Seriously, Project Runway?! What were they thinking?? To pick Gretchen over April was just madness. Gretchen is boring. And she's white trash. She says "y'all" like thrice each episode, get rid of her! Lose the po' white folk, Heidi! I'm not even gonna bother haiku'ing this shit, frankly it's not worth my time.
Also, I recently quit Facebook, and for about three days thereafter I was proper hooked on Twitter and then I thought no…hang on…no more over sharing…and I quit Twitter too. So now I'm just a regular incognito person. It's nice. I feel a bit like my mum or maybe the Queen of England. I don't think she's got FB either.
Lately I've been spending a lot of time playing board games with a three year old. It's great cause he's got absolutely no trace of shame in his body; he cheats like there's no tomorrow and it kinda gives me carte blanche to do the same and I actually really enjoy being a board game anarchist.
'Sides that it's all the same, pretty much. I drink way too much red wine and read books when I should be hoovering and I recently bought this protein milkshake powder so now I rarely ever eat anything at all. Liquids rock. Being unhealthily thin rocks too.
Speaking of books, if you haven't read Tao Lin's "Richard Yates" you bloody well should. It's magical. And if you haven't downloaded Mars Volta's entire back catalogue you're a moron. Do it for chrissake you muppet! Now!
Ok, laters then.
2010-09-02
This doesn't mean I'm back. It just means I'm bored tonight.
I just found this old boxaerobics dvd and thought I'd give it a go, what with me getting so fat and all, but seriously, boxing is for lesbians and aerobics are for people who like to take orders and I'm neither (sorry girls) so none of that, thanks. I'll just stick to drinking wine, me. It's what I do best. Who cares if I'm fat, I have big boobs and a winning personality..
Also, I'm tired of being a redhead, and I made a man and a dog out of Lego today. All in a day. What can I say, my life makes my head spin sometimes.
Ok, here's one of my famous lists. If you're an avid follower you may recognise the formula.
Last book I read: still reading, actually. Kelly Link's "Pretty Monsters". It's awesome and weird.
Last film I watched: oh, some shit let's-glorify-the-war crappy bollocks shit movie called "Brothers". It sucked.
Last song I listened to: Ms Dymanite's "Dy-Na-Mi-Tee" (it's fantabulous).
Last thing I ate: coleslaw with grated cheese.
Last thing I drank: red wine a.k.a. God's gift to humankind.
Last person I got a text message from: Joe. It said "How are you?" to which I replied "Good, ta. You?".
Last person I spoke to on the phone: someone at my son's nursery, telling them he'll be back tomorrow (stomach flu all dealt with).
Last person I spoke to in person: Kiddo. Said "Sleep tight, I love you" (insert naaaaaw here).
Also, I'm tired of being a redhead, and I made a man and a dog out of Lego today. All in a day. What can I say, my life makes my head spin sometimes.
Ok, here's one of my famous lists. If you're an avid follower you may recognise the formula.
Last book I read: still reading, actually. Kelly Link's "Pretty Monsters". It's awesome and weird.
Last film I watched: oh, some shit let's-glorify-the-war crappy bollocks shit movie called "Brothers". It sucked.
Last song I listened to: Ms Dymanite's "Dy-Na-Mi-Tee" (it's fantabulous).
Last thing I ate: coleslaw with grated cheese.
Last thing I drank: red wine a.k.a. God's gift to humankind.
Last person I got a text message from: Joe. It said "How are you?" to which I replied "Good, ta. You?".
Last person I spoke to on the phone: someone at my son's nursery, telling them he'll be back tomorrow (stomach flu all dealt with).
Last person I spoke to in person: Kiddo. Said "Sleep tight, I love you" (insert naaaaaw here).
2010-08-21
Hold Me I Need To Feel Your Pain And Maybe It Will Diminish Mine
I guess the only good thing about emptiness is the potential of the filling of the void.
2010-06-06
2010-06-02
Life Is Where You Live It.
So out here in the ghetto, the day only really starts just before nightfall.
They all come out in the evenings. The fat Balkan ladies, with their slip-ins chockfull of socks and their layer-upon-layer of cardigans. Three or four at the time they walk slowly filling the pavement with their enormous bulk but, despite size and age, they saunter like young women, swinging their hips, arms somewhat stiff with dainty hands at an angle to the body. They walk like I hope I'll walk when I'm 65, bodies saying "yeah I'm old and fat now and I live in this cold old country and I don't even understand the language of my grandchildren but you shoulda seen me when I was 19, phew, I turned heads I did, I was sassy I was" and they're so damn right to walk like that.
The arab women don't walk like that. The arab women, like tidy little penguins in their black cloth coverings, they walk with tiny little sharp steps, they argue with eachother and they laugh and they yell at the kids, they rush they do the women but they still manage to stay three respectful steps behind their more languidly strolling husbands who all wear woollen hats and smoke cigarettes without filters. The husbands walk slowly, fat bellies in front and hands on back, they all wear sandals and the children invariably wear pyjama tops. Do they not realise pyjamas are for sleeping in? Or do they prefer the softer pyjama cloth to a regular cotton? I'll never know because I won't stop and ask them. I just watch them as I swish by on my bike and then I go home and blog about them.
The children here, they actually play outdoors. Good or bad may the weather be, they're still outdoors wearing practically nothing, kicking a dirty deflated football around with their sandalshod feet. Minus five and no jacket, no hat, no mittens, they run and fight and shout and there's always a baby in a pram left right out in the sun in the summer and I wonder at how they even survive, but they seem healthy alright I reckon. At least they get fresh air and have loads of friends all over the place, that's possibly more important than dressing according to outside temperature.
