Back Soonish

BackSoonAs you guys must’ve known (because you all have the exact same powers of deduction as Sherlock Holmes), I’ve been really busy on various projects lately and haven’t had any time left to spent here. This is a white lie to make you feel less insignificant and me less lazy, because I somehow did find the time to watch all of Borgen and Newsroom and six seasons of the Office.

It is indicative of how I was feeling about this blog though. It was becoming an obligation, and that doesn’t always lead to the best writing. I’d been wanting to change things around on here, but I somehow never really got to it. I’ve been toying with a few ideas of things I want to do, but just couldn’t find the time for it.

That’s why I cleared out this entire space today. It was strange seeing all those old posts, and I do realise how fond I am of this space. For the last two years it has been a strange kind of diary, and I don’t want to lose that. Imagine that next I have to use my actual brain to remember things instead of just jotting them down. No, unacceptable!

So I might be gone for now and I’m won’t promise that I’ll be “Back Soon” and that kind of nonsense. I’m just too busy at the moment… but I know that in a few months from now that’ll be all done and I’ll be craving for a place to spout my usual nonsense (and let’s face it, it’s not like my friends still listen to me).

So for now, I’m sure you’ll survive without me. Generations of people seem to have managed. You can do too!

In case you need to reach me, I’ll be living without a phone for the next week. But I still read twitter, and if not… Well, I think I’ll survive.

J.R.

No Place Like Home… —

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They say there is no place like home… but what if you have no clue as to where home is?

It used to be quite simple for me. Home was where my dog was, but due to time, the universe and me all being complete and utter assholes my buddy is no longer with me. She passed away last November, and after that it felt like I could never go home again. (since I’m not really down with suicide and I don’t really think I’m cut out for a quest like Orpheus was)  I had and still have no idea where home is anymore, or even what it is. With my buddy gone, I didn’t want to talk to my friends anymore, I ignored my family, and for the first few days after she died I cared not to get dressed, fed or showered.

From the moment my mom called to tell me she wasn’t there anymore, the flood gates opened. I spend days crying, staying in bed, having Vodka for breakfast and Gin for Lunch. All I could do was shed my tears and watch Community. It wasn’t until the umpteenth day of gut wrenching pain that I finally managed to kick myself out of the house to the coffee shop to do some writing; but instead of putting words on paper I sat behind my computer and wept. The “cool” kids in the coffee shop quietly drifted away as they saw me pour small bottles of Whiskey and Malibu in my coffee and wipe my nose on my sleeve. Clearly there are some car wrecks people don’t care to stare at; one of them is me drinking and crying covered in snot and tears.

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I finally figured out what I want to do with my life — and became a Panda Philantropist. (You’re welcome)

You're welcome, Pandas.

You’re welcome, Pandas.

There is a certain kind of melancholy that creeps into your soul when you spend too much time in hospitals and surrounded by sick people.

The colour scheme of hospitals and doctors’ offices is something that just doesn’t make sense on any kind of level. It is cold and clinical, with hints of inappropriate attempts at homeliness. I don’t know who designs hospital rooms for a living, but it must be someone with serious schizophrenic tendencies.

Hospitals are not a place of healing, they are a place of dying where they occasionally manage to successfully re-enact parts of Frankenstein and save a life. And this is strangely enough not something I like to be confronted with all that much. (I know, I’m weird that way) The doctors use language that is designed to feel cold and detached from what’s actually going on. They speak their metaphores, euphemisms and meoisis in calm and soothing voices, taking as the edge off the message whole at the same time telling you absolutely nothing at all. Because in the end, it’s you that gets to make all the tough calls.

I would pay a lot of imaginary money to a doctor that just says things like they are. “Hey mate, you’re going to die. Which is going be tough, but you’re an asshole anyways, and better me than you I guess. But while you’re still alive I shall do my best to sedate all common sense out of you, so the end won’t seem so bad or scary.” or “Well, just so you know… the spider children that have been bred under your skin are going to come out of their eggs and crawl to your heart at a slow but agonizing pace. We will be here every step of the way, but to be honest, there is pretty much fuck all we can do.”

How great would that be?!

Ok. perhaps not. Perhaps sometimes a white lie is better than the truth, at least in life and dead cases. But in my case, where it’s probably not life and dead, -just me having “ordinary” blinding headaches and “casual” small seizures- I just wonder how many ways, shapes and forms they can come up with to tell me I have to be patient and they don’t know anything yet. Because in case you haven’t met me, I’m not the most patient person to begin with. Also, now that I’m writing this I realize that whomever decided on the double meaning to the word patient, had one hell of a sense if irony.

Judging by the pace they are going at, I assume I’m not in any immediate danger of brain damage. I sneakily suspect that I’m fine and they are making me sick by giving me medication just so they can study my awesome brain some bit more. (it’s not delusional when it’s true). But sitting in their fucking depressing waiting rooms, some times it’s hard to not wonder what it would be like if they told you you’re going to die. What would you do, if you knew your time was limited and there was only so much left you can do.

And while contemplating this morbid notion, I realized something truly fundamental and life-altering:

All I really want out of this life is to hug a Panda bear.
Simple as that.

I see myself as a person that has all these goals and things she would like to see and do before she dies. But when I truly think about it, I will die a fucking happy camper if I can just hug a panda bear. There will be no regrets, no complaining. I will have fulfilled my life’s goal.

It looks like the most comfortable, soothing thing in the world. This big, fluffy bear that will put it’s giant paws around you and breathe in your neck. And you just sit there for a few minutes, hugging the goddamn shit out of the bear. If I don’t die from happiness on the spot, I think I would be very tranquil after that. (chances are I will die in the next week after that, being bloody murdered by one of you, fed up with my never ending story about my awesome panda bear hug)

And after our hug we will slide down the slide together and we will have ten thousand kinds of fun. Jokingly I will try to eat a piece of bamboo, but my teeth are totally not made to do that… And we will roll around on the floor, laughing our panda laughs because it is so funny. And I will offer them my Vodka in exchange, but the Pandas will all be like: No dude, we don’t drink. And then I will probably get bored and leave. But not before we all come together in a group (because I will be the Jane Goodall of Pandas at this point except it only takes me an hour because I don’t fancy crapping in a bucket for a year or so and Pandas know I am awesome) and hug our massive panda bear group hug. And we will all be better human beings than before. Except the Pandas, because they are already the best thing on the planet.

I’m willing to overlook the fact that these vegetarian bears probably smell like shit and and that hugging me is probably not their life’s goal- and that it in fact probably annoys the fucking hell out of them…. I won’t care, I will just keep hugging Ling Ling and Yao because let’s face it… this is about me.

Since I have realised how much I want to hug a Panda, I don’t care about my life goals anymore. I don’t care if I ever road trip across the US of A or if I ever ride the trans-siberian railway or if I travel Mongolia on horseback. Do not give a fuck. I hope I finish my novel and screenplay, but if I don’t. Don’t care all that much. I hope I get a cocktail named after me and get married and divorced, but if it never happens. So fucking what?

