We are Strong

I wish feminists would stop telling me how weak and small I am.

Doesn't make sense? Sure it does. For years and years these modern feminists have been telling women around the world that they are opressed and weak. Not the first generation, I think they got it right. I'm talking about todays modern, well-to-do go-getting feminist who for some reason sill believes she's being opressed and bullied by the evil male patriarchy. She'll tell you that even in our great western civilzation it was only a decade or two ago when women used to be without rights, chained to their brood and kitchen and evil penis-having housemate. And sure, they're right, my grandmother assures me that it's no fun being a teacher when you really want to be an actress or a musician.

You know what my grandmother also taught me? If you can't get what you, be the best at what you do get. And I can see merit in that. All throughout history there's been women, famous and forgotten alike, who absolutely rocked their positions and squeezed every drop of life out of their weak, oppressed existance. It's inspiring. From queens behind kings to housewives behind their husbands, there's always been women who nagged and got depressed about their situation and those who grabbed what they could with both hands and hung on for dear life. Many of them came out on top. Sure, they were still housewives and women behind the throne, but damn if they didn't rock those stoves and thrones. I dare you, I double dog dare you to call my younger grandmother an opressed slave of the evil patriarchy. I'll never be as strong as that woman no matter how important the job I get. Her power was in the kitchen and the living room and smite me now if she didn't excersise that power with great elegance and strength. Go on. Call her weak. Call her opressed. I'll be over shortly to feed you my lunch for dinner.

Feminists, stop portraying historical women as weak slaves. It's not about what they did or what they wanted to do, it's how they did it. What they did with the chances they got. I've seen more flair and power in most kitchens than in boardrooms. I've got tons more respect for the hard-working mother of four than the whiny CEO-with-vagigi who can't stop blathering about how oppressed she is.

And while we're at it, can we just accept that if the best candidates for a job are men, we shouldn't be hiring women just to reach a quota? That bugs me too. My dad has his own company and he assures me that if a white man, a white woman, a black guy and a muslim woman were all applying and it turned out the white man was best for the position, he would do the logical thing. Is that so offensive?

I thought not.

Get your shit together, feminists. We get it, we are strong. We can be anything we want to be. Some of us want to be wives and mothers, okay? Good. Glad we got that sorted out.

Wafers and Wood

My cousin Violet has religious allergies. Having spurned the Good Lord and all his acomplices and counterparts ages ago and swearing it was the most liberating this she ever did, she promtly developed a series of complicated symptoms when confronted with anything to do with religion, to the point where her sister's kids assumed she was some sort of daywalking vampire. I have to wonder how eventful your life has been when the most liberating thing you did in this day and age is renounce religion.

It would be funny if she didn't make such a damn spectacle about it. Being of the faithful myself I have no problem with atheists, those of other faiths and minimal problems with those of my own faith. I'm a pretty hip and tolerat individual when it comes to religion. Not Violet. When confronted with religious images, from crosses to drawings to various stars, she develops symptoms that resemble those of a food allergy. Her face grows red and sort of puffy, she starts choking on her words and I think if we let her, she'd dramatically clutch her chest and faint.

Why she insists on being such a goddamn drama queen about it is beyond me. She kicked up a stink and even refused treatment for a while when she got very, very ill and was taking to a hospital. A Catholic hospital that had a cross in the room. Far be it from me to chide her for being an atheist, but I figured her life would be more important to her than the fact there were two nailed together pieces of wood on the wall. I know she's being a drama queen because she doesn't know the first thing about religions. It's one of her favourite topics too. She can rant about it all day when given a soapbox but when pressed for facts, she is always forced to admit ignorace to the manyfold.

I realised she was being a ridiculous attention whore for the first time when I was seated next to her at a family member's wedding. It was going to be a Catholic wedding and at some point, Christ was going to get eaten, as Catholics are wont to do. This made Violet flip like a ninja in a blind allergy induced panic.

Having had a Catholic education myself, I'll let you all in on a little secret. That's not actually a chip of Jesus-flesh the priest is handing out. Shocking, right? Completely true though, it's just a little wafer. Catholics sort of pretend that it's Christ-flesh because they want to emulate a ritual that happened a long, long time ago to keep the message fresh and alive. But here's the clicher, you ready? If you're not a Catholic, if you don't believe in Christ and the blessing the priest does means nothing to you, than for you, it's still just a goddamn wafer! I promise nothing icky is going to happen when you eat it, cross my heart and hope to die.

Similarly, if you enter a room and there's a cross on the wall, if you don't believe Christ died on the cross for our sins and if the image is not instilling in you a sense of duty to serve the Lord, then it's just two pieces of wood nailed together. That's it. The secret is out. Go on ye faithless and spread the good word. Cardboard wafers and wood. That's all it should mean to you.

Trying to explain this to Violet was like trying to teach a three-year-old algebra. I ended up eating the wafer for her. It didn't mean anything for me either. To me, it was just a piece of icky bread and some cheap wine. For Violet, it was a violation of all she stood for. Or rather, didn't stand for. Stupid bitch.

I get if you're not religious. I really do, it's okay, go on and have a happy life. But if you're going to make a spectacle of yourself and insult anyone in earshot, remember that you're no better than those raving lunatics who believe in the Grand Pappy in the Sky and attack everyone who doesn't. Millitant atheism is just as annoying as raving religion. But that's a rant for another day.

The Girl who was my Friend

High school was hell for me. I know it isn't exactly a fond memory for anyone who's gone through it, but I've left that place over four years ago and sometimes I still have nightmares about the place. I was going through a lot in my personal life and school really just felt like an extra distraction I just didn't need. Maybe I'll write about all that later, when I don't wake up drenched in cold sweat anymore, but for now, accept that school was torture for me.

It wasn't that the other kids were cruel to me, or ostracised me or made fun of me, but it wasn't like I had friends either. In school, it felt like there were all these groups of jocks and nerds and beauty queens and then there was me. A group on my own. Nobody had a special dislike for me, not that I can remember at least, but it wasn't like anyone felt a deep need to be my friend either. They just didn't have much affection to spare for me. Everybody knew who I was but nobody really wanted anything to do with me. I sort of made peace with that. It wasn't particularly fun but like I said, I had other things to worry about and no real desire to be popular. Everybody thought I was weird and I can't fault them for that. It was just the way things were.

It took me six years to snap. When I said I made peace with the fact that I was an outsider, I never implied it wasn't very, very tiring. Peace didn't come naturally, I had to work my ass off to find and hang on to it. If there's one thing teenage girls need more than anything in the world it's other girls to talk to. I never had any real desire to be just like everyone else in my school, but I sure wished I could play pretend better than I did. At home I was dealing with depression, repressed psychosis and an abusive brother. I was constantly on edge. Every little joke at my expense, every little jab or barely concealed whisper behind my back pushed me just a little closer to the breaking point. By ninth grade, I was thinking of bringing a gun to school. My dad had a gun for hunting, but there was no way I could get my hands on it so I came to my senses and abandoned my killing spree in favor of repressed anger.

When I finally did snap, it was nothing as dramatic as a hail of bullets and maniacal laughter. It was night and the whole class was working on the school fair to raise money for the class trip. I was feeling particularly low that night. I had confessed my secret crush of three years to the boy I loved. He was very drunk, so I figured if he said no, he'd probably forget all about it anyway. When I told him I had a crush on him, and that I had been secretly admiring him from afar for three years, he smiled regretfully and told me he wished I had told him sooner. Because four years ago, he had a huge crush on me. But then he got to know me better. That's what he said, verbatim. Freaking hilarious. I didn't have the heart to inquire any further and left him to his drinking when his buddies came over to poke fun of me.

I wanted to go home. I was tired and angry and in no mood to work the hot dog stand. I could feel a panic attack coming on. After years of having them I had learned to predict them and the last thing I wanted was freak out the entire school by running around screaming and hallucinating. So I told one of the mothers who did the supervising that I was feeling sick and wanted to go home.

This was the mother of the one girl in my class who I considered my friend. I loved that girl and I think she did consider me a real friend, although I was very different from her other friends and we never mixed. I think she respected me or at least felt bad for me. I liked her a lot and the reason I told her mother was because I thought I could trust them both not to spill my dirty little secret. I wasn't a very good judge of character at that age. She told me it was fine if I could find one of my friend to take over for me. I casually replied that those people weren't my friends and walked away to catch the last bus home.

When I said they weren't my friends I meant it in the most technical way possible. Like I said, I was tired and scared and angry and needed to talk to someone, but couldn't. I simply meant to say that while I never hated anyone in my class and there was no bad blood between us, none of them had ever done anything that could betray a sign of friendship. Except for her daughter of course, but I was too tired to explain all that. I trusted that she, being an adult, would understand.

I stayed away from school for a week and after two days I received a call from my teacher, a very nice woman who had been very supportive, to ask if I was alright. She sounded very concerned, but I thought that was because I just disappeared from school one day. I told her I would come back soon and she sounded relieved. After three days, I received a call from the girl whom I considered my friend. She was crying. She was very angry and very hurt and demanded to know why I hated her.

It turned out her mother, fucking retard, had spread my little comment about friendship over the whole school. Apparently in that daft cow's mind people were either friends or enemies and took my comment to mean that I hated her daughter, who had been kind and patient with me for years. Like any good mother she could not let her child suffer that indignity and told everyone what I really thought of them. I was never able to explain to my hurt friend what had happened, what I really said and what I had meant by it.

When I got back to school, every one's laissez-fair attitude towards me hard turned into not-quite-open hostility. Open enough to be very, very noticeable but not quite enough for me to be able to defend myself. I tried to rectify the situation but in my absence, that stupid woman had poisoned their minds against me. Even the kind teacher couldn't pull my reputation out of the dirt, but bless her heart for trying. When I finally snapped, I got up from my seat in the middle of class, told everyone I was leaving and went to the administration building to sign out. I imagined it wouldn't be very different from checking out of a hotel. I was wrong, but I put my foot down. I wanted to leave without being arrested for truancy. I got it my way, went back to class, told everyone goodbye. The girl who was my friend cried in the back.

I was seventeen by that time and a bit too old to simply trust people just because they were adults. Most adults in my life had been kind and understanding. What she did was a real eye-opener that should have come much sooner in my life. But somehow I had missed it. How petty, mean and irrational adults can be. How most of them are no better than the vicious, confused teens the are trying to raise. Suddenly I saw that the world was full of people two or three times my age who wouldn't think twice about ruining a young girl's life to satisfy their own petty need for retribution. Who took the truth and wilfully bent it to whatever they wanted it to be in their sorry little minds. I had always thought these were things people grow out of in their twenties. When I realised some people stay angry teenagers until their last spiteful breath, it was a hard pill to swallow. But again, I had better things to do than become bitter over it. I forgot the stupid woman and did what needed to be done to graduate and get on with my life.

