Story

Made a little attempt at some original fiction. It turned out rather pathetic & bittersweet, but nevertheless, I'd like your input.


"Forgetting the key was stupid, even though it's me talking."
New Year's Eve, 11.30 PM. A group of teenagers are clambering over a park's fence. The one who just scowled those words was small, hunched over and nervous. A girl. But you could tell that easily: she wore baggy clothes, had a deep androgynous voice and she wore a hat hiding all the hair she possibly could have had.
"Stop stressing out. No police is going to come check my uncle private garden on New Year's Eve."
"I'm not stressing out. Did you ask your uncle, Tom?" The boy, was already climbing, gave an eyeroll. "Like he'd notice. Relax, it's just the best place to watch the city fireworks."
He helped another girl over the fence and jumped to the other side. Only two persons where still stuck before the gate: the grumpy girl and a giant of a guy, who hadn't said a word since the start of the expedition. He stood there looking at her while smoking a cigarette. And smirked: "I guess you need a hand?" She sighed. "Yes, please, Eric."
He grabbed her and practically threw her over. He then got over himself, surprisingly nimbly for a man that size.
"I always wondered how it was possible to have so much grace and grease about you at the same time." She was sent a dead glare while he went after the others.

"Hey guys. They're gonna begin in about three minutes, we're gonna go to the hill," Tom said.
"I'm staying here."
"I'll keep her company," Eric said. He did look a bit out of breath.
"All right. You know where to find us." And they left the two behind.

"They didn't do much to keep us, did they."
"As if it's that much fun. All they're gonna do it drink themselves into a stupor."
"I bet it's because we're sad drunks."
"Perhaps."
They both sat down on bench next to the path. The fireworks had started, and they watched the glittering colours for a while. But two tree were in the way.
"We should have joined them. You see nothing from here, it's crap."
The guy barked a laugh. "Cigarette?"
"You know I don't like it. It stinks and tastes like shit."
"I know you do, but it would have suited the moment, don't you think?"
The bangs intensified, and they could hear their friends cheer from afar. Then, everything went silent.
"Guess that was the finale." Eric blew two smoke rings out, a trick he loved to perform, but in the ugly electric streetlights, the act lost a lot of its decorum.
"Give me that cig." She breathed in once, and ended up in a coughing fit.
"Ugh. My kingdom for a glass of water."
"I take it you still hate the stuff."
"Damn right I do. Good for me, too. You should power down."
"Yeah, I should. Happy New Year."
"Heartily returned. Any good resolutions?" She teased.
"You first."
"Tell the truth. It's not that I lie, it's that I keep it to myself."
"Very noble."
"And you?"
"Stop smoking."
"Liar."
"As if you've ever kept your New Year resolutions."
"I'll start with you, if you don't believe me."
"Are you keeping something from me, miss?" He said it in a mock-outraged tone.
"Yeah. Promise you'll hear me out without running or laughing?" Suddenly, she seemed nervous.
"You're scaring me. You're not gonna say 'Luke, I am your father", are you?"
"Sadly, it's not that good."
"Good. Come on, you'll tell me while we join the others, they're gonna miss us.
"Hardly. They'll all be sharing their New Year snogs."
"Probably. But I'm cold, and you, me, out there, alone? People gonna talk!" he said, mock-hysteric. She didn't laugh. She was biting her underlip.
"Oh-oh... You little... You want them to talk!"

It was all in good fun. To him, it was always all in good fun. But when he stopped trying to tickle her, he saw her face. It was far past good fun. He turned serious.

"Eric?"
"Present." There was an edge to his voice.
"I think I..."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say it. Don't do this."
"Eric, I think I love you."
The twig he'd been clutching snapped. She winced at the sound.
"I'm sorry."
"For what? Loving me? It's not like it'll change something. You were my friend, and now I'm not going to be able to do anything with you without having that giant pink elephant standing in the room."
"You don't love me."
"I think I was... clear. You're a friend, and I don't see you under another angle. Sorry." The bitterness was definitely there now, and he lighted another cigarette.
"I'd take it back, if I could. You know I would."
"Life doesn't work that way."
"You do shit, you repair shit, you don't take it back. Tell me about it."
"Do you love someone."
"I love plenty of someones."
"Does that particular someone have a name?"
"Valerie."
She stopped and looked him in the eye.
"Kidding, right? The one who has her tongue down Tom's throat right now?"
"The very same."
"You're screwed."
"So are you. It's a lousy, cruel joke but it's true."

They both went silent and stared for a while. Everywhere but at each other.

"Eric?"
"Alive and kicking."
"You don't think that we could, like, try..."
"No."
"Thought so. I'm pretty sure, now, that I love you." She gave him a sad, bitter smile. It was either that or burst out crying.
"Why?"
"It hurts like hell."

She bent down and kissed him, not on the lips, but not exactly on the cheek, either. Then she turned and walked away.
Eric watched her disappear and sighed. Fuck-fuck-fucked up world. He crushed out his cigarette under his boot.

And started. It was a howl. It was a laugh. It might even have been a sob, and it rang through the night.
Her voice, only slightly wobbly. You had to admire the girl's control.
"Eric? I... I need help for the gate."

He almost broke right there. But all he did was take a deep breath: "Coming."



 Please, please, pretty please, leave some criticism.

Not joking, past caring.

I am a fucked up joke.
I am a genetically fucked up joke.
I am a predetermined pathetic excuse for a girl. If we weren't struggling against evolution like we do, it'd have wiped me out ages ago. Glasses-wearing fat slow intellectuals aren't made for survival.

Why the fuck was I born here, now, in this family with these fucked-up genes? Why am I just genetically programmed to be a whiny self-piteous bitch?

I wish I could tell you I wasn't the girl who looked like a boy for half of her life and still a bit does look like one. I wish I could tell you I wasn't the one who spent half an hour lying spread out on her rug, crying and wallowing in self-pity. I wish I could tell you I had friends that can pull me through anything. I wish I could tell you I have determination and talent and courage.
I wish I could tell you I wasn't the one who, after the tears had run out, turned on her radio full blast and tried to dance herself to exhaustion,  to shake all the shit out of her. I wish I could tell you  wasn't the one who had to choke back a new shitload of tears when her brother knocked and walked in, asking to turn the volume down. I wish I wasn't the one who gave him a twisted crooked smile and said sure while something broke inside. I wish I wasn't the one who falls in love with a boy who doesn't and will never see her as girlfriend material, let alone return her affections. I wish I wasn't the one who is crying all over her keyboard now.

But I can't.

I can't cause it'd be lying, and I don't lie about things that matter. I just don't tell them.

I am that girl, that ridiculous fucking pathetic excuse of a teenager who had a breakdown at 6 pm. I had the terrible urge to destroy something, and instead I just threw a pack of Kleenex at Einstein's head.
I am the girl who says she loves writing, and every time she tries to write that story that's running around her head, she ends up ripping up paper in frustration and throwing all the parts around her room while she sobs. I am the girl who, when she's sure the house is empty and she feels bad, will scream like a madman, so loud her throat hurts, just cause otherwise she'd burst.

I am the girl who's so messed up inside her family doesn't even notice.

Fuck me, what is this? Depression? Identity crisis? Cry for attention? Pretty sure it isn't your average teenage behaviour.

Goddammit, sometimes in bed I'm crying, trying not to make a sound, and because I'm holding in in everything hurts.

Sometimes I wake up and I ask myself what I did that for. Sometimes I wish I'd never existed, sometimes I wish I'd die in my sleep. Sometimes I imagine writing suicide notes. Yes, it's creepy, so what? As long as it keeps me from killing myself, I'll take it.

I now realise what I wrote and that I should probably not post it. But you know what? I'm past caring.

Bis repetitam non placent

Exams have started. Again. I'm so not in the groove. Again. I'm pesky and pestering. Yet again.

Truly, this blog is starting to be terribly boring.

Damn. Just saw the light: I am terribly boring.

Probably why I am not girlfriend material.

I'm also lacking in all sorts of experience: never been so extremely drunk that you forget everything, never been kissed, don't know what love is, never really went out, never learned to dance.

Dance.

I can't dance. I love music and I can't dance. I've got the rhythm and the groove, but I've got zero moves. I can't dance, but I love to dance. Or swing my limbs around to the music and stomping y feet on the floor, call it what you like.

To learn to dance, you need somebody to teach you. Or at least show you. Or you need to watch people dancing, and not in those pathetic dance movies like Dirty Dancing or Flashdance or Fame or Footloose or more recently Step Up.

However, watching the people I've seen 'dance' at the few modern parties I've been to, I'm not so sure I'm willing to call it dancing. They just form some pack and jump around with their hands in the air.

Not that what I'm doing every morning to old rock & pop music on my rug is much better. It's like I don't know who (I'll google it and put it in a comment) said, "Dance like nobody's watching", I only do it when there really is nobody watching. Doomed be my shame and my shyness, but I'm very unwilling to show those improvised moves (I could really hurt someone if they were standing too close) to anyone apart from my family.

I wasn't born with many assets. I haven't got the style, or the nice figure and looks, or the outgoingness most people have. I'm clumsy, I speak too fast, I'm genetically burdened with the fact I get red real easy cause blood rushes to my face. I'm not quick witted or particularly intelligent, I map possible conversation out in my head not to seem like an idiot. I analyse conversation afterwards to find out where I should have said what. Too little, too late. I am not very nice to converse with. I'm abnormally plain in my looks and plainly abnormal mentally.

I can't dance.

What do I have in my favour? I write. Like I can.

Something's gotta grieve

It happens on a cold, very cold winter morning. The alarms wakes you up. The radio joins in. You don't look in the window because you know the only thing you're going to see is yourself looking like the walking dead, the black stains round your eyes not quite wiped away yet.

