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.


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.


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


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.


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.

Guess who’s back…


It’s been a while since I last entertained you with my stories from this tiny island off the Dutch coast.

I do apologize, though it’s not completely my fault.

I got sucked into this weird black hole, and when I got spat out on the other end… it turned out I was in another universe where nothing was like it seemed.

It took me a long time to find and fight my way back to here… But I arrived almost unscathed back home a couple of days ago. Whilst for you only one or two months may have past, it took me more than 3 years to get back. Murdering, pillaging and plundering was involved. I played games with the devil and laughed in the face of danger. I made some friends, but mostly I was a rogue agent playing for no ones team but my own, trying to find my way home.

I learned a lot during my journeys. Like that no matter where you go, what you do… A good haircut is never a thing of luxury. Also that gold is pretty much worthless in some places, and that the Backstreet Boys really are artist of the highest caliber.

But now I’m back. And while I may try and forget some of the atrocities I’ve seen (and committed), I might share a few of them too. (I exchange for money or gifts, obviously… Because we all already now that nothing good is free (except wi-fi)).

So, I won’t promise you updates every day or even every week… but I’ll be back here more often than once a month.

In theory at least.

Unless I get sucked into another time portal… (or am without wifi so I cannot post these wonderful epistles)

See you soon, guys.

2011 — The Year I Forgot to Remember

I’m sure some highbrow writer once wrote something very quotable about how the past inevitably leads up to the future. I would quote that here right now were it not for 2 simple reasons.

  1. I spent most of my time reading comic books or watching movies so I don’t know any quotes apart from Yipeekayay Motherfucker and all the dialogue from the Lord of the Rings.
  2. I can’t be bothered to google it because I will feel like a pretentious git (hipster), quoting something I haven’t actually read.

So, imagine that here there is a very inspirational quote about time that will tie in beautifully with the rest of this post. You did it? Great! Let’s move on.

Like the invisible quote probably says; without the past there is no future. Except the asshole who made that up probably did not have my memory. From a single shot of a movie I can determine whether I’ve seen it or not, I remember almost everything I’ve ever read, but it took me up to 11 years to memorize my full name; my birthday took me even longer. If I try to think about what I did the past year…I hit a giant blank.

Mostly I remember the city lights reflecting off the canals of Amsterdam at night, I remember the sun on my skin, I remember the taste of coffee and bagels, I remember playing with my dog for hours, I remember writing a lot, I remember I wasn’t always too happy, I remember one friend coming home and another one leaving, and I remember I finally saw Orson Welles’ A Touch of Evil

But the events that happened, something of a narrative outline of the year… Couldn’t say. And this worries me, because it means that most of my time is lost. I’m not saying like Jack Dawson in Titanic (I just wanted to quote something I did see): To Make each moment count. That’s just stupid. I think if we would do that, most of us would fry our brains.

But where the fuck did my life go if all I can remember is riding my bike through Amsterdam staring at the light hitting the water (good times though)? There must have been more significant moments that I can’t remember simply because I am not wired that way. The giant bag of proteins in my head just refuses to store those moments somewhere I can access them, and this annoys me. But since I am already in the business of altering the make up of my brain (See last post) I can probably add: ‘Get a working memory!’ to my to-do list as well.

So, this is totally not where I was going to go with this post. I was going to say… 2011 happened, get over it. All I remember is watching a bunch of terrible movies and worrying that as a species we were getting more and more stupid. (This, FYI, is a genuine concern of mine. I have some concerns that some day either dolphins or monkeys or crows might take over the planet and this is not the part that concerns me. It is that they might do a much better job of it than we are doing at the moment). And the same will apply for 2012. It will happen, and I will most likely forget to remember what happened that year as well.

Ad Infinitum and then you die. By then it won’t really matter what you remember, because memory shapes your reaction to things to come… And I am a firm believer that dying really is the end station. I hope that by then I’ll be kinda done with this whole thing called living (unless the singularity happens and I can upload my consciousness into one awesome super-cyborg and I will never forget anything again). But for now I am very much alive and they still haven’t put a computer chip in my brain (Should probably add that one to the bucket list as well), so for now I worry about forgetting stuff I shouldn’t because I don’t want to miss out. Also, I don’t want to have to redo experiences just because I buried them to deep in my temporal lobe and cannot locate them anymore. That seems like a giant waste of time.

And I think it is kinda sad that I can tell you exactly which movie I saw where, but have a hard time remembering what I did on my birthday last year… (Anyone. What did I do? — Oh wait, I remember. Struik? Or was that the year before….. See. I’m lost. I remember Wez’ not being there. Dinner at Cote Ouest and that’s it.) But what sucks for me is probably great for you, so that now you don’t have to read me go on and on about my year which was probably just as mundane and insignificant as yours.