All I think about is how I just really want to hug a panda bear- everything else has become completely and utterly inconsequential.

Because what can be greater than putting your life and all your sorrows in the hands of this giant happy bear and just sitting there, finally at one with the universe??

I honestly do not know.

Look at that. (If you can think of something that’s better, don’t tell me because I’ll assume you’re a psychopath for not thinking that hugging Panda’s is the greatest goal a human being can ever hope to achieve. )

 

PS.

Also, even though I had zero money this month (or ever), I decided to drink 2 cups of coffee less so I could adopt a fucking Panda. And since none of you gave me anything for my birthday this year (thanks for that), I think you should do the same. Because if Panda’s die before I do, I shall be very upset with you all and I shall haunt you all from beyond the grave.

(How will I do that when I don’t believe in ghosts or the afterlife, you ask?? Well, right now I have a lot of spare time on my hands, and while I could spend that time writing and doing other useful thing such as organizing my sock drawer and googling all the dreadful diseases I potentially have…. I’d rather spend all of that time writing you angry emails that will automatically be send to you at predetermined time after my sad departure, just so all y’all know better than to ignore my birthday wishes)

So be smart and cool, adopt a fucking Panda Bear please. Dickheads.

(UK) https://support.wwf.org.uk/adopt-a-panda

(NL) http://www.wnf.nl/nl/shop_fun/adopteer_een_dier/index.cfm?act=adoptie.dier&dier=77

(US) http://gifts.worldwildlife.org/gift-center/gifts/Species-Adoptions/Panda.aspx?sc=AWY1302WC92

The art of moving on

When I was about 8 years old I won a cap from Donald Duck magazine. It was the first thing I ever won, and it was amazing. The cap was Donald’s face, and on it there was this little pouch you could put some money in. When my brothers, my friend Hans and I went to the swimming pool, I had to change in the girls’ locker room all alone. Being a shy and awkward little girl, this threw me off so much, that in my haste to not lose my companions, I left the cap with 10 guilders in it in the locker room.

To this day I still think about this cap with regret.

Recently, my boyfriend upgraded his title to ex-boyfriend. Guess he decided his life was definitely better without me in it. (The joke is on him, because I make everything 16% more awesome by just showing up. Fact!)  I like to say it didn’t hurt, but since I take human stupidity, global warming and what Peter Jackson did to the Hobbit personal, imagine how I feel about someone leaving me I wanted to spend at least some part of my life with.

I don’t just handle it badly, I take it horrifically unwell. If you ever want to lose all you respect you had for me, date me for a while and then break up with me. Rejection is a strange land, and I don’t get the rules.

I know I’m not completely alone in that. Most people don’t handle break-ups very well. Human beings as a species are ill-trained in dealing with loss. Excluding elephants, we are the only species on the planet that create magical ceremonies around the end of things. Just so it makes the passing seem slightly more bearable. I guess it gives us the feeling we have some control over the situation. That life, in itself, is not some uncontrollable force set out to piss on your shoes and laugh whilst doing that.

And while breaking up is merely the death of a relationship, it comes with its own rules and ceremonies as well. And because I am so terrible at getting over shit, I have set up a few ground rules. So, while all my instincts may be wrong, there’s always something to fall back on and I got amazingly great at breakups by the sheer force of my resolve to not give them the enjoyment of my pain.

In fact, I got it down to a science. Or an Art form even..

Is that possible, you ask?

Yes. Do I ever not deliver on my promises? I’m pretty sure I’m a genius, and I’ve seen my own brain now and it’s pretty big….. so listen and learn.

Breakups…. 9 times our of 10, you see them coming. So make sure the other guy gets the rules. Be fucking, gut wrenchingly clear that if shit is going to go down… it will go down your way or the highway (which may be the only time, those two are the exact same thing).

My boyfriend broke up with me over Facebook. I guess he would have liked to have a platform to say how sorry he was. And he could have picked up the phone, but he didn’t. And now I’ve changed my phone number, deleted him from my Facebook, blocked him in whatsapp. In this day and age, that pretty much means he has no way of reaching me. He can try and email me, but all that will happens is that he gets a pointedly worded email as an auto response. His email will directly go into my trash. I don’t care about what he has to say because there’s no point.

Don’t listen to Adele, Duffy or fucking Mumford & sons. Things aren’t that bad. Not so bad you have to go down that road.

-Don’t torture yourself with all the good times. Those are gone. I can spend hours thinking about how he held me in the middle of the street when I couldn’t stop crying because my dog had just died… Or how I woke him after the first night I stayed over, at 6AM because it had been snowing and we took a walk through the empty park. But whatever, those days are long gone.

– So instead, I’m just fucking angry. Remember all the shit they pulled, and then some. Beautiful memories are for later. But for now, just hate them with the fury of a thousand suns. I make fucking lists… Like remember that time he ruined your birthday because he was so fucking depressed he could barely get out of bed. Or that time you nearly drank his pee because he pissed in a bottle rather than like a normal human being and you spend and hour hurling over the sink trying to get the smell of ammonia out of your nose. Remember all the times he could not bother to call you or text you back, but managed to update his Facebook status with some menial comment about whatever made him look cool. Yea, that guy… Not worth your pain.

– Don’t blame yourself. Not yet. You may have been the worst person ever and lessons must be learned. But that’s for later….  for now. You’re not the one doing the breaking up. You are the one being dumped. Which immediately gives you the moral high ground. So, whatever made them decide you are not for them… That’s because there is something wrong with them, not with you.

And since they are wrong and fucked up…Don’t talk to them. Not until you can look them square in the eyes and go… What the fuck did I ever see in you. Which may be quicker than you think. Thanks to the fact that every thing wrong in your life, is now all of the sudden their fault.

– Even if they want to talk to you, remember they have no claim on your time anymore. They lost that the moment they said goodbye. They may want to explain and make themselves feels great about leaving you. Fuck them. Their reasons may be as legit as they come. Not your problem. You don’t need to hear how he met the love of his life 3 days ago, or how his ex really is the one and you just helped him realize that. They don’t get to explain themselves. It doesn’t matter. In the end, what it comes down to is that they don’t want to be with you. Accept that. That is all the reason you need. You don’t need to hear anything to doubt or hate yourself. Trust me. You’re fine.

Don’t cry. — When I was at the height of being sick, I cried over everything. I couldn’t leave the house. Bawling. Couldn’t open a jar. Tear fest. Forgot to charge my phone. End of the world. Then one day, I decided it was silly. I was wasting my tears. (Like baby eggs, you only get so many in a lifetime. Don’t waste them) I made a deal with myself. If it wasn’t as bad as my dog dying of Cancer, it wasn’t worth my tears. And while writing this, I might be fighting them back… But I sure as hell won’t waste one, on a person who can barely do me the honors of breaking up with me. So don’t cry. They’re not crying over you. Smile instead. It feels better.

