After this, I promise I really will shut up.

I don't have that much to announce either, only that exams are a bitch (like we didn't all know already), that the Belgian weather really should decide what it wants and just dump the bloody thunderstorm on our heads already instead of making me suffer and sweat through that clammy pre-thunderstorm atmosphere, and that the travel blog is set up, but currently empty (constructive criticism about the way it looks and all the rest more than welcome).

You'll find it here: http://bolivianbourlingue.blogspot.com/

Oh yeah, it's in French. Since it's going to be enough of a challenge just to try and understand + speak Spanish asap, I figure I should keep my priorities in mind and stick with the other Italic language that I know. Also, as the biggest part of the readers will speak French, it's kind of the logical choice. Of course English will stay my first love, but I'll probably end up speaking it like a barbarian, which is what every exchange student tends to do: mix the local brogue with some piss Bamboo English & a dash of their own language.

I've already invented my own name for it: Embroglio. It sounded better than 'Shaken, not stirred'. We aren't talking about vodka-Martini's in the end.

Anyway, I've got to get to bed to go on stressing a little about my piss-poor maths, and Newton's binomials and pigeonhole principles, statistics and the fucking maths behind Google will surely crowd my nightmares. I feel the belly-ache coming up already. Stupid exam jitters. I can't even dance the jitterbug. In fact, I can't dance at all, I've got no rhythm and two left feet. Pity for the others on the dancefloor that I love to do it. And about the belly-ache, Harry Nilsson's got a plan:  

It's time to close up shop.

As you may or may not know (and I frankly don't give a damn which one it is), I'm leaving for Bolivia on the 12th of July, 4 PM, Zaventem (notice the very subtle hint to please drop by and come wave a handkerchief).

One year of living abroad in a Spanish-speaking country where one shouldn't automatically assume everybody understands three words of English. One year in some of the world's highest cities, in one of the world's developing countries (and one of South America's poorest) with people I don't know in places I have never seen with a very slow and ineffective postal service, about 6300 miles (10139 km) from home.

Sounds adventurous? Surely is the most adventurous I have ever done.

Also, Internet is most likely only available in cybercafés. Hence the closing of this blog, which really lives on spur-of-the-moment writing. Last time I tried to hold an idea to make it a post at a later date, it went horribly wrong. Horribly wrong in that the post really was barf-worthy. In the throwing up on your screen sense of the word.

However, don't panic! This is not the Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy, but I'm opening up a new blog to try and make my own little Hitchhiker's Guide (for the AFS student going to Bolivia. Besides, I'm in serious need of a banner or a layout idea for that blog, so if you have suggestions, shoot! Below there is this shiny little button that says comment. It never triggers explosions and I'm never angry when somebody punches it.)
It'll be my travel blog/journal/tips collection and it's going to be named....

(drum roll, please)

Magali Goes to Bolivia

(and Frankie Goes to Hollywood. So Relax!) 

Not sure about the subtitle yet. My guess is I'll change it along the way. Other major dilemma is which language I'll write it in. I'd love to keep my English & Dutch up while I'm diving head first in the Italic language that is Spanish, but I know some people, namely my family, will want a native tongue read -- that would be French. I've played with the idea of a weekly newsletter to all French speakers, but nothing guarantees I'll be able to send every week.

One thing is sure, though, that blog will be made & you are all more than welcome to read it. A link will be placed above this page and it'll remain there for as long as this one stays inactive -- if I ever reactivate it. Not so sure it will be missed.

This is not about now.

It's about yesterday night; suffice to say that yesterday night I was majorly pissed, and not in the happy drunk sense of the word.

Actually it was a lot like the kind of pissed that women get once a month (fucking PMS, I think I'll devote a whole post to that next time it happens), except it wasn't that time of the month, and it really was the-drop-that-makes-the-vase-overflow kind of total freak out.

Ever notice how many of the (slightly) good posts around here are about food? Well, it's going to be one of those again.

Did I mention that I am busy lately? As in, extremely busy. As in, what my brother does times 1000. So then, why exactly is it that I always get asked to do things? My brother, all jokes about his stupidity and clumsiness aside, is not a dunce. He knows how to use a computer, use a CD burner, and if it's one of his good days he'll even remember the water has to be boiling before you drop the rice in.

So why am I the one who gets to babysit/cook/play Technical Support all around?

But I'll do it. I'll cook the fucking pasta, cut the fucking ham, get out the fucking parmesan, I'll dress the fucking table, and I'll still get sniffed at by their Brotherly Majesties of Couch Potato Country for whom ketchup is the highest good. No, there's no ketchup and yes you'll just have to eat it dry with ham & cheese. May I remind you that it's not half as bad as the last time you tried  to make dinner? Ya ain't happy, ya can do it yourself, punks.

