i hope i don't sound too ungrateful

i don't exactly know how to put this, a few pints of red stripe on pubs too many, a few sips of red wine too many, a few songs danced to on death disco too many, and a journey home too long not to get disturbingly drunkenly serious on. morrissey, though you've made an aching heart feel - so many times before, you'll have to excuse. and conor, though i still want tear drenched and desperate sex with you, you'll have to excuse. when it comes to violent loneliness there is no one, no one, on this planet who can, or rather could, describe it like joakim berg did in -94. when you don't want the stranger on the bus to get off and leave you to your solitude, when even his unfamiliar face seems somehow comforting, just the warmth of him somewhat close to you, just another person, not a word, not even a glance, just knowing it's not just darkness and nothing else. that's stanna hos mig. for possible (who am i kidding) english readers, stay with me, but you'll never understand anyway.

"...don't ask me why I obsessively look to rock 'n' roll bands for some kind of model for a better society...I guess it's just that I glimpsed something beautiful in a flashbulb moment once, and perhaps mistaking it for a prophecy have been seeking its fulfillment ever since."

the worst taste in music

the radio dept said it better than i ever can, and that in just a title. i worked yesterday. nothing out of the ordinary. only this time it was two hours of the most glorious work time ever, followed by six and a half hours battle and torture. i arrived at the mad hatter around noon, changed into my (thankfully all black) work outfit, took the essential cup of black coffee (i love the fact that i get to make it myself, means extraextraextra strength), took a few lunch orders and decided to play the good girl and deal with some hardcore cleaning assignments. the worst thing you can do is clean the glasswasher, mainly because of the stench, but the pink disgusting muddy dirt in it doesn't help much. i had already done that the day before. the next thing on the list of cleaning you don't wanna do is cleaning the ice machine. it's filthy and you have to move what feels like a couple of millions of ice cubes, this is what i decided to deal with. in order to not just give up immediately i put on the one decent playlist we've got and imagine my surprise when i found the task to be not so bad when i could singalong to i am the resurrection and paint it black. it was totally bearable. i almost enjoyed myself.

then hell began. my colleague arrived, and say whatever you like about her, people who enjoy top 40 are never gonna get far in my book. one song was called baby. i can see why. that's the one lyric i can remember. over and over and over again. baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby. takes some real songwriting talent to make up something that eye opening. and what a gifted artist the singer must be, i mean, not only is he lacking the ability of writing his own songs, he is also incapable of choosing a songwriter with any kind of talent.

hope that was a somewhat understandable example of my personal do's and don'ts in music, because i will now bring up the actual subject of this post. why (WHYYYYYYYYYYY? POOOOOOR QUEEEEEEE? as julian casablancas would have put it) on earth do people listen to top 40? why? is it like a family thing. sunday dinner with rude boy on full volume? (it's a really crap rihanna - song about a rude boy, asking if he can get his dick up and whether or not it has the proper size) that's how i got my musical preferences. my dad. atleast he played a part in it. no he didn't introduce me to the libertines, he even thinks pete is a no good junkie, and he still does not approve of lou reed (who happens to be one of my house gods), and yes, he still thinks lemmy from motörhead is the greatest man in the music industry, but i was practically breast fed the likes of the clash, stones and dylan. that's the great part of his vinyl collection. and honestly, say what you like about old school hard rock, it's still a thousand times better than fucking blipblip house. at least the metal guys are actual musicians, not a computer nerd who got sick of wanking to youtube vids and decided that "hey, if i make serious crap music i'll actually get laid instead of playing with myself". and they do not have their mouths full of some serious ugly "jewellery", i believe it's called grillZzZzZ. and they don't have to sing about wanting to smack asses and shooting people and fuck knows what.

i've actually forgotten my purpose with this all. think i just needed to ventilate a bit, and express my hatred. i'm gonna listen to the velvet underground now, and i'm gonna think of my dad and miss his air guitar skills in front of the computer.

about kisses

a return of the deep and manly jessica. i've been thinking about kisses, they're a bit weird, aren't they? someone sticks their tongue in your mouth and you go for it. i hate kisses with loads of tongue, feels like a wet choking. some like it. especially italians. especially italian models. avoid that if you don't like the golden retriever kind of kiss. i've been thinking about why we do it. well, it's obvious why. to some it's just a nice way of wasting time, to others an expression of feelings, but usually it's just the first step towards sex. i have other reasons to it. i never think of the next step, i have never in my life actually thought about sex before i'm already in it (or well, it is in me, if we want to be technical), i've never really had feelings, and usually it's not a good timewaste (see description of italian models and their way of kissing). i'd say my number one reason to kiss someone is absolute drunkenness. alright, i've kissed on dares, i've kissed to make someone shut up, i've even kissed out of pity, but mostly i just do it when i'm drunk. if i can't afford another beer i might as well find something (someone) else to do. my last kiss was friday night/saturday morning. my best kiss? i honestly don't know. not the italian model, that's for sure.

