The owls are not what they seem

Between gaining employment, regretting doing so and getting my hands on the second season of "True blood", it seems my posting has come to a bit of a halt.

Well, with the slightly incoherent exception that is this post of course.
But never mind that.

I was gonna write about how it made me sad when I realized that I'd watched all the "True blood" episodes available and that to see another one I'll have to wait, like a whole year.
And I don't wanna.

But then I thought, meh.
It could be worse.

Like for example I could find a rift in the time space continuum and travel back to 2003 when I, about a decade later than everyone else (oh, the curse of being young) discovered the brilliance that is "Twin Peaks".

And then, I could continue by re-living the joy of taping every single episode that was aired at 03.00 so that I could watch it in the morning with my scrambled eggs and huge mug of drip coffee, I could yet again feel insanely creeped out by Bob, not to mention that freaky backwards-but-kind-of-not-backwards talking midget that hangs out in the black lodge.
I could hang out on Twin Peaks forums to discuss the meaning of the white horse appearing to Laura's mom in a vision(could it be as simple as horse=heroin? Could it David Lynch? You will never tell, and I can only guess... Bastard.)

And then, just when things are so fehking good and I'm all like "Omg, what does "The owls are not what they seem" really mean!?!! WHAT DOES IT MEAN I NEED TO KNOW PLEASE GOD JUST PLEASE!!!!!" and my head is about to explode because Agent Cooper's evil doppelganger is gonna catch him and then what's gonna happen and the log-lady, oh my god the log-lady, and all I wanna do is curl up in foetal position out of sheer frenzied joy and anxiety... they cancel.. the show...
Well actually they cancelled it about 13 years earlier, but that's not the point.

The point is that that scenario right there is how it could be worse.

And it was.

By God, it was...

So whatever, Vampire Bill.
Keep away for another 11 months, see if I care.
You might be all hot and gentlemanlike and speak with a breathy somewhat comical southern accent, but you're no Agent Cooper.

Not by a long shot.

drunk woman typing

So this is a drunk post.
Be warned.

I know that it's 11.40 pm which, considering I'm a fairly capable and socially average 26 year old, should be the starting point of my evening.
Instead, I seem to have chosen to embrace my inner 72 year old, leaving the party early (I didn't have tickets to the show the rest of them ere going to see. A really great thing as it was as it gives me an opportunity to sincerely moan about my misfortune while at the same time and equally sincerely feeling happy about the excuse for leaving early served up on a silver platter for me)and am currently lounging on the couch with fiancé, nursing a cup of tea.

If time travel is ever possible, I sure hope that my 18 year old self never visits this moment, as it surely will mark my demise.

However, tonight was a lovely lovely night, and a first at that.
You see, with all my travelling through the years I've never really stayed long enough to establish a sort of social circle and even less had to introduce anyone to said circle. It's always been me to have been introduced to my current beau's friends and swiftly find a way to manipulate them into liking me.
Tonight though it was me doing the introducing.

And I was terrified.

Fiancé is very likable and very socially capable, (which at times makes him very handy, especially when he's around me) but still there was a part of me worrying; wringing my hands and muttering to myself just thinking about it.
The friends I've made here in Melbourne are quite the bohemians I'd say, whereas fiancé is an engineering square, albeit a lovely and wonderful such. I was worried fiancé would feel out of place. I felt like a mother, worrying that her child might be the only one playing alone in the sandbox. Which, I admit, might be a bit of a creepy analogy when talking about the man I..ö you know.

Anywho.
Things went well.
Turns out, men seem to bond around stuff cooking on a barbecue. Apparently these men don't even need to have shown any kind of previous excitement or even vague interest in cooking, when there's a barbecue involved male bonding just seems to happen effortlessly.

Oh..
And yeah. Alcohol.
There was some drinks of alcohol involved. Which might discredit the male bonding (although one should never underestimate the power grilling equipment holds over the mysterious creature that is the man), but on the other hand will totally explain the possible lack of proper grammar and the probable presence of spelling errors.

But you know guys, it's the thought that counts.
Unless it's Christmas.
Then that's just rude.
Rude.

Brothers of death metal

I have three brothers.

The oldest one precedes me by seven years and spends his time "singing" in a death metal band.
If you happen to be familiar with the death metal genre (which, if you're Scandinavian like me, you probably are) there's probably no need for me to explain the quotation marks surrounding "singing". However if you have yet to experience the vocally challenging joy to the ears that is death metal, I suggest you do something about that and promptly check this out.