But the one thing I could never, ever forgive her for was making my only friend cry.

The Proudest I've Ever Been

Every class has a problem child and in the class I was going to join and observe for two weeks, that child was Eric. He was a year ahead of the rest of the class, nine years old, because they held him back once for being too violent. Not mature enough, you see. He would always get into trouble and not the cute kiddy kind of trouble either. During recess, he was that kid who pulled out chucks of hair, ran away from school and kicked the other kids. In class, he stole their stuff, shouted at the teacher and tipped over chairs.

Now you're not going to hear me say anything bad about their teacher. She was about as fresh as I was, straight out of college and doing a wonderful job with the rest of the class, but Eric was a problem. In my two short weeks with him I never quite figured out what his problem was, but he was very violent and needy all the same.

Obviously this kid was not on good terms with anyone in the school. The other kids hated him and the teachers were already sick of his antics. Once, he tried to push a four year old girl into a wood chipper. Another time he stabbed his counsilor with a freshly sharpened pencil. I can't count the times I had to use all my adult strength to drag this kid away from his victims. Say what you will, but it's no easy feat to force a kid to go to class while he's hanging on to the doorframe and kicking you in the face.

Since I was in class all the time but didn't actually hae any teaching duties, I was asked to watch Eric closely, make sure he didn't kill anyone or jump out in window for kicks. So I watched him like a hawk. Nothing he did escaped my notice and he was mighty pissed at having a personal watchdog cramping his style. On the bright side, I managed to stop him from setting a girl on fire. On the not so bright side, he decided I was the worst of all and he'd do anything to get me out of his life.

Eight days I knew this kid and it seems like a lifetime. Children that age can be very stubborn and once he had pegged me as the enemy there was no stopping him from lashing out all the time. I kept watching him. I kept biding my time until he would do something, anything that would give me the right to shut him up.

I got me chance on the sixth day. The kids were doing maths and were very bored. It was difficult keeping them quiet and the teacher had to work her ass off to keep them all involved. It was then that I noticed my little ward working diligently. I don't know what inspired it. Maybe he was just tired from previous antics, maybe he was sad, but he was about the only one ignoring all the banter and just doing what he was supposed to do. I couldn't help myself. I got up, walked to his seat and said:

"Look children. Do you see how well Eric is doing? I wish everyone in this class was as good as Eric. He's doing a very good job."

I'll never forgt the look in his eyes after I said that. He seemed very, very confused at being held up as an example of how the other children should behave, instead of being told he was dragging the class down. I read over his sums, told him I was so proud that he didn't even make a single mistake and he smiled broadly. It was the first time he bared his teeth at me without intending to rip out my esophagus. For the rest of my time there he behaved perfectly and didn't move an inch from my side. Tought I was the coolest teacher ever, he did. I was sad to leave them all behind when I had to and I often wonder how he's doing now.

I know I didn't change any lives there. He's probably the class bully now. Maybe all his problems were symptoms of something gruesome happening to him where none of us could see or were willing to look. Maybe he's doing fine now. I don't know. I didn't change much at all in the eight days I knew that kid, I didn't impact his life in any way. But it has reminded me why I so deperately want to be a teacher, despite everyone claiming I'm nuts. Maybe, when I have my own class, I'll have an Eric of my own too. And maybe, since I'll be a real teacher then, maybe I'll be able to say something, do something that'll make a difference.

I really hope that when the time comes, I'll be able to see which one of them needs my help. I hope that when I'm faced with the kid that's heading full steam into a life of misery, I'll be able to find the right words, adopt the right attitude to lead him away from that path. I really hope that one day, a young adult can look back at his formative years and say that it was all crap, but at least they had a teacher who understood. It's alofty goal, I know, but that's the dream. I hope I have the strength to make it happen.

Girlfriend application

Well, since I posted a Boyfriend Application here many, many moons ago, I though it only fair that I should submit myself to the same thing, see if I qualify. You can find the original here. It should be mentioned that BC there is a lot more picky than I am, apparently. Let's see what I can make of it...

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1a. String theory is nothing but mathemathics trying to mask as proper science. I spit on you for having the gall to ask this of me and refuse to answer the question.

1b. This is where I confess to never having seen “Quantum Leap”, my reasons being that it doesn't air in my country and DVDs are expensive. If the author is willing to provide the material needed to delve into this question and produce a satisfying answer (as I am confident I will) I will be more than happy to elaborate.

1c. Again, my ignorace is revealed. I have not seen this movie. Since this is a girlfriend application, however, I grant myself two 'Get Out of Answering this Question for Free Cards'. Those in the know will also notice that this is the number of boobs I possess. I'll use one now. Let's continue.

2. The answer to those questions would be 'no' and 'about as long as it takes me to read the Wikipedia article'.

3. No, but I am quite proficient in the art of cat-fighing. I began training at an early age under the careful tutelage of my mother. My fellow students included my sisters, little brother and that bitch that never let me go on the swing. Should the need arise I wa gladly demonstrate my cat-fight prowess on a random child and post it on Youtube. I feel confident that my martial training and the fact that I possess boobs is sufficient to keep internet bullies far, far away. Other than that, if you need protection, I know a guy who knows a guy. Just saying.

4. I wasn't aware and I strongly suspect you are pulling my leg. However, in the interest of completing this application, I will give you my feelings on the subject. What matters in this particular scenario is that polar bears cannot play baseball. Polar bears are from the north pole and as everyone knows, nobody outside the USA gives a crap about baseball. Therefore, the question is moot.

5. Oh yes. Oh god yes.

6. Jon Stewart does sound like a good choice, as he is the King of the Jews. Instead of a picute, I'll do you one better. Exactly one week from now at midnight, look up. When you see it, you'll shit bricks.

7. Movie. Please don't hurt me.

8. Fair warning, my boyfriend ridiculing this series is the reason I might be wanting a new one. That being said, am I the only one who noticed that Daniel Jackson always gets the interstellar booty? I mean, what is up with that? If there's willing alien chicks to be had (or hell, even unwilling ones) guess who's enlightened ass is gonna get it? That gets old a lot faster than every alien in the universe speaking English. Have some standards and keep it in your damn pants, Jackson!

Boomp3.com

9. Once, my boyfriend life was threatened by a bladed combatant over the internet. Because my boyfriend is a dunce, he lured the combatant to his location, supposedly for the purpose of breaking the blade with his thigh-bone, thereby disarming the opponent and gaining the upperhand in combat. Luckily I was there with my trusty Swiss Army knife and unwillingness to be defeated. As the two did glorious bladed combat of a sort, I got myself a crate of apples and proceeded to cut them all neatly in half. Twice. With the knife part of the pocket knife. While said boyfriend completed part A of the plan (his thigh was already bleeding) I used the saw bit of the knife to make a wooden sword out of the now emty crate. I failed of course, because I suck at that kind of thing, so instead I decided to flash the bladed combatant and kicked him in the nuts while he was distracted. The end.

10. Boring. I'm using my second Boob Pass.

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There we go, that wasn't so bad. I already have a boyfriend of course, but if he ever fucks up, do I qualify? Just playing it safe, you see.

My Grandfather and the Box

When I was little my grandfather was my hero and I was scared shitless of him. It's not that he raised his voice to me or did nasty things. I wasn't afraid of him because I thought he might do something to me. As a little kid, when you meet someone who simply has the aura of a hero, who commands respect simply by virtue of being in the room, you can't help but be scared. Now that I think back the correct word is probably awed, but I still didn't want to be left alone with him. The respect I felt for him was overwhelming. It wasn't something a fragile little kid like me was able to handle.

I never knew why he commanded so much respect from me either. It wasn't until much, much later that I figured out he was a war hero, that he was a member of the White Brigade, a Belgian resistance movement hell-bent on sending the Nazi's back where they came from. He sabotaged trains, harbored fugitives, got them fake passports and was actively being hunted by the Gestapo. I never knew all that when I was little. It is why the adults respected him, but I didn't know. He was a very, very proud man and my hero for reasons that had nothing to do with the war. My mother, his daughter, felt the same.

My mother used to take me and my brother (and later my two sisters) to this huge indoors event where people sell junk. I loved it. When I was a kid I couldn't throw anything away and I loved hoarding useless trinkets and cheap junk. Still do actually. So I always saved up my allowance for months and blew it all when we went there. It was magic.

That year, I saw a tin box amid the piles of junk people where hoping to get rid of. It was a pretty thing, gold-colored with flowers on the lid and very antique-looking. It reminded me of my grandfather for some reason and I immediately wanted to buy it for him. The guy who sold it must have been a right money-grubbing asshole, because it turned out he wanted all the money I had in my grubby little fist for it. My mother was livid of course, but I was too young to understand the principles of 'haggling' and 'greedy assholes who cheat kids out of their allowance for a trinket'. I wanted that box and nothing could stop me, not even my mother. I bought it and spent the rest of the day feeling bad for my brother who bought all kinds of things for himself.

When I gave my grandfather the box, I must've been positively shining with joy. He said he loved it and disappeared. Later, when the rest of the family wasn't looking, he took me out into the hallway and gave my box back to me and said he couldn't accept such a gift. I had to take it back. It took me a while to remember, but he was crying when he gave it back. I never really knew why and I guess I blocked it out. Because, you know, tough-as-nails war heroes don't cry over boxes.

I spent the ride home crying my eyes out and wondering why grandpa didn't like the present I gave him.

He died of cancer not so long after that. Maybe he knew he was dying and wanted me to have the box, since he wouldn't have any use for it. I don't know for sure, but he was practical like that. My mother feels certain that there's no possible way I can remember him because I was so young when he died, but I do.

I still have that box and it still reminds me of my grandfather.

Not Always Right

One site I really enjoy reading is Not Always Right. Go ahead and read some of it, it's actually really funny, especially if you have to deal with idiot customers yourself on a regular basis.

But after going through pretty much everything posted there I quickly became annoyed. On every page in at least one of the quotes, this exchange happens:

Customer Who Is Not Right: I want to speak to your manager!
Employee: Okay.
Manager: So sorry about all this, let me see if I can pull my nose out of your ass long enough to give you free stuff for being a violent, unreasonable bitch/asshole.

All of those exchanges are from the US, by the way. This annoys me and I don't understand it. Why are people constantly being rewarded and adored for being utter asshats? Seems to me like these people aren't any better than the kid I mentioned in my last post and those managers easily take the place of the dumbass teachers there.