It's not like I could have been angry nicely, like mum & dad with their business partners, who send each other 3 page emails which basically mean "Take my proposition, frankly I don't give a damn you don't like it" and "Fuck you, my dear".


I got upset. I snapped at them and got in a murderous mood. Once they'd left the table, I did the only thing I can do when emotionally distraught, because I do not have a friend to phone and whine to. Call it what you want, feeding of the hungry heart, whatever, it just means I stuffed my face. I just plunged my hand in the pasta pot and stuffed a fistful of pasta down my throat.


I half hoped I'd choke on it.

Sad thing too, because it was really good pasta, al dente & everything. I had timed the five minutes like it was my reason for living (and as dinner depended on it, it probably was), but I hadn't thrown it against the tiled wall to do the 'al dente' test. Looking back, that might have lifted up my mood, causing everyone to have a much nicer evening, but hey, it was bound  to come out at some point.

And so this story ends, with the scene of me alone at dinner table being kept company by dirty dishes and a pile of postal junk, morosely shoving pasta down my throat as if it could solve everything.

*Sigh*

Dare not say I'm not pathetic now.

On boosts, blasts, boogie & bogus (or as it's more commenly called: driving)

So, let's start this by a simple pros & cons list of today.

On the good side of the news: I was forced to drive on the highway this afternoon, and I didn't kill anybody or freak out (too much). Highway's actually easy.

On the bad side, I still can't drive. In fact, I so can't drive that I jammed the engine right after getting off the highway. Because I had to stop and couldn't start properly again. Also, I jammed the engine repeatedly on my way to the highway, the most memorable time right before getting on the Opvelp crossroad. I mean right before. I must have spent at least 10 minutes, if not a quarter of an hour turning on the engine, trying to start, jamming the engine, and starting again. About 5 minutes into this process, of course somebody came up behind me and stood there waiting, which of course had me überstressed. And he just stood there, waiting, while I was just jamming and re-jamming the engine under the Sunday afternoon sun. And he waited, and I got frustrated, and my dad watched incredulously, wondering how it was possible to jam an engine that many times. In the end daddy got out of the car and went to stand in the middle of the crossroad, looking at me with an 'air' of defiance, like 'drive-over-if-you-dare' style.

And then, of course, I started and got over the crossroad, to the top of the hill, without jamming. Tears of fucking frustration, people. Dad walks overs, hands in his pockets, cocky smirk plastered all over his face. I get out of the car. He shouts: "Oh no you don't!" and then "Tu vois quand tu veux!" La ferme, merde.

"Grmbl mumble stumble..."

"What?"

"I said 'I don't want to go on the highway'."

"Why?"

Well, for obvious reasons, whaddaya think?

"Highway's easy! Straight line! You do just the same, only thing is it goes quicker."

Oh, right, because that's really reassuring, Papa.

Damn guy thinks he's always right. Even shittier: most of the time, he is.

So this time again, yes. 

Also, we didn't go out driving just to drive. We had to pick up my brother who was waiting on a carpool parking. And he waited. With a friend. And he saw me jam the engine, what, 10 times, like 300 m away from the damn parking? Nicely humiliating, just what one needs on a Sunday afternoon.

Dad drove us home, making a point of explaining virtually everything that's going on inside the car every time you touch a lever, push a pedal, punch a button or turn the wheel. Once we were home he threw my brother out (well, kinda) and took me out into Bierbeek's fields, randomly shouting 'Stop! Gently.' to have me do emergency stops & starts without jamming the engine. Operation's success: about 50%.

Next step, parking.

Yeah, well let's talk about that later, okay? 

As dad says "You're not actually supposed to leave half of the car on the road when you do that. And watch out for my scooter."

Starving my brothers

I have just decided my brothers won't get to eat tonight. If they're hungry, they'll cook themselves. I am not, and I am not their housekeeper. If my brother is hungry, he'll stop being busy soon enough. I am busy too. I'm watching great TV on my laptop, contemplating maybe studying a bit of Latin or looking for some Dutch subtitles.

I am not hungry. I am not their babysitter and I'm most definitely not their mother. Lazy pigs.


Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I'm hungry. As if I'm ever not hungry. But since I am supposed to lose weight and I refuse to be a housekeeper, I might just as well make a statement out of this. I'm not eating, you're not eating. Or you'll be eating very bad, because I know for a fact none of you can cook. My TLB is the only person ever who managed to screw up scrambled eggs. Scrambled eggs, people!

Imagine what he's going to do with the pasta. It'll probably end up looking like mashed potatoes and tasting like water. I seriously pity that spaghetti.

Looking for a morphing. Me ==> a real somebody

Jack Adams (a hockey player, but that doesn't really matter) said this about advice.

If it's free, it's advice; if you pay for it, it's counseling; if you can use either one, it's a miracle.

I'm still gonna need yours.