Taking a shower, pick and put on clothes, before you realise it you're halfway through brushing your teeth and finished with you're morning routine, so you pick up your bag and go through the hallway, heading downstairs. Everything's silent. It's 7.20 though, things should be moving. You bounce on your brother's door to wake him. Something's not right.

And then it hits you, like a brick in your face. It's one of those mornings.
Immediately you want to go back to bed. But you don't, 'cause you're such a reasonable kid. You go put on an extra sweater and hiking shoes. As if it would change anything. You sigh and pick up two tangerines for lunch. You eat another one for breakfast. You eat dark chocolate, 'cause you read somewhere that it's full of stuff that makes you happy. Serotonin? Endorphins? Whatever. Bullshit.

Your throat constricts, and you want to cry. You swallow it, though. It makes your chest contract and it hurts like hell, but 7.30 am is not a time to cry. "Just as it's not a time to drink," you think ironically while you look at the fridge where the beers are kept. You snort. As if you would, you're not so crazy about the stuff anyway.

You shout at the rest of the house to 'come down or you gonna be late'. Not that you care, but this is all about keeping up appearances while you live on autopilot, trying hard to keep the bile down.

You load your bicycle in the car. It's freezing and you didn't put your coat on. This time, you have to choke back the waterworks, but you stand your ground. It isn't your first that kind of a morning.

You decide to become a hollow shell, to be sure nothing comes out. You get in again, making a beeline for the radiator. You get your hat, gloves and coat, greet your father and send your brother to put his bike in the car. You marvel at your acting talent, everybody believes you're just not a morning person, and not that you're falling apart on the inside.

You do not say a word during the car ride. You're relieved it's not your mother driving. You borrowed your father silk and wool scarf. It doesn't sit well. Doomed be those mornings.

You're there. You're late. You couldn't care less. Your father unloads the bikes, you brother's first. As he hands you yours, you rasp out a 'Thanks, see you tonight'.

You don't know how he picked up on it. Perhaps your eyes weren't glinting, or your voice was too hollow. Maybe it was the way your gaze averted his or the way your underlip trembled slightly when his hand brushed yours. Maybe your answer was too slow.

Anyway, he cocks his head to the side and asks, worried: "Magali, are you okay?"

And you want so much to say: "No, dad, I'm not okay."

But instead, you give him a wry smile, you grab your bike and ride away.

"I'm late, dad. Have a nice day."

00.00

Is the time where I started this article. I'm having one of my too much thinking nights. Mainly, about what I'm going to study. Later. When I'm back from South-America. I thought I'd go with languages at university, but then I got knocked back to journalism again, passing a film & television writing course along the way. And I don't know. I really don't.

I guess I could simply revert to my old habit of being a downright fair-squared pessimist, declaring that I have to pass first. I could also turn to my 'je-m'en-foutistic' philosophy, providing me with a 'I will see once I get there', which is in more than a year, as I'm going to South Americaaaa! Whatever.

On a very not sunny and icy note, it is freeze-my-ass-off cold in lil' ol' Belgium.

Seriously, after a ride on my bicycle back from school I had to count my toes and fingers to check if they where all sticking with me. And I was wearing my extra-special ski gloves for really cold circumstances, two pair of socks and a leather and wool jacket that's older than me. Plus the hat that makes my hair stick up in the weirdest places.

I might have looked like the Michelin Man a little, but I suppose I am a nightmare of the fashion police all the time, so if I'm a little worse than usual, but then again, who cares? Certainly not me. Perhaps the people I walk around with, but then again, who cares? Certainly not me. I'm quite happy they're still walking beside me though.

I'm gonna take this point to make a little parenthesis: I wanna thank all the people who walked or kept walking beside me when I was a joke, at one point or another in life. I could never get a greater proof of friendship than that, so I thank my brothers and family members and other jokes (It is well known we stick together. The ridiculous & aware of it find little comfort, except in the more ridiculous.) and true friends. Thank you all, you helped me swallow my tears of shame when they were welling up.

 Enough drama for today! With this, I let the curtain fall on babeluda's whine&wonder show. See you tomorrow!
Location : Rue de Mollendael 18-24, 1320 Bevekom,

Saturday Night Fever

No, not talking about the cult movie with John Travolta. Not talking about a wild craze to go out either. (But if anybody's in for a trip to the movies, give a shout, and pick the film...)

Talking about a relapse into the detestable flu that kept me from school last week. Not that I resent not going to school, of course. School's a hateful business. I'm still juggling the idea of creating a runaway club in the woods behind ours. 'Just Too Cool For School', with really cool and crazy members. There won't be many, but hey, better than nothing, innit?

Still, stayin' away from school means catching up, which is an even bigger bitch than school itself.

Which I still have to start on. Yep, heard that right.

Other Potentially Cataclysmic Idea: going to Study Help at school. Because I'm in a deep, deep dip in my results. Thanks to MT, but that's only part of the story. Truth is that I can count the tests for which I studied in the good way on one hand this trimester. The ones for which I studies half-assed-ly, on the other. The ones for which I didn't study at all: they're all the rest. Quite the list, innit?

But don't want to completely mess up the whole thing; that would be a Big Bad Idea.

On Other Things: I realised I'm the Latin teacher's pet. Even though I have execrable results. I was supposed to get punished for not having made my homework three times (actually much more, but I hid it every time, and I think she deliberately looked over it). I admitted I had yet again not translated the extract, and awaited to get my extra assignment. And I didn't get it. Instead, she asked me to study better for Latin (we had just received the grades of our latest test, mine was 19/40). I mean, in what position does this put me in front of those who already got punished? Not that I give a fuck about most of these guys, there's even one I absolutely loathe, but damn, where's the honesty in that? Where's the equality? Why do I get privileged? Not that I'd want to make that extra assignment, I loathe Latin. Not as much as I loathe Bas, but I loathe it.

Damn, life is complicated. Actually, life hates me.

About the SLB.

Small Little Brother, for those not yet familiarised with my strange acronyms. I don't call him tiny, cause then he gets all whiny, and since he's already a pain in the ass, don't want to go that road.

Now he's got a real ego problem, he wouldn't be the first, I know a lot of guys who have them, starting with the Great Red Haired Fashion Slave, but actually the SLB is worse, which is kinda saying something.

I mean, I get he's the youngest and Mommy's Sweetie, I get he's all cute and boyish and dimply, but seriously people, are me, my other bro and my dad the only ones who see through? Isn't it painfully obvious when he's looking at you? The little manipulative angel, Mr. Devil In Disguise, if your smile was less cute you wouldn't act that wise, besides I'm jealous that all people find you nice, you little brainless desperado, strolling around like you own the place, while you often can't even keep up the pace.

I guess this is a simple sibling rivalry, with me being the Brains and him the Beauty, yet sometimes it just hurts inside, him hogging all the attention while we have to fight to keep our part of the prize. So what if he's a fucking drama queen? I've been an amateur actor for ten years, I've seen younger & better than him! So what if he's cute and full of energy? He's a kid, isn't this what they're supposed to be?

I've always said I don't care about getting attention, the truth is I love praise and the spotlight slightly more than the next person. I love being recognized, it's what I work hard for, not the money or the grades, but the cheers and the praise. Nothing feels as good as a standing ovation, nothing feels as good as hearing 'You know a hell of a lot, for a 16 year old person.'

I'm getting to the point where I worry he'll have a girlfriend sooner than I have a boyfriend, the dimple heartbreaker, he's by 6 years my junior, now that'd just be shame. God I'm rambling. Good thing most people never remember my name. Still, I don't want to stay invisible all the same.

It's going to take more than some time to make me shine, but when I do, I promise it'll be bright. I'll overshadow the SLB. Serves him right.

I never wanna go back to school.

I'm on end-of-sick-leave. It basically means that I have the voice of an old frog, that my throat is killing me and that someone's finding it funny to play djembe in my head, but at least the world doesn't turn around when I stand up any more, and I don't have the urge to sleep all day until two in the morning any more...

It also means I've missed a day and a half of school, which I'm going to need to make up for, but at least I didn't miss any tests, cause that really is a pest to catch up.

It also means I'm missing the MT editing afternoon, which is really not nice of me, but I doubt the djembe playing person would have let me do any good work.

But it also means that for the first time in many, many, (too) many days, I spent an entire day doing nothing productive. Not nothing at all, cause it's impossible to do nothing at all, but nothing worth anything. All I did was sleep till 7 PM, listen to the radio for two hours while doping myself on aspirin and lemony throat pills + syrup and then sleep till two AM, toss 'n turn for another hour, then fall asleep again until my alarm went off. It was fucking bliss, aside of the 'feeling like shit' part. I don't know if you've ever seen the film 'Alexandre le Bienheureux', which is about a guy who decides to spend the rest of his life in bed after he is freed from his wife, who bossed him around for decades. God damn, that man is a genius. I never saw the film completely, but how I like the general idea!

And why would I need to go to school? I've spent enough years there by now to know how to read and write, and what would I need more if my dream profession is, indeed, author?

Okay, I admit that being a writer is a plan A that will have to be pushed back as a plan B, because success doesn't come when called. But I really don't know what I want to do yet. I got myself a delay of year by signing up for the AFS School Program, but it's not like I'm going to be illuminated over there. (Gosh, now I re-read this I've suddenly got this image in my head of me dressed up as a Christmas tree)

I feel another wave of wobbly non-nausea coming up, so I'll leave this be and will go back drinking Coke, cause mom and dad say it helps against nausea. And if they say so, it is that way. Amen to the God of Sarcasm.

Flotsam, Jetsam, nothing about Wham!

