Since I’ve never been popular this means I’ve gotten addicted to the other end of the like-game. Addicted is probably not the right word though, since I don’t seek it out but nonetheless. It’s the who liked an not the amount of likes that matters. I think it’s a good thing, keeps the ego down and not fall into the “I’ve only had a hundred retweets today! What am I doing wrooooong?!” trap — I’ve seen people fall into that one and to watch them try… It’s heartbreaking. But better they’d be broken than me right? Yeah, I think so too. (Talking to oneself on a blog must be a sure sign of insanity.)

Except of course whan I’ve done something I’m sure the good people will like and there’s nothing. That kills me a bit. But as they say: a bit of death has never killed anyone.

Now, let’s get some tea!

Tomorrow: tacos and friends and beer and bad movies. We’re thinking of Triassic Attack or Sand Sharks. And yeah, we do start with a better movie. Beer is needed. Unleash movies like that on a sober mind? That’s suicidal and I’m not like that anymore.

I was away this weekend and had a great time. Spoiled it by going home — where I live that is, it doesn’t feel like a home though — but there is a limit how long you can sleep on friends floor without feeling like an intruder and I reached that twice this time. Don’t think they feel the exact same thing but that’s why they’re my friends. I really need a job and move closer to people. Really really. And then I need to visit people in places such as San Francisco, New York, Brighton, and well, other places too. Lots of places. For such a small world, the fucker sure likes its distances.

Oh, I’ve also seen the new Muppet movie three times and it makes me cry. Not the amount, but the movie. It pushes buttons but in the right way.

It’s the ambivalence that kills me. I don’t think I’ve even been as good at drawing as I am now, the progress is there and not even I can ignore it. But at the same time I have this feeling of it not being enough. Not in the sense of “I need to get better!” but in the other, worse way. What if this is my peak? Perhaps I should just quit — a stupid thought, I have no idea how to not draw.

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough and it’s the one thing I can hold on to so where does that leave me? Have no clue or bearing or anything. I don’t know.

Glass

Some days I really wonder. What am I doing here? And why do I even try? It’s hard to try and find a place to fit in when there’s these things working against you and most of them are internal. To feel liked and loved but at the same time have huge problems with intimacy and body contact. (Can hug people I like even in public. Handshakes with strangers are uncomfortable. I can’t make firends without the Internet, don’t remember how. Trust me when I say that my biopic will have the title There Will be Issues.) To don’t have a clue about the social protocols and being forced to guess or at worst more fail than not on trail and error. To let people in without really knowing how to do that as the walls — cracked and ruined as they might be — still proves to be in the way and with marked no safe route around.

I don’t want life to be a form of looking in through a window but mostly that’s what it seems like. And most people don’t look up when I knock on the glass. The worst part is that I don’t know if I’m happy about the window or not. 

On the floor, technically on a mattress, with the laptop on a stool and a wacom board in my lap. It’s pretty dark and my host is asleep (that made me sound like a parasite…). The Unthanks in headphones and it seems as if they’re here, circling around me in the darkness, whispering words of comfort and despair.  It’s a pretty decent life right now, possibly since I’m away and that somehow always manages to make things seem better — even when things go wrong.

Perhaps there are stuff in the air here, or it’s easier to ignore the bad

Met old friends and some I’d like to have as new friends today. Even if — this is a theory I have — that happiness is a form of queasy stomach, it’s at times preferable to the alternatives. 

I can’t lie. Just to feel the Uppsala ground underneath the feet felt good. To walk inside the door of The English Bookshop — despite the fact that this was the first time in their new location for me — all this almost made me cry. To spend a few hours with friends I hardly see anymore…

Yes, I’ve had a few beers. But slightly inebriated or not, the facts don’t change. I just wish I would have hugged everyone.

So today I got all worked up and if the table hadn’t been pushed against the wall, I swear I’d run around it in circles screaming “Oh my fucking god!” over and over. What sparked this exalt? I found out that someone had digitalized Oldrich Menhart’s typeface Manuscript — the digital is called Manuskript Antiqua. (The people on MyFonts that has lowered the score to 3.8 out of 5 are dead to me. They have no idea what makes a great typeface.)

I don’t own this of course, but just the knowledge of its existence is enough to put a dent into my gloom.

Trying hard to grow into dreams instead of out of them. It’s not easy but I know that if I don’t, there will be even more self-contempt. And I got enough of that as it is, and I think it’s one of the things that keep the self-esteem in such damn small doses. There’s no room.

I haven’t slept. The probability that this will get to me later is fast approaching 109%. Sleep is one of those things I need, used to be able to function on a whole lot less but I think the medication screwed up that a bit. Anyways. Just a few more hours awake than usual and I already want to curl up.

These kind of days I hate:

• When the self-image takes a dive from the already low point.
• When a full blazing sun that makes every move into a sweat factory.
• When everyone ois out there having a life. Left behind, yo.
• When there’s so many thunderstorms that you get Internet withdrawals.
• When life deals you pineapples. In the head.
• When cookies don’t feel like they’re enough.

Today has, sadly, been the first and last one. These cookies are not enough, they don’t help at all.

Whenever people talk about where they live and you can tell by the tone and the words used that they truly feel home, I want to go there. Be it San Francisco, Austin, Berlin, Toronto, Brighton, Stockholm, Uppsala, wherever really. I want to go there as in right now — nevermind that i might have been there before, it might be different this time. Just go and try and see what they see and possible even find some place that even I can call home. A place instilled with contentment and belonging. I don’t think I’m asking for too much, but it’s hard to find when it’s not there.

I don’t even feel like eating a cookie.