I can't imagine this happening here. No wonder the USA is going down the crapper fast if people can get away with all the crap described on that site. "The Customer is always right" has never really applied here and rest assured, anyone acting like a complete retard or bitch will not be rewarded for their trouble in the end. The managers here seem to have better things to do than kiss ass, like, I dunno, managing stores and restaurants. Why do all these people seem so afraid of losing one lousy customer? Especially if they're violent, abusive idiots? Why are these bag boys and waitresses and cashiers trained to take huge amounts of shit just because someone pays them?

Listen USA, I know you've got better things to worry about and I swear I'm not hating on you, but that retarded mantra has got to go. You look like genuine idiots to the rest of us. I've worked all sorts of customer service and trust me, if they're abusive, they're not right. They're assmonkeys. Start treating them that way. I can pretty much promise you your bussiness won't go under just because you tell the idiots what's what. Managers, please stick up for your employees. Nobody deserves to be treated like crap because of some nonsensical corporate slogan.

Daddy said I'm precious

I hated my college in the Netherlands. It's far enough in the past for me to finally come out and say that the teachers treated us like little kids, my classmates seemed to be a-okay with that and that was fine, because they seemed to possess the intellect of little kids to match. None of the quirky wit some children display but all of the mental capacities. Being from another country (a country they look down on too) was bad enough, actually having a functioning mind seemed to be a vicious sin in their eyes. Fuck them. I was well and truly sick by girl bullies and micro-macho boys two years into high school, I did not want to mingle with that shit in college too. It's sad that kintergarden teachers, or at least students training to be just that, are such annoying dimwits and intellectually bankrupt baby mommy wannabes.

Anyway, there's a point to all that.

This school was incrediby PC and did not allow smoking anywhere on school grounds, even though we were all adults (in age at least). Fine. I took my cigarette breaks in one of the gardens. This particular day was freezing cold, but again, fine. People gathered round, made fun of the stupid smokers and went inside. Not so fine, but I wasn't PMSing quite hard enough yet to break down and clock anyone.

Not that my day hadn't been bad, oh gosh no. It had been miserable. I did not move to another country to have the difference between philosophy and psychiatry explained to me for two full hours of class. I did not purchase 200 euros worth of books to be told that we were only going to read the introduction because the actual book would be too hard for us to comprehend without the teachers holding our hands and explaining every paragraph to us over the course of three fucking years. And I definetely wasn't making any friends by telling people that I didn't appreciated being treated like a kid just because I was going to teach kids. My parents had done a fine job of raising me, I did not need these teachers to have a go at it well into my legal adulthood.

So yeah, I was severely pissed off, shunned and PMSing like you wouldn't believe. Crampy, painy and bloaty and inches removes from knocking someone's teeth out. The school bell for the lower school rang and suddenly I'm surrounded my little children, which cheers me up a bit, when a little voice pipes up.

"My daddy says smoking is stupid. You're stupid."

Aw hell naw.

I briefly contemplated kicking the brat in the face, but the minute I thought about that I made the decision not to. Because, you know, drop-kicking a five-year-old is wrong. Even if the kid happens to be a rude little turd.

I proceeded to ignore him. He, however, decided to press on.

"You're stupid. You're going to die. My daddy says people who smoke die."

"Well honey, my daddy told me that little boys like yourself need to watch their potty mouth when talking to adults. Learn some manners and respect for grown ups and then we'll talk about smoking, okay?"

I swear I said this in the sweetest, nicest voice I could muster, but the bratty kid was visibly perplexed. And, I noticed, so where my classmates. All of them stared at me like I had just decked the kid. Eventually they rushed in to save they day with ther awesome trainee teacher powers. Oh, don't listen to the nasty lady, of course smoking is stupid and he and his daddy are absolutely right and oh look you just farted a rainbow! Now run along and have a hug for being such a smart little tyke.

That, in turn, revulsed me. There I was watching a bunch of future teachers fawning over an ill-behaved little brat as if he owned their fucking lives. The kid was extremely pleased with himself, naturally, and I got an earful from the others.

That children have every right to speak their mind, that the time when children were to be seen and not heard is over and good riddance to it, that I almost destroyed the brat's mind by implying that he had no manners.

Right.

What everybody there failed to see however was a kid insulting an adult without provocation and being rewarded for it with praise and hugs. Tell me that's not right. Tell me right now that freaking toddlers should not be allowed to call adults names and get away with it. Tell me right fucking now that kid should not have been rewarded for shooting his mouth of.

I love kids, cross my heart and hope to die, but damnit they need to learn some goddamn manners. I refuse to teach kids that they shit lollipops and vomit glitter. They are not the crowning achievement of God's Great Work just by virtue of being born. It's their actions that count. What they say and do and that's what I want to teach them. That kid was out of line and if I'd been his teacher at that time, I'd told him as much. Those guys that rushed in to save his pwecious wittle feewing from getting hurt? They're the ones who're going to get beaten up with little chairs and stabbed with pencils. And it'll be their own damn fault for letting rude brats like that walk all over them.

Go ahead, tell me I'm a bad person for not letting kids speak their mind and crushing their selfworth. Truth is, kids have wonderful minds and I love hearing what they have to say. But only if their sentences include please, thank you and miss. If I want to be badmouthed and insulted, I'll just write something infuriating in my blog.

I'm an Angry Sumbitch

I'm not vain because I like my body.

I thought that statement was enough to make Captain Obvious cringe, but apparently I overestimated the average internet blogger's intellect (I'm too fucking generous that way)

I'm truly, utterly sick of hearing women degrade themselves for all to see and hear. I'm sick of the creepy exhibitionism, of women taking pictures of themselves in the most unflattering positions to post online and whine about how fat they are, or how spotty or how their hair is hopeless, hoping, nay, begging for words of gushing praise from the readership that consists or perverts who are in it for the nudy pics that will surely come one day.

Fuck you.

Listen you whiners, if you insist on degrading yourself for the world to witness you deserve to feel like crap. I don't care how much you weigh or what skintone you have or whatever completely arbitrary feature that is in style this century in your country. If you need the admiration of anonymous online strangers, you deserve to feel unattractive. Because guess what, you are. If one word of criticism about your flabby gut or neo-orange sunbed tan is enough to crush your fucking soul, you don't deserve to feel beautiful.

Your teachers probably told you that you are a precious little gem on the crown of Mother Earth. Guess what though, until you grow a spine that isn't made of glitter and self-loathing, you aren't worth the compliment you're so desperately crying for. You're ugly and you're boring. Deal.

"But Devilfish!" I hear the whiners cry already, "That's easy for a sexy, slim, perfectly toned goddess like you to say, but what about the unwashed fat masses!"

Fuck them with a table spoon.

Have you actually seen my body? I've got terribe acne on my back. Hammer toes. I seem to have some sort of problem where the more soap and deodorant I use, to more I funk up the place. Nicotine stains. Bad skin. Long black tit hairs.

It doesn't fucking matter!

I like my body. It hasn't failed on me once, it functions perfectly for what I need it to do and I happen to like looking at it in the mirror. For some reason that makes me the Queen Bitch in any gathering of females.

Don't fucking pretend my only choices are whining, self-depricating loser or pretentious, nasty queen bee. I'm neither. I refuse to be another performing hippo in the circus of female self-loathing. It absolutely destroys my soul as well as my faith in women. The old time feminists, you know, the ones who had it right and understood what they fought for would no doubt gladly stab you in the eye with a rusty fork for the utterly negative stereotype you gals are promoting. Fuck you. Don't look at me like I'm a lying bitch out to crush your selfworth when I tell you I like the way I look. Yeah, I'm a model. Yeah, my body enables me to attract the type of man I'm interested in. Yes I was fat once. I got over it. Quit whining.

Now can I please be a real girl again? I have the boobs and vagigi, do I absolutely need the self-loathing to join your little club? If yes, fuck you in the arse with a metal fan.

I'd totally be gay if women weren't so pathetic.

Building up a Tolerance

I've posted a lot of messages in a row in the last days (after abandoning this blog for about two years no less) and I've got nobody to blame for it but V.

I started reading Violent Acres a couple of days ago and have been glued to me screen ever since. I read it for two days straight, only stopping to cook, eat and take bathroom breaks because... I don't really know why.

Apparently V (the anonymous writer of the site) is a bit of a net celebrity. Yeah, I'd never heard of her before either, but she's the real deal apparently. With fans and hate sites and blog dedicated to her site, with enemies and pet peeves and a writing style I can only describe as bitchy. Turns out she's been stirring shit for quite a while now and I never knew. The way she writes makes people foam at the mouth, but here's the kicker: she's completely anonymous.

While reading some of the articles (well, almost all of them by now) I found myself agreeing with her opinions about 80% of the time. When I did agree, I laughed or treated my monitor to an burst of 'Damn right!' When I didn't agree, oh boy, I disagreed something nasty. My knee-jerk reaction was to click the 'Mail the Author' button and politely explain why I didn't agree and include some points she might concider.

But here's the kicker: there's no such button. When I say anonymous I mean completely and utterly anonymous. There's no email on the site, no comments section, no nothing. Apparantly some people go through every post and som clever Googling or whatever has rewarded them with V's email, but honestly? I don't care that much. If she wanted my opinion she'd have a comments section and besides, I've learned something from not being able to talk to an author I don't agree with.

I learned to think about why I don't agree with something. Not that I've never done that before mind you, but not being able to indulge my knee-jerk reaction has been a very good thing. She doesn't need (or want) to understand my point. I need to understand hers. And because 80% of her opinions are mine too, I'm willing to believe there's merit to the ones I don't agree with and take the time to actually sit and think about them.

It's been a lot of fun, so here's my plan. Once I've built up a tolerance for Violent Acres I'll move on to a site or blog I agree with 70% and not once email the author or leave a comment. When I can do that, I'll move on to 60%, then half and so on. By the time I'm done, I hope to be able to read something written by a man or woman that has nothing but opinions completely contrary to my own and say to myself: "Wow, you're an asshole. But that's totally cool."

My womb is not for rent

I don't want to have children.

That phrase alone is enough to get me buried under an avalanche of questions, moral outrage and gleeful disdain when I dare to utter it and while I usually welcome a bit of attention (a sad byproduct of being ignored by my peers during my sad, sad childhood) that's entirely too much attention for me to deal with.

I encourage you to try it though, if only to prove that there are still taboos in this world. Not if you're a guy, obviously. It's perfectly okay for guys not to want children. They just don't understand that warm fuzzy feeling us gals get in the pit of out uterus when babies are mentioned. They'd never understand the joys of planning the perfect little suburban family.

No, if you're a girl or woman, try saying it, preferably to a bunch of young mothers (especially if they're also mommybloggers). You'll be amazed.

I'm 22 now and have been in a stable relationship for over a year now and apparently I've reached the age and maturity where I'm supposed to piss my pants in anticipation when a baby is hauled into the room. Always, without fail, someone will turn to me and ask: "Wouldn't you like some of your own?"

