Mobsters and cheap Whisky

I haven't written since my seeming attack on the world. I'm not going to comment on my current situation now, just affirm that I am alive. But with a bottle of cheap whisky in one hand and Bruno Coulais on the stereo it is a curious mood in this room, not completely bothered to be described by words anyways. I want to wear a suit and sunglasses, have a typical black suitcase in one hand and a cigar in the other, with my beard closely trimmed. For some reason. And I want to carry a gun, not for the wish to ever use it, not even for the comfort of the added protection. For what I care it doesn't have to be loaded even. I just want to wear a hip-holster with a gun in it. And I want to have a flask with the cheap whisky on the inner pocket of my suit-jacket, taking regular sips from it. And that's about it. I wanna look like a mobster right now, like a true Corleone or something along those lines. But I don't want the themesong from Godfather, nah, I want the remix of Purcell's "Funeral march for the death of Queen Mary II" from A Clockwork Orange to be playing from an undecidable source behind me. But I don't want a cane, or makeup, or white. Just the song. I dunno why this is, it might just be the weird mood that is my room today.

myargh

Cuz the times, they are a-changin' Indeed they are. I knew something bad would have to happen to weigh up for the two months of seeming happiness, but I never imagined exactly HOW bad it would be. Makes me really wonder who the fuck I pissed off up there. I'm gradually becoming one of the drunks my gran had to care for at work. Bitter at the world, check, a loser in the game of love, check, fond of whisky, check. What a match I am, yay.

FUCK you, FUCK me, FUCK all.

New PC, New World

Oh happy days! I live in a bubble of pure joy nowadays, being sent up another peak today with the arrival of my new computer, the one of which I'm writing on now. I'm actually feeling quite on top of the world as it is. And as Bob Dylan sings it over my speakers right now: "How does it feel?" Well Dylan, it feels fucking great. Sun tomorrow and I'll be awestruck. Who am I kidding, right now I don't need no sun. I lift my glass to thee in salute Lady of Fate, and along with thee, the great ant-queen, my sun to lead me through the valley of darkness. As two kindred souls we have found eachother and hopefully as such we shall thrive.

Write write, smile smile, work work

Cuz that's basically what I do nowadays. If I'm not writing or working I'm going around doing enjoyable things. And I do write more often than ever. Page upon page of worthless bullshit fiction. Oh how I loves it. I forget to mention reading as well, but that's ok 'cause I always read, and I feel one should read alot if one is to be able to write alot. After all, writing is hard and usually requires some breaks in which are purrfect for reading stuffs. So that's what I do, hardly something to write here about really, but I did anyways. Meh, well, workday tomorrow soeh, good night and all that jazz.

How many rolls could a Roller Coaster roll if a Roller Coaster could roll rolls?

May came hard, and brought with it alot of things. Mostly good things and an almost broken toe. And I am yet again reminded that life is a roller coaster and I'm just a passenger. I get the ups and the downs but all I can do is sit here and watch as it goes towards the inevitable end. I can, and I do, hope that I get most ups and that the ride will keep on going for ages still, but you never know. And I look out on the moon, the gigantic, yellow piece of sun-reflecting rock hanging thousands of miles away in a whole lot of nothing, and I think "Wow, glad I'm not really thinking anything big. Gee wouldn't I feel like a dumbass." But it IS big, this roller coaster, it encompasses every aspect of me, which in a true sense is what I'm basing all this on. So in a sort of introvertive looking glass I realize that I must look through myself to see what's going on outside, and thus I have to take my life into consideration. And it all becomes so blurry, fuzzy with static and unfocused. This little mind of mine, looking through itself to see if it can see the bigger picture out there. I'll be damned if I'm supposed to see all that in this state, no way, not going to happen. So I look at you instead, feeling you make all less complicated, here with me on this here roller coaster. Hakuna Matata, there are good things and there are bad things, and that's all there is to it, really. The existence can be as big and complex as it wants, but it's where you are on the roller coaster right now that matters.

Sucker for Love

Here I've thought I'm a sucker for love, but all this time I've just been a sucker. I guess it figures in a sort of way. Some have the looks, others the wits, the smarts or the charms. All I got is the blues, and that's nothing attractive. Even in my dreams I get turned down by the ones I think I feel something for. It's shit like this artists write songs about before they paint the walls with their brains, or whatever goo that may fill their cranium at that given time. Somehow I feel this might be linked up to my endless frustration towards my species, life, fate and all that bullcrap. People say it's hard to understand the minds of those who choose to end their lives. How hard can it be? It's as simple as realizing that not being alive beats being alive. You chose to end the stream of events in a realization that they'll probably just make bad worse. It's not insanity, far from it, it's a perfectly reasonable train of thoughts that often occur with depressed people. I however, would not do it. Not that I haven't thought of it as a simple solution, but simply because I want something good to happen. I'd suffer for years to come, in a stubborn anticipation that SOMETHING good should eventually come my way. By gods, if some of the primates I am ashamed to have called friends once, have been able to find a form of happiness, then there should be hope for me somewhere out there. Now I realize this ramble probably didn't help my chances at all, but fuck it. I give the world my shit so I won't have to cope with it all myself.

Coronations of the Night

Hi, I've read some really old blogs from another page recently and recalled a thing I did for a while. I called it "Nattens Kåringer" which roughly translates to: "Coronations of the Night." It was mainly a way to call attention to the mood I was in, and what had happened that night, without actually writing anything. I had several bulletins; Band/Artist of the Night, King of the Night, Queen of the Night, Cat of the Night,  Dissapointment of the Night, Achievment of the Night, Thing of the Night. I wanted to do that again, once, to call that memory back from the dead. 

Artist of the Night: Regina Spektor
King of the Night: Luis Royo

Queen of the Night: Maria
Cat of the Night: Cat

Dissapointment of the Night: Me

Achievment of the Night: Clean Room

Thing of the Night: Laphroaig Quarter Cask Single Malt.

And that's all there ever was to it, and I feel somewhat awkward having made a tribute to the younger me.