day.
(runs off)

CHANDLER
(Looks disgruntled at JOEY as he leaves the couch, then at PHOEBE, then at JOEY again)
There is a cookie over there... And it's held by a beautiful man...

PHOEBE
Nice try! Now listen:
(sings off beat)
I am a guy. I have a penis. Nothing rhymes with penis, except almosty tennis. I am a guy.

MONICA enteres the cafee and sits down next to CHANDLER. Before she seats she pulls out a blanket with the anagram M.G.B and sits on it. Then she leans to CHANDLER and the two kiss an awkward kiss.

CHANDLER
(to MONICA)
Are you still mad about last night?

MONICA
No. The bed is cleaned up and I am cleaned up. I mean, why did you have to squirt it out everywhere?

CHANDLER
I'm sorry, I will never eat hot dogs in bed again.

MONICA
You better not! You have no idea how hard it was to get out those ketchup stains...

PHOEBE
I once had a dream I was a ketchup-bottle...

I am so wild and free and funky! I sing songs off-beat and have a dead mother who comitted suicide.
Those are my only character traits, and therefore
I am a broadly drawn person who other
people can relate to. It is not clever or challanging or
even honest.
But its television. And it's America.

So you can make me come, that doesn't make you Jesus!

2006-01-13T14:07:00.000-08:00

Here is a list about things that really annoys me:

- When drunk people force the un-drunk people to dance because it makes them uncomfortable to know that there are bystanders. Usually I am in the drunk end of this relationship so basically I am a hypocrite, but nevertheless, it annoys me.

- When people announce what, in excrutiating detail, they have done in the bathroom. The sort of individual who manages to do such a thing usually moans as he or she extends his or her hands and claps their own stomach. Yes we all have bodily functions and yes we have all seen our own excrements and eaten them as well, but you don't need to remind us about them whilst we are eating.(Unless we are currently eating our own excrement, then it is okay)

- People who make jokes about eating their or other people's excrements.

- People who have sex-discussions on the bus right behind me so I am forced to listen to it. I now know everything about everything, thank you very much.

- People who refuse to pay that lousy 50 øre( that is less than 10 cents!) for a plastic-bag at the super market and tries to hide the million they need for the million things they have bought. They usually take the bags when the woman(take that you annoying feminists!) at the counter looks down.
I want to hit them with something hard, and I do not mean my penis. Speaking of penis, I have drawn one on the illustration. Can you see it?

- People who constantly refer to reproductive organs...

- Drunk couples who believe I will spice up their sex-lives. Shame on you! Well, this has only happened once, but it left me scarred for life.