Stay busy. Sitting at home alone, crawling in bed, stuffing your face with junk food (or in my case, solitary drinking) may seem appealing… But it only leads to self loathing. And you’ll get fat, which means you’ll have to go to the gym… And if there is anything more depressing than going to the gym… I don’t know what it is. So instead, go out. Have fun. Make new friends. Joke around. Life is too fucking short to be sad.

Set a goal, or do something productively with yourself. Get a hobby, go on holiday, make a plan to do something you’ve always wanted to do. Because there’s two ways you can do it, you can get bitter or you can try and make the best of it. You decide which is more awesome.

Take care of yourself. Drinking is always my first escape. Unless when I’m not drinking. Getting high is a great option too. But know when to stop. If you find yourself with a heroin needle stuck in your arm in an alley six months from now, you have gone too far.  Don’t forget to eat and sleep. Because

Know that things will get better some day, and you’ll not remember the pain and suffering you’ve gone through. So hang on to the lists you’ve made. Whenever you think you may want to be friends again. Read those goddamn lists, and decide if they’re worth it. In most cases, they are not. Or you’re just a better person than I am.

Get back all your stuff. It may seem like a tempting option to leave something precious back, so you have to see him one last time. And you’ll end up standing with your crap in front of his house, when he’s all cool and distant because he is fucking over you.

So if I could, I’d take everything that even has a smidgen of my DNA on it with me. I am fucking thorough. Not just your clothes, but letters, presents you gave him, presents he gave you, art work… Anything. Take it all back. Give back what is his as well. You don’t want him to come round knocking for it. Even when you really secretly do want that. Close that door as firmly as possible. Nail it shut, then bolt it, and poor it in cement, then bury it. But definitely make sure you have everything back. Especially the personal stuff. Lock them away in a box, with a note. One day when you’re dead and gone, the curator for the museum dedicated to you will open it up and be all like. Wow… What a treasure. And they will find a letter from you to them, completely tarnishing your ex’s reputation. So he’ll go down in the memory of the planet as a bunch of fucking assholes. He who laughs last is a fucking winner.

Tell your friends. Than shut the fuck up about it. Because you can go on for hours, and days and months about how much you’re hurting and how miserable you feel. But in the end, your ex will still be controlling your life from beyond the metaphorical grave of your relationship. You think they are crying and feeling miserable? No fucking way. So don’t do it. Suck it up. And shut the fuck up. It’ll be over a lot sooner that way.

Oh, but it’s OK to write bitter blog posts about it, Janneke? Yes, because I can do whatever the fuck I want. And if you want to comment or judge, I invite you to start your own blog and piss and whine about it there.

Depending on the Vantage Point — We’re all Assholes

if-assholes-could-flyIt’s been the quarter of inter-personal crises here at Camp Awesome. In the last few weeks and months, I’ve managed to crash and burn more personal relationships than George Lucas has crashed franchises. And usually this would mean that I would spring into self-defense mode, claim the world is an idiot that will never understand my beautiful genius, and finally move on with my life waiting for others to clean up my mess.

But moving to a strange and exotic country (as England -with it’s foreign wildlife and strange cultural rituals- is commonly described) has it’s perks. You get some distance from things. (Or maybe I’m just finally growing up, but let’s not make things worse and more terrifying than they already are.)

So, instead of picking up my war hammer and rallying the troops into action, these days I just rope off the disaster zone and let it sit there while I get ready to inspect it further. I’ll be the first to say that my grasp on reality is flimsy at best, and that this is something I usually only realize in retrospect… When the dust of the battlefield has settled down, and it dawns on me that perhaps that enemy I knifed down was more a case of friendly fire.

Oops.

But when you’ve burned all your ships behind you, it’s really hard to go back again.

So, the last few crises I’ve tried to be more of a detective than a warlord. Of course, it remains difficult for me to look at my own actions with some objectivity. There is always this filter of self-delusional awesomeness covering the lens. I have no problems believing that I am both the worst and the best person on the planet. The self-loathing creep that tells me I’ll never be good enough walks hand in hand with the self-applauding freak that thinks I’m god’s gift to mankind. I guess they are equally true and untrue; that they meet in the middle and I am just as mediocre as every other fuckwit I meet.

But as I write that, I don’t really believe that. I am only saying that to not sound like the Asshole I know I am. And as I write that my entire being defies the notion that I am an Asshole, because I am trying so hard to be a good and kind person and I am really nice sometimes. And as I write that, I know I am an Asshole just for thinking I’m not actually an asshole. (I hope you guys have a lot of spare time on your hands, because this line of reasoning goes on pretty much ad infinitum)

But thanks to me roping off all my personal crises and having a better look at them first, before doing anything with them, I have learned one valuable thing… As much as I hate myself sometimes, everyone else on this godforsaken globe is an Asshole too. (And don’t go” “Ehrm… not me.” Yea! Especially you. And you know it, you fucking asshole) It just depends on the vantage point.

I know this is not some notion that will rock many people’s world; the idea that there is good and bad in every single human being. And I guess I am a horrible writer for only coming to terms with this notion now (Not to mention a horrible human being for caring more about being a horrible writer). Except, I never really understood how actions can be interpreted as both evil and great, depending on from what angle you look at it. And the idea of this, the shifting perspective, it is just too thrilling for me drop without quickly jumping at the opportunity to talk about myself a bit more.

Because I’ve always been more than curious to know how other people see me. Perhaps this stems from the fact that it is impossible for me to have a realistic look at myself -due to my previously discussed self-deluding commitment to only see things how they should be rather than as they are- and me roping off my pain and failures for a later date, perhaps has finally given me some new perspective that was lacking before.

I think today is exactly a year ago that my then-future-boyfriend crouched down beside me, and as per my instructions, asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend. He made me actual mixtapes with hidden USB-ports in it, because who has a tape-deck anymore. He made me mohitos when I was sad, because nothing cheers you up like the promise of a massive hangover. We would spend each and every day texting back and forth, to a point where I was developing RSI in my thumbs because our hands have strangely enough not evolved for the sole purpose of typing on iPhones. In short, he promised me wild adventures and other groovy times.

He declared his undying love for me one early morning 3 weeks after we had met. I was completely weirded out by this, but as I hovered in the door opening on my way out, I realized I loved him too so I didn’t care. He found me the most amazing human being on the planet, and I thought he was pretty great too, even if he had hairy feet and weird hands. It took us about a month more to move in together, partly because being apart was almost unbearable (partly, because I was homeless). This may seem pretty fast, but given the fact that we discussed out plans to not have kids together on our first date, I’d say we were right on schedule.

In short, it was the classic tale of boy meets girl and they fall in love… albeit with a few more Batman references.

Flash forward to one year later, where I haven’t seen or spoken to him in over almost 2 months, and the mixtapes and other crap he gave me have been safely boxed away in a cardboard box with ‘Dark and Twisted Memories’ in big black letters on it. (In case I forget what’s in the box that has been wrapped in so much sellotape even a lunatic would find it excessive.)

