My favourite suicide quotes.

They tell us that suicide is the greatest piece of cowardice... that suicide is wrong; when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in the world to which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life and person.
(Arthur Schopenhauer)

Suicidal thinking, if serious, can be a kind of death scare, comparable to suffering a heart attack or undergoing a cancer operation. One survives such a phase both warier and chastened. When—ten years ago—I emerged from a bad dip into suicidal speculation, I felt utterly exhausted and yet quite fearless of ordinary dangers, vastly afraid of myself but much less scared of extraneous eventualities.
(Edward Hoagland)

Suicide was naturally the consistent course dictated by the logical intellect. (Is suicide the ultimate sincerity? There seems to be no way to refute the logic of suicide but by the illogic of instinct.)
(William James)

Oh, and Dog's days are numbered. Seven more to be exact.

Your World View

You are a moralist with conventional ideas, which some people would call old-fashioned. You probably think that most of the world falls badly below your standards. Your inhibitions and sense of guilt are in the way of your happiness. You think that people tend to use sex for evil, as a weapon. Your parents probably played a big part in the formation of such a guilt complex as yours. Your mind is in chains, and it's time you did something to free it.

What Is Your World View?

Singing in the rain.

I went for a walk with my friend yesterday. The weather had been lovely all day, but when we went for our walk it was raining. We didn't mind though, we had umbrellas. As I walked back from her place to mine, I walked past a sort of... I don't actually really know what it is. Like a gym and a party venue type place. I've never been there. Outside of it, there was a group of probably ten people, smoking. They were all middle-aged and looked normal. Just I mean... Normal. When I got a little bit closer I could hear that someone was singing. At first I thought it was folk music of some kind, but then I heard that it was "I will always love you". I didn't look towards the people for too long, so I didn't identify the woman (or castrato) who was singing, but it was kind of funny that the silence from the other people was as loud as her singing. I walked past, but her excrutiatingly slow version of the song followed me until I was almost outside my front door. It was weird because she didn't have a bad voice. It was pretty good, apart from her changing key at one point. Yeah, a bit sort of... unexpected.

Gay or dead?

After some time of in-depth analysis I've come to the conclusion that whoever writes the lyrics for one of the most popular christian rock acts at the moment is either homosexual or is trying to make whoever sings the lyrics appear homosexual. In order to avoid legal action and so forth I will not be quoting any lyrics or even mention the name of the act, I just wanted to mention the result of my research. Otherwise it would've just been pointless, innit?

Read today about the 12(!)-yo Canadian girl who killed her family. Was in a morbid way amused that the newspaper in which I read about it was pretty much blaming vampirefreaks.com for what had happened (because God forbid that a girl of 12 would have the capacity to think or to reflect upon the moral and legal aspects of her actions). The newspaper was even quoting usernames from this site, to prove what disturbed people are registered there.

Well, I used to have an account with vampirefreaks.com and I'm completely normal. Here's my epitaph:

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Cemetaries and jokes.

I had a bit of a freaky experience last Saturday. Well, not really that freaky, more sort of... interesting I guess, since this is the second time it's happened to me. A couple of years ago as I was looking through some of my old stuff I found a little book about a friend of my great grandmothers who died really young. Being the creative person I am, I started writing a little story inspired by the information I'd gathered from this book. Well, I've long since given up that idea, but as I went to my great grandmothers grave (which is in another county), I stumbled upon her friend's grave. I didn't look for it or anything, I just turned my head slightly and there it was. Ok, so it's not amazing, but it still felt like a pretty big deal at the time. Well, on Saturday my friend and I were taking a walk around one of the cemetaries in town, and we were sort of looking at graves, going "oh, I want mine to be like that one" and "isn't that pretty" and shit like that. And then I saw one just by the wall that I really liked, so I went "wow, look at that" and walked closer to it. Well, turns out it was the grave of one of the doctors whose work is a huge part of the reasearch I'm presently doing for my paper. He died in like 1867 or something like that. It was weird the way he's been sort of living in my footnotes, and now ironically seeing his grave kind of brought him to life.

Also, last night I dreamt that me and mindthelacuna watched Bill Bailey's "Part troll" DVD. I wonder why. Might be because I used his "are you an optimist? - yeah, I hope so"-joke yesterday.

Shown your arse to any statues lately?

