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?