My ex-boyfriend managed to dump me in 6 poorly written lines via Facebook-mail while he was visiting his ex-girlfriend in New York. It is admittedly a less than classy move, especially when put like that. Everyone immediately declared me better off and him an Asshole for it. I guess he is. He could have been a man about it and have some respect and pick up a phone. So yea, he is definitely the asshole of this tale (except those bits later on in the tale where Darth Vader shows up… But that won’t happen until a few years from now).

But I guess that if he were to tell the tale, it’d start out the exact same way. But then when we get closer and closer to the end, we take a different path, our vantage points more and more dramatically. We get a different perspective on things… Whilst still telling the exact same story, things would be completely different.

In his tale, I’m the bigger asshole. He’s the guy who really struggled to figure out what he wanted, and only could do with some distance. Then I forced him to tell me what was going on, he reluctantly did, expecting to be able to fully explain when things had settled down. Except he found himself cut off from my Facebook, my Twitter. I had changed my phone number and blocked my email account. All of his stuff had been returned and mine had meticulously been removed from his house. All that was left was a shitty note saying goodbye -a thing he never got to say-, please give me back my notebook, and I don’t want to be your friend so don’t bother contacting me.

Yes, I am an asshole in this tale. If a friend would tell me how his ex just cut him out of her life from one day to the next… I’d declare her a fucking asshole. Except that the asshole is me here, and I know precisely every fucked up reason why I’d rather not talk to him. So, will the real asshole please stand up??

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Negative Writing Space.

This picture has little to do with this entire post. I just like it. If this bothers you, please send a written complaint to someone who gives a shit.

This picture has little to do with this entire post. I just like it. If this bothers you, please send a written complaint to someone who gives a shit.

As discussed in my last post I am living my life at rock bottom at the moment, feeling like an emotional and physical train wreck survivor. To be honest though, as a person who spend the majority of her life literally at the bottom of the world, right below sea level, I feel quite comfortable having some quiet time until my mind and heart are healed again.

What is way more frustrating (than getting my heart broken and my brain scanned, because let’s keep it in perspective people!) is that I am currently writing at a negative pace. As promised (to myself) I write- almost every day- a whole bunch of words down. I think I average just over 500 a day, which isnt’t all that much. But I think it is still impressive considering the fact that I have to nurture my alcohol addiction (just kidding mom, it’s a pill addiction), google pictures of fat, angry, dressed up cats and my brain trying to throb it’s way out of my skull at the same time.

Of course, to you- a mere mortal- 500 words a day may still seem impressive. Perhaps because you are much better at math than me, and can quickly figure out that if I am telling the truth, that adds up to about 3500 words a week, which is 15,000 a month. Given that the typical novel averages at around 60,000 words, at this pace, I should be putting my finishing touches on something resembling the size and scope of the bible (but of course, of much more cultural importance and way more references to Brad Pitt’s naked torso.)

Except that I’m not. At the time of procrastinating on this blog post, I am stuck at 10,833 words. Which is, now that I’m thinking about it, not as bad as I thought. Except that a week ago I was somewhere around 14,000 words. So rather that progressing, in some ways I am moving backwards.

Today for instance, I wrote about 1200 words. But now, at the end of a grueling writing session (without any coffee, I should add) I’m actually stuck at minus 1600 plus words. I know this because I meticulously keep track. With every word I write, I can see my own statistics glaring at me from my screen, counting up word for word… but the last few days mostly counting down. (I do whatever I can to make myself feel like a lazy failure)

Screen shot 2013-01-27 at 6.10.34 PM

Welcome to my fucking world.

How come, you ask? Can’t you just stop keeping track and pretend writing is fun or something?

Well, to answer your question…  Getting beat up in a dark alley, drunk dialing your ex and getting hit by a truck (simultaneously) are all things I consider to be way more fun than writing. But you don’t do those things, you say. Well, first of all; fuck you, how do you know? Second of all… No, sorry…. I got nothing…. No funny come back or something to make this seem less like a dumb segue that I am too lazy to edit out.

I just wanted you to know that I don’t really enjoy writing.

Well, than it’s probably a good thing you don’t write all that many words… why are you fucking even complaining about it and wasting my fucking precious time!! Don’t you know I have stocks and shares to buy and poor people to oppress?!

Will you shut the fuck up for a minute, imaginary reader who happens to be an oppressive dictator because that is what I think the average readership of this blog is! I didn’t ask you for your opinion. You don’t see me come to your (imaginary) blog and interrupt you when you are busy writing boring pieces about how you are writing negative words (or killing puppies, because you’re a vile dictator and that’s what you do for fun on Wednesdays).

(Hey, everyone looking back from the future when I really am in the asylum… You really can’t say there were no signs of my impending mental collapse.)
Anyways, sorry about that. The things I do to not have to write a story…  Getting back to me complaining about boring shit in… 5…4…3…2…

Basically what happens is that every day I write way more words than I end up with. I think about half of everything I write bites the dust before the day is over. The rest will be erased over the course of the next few days. And slowly, but gently I’m shaping this tale into something that is both amazing and heart breaking (read: self indulging and cringe-worthy). Because it is relatively easy to write a thousand words in an hour, what is much, much harder is for those words to form logical sentences and actually make sense. And if you want all of those sentences to shape and build together to something even bigger… It takes time and a lot of rewriting.

And sometimes you get stuck, and there is nothing to do but trash 2000 words. Not all of them bad, in fact, some of them are great. (Obviously, since I wrote them). And I would say that gets frustrating (as I did when I started this post). But it really doesn’t. Because I am building a house of words, and if the foundation isn’t solid. There is no point in continuing.

So yes, most days I really hate writing. It’s a drag and you feel you end up with nothing but good intentions and bad sentences. But in the end, I know that what I hate even more than writing is not writing. So, I am condemned to crawl behind my shitty old computer and punch away on the keys, feel like a talentless hack and do it anyways. Because it’s kind of all I have. (Hey people with real jobs and lives, don’t you feel great about yourself right now?!)It’s coincidentally also what I came here to do, so the fact that I am finally, consistently doing it gives me some small feeling of pride. (at this point in time, I’ll take what I can get)

I may be writing at a negative pace right now, but in the end, I am still almost 11,000 words into a story that is kind of funny (it’s about suicide. Always a hoot). And I am learning all new kinds of things (mostly about killing yourself -for instance, did you know it was painful and unpleasant– and the Looney Tunes).

And someday soon, I might post the first chapter here. So you guys can tell me whether I am the genius many prophets once proclaimed I was, or if I just should get on with it and kill myself. (Just kidding, I am totally waiting for that Apocalypse. I’m crossing my fingers for either zombies or an ice age!)

Scariest. Fucking. Thing. Ever.

Scariest. Fucking. Thing. Ever.

P.S.

The first person that emails me saying that perhaps writing would go a lot faster if I didn’t waste 1200 words on a blog post where I mostly talk to my imaginary dictator friend and ramble on about boring shit that really no one in the world gives a shit about except myself…  can expect a bullet engraved with his or her name in the mail.

Maniacal laugh

Greetings from Rock Bottom — Population: 1

rockbottom

Somewhere last week someone told me the immortal line “Things always have to get worse before they get better”. I made a joke whether he had a death wish for me, because that seemed like possibly the only way things could get any worse. Part of me meant it.

