The impossible project 2: do the dishes and have the t-shirt stay dry during the whole ordeal. I look like I’ve had an adventurous pee-break.

Hermano has contaminated me. I don’t seem to get the big deceases which  is nice since the smaller one knocks out the body just fine. The torso and arms are tender, they also shift temperatures so too cold/warm is a default. The throat is fucked up, the eyes are slow and seem to operate on a lower refresh rate. I need new components, or one of those containment suits Hennelore has in the comic Questionable Content.

I like twitter, but not having a smartphone make me realize more and more that the medium is not really for me. For some it’s easy to reach out but I need space or I’ll worry that I come of as an idiot, an asshole or a bit creepy. It easier to get that tone of “I don’t get you” than other places. It makes me uncomfortable and I have to say things like “uhm, yeah, it’s… well… ah, forget it…” when I say something funny. That I think is funny anyway.

Things there just zoom by when one do other things and you miss a lot. It brings flashbacks to school when I was sick and away for a week and when I got back there was this group exercise and the groups had been decided when I was away. Awkward and not fitting in. It’s not my medium but I want it to be so I stay — except I occasionally is very quiet because what else can I do?

Hello. Home again. It’s quiet and I need quiet, to relax and just let everything flow about without picking up anything. But it’s also the wrong quiet.

Yesterday, I sat alone on the porch in Norrköping. It was cold but I needed the air, but I wasn’t alone. The neighbours’ cat was there too. A black one with lime green eyes. We watched each other, I scratched its ears and then we watched the door. That was nice. 

This is Tobbe and his party bottle.

The Character Sheet Meme.

 I like character sheets, but where do I write the hitpoints?! Ah, who cares, I’d probably die being attacked by a land shark…

Bio-engineered human.

Name: Nicklas.
Gender: Penis.
Height: 172cm, I think.
Age:  33
Eye Color: A blue hue.
Hair Color: Dirt-blond with redish beard.
Orientation: No, I can get lost with a map.
Married?:  No.
Siblings: A brother.
Smoking?: No.
Drinking?: Yeah. Whisky! Bourbon! Beer! Orange juice! Must!
Drugs?: For allergies and depression (probably chronical).

Job: Please hive me one!
Education Level:  No degree, could have a batchelor in English but then I focused on other things. Lots of other courses, so I know little about lots.

Favorite Sport: Speedball 2.
Favorite Color: I will not answer that because it will only make me look too much like a geek.
Favourite Band: The Mekons, Spacemen 3, The Joy Formidable, The Waco Brothers, Pixies, Sleater-Kinney, The Unthanks, Bad Religion, Corpus Callosum, Masshysteri, Cunninlynguists. And more.

Tattoos?: No, the sleeve I want costs money and I’m unemployed damnit!
Piercings?: No. I have problem with nosebleed, a hole on purpose would be very stupid then.

Perfect Date: Improvised. Probably in a book shop. I don’t know, dating is a foreign concept I don’t fully grasp!

Hobbies: Yes. I doddle a bit, make crappy music, eat cookies, drink tea, comic books, regular books, photography, sleeping, listening to music.

The best list I’ve ever heard was spoken by my friend Roger Funk when we were several people visiting Gothenburg a few years ago. Everyone was rather drunk but of all the people in the flat, he was the most inebriated.

So picture this. Some of us were half asleep on beds, couches and the floor — my myself lay with my head towards an arcade machine in the corner. In comes Roger as he and a few others had stayed behind a half an hour later or so. He stumbles forwards and finds a spot at the end of Sebbe’s bed. He talked the whole way there and several of us that was still awake laughed a lot — he’s a really funny fucker. He lays down and in a loud voice starts to do a list.

Top five things I shall do right now!

One! Drink liquor! Because liquor tastes good!

Two! Keep you awake all night!

Three!

And there he went to sleep.

In her text about getting a better life, Alexis wrote a bit about validation and creation to cater the masses in order to get it. It was a very brief point but I think it warrants a proper text from my viewpoint. 

Validation is an odd beast. We all crave it in some form or another. When it overrides all other impulses, we go out of our ways to find it and usually that means going to the local waterhole and feeling up the lowest common denominator. Or so I’ve heard. I can quote Zach Galifianakis on how it is for me: “I’ think it translates into Zach is not really interested in entertaining the audience.” (It’s from Comedians of Comedy episode one, you should watch it.) I abandon doing things when I get bored. Not always a good trait.