Ah yes...

Cannibal Corpse.

A band appearing on many a mix tape given to me by my brother, in what was a vain attempt to recruit me to the dark side. To try and mold my eardrums in a way so that instead of hearing what appeared to be a very violent assault on one of my senses, I would lock in to the.. ehr.. raw power.. of the music..? And.. uhm... identify with the lyrics..? Mhmm.. I wasn't quite sure.

But I tried.
I really did.
I even sported a Cannibal Corpse band-hoodie given to me as a present for a while, eager to make my brother proud.
Of course I was a thirteen year old girl, and even though the hormones running wild in my rebelling body occasionally did make me want to stab someone, I tended to identify more with the self loathing and heartache of Morrissey's lyrics than.. well this.

Much to the disappointment of my brother, it should be said.
Though he eventually got over it.
I mean we had so much else in common.
More important things, things like a shared gene pool and a mutual crippling fear of somehow contracting whatever it is that turned this man into a tree.

Older brother I miss you very much.
No one here really understands the beauty that is getting wasted and watch early 90´s one hit wonder music videos on youtube like you do.

All work and no play makes Josefine a something something...

I feel like I need a tattoo saying "I worked for five days and all I got was this painfully sore back. And oh yeah, some money. As if that would somehow make it all better... Whatever. Jerks". Or something to that effect.

Seriously people, I am dying. I am so tired. I've been tired since last Wednesday. And not like a "I've been up for a solid 10 hours. Better take a nap" kinda way either. I'm tired because I am exhausted because I spend my days working.

Yes.

All and all I'm just another brick in the wall.
But that's alright.

The crippeling state of my physique aside, working is actually ok. It makes me get up in the mornings, I get to spend my days around some really awesome (and some less awesome people), and as always, not having that much spare time on my hands actually makes me appreciate the spare time I have a lot more.

So yeah.
Working is alright.
Until about 3 pm.
At which point the ripping out of hair starts.

So happy I found a job.

I imagine his name is Bruce

After completing my third day of work I feel as I imagine a male steel worker with a mullet based in a 1980's Detroit would feel on a Friday afternoon; full of hormones, dying for a beer and having a desperate and undeniable need for belting out "Everybody's working for the weekend" while rocking a handle bar moustache and some kind of strip of fabric (very possibly a bandanna) tied around my head, Rambo-style.

And this might also be what is in fact going on right now.
Oh god how I hope it is.
Somewhere.
Somewhere...

Working girl

Oh man, how do you people do this?

Had my second day of work today and with that I have been reduced to an aching pile of flesh and bones, helplessly slumped on the couch with pathetic pleas for someone, anyone, to please bring more wine.

Considering that I have been well unwound for the past six months, the need for unwinding after a measly two days of work is surprisingly big. But if there's anything I've learned from all those well spent hours watching Oprah it's that you should listen to yourself and to your body. And what both me and my body seem to agree on and loudly proclaim is that what I need is to sit on the couch and enjoy a few glasses of red wine while that vacant look spreads slowly across my face and my eyes glaze over.

So that's what I'll do.
Because after all, who am I to question the infinite wisdom and knol edge that is the Oprah Winfrey show?

In Australia Burger King is called "Hungry Jack's", for no apparent reason

(... well to be honest I'm sure there is a reason, I just haven't bothered googling it. If you do, please fill me in on the details.)

A couple of years ago I watched this documentary about prisoners on death row in America. As I recall the inmates were interviewed about their background, some information was given on the crimes that had lead them to their death sentences.

The main focus of the film however was not on these people's everyday existence or trying to understand their circumstances, but on what they, on the day of their looming execution, would choose to have as their last meal.

Apparently it is tradition that inmates on death row can request anything they want for their last ever culinary experience (though I'm sure there are some restrictions. Like anything with arsenic in it. Or gun cake).
And while food is a great great love of mine only to be rivaled by my love for baby animals, I probably couldn't imagine a time when I would feel less like eating than the moments leading up to my demise.

But still, knowing that somebody has the freedom to order whatever they want and realizing that their choises consist solely of items you could find in any food court in any mall is quite sad.
No fava beans or chianti here, just Big macs, fried chicken, french fries and pizza.

But then again maybe "foodie" isn't an adjective commonly used by the average inmate on death row to describe themselves.

What would your last meal be?