The day before that, I had my MRI, and after the excitement of seeing my own brain had faded (Yes, it was awesome. And yes. I took pictures.) I had what can only be described as a full-on nuclear meltdown. One minute I was walking down the street, minding my own business; the next minute there was this explosion of emotion and I couldn’t stop leaking hot, salty water out of my eyeballs. It dawned on me that I just had my brain scanned for tumors and what not. Which is bad enough as it is, but I also realised that if they don’t find anything, I just may have to accept the fact that I am fucking crazy. And I honestly don’t know which option I fear more.

And in that moment, I though I had hit rock bottom. Things couldn’t really get much worse than this; I had a dead dog, stupid break-up, crazy brains and dumb health issues all weighing me down. The way I saw it, there were few ways my life could get much worse. At some point only the extremely cataclysmic still registers. And after being hit one shit storm after another, it seemed I had reached that point.

I think it is safe to say that I take things slightly more dramatically than is probably good for me. It is one of the big downsides to being me. Everyone always calls me tough, but I am only tough because actually feeling stuff is way too draining. But as much as I like to keep stuff out, some things just get stuck in my brain. It’s like a story that I tell myself, and naturally I bring it to its most dramatic conclusion. So for the next few days, as far as I was concerned, I probably was dying. (my fingers are still crossed for an Apocalypse)

I still don’t have my results, so for all I know, I really might be. But I am not nearly as fatalistic as I was a week ago. So what happened?

Well, for one, I really hit rock bottom.

The rest of the week, I couldn’t eat. If I tried, I would just throw up. I couldn’t sleep. The only way I could fall asleep was with a podcast or audiobook on, so my mind would be preoccupied with that. Nevertheless an hour or 2 later I’d be wide awake again, and even less able to get some rest. I partly blame me and my boyfriend finally breaking up for that. We all know how well I deal with failure. But trust me that it’s not easy falling asleep thinking about how you would look with no hair, or what you would wear to your own fucking funeral. Especially when you have no big ole dog to cuddle, with a soft fur to bury your face in.

To top it off, my hormones were just raging through my body. I felt like my nerves were shredded in a way I have never, in my life, felt before. I was this walking open wound.  spend most Friday just fighting off the blues. I was incredibly apathetic and I really was convinced I had hit rock bottom. But in one furious act of defiance, I decided I should leave the house and go out. Have fun with some friends and not be all gloomy watching Community in bed. So, I got dressed and left my house. Applause.

I don’t think I had walked 20 meters when not despair but dizzying gravity dragged me down. I hit my head, and fell on the street. And as I was lying there, bleeding out of my head… I knew I had finally reached it for real.

Rock Bottom.

And that was probably the most liberating moment I have had in a very long time. After months of feeling shitty, being sick and trying so fucking hard to be happy and healthy, I knew things couldn’t get any worse. And that now that I was there, it didn’t actually seem all that bad. And I just felt the greatest sense of relieve. This was it. The worst it could possibly get.

No matter what will happen, I will be fine. I will start climbing back up again. It may be a long and hard road, but hell… It’s not the first time I’ve had to do it and I’m pretty sure it won’t be the last time. So, you know… I had training. And I’m already better than most at it. I’m a fucking emotional mountaineer, and I will reach that peak where I am fucking deliriously happy again.

For now, I am content to stay at rock bottom, because I don’t have the strength yet to climb back up. (besides, I’m writing like crazy and there is nothing better for writing than feeling shitty) There’s still doctor’s results on the horizon and one way or another I will have to deal with them. I will have to deal with the fact that whatever they are, I am struggling to get to work and make it through a full day. I have to deal with the fact that yet another relationship went down the drain, because I am way too much to handle for normal people. I have to deal with the fact that I miss my dog so much, I don’t even know how to go back home again because she was my home. I have to deal with the fact that since she died, I haven’t spoken to any of my friends and the consequent fact that perhaps that makes me a selfish asshole (Although I think it makes me awesome, because I don’t want them to have to listen to me complain all the time. (instead I do that here) Hey guys, if you’re reading this. I’m in emotional Iraq at the moment. I’ll talk to you when I’m fucking happy again.)

But I will deal with all of that. In fact, just knowing that the unmoving soil of rock bottom is directly underneath me supporting my weight, has helped me. I am no longer staring back at the train wreck (aka my life) behind me. I crawled out of that, and now I am just sitting here. Looking at the wonderful things I have ahead of me. But since that will be a long climb back up, I’ll just be sitting here for a while, chilling out, enjoying the view, waiting for any news from the doctor so I can decide which path to take.

And while someone said that saying you’re at Rock Bottom is negative and not in line with all my positivity talk (BTW, go fuck yourself. You come sit here, and then we’ll talk) I wholeheartedly disagree with him. There is nothing wrong with acknowledging where you are, how you got there, and trying to make sure you get yourself out of that situation. I am not being a negative Nancy here, I’m being a fucking realist. Also, my name is not Nancy, so it makes no sense anyway.

My life could be a lot better right now, and knowing that will help me make it better. I can blindly shut my eyes and start screaming that everything is great. But that is, in my book, the definition of crazy (although, I am the lady that worries she is actually crazy… so what do I know).

But to be honest; people should try accepting where they are at. Which is exactly what I am trying to do. This is my life right now. It may not be great. — no wait… That line should say– It may not be great yet… But it will be.

Because it really will be great again. It’s inevitable. And to be honest, some things really are great already. And I doubt that 6 months from now, any of these concerns and struggles I am having still seem valid. They rarely do (although, I will still miss my little buddy.) If there is one thing I know about myself is that I am full of hope. To me; Schrödinger’s cat is not so much about Quantum physics, but a test about whether you are a positive or a negative person (or a real scientist who can say both (or neither) and thinks my interpretation of the cat conundrum is dumb). To me, when you open up the box; the cat is still alive (possibly angry) and will land on her paws.

I know I will be fine. Always. Sure, it’ll be a struggle sometimes, but in the end, things work out. Even if it is only for a little while. I read way too many fairy tales and saw way too many Disney films to believe otherwise.

So, for now I will sit here at the bottom of the Universe until I know how to move upwards again. And for all I know; I really might be crazy thinking that rock bottom is not the worst place to be. (But then I think of Belgium, and I know I am right. Imagine having to live there) To me, it’s a comforting thought, knowing you cannot fall any further.

And at least for once in my life I know exactly where I am.
(and since Google Maps went off my phone that truly never happens indeed. So yay!)

Inside my head — taking a look at the big sack of goo that controls my life.

let's hope it doesn't look like this -- Because than I'd look like HomerInside my head lives my brain, which is both the best and the worst part of me. Or perhaps more accurately, inside my head, I live. And today I get to have a look at that place— I get to have a look at myself.

I know I should be worried -and I am, trust me. But after months of waiting and feeling worried, it’s about time as well. So in a strange way I am mostly excited. I get to see my own brain. How cool is that!