I've been told I'm in the perfect mood to write. Well, thank you, Great Red Haired Insomniac, but mood is not inspiration. I could write about your coppery hair, but I doubt that subject would bring any benefit to the community. Not that the rest of this blog does, anyway.

Since I've started a paragraph, I better get on. Leaving things unfinished is both terribly frustrating and an almost guarantee they'll never be finished. For me at least. Those characteristics are actually a good thing, because they'll prevent me from ever committing suicide (having not finished life, I'll be unwilling to quit it), something Copperhead & China Girl were slightly worried about after reading my last post.

Broken English Geek hasn't reacted yet, so there's no news on that side.

Not that I'll ever really do it. I'm too much of a coward. If I ever want to 'jump into the unknown' it'd have to be really quick and painless. Painless because otherwise I'd never dare to do it and quick 'cause otherwise I'll chicken out.

And where the fuck I'm I supposed to get 'quick & painless self-killing material'? Not at the local drug- or hardware store. So my life is pretty safe, aside from the fact that I absolutely don't have the urge to kill myself. At the moment.

Enough about suicide. If you're thinking about it, call the suicide hotline or the Samaritans.

On better things: I'm finally gonna perform as an Elvis lookalike before Flemish people. I'm getting a tad worried about their reactions, as I'm used to a familiar and very tolerant public: the scouts. Nobody cares if you're out of tune or haven't got the costumes: if you've got the moves, you're in the groove and they'll like pretty much everything. Bah, we'll see this weekend. Worst that can happen is total humiliation in front of strangers that I will have to meet again. Lovely.

I need a bit of official training anyway. If the 'Meldert Talent Show' ever runs, it'll be the whole school watching. Bah, if I humiliate myself there, I only have to get through the rest of he year (and since my reputation will be ruined by then, I'll be able to do pretty much everything that disgraces your image to school pupils. Freedom.) and then I'm off, so again nothing to worry about.

That's about it from Me-land. I only did this because Copperhead heavily suggested, so if I bored him or you (or both if you happen to be him) it's his own damn fault. Night-night. 

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, school starts again. Talk about big shit. Deadlines and the like. Really not where I want to go.

Sooo, this calls for drastic measures:

• Tomorrow, I'm gonna ditch every bad thing in my life.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna throw all my responsibilities out of the window. (Ouch. Very bad, painful rhyme)
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna stay in bed, solve world hunger and tell no one.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna write a book.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna build an empire.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna clean out my closet.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna re-read my whole library.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna be happy.
• 
  

And all that before lunch. For the afternoon:

• Tomorrow, I'm gonna make Frankenstein happen for real.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna listen to all of @Qrivi (on Twitter) aka The Great Red-Haired Whatsit's music recommendations, which I never do.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna listen to all Elvis Presley ever recorded and make a Top to Flop list.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna write my biography in French and English, and send the first version to VDM.fr and the second to FMyLife.com
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna take a nap.

By then I'll have done everything worth it and I'll kill myself. No need to endure only life situations that would be disappointing after that.


Don't take it all too seriously. After all, tomorrow is another day.

I is someone else/Je est un autre/Ik is een ander

Who am I? Have I even got the right to ask such a question? To someone else than myself, I mean. Besides, what is a human being anyway? More than a name, what is it that makes us who we are? Is it our thoughts? Our memories? Our histories? Our relationships to people, animals or even things? Our genes? Our character? Our tastes? Our behaviour? All of the above? Or none of it, maybe? Is what we are in the end not who we are in the eyes of others? When you're an individual among 7 billion others, what you think of yourself hardly matters. It's what the others think of you -- as they are a bigger part of the 7 billion -- that puts the most weight in the balance. I've always thought myself observing, bordering on voyeuristic, but others often characterise me as shy and discreet; if only they knew. Voyeurism is a part of the XXI th century. What is Facebook, or Twitter, or whatever social network, but a pair of enormous goggles pointed right at all the acquaintances you 'spy' on? And not only do you spy, they also give you all the information, it's like they've installed big display windows, showing us their lives like stores show us things to make us buy. Doesn't it have something obscene? Yet we love it. We love it so much we can't stay away from it; we love it so much we're not letting our friends and neighbours do it on their own, no, we now all feel compelled to tell the world how much homework sucks, that we've run of chocolate, that we really don't like X or Y, who of course in the end will stumble upon that statement. "Never put anything in writing, son, and never trust a man with a small black moustache." Thank you PG Wodehouse, point taken. Points to Mr. Andy Warhol also, for realising long before the prime of Facebook, Netlog, Twitter, MySpace and all their siblings that everybody would be famous for 15 minutes. Perhaps we expose ourselves like they expose themselves because that way, we feel even, and don't feel like stalkers? Stalkers who are themselves stalked stay stalkers. Of course I have nothing to say. I'm on Twitter. I'm on Facebook. I have a blog where I talk about my life and my views. But paradoxes are a common thing, especially when it's about paradoxical differences between the way we think , talk, and act. Je n'ai jamais prétendu être parfaite, personne n'en a le droit et très peu de gens le font, pourtant beaucoup d'entre nous se servent de cette non-revendication comme une excuse pour leurs erreurs. N'est-ce pas ça, aussi qui définit qui on est? Nos erreurs? Comment on les corrige? Comment on les prend en main? Mon père a essayé de m'apprendre que la personne qui reconnait sa faute et vient demander qu'on l'excuse n'est jamais ridicule, que seul celui qui se trompe, le réalise et campe sur ses positions est ridicule. Et pourtant, on ne se sent jamais aussi petit et ridicule que lorsqu'on vient se présenter devant la personne à qui on a fait du tord. Pas pour le fait qu'on demande de se faire excuser, on se sent ridicule d'avoir commis la bourde qu'on a faite. Est-ce que notre manière de réagir n'a pas son importance non plus? Mais ça voudrait dire qu'on est différent à tout moment, et qu'il n'y a pas de vrai 'je'. En soit c'est pas plus mal, ça voudrait dire que qui on est, c'est nous, en direct, là en face de vous. Il faudrait qu'on soit assis et que vous nous ouvriez le crâne et analysiez toute la merde qui se trouve à l'intérieur. Un gros paquet de merde avec de rares diamants à l'intérieur, tellement petits et rares qu'on a du mal à les trouver nous-mêmes. "Le génie, c'est celui qui a deux bonnes idées." Comme c'est vrai, et je sais même plus qui l'a dite, celle-la. Je sais que c'est Proust qui a dit que les années sans souffrance étaient celles où on apprenait rien, que l'enseignement venait avec toute la merde qu'on a à traverser. Pas étonnant qu'il y en ait qui se retrouve à l'intérieur. J'ai dix-sept et il y a des jours où j'ai l'impression que l'humanité toute entière m'en veut, où mon corps est fait de plomb et où j'aurais aimé mourir. Comme n'importe quel ado pur jus, quoi. Ce ne sont que des coups de blues qu'on envoie bien vite valser. Celle-là est de moi. J'en suis relativement fière, à cause du blues/valse. Je ne suis pas fière de grand chose, alors si c'est ça ma plus grande réussite, vous voyez de quoi je tiens? D'un jeu de mots pas trop minable, mais franchement pas transcendant. Bon Dieu c'est déprimant. Ik ben wat ik ben, trek je plan daarmee -- wie is diegene die zich zo'n uitspraak kan veroorloven? Niet het buitenbeentje. Niet ik. Wat een drama is dat geweest, nu twee jaar geleden. Ik kom naar school met een hoed. Een mannenhoed. Duidelijk geen modehoed: simpel bruin, simpel vilt. Een beetje een werkhoed. Was het de kleur? Was het het model? Het duurde nog geen dag eer de tweedejaars door de school de bijnaam 'Indiana Jones' hadden gelanceerd. Na een maand deed ik de hoed niet meer aan. Tegen mezelf zei ik 'omdat het onpraktisch is op de fiets' maar ik wist het wel beter. De meesten waren met de bijnaam gestopt nadat ik hen vriendelijk had aangesproken, nog meer nadat ik hen iets agressiever berispte. Maar de jongens die het hadden gelanceerd stopten er niet mee, en toen ze de naam beu waren, begonnen ze met het deuntje. "Ta ta da taaa, ta ta daaa..." En dat bleef, ook het jaar erna. Ik was toen al intelligent genoeg om te weten dat hen klappen uitdelen niet de oplossing was. Maar ik was wel te laf om wat dan ook meer te doen dan op wraak zinnen (en alleen zinnen). Ik vind dat dingen moeten worden gekocht om gedragen te worden. Wat heb ik aan een hoed die ik enkel buiten schooluren draag? Niet veel. Dat verhaal blijft mij achtervolgen. Ik koop nu nooit meer hoeden. 't Zal voor na het secundair zijn. Bijna niets illustreert wie ik ben beter dan dit verhaal. Een beetje een pathetische figuur. Een speelbal. Iemand die niet echt voor zichzelf opkomt. Ik ben wat ik ben, en wat dat is weet niemand. Niet jullie die dit stukje hebben doorgelezen, waarvoor dank, niet ik die het mijmerend heb geschreven. Wie ik ben kan morgen drastisch veranderen. Wie ik ben kan morgen niet meer bestaan. Daar hecht ik geen aandacht aan. Ik wil mij enkel over iets uitspreken als ik kan garanderen dat mijn antwoord vastligt. En ze zal nooit helemaal vastliggen. Maar op vrijdag 5 november 2010 om 1:05 en het uur ervoor, was ik deze woorden. Magali Françoise Geraldine Marie Ghislain Bosmans aka babeluda.

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I'm looking for inspiration, the real thing, the real deal, the real Tabasco, neatly packaged and shipped directly to my brain, thank you.