there's an episode of family guy where they go to all sorts of different dimensions (i love the pun of the disney dimension where a song about pie is interrupted by the discovery of a jew in the room) but the only dimension us normal people are allowed to visit is the dream dimension. i love dreams. didn't before, since i had horrible nightmares. nightmares that were scary for real, nowadays they're more scary/funny. sometimes i dream a bit tragic dreams as well, and sometimes quite psychadelic, i guess you could say in dream dimension i take my bipolarity to the extreme.

just a few nights ago i dreamt that mia told me she was sick of me, sick of london, sick of life, and decided to go back and find her roots (basically digging up the old horned helmet and drinking mead from a bone cup). i often dream i'm falling, or that i jump, or that i push someone over the edge. if i knew anything about dream interpretation i'd probably be worried about that. once i dreamt i had sex with peter doherty on upper deck of a boat. that was a good dream. last night i dreamt that somebody loved me. no, i didn't, but i listened to it a couple of times.

absolutely random and meaningless i am. gonna go smoke on the balcony now.

why don't you find out for yourself?

egotistical nonsense, you are probably not interested at all. i've been thinking about me. my ability to push people away, never letting them in, letting them feel i'm good for nothing but a couple of pints, if even that. i relate to weepy song lyrics rather than people because i see people as possible enemies rather than friends. i'm sure you don't wonder why, if you've even come this far, but i might as well continue, if i'm gonna whine i might as well do it properly.

i'm scared of making a fool out of myself, to stretch out a hand and wait for the hurt that will surely come. i never admit to my self loathing, or my self loving. of my desire to escape, but how the fear of losing whatever grip i have holds me back. how i feel it's not enough to take part in the revolution, as history only remembers the leaders. i can't believe i'm embarrassing enough to write that. that i see a life as someone unimportant as a waste, as a hopeless search of nothing at all, that i might as well be dead as pass by unnoticed. still i try my best not to make an impression, push you away when you get close to my weaknesses, although i've said so many times that it's the cons, not the pros, that make a person who he/she is. i don't want everyone to know that at times i find my own reflection so repulsing i'd rather be blind than see it. that sometimes agony hits me so hard i just want to crawl into fetal position and cry my eyes out, but i don't because i'm cold and unfeeling. i'm trapped between my knowing, and contempt, that people have so much shorter to talking than listening, and my wish that sometime someone would want to hear me out. and then i wonder what i think i've got to say that is worth being heard. at times i hear myself rant and just wish i knew how to shut the fuck up, yet i keep going. like now.

oh, and on other notes: due to my escalating sluttiness today i start my new life in celibacy. because it worked out so well for the catholics.

about outfits

since i'm so fucking manly (not too mention my intellectual depth) i am gonna write an entire post about clothes. no, there won't be pictures of the lovely outfits i'll mention. i'll just go straight to them.

outfit 1: heels. that's all you need to know. wore them this saturday, my thighs were sore for two days. fuck you random guy at bus stop who said i was fit, obviously not!

outfit 2: (not on me) grey knitwear with big man's shirt over. lovely, just lovely. especially since i had slept drunk in the shirt for two nights and even in that state felt a bit nasty in it because of the smell due to it being left in the washing machine a few hours too many.

outfit 3: (not on me) yesterday's clothes, from head to toe, from inside out. completed with excellent "just got fucked" - hair and a beanie, plus eyes that would make a drunk diana seem, well, not so drunk diana. oh, and a huge plastic bag over the shoulder. i'd like to label this look "alcoholic hobo 101" and it was worn in the most posh part of chelsea. well worn dear friend, well worn.

outfit 4: (not on me) trainers. what the fuck is wrong with every potentially hot guy who decides that trainers is the fashion statement of the year? it's not. it's ugly, it makes you ugly, i don't like it when you make yourselves ugly. be pretty.

outfit 5: denim with denim. i didn't feel fashion at all, it's a big lie, i felt like i had the imagination of a plastic plant. minus the fact that i had clothes on.

outfit 6: nudity, because it seems to be my number one choice these days.

outfit 7: beer in hair. because it adds volume even to extremely flatt, swedish and blonde hair like mine. trying to ignore that it's long enough to make people think it's the sole survivor of woodstock 69, well, the sole survivor that still looks exactly the same.

outfit 8: (not on me) harry potter glasses and a scar. because harry potter is cool.

outfit 9: (hopefully on me) nonchalance, making people look hotter since forever.

outfit 10: doc martens. nightmare for your sweet feet odor, nightmare when it comes to not being taken as a racist (everyone is still staring deep inside that wellknown box), nightmare when it comes to being accepted in chelsea, but fuck me, i don't care, they still look good.

outfit 11: rape spray and face paint (pink and green). everywhere, anywhere, and as much as possible. gives you that "i've been at an afterparty with seriously disturbed drug dealers" - look in seconds. do it right though, or you'll look like a raver, and that is still not acceptable. glitter inside the sweater is also quite nice, and is quite the same concept.

outfit 12: rape sprayed and face painted formerly red doc martens. because why go red when you can go redgreenpinkrapesprayfacepaint?

i am a fashionista people.