I get to see myself, in a way I’ve never seen before. Someone is going to pop the hood, and there is that thing that controls my life. I am self-obsessed enough to be more than intrigued by that prospect. And if they won’t let me see my own brain, I shall be more than upset. Not only because I don’t think I can stomach waiting much longer for the results (and of course I’ve seen enough Grey’s Anatomy to have the expertise of a neurologist and determine for myself if there lives an evil alien in my head.) But also because some good must come out of this whole situation. And I choose that upside to be the perk of getting to see my own gray matter. And once and for all settle the that ancient question of: are my frontal lobes really are unusually big?? (The answer is yes)

Which is exciting enough to let me forget that I am actually gonna get locked in a cold magnetic tube for a good 20 minutes, to see if there is something wrong with me. (Ha, that joke pretty much writes itself. Don’t bother making it. And shame on you if you already did…. too easy.)

I have always been fascinated with brains, since they pretty much run your life. I am as deterministic as one can get, without crossing the threshold to insanity. I don’t really believe in free will. How can I when looking at the scientific data— or at my own life and behaviour for that matter. For instance, did you know that before you make the conscious decision to move your hand… your brain has already fired off the neurons to your hand many milliseconds ago. All you experience is the idea of free will. You move you hand, therefor you must have decided to do so… And in a way you did, just not a you that’s conscious.

And if you think that data is skewed, or that there is no way for scientists to determine that. (Than first of all, quantum physics is definitely not for you.) If you like to believe that you and you alone are in control of your own life… Think again. Remember that time when you said you wouldn’t eat junk food for a month, and then you woke up with your face in a bucket of KFC? Or that time you bought that new outfit when you knew you didn’t have the cash for it? Or that time your friend said something and you reacted in the strangest way ever and later on you really don’t know where that came from? Remember that time you were horribly depressed, or crazily ecstatic for no reason?

You don’t control your own life. Electromagnetic pulses in your brain control your life. Hormones control your life. You mindlessly tag along, thinking you’re in the driver’s seat.

This notion, which is not as foreign as it may sound, has some rather striking consequences. Let me start of by saying that it in no way means you can negate responsibility for your own life. We can still hold ourself to a higher standard. We cannot just give in when we do something wrong, and say… My brain made me do it. We experience free will for a reason. We get to think we are in control. We get to decide what’s right or wrong, and try to avoid turning to the Dark Side (Yea, I’m talking to you, Anakin)

The fact that we are nothing but slaves to a big sack of proteins in our skull- in my opinion- should not be a notion of hopeless resignation, but one of compassion. People do horrible things. People are horrible to each other. People are horrible to this planet we live on. People are horrible to themselves. And in no way should we condone that. We should always aspire to be good and kind, and do the right thing and eat lots of donuts. We have to have a standard, and make sure as a society we set to define what’s right and what’s wrong. But when people go off the beaten track, realize that they aren’t always in charge of their own actions.

After all, we are nothing but cave people that moved into slightly more sophisticated dwellings. You could try to resist that bucket of KFC, being mean to that person you really don’t like or sticking your willy in a 12-year-old boy. You know it’s wrong, and if you don’t— it may just be because you’re brain is not programmed properly… (unless you’re just a really big dick). But when the brain misfires— because that is what happens— punishment shouldn’t be the answer. It should be treatment. Locking people away is not always a solution. In some cases it makes things worse. And realizing people are nothing more than flawed programs might actually make you a nicer person. (And you’ll feel really great about yourself. Because when every other person is a flawed program, you are definitely one software update ahead of them. You rock!)

For whatever it is worth, I am just as flawed as the next guy. Perhaps even more so. (Because why be standard when you can suck exceedingly) I am an imperfect person. Like I said, my brain is the best and worst part of me. It messes with my head, all the time. Sometimes in a good way, but more often than not (and especially lately) in a very bad way.

But I try to be nice and happy and kind. And I guess that makes up for a lot of it. Doesn’t mean I always get it right. I am imperfect. My hormones run away with me at least once a month. :) I am a fucking human being. I am flawed and broken, just like every other fucking person that ever lived on this planet. (Yea, that goes for you too, Jesus)

And if you still think I’m full of shit. Read this entire post. At no point did I think I’d write this. I have no idea where it came from…. this post is just running away with me. I do not control these words, even as I am writing them. Which you can take as, I am just mindless and should stop writing nonsense. But perhaps there is something more to it. Just have a look at the people around you. Do they seem like rational, sane people who are in control? I suspect not, and if they do… That probably only means you’re just more out of control than they are.

Think about it…

And while you do that, I’ll go rush out the door. Because today I get to see my brains, and that is amazing. I don’t have to die and my skull chopped off, for the world to have a look at my brain… and go “Oh, yea. That figures. It didn’t fit in her skull. Too big. Well, now she’s dead and it’s too late”. Because some smart people used their brains and figured out a way to use electromagnetic waves to see inside my head. And no matter what the reason may be that I actually have to let them do it, I still think that is pretty amazing and I’ll try to enjoy every second of it.

Because thanks to modern science and the awesome power of big-ass magnets, I get to have a look at me and my giant monkey brain… And that is unbelievably cool!

Positivity! — Or, how I stopped worrying and learned to love the bomb.

live-life-like-a-rock-star-thumb24035357I was reminded I am still the sole contributor to this largely abandoned blog. When I say abandoned, I mean by abandoned by me. Because I just had a look at my stats and surprisingly I get more visitors when I’m not actually doing any writing. (I use the word ‘surprisingly’ with some sense of irony here) Perhaps I should take the hint. Perhaps all y’all should have cared just a bit more and I wouldn’t have stopped writing in the first place.

But anyways, a kind gentleman had lifted an image from my site and send me a message saying he had done so. First of all, this man clearly does not know how the Internet works. You don’t go around telling people you stole the stuff they stole before you. That’s just a stunning and courteous breach of Internet policy. (Thank you sir who will never read this, it made my day)

But he had ‘borrowed’ the image from a post I wrote about a year ago, when this year was just about to begin. It was about my resolutions for the year 2012. Reading it back now, I was struck by a few things. First of all, I am pretty goddamn awesome. And in case you take this statement seriously… This morning I was having a shower and the thought that crossed my mind was: “They should really make a Spotify for movies.”

Yes. (remind me of this moment whenever I unleash my untamed douchebaggery or other forms of disgusting, self-delusional bragging on this world)

But what struck me most was how much and how little I have changed at the same time. I guess that is normal and I am not some demigod (I shall still believe I am, of course. Reality is overrated). I am still the same person, with the same horrifically annoying character flaws… But the way I deal with them and have learned from them have changed tremendously… or so I like to believe at least. (Yea, delusion piled upon delusion. See, I’m still exactly the same person…)

I’ve been here in London for over a year now. I would love to say it was a great year. And in some ways it really has been. I broadened my horizons (whilst never leaving the safe confines of Western Europe. One step at a time people), fell in love in a very big way, wrote a ton of words, threw them out and started over, met some amazing people, seen some amazing things. But it has also been a very tumultuous year, and especially the last few months have been quite– shall I say– shitty.