Instead, I’ll just tell you what were the most revelatory and brilliant things I’ve discovered and seen this past year… and do with that what you want. I’m sure none of these lists are accurate and I forgot a bunch of things… so I’ll probably add things to it over time.

Top 5 movies (New Releases) in no particular order because they are all so damn great!

  • Never let me go
  • Senna
  • Drive
  • The Tree of Life
  • Super 8
  • (special mention) Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows pt 2.

Top 5 Classic Movies through the years of cinematic history seen in 2011

  • Orson Welles’ A Touch of Evil
  • The Lady Eve
  • North by Northwest (and everything else by Hitchcock)
  • The Goonies (Because it will always make the List)
  • Zombieland
  • (Special Mention) Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark

Top 2 movies I wish I’d never seen (or wished I could stab my eyes out while watching them)

  • Cars 2
  • The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn pt 1

Best New Television Series that is in fact in its third season, but I only just saw it this year

  • Community

Top 2 Television series I abandoned but couldn’t stay away from because they are too damn good

  • The West Wing
  • Fringe

Hey, whadda you know… I read some books this year as well and these were all pretty good

  • Snuff by Terry Pratchett
  • Boomerang by Michael Lewis
  • Bambi vs. Godzilla by David Mamet
  • Scenes of a Revolution by Mark Harris
  • The Moral Landscape by Sam Harris
  • Hitch-22 by Christopher Hitchens
  • Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson
  • The Stand by Stephen King
  • De Profundis by Oscar Wilde
  • The Hero with a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell
  • (special Mention) A study in Emerald by Neil Gaiman

And for Good Measure, here are some graphic novels one cannot live without:

  • Habibi by Craig Thompson
  • Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: The graphic Novel by Jane Austen, Seth Grahame-Smith and Tony Lee
  • Fables by Bill Willingham and some other guys
  • Y: the Last Man by Brian K. Vaughan and Pia Guerra
  • Fullmetal Alchemist by Hiromu Arakawa

So, that’s part of what I read and saw last year. Get cracking folks  because you don’t want to miss out… Except you should probably stay away from the Tree of Life, unless you are really really into cinema or Brad Pitt (Who isn’t into Brad Pitt btw? Men want to be him, girls want to be him… everyone wants to be Brad and who can blame them?!)

Even Brad Pitt wants to be Brad Pitt


New Year’s Resolutions — Or: The bullshit Idea that I will really change myself starting… now

Sometimes I find it disconcerting how much I can sound like Calvin

Sometimes I find it disconcerting how much I can sound like Calvin

I generally don’t do New Year’s resolutions. I hardly see the point of making up a bunch of stuff I should change just because it is a New Year. This is not to say I never make a resolution to do something. I just think it is stupid to wait to a rather random point on the time continuum to change what should be changed.

If it is a problem and it’s bothering you. Change it. If it is not so pressing it can wait to the first of January, it will probably be not that pressing then either. This is why most of New Year’s resolutions fail catastrophically. Change that is necessary will not wait for anything. You can make it wait, delay it, but that will only mean that it will later come crashing down on you full force. Change happens whether you like or not. And I don’t think it will ever wait for a date that is more convenient for you. Change is somewhat of an anti-social bitch in that way.

But that is not to say there are no benefits to really deciding to take some positive action in your life, perhaps in the parts that are less pressing. I remember the month Wez’ and I stopped saying negative statements, and realized we were so much happier. ( We couldn’t keep it up for longer than a month… but I still blame Robin Thicke and his crazy dance moves for that) And I doubt surveying your life and goals you have yet to reach is ever a bad idea (well, perhaps don’t do that last part on your deathbed. Dying with regrets on your mind probably isn’t the greatest way to go).

And I know there are plenty of things I want to do in my life. I still want to go to outer space, for instance (Sometimes I wonder if I set myself up for failure or just dare to dream big). I still want to live in New York for a couple of months. I want to run the marathon and learn how to cook like a pro. And I really want a puppy and dress it in a superhero costume. These are all on my bucket list, which can now be found on this website. These things are all, of course, plans that will take some time and in many ways a lot of scientific progress. (After all, it’s not like I’ll learn to cook before they’ll find a way to implant a chip into my brain that will tell me how).