THIS IS A TRICK QUESTION! DO NOT ANSWER IT!

It doesn't matter who asked it. Whether it's the parents or grandparents or someone equally emotionally attached to the kid or just a random stranger who happens to witness the scene, they ARE NOT actually asking whether you want children, yes or no. They're waiting for you to go teary-eyed from pure maternal instinct, look longingly at the little bundle of pure light and say: "Yes oh yes. I cannot wait for the day the angels decend and mercifully grant me the right to bear child."

When you instead respond with a shrug and a "No, not really" all freaking hell breaks loose.

I know a woman (or rather, I know of a woman, but I trust my source 100%) who is pregnant with her first child. Second month I think. Already, she has some creepy well-laid plans all worked out and written down about how to best get the kid out of her life. Nanny for when the kid's a baby, weekends alternating between her parents and her ex-boyfriend (whom she discarded like a worn out shoe the minute his seed took hold in her womb), school and after-school care when the kid is the proper age, boarding school abroad for high school and some far away college after that. Hopefully by that time, the kid will be old and mature enough to move far, far away. I can only imagine she expects the poor kid to take care of her when she's old and even more worthless than she is now.

I want to honestly stab that woman with screwdriver, right in the goddamn uterus. It'll relieve me and make sure she stops reproducing.

To the people who read that little story and thought to themselves "Well why the hell is she having a kid in the first place?", welcome to my side of the argument.

It's an extreme example but you'd be surprised to find out how many people how no fucking idea why they have kids in the first place. Just wanted it. Maternal instinct. Bullshit. Women seem to be so conditioned into being future moms that they lose all sense of choice here. It's called common sense. Before you have a kid, stop and think about why you want one. Love kids? Me too, that's why I want to be a teacher. We've got a surplus of moms and a staggering lack of teachers on our hands. Think about it.

If you're fanancially and emtionally stable enough to have the big family you always wanted, that's no skin of my nose and I honestly hope you will be able to raise your children to be fine adults that will make you happy and proud and I honestly don't care. But if I don't feel like hopping on this particular bandwagon, grant me the same courtesy, please.

The reactions to my opening statement vary. People ask me why I hate kids and it takes ages to explain that I adore kids but don't want any of my own. By far the most infuriating thing to do is say something along the lines of "Oh, you'll change your mind soon enough."

Fucking A.

Why not just lean over, pinch my cheek and tell me I'll understand when I'm all grown up?

OF COURSE it's possible I change my mind somewhere along the line. Hell, maybe I'll be craving the other, other white meat a month from now. I'm very happy that I'm a different person now than I was ten years ago (I wet the bed a lot less for one) and I sincerely hope I change a whole lot more over the course of the next ten years.

This is not weakness. This is not giving in. It's called growing up and I like doing it from time to time.

Why I don't want children? I lack the urge to procreate for one. I also prioritised my life differently from most women, or so it seems. There's no grand ideals involved, I don't think bringing another child into this world is cruel and blah blah blah. I just don't want to and I don't think that'll change anytime soon.

We'll talk again in ten years. Until then, my uterus is mine alone. My boyfriend has an access pass. And that's it.

How to be Good, part 2

One area in which me and my boyfriend are vastly different is how we view basic human nature. He is of the opinion that all people suck, plain and simple. They're in it for number 1, maybe their closest friends and relatives if you're lucky, but basically the human nature is a cesspool of anger, gleeful deceit and manic self-preservation at the cost of basic decency. Me, I'm not sure. I think people have a lot of potential to be both good and not-so-good, or in rare cases downright evil. I happen to think we have both the brainpower and emotions necessary to lift us to great heights or drag us down to flaming, festering lows. It's all about what we experience and how we choose to handle that.

That being said, we're both decent people, I think. We help out where we can without trying to change the world. We help friends move, go out of our way to make other people happy, we're kind to stranges and waiters and beggars even if they're not kind to us. I actively to to generally Be Good while he just struts along and takes action on a case-by-case basis.

It's one of the ways in which my boyfriend is a better person than me.

Allow me to explain. Being nice comes naturally to me, because I think every person is basically decent and good. Somewhere deep down. If they're nasty, that's because they're having a bad day. I'm not really that naieve, but that's my basic stance. He, however, assumes everyone he talks to is an asshole worthy of public humiliation or, in worse cases, execution. Yet he helps them anyway, he's nice to everyone until they give him a reason not to, and he isn't doing it out of a sense of moral superiority. He does those things (and complains about them a LOT) because it's simply the right thing to do and he doesn't want to become the people he complains about. You know those people. They run red lights, are rude to waiters, yell at their kids' teachers and throw garbage on the road. He doesn't want to be an asshole so he opts to be nice instead.

Me, I don't even know why I'm nice. It comes naturally, I don't have to force myself to be nice, it helps make my day more pleasant and in the end, it might even save my soul. My ass.

So in a roundabout way, my boyfiend who despises the human race is the Good person and I'm the selfish, whining egomaniac.

Go figure.

How to be Good

It's a book by Nick Hornby and like all of his books, it's pure tasty genius.

Other than a book and more importantly, it's also a question I seem to be asking myself more and more frequently. What is being Good, real Good as opposed to simply kind, or right, or Not Bad? If there's one thing I want in life it's to learn how to be Good. I'm not content with Bad being absent, I can't help but feel that being a good person is much more complex than not being bad.

I've moved in with a guy who is very different from me. I love him to bits but you would be hard-pressed to find two people so completely different from each other outside our tiny living space. I concider him a good person mainly because he rarely does bad things and I don't know his feelings on the subject. I suspect he's not all that driven to be Good. He looks out for himself and me and honestly, that should be good enough for anybody.
Living with him has made me think about this though, about what is Right and Just and Good. So I try to do that, conciously, often.

Why I'm so driven to be Good is a mystery even to me, but it's something I simply accepted as a personal goal and I plan on seeing it through.

I try to be a Good citizen by informing myself about politics and voting with my head, not my heart. Which many people tell me is a hopeless endeavor, because they all lie. Why not vote by chucking darts at a bunch of campaign posters? Nothing is going to change anyway, they tell me. And maybe they're right. Maybe it is a waste of time.

I try to be a Good neighbour and friend by reading blogs I don't agree with, to build up a tolerance to other people's opinions. So that I don't fly of the handle when confronted with opinions and ideas that are revolting to me. Didn't work out so hot, because I still foamed at the mouth when confronted with that one guy who nearly vomited up his meal after being informed the ingredients came from the Turkish shop around the corner.

I try to be Good by being less angry and well, that's just hopeless. I'm an angry young sumbitch and there's a lot of things I'm not done ranting about.

In sort, trying to be Good seems like a massive waste of time and energy and honestly, I'm not sure why I keep pushing myself. Nothing I do, none of my Good actions have ever effected anything, not even the most minor event. It tends to alienate me more than anything else.

Surf the internet for a while. I don't mean the nice clean family-friendly company/government sites, that's the World Wide Web and it's clean and pretty and your mom would approve. I mean the Internet, Web 2.0, where every opinion is as good as the next one. (Don't dig too deep either, you'll reach the goatse, lemonparty, girls and their cups bottom of the net and it isn't pretty down there). It's nothing but bile and vitriol. Everybody hates everything. (Violent Acres and Maddox being prime examples that I personally really enjoy, but don't agree with) If you could somehow harness the combined power of our hatred of anything from global warming and creationism to Paris Hilton, we'd be set for energy for another millenium. And there's some wonderful material out there, cynical and dark and funny like any Tim Burton movie and it makes me laugh, but in the end it doesn't really carry the message on how to be Good. It doesn't teach you anything besides how to be angry, and sad, and vaguely connected to others through hate and annoyance. Outside religion, nobody seems to care much about it anymore. And religion does a whole lot of hating by itself.

How to be Good doesn't matter. How to be thin and funny and cynical and smart does, but good has no place in that list. That's a shame, but understandable. The world's going down the crapper anyway and there's nothing waiting for us but the black soulless void. Still, it's a sad thing that the desire to do good has fallen by the wayside a little. It could make our rapid decent into unpersonal, uncaring chaos a little bit more pleasant.

Devilfish Teaches Math

It is inevitable. I knew from the second I took this path in life that one day, it would come. I would look upon evil little faces gleaming with malice, be subjected to unholy torture as a punishment for this path I chose and in turn be forced to torture the ones that come after me. In my mind I can already feel my brain fizzing, my skin burning with sweat, my legs shaking. That’s right. There’s no denying it. I made a choice and I know what’s coming. Some day not long from this very moment, I will be a teacher.

Don’t mess with the substitute teacher, kids. We’re prepared. We’re trained to handle you, much like Al Queda soldiers are trained to ignore the plight and pain of the innocent. We’re tough shit. Tough as nails. Oh yes, you think you can best us. You think you can slowly wear down our defences by making our names sound like dirty words and putting sharp objects on our chairs. You’re wrong. I will gladly take your challenge and send you home to your mommy bawling your little eyes out faster than you can say D minus. I’ve got the training. I’ve got the mental fortitude of a terrorist. I will kick your ass.

All this was going through my mind when the regular teacher left the class and I was left in charge. I squinted and looked at their shining eyes, their clawlike hands capable of wielding all sorts of pointy things. Their pigtails.
“Who are you?”
Ah, the words are spoken, the battle begins. I will not be bested! I will stand my ground and teach the hell out of these brats!
“None of your business! You punks think you can kill me, I’ll kill you first! Shut up! Open your books! Close them! Now drop down and give me twenty!”
An eerie silence came over the classroom and I knew I had won this round. Grinning smugly, I settled into my chair and put my feet up on the desk. Little brats. Think they’re so smart.
“I’m sorry, I just wanted to know your name, miss.”
I glared at the girl. You couldn’t tell from looking at her, what with her adorable blond pigtails and pink dress, but I instantly knew I had a killer on my hands, a certified James Bond espionage expert bent on covertly turning my classroom into Vietnam. I was onto her. No way was I giving her any info.
“Well, what’s yours?” I wittily replied, and I knew I was the stronger one when she sat upright and smiled.
“I’m Sarah, miss.”
“Sarah, huh? Hah! How foolish of you to cave in so quickly! I know where you live, punk! I know who you love and I will smash your head like a grape if you oppose me again. Oh, you’re a wily one, aren’t you? But don’t mess with me, kid. Now…”
I got to my feet and walked to the blackboard, convinced that I had shown these miniature Nazis what was what. Time to teach.
“Now, my name is…” I paused. After my display of toughness, it would be unwise to reveal my true identity, lest they come after me at night with sharpened pencils and rulers as kids tend to do. “Miss… Teacher… Ninja. That’s right. Miss Teacherninja. Now open your books at page 54 and get to work!”
Silence came over the classroom as the kids went to work and I could finally relax and enjoy my shiny new Spiderman. It was good to mentally escape the torture a class of seven year olds can and will inflict on a teacher fresh from college and let Spidey take me away, swinging the webs in the Big Apple looking all hot and elegant in those tights. Maybe land on a rooftop, do a little superhero roleplaying myself…
“Miss Teacherninja?”
I looked up. It was that Sarah girl and she was making trouble again, but who the hell was she talking to?
“Miss Teacherninja?” she insisted and she seemed to be looking in my general direction. I looked over my shoulder.
“Hey bitch!”
“Yo.”
“We didn’t learn how to do this yet.”
That was it! I would take no more crap from these brats! Like a majestic eagle I swooped down from my desk and pinned the little rebel to her desk with my elbow, a move all teachers learn in their second year. She finally revealed her true identity and let out a series of high-pitched battle cries, but I was her superior in every way and had little trouble wrestling her to the floor. Things were starting to look grim when her wide-eyed posse gathered around me, muttering voodoo curses under their breath, but luckily they were distracted when their teacher returned. I was able to escape their clutches and made a dash for the window.
“So long kids!” I shouted in triumph as I opened the window. “Miss Teacherninja will return! This is not over! You will pay!”
And with that vow, I momentarily forgot the fine line between reality and Spidey comics. It sunk in right when I realised my web shooters weren’t functioning properly. With my last breath I cursed the Green Goblin for tricking me into being a teacher, then realised I was on the ground floor. I had to think quick. Taking of all my clothes to achieve optimal getaway speed I made a dash for the school gates. I could hear my nemesis wailing and cursing me, but even without spiderpowers I made it out in one piece.