One where I met my limitations head on, and lost. One where I managed to drive myself down a path of despair and depression that I am just now coming out of. One where I lost the love of my life, my little buddy, and I couldn’t even be there to shepherd her out of this world. One where I have seen the inside of a hospital more than I ever have in my life.

A year where I nearly gave up.

Well, that sounds horribly depressing, suicidal and defeatist, you say. Don’t start calling me asking me if I want to talk about it. I said nearly. I was not listening to Adele songs with a razor near my wrists. I did not seek out any cliff to dive off, nor did I take a nap on a train track. I am way too lazy for that. Besides, I was really looking forward to the Hobbit coming out (If only I’d known the disappointment I was in for…)

But there is more than one way to stop living. When every day you sit on the sofa, unable to move, unable to do anything. That’s not really living. I just gave up. I gave up on fighting, on feeling good, being happy, I gave up on doing anything at all with my life. I had some great excuses, I had M.E. (poor, poor me…) I was sad and pathetic and nothing ever went my way. (Yea, fuck you Universe. I still blame you… Because, why take responsibility for your own life and happiness when you can blame an invisible entity)

Well, fucking whoop-di-doo. I am a white, middle-class girl in her twenties. I don’t know fucking shit about suffering. The only way I would be better off is if I had a penis or I was the heir to a fortune 500 company. I was not born in Africa or China or the slums of India or Detroit. I can buy food every day and still invest in a bottle of Vodka or a pair of new jeans. I have a roof over my head. I have clean drinking water and supposedly free health care. I don’t know fucking shit about what it is to live the hard life (I have not listened to nearly enough gangsta rap to understand that).

So… I was a bit tired and a bit depressed. It happens. What shouldn’t happen though, is that it is OK to just roll over and give up. I have said this before, but now climbing out of the valley of misery I marched myself into… I need to remind myself for once and all that it is not OK to feel sorry for myself. It’s not cool to sit at home and watch TV series all day long (even when they are awesome shows… Kudos to American Network television… without you, I would have been realising this so much sooner, but you kept me nicely wrapped up in a state of obedient submission… but hey! At least it was entertaining…)

One of my friends asked me if she should start going on anti-depressants. I said I had nothing against it. I don’t. I’m not on them, but I wish I had been a few months ago. I may have not gone down the road I did. The thing is, if you feel like shit… You forget that that is not normal after a while. Because you’ve been shitty and struggling for such a long time it becomes the status quo.

Things (or you) need to collapse before you snap out of it.

For me, it was going back home and realising why I had left in the first place. It was my boyfriend turning into an angry mess because I had literally driven him to the brink of going insane himself. It was me feeling slightly more healthy and capable of leaving the house without getting dizzy all the time. It was moving into a new house where I had some room to be myself. It was finally starting to write again and actually sticking with it to such an extend it is actually moving in a real direction.

I started to slowly smile again, and some days I really meant it. I started to make jokes again and see the humour in things. I managed to find the courage to leave the house and hang out with friends. (yes, I needed courage for that. Don’t email me. I am well aware I am quite pathetic. Don’t need you telling me.) I went back to work, and started to feel a bit more useful. I faced the fact that I have issues and in some ways need to change; either myself or my life. But I also accepted that in some ways I am pretty amazing and that I should not change myself for any other reason than that I want to, and I certainly should not doubt myself or give up on myself. I started to have fun again, and long for adventure and new things. And not because I wanted to run away from the bullshit I created.. But because new things are fun and exciting.

I started to do better.

And then the thing I’ve been fearing for 6 years or so happened.

My dog died. (See… white people problems)

I think every one who knows me, knows what she meant to me and how big a part of me she was. She was more than a friend. In some ways, being away from her drove me insane. Every day I felt torn that I was not near her. I missed her. I love my friends, but I can talk to them on the phone (or skype if they ever manage to find out how that works). My dog never had that luxury. So every day I was in London, I felt I was betraying her.

And then, the day after my 26th Birthday, my little stalker passed away and I could not be there for her.

I still feel guilty about that. I still feel so sad. Sad beyond words.

But I did not break.

I did what every sane person would do. I drank. I started drinking vodka for breakfast, then I had some more for lunch. Dinner was Vodka, and then I had a nice hot coco with Malibu for bedtime. It was the best thing ever!! (Well, except that my dog was dead… but you know what I mean)  I don’t want to say I endorse drinking your pain away. But fuck yes!! I had been cutting myself off from every kind of substance or fun in the hopes I wouldn’t be so tired anymore. For months and months. I worked, went to the gym, and went home to sleep or watch TV. I was healthy beyond reason in some ways. But I was just focused on that. Being healthy. As if that fucking makes anything better?!

Yes, in some ways it does I guess. But even if I’d been healthy, at some point I had fucked myself over so bad, I would have found something else to be in tears over.  I am not a brave trooper. I whine and complain and piss and moan. (Hey mom, aren’t you proud of me!?) I wish I were a soldier, and could take it. But I am not. I am very disappointed with myself in some ways. But that was the way it was. Perhaps next time, I shall be cool and not complain so much… (haha!)

I have been trying to do just that, the last few weeks. I am taking the pain created by this dog-shaped hole in my heart, and I am bending it into a positive outlet. Tears are all nice and well, and taste funny when you lick them off your face… But they don’t help much. So instead of crying and complaining, I am writing. It may be the shittiest thing I’ve ever written. I don’t know. I am convinced it is. Because you know… It may as well be. I really don’t care. It is making me happy and feel like I have a goal again. And that is more important than anything else.

I am not yet healthy, and in some scary ways farther from it than I was before I went home. But I don’t care about that either. I am not going down the road of complaining and feeling sorry for myself again. I am not going to let it scare me into a submissive stupour.

Because I drove myself crazy thinking of how OK I wasn’t.

When in reality, I was OK. In fact, I didn’t realise how good my life was. I was loved, cared for, had a job, awesome friends, a boyfriend who tried his best to help me, an equally supportive family, a seemingly immortal dog… I had (and have) a pretty good life. And the fact that I was just feeling sorry for myself, that just makes me a fucking asshole.

Yes, a really cool asshole, but an asshole nevertheless.

So, I am not going down that lane again… at least, not without putting up a really big fight. I don’t complain or whine about my health. In fact, I try to not discuss it if I can help it. (In case anyone is wondering or worried. I am fine, still not dead.) Every day I set myself a goal. Write a thousand words. Smile like you mean it. Read something you find interesting (and remember it). Leave the house and see or do new stuff. And most importantly, stop being so fucking neurotic, you psycho nutcase.

Which were pretty much my New Years resolutions for 2012. So while I may think they are the dumbest things ever, maybe I did manage this year to actually fulfill them, and stick with them. It may have been a goddamn hard road. But I learned a lot. I may even have become a slightly better person (although I am still completely determined to become the Ultimate evil Overlord, of course.. But one with a heart of gold. Possibly literally. I’ll keep it in my bookcase. Yes. This must happen. Friends, in case you wonder what I want for my Birthday. I want a heart of Gold. It has to be pure gold. Make it happen. You are already a month late with gifting me something so I think a heart of pure Gold is not too much to ask for.)