If you know where to find some, please contact me.
If you can sell me some, I'll pay handsomely.
If you can give it to me in unlimited shape, I make you God.

I'm not the first or the last in search of this precious thing, but boy would I like to find it. I need it more than I love food (and believe me, I do love food).
Apparently it comes almost naturally to great writers. If you have to fight too hard to get it, writing is not your vocation.

... I guess I pretty damn well missed my vocation.
Yet I love writing! More than I love food. When I write I do not think about food or eating, and believe me I'm thinking about that most of the time. No wonder all my attempts at dieting fail.

I used to love the autumn holidays. They made me want to go out and live like a gamekeeper, with a dog, a gun and a battered jacket, spotting and hunting wildlife.
Now I just hate them, because they mean 'work until you drop'. Work for school, especially. I'm not thinking in terms of 'I have a week vacation', but in terms of 'If I finish everything by Wednesday [which I won't, sadly] I'll have half a week's worth of preparing to go back to school'.

Which adult I know told me the last year was the best? Oh, that's right... About all of them! And I haven't had a year where I've wanted to throw up from sheer disgust more than this one. Even my mother thought they had us overworking. Go figure.

Worst of all is the teachers complain quality of the work has diminished over the years. Why the fuck do you think that is? It's simple logic, a fucking law of fucking nature: increase the quantity, decrease the quality. We only have so much time on our hands, if everything gets less time, well of course it's going to be less good. And they are the teachers?

Why I love a ride.

Especially rides with my dad. I love them because apart from crashes, nothing bad has ever happened during a ride with my dad.

I can do what I want there. A ride with mom, I need to talk. If I don't, then surely there's something wrong. "Are you being bullied?", "Do you feel well?" or even better  "What's wrong with you today? Why aren't you nice to me?"

If I don't talk, it's usually because I think. You can't think deeply and have meaningful conversation at the same time.

And conversation with my dad is like guaranteed to be interesting. He might tell me the history of computers, his latest gadget, tell me a story about his past, about people he'su known, knows or even doesn't know, we might talk politics.

We don't need to be serious. We can swap jokes, talk movies, music, dancing, books.

My father has the art of explaining things to me in a way that I understand. Or perhaps it's me who has learned to understand what he means, over time.

But the thing I'll be eternally grateful for, is that whenever I asked 'why' (I still ask that very often about a variety of things, by the way) he would never just answer me 'because' or 'ask your mom' or 'ask your teacher' or 'how would I know?'. Whatever the question. I asked many bizarre things over the years, I always got answers. "Why do we have shoulderblades?" "Why do pears taste like pears?" "Who decides where the borders lie?" "What is war?" And even this very painful one, for him and for me, later on (when I realised), asked by me at a dinner party after I'd overheard a lewd joke: "What is a condom?"

Ah, sweet innocent times...


PS: Do forgive me, I'm on nostalgia tour tonight. If you imperatively need to reach me, you might want to look ten years ago.

We should all praise the Lord, Aslan, Brahma, Shiva and the Krivian Deity.

Praise the heavens, my friends, fellows and followers, for a storm hasn't occurred. The Hurricane Veronique (aka my mom) was not unleashed your humble servant because of her bad grades.

Indeed, I even judged myself more harshly than she did. Can you believe it? I don't get it. I have major fails in my major courses, and instead of being yelled, I'm told to 'watch out'. Not that I'm complaining -- I wouldn't dare -- but my whole world has just been turned upside down.

When I hand in bad grades, mom is angry. That's a given, something to scale the universe to. My little child self has this message engraved in her bones: bad grades = angry mom = no treats.

I've always known my father to be tolerant and understanding, but mom? That's new. He was even a little more lucid than she was: "Aren't you spending to much time on that netbook of yours?" Come on, dad. Really? Ya think?

I'll do better next time. Why? Because it's for me, not for them. I'm gonna show all those teachers who say I have to study more 'in detail' what I'm really worth. Because apart from gym, I'm not even running on half capacity yet.

I've got a bomb in my backpack.

I've got a bomb in my backpack. It's light, you can't detect it with a metal detector and the explosion will be most impressive. Also, it's pink and it's got my name on it.

I'm not planning to blow up an underground station or anything.

Nah, I'm just going to displease my mommy very, very much. She won't like it, this bomb. Oh no she won't. There will be severe consequences.

Oh, right, didn't tell you what it is yet. Kind of... my not so good grades of the last two months. I certainly know how to start the school year in style. Good thing that there isn't too much commentary.
I got three fails, various tests where I barely passed and two bad commentaries. Of course, nobody's going to see the good grades. That's because they are parents. Parents are extremely serious about high school grades, especially when it's your last year. Well, mine are, anyway.

There are three things you must never joke about with your parents: your bad grades, the way they educate you, and the life choices they made for you. Because they're all doing it for you, you know. "C'est pour ton bien!" "Plus tard, tu nous remercieras!"

I've got a pink bomb with my name on it in my backpack. Explosion planned tonight after dinner. Get in your shelters, everybody.  

Sunday afternoons are the greatest cause for suicide.

When you feel like you're losing grip on everything, what do you do? I'm only asking 'cause I need some advice about that. I've got the feeling my whole life is saying 'fuck y'all' and is leaving, smashing the door closed. I want to not exist anymore. I don't want to go to school, I don't want to think about the future, I don't want to read, write, surf, sport. All I want to do is sleep. I feel like nothing is worth it anymore, you know?

It's like that stupid song 'The usual Sunday with the flu'; everything is conspiring against me. Mostly I'm willing to fight life, to show I'm the better person and fuck you, Destiny. But now I'm suffering from that dashed thing 'ennui', you know. I want to stay listening to that stupid Sunday afternoon radio programming. I want time to stop. I want to be able not to give a fuck. But truth is I'm so fucking responsible, you know. I have to take care of MT, school work, my AFS application, my theatre group, my weight (there we go again, stupid hormonal teenager shit).

Francis Cabrel is singing a folk song, and even the upbeat Phil Collins song that follows can't get my moral up. It's like I'm feeling the down from last night's up particularly sharply. It's cutting through my chest, right to my heart and makes me realise I'm a lonely pathetic fuck up. I'm not yet eighteen and my back hurts from all those years of hunching my shoulders forward. Give me ten years more and I'll look like the hunchback of Notre Dame. I disgust myself.

On the good side: I had fun last night. Alone. With my dad. Because everybody was having fun in Brussels with their boyfriend, or in Boutersem at the Message Party with their friends. Or in lost places of Belgium with the scouts. And I was looking at all those half-drunks on the dancefloor, half-dancing with their beers half-swaying with their partners. And even though you might think they were the most pathetic ones, sloshing their beer all over the place, I was actually wondering if it wasn't me, dancing alone in a corner. In the middle of all these 'old' people, who where around 25.

Back home at three. Way to early, the stuff was only getting started. But I'm so fucking lame I slept till noon anyway.

I want the ads on the radio to stop and the lame music to start paying again.

Come on, Classic 21. Numb my mind. Be my drug, my alcohol, my cigarettes.

Make me live through Sunday afternoon.

Crazy Reccing Post -- Or babeluda's Amazing WTF!? Recommandations. Part I

Apparently, many bloggers do this. And when you count how many (good) posts there have been lately, you can deduce fairly easily that I've been out of inspiration... Or busy. Rather the first, 'cause I don't have any problems typing at midnight, when usually isn't busy.

Since recs are such good fillers when inspiration's being a lousy bitch not hanging around, guess I better keep some. Let's start with one and see how it goes from there.

You really wanna know?

Me's gone mobile!

Great news, my friends: I've finally evolved past the dinosaur state!
I now own a very decent smartphone, and even the Great Red-Haired Tintin was slightly impressed. And that saying something!

Oh, by the way: this is being typed, composed, invented and created on my brand new HTC. At school. After hours. I know, I must be crazy.

Well actually, I'm being a good samaritan once again helping out at a parent information evening. That'll learn me to be on the pupil board.
Gotta go. 'Coup de feu' is about to start.

Report of the day -- so boring it'll keep readers away.

I have lost something. My mother would say 'yet again' and 'have you seen the state of your room', but no-one cares about that, least of all me. However she quite authoritatively ordered me to 'clear up the mess' in my room today, pretending one couldn't walk around without twisting his or her ankle tripping over a book. As I was in a fairly good mood at noon, I complied.

And everything started to go downhill from there.

First, I found out my father realised I've been dabbling with uTorrent again, and cut off the Wifi for the whole household (except his computer, I should imagine), thus causing us all to want to use the family computer, that has LAN, at the same time. Which has caused innumerable arguments since lunch.

Secondly, I have lost a stupid file filled with stupid, but necessary, documents. Not that it's a matter of life and dead, but it's bothering me and you can be sure it'll trouble my falling asleep. As if it wasn't hard enough as it is.
See, that is why I do not clean my room. I never lose things because I do not realise I've lost them until I need them. It causes me a great deal of frustration at those moments, but at least it doesn't trouble my sleep.

Thirdly, we had pancakes tonight, which I love, but I really need to lose a stone, and my mother's all for it, but how does she expect me to do it if she keeps coming up with delicious, sugary, oily, salty, greasy, buttery and creamy foods!? Hello, ever heard of the principle of 'diet'? It means you eat less foods that make you fat!
Occasionally, it also means you're expected to work out, but I doubt I'll ever get further than my 14 km of bike a day to go to and back from school.

On the 'I-don't-know-if-this-is-good-or-bad'-side, my cynicism is coming back. I realised I missed it a great deal.
On the shit side, homework sucks. Then again, nothing new there I suppose.

On the 'fucking-crazy-I-don't-get-it'-side, I had a suicidal thought today. After initial worry, I realised I was being cynic at myself. Way to go, kid.