But there is one thing I really would like to happen; and that is to get rid of all those barriers of my own making. These inhibitions that I’ve created for myself that seem to make no sense. I don’t know why I limit myself so much, but I do. I still find it very difficult to relax and stop judging myself. And this is a bad thing for obvious reasons. Mostly, because I fear it will drive me to some day become either an alcoholic or a schizophrenic. This is why from time to time I stop drinking and stop being crazy. The not drinking is slightly easier than the not being crazy for some reason… But neither are very hard… So I figure stopping to be so goddamn limiting must be equally doable. :)

So, this year. I will actively work to become less self-aware and stop over-thinking everything. It will be really hard to shut down my brain, but I like the challenge. It will be fun. For a long time I’ve been living in a small box of my own making, and I think it’s time to leave it… or at least break out a wall so it becomes a little more spacious. I have no idea how I will do it, but I guess I’ve already been doing it and only becoming aware of it now. I started it when I decided to move to London, and from here on out I’ll just need to figure out how to keep on moving forward.

I think one of the ways to do it is is to just get out of my comfort zone more often. I know I have some slight OCD tendencies, and that is a safety net I shouldn’t need. So, I’m going to try new thing. I’m not sure what they are… As long as they are fun. And they should be fun to write about, so you can enjoy this journey as well.

This month, I’ve decided I’m going to go to a shooting range to shoot with guns… It probably won’t break me out of my shell, but it will be a boatload of fun…

Because You are never Too  Young to Learn that Guns are Fun

Because You are never Too Young to Learn that Guns are Fun

A Conversation with the asshole within — (who doesn’t really appreciate my appeciation for Indiana Jones)

This is not a blog post about Spider-Man. I just used it to illustrate that the asshole within is kinda like venom. This evil, dark thing that takes over the good side of me… Just read Spider-Man if you’re wondering about it, ok. It’s too much to get into right now.

I can safely say that it’s been a while since I last decided to grace you with tales of my adventures. Mostly because there were no adventures to speak of. I was a bit lost in an endless ocean of closing doors and self-doubt.

I am a pretty confident person on the outside, but the voice within tells me on regular intervals that I am a sad loser who will die alone without ever accomplishing anything. This is also the voice that tells me I am either fat or ugly (with good hair though. It can never criticize the hair) or a klutz or self-centered or not good enough in any other way possible. (Sometimes it even tells me I am the evilest person she knows, but I find that strangely reassuring for some reason). I think you’ve all met this inner voice as well. It is what people in the old days would probably be calling God. I just call it that tiny voice in the back of my head that I should never listen to because she is an asshole…

But sometimes it is hard to ignore that criticizing asshole in your head. I’d been looking for a job and my failure rate was monumental. I think I send out my résumé to over 40 different people, and got 0 (zero, nill…  yes, nothing) answers. I had tried to write on my screenplay, but I was stuck in an endless loop of a structural problem that I couldn’t write myself out of. So basically, every day I sat behind my computer and never accomplished anything. It gets frustrating at some point.

So, sizing up -and reveling in- the sheer intensity of my failure to find a job or do some constructive writing, the voice within became very vocal. And for some reason it was really hard to shut her up. I tried to reason with her. I took her aside when we were alone and I sat her down on a chair. I said: “Hey Listen, you’re not being very helpful right now. I could do with some support instead of your nagging voice telling me that I’m a giant weirdo.”

She just shrugged and said: “But you are a giant weirdo. I mean…. look at yourself. You are 25 years old with no skills to speak of… Also, you’re a lousy dancer.”

And while she may have been a bitch about it; she was right. I have no discernible skills… And I really am a terrible dancer.

I am a 25-year-old, who still hopes she can marry Indiana Jones some day and that we will spend our weekends playing Duck Hunt on the NES before running off on daring adventures involving mystical artifacts and killing Nazi’s. I’m not even kidding either. If I could choose any future, that would be it. I don’t even have to think about it. I’d be crazy happy being Mrs. Indiana Jones.

But it turns out, there isn’t really a market for that… except perhaps in the lunatic asylum… and at the moment I am still crossing my fingers that it’ll be some good twenty years before I end up there.

So, my inner asshole had me doubting and she wouldn’t shut up. I wasn’t feeling too well, because the old stomach injury was acting up again (or visa versa… it’s amazing how that thing turns up every time I am in my unhappy place) So, yea, throwing up all over the place, unemployed and cold is where I hit rock bottom.

And there I lay, staring at the world wondering what the hell I was supposed to do or be. For a while I tried to drown the voice out with the company of my dear old friend, Mr. Alcohol. But that wasn’t working either. In fact, it just made the voice come back even stronger and more vicious. So, I was about to give up and accept that I am and always will be a giant loser.