Weird dreams again last night. A couple of separate ones, but the one thing they all had in common was rain. It was pissing down. According to my dream interpretation book (the one that says things like "if you dream about your house being on fire that means that you'll die"), dreams about violent raining means there's trouble awaiting in the near future. Anyway, my first dream was about school, when I was 18. Our business(or something)-teacher left my friend (and former classmate) in charge, and she got to grade us, using a system she made up herself. When it was my turn to get my grade she told me about how much she liked the fact that everyone else was scared of her. And just then our teacher walked back in the room. Only it was not really a room, it was more a sort of open space in the forest. He looked like a cross between my former landlord and Patrick Duffy from Dallas, which is kind of weird. He was seriously pissed off at my mate who was in charge and he sent us all home. The whole class was supposed to get the train home, but the train was open, like there were no seats, no walls or roof. And now it started raining. I pulled my jacket up, and tried to cover myself from the rain. The feeling I had was that I was on my own and didn't really belong with the rest of the class.
Then suddenly I was instead with my entire family, walking around in the rain, and we walked past a building in town where I'm determined to own a flat at some point in my life. I was like "yeah, come on, let's have a look, to see what the flats are like", and all of us went up there. Turned out it had like a weird decking type area around the whole building, I don't know if it was around the roof or what. It was raining like mad and we were completely unprotected from falling off the decking, I mean, there was no fence or anything like that. Then we met my aunt's ex husband sitting on the roof with his dog, wearing a pink shirt, very much like one of my husband's shirts. Weird.

Yesterday, the sun was shining and my youngest and blondest friend and me decided to piss about in town for a bit. So first we had coffee at this city's oldest café, which was pretty cool. Then we saw two guys walking past holding an inflatable uhm sexdoll. They crossed the street, sat the doll down leaning her against a lamppost and stood next to her for a bit, drinking beer. Then after maybe half an hour or so they grabbed the doll again and left. My friend and me left the café and walked through the park. It was just us, until two guys came running. They went behind this statue;

and one of them pulled his trousers down, whilst the other one took a photo of his arse in front of the statue. Then they run away again, doing a high five as the run.

After a night of working, this is what's on my mind:

Boy howdy, the tidal wave of linguistic debate have finally hit Sweden, and I for one am so going to get my board out. Actually, I don't own a surfing board, but I wish I did. Might be my next project or something. Anyways, the question debated by various opinionated people with their heads stuck equally far up their own arses is how one's supposed to react to the "new" words becoming suddenly accepted to the Swede equivalent of the Oxford English Dictionary. Or whatever. The word that has particularly caused a massive erection in the selfimportant pants of the anti-establishment young journalists and the likes is the originally Turkish epiteth "guzz", taken to mean "girl". On the other side of the river are the standard bearers of highbrow culture who almost pissed their equally selfimportant pants, or at least choked on their morning frappucino, when they found out that this word had been admitted. Look, get the fuck over it. Language is in a state of constant metamorphosis (God, how I lurve that paradox!) and thus this will all be completely unimportant as soon as the press get bored with the already incredibly boring debate. But also (I'm about to dig my own standard bearer frappucino grave now, I know), I consult a dictionary when I need to know how to best express myself in writing. Papers, pretentious attempts at novels, all that shit, that's when you bloody look in a dictionary. Not when you want to know how to spell that word that no one uses apart from the cool kids at the local skateboard park or where the hell the cool kids hang out these days (my livingroom?). I'm the passionate patron saint of the idea that you know what you need to know, and that applies to language aswell. If guzz isn't part of your everyday vocabulary, then don't worry. I might talk (and blog) in a style that would have my Older Relatives and Honourable Forefathers cringe, but in all formal circumstances, my written stuff is pretty god damn acceptable. It's also when you write stuff that you might need to consult a dictionary. Dictionaries should cater for that need. Or do you keep a dictionary next to the phone so that you'll be able to go "yeah, I met this really fit guzz the other day" when you speak to people? If you do, then you aint never caught a rabbit and you aint no friend of mine.

The joys of the internet, part zillion and thirtyseven.

I occasionally write things which I publish on the internet. I like the idea of this. My motivation for writing is well... I enjoy it. I'm not doing it for profit. Obviously. The fact that the stuff I write is available for anyone to read and react to is an added bonus. Even if I got a deal with some kick-ass publicist, my motivation to write would still be that I enjoy it. If people went to buy my books, as you probably would if you really liked them, I would be happy as Larry. But really, I'd be just as happy if people read them on the internet. If they liked it so much they wanted to share it with their friends, thus spreading my stuff around the world, I'd be over the moon. The spreading of music, films, writings, et c on the internet have two major good points, if you ask me. For one, it makes it possible to discover all sorts of weird stuff. Music from all over the world. Also, I think that to some extent it limits the west's monopoly on popular culture. Because the say... Chinese scene is equally available. Where else is that true? If I go to my local cinema, I sure as hell wont find out anything about the latest Chinese blockbuster. Right. Secondly, it's released the creative pearl from the claws of capitalism. Anyone can record and distribute their own music or whatever. Technically, a million people could download The Catsong, if we only decided to record it and upload it to the net. What I'm saying is that it's suddenly the creator of the music that decides what happens to it, it's not the führer of Sony music or whatever. The Catsong could easily become the most played song in China, for example.