Time, 'til we have enough of it (which won't be in a near future)

Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time. Time.Time. Time. Time. Time.

Oh, sorry. You there? I was asked to write a text about time. In the philosophical way. Which is, pardon my saying, a bitch.

Edit: here be a very bad piece of writing, which has been disposed of.

But we, humanity, made time. Hours, minutes, seconds, days, weeks, months, years, all those are human inventions. Screwed up humanity, to give names to that what hurts you most, which is supposed to heal wounds, but really it's only forgetfulness that heals wounds.

Time is our craft, so our responsibility. We can't blame time, time is our creation. We can only blame ourselves.
So not to have to do that, use your time preciously. Turn pages where necessary, let things go once the end has come. But care for what is worth it as long as it's worth it. And even a bit after.
Remember the past, dream the future, live the now but not in the now.
And learn. Never stop learning, because then you'll die. Of boredom.

I am going to a very delicious Hell.

Gluttony's one of the 7 Deadly Sins, right?

Yeah, I knew that. I'm so going to Hell for what I did tonight then.
I got a call at about 7.30 pm from my mum, telling me to scavenge the cupboards and fridge and whip up something for dinner for three, me and my brothers. I knew before the conversation finished it'd end up being pasta with tomato & onion sauce, because when the cupboards are pathetically empty like today, there's always pasta and canned tomatoes left. Onions we'll never run out of, because we have a lifetime supply stuck à peu près everywhere in the house.

When we are on limited diet like we were this evening, I like to get creative. Get all those cans, pots and spices we never use out and try to make something very dull totally new.
2 rules:

1. Don't get crazy, some things just don't go together.
2. Tell no-one you have 'gone off the beaten track', because little brothers tend to be extremely suspicious of anything that has a strange name. Tell them when they've cleaned off their plates, the look on their faces will be all the better.

Anyway, tonight I'm feeling especially adventurous, so I fry an onion, and some garlic, and a vegetable bouillon cube. And I throw a bunch of coriander all over it. It's olive oil I use, obviously. When it smells like it could be done, I get that can of tomatoes open and pour it over the fried mix. I add salt, pepper, pili-pili, more coriander and... Two big tablespoons of Maquée, the Belgian Mascarpone, which is so creamy it's a dietician's sin only to smell it.
I stir the sauce and let it simmer.

By that time the kitchen was filled with such a divine odor I didn't have the patience to get water to boil and cook the pasta. So I raided the fridge for some old rice and fried it.

Just then, it's about 8, my tall little bro (TLB to keep it easy) walks in, and I shout: "Simon, bro, just in time to set the table!" All that in English, while we speak French at home. I'm in an extremely good mood, which gets me to talk Franglais with him. We engage in a frankly hilarious conversation, hiccuping through our laughter while we go on in about every accent we know.

The fried rice demanded my attention, so he set the table and we ate, he said it was good and my little little bro (LLB, just like you suspected) didn't ask for Ketchup, which is like the ultimate François culinary compliment.
There was almost nothing left when we were finished, and my TLB cleaned up, as it was his turn. Everybody retired to do whatever they did on a Saturday evening.
But this was far from being my worst crime. Did you really think I'd shout I'm going to hell because I committed a Killer tomato sauce? Nah, you haven't heard the end of it yet...

Approximatively one hour and a movie later, I crept down the stairs again. Supposedly to tend to the dog.

Yeah, right.

In fact, to get the saucepan I used to make the sauce out of the dishwasher and literally lick it clean. While not staining my pyjama's not to create evidence. And not feeling guilty while I know that I'm supposed to lose weight.

To complete my whole fourth meal, I had a big teaspoon of Maquée (I tried being reasonable, but I figured I still needed desert).

I might go to Hell for Gluttony, but let me tell you, if I were to die now, I'd die a happy and very much sated woman.

All the while not giving a damn.
Well, Amen to that, Jesus, God and every other sod.

I despise my brother's taste.

And especially I despise his taste in music. Do you know he's been listening to the same songs on the same Green Day album for 6 months? And do you know I share a wall with this guy? I can't even listen to Tom Waits properly anymore. When he's not playing Boulevard of Broken Dreams for the God-I-don't-know like millionth time, it's the other, even more tasteless little brother who takes over. He is eleven, while the older of my little brothers is 15.

And what does the Extremely Tasteless One play? About everything that's horribly commercial and/or comes from Eurosong. Ick. Eew.

He plays Hadize or what's-her-name's Dum Tek Tek at least once a day. Help.

The longer I live here (and that's been 17 years minus 27 days now) the more I realise my mother and both my brothers have a problem with the 'repeat' feature on their respective CD-players. And when I say that, it's figurative; they never use that particular button and Lord knows that could spare them a lot of 'backwards'-pressing...
Only me and my father seem safe of this horrendous habit, probably because we both have a too large music collection to afford listening to only one song.
And even in that logic there's a glitch; my mother owns countless CDs, yet she feels she needs to listen to them in stages.
Pattern is as follows:

1. Mum picks a CD. May be new, may be old. May be terribly scratched on some songs. Doesn't matter.
2. On that CD, mum picks a song. And listens to it for minimum a week. Or a week and a half (if it's Céline Dion). Or a whole two weeks (if it's Phil Collins' Face Value).
3. Once she's listened to that song enough (read: once her children's whining about it being always the same gets on her nerves too much) she goes on to the next song. 
4. Repeating above described action until she's been through 75-85% of the album (=the songs she likes. Watch out, with Best Ofs, you're rapidly at 95%) 
5. Then, she picks another album. She might have listened to it thoroughly two months ago, no matter, she'll just do it all over again. 

And I'm trapped in a vicious circle. I'm very tolerant to music, but my family is seriously helping me to hate some songs. Not good.

Well, I won't whine too much. I'll say something nice to end this post.

Because of all these repeats, I am the biggest hit on karaoke night. Thanks, guys?

Trying to write again

Figured it was about time I wrote something again. Well here it is. It sucks. School really drains my inspiration. School is very counter-productive: we get up at a time we don't like, to go spend hours sitting down taking courses we don't want, about things we're not interested in. (Yes, I did base that one on 'People buy things they don't want with money they don't have to impress people they don't like')

I am most productive in the late late night (or the very early morning, depending on points of view). So when I go to school, I'm sleeping at my best hours. Ergo I'm very dissatisfied about what I write out.

I read somewhere one should never modify anything one got up to write in the middle of the night. Well great, sleeping more should logically ensue having more of those 'revelation' moments and great findings.

Not for me.
Because when I sleep, I sleep. It's what permits me to go to sleep at impossible hours. Once I fall asleep, I'll sleep until the morning unless I'm interrupted by an alarm clock.
So no genius plots ever come to me at night. Well they might, but then I have forgotten them by dawn.

They do come when I daydream, but when you're brutally shaken out of your reverie, which happens All. The. Time. for me (people just don't respect dreamers), you tend to completely lose your trail of thought, on top of almost having a heart attack.
Hence, you lose all your good ideas. Only one character I have invented came from a daydream, his name was La Phalange (because his right index finger has one phalanx too much) and he was supposed to be a villain until the moment I decided I liked him too much to make him the bad guy. Also, he was the best idea I ever had. On the creative side. Other best ideas I ever had include: on the culinary side, mustard-honey vinaigrette with a twist and steak like you never thought it was possible; on the practical side... well, nothing really; on the social side, enter the scouts, on the sports side, 'better safely on the sideline than a broken-legged winner'...
La Phalange was saved on the hard disk in my head just in time. The reverie wasn't exactly finished (I was designing him a genius sidekick) but I crashed into a parked car. With my bike. While cycling in broad daylight. And the car was actually a red van, so I couldn't have missed it, had I had all my wits.
But frankly, I don't regret not having had all my wits. I damaged my bike's front wheel and hurt myself quite a bit, (by my standards. To my cousin Michael (whose knee has been sutured 13 times) it's probably peanuts, because to him everything you can deal with without going to see a doctor is peanuts) but I don't regret it, because I know one day I'll write a novel, or a short story, or scenario about La Phalange and it'll be good. It'll be worth all the bumps, cuts and bruises of that ridiculous day. I have no confidence in most of the things I do, but I believe in that character. Now I have a lead for my story, I can make him a sidekick and build their world, then jumble it up with a surprise happening. And ta-daaaaa, you have a plot.

First things first, though: still have to make that sidekick. Suggestions, anybody?

Aaargh!

Aaaargh!

I feel like screaming. I feel like screaming. I. Feel. Like. SCREAMING!

Why? Oooh, don't get me started, or you're getting sweet all night long.

Truth is:

1. I don't what the fuck to write about now I fell in my school routine again, which makes me want to pull my hair out.
2. I wanted to go to a little town cinema tonight to see 'Les Barons', a Belgian movie, and they were sold out so now I'm going to see a cult documentary, 'I Feel Good', at 22.30.
3. I still don't want to scrub the dark mouse matter that sticks to the floor next to my radiator and is disgusting.
4. I've got a bursting headache.
5. I gained all the weight I lost in Congo back.
6. I have no more room to store all the books I have, so they're spread all over my room's floor, reminding me to read them.
7. Project babeluda Ltd. by W.Inc. (aka putting wisdom in the toilets) is suffering from serious delay because I can't choose which quotations I want.
8. There are no more blank CD-Rs in the house.
9. My dad won't let me play with his Mac.
10. My HTC Wildfire still hasn't arrived.
11. I can't download torrents anymore because I reached the data-limit last month and now the family keeps a close watch on me.
12. My little brother insists on watching the Belgian-German football match we're going to lose anyway.
13. I realised I have no style or nice clothes and I want to have something cool to wear, dammit!
14. I don't know what to do with my hair.
15. I need twenty minutes to get my bloody contact lenses in in the morning.
16. I'm whining way too much again.
17. I'm fat.
18. I own 6 pairs of shoes, 3 of which I never wear.
19. There's only shit on the radio.
20. Dad's gone on nostalgia tour again with the living room's stereo.
21. My Latin teacher is horrible, my Dutch and English teacher deadly boring, my Maths teacher very dull and my homework a chore.