I know you are reading this, Sarah. I can picture you now, sitting behind your NASA superatomic computer, grinning to yourself, thinking you won. This isn’t over, you evil she-devil. You messed with a substitute teacher. You will taste defeat.

Things I Should Have Said This Week

To my landlord's wife: You, creepy old Chinese lady, have no business in my apartment. And if you do feel the need to go in there, at least have the common decency to do it secretly instead of telling me I should do my dishes and open a window every now and then. And where in the world did you get the idea that you could save my already flaming soul by leaving a Bible on my altar? Not cool, lady. Not cool at all.

To the guy I love: I should've told you how I felt the minute I realised it, although I'm absolutely thrilled you and your ex got back together. Seventh time's the charm, right? Forget about those six times it didn't work out, I bet good money this time is going to be completely different and you'll both grow old together. But in the unlikely event that it doesn't, I'll be here on the rebound. Just in case.
Also, I saw the way you looked at me at the gala. Bet you didn't know I could look like that, did you? Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere.

To the creepy toddler who told me I'm stupid for smoking: Santa doesn't exist.

To my Mum: You are amazing. I love you. I respect you. You are my hero and I can only hope that one day I'll be half the woman you are.

To my one-night stand: Don't ever do that again. Seriously, that shit hurts.

To the guy I love: Sorry I got drunk and slept with your friend. I only did it to get over you. If it's any consolation, it didn't work, and now it hurts to sit down.

To the woman in the mirror: You frighten me. You frighten me more than the creepy old Chinese lady who's trying to save my soul. I don't like you. Bring back the girl.

To my Grandma: I'm sorry I haven't been there for you, but the truth is, you frighten me now. You're all wrinkly and you cry a lot and don't remember my name. I don't want to be scared of you, but I am, especially when you sort of zone out and try to convince me that I am my cousin. I'm ashamed about it. I'll come to visit this weekend. I promise.

To my one-night stand: Yeah, you left your pot in my apartment. One week, then it's mine, although I'll give you a Bible as a consolation. Personally, I blame you for the soul-saving lectures I have to endure now, you noisy bastard. But you were fun, in an interesting sort of way. Also, my name's not Madeleine.

To my teachers: Yes, I am a pain in the ass. I'm not doing it on purpose. For what it's worth, thanks for putting up with me.

Nice Guys Do Finish Last (and bloody well deserve to)

It's not so much that nice guys finish last. It's that when the race starts, there's a sniper in the stadium that shoots them in the head.
Nine times out of ten, that sniper is me.
I hate these 'nice guys' and am fully aware of how stupid that sounds. But the guys who complain about being 'too nice' and 'girls only like assholes' really need to wake up, smell the coffee, put in some arsenic and have breakfast. They're not nice at all.

The typical NGWFL (Nice Guy Who Finishes Last) is not nice but resentful, bitter, envious and negative. Not to mention creepy. If the NGWFL falls in love, he does so with a vengeance. Passionate declarations of love soon follow. Heartbreak is next. Not because the girl thinks he is too nice (honestly, what girl in their right mind would reject a guy on account of being too nice? Has that ever happened in the history of love?) but because he is desperate and has 'fan boy' written all over him. Girls don't want fans. They don't want a guy who treats her like a goddess. That's just too much pressure because she knows that in the end, she'll fail him, she won't be able to live up to the fairytale princess image he has of her, break his heart and become the standard 'psycho ex-girlfriend bitch'. Just think. If she notices she can get the NGWFL without even trying, why wouldn't she think she can get better? Wouldn't you?

The NGWFL whines. And he makes the crucial mistake to do his whining not in some faceless forum or to his male buddies, but in front of girls. That's okay, because these girls are too good for him and probably want to date assholes anyway. Anyone near him has to hear about how Lady Love just can't throw him a bone and he deserves the love everyone else seems to be getting and his exes are bitches who left him for assholes and maybe he should become an asshole too and SHUT THE FUCK UP! It's not endearing, it's not cute and you won't even be getting a pity shag out of me. That 'asshole' your ex is dating? He's not an asshole. He's not cuter than you, he has the same paycheck, enjoys the same movies and apparently has the same taste in women. Know what the difference is? He didn't whine your girl into pitying him. He was a great guy from the start and didn't neeeeeed a girl to save him like you NEEEEEDED her to save you.

Now there must be some genuinely nice guys out there who aren't whiners and still can't catch a break. I'll gladly shoot them too. Because when they complain about how there aren't any nice girls, this is usually what happened:

They spot a girl and man, isn't she dreamy! Pearly whites, legs that reach up to her armpits, sparkling almond eyes and an ass that'd make J-Lo throw a jealous hissy fit. Never mind the fact there are 20 other guys already buying her drinks and beating their chests. You're the shit, you're a nice guy, you can beat your chest better and harder than any of these guys! She'll accept your 50$ martini and roll her eyes. Know why? Because she isn't a nice girl. Do you think she woke up this morning, looked in the mirror and thought 'well fuck me, I'm hot!' She knows this. She's been hot since she was born, only then it was called cute. Guys like you have been catering to her every need (whim) since puberty. She not a nice girl. You can't have her. But you want her anyway.

Look around. I'm serious, tear your eyes away from the leggy, busty blond and look around for a second. See that cute brunette? That's the nice girl you were looking for. Don't claim she doesn't exist, that hurts her feelings. She not even in the race. While you and the busty females are scrambling for the finish like retarded monkeys, she and her friends are waiting there with towels, drinks and a hug.

So, Nice Guy, fuck off. You're not nice. You're either pathetic and whiny or shallow and blind. Don't talk to me about how girls like assholes and a nice guy like you cant catch a break. You might be nice, but you're an asshole too. Tell that crap to your blog (ahem). In real life, where the real girls are, try to behave like a good literate primate. Nice girls love those.

Assmonkeys Say the Darnest Things

I smoke. Religiously. It's one of the things that keeps me sane and prevents me from going out and shoot people. And I have good manners. I don't smoke near kids. In restaurants or bars, only if there is a smoking section. If someone politely asks me to put it out, I will and I'll apologise profusely for being so inconciderate, we'll both laugh and that'll be the end of it. None of you are waiting for another 'I love to smoke' rant. This is not for non-smokers. This is for other smokers. Concider it moral backup. Some things non-smokers say that makes me want to staple them to a rhino:

*Smoking is bad for you/Smoking kills*

HOLY SHIT!!! When did this news get out? Why did nobody tell me before! I feel so used. They should totally put a warning on the... Oh wait, they do, see? Nevertheless, there should be campaigns and the government... Oh wait, there are. How could I have missed it? Excuse me, I don't want to interupt this orgasm of usefull information, but I really need to go pay the rent on the rock I live under. Go and get yourself fucked by an elephant, asshat.

*I don't care if you die, but...*

Really? Newsflash, asshat: I don't care if you die either.

*I don't mind you smoking, but my kids...*

You mean those screeching little trolls who insist on running through the library screaming and pulling pages out of books I need to write my paper? Or the adorable little turds who fling cutlery at my mother in a restaurant? WHILE YOU WATCH AND SMILE?!?!?! These brats deserve cancer and so do you. Bonus points if you say this at a fastfood joint feeding your fat kids burgers. Asshat.

*fake coughs, flailing arms*

I'm sorry you got kicked out of drama school, I really am. I know art is your life. I know it's hard to keep the bounty of those eternal springs of creativity to yourself and you want to share, share, SHARE your genius with the rest of the world. So did Hitler.

*Do you know how much cigarettes cost?*

I'm a student. I know the exact price of a bowl of cereal, which I am forced to eat two meals a day. (Frosties: 1.20 euros for a family pack. Bio-milk: 56 cents. Bowl: 4.99 for six. Spoon: okay, my mom gave me that one) I know which supermarket sells their bread the cheapest, because it's two days old. I ride my bike an extra fifteen minutes because there's one shop that sells their fruit very cheap. I have a list of former students who sell me my books at half the price and use them gladly, even if they did draw penises in the margins. I cannot afford a trip to Egypt. Or an opera every weekend. Or a house filled with all the books I'd like to read. Smoking is the only luxury I CAN afford. So go back to booking your trip to Greece and falling asleep at the plays I would kill to see. You pretentious, white collar piece of asshat.

*Cigarettes smell*

As opposed to your SUV, you mean?

*You should quit*

Are you freaking kidding me? It's an ADDICTION, you freak. Let me explain this to you in small words. Try to keep up:
No cigarette. I get nervous. Me, go outside. Smoke goes into lungs. Nicotine causes activation of mesolimbic dopamine system. Me, feel good. Get back inside. Repeat.
You, asshat.

*There are better ways to spend your time*

Okay, let me get this straight. You insist I go outside to smoke (5 minute walk), roll my cigarette there because the smell of fresh tabaco makes you feel sick (2 minutes), smoke it there (3-4 minutes) and go back inside (another 5 minute walk) and yet you assume I don't feel I've wasted enough time smoking and am dying to waste even more by getting a lecture from you (10-15 minutes)? I'm surprised YOU don't have better ways to spend your time.