I live in the ghetto. I'm just a number here, just another single mother getting just-about-by on a part time wage and a tired wad of cash from the government every month. I'm just a statistic and my child grows up another number: just another boy who never knew his dad who grows up in the ghetto and speaks four languages before he's seven but never learns to speak Swedish without an accent.
Out here in the ghetto, you either love it or leave. I live in the ghetto, I love the ghetto, the ghetto loves me.
They all come out in the evenings. The fat Balkan ladies, with their slip-ins chockfull of socks and their layer-upon-layer of cardigans. Three or four at the time they walk slowly filling the pavement with their enormous bulk but, despite size and age, they saunter like young women, swinging their hips, arms somewhat stiff with dainty hands at an angle to the body. They walk like I hope I'll walk when I'm 65, bodies saying "yeah I'm old and fat now and I live in this cold old country and I don't even understand the language of my grandchildren but you shoulda seen me when I was 19, phew, I turned heads I did, I was sassy I was" and they're so damn right to walk like that.
The arab women don't walk like that. The arab women, like tidy little penguins in their black cloth coverings, they walk with tiny little sharp steps, they argue with eachother and they laugh and they yell at the kids, they rush they do the women but they still manage to stay three respectful steps behind their more languidly strolling husbands who all wear woollen hats and smoke cigarettes without filters. The husbands walk slowly, fat bellies in front and hands on back, they all wear sandals and the children invariably wear pyjama tops. Do they not realise pyjamas are for sleeping in? Or do they prefer the softer pyjama cloth to a regular cotton? I'll never know because I won't stop and ask them. I just watch them as I swish by on my bike and then I go home and blog about them.
The children here, they actually play outdoors. Good or bad may the weather be, they're still outdoors wearing practically nothing, kicking a dirty deflated football around with their sandalshod feet. Minus five and no jacket, no hat, no mittens, they run and fight and shout and there's always a baby in a pram left right out in the sun in the summer and I wonder at how they even survive, but they seem healthy alright I reckon. At least they get fresh air and have loads of friends all over the place, that's possibly more important than dressing according to outside temperature.
I live in the ghetto. I'm just a number here, just another single mother getting just-about-by on a part time wage and a tired wad of cash from the government every month. I'm just a statistic and my child grows up another number: just another boy who never knew his dad who grows up in the ghetto and speaks four languages before he's seven but never learns to speak Swedish without an accent.
Out here in the ghetto, you either love it or leave. I live in the ghetto, I love the ghetto, the ghetto loves me.
2010-05-16
Oi Icelandic Ash! Quit Being A Bitch!
Packing a bag full of clothes I won't want to wear. I do this every time and I never learn.
Are you allowed a nail file in your hand luggage? Last time I travelled by air they took my tube of handcream at the security check. It made me sad.
Are you allowed a nail file in your hand luggage? Last time I travelled by air they took my tube of handcream at the security check. It made me sad.
2010-05-09
The Star Was Bright And It Was You
There was a time when we were lovers. There was a time, when I would call you late at night and you'd come round, your last tenner on the cab, a once when you'd light all the candles in my room and it was like a dream, walking in there. With all those candles lit and flickering and the high street sounds outside my window and you hunched in my bed, cigarette lit and eyes afire. You'd show me your scars and the fresh cuts on your body. You'd get drunk and try to break into the church, do you remember, the one on the hill, the one by the off-licence where we'd buy wine on weekdays, where we'd buy cigarettes and gum and then you'd call me and come over. The church was right next to where Baby lived and she would cook me breakfast and I would miss work and wait for you while pretending not to, pretending like I was just missing work and nothing else.
I remember New Years Day, the year when I lost the baby, but that hadn't happened by then. V and I coming round the pub where you worked. I ordered brandy, neat, my scarf high up around my face, I was bruised and screwed up and you noticed, it irritated me but I liked it too.
I remember the time we first fell out and how we made up. I remember the heavy silver rings you wore the second time we fell out and how you left them at my place, by the bathtub, and I kept them forever and then gave them back. Songs remind me, not so much of you, but of times spent, of endless nights and days I'd live to regret, of friendships sacrificed and things we did that we ought not to have done.
I loved you then, in my own way, and I love you now (my brother my lover my friend) in my own way: never quite enough but always a little more than I should. If I could go back I'd go back and do it all again but this time I wouldn't leave; I'd stay or I'd take you with me, or go somewhere completely different and forget everything that ever happened and maybe I'd be happy.
I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I'm 29 feeling like 17, and you're even older seeming even younger. I'm sorry you're there and I'm here. I'm sorry you're torn up and I'm even more sorry at how torn up I am. I'm sorry I never told you how deeply in love with you I was.
Damn.
I remember New Years Day, the year when I lost the baby, but that hadn't happened by then. V and I coming round the pub where you worked. I ordered brandy, neat, my scarf high up around my face, I was bruised and screwed up and you noticed, it irritated me but I liked it too.
I remember the time we first fell out and how we made up. I remember the heavy silver rings you wore the second time we fell out and how you left them at my place, by the bathtub, and I kept them forever and then gave them back. Songs remind me, not so much of you, but of times spent, of endless nights and days I'd live to regret, of friendships sacrificed and things we did that we ought not to have done.
I loved you then, in my own way, and I love you now (my brother my lover my friend) in my own way: never quite enough but always a little more than I should. If I could go back I'd go back and do it all again but this time I wouldn't leave; I'd stay or I'd take you with me, or go somewhere completely different and forget everything that ever happened and maybe I'd be happy.
I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I'm 29 feeling like 17, and you're even older seeming even younger. I'm sorry you're there and I'm here. I'm sorry you're torn up and I'm even more sorry at how torn up I am. I'm sorry I never told you how deeply in love with you I was.
Damn.
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