If you read this list until the end, you aren't too big a fan of this or that, but really, didn't you have anything better to do than listening to my whining?

I do appreciate it, though.

The Assasination of the Mouse by the Coward Babeluda...

I HAVE KILLED THE MOUSE THAT LIVED IN MY ROOM!

Seems like Parmesan did suit the little bugger after all. It got caught in the trap I set out two days ago. I am quite confident it died on the spot. Judging by the fact that its head bled on my parquet floor and the whole mouse sticks to the ground by some glue-y stuff I suspect is... mouse-brain?

Ick!

And I wouldn't dare to touch it, let alone scrub the floor to remove all the... bodily fluids (double ick!) the corpse has excreted.
No choice though. Man's gotta do what's man gotta do. I wanted the thing gone, it's done, now I've gotta bear the consequences. And you know what? I feel remorse. Yes, I feel remorse for killing that stupid, stinking, scratching, dirty animal that looks all cute now it's all dead on the floor.
I would have posted a picture, if it wasn't impossible to get my built-in webcam between my radiator and wardrobe. Trust me, I tried. I retained back and neck pain from that... acrobatic experience.

On a side note, this day was so utter shit I have the feeling I spent a week in class. Ah, last year, good times...

Start of term checklist.

• First day of school, done, finished and over with? Check.
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• Shitty feeling for tomorrow? Check.
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• Pessimism slowly but surely creeping back in? Check.
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• Losing an entire afternoon getting tangled up in wrapping paper, sticky tape and schoolbooks? Double check.
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• Having the distinct feeling you haven't slept enough? Triple check.
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• Little brother being a whiny little ass? Check. (Remind me to let him write here, his whining would be even worse than mine, granting him the prime editor spot. Once he'll speak English, that is.)
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• Half of all taken good resolutions down the drain already? Check.
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• Getting shouted at by mother for deplorable state of your desk? Check.
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• Having kept a compulsion from the time when you wore glasses, constantly pushing an imaginary pair up you nose? Check. 
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• Having to deal with a mouse who has taken domicile in your bedroom? Check. (The little fucker doesn't even like cheese. I put some on the trap and the vermin preferred to shoot out from under the wardrobe to eat an old roasted peanut. Ánd dodged the sandal I threw at it.)

Oh, how I love the start of term...  (imagine a voice dripping with sarcasm)

Many thanks to the Great WebMaster!

Dogslife is going mobile!

You'll be able to enjoy my whining and other stuff wherever you want (provided you got a smartphone with Wifi, 3G or Edge). All thanks to the Great Red-Haired WebMaster.

Well isn't that just great? A special lightweight version of the blog for all you diet-obsessed frenzies out there. Reminds me of a quote:

Introducing 'Lite' -- The new way to spell 'Light', but with 20% fewer letters.

It's from Jerry Seinfeld.

Aside from that, the Great Red-Haired WebMaster advised me to create twitterfeeds, for the posts and comments. Let me just say: It's bloody hard to find a good introduction of max. 20 characters, so no mocking, thank you.

Let me just say I'm pretty satisfied. With life at the moment. It may be the last day of August, which usually makes me grumpy (except when September first is a weekend day), I'm perfectly content to listen to 'Video killed the radiostar' on Classic21 and to go to school tomorrow.

I will probably be of another 'constitution' in a few weeks, but right at the moment, pessimism doesn't seem so brilliant anymore. I'll have to find a new philosophy. What was it that you adhered to, Krivi? Mentalism? What was it again?

Well, what a toad I am. Krivi follows Krivianism. And I follow Oscar Wilde: I have nothing to declare but my genius.

State of Affairs: Dispersing

I sprained my ankle yesterday. How? Well, to make a long story short, I went to Leuven, met up with friends for drinks, ended up eating pizza, drinking beer, meeting two English hippies that couldn't stop saying 'oh man' but were very nice. And spraining my ankle. I tripped on the sidewalk. No, I wasn't drunk. Just everyday average clumsy.

Anyway, I hobbled along through the city 'till 00.30, then some of the girls had to go home, and I texted my parents, who didn't answer no matter where texted or called. So I took the one o'clock bus to Vaalbeek, and crashed at a friend's. Must have been around 2 AM when I got in bed.

Subsequently, you can imagine my dismay at being woken at 5 AM by my throbbing ankle, that had swollen to the size of big grapefruit. I tried to fall asleep again and succeeded, only to be woken up again at 9.30, by my ringing phone. Mum.

"Oh, am I waking you?"
"Noooo..."
"Darling I'm so sorry, I didn't think to check your bedroom last night..."
"I'm at Annaëlle's."

My parents were out for dinner at a friend's the day before. And apparently were asleep when I called.

"Dad threw a huge fit this morning about the fact the he could be a 'papa poule' (a father hen? a doting daddy?) but I was totally irresponsible..."
"Mmm-hmm."
"I'll be there in 30 min to pick you up."

So I proceeded to dress, painfully getting my ankle in my shoe, and go downstairs, where I found my friend's mother. Could have been quite awkward. Luckily she always liked my quiet, polite manners and I got through my cornflakes making small talk. In the end, she drove me back home.

I must confess I deeply enjoyed her slightly chastising my mother.

Mother who has wrapped my ankle in a bandage and had the decency to look ashamed.

This was a shitty post but I wanted to write it. So, done. Oh yes, Krivi? Marine, I don't know if you remember her, was even crazier than usual last night. I made the mistake of dropping your name in the conversation, and she spontaneously concluded you and I have a thing going on. I hope I convinced her otherwise, but I did find that highly amusing.

I am not in my normal state.

Did I already tell you I am a pessimist? No? Well, there you go then. I am a pessimist. In fact I like being a pessimist so much, I actually wrote an ode to pessimism. Ode which I'm planning to recite in front of 70 people in October.
Be as it may, you'll understand that pessimists are not supposed to be perky. Or giddy. Or giggly. Or harbour a stupid grin from ear to ear.
Pessimists are not supposed to listen to 'The Beatles''s 'From Me To You', 'I Want To Hold Your Hand', 'Love Me Do', any version of 'Rockin' Robin' or anything up tempo from 'The Beach Boys' with said stupid ear-splitting grin on their face, even less are they supposed to sing giddily along. Things I do. Heaven help me, I can't even seem to be a pessimist correctly. Some of you might think that's a good thing, but you'd be wrong on so many levels I'm not even going to elaborate them here.

I'll blame it on the summer. The summer, the holidays, the nice weather, the good feeling hanging about, the projects I'm planning and the good resolutions I'm taking (those good resolutions won't last two weeks into September, but hey, let's forget about that for a while).
About those projects and resolutions: since this'll be my last year at my current school, I am pretty determined to end up in detention at least once. I do not want to leave this school with a blank record. I have not yet figured out how to end up in detention, although briefly envisioned scenarios involved obviously recognisable graffiti (lame, I know), a false alarm evacuation, and a wide variety of firecrackers. I am however pretty sure a certain red-haired friend of mine with extensive experience of detention will be able to help me out.
The other project is to put wisdom in the toilets. No, you didn't misread that. I have discovered over the summer that I have an extreme fondness for quotations, and I am willing to share so much I'm going to print that wisdom out, laminate those sheets and stick them all over our loo. And I'll sign all those sheets Wolves, just to see if some have a good memory and will rat me out.

I'm definitely going to have fun. I'm going to try to save the lost cause that is the school's journal. I am going to try and go out a little, instead of locking myself up in my Ivory Tower, like my mother loves to say.

Ah, all those wonderful images that these dreams bring up... It would almost make me regret that the coming fall will bring back my melancholy and pessimism (my normal state). But hey, we'll see that when we'll get there, won't we? After all, it is quite possible we'll all  die in atrocious circumstances before.

FIN

PS: As a bonus, here's some of all those cheesy songs I chattered about. Remember what I said about the worst coloured blog? Still stands, apparently.

Create a MySpace Playlist at MixPod.com

Fashion Victime

I just realised I'm being an ungrateful, spoiled, egoistical kid. You know all the venom I spit out about my mum being a fashion victim? I shouldn't. Really, it's her money, those are her clothes and she wears what she wants, what should I care? Besides, it's not like it has no advantages for me. Do you really think I'd own a pair of Armani Jeans if my mother hadn't worn them then given them to me? Do you really think I'd find a fantastic leather jacket, aviator model, from DIESEL in the attic? Do you really think every time I need a decent outfit I'd run to her? My mum might be a fashion victim (or might have been), although not by far as bad as the ones cited below, that's her choice, just like it's mine to almost never buy clothing and receive hers, or her friend's.


Barcella "Fashion Victime"
Geüpload door slam. - Bekijk originele web video's.

I on the other hand totally like the grunge look. Initiated by Kurt Cobain, whose brains ended up as wallpaint. The Nirvana guy who screams unintelligible stuff in the mic in 'Smells like Teen Spirit'. The whole thing just seems so easy and comfortable. Don't give a shit about your appearance, don't seek attention...
In the end I wear T-shirts, jeans and jumpers. I pretty much loathe dresses and skirts, heels and make-up. But I don't judge people on clothes. Wouldn't that be small-mindedness? Note that I almost did judge my mother on that. Oh, well what the hell. I'm her teenage daughter. I get to not have solid arguments once in a while...