Ha, who had thought new years resolutions are a real thing.

But since apparently they are (because I said so.) I should make some for 2013. (I already have of course… But let’s pretend that you are watching history in the making)

For 2013 there’s only 3 things I shall do.

First of all, I shall drink. With every opportunity, I shall drink and toast to being alive. Because drinking is awesome and it makes people seem more pretty. It’s pretty much the only cool thing about growing up, well, that and sex and being able to see whatever movie you want… So if you’re not doing some drinking, and some sex and some having fun… you might as well give up. Being a grown up is dumb, but seeing as we cannot be kids forever, take what the fuck you can get! And drink! And smile! And buy new shoes… because being to decide what you want to wear all by yourself is pretty awesome too (Yes mom, no one likes to wear fucking corduroy trousers. Goddamn it)

Oh, and while I’m at it. I shall smoke more, and do whatever the fuck makes me happy. Because there is no point in living a healthy life when you feel like crap. So, I shall do whatever I feel like. And I encourage everyone to do the same thing. If fucking Mick Jagger is still alive… There is no point in living a healthy life. Be a rock star and have some fun, people!

Secondly, I shall write. But aren’t you already doing that, you ask? Yes, I am. Fuck you for interrupting me! But I shall write some bit more and continue writing. 1000 words a day, at least. And I have decided I should attempt to write one blog post a week. Don’t read them. They shall be boring as fuck. But they shall be there. Because they amuse me… And that’s all I care about. Well, there might be some pictures of baby cats and chinchillas and such… Because I like those too. But yea. I shall write. Because I am possibly the most interesting person on the planet… and I would hate to rob my words of wisdom and insight (such as… Hey, I suck, Let’s drink) from you.

The last thing is something I attempt at every year, and I guess I am not alone in that…

I send my evil twin, Wez, a X-mas card saying that I genuinely hope that the new year is one of little personal growth and much fun. Because it seems both of us are condemned to grow through misery rather than experience. And as much as I like to be old and Wise someday, right now I’d rather be young and stupid. (Which is where the drinking comes in, because nothing brings out the stupid as alcohol)

So, once again, we will make it our goal to not be nihilistic cynics this year. 2013 is the year of Positivity!

Positivity and Happiness.

Yes!!

Because you can let all the bad shit get you down… But the only one you’re harming is yourself. And at some point you’re gonna have to accept that you will be fine. No matter what happens, you will be fine.

You will be fine.
2013 will be fine.

And I will definitely be fine.

Happy fucking new year, douchebags.

Fucking Fatigued — Real Friends tell Friends to Suck it up.

Let my start off by apologizing in advance for a long overdue post that will without a doubt turn into nothing more than a long text filled with Why me’s and other self-pitying ways of stating that the Universe has it in for me.

The truth is I don’t know how to not turn this into a bitter rant. And honestly, I think I’m entitled one. Because as far as I’m concerned… Bad things should happen to other people who are better equipped to deal with it and not so important to the survival of mankind. you know… Everyone else.

But the Universe doesn’t give a fuck.

It woke up one day, and without any regards for my plan to become to most awesomest evil overlord, it just said: Hey… how do you like getting out of bed refreshed and using your brain. Ha. You do? Well, Fuck you, Janneke Rood. Those days are over.

(Disclaimer: No such words were ever actually heard coming out of the Universe’s mouth… But this is mostly due to the fact that the Universe speaks very slowly. It takes about a dozen years for the universe to form a sentence (not to mention how it struggles with certain vowels).)

And there’s a lot you can say about the Universe, but it’s a deterministic Motherfucker.

Three months ago I though I really need a vacation, get some rest. By now I just think I need a lobotomy. And if it really would help, I’d take it. Either one, really. I’d prefer the vacation, because splicing my brain in half doesn’t sound all that appealing. And it probably won’t help me feel any bit better.

But hell, if it means that I can get out of bed every day, not feeling like a garbage truck backed up over me. Why the hell not?

So, what’s wrong with me you must be asking by now?

(In which case… it means you’re still reading this… And you’re probably my mom)

Apart from the obvious.

Well, if I hadn’t lost my sense of humour to it… I’d probably find it very ironic that someone as self-obsessed as me has an illness known as ME.

But I haven’t been funny for three months. Because being funny requires some mental processing power I just do not have at the moment. My GP, who kindly explained to me what Chronic Fatigue Syndrome -formerly known as M.E.- is, compared it to having a broken battery in an iPhone. It won’t charge as quickly anymore, however it drains so much quicker. So, in essence I have this body that looks really cool and well designed, but there’s nothing I can do with it. All these apps, but no power to run them on.

And that wouldn’t be so bad if my brain still worked. I might be stuck inside, incapable of exerting myself… But I could write. I could read. I could catch up on watching television. But I can’t. Because my brain is powered by my broken battery.

If I do too much I get horrible headaches. I get excruciating pains in my hands and legs. I get dizzy and nauseous.

So, I just sit inside most days. I don’t even know what I do. I’m bored. My body hurts from doing nothing. I struggle to concentrate on anything. The only reason I’m writing here today is because I consumed a liter of coke and some aspirin, which kickstarted my brain. I’m sure I’ll pay the price tomorrow -or later this evening. But right now I don’t care. It’s nice to not feel like my brain has been tasered into dumb submission. It’s nice to be able to lift my arms without feeling like a bag of bricks have been taped to them.

It’s fucking nice to not feel so stupid and angry and unfunny. It’s nice to not feel like I have a terrible hang-over (because that’s the best way to describe it) without having had the privilege of at least having a great night.

At the end of this week, I’ll be flying home. I can’t be in the city right now, because the traffic makes me dizzy and disoriented, and as horribly depressed, angry and negative I get at times. I don’t really fancy dying after getting hit by a truck, bus or any other vehicle.

Besides, as nice as London is.. there is nothing here for me right now. Living abroad is really nice, but you do miss the support system you have at home. The days I can’t get out of bed, there is no one here to make me lunch, force me to leave the quiet safety of my room, or -more importantly- tell me to suck it up.

That’s what my friends are for.

You know, because without them, I’m all alone feeling sorry for myself. I’ll keep complaining and pitying myself. I’ll write angry blog posts about how much my life sucks right now. And everyone here will tell me how sorry they are for me. Because they all buy into this fantasy that you should be nice to sick people, because English people are genuinely nice and decent people.

But they shouldn’t.

They should make fun of me. Because you have to make fun of it.
Because it is too stupid for words. I’m 25 and some days I can’t climb the stairs.

And if you can’t laugh at that, all you can do is cry.

And that’s just silly.

So, just for my friends reading this. I trust you to be the assholes I know you all are. The 20th my plane will land in Amsterdam.

Feel free to call me. Laugh. And Hang up.

I really need that right now. :)