Oh. And also;

You Are Creepy

Serial killers would run away from you in a flash.

How Scary Are You?

Excuse me, but I suffer from...

This amuse me to no ends;

Landbaron -- [adjective]: Fetish oriented 'How will you be defined in the sexual dictionary?' at QuizUniverse.com

One of my greatest fears in life, if not the greatest fear is chronic hickups. Whenever I get hickups I'm also terribly nervous until it goes away. When I can't cure it using my standard methods I'm beginning to panic. The ancient Greeks recommended tickling to cure hickups. Someone told me when I was younger that tickling can actually cause hickups, so now I don't know what to believe. My mother, that endless source of wisdom, has a trick that consists of pressing a certain point between thumb and indexfinger. That cures hickups. I know how to do it aswell. I cured my friend's hickups once and she got scared and thought I had magical powers. I told her I did and made her my slave for the remainder of the year. And then I started giggling and gave myself away.

I'm one of those people (if there are in fact more people like this) who will always have an excuse for everything. That's because I make them up in advance. There's nothing in the world I've not already invented an excuse for. I made a new one up today, which I was planning to use had I been questioned about my slightly irrational behaviour on my way back from the supermarket. I think I've hit a new low with this one. I was going to say that I suffer from Aspberger's syndrome which causes me to obsessively adhere to the rule about driving on the right side of the road. To the extent that I can't even write something to the left of something else. And yes, I'm aware of how offensive I'm being, but it was a spur-of-the-moment-and-whilst-in-panic excuse I made up.

Geronimo!

So I was working today alongside a girl with dreadlocks who looked 15 but was 26. I only know that she was 26 because I said "how old are you anyway, you look about 15". She was from way south, but her boyfriend and I - it turned out - are born the same year and come from the same place, blahblahblah. She asked me if I knew him. I said I didn't. She quickly gave me a list of what I presume was nicknames of people and asked if I knew any of them. I truthfully said that I didn't. And she looked at me somewhat puzzled and asked "were you never in to trance"? I reassured her that I somehow managed to miss the whole trance scene. I have no idea why she thought I would've been.

On another note, I've promised to design a tattoo for my friend. Why she asked me, and furthermore, why I agreed is a bit of a mystery as I've got no talent whatsoever for designing things. But I know what to make, because I suggested the thing in the first place. So it's not that I'm just going to freestyle or whatever. Like, drawing a stick figure, presenting it to my mate saying "oh, look it's you niece" or something. I'm not evil like that.

On a slightly more disgusting note, the nails on my toes have turned blue. I wonder whether they're going to fall off now or what. I sure as hell hope not.

Tea-thoughts.

As I've stopped drinking coffee in favour of tea, I've developed a new habit. Because I like my tea without milk, it's too hot to drink when it's newly made. So I have to leave it for a bit, which I've noticed 9 times out of 10 leads to me forgetting about the tea full stop, only finding the cup when the tea is lukewarm at best and bloody cold at worst. And I don't think the mugs I'm currently favouring are microwave safe. Not that microwaved tea is that great anyway. My mugs come free with the dodgy tea my husband insists on buying from the little arab shop near to where we live. It's like a deal, you get 100 teabags and a mug in each packet. Neat. And it's only two quid aswell, which is well cheap. Anyroads. Even though I'm clearly using the mugs that come with the tea, I'm not drinking the tea itself. It's yucky. It tastes pretty much like Yorkshire tea, i.e. hay. Hay and water. I prefer flavoured teas, like Earl Grey, my current fetisch. So I buy a 100 Earl Grey teabags, and I'm sure they're more than £2, but I'm still not getting a mug. Conclusion? The arabs give you a lot better deal than the English.

Power-naps.

Naps make feel sick. I know they're supposed to be a brilliant way to recharge your batteries or whatever new-age term you want to use for it, but basically - if I sleep for half an hour, or an hour, in the afternoon, I need at least three hours to get back to normal. I get up really early in the mornings, which makes me feel tired pretty early, so technically it seems like a good idea to have a little afternoon nap so I can do stuff for longer. But I had a nap today, waking up at quarter to five, and I didn't feel alright until eightish. And also, sleeping during the day cause stupid dreams. I don't know if this is true for everyone or just me, but I always dream really dumb dreams during the day. The kind where you wake up and you think it's true. Like with my George Clooney will win the best supporting actor Oscar. Well, I woke up a zillion times thinking that was true even though I'd just dreamt it. Obviously he did win that bloody Oscar, but still.