Me, my parents, and ridicule.

Can anybody explain the obsession women have with shoes? Normal women that is, I hold a very respectable 5 pairs, of which only two are in frequent use. Proving that I'm not normal. My mother on the other hand, who you might consider a normal, bordering on hormonal 'giddy' person, has enough pairs to line all the plinths of the house. Most pairs she probably only wore twice or something.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that if I stole the lesser loved half of all her pairs of shoes, she probably wouldn't notice even if I was wearing them. Not that I would want to, some of those heels seem like pure torture, and don't get me started about my mother's total lack of discretion in the choice of her colours. Turquoise blue is among her favourites, as well as orange, and fuchsia. She actually owns a woollen longcoat which is entirely fuchsia. Plus tape-à-l'oeil que ça tu meurs. She has a penchant for loudness and extravaganza, and although I don't usually object to that, when it's your mother, someone who should at least try and be a role model, it puts a whole different perspective on the situation.

My mother is embarrassing, she's the total opposite of me with my quiet, cynical nature, and she seems surprised that I'm not your average teenager. Elle me pousse au crime is what it is. But I am a typical adolescent in the fact that I have frequent fights with my mum. Oh don't misunderstand me, I love my mum dearly but sometimes she is just so infuriating I want to slam my ashamed face into the nearest wall.
Those are the moments where dad looks at mum with an adoring look in his eyes and tells not to be ashamed of anything except our own actions. Since after all ridicule never killed anybody.
The whole process is so sickeningly sweet it brings bile to my mouth. God damn those stupid three-minute life lessons.
Not that I'd ever dare to oppose to dad. I idolize him, and I know that's doing no good, not being able to be critical of him makes looking at the world objectively really hard.

Every time he tells us and more particularly me that ridicule never killed anyone, I mutter "I know that by now, the whole family would already 've died thrice if it did", in a bittersweet kind of way. Shame is an annoying emotion, seems to be chronic in most humans, considering one or another member of their family, the 'black sheep' in some cases.

I'm not a black sheep. The whole family is too weird to fit in the concept of black sheep. In fact we'd be the black sheep family, resulting in us all being normal in our weirdness. Follow my trail of thought? Good, neither do I.

Yet I differ from my parents and the rest of the family in my shyness, my independence, my cynicism, my pessimism. I wish so much to be discreet I sometimes get confused with the wallpaper. Quite an achievement. My greatest one yet? How should I know.

On choisit ses amis, pas sa famille. Right-ho. I wouldn't trade mine, though. They are infuriating beings, but I love them too much to ever consider changing them. They're family. They are the ones you learn to live with, by definition. And as long as they don't treat you too badly, you owe them. So guess I'll go on loving them, all the while muttering and whining while I disappear in the wallpaper, never admitting how much I like them, their weirdness and their quirks.

God, if he exists, is a bloody bastard.

Back from the Heart Of Darkness

Dear Mr. Stanley,
First I want to thank you for the title of your book, that I stole for this post's title.
Next, perhaps I should make a comment about the Congo you explored and described a long time ago, before you were dead.

It's quite simple: I can't. I can't formulate an opinion about that too big country. There were days during those three weeks where I dreamt I was back home. I would cry alone in a corner and tell no one, because I knew it would scandalise them. I was in fucking Africa, having a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I was shown some of the most miserable people on this earth, I had to be there and show compassion. Never ending compassion and support. I should have thanked the heavens for my lucky situation. And I didn't feel like it.
But they couldn't understand. Understand that to feel okay I need to be almost invisible. Watch and listen in without being the centre of the attention.
Something that is quite impossible in a country full of black people, especially if you're white. Especially if you're white foreigner. Especially if you're a young white foreigner.

There were moments I wanted to be alone that much that I snarled at those guys. Not nice. And I didn't give a damn.

And then there were those other moments, mostly on the road, when you realise the beauty of the place, the kindness of the people. Moments that made up almost all of the bad experiences.

I know I didn't live up to the experience and probably was unworthy of it. But I'm tellin' no one except y'all. Or I'll be that spoiled sociopath, psychopath, that sorry excuse for a human being.

I wonder why I was born a human, I differ so much from most of them that I really am a sorry excuse for a human being. But then again everyone differs so much from the others. Guess we're all sorry excuses for human beings.

Sayin' my goodbyes

I don't exactly know who I'm trying to fool here, but I'd like to wish a nice three weeks to those who read this blog. I'm leaving for Africa, the Congo to be more precise.

It's not something I particularly like, the whole ruckus that comes with departure on holidays. Even if you're only gone for the weekend, it's such a hassle, so tiresome that I often ask myself if it's worth it. Then again, if it only depended on me I probably would spend all summer at home; I'm the home sweet home kind. Or the lazy kind. Or I simply don't like ruckus, hassle and stress.

Leaving for Africa is even worse than normal. Kind of obvious; if you forget something there won't be much chance you'll find a department store once you're in the bush. And trust me, the bush is where I'll be. 500 km south of Kinshasa, Lukunga is the name of the lost village. I'm there for humanitarian action. Not something I would do if my dad wasn't the organisation's co-founder.

...I'm scared.

Scared of the heat, the people, the group I'm going with, the food, the culture, the culture shock.

Scared shitless.

On the bright side, I'm now taking care of the organisation's blog. I'll take traveller's notes to post them there and I'll try to write some blogs for here as well. Who knows, perhaps culture shock is inspiring?

What would normal people do?

Ever had an hour to lose? I like playing a game I call 'WWNPD' at those moments. What Would Normal People Do. Normal people mostly end up having coffee. Or reading, or shopping, if they're in the city.

I like playing WWNPD at the train station. Plenty of people who have time there. Most of them who have time to lose before their train listen to music, or phone people, or sleep on the bench. I like playing WWNPD there because it feels like I'm normal. I'm waiting, I check my watch, I listen to music, I text and look around, just like everyone.

The Worst Place Ever to play what would normal people do (for me) is a marriage. You know at a marriage everyone is always talking to everyone? Small talk, business talk, oh-my-god-they-look-gorgeous-together talk.

Well, I don't.

I am extremely shy. I don't talk, I never initiate a conversation and if you try to have one with me when I'm stressed you might as well stop before you even start because you'll get nothing out of me.

When you sit alone, dressed to the nines at a wedding, lookin' around like you're lost or reading a book, coming over as the family's autist, you look pathetic. And if you start playing WWNPD, you feel pathetic and are pathetic.

I like to tell myself I'm a proud person who doesn't give a fuck about fitting in, but truth is I do. Well, I don't want to fit in, I want to disappear in the crowd. I want to be that kid you see everywhere, on the street, on the Tube, at the train station or in a store, the kid you remember vaguely from somewhere but every time you see her you forget her after your next blink.

I once wrote a whole text text about becoming just that. It's in French, and I actually had the nerve to recite it in front of 50 strangers. The audio was recorded, and those who understand are welcome to listen.

Notice the speed at which I say that text? I tend to do that when nervous. I forget to coordinate my breathing and my speech and end up speaking way too fast to get to the end of the sentence to breathe. A bit like when I write too long sentences, except there is no backspace in speech. You can only lose your face. (Perdre la face like the French say -- I love literal translations)





But in the end none of that matters, because humans tend to forget strangers when they are ordinary. Well, most humans. The kind that doesn't look around and doesn't play What Would Normal People Do. The Normal kind.

In the end, the only thing that matters is that "Time you enjoy wasting isn't wasted time." --  Betrand Russell.

At the hairdresser's

People persons are just so lucky. Being able to walk up to anyone, flash them a smile and start conversation would be just perfect. Imagine the freedom I'd gain. Imagine the good effect it would have on my health. Imagine the possibilities (that very much sounded like it came out of an advert)...

Let me explain. I am so sickeningly scared of other people that I walk around looking at the pavement. Which isn't good for my back, something my mother never stops worrying about.

It's also far from good for my psyche. I discovered just today I am so scared of people I don't correct them when one of them calls me 'young man'. Good thing mum wasn't around, I'd never 've heard the end of it.

Being scared of people is bad. Especially when I go to the hairdresser's and don't speak up when the haircut starts to look too much like Justin Bieber's. Good thing that didn't last, or I would have had to go through with that cut until the hair grew back. Because I would never have said anything . I wish I was more confident.

Another thing I remarked while at the hairdresser's today: I am the only one who doesn't make small talk when getting her hair cut. Everyone else was talking about Spain, or the weather, or their children, or the annoying woman who almost accused them of stealing her umbrella. I wouldn't want to be that woman, every person who came in to get his or her hair cut heard about her surely having eaten it [the umbrella, not the hair].

I almost fell asleep while they were washing my hair. Courtesy of a 4 hours of sleep night of me trying to understand and help someone. Made me look really ridiculous when I forgot to take off my glasses when they were washing my hair. I was dead tired and when I made a sudden movement to save them from the water stream, said stream got into my neck. I must be the most clumsy customer they've had in ages.

At least I'll give them a good story. Better than some stuck up woman who lost her umbrella and behaved like she'd eaten it.

Friends are a whole lotta trouble...

Friends can be though to handle. I love mine, don't get me wrong, but friends are one hell of a load of homework. Friends are like plants, if you don't water them regularly and get them in the sunlight, you can forget 'em. Of course there are some that need more care than others, and some that you can virtually forget about, but the average friend needs the attention you give to your average houseplant (I was gonna write pot plant, but that might leave the wrong impression).

