Pandas — Better than Crack

Because I can’t be bothered to actually write something, here’s a bunch of pictures of Pandas that will make you go “awww” for your trouble.

PandaI want a baby Pandapandaso many pandasPanda.

And what’s better than pictures of Pandas?? GIFs of Pandas, of course!

panda GIF

And What’s better than GIFs of Pandas. World peace! Yay.

But since you can’t have that… here’s a fucking awesome YouTube movie.

Kay Bye!

Oh FYI. The other day I met this old couple and they told me they had gone to China and met a Panda. And I was all like “Oh, that’s so cool!” But in my mind, they are dead now. Lesson of this tale. If you ever meet a fucking Panda. Fucking keep it to yourself!

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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!

What he Said

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming ‘Woo Hoo what a ride!'”

– Hunter S. Thompson, who truly lived (and died) by those words. He left this planet with a burned up body and a note that -as far as suicide notes go- was pretty awesome. He also had one of the better funerals I’ve ever heard about.

And yes, I know quoting famous authors makes you a pretentious douchebag. But hey… when the shoe fits, fucking own that thing and wear it with pride…

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.

I bet Rocky never hosted a Pity Party

Hello,

I have been having a pity party for the last few months.

I didn’t really invite anyone, so don’t worry if you missed it. It wasn’t a very good party. It was mostly me sitting on the couch, feeling sorry for myself while watching television shows starring Timothy Olyphant and Jesus. But to the accidental guest who inadvertently strolled into my selfish shindig, I offer my humblest apologies.

Sorry I wasn’t there.

I was busy buying into the premiss that there is something wrong with me. Well, there is something wrong with me. Many things. For one, I’m a selfish asshole who thinks she is smarter than the whole universe (well, OK, except for Spock… Maybe). I’m often lazy and when I look into the mirror in the morning, trust me, there is nothing there to like.

But I’m sure that’s what every one thinks when they take a good hard look at themselves (right? Back me up here, people!). And while the rest of you might not have been branded with M.E or CFS or whatever, I’m sure there is something wrong with you too. (Again, this is not the time to disagree with me. But if you do, give me a call. I’m happy to explain to you what’s wrong with you. I made a list.)

I forgot I’m not the only person on the planet who might be having a hard time and I forgot that I alone don’t have a monopoly on feeling miserable (yet…but the papers have been filed). Instead I just was angry and hurt and sick and felt horrible and I really didn’t care about much more than that. It got to that point that where one slightly shitty thing would happen, and I would let it get me down. In a really big, I don’t want to get out of bed anymore, way.

But no more, I say!

Now I just think: What would Rocky do?

Would he get knocked out his opponent threw one punch at him??
(The answer is no)

And whatever a brain damaged old boxer can do, I can do better.

So, for the past week I haven’t been lying in my bed that much. I have been going to the gym in an attempt to get fit again (Ha, as if that’ll ever happen). And whenever I start to feel sorry or desperate or just plain tired… I just say “fuck you” to the universe.

I’m sure this whole CFS/ME thing will get me down again. But like Rocky -or those guys from that song– I’ll get back up again… and I’ll sucker punch it right back in the face.

My parents have been bugging me about what I’m going to do with my life (A privilege they get since they graciously allowed me back into their house without too much complaining). But I’ll be damned if I know. I might be feeling tired forever, but I can’t just roll over and accept that. Because when Mr. T towered over Rocky, did he just give in? No, he beat the crap out of Mr. T in a very cathartic way.

And I will do the same. Except that Mr. T scares the shit out of me when he glowers at people. So, I’ll probably won’t punch him in the face. I’ll just point at something behind him and say: “What’s that?!” and make a run for it and he won’t even know what didn’t hit him.

So yea, in conclusion… I won’t get knocked down by Mr. T because he’s just a metaphor and metaphors can’t hurt you. I think. Unless they’re really bad. (And this one most certainly isn’t!)

And in another and final conclusion (I’m such an eloquent writer, aren’t I?) While my parents may think I’m really maniacally stupid for laughing in B.A. Baracus’ metaphorical face (They’re not very good with pop culture references), I can’t sit on the sofa and watch another season of Justified anymore (no matter how good it is). Because that life is seriously depressing.

So for now, I’ll just go on with the hopes that everything will be fine some day and that I can totally kick the shit out of this thing.

And that might be monumentally stupid.

But stupidity never stopped Rocky… and neither will it stop me.

And we both look good with our shirts off… Another thing we have in common

And to all my friends and family, and especially my boyfriend (You’re totally not imaginary, right??) a very big sorry that I’ve been a selfish grumpy asshole. I’m sure I’ll do it again.

But I’m glad you all love me regardless.

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. :)

Yes, it’s been six months today — No, I haven’t done anything I said I’d do.

I was updating some settings in my iCal and all of the sudden I noticed that I’d made a little note for today on one of the calendars. It said “6 mndn – en nu?”.

For those of you not as proficient in Dutch as you should be… It says, 6 months, now what?!”

Indeed, it is exactly 6 months ago that I jumped on a train, 10 days before my 25th birthday to travel across the Channel to London.

And indeed… now what?!

When I left a lot of people asked me what I was gonna do? How long was I planning on staying? Why the fuck did I want to go the England anyways?

To be honest, even back then I couldn’t really answer those questions. I had no idea why I was leaving. I just decided. it was a spur of the moment decision. I said I’d go, so I went.
But why I decided. Fuck if I know. It’s not like I had a job waiting here. It’s not like I had any friends here. I was just gonna see what would happen. I had this vague feeling that if I didn’t I never would. I was stuck in the Netherlands with no clue of how to move forward. Leaving, as hard as it was, was the easiest option.

A lot of people said it was brave. It never felt brave. In fact, I always had the sneaky suspicion I would be back in 3 months. Unhappy, but ready to focus on the future… rather than going round in circles and circles wondering who and what I should be as I was doing at that point. (most people do this before they go to university… but you know… I didn’t have therapy back then ;)

But it’s been six months. I came a couple of times really close to packing up and going home, but I’m still here.

In those six months I’ve managed to lose track of a godawful number of my friends (sorry guys… feel free to drop by any time). I’ve started and discarded a dozen projects. I had 3 different jobs, 2 different houses and moving on to the third and broke my Macbook.

I’ve not yet finished my screenplay or any single other project I’ve been working on.

And for now that is OK.

Because I thought my life would look a certain way, and it’s been one unexpected ride since I got here. I’ll be going with the flow for some bit longer… and then I’ll get back to the fun.

Don’t give up yet on me though… I just really needed a break.
And break time is almost over…

But I’m not coming home, yet!!

PS.

The good news (for those of you who still care after my radio silences and being terrible at answering emails) is that it’s starting to itch again. (no, it’s not an STD. It’s me actually wanting to get back to writing and directing and such) So, hopefully once I have my new Macbook I’ll start cranking out pages.

They’ll be shit though. I need to get back in the flow of things… because right now I even struggle with writing stupid blog posts… So, yea you know.

I’m getting rusty.