And then, as quickly as it went, my mental resolve (some would refer to this part of me as: That arrogant asshole that always knows and does everything better than anyone else) returned to me. I realized that the doubting voice was the crazy part of me. The self-doubt was not only unhelpful, it was a complete liar. I am very capable of many things. Too many things, one can argue, as I did. I can write quite well (especially in 140 characters or less) and I have a broad understanding of many different subjects (most of them pointless, but awesome nevertheless). I might be a terrible dancer, but I am a great drinker, a good conversationalist and extremely skilled in finding cute pictures of puppies on the Internet.

And with that argument I punched the inner asshole in the face. It was a neat right hook and I enjoyed giving it. I realized that even if I don’t find a job, I have nothing to lose. I can and should enjoy the time that I have here and spent it writing… not doubting myself because I cannot find a job I really don’t care all that much about anyways.

And with that realization the ideas and stories all came running back to me. The asshole within crawled back into her dark hiding place, where it lies now, waiting for a day it can come back out again and torment me.

For now, it just screams at me from the deep end of my brain. If I listen really hard I can just hear the echo of her words: “You may think you’ve won, you self-righteous prick… but we both know I’ll be back… and next time I’ll bring a friend!… or a gun… Or… well, anyways. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’ll be back. Stupid f*&ing….  “

And then she just swears a lot. For now I just laugh. The bitchy inner voice has lost yet again. The darkness has lifted and I really don’t care all that much about my lack of practical skills. Somewhere on this planet there is something I am awesome at…

And if it’s not writing or making movies, I sure hope it’s being Mrs. Indiana Jones…

Who doesn't love Indy. I mean, just look at him. The man looks just as in his place in an Oxford class room as he does in a treacherous jungle cave. With his cool looks, suave 40's mannerisms and manly quips he just melts my heart. And to top it all off, his dad is freaking James Bond! What's not to like, people? Seriously... what's not to like? The giant chest and arms all wrapped up in a neat leather jacket? The fact that he shoots first, asks questions later? The heart of gold tinged here and there with the slightest hint of opportunism that will lead him to save innocent kids from a cruel Thuggee clan? The fact that his name is Indiana Walton Jones? Come on, the man has got it all.. (I am deliberately ignoring Indiana Jones 4. Anyone who mentions Indiana Jones for will be banned for life. Indiana Jones 4 did not happen... Understood?!)

Missing: St. Nicolaas.

I was all excited all day for tonight. Sinterklaasavond. I put my shoe in front of the fire-place. A carrot inside it for his horse or Zwarte Piet. I sang my songs as loud as I could. But nothing happened. No loud banging on the door. No giant stack of presents with my name on it. Not even a simple rhyme listing how genuinely awesome I am. Nothing.

This is the moment I kinda started feeling like an idiot. All that effort, and then nothing… All of the sudden it hit me. Could it be that he has forgotten about me? Nah. Already I knew that was impossible. The older people get, the better their memory… right? Besides, I was a pretty good girl this year so I think he would remember me. Also, I’m really awesome. So there’s literally no way the old chap could forget about me.

This led me to the conclusion that Sinterklaas has gone missing… Perhaps he was on his way here and took a wrong turn and is now running away from a terrible tribe in the heart of the jungle. Or he fell of his horse and is now dead. These are the only two things I can come op with. Well that, or he is really an incompetent twit and did forget about me… but that just seems a bit too far-fetched.

I’m pondering what else could have gone wrong, entertaining the most unlikeliest of scenarios. Perhaps he didn’t get my change of address form. Perhaps he’s addicted to crack and squandered all my gifts. I’m even starting to think that he isn’t real and that he never existed and I just imagined him… but that can’t possibly be true. I’ve seen him in real life and on the television… Nah, that just can’t be it.

I’m getting a bit worried now. The man is old, and probably wandering the streets of London looking for me feeling terribly guilty he’s left me waiting. Perhaps some bum beat him up and stole his miter. He’s got grime in his beard and he’s crying for some compassion. Someone to help him out, buy him a hot cup of coco to warm his cold bones. And most of all, he’s begging for someone to show him the way to my house.

Because he knows I’m waiting here. All alone in a room so cold I have to wear a hat and three sweaters just to stay warm. He can feel me glance out of the window in the hopes of seeing him, whilst trying to warm my cold heart and hands with a cup of tea. Slowly the desperation creeps in, I’m starting to question everything I once thought certain.

But for now, I remain hopeful. Sinterklaas probably couldn’t find my house. But there’s a solution for that. There is a place he can find anything I want and send it to me. All he needs is a credit card and some goodwill to help a cold struggling writer through some moments of boredom. So, Sinterklaas (or any of his Hulp-pieten)… if you’re reading this. Look no further, just click on this link and let the good people of Amazon do all the work for you. I’ll still believe in you!!