I could go on, but you get the point. Concider this though; if every non-smoker berates a smoker ONCE in their entire life, I'd still need to hear about it every day. If both my parents, my three siblings, the 20 students in my class and my 7 teachers each have a ten minute talk with me about my smoking habits, I'll have talked about smoking for 320 minutes. Roughly 5 and a half hours. And I didn't even count the random strangers and extended family who also do this more often than I care for.
Next time a smoker bothers you, assume they have heard it all. Don't bother them with any of these silly one-liners. THEY HAVE HEARD IT ALL. Probably that same day. Ask them politely to go somewhere else or put it out. 9 times out of 10, they will. And you won't get stapled to a rhino.

Blogomania

I have a thing with mental disorders. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I enjoy seeing people with unrealistic fears that cause them very real pain and discomfort. Schadenfreude is wasted on me. It's more that I can't help but marvel at the ingeniously crafted wad of slimy tissue that is the human brain. So complex, so very fragile, and so very, very mysterious. People seem to get the impression I'm some sort of New Age hippie freak, but the truth is I am at awe when I see the things science has done for us. Especially neuroscience mixed with psychology and just a pinch of what-the-fuck?! Our brain is a marvelous, mysterious thing. If mine were a little better, I'd be a neurologist.

Our brain can do funny things to us, especially when other people are watching and there's a good chance of total and utter embarresment. You wouldn't believe the kinds of phobias, syndromes and assorted weird diseases people suffer from. I for one think it's fascinating, and to drive the point home, here are a few of my favourites. Definitions were found all over the internet. All of these exist and are indeed very, very real. You can't make this stuff up folks!

Capgras' syndrome:
People with Capgras Syndrome act as if they are in a parallel universe in which the people they know are "doubles" or "impostors." When people with Capgras Syndrome see a friend, spouse, or themselves in a mirror, they believe they are seeing an exact double or an impostor. Sometimes, people with Capgras Syndrome even believe that inanimate objects -- like a chair, watch, book, or lamp -- have been replaced by exact replicas. If people own a pet, the pet may be seen as an impostor, a strange animal roaming through their lives and homes.
The syndrome, named for French psychiatrist Jean Marie Joseph Capgras, afflicts thousands of people in the United States.

Richotillomania:
Richotillomania is an impulse control disorder characterised by the repeated urge to pull out scalp hair, eyelashes, beard hair, nose hair, pubic hair, eyebrows or other body hair. It may be distantly related to obsessive-compulsive disorder, with which it shares both similarities and differences.

Dendrophobia:
A fear of trees. It can cause panic attacks and keep people apart from loved ones and business associates. Symptoms typically include shortness of breath, rapid breathing, irregular heartbeat, sweating, nausea, and overall feelings of dread, although everyone experiences dendrophobia in their own way and may have different symptoms. This is not the same as fear of forests. That one is called Hylophobia, although I imagine it's quite hard to suffer from the former but not the latter.

Dr. Strangelove Syndrome
Also known as Alien hand syndrome or Anarchic Hand. A neurological disorder in which one of the sufferer's hands seems to take on a life of its own. Sometimes the sufferer will not be aware of what the hand is doing until it is brought to his or her attention. Alien hands can perform complex acts such as undoing buttons or removing clothing.

Levophobia:
An abnormal and persistent fear of objects at the left side of the body. An abnormal and persistent fear of objects at the right side of the body is called Dextrophobia.

Bibliomania:
Bibliomania is an obsessive-compulsive disorder involving the collecting of books to the point where social relations or health are damaged. The purchase of multiple copies of the same book and edition and the accumulation of books beyond possible capacity of use or enjoyment are frequent symptoms of bibliomania.

Exploding head syndrome:
It causes the sufferer to occasionally experience a tremendously loud noise as if from within his or her own head, usually described as an explosion or a roar. This usually occurs within an hour or two of falling asleep, but is not the result of a dream.

Paraskavedekatriaphobia:
Fear of Friday the 13th. The disorder itself isn't that weird, but the name sure is.

And, my all time favourite:

Flamer Personality Disorder
More on this recently discovered mental disorder here

Now, I'll tell you a little secret: I personally suffer from one of these disorders. Now guess :-D

Things Commercials Have Taught Me

Lesson 1) Miracles still exist, but you have to buy overpriced tickets to get into a theme park that hogs them.

Lesson 2) Being a woman sucks, what with the bleeding crotch thing and all, but stuff the right product down your knickers and a male model will shag you and fall asleep afterwards, which is a good thing.

Lesson 3) Doing somersaults on a sunny beach will take the shine out of your hair, but don't worry, the right shampoo will put it right back in, allowing you all the beachy somersaulting goodness you can handle.

Lesson 4) 15 Belgian men on bikes will not provide a good source of electricity for your household.

Lesson 5) Buy a car this month. It will talk, dance, crack jokes and be the perfect sidekick for any financially challenged superhero.

Lesson 6) When English people talk about French cleaning products, they don't stop moving their mouths after they're done talking.

Lesson 7) Sniffing towels washed with the right product will instantly transport you to a magical valley filled with lavender and giggly teenage fairies that sing Mariah Carey songs and fart glitter. You will enjoy this.

Lesson 8) Rice is not harvested by poor women with 8 kids to feed. They now hire American kids on skateboards flipping out on some sugary drink.

Lesson 9) You are fat. Don't mind the fact you look like a anorexic stick insect in war territory, you are fat. Eat our product. You'll look exactly the same, but you'll wear more makeup and strangers will compliment you on the tightness of your posterior for no reason at all. You will feel this is a good thing.

Lesson 10) France sucks. Eat more France!

My conclusion? Somewhere, someone is hogging all the good stuff in the world. He probably bought it in bulk when good stuff went out of style and we were all too focused on getting more money to notice. And now he's selling it back to us piece by piece. I know it's a 'he' (see lesson two) and it's probably a commie too. A Dutch one. Damn those crafty Dutch communists and their hogging ways...

Solar Madness

It's the strangest phenomenon. It happens every summer, especially in this country, where we have 9 months of Siberian winter and then jump straight to Sahara summer. It stops raining, and the second we get a more or less blue sky the whole country goes apeshit. Never mind the heat, when solar madness strikes, there's no worse crime than being inside. The maddened masses flock outside and no heat wave or biblical insect plague can drive them back in the house. Everything needs to be done away from the house. Those that have gardens eat there, cook there, iron there, drink there, sleep there, those who don't cram everyone in sight into a car and make a panicked dash for the beach, where they enjoy the privilege of getting sand in nooks and corners of their body they didn't even knew they had. They enjoy questionable meat cooked outside, raw on the inside, charred on the outside and with that unique taste of lighter fluid. Once you pick the insects out of the lettuce, it's a true summer feast.

Me, I prefer to watch this annual mayhem from a distance. I've never been a great fan of 'outside' and every year I dread the unavoidable coming of solar madness. I do not enjoy sunburn. I do not enjoy eating outside on wobbly plastic chairs while there's a perfectly good dining room in the cool safety of the house. I do not enjoy being attacked by a variety of insect with poison pincers. I do not enjoy washing a pound of sand out of my various bodily orifices in salty water. Yeah, I know, crazy huh?

Nevertheless, my logic is wasted on my family, as usual. My mother makes it a sport to drive me out of the house. Which sucks, because I'm a student and summer is the only time I really have for myself. I don't want any part in their crazy summer rituals. The vicious Day Star hurts my eyes and ruins the white complexion I worked so hard to achieve. And why is it that when people put tables outside, it's always white tables? Where's the scientific logic behind that? Why not black tables so we can at least see? You can't read outside either. Well, you can, if you've got sunblock and sunglasses and can find a decent chair. Why go through all that trouble when there's a comfy chair right there in the shade of the living room?

I don't get it. Don't get me wrong, I'm always happy when it stops raining and I can see a blue sky for the first time in months, but I fear solar madness. It cooks the brain in its own fluids, leaving the patient incapable of rational thought, a raving human battery desperate to absorb as much heat and light as possible, as if it will help them through the coming winter. I prefer the soft, friendly glow of my computer screen, the comforting shade that only four walls and a roof provide, the insect-free luxury of a cold bath. And they say I'm the crazy one.

Fantasyland Colour Coding

The world and all creatures that inhabit it can be strange and confusing at best. I've met many, many bitter and disillusioned people in the short time I've spent in this place, and most of them told me that people can't be trusted. I, in turn, do not trust these people.
We've all been deceived before, or at least felt like we've been done great injustice. Sweet, romantic boys turn out to be pigs, parents up and leave, friends lie, even God seems to hate us from time to time. Bottom line is: one of the first things we learn is that not everyone can be trusted. And trustworthiness rarely shows. That charming Caucasian man in the three-piece suit can turn out to be a rapist, and that foulmouthed Goth chick that hangs around the supermarket scaring old ladies may turn out to be the most sincere and thoughtful person you can ever hope to meet. The thing is, you can't tell by looking at them. That's why we give people the benefit of the doubt.

Not so in glorious Fantasyland, were dragons roam relatively free and every sweet girl with some social standing runs the risk of being kidnapped, where Dwarves drink and make merry in their stone halls and Elves do whatever they get up to in their forests. (Honestly, I don't want to know). In the realm of Fantasy, whether you call it Middle Earth, Discworld or whatever the hell you please, morality and ethics seem to be encoded in the very features of every inhabitant. And allow me, frequent tourist in the realms of fantasy and keen observer of Ye Olde Phantasy Ways, to enlighten you with what I have learned: The Fantasyland Colour Coding.

It's easy. While traveling Fantasyland, look for a particular colour on your traveling companion, enemy or potential love interest to immediately discover their true intention, without even talking to them! Particularly in this order, from most revealing to least: clothes, hair, eyes, mount (if they own one), and skin. Then add it up and see where it gets you. It never fails.
Now, on with the code:

White: this is Good with a capital G, especially on young folks. If your companion wears white clothing and/or rides a white horse, all other colour can be ignored and it is safe to assume they are morally upstanding people. The downside is that they always have the moral high ground, which can and will get on your nerves. Excluded from the White Clause are the elderly, since they more often then not have white hair. If the only thing white about your elderly companion is his or her hair, further colour decoding is in order. This is also the case with skin.

Gray: Displays neutrality, especially when it comes to clothing. Beware Fantasyland inhabitants who insist on wearing gray, because while they may be neutral, they are easily swayed by the forces of both Good and Evil. The simple solution is to get to them first: get them some white robes. Or black leather, if that's your thing.
The exception here are gray eyes. People with gray eyes are always gentle and caring, although to be on the safe side you should not neglect further decoding.