Two other things stand in my way for the validation fountain — how’s that for an euphemism? — and those are that I (1) don’t have patience and (2) have no real clue what people want.

Take my EatSleepDraw submissions for example. I subject things I’m proud of and then they get likes because let’s face it, everything on ESD get lots of likes. Only mine seem to get less. And then there’s people I know follow my own tumblr and they like it on ESD but didn’t when I posted it earlier here. What’s that about?!

So even the instant validation of ESD fails for me as I sit down and analyses it to bits and end up with dead bits. I just realised I’m a very gloomy person.

re: scars

I have very few of them.  There’s the one on my toe from my twentieth birthday — which I may or may not have already told you about — and somewhere on the chest there should be a slight scar from a belt buckle. That’s about it. Considering how easy I scratch I should probably have more. I get scratch marks from both known and unknown things, especially on the back, arms, forehead and nose. Temporal markings can be so boring.

I have buckles on the head though from being born. Bonus points! (No, I wasn’t dropped! I hope. What if the apparatus involved is just something my mum made up?!)

There’s been a lot of yawning this evening. Some have been silent, some have had that seal sound, and there’s been an occasional hyena with a furrball down it’s throat. I’m a bit worried about the last one.

Distant to everyone. There’s a rift. It happens from time to time, this one started up on… Wednesday I think. It was sudden and in a minute it was there separating me from about everyone I follow on Twitter. The effect is bigger there since I write and follow quite a large chunk of Swedes — and there’s more socialisation between people outside of Internet. This makes them closer but still further away than some people here. And I don’t socialise as much as I’d like but I’m not sure that would remove the rift even if I did. Some of it is probably really there, some of it is projected from me as a defence and I’m sure a a large bit is a phantom rift that don’t really exist. That doesn’t matter though, I see it, it’s there. Real or imagined.

This is why I haven’t used Twitter in three days.

I’m not entirely sure what happened elsewhere on Internet today, but either I’m boring, annoying or I’m even worse at socialisation than I thought. It could be both but I hope not. That would be awkward. I’m convinced that it was my fault though, somehow. Do not feel good. Neither does this need for approval.

All this because someone seemed to feel really bad. Something that makes me concerned, especially when I’ve had an episode close to it. I need to be more don’t give a fuck.

Mostly it’s very boring to read about other people’s dreams except for when they’re really fucked up. Lately, i remember more and more about my dreams and they thend to be the boring nowadays. Except that the people who figure in them are persons who I consider friends. Some I met recently, others it has been far too long since I saw them, and there are a few I’ve never really met.

Remembering these dreams are not always a good thing, they bring pain and loss. I miss everyone. I miss the first Tuesday of the month meetings at the pub, I miss playing table top games for hours, I miss just having a coffee. And everyone.

I think it’s a good thing in a way, I think it means I’m getting better again. Despite everything I’m a bit happier¹ today than last week.

_{1) Happier being a relative scale of course.}

Last weekend I saw It’s Kind of A Funny Story, and it was quite good. Some parts felt a bit off like the main plot of a teen that get himself committed for five days and ends up being good at everything and find love. Kind of made myself want to do that but somehow I don’t think that would work out that easy — the kid in the movie was probably not that depressed and I’m not really the type of person who becomes good at everything and find love.

The character of Noelle however did remind me of the opening word in Mary Gentle’s book Ash. “The scars made her beautiful.” Now, I don’t condone or propagate that people should cut themselves. Metaphors people, different levels! (Even though I would probably have cut myself at times had it not been for the risk of blood. I have huge problems with seeing my own blood.)

It’s the imperfections that make people shine. The odd things and idiosyncrasies. The scars made her beautiful. People who don’t have scars, the normal people who only see the event horizon and don’t really understand that at the core, things like suicidal thoughts defies all rules of logic and rationality. It’s a hard thing to explain and one of the things that make “normal people” hard to understand from my point of view. Two parallel worlds that intersect without many points of reference in common.

The scars made her beautiful. Physical scars or not, they’re my people. Wouldn’t trade them for anything. Not even cookies and a pair of mismatched socks.