You have to contact a friend regularly, to see how he/she is doing. You can easily compare that with looking at your plants to see if any of them need special care. If one of your friends needs special care, you'll probably agree to do something together, ranging from the odd coffee to a trip. Compared with plants it's something ranging from a bit of water to a repotting.
Occasionally one of your plants will be sick, and either you don't care too much about your plants because you have many, better than this one, too, so you'll dispose of it, or you'll try to care for it better so it heals. Compare it to a strained friendship you entertain with someone. Either it's worth the while to make it better, or it's not. And don't give me the crap about it always being better to try to save a friendship, because that is just not true. Some friends you better get rid of, no matter how much it hurts to do so.
There are plants you just shouldn't try to save, even if they were your dead brother's gift. After all, it's just a gift, it's not your brother.

Losing a friend is hard, because it leads to questioning yourself about what the fuck you did wrong. In some cases it's fairly easy; you just didn't give 'em enough water, sorry, you didn't hang around with them enough. In other cases it's simply because the other screwed up, or because the relationship hit a wall and crumbled. Sometimes the plant they give or sell you is simply worth nothing, doomed from the beginning. Sometimes you're simply not responsible enough to care for fragile plants. Sometimes you'll have bad luck and bugs will come eat your plant. Once it's too late there's not really something you can do.

You have two, perhaps three types of plant owners. First the ones who have few and care for them very well. Then the ones who have many but have made plant caring a hobby, and care for them very well. And finally the ones who have some but can't handle them all. In the end they'll do like me and settle with orchids and cactuses, plants who need almost no care, but give little satisfaction (especially the cactuses).

I lost a friend, recently, or rather she lost me. Not that she even noticed, she's from the third category and she's got better than me.

Golly, I feel fucking lonely. Perhaps I should get me a few flowerpots with orchids. Pity they won't talk back.

Exams and patheticness

Hello, people who never read my blog (and who I'll never encourage to do so).

I've slightly disappeared from the foreground since I have exams, exams I must pass otherwise I can forget Congo this summer. Anyway, today's Friday, I have maths Monday, I should be studying but I'm calling it an afternoon. I'm dealing with the post-traumatic effects of my Dutch Literature exam. First oral exam ever. I think I looked slightly green when I entered the class. I also think my voice barely rose up above 'mice' level and I had symptoms of young age Parkinson's. You know, the disease that makes you tremble. Also,  I stuttered. But apart from that I think it went quite well. Apart from the part where she corrected me, you know, like twice.

So I've decided to wipe this incident from my mind, because if I start to brood it's going to take me down. On the upside (oh, look, an oxymoron!); the program I put on my calculator to cheat at the chemistry exam worked perfectly and proved to be extremely useful. Really, I would never have found those coefficients by myself. They're bitchy things, especially in combination with stoichiometry.

Enough about the extremely boring matter I handled today. Only problem, I don't have anything interesting to tell. Apart from the fact my little brother's friends like me because I'm ridiculous. Which is, as a matter of fact, quite depressing. Just as much as this item.I think I'm going to go watch an old classic movie where every one dies, or something. All Quiet On The Western Front, or something. Gone With The Wind or Camille. So I can cry sad, pathetic girly tears and pretend I'm just another hormonal screwed up teenager.

Had another row with mum yesterday, about a frequently discussed subject: she doesn't like the way I laugh. I must say that in the moment I had a terrible urge to bitch-slap her across the face. How I laugh is my goddamn business. If I can't choose that, then what the hell can I choose?
Supposedly this laugh of mine is vulgar, 'Boers' she said, and trying to stay on the funny side of things I pointed out that that wasn't very respectful of the old South-African colonist's descent. She literally exploded. It was big, scary and loud, and if I'd let her, there would have been blood. It might have been that of the meat she was occupied  with, but it would have splattered like it did in the shower scene of that 'Psycho' movie of Hitchcock.

But I didn't let her. I can do my fair bit of venom talking, especially around family, where I'm not afraid to shout it out loud. I started with a decent argument, that it was my bloody laugh, my bloody very obvious way of showing I find something funny, and that since she was obviously the only one bothered I wouldn't change it for her, thank you very much.
She then deflected, saying she wished I'd be a little more feminine. I added that I'd wish she be a little less like a teenager running high on hormones (she's worse than me most of the time) and since I've been into the Stones lately, I quipped a quintessential (god I love that word, I'm sure I use it wrongly but I love it) "You Can't Always Get What You Want" at her, thus closing the argument and winning. I was still seething though. She wants me to be more open and social, but if she thinks I better shut up because my laugh is vulgar, then what the hell does she want? Well I said it already: whatever it is, she's not getting it.

Free Time

Ah! It's weekend! Seriously, this part of the week took forever to arrive. Like it mostly does.
I'm sure there are loads of people who said fantastic things about the weekend. Let's take a look to all those guys who had the art of the good reply. (I'm only doing this 'cause I don't really feel like writing today. Not right now, anyway)

Weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless. -- Bill Watterson

Tell that to my parents!

There aren't enough days in the weekend. -- Rod Schmidt 

God how right you are...

Of all the days that's in the week
I dearly love but one day
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday.
-- Henry Carey

I truly couldn't have said it better. Except I love Saturday even more than Sunday.

Give a man a fish and he has food for a day; teach him how to fish and you can get rid of him for the entire weekend. -- Zenna Scha 

How deliciously controversial.

 Always strive to excel, but only on weekends. -- Richard Rorty 

I love a party person, don't you?

I thank all the great people who allow me to develop a sense of wit.

Writer's Block (and a lifeline)

For today's blog, I have no inspiration.

(...)

I have now received two subjects from a friend, to whom we'll all give a big cheer now.

*silence*

Anyway, I thank my red-haired friend and hereby dedicate him his blog (I'm sorry, just think that colour of shame fits wonderfully with your hair).

Subject 1: A certain person we both know has been terribly smitten lately, so I was requested to write about the one, true, only love.

Epic Fail. I've never even be slightly smitten, how am I supposed to know anything about love at all!? My only sources are those sappy romantic comedies my mother adores and that clutter up our shelves. Not exactly the most realistic source of information, even I know that. The same thing counts for the even more sappy romance novel's my grandmother has left us a box of.

Because yes, I was actually so lame at a time that I read those things, which aren't even good enough to start a decent camp fire.

That kind of rules out writing about the subject, isn't it? Trust me,  I'd love to write how wonderful a feeling it is, and how teenagy the thing is. I'd love to. I want to be smitten and get a boyfriend, but that's just not something that's happening right now (and it certainly won't happen if I don't start to leave the house more, but that's such a long story it's worth an article on it's own. I am that pathetic)

Subject 2: Tomorrow, we both have this huge, very boring ancient Dutch literature test. I won't bother you with the specifics, partly because I want to spare you and partly because I couldn't tell them to you if my life depended on it. Let alone for some stupid test I don't care about anyway.

Those old Dutch writers, they all write pretty things, but they're kind of... well let's say they've been dead for like a very long time. Not exactly something that'll interest a bunch of fairly normal 16-17 year-old teenagers.

But the thing is, even though we may both be very bored teenagers, we have parents, teachers, and a whole society to please by getting good grades. I'm on fairly okay ground there, but I know that for some others it's way more difficult. Resulting in us, two very bored teenagers doing something wildly resembling studying with a bunch of twittering in between 'till every hour of the night. Did I mention that even if the Belgian school system is praised, it's as screwed up as our weather? Relying mostly on science, but requiring that magic touch. Which this Dutch course obviously doesn't have.

"It's a small world a-fter all". Guh. I want to puke.

I have been said to write 'depressed' articles. Well, dear very few people who are my readers, I am here before you today to announce the dawn of a new era, the era of the "Shiny, Happy People"...

The shiny, happy people are the people who never worry. Not about themselves, not about the others, not about the world, not about anything. The shiny, happy people just smile, and spend their time in the "Small World" attraction of the Disney resorts.
The shiny, happy people are some kind of fluffy, pastel coloured living teddy-bears. The shiny, happy people always agree with one another, so they can't discuss subjects.
The shiny, happy people are all the same, so they can't discuss other people either.
The shiny, happy people are very boring. Luckily they don't notice, or they'd go all Lester's American Beauty on us.

The point is that the complaining maketh the person like the clothes maketh the man. Complaining makes you human. Arguing with others makes you interesting. Fighting with others brings you back to being as stupid as the shiny, happy people because then you are their evil twins, never talking about subjects because you hate them all, never talking to any people because you killed them all. You spend all your time in the renewed Disney attraction "It's a smelly world after all". You enjoy burning things, smashing things, tearing things up, throwing things around, and splash all the remains in the blood of a freshly killed shiny, happy one. You're a smelly, unhappy one. Some kind of stinking punk-style kid.
If you're a shiny, happy one, you spend this relentless struggle for survival, stupidly enough, trying to convert the smelly, unhappy ones to your shiny, happy way of living. And what's more: sometimes you succeed.

Of course, all the converted smelly, unhappy ones have Stockholm Syndrome. You know what I mean, they're brainwashed. Quite literally. After having been captured by some fluffy traps, they're taken away to the "Happy Farm" where the people live on Prozac (an anti-depressant)and rose-scented water. And they're intensely scrubbed. Not only to get the ghastly smell away, but also to get all the filth out of their soul.

Unfortunately, the process is rarely completed, because the smelly, unhappy ones just want to kill, kill, kill and will take great pleasure in killing their caretakers in the farm. Resulting in the lovely pink colour the Farm's floors, ceilings, walls and windows are tainted in.

Wouldn't we love such a society. The shiny, happy people who breed like rabbits would compensate for all the people killed by the smelly, unhappy ones, cutting short our overpopulation problem, bringing in the natural balance. If there aren't enough shiny ones to kill, the smelly ones will just kill each other or themselves (because they hate themselves too) until balance is restored.

I propose we implement the Shiny, smelly, (Un)Happy era as of tomorrow.