Green: If the person you are decoding wears green, it's safe to say you are dealing with an Elf, in which case you need only to examine the hair colour to determine whether they are Good or Evil. If the person who wears green is not an Elf, he is a wannabe and therefore by definition harmless. Wannabes always end up getting themselves killed by the Dark Lord, somewhere in the middle of whatever adventure you get up to.
Green eyes on the other hand hint at a lively, mischievous personality. On women, it means they are mysterious and sexual. Feel free to take advantage of that last fact. Whether you indulge or not, she will hold it against you at some point.
People on green mounts are to be avoided at all costs.

Blue: Blue eyes are always Good. You will never be stabbed in the back by a blue-eyed Fantasylander, unless all other features are black. If so, consider them a serious threat and eliminate them the first chance you get, preferably from a distance. Consider including one Holy Artifact or other in this endeavor. Plenty of those about. It will get messy, but you’ll save yourself a lot of trouble later.
In the absence of black, however, blue is always a good thing. If nothing else, it signifies fashion sense.

Brown: Like gray, brown is a neutral colour, but while gray signifies lack of a decent backbone, brown signifies the opposite. You are far more likely to encounter a brown-eyed, brown-haired rogue or warrior than a blond one. Be wary of these people. They, too, can easily be won over. Unless they are women. Brown-eyed women should be treated with respect. They may be blunt and frigid, but at least they’ve got your back.

Yellow: Yellow hair, that is to say, blond hair is always Extremely Good, especially when combined with blue eyes. If your companion has these two features, you can trust them completely and abandon all plans to suffocate them while they’re sleeping.
Yellow clothes are only to be found on Gay Mages and wearing them displays a disturbing lack of fashion sense. While Gay Mages will not do you any direct harm, avoid being seen with them.

Red: red hair combined with green eyes is an extremely volatile combination, especially on females. Approach at your own risk. While the inevitable fallout may work in your favour, you have to determine if it’s worth the risk of the whole thing exploding in your face.
Red-haired females, however, are always vigorous, no matter what side they are on. They are either fierce enemies or strong, albeit somewhat tiresome companions. Red-haired males are always Scottish (or the Fantasyland equivalent thereof) and should therefore be approached with caution and cleverly hidden weapons. Be wary of any character clad in red. Red eyes means trouble.

Black: Those who wear black might as well have ‘Evil’ branded on their forehead. Black hair, clothes or mounts are the biggest tip-off you can get as to someone’s morals. If a person has all of this, chances are you are dealing with the Evil Lord himself. If this is the case, I advise a good sharp dash in the opposite direction. Let your companions deal with him.
As is the case with white, this does not include skin. In Fantasyland, you will find that black-skinned people are decent, albeit somewhat brutal folks.

My advice to those who are thinking about spending their next holiday in Fantasyland is to learn every word here by heart and not be tempted to make exceptions for anyone there. The Colour Code has been found to be both True and Absolute. Die your hair and consider contacts if necessary. And bring your own food.

God Save the Queen

I like national anthems. This is something I discovered very recently, as I was reading up on the American Revolution and came across a reference to 'Star-Spangled Banner'. Now I'm not at all curious, I just like to know everything, so naturally I downloaded it that same evening. (And in case anyone’s thinking about giving me a Gettysburg address about how downloading is wrong, I don’t think Francis Scott Key has suffered any financial or emotional turmoil by my downloading the freakin national anthem)

The version I managed to find was sung by some choir or other and to be honest, it literally brought tears to my eyes. Not because it’s such an inspiring, overwhelming musical journey, or because I have any romantic feelings about the United States. Here in Belgium, the United States is just something that happens to other people. For a long time didn’t have a clue as to why I became so emotional upon hearing it, until I realized it’s the same reason I get emotional when I think about the future of the planet, or my own future, or what I’m going to have for dinner: the clash between hope and reality.

Nationalism went out of style in Europe after WWII, and for good reason, but I think everyone has taken at least one long, hard look at their nation and thought about its history, what it is and where it’s headed. I remember when I was little I was desperately trying to figure out why Belgium mattered, if it mattered at all. I asked my parents all sorts of questions. What is Belgium famous for? Why is it so small? Are people who don’t know it exists stupid? Are there Belgians that are world famous, like the people in the movies? I remember being disappointed, and now I understand why. Nationalism may have left a pretty bad aftertaste, but deep down, we all want to belong. Individualism is all the hype and has been for roughly the last 400 years, and in this day and age, when individualism is taken to new extremes, belonging to some group or other is vital. And if we can’t be Christians, if we suck at being pagans or goths or Muslims and even Greenpeace wants nothing to do with us, what can we be? Anyone can fail at being a Christian. But it’s quite hard to fail at being a citizen. Even if I commit a horrible crime, they lock me up and take away all my rights, I’ll still be a Belgian. It’s not just a matter of being born in a certain geographical location. Your nation is part of who you are, part of the reason you became who you are today. Its history, its culture and its future, you’re part of it. And in the end, we all want what’s best for our clan.

Belgium’s national anthem sucks. The music is horrible, the lyrics make me want to crawl in a corner and hide in shame, but dammit, that’s our song! I’m not talking about how the Brabançonne is supposed to infuse my Belgian brethren with pride and nationalism because, well, it doesn’t. I’m talking about how national anthems show to the rest of the world what they want to be, not what they are. America may not be the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, but I’ll be damned if they’re not trying to be just that. Want to be what the Star-Spangled Banner says they are. And while I don’t think any Belgian in their right mind would ‘offer their blood and soul for king, freedom and justice’, it does the job of telling the world who we want to be and where we're coming from.

I love national anthems. Some of them are quite good, like Advance Australia Fair or Zdravljica. Not all of them are great musical masterpieces and most lyrics aren’t exactly going to win any poetry contests soon, but I love them anyway. They don’t tell much about a nation. But they do tell what a nation wants to be. And in the long run, that’s the important thing anyway.

Satan Will Cut Me!

It's really amazing. I think I'm stretching it quite a bit when I say that about 15 people read this blog, and I still get hate mail. What's up with that? I mean sure, everyone's entitled to an opinion (enjoy that, by the way. Thing will change when I'm Empress of Earth) but some people should be locked away. Granted, I've only received one of these gems, but it was just too funny to ignore. I can't even get angry or sad about this, I'm laughing too hard. I had to reprint this in whole. You can't make this stuff up people!


You listen gal,

Okay

I've reading this blog and it just aint right!

Huh, look at that. Someone's reading this blog. I actually feel rather good about this, despite the fact it isn't right.

Your little hore, you know that?

Oh man, what did my little hore do now? Did it take a dump in your front yard again? Whatever it is, let's be civil about it.

Lemme tell you someting

Okay.

you keep fucking round like dat, you go to HELL!!!

Blimey! I had no idea. Hell, you say?

THATS RIGHT HELL!!!

EEP! Whatever shall I do!

You better just kill yourself right now cuz SATAN WILL CUT YOU LITTLE HO!!!

Cut me? My word, how positively awfull! Kill myself you say? Why yes, that sounds like sage advice. I am sure a devout Christian like yourself knows what's best for a little ho like me.

You better watch it.

I will! Wouldn't want nasty ol' Satan sneaking up behind me. Thank you sir!


Imagine that. I mean, good thing this guy warned me! Suppose he didn't, I might've woken up tonight to find a knife-wielding Satan in my room and I'd be all like 'WTF are you gonna cut me?' And then he'd be like 'Yeah, ya little hore, don't say they didn't warn ya!' And then I'd go 'But they didn't! Get out you creep!'
I've never met Satan, but I'm sure he would cut me up GOOD!
No, thank God someone was kind enough to warn me. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to kill myself now. It's the Christian thing to do. Now where did I leave my razor blades...

I don't know what bothers me more. The fact that I slave over these posts for at least an hour each, trying to get the spelling absolutely right, dictionary within reach, two spell-checkers at the ready, only to get flamed by this creep.
That, or the fact that I as a spellcrafting, incantation-chanting, goddesss-evoking Wiccan, am still closer to Jesus than this piece of genetic waste. It's not Christianity I have a problem with. It's the Christians. Which I can only assume he fancies himself to be.

Huh, getting worked up. Better read that email again.From now on, when I'm feeling angsty and gloomy and depressed, I know I have something that'll make me snicker at least. So please send me your hate mail! I love it.

Relationship Checklist

It's the weirdest thing.
Like everyone who can handle a keyboard and a decent connection, I have a lot of accounts flying around on the Great Galaxy of the Internet. Most of them were made on the fly, or needed to download something cool and I don't even remember which ones they could possibly be. Others were made out of curiosity or even genuine interest. Like accounts on MySpace, Frapper, GameSpot/Spy, the Ministry of Abnormality and the likes. For these accounts, I bother to set up a profile. You know, favorite quotes, movies, books, who would you want to sleep with, that kind of thing. And a picture. It's the picture that does it.

It started on MySpace. All I had there was a picture, I wanted to fill out the rest later and then forgot about the whole account. This account is empty, you see. There's absolutely nothing there. No blog, no music, not even some personal info like my favorite primary number. A picture. Today, I check back and notice that I have no less than 15 messages in the account inbox.

"Hi, I'm Belgian too, want to go out sometime?"
"Wow, you look great, let's have a photoshoot!"
"Hi Charlotte, want to be a singer in our band?"

And so on. Keep in mind these were the only offers I considered to be more or less tasteful. You DO NOT want to know about the others. In case the people who sent this read this (I never replied), the answers are as follows: No, I charge 40 euros per hour plus expenses and wow, I didn't know my picture had such an impressive voice.

Sheesh.

I feel no need to exhibit false modesty (we all know I'm bloody GREAT) but seriously, curb your enthusiasm. This is getting to be very annoying. Not to mention quite an insult. So, for all you wannabe Devilfish love slaves out there, I'll make it real easy for you. Just fill in the form, send it to the email address provided in my blogger profile (it's right below the picture) and I will get back to you. Or not. Probably not.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Name:
Age:
Occupation:
Nationality:
Favourite Primary Number:

1) I am:
Male/Female/Unsure

2) I usually prefer my partners to be:
Male/Female/Don't care

3) I have sexual experience with members of my own sex:
Yes/No (If 'yes', proceed to question 6)

4) I have sexual experience:
Yes/No (If 'no', give up. Seriously. We're not meant to be)

5) These words describe me (cross out as many as you like):
Arrogant/smart/funny/confident/gay/brave/young/educated/open/curious

6) I am sexually turned on by the following (cross out as many as you like):
urine/any type of mammal/a specific type of mammal/invertebrates/velvet/blood

7) I am racist:
Yes/No

8) I have a disease you should know about:
Yes/No
If yes, specify:

9) I speak more than 2 languages:
Yes/No
If yes, prove it:

10) My IQ is:
<100/Between 100-120/>120

11) Order the following animals in the order that seems most appropriate to you:
Cow/Sheep/Dog/Tiger/Horse

12) 20 years from now, I will be (cross out all but one):
Rich/Happy/Really Old/Smarter/Smart/Dead/Released Back Into Society/Successful

13) I lied on this test to look better, probably because I have low self esteem and can't handle the fact I'm not perfect like popular media tells me I should be:
Yes/No

14) The only reason I didn't answer the previous question is because of my triskaidekaphobia:
Yes/No

15) I Googled triskaidekaphobia:
Yes/No

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That's it! Copy/paste this into any text editor, fill it out and send it my way. Who knows? In just a few days time, hot Devilfish lovin' might be yours! Don't delay, take the test today! (Not you, Simon)

The Great Down Under

I had a boyfriends once. No really, I did, swear to God. I've had more than one, but this guy was special because he was foreign. Of course, we were both in Ireland at the time (or was it Scotland? It was raining in any case) so I was foreign too. But let's not get confused by semantics. He was an Australian and I was a Belgian and we chanced upon each other in a youth hostel in either Dublin, Glasgow or Edinburgh. Possible London. I don't think we spent more than 2 weeks together, which does makes me wonder why I call him a boyfriend when clearly he wasn't, but that's semantics again and I already did the incoherence thing.

Anyway.

Australians are funny. But they never admit to being funny. (Although for some reason this guy loved saying that a dingo ate his baby. It could be humor, but I'm still a bit worried) In those days I was still blissfully unaware of that subtle sense of despair that creeps up on our poor Australian friends upon hearing another thong joke. I'm innocent, I swear. How was I to know they were slippers? Can anyone blame me for thinking he pranced around the beach with a bit of string between his buttocks? I. Did. Not. Know. Okay? Sheesh.

They also have funny words, like Billabong and Dingo. They won't think these words are funny, no sir, and give you a look of utter disdain and contempt when they catch you giggling about them. Also, barbies aren't dolls. Well, they are, but they way I understand it, barbies in Australia are barbecues AND dolls. I always thought my English was pretty good, but talking to this guy was hilarious. From my point of view anyway. So I thought he was a drag queen who ate barbies in summer (which is actually winter. Think about it) and was used to killer kangaroo attacks. Sue me. Every word he said just cracked me up. Say it. Say the word 'Billabong' out loud to yourself and try to keep a straight face.

Such childish behavior when confronted with my Australian brethren is of course behind me now. I grew up. And even though I still think the word Billabong is freakin hilarious, I won't actually confront any Australians with my thoughts on that. Because that's racism. Well, impolite at best.

Also, in the years that passed, I chanced upon Tripod. Now, if you think you know me but haven't heard me rave about Tripod, you don't really know me at all. They taught me so much. Like 'Waltzing Matilda' is actually about a strange dimentional vortex man and his evil twin, Canberra was a bad idea and I wouldn't want to be a bogan. Everyone should know this stuff, that's true knowledge right there. I won't expose to you the gruesome depths of my fandom, nor force you to partake in a horrible fangirl tale of excitement that involves hanging Star Wars figures by their neck and the rape of a fellow allegedly named Gatesy. None of that. Instead, let me get to the point.

What I'm trying to say here, and I really mean that, is that Australians rock. Probably not all of them and frankly, I wouldn't want to live in Adelaide if my life depended on it, but man, have they built themselves a cool country or what? Did you know some families actually keep kangaroos as nannies to take the kids to school? Or that koalas are nature's ninja, trained by the first white people ever to set foot on Australian shores to dispatch of the natives? It's completely and totally true in a made up sort of way. Forget the fact I've never actually been there and have yet to meet a second Australian. That land, my friends, quite simply rocks.

Okay, look, we've already established that my mind works in mysterious ways. Real countries slip in and kinda get mangled there. Australia just happened to come out rather well. If you think this is bad, wait until you hear what happened to Ireland.

Happy Easter, and watch out for those Billabong. Sneaky buggers.

Incoherency

I have a village in my head.

Not literally of course, that'd be silly. The headaches would be awful, what with all the tiny little people climbing over my squishy brain tissue and pounding away at my skull, or trying to escape through the various holes in my head. Not to mention the airholes they'd poke. Little bastards. No, having a real little village in your head would be what the English call 'not cool'.

I mean this metaphorically of course. By 'head' I mean 'imagination' and by 'village' I mean 'a small group of dwellings in a rural area, usually ranking in size between a hamlet and a town'. It's a crazy place, I'll tell you that. It looks kinda medieval-y and you might find places like that in Dungeons and Dragons and other people's heads.

People there are weird. They have these insane customs I really don't agree with. Like when a child is born and the mother dies before she can name the child, the other villagers are not allowed to take care of it. Not even touch it, because it's unclean. So they toss the kid in the grave with the mother and kinda pretend nothing happened. It's a religious thing. So is dancing around in the nude and not fighting back. When they're under attack by their enemies (who are also a pretty colorful bunch), they run like heck and hide in the trees for a couple of days. But they sure know how to party HARD. It involves lots of nudity and sex and drugs and loud music. That's also a religious thing. So apart from the religion, there's not much difference from our parties.

Anyway, people who read my last post know I'm struggling with my age right now. Well, not struggling per se, but I do think about it. So I tried asking around the village. Just to see how they handle the age thing.
They're pretty weird when it comes to that too. But their way of handling things is much better than ours. You see, everyone there has two ages. One is just like ours. They count the years after they were born, although they don't celebrate that. They think that's silly. They have other things on their mind. So a girl who was born 15 years ago would be 15. That's simple, right? Nothing weird there.

Where it gets weird is their second, secret age. Sure, they're willing to tell you how old they are when it comes to years. The other way of counting their age is what they call their true years. For everything they experience, they count one year. Every event that changes them, shocks them and makes them think makes them one year older. Age by experience. So that same 15 year old girl could be 50 if she lived a real interesting, dangerous life. Age becomes more meaningful that way. Not a silly number, but a true peek at who this person really is. That's why they don't tell just anyone. It's secret.

It's an interesting way of looking at things. I've met people who had lived for over 50 years yet still had the mental capacity of a teenager. Lots of them in fact. People who never really experienced great ups and downs. Then I met teenagers who had really lived, who went through all sorts of things and became adults long before their years permitted them. Imagine this wise, 50 year old teenager having a talk with a 5 year old adult. How humiliating it would be for that wise old kid, especially if the childish adult tried to give him advice.

None of that in the metaphorical village in my head. Adults are very careful giving advice to the young ones. You never know how old they really are. This can lead to problems of course, but on the whole, it's a neat way of looking at things. I wouldn't want to live there, what with the baby burying and coke parties and insane pacifism, but if this was my world, that'd be one of the first rules. Age by experience.

Of course, the little village isn't the only weird place in my head. There's lots of other things, other villages and customs and cities and people. It's an insane place, I'll tell you that. I like it there. I've got some really good friends there, great people. Enemies too, but if you're careful, they don't bother you all that much. Remind me that I have to tell you guys about Aran the Womanising Dragon Slayer. He's a lot of fun, tells the best stories ever, especially when you get him drunk. Not for the squeamish though. Must remember to write them down sometime. And Dawn, the little Wood Elf Healer who wants to be a high elf. Neat kid, very smart. Went through a lot. I kinda feel bad for the kid, but I'm just a tourist there, what am I supposed to do about it? Tons of great people and weird places. Maybe I should write it all down.

...

This must be the most incoherent post I've ever written. I'll tell you what, give me some feedback. I've been keeping a diary of my travels in the land in my head. Tell me if should start a second blog. One that's updated regularly, I promise. Or just make this blog all about it. Or whatever. Mail me, comment, travel to Belgium to smack me upside the head and tell me to stop being weird. Whatever. Although I can promise it'll be an interesting journey.

Your choice.

Halfway to midlife crisis

I'll be 20 soon.

I know that's not supposed to be a big deal, but it is. Of course it'll be just like being 19, nothing will change. But it'll feel different. The '1' will be gone and I won't be a teenager anymore. Never have another age that ends in 'teen'. No more excuses. I'll be an adult of sorts. A young one, granted, but being 20 sounds so much older than being 19. I'll be set in my ways. The first years are so important, and I messed up big time. It'll be too late to change anything once that 2 is there. I haven't had the bloody number 2 in my age for six years, I'll never get used to carrying it around 10 years flat!

There were so many things I wanted to do as a teenager, and the sad thing is I've only now realize what I wanted from my teenage years.

I wanted to publish a book as a teenager. Not gonna happen now, and it's way too late to be a wunderkind.
I wanted to have a teenage relationship. You know, be madly in love for no particular reason and giggle and hold sweaty hands and not notice each others pimples. Too late.
I'll never get to know what it's like to be a teenage mum. That's probably a good thing. From what I hear, it's not all it's cracked up to be. Guess I'll never know, will I? (Oh, and while we're on the subject, I'm not pregnant. You know who you are.)

I wanted to be a teenager. You know. What do teenagers do? I wanted to like MSN and use it every evening to talk to people I see all day and not feel stupid for doing so. I wanted to go out all night and not feel sick because of warm beer and heat and the crowd and pot and the infernal noise. That would've been sweet. Hate my mum and dad for not buying me lots of stuff I don't need and not understanding how I feel. No can do, they're angels. Drive bikes. Talk about music. Own a radio. Worry more about my cell phone than global warming and international politics. Read silly magazines telling me how to enslave a jock instead of Dante and Wilde. Be confused by my body. Hate my teachers. Argue with friends. Have friends.

At least I smoke. All kinds of stuff. That's kinda teenage-y.

I guess it's over. I've never been a teenager and I'll never get another shot at it. I lost my childhood when I realized grandpa wasn't coming back and I'll lose my teenage life on May 19th, 2006. Nothing will change. I'll go to class and drink lots of coffee, probably spill some on my books because those damn chairs are too cramped. Eat half a sandwich in the cafeteria and wrap up the rest. I never eat the other half, but I feel guilty if I throw it in the bin. I'll go to another class. Go home. Read another book. Write another book. There will be champagne, that's kinda cool. Then again, there's always been champagne. That's an uplifting thought. My childhood may be long gone, but bubbly bittersweet goodness is here to stay.

Maybe I won't go to class. Maybe I'll go to that fancy restaurant uptown by myself and order lobster and a bottle of Piper red label. And then have Irish coffee and a nice cigar in the lounge in the company of La Divina Comedia. Go into town and buy five books I'll never read, in five languages I don't understand. Maybe catch a play in the evening, or dress up all pretty and go to the opera house waiting for prince Charming to sweet me of my feet Pretty Woman Style. Because prince Charming does not nail teenage girls. No sir. If that's true, that's one problem less right there. Maybe I'll be fine once I'm not a teenager anymore.

Then again, maybe I won't.

At least I've got my midlife crisis to look forward too.