This is a question to people who have already seen me live.

What the fuck is wrong with the way I look? Seriously, what is it? The clothes, the haircut, the overweight? It'd be a lot easier to do something about it if I knew what it was. And if it's the combination of the three and even more, which it probably is, pray tell me where I should start the adjustments.

There must be something wrong. Question for you, Great Red Haired Dance Machine, did I imagine it or did your almost-but-not-quite best buddy cringe when he was paired up with me for salsa? That was a lame-ass excuse for getting out that he used, and you could see and smell the flight reflex of the boy. Everybody saw it, hell, even I got it and God knows I'm not good at reading people.

Seriously, I have a problem. I'm a 17 year old overweight girl whom people almost always identify as her brother on the phone (yes, even my parents), and who keeps getting called 'young man' by polite strangers. I don't even correct them any more. What's the use, it's not like I'm gonna be seeing them again.

Soon, my Alzheimer suffering neighbour will start confusing me with my dad or her dead husband or something.

Seriously, what should I do? I admire androgyny, but it's not something I want for myself -- certainly when it's not on purpose.

I guess the first thing my mother would say is go shopping. Then it would be lose weight. I think she's given up on the hair a long while ago.

I think her ideal plan for me 'd be have me lose weight, drag me of shopping and then teach me good posture. Apparently I walk around slumped all the time and one day I'll look like Quasimodo.


Fuck me, who knows, it might even be an improvement.

End Me.

That's it! Kill me now!

Seriously, go on and shoot me; I wouldn't mind, if I could I'd even thank you. The embarrassment that is my life has now sunken in such an abyss that it will never resurface again, and because I do not want to be miserable until the end of my days, I request that you kill me now. Without physically harming other people.

So do it, pull the trigger, throw me off a cliff, strangle me, drown me, poison me, run me over, set me on fire or cut me in little pieces and feed me to a pack of dogs. I do not care; I just want it to be final and with no turning back, so don't pull a coma on me.

The thing that calls for such drastic measures? Well, the whole story would be a pain to tell, so to make it short: my parents are teenagers. Help!

They've set up two of their friends and are giving advice over the phone. I feel like I landed in a 'When Harry Met Sally' parody, way, way less funny than the original. No, seriously? Adults giving other adults advice on dating each other, advice that might just as well come out of a teenage mouth might I add.

My mum's hysterical snarky laugh rings through the house and hurts my ears. There is a hormonal problem in my home. How could one otherwise explain the fact that my dear parents wound up with me and my brother's teenage hormones and we inherited their mid-life crises?

Guh. There she goes again, giggling like she's some kind of hen, while my father just sits by smirking. This is so ridiculous. And the whole enterprise is bound to fail, because I've never seen two more unmatchable characters than the two they're trying to set up. The fact they haven't seen it won't work out is because they're both terribly polite. I know two persons who are going to have to go through a very painful dinner date, because they have virtually nothing to tell each other, except maybe their opinion on the weather.



But of course this isn't the only reason for the plotting of my demise.

The other reason is that I have come to the conclusion I absolutely suck. At everything except eating and perhaps sleeping. I'm not even sure about that last one; that's saying something. I have a sucky taste in music, I'm a sucker for colour coordination and I suck at social contact. I suck at driving, drawing, studying, love, playing music, interestingness, jokes, friends, maths, Latin, sports, diets, fashion, hair, physique, cleaning, respecting deadlines, not losing things, enthusiasm.

I suck at Life, The Universe, and Everything. (The ones who get this reference, give me your address, I'll write you a postcard, even if you happen to live in Antarctica.)

In the light of these facts, I've made the perfectly logical conclusion that I'm here using precious resources such as air, water and space and producing copious amounts of waste, of organic and non-organic kind, and therefore am a danger to humanity. So go on, kill me now. Did you know that not having kids is actually the greenest gesture you can do for the planet? If it's too late, you got two or three other options.

1. Kill the dog (if you happen to have one)
2. Turn vegetarian.
3. Kill the kid. He/She'll turn out to be a stupid brat teenager anyway, most probably another danger to humanity. And if you're lucky, perhaps it'll be thankful. There's always a chance that the kid is me.

Badder

Can anybody tell me why I am such a nice kid?

Seriously. What is it? Upbringing? Social circle? Neighbourhood? The stupid genes that have already fucked the rest of my life up? (Save for my brains. Whatever those are good for anyway.)

No really, I am such a nice kid that when I shout through class (which is like my ultimate act of anarchy) because I'm in the middle of a verbal/intellectual duel with pain-in-the-ass Bas (I'd like to let it be known that I won. Because my ego is like that.) I actually feel the need to go excuse myself at the end of the lesson ánd the teacher almost thanks me for it.

I'm such a nice kid to nice kids that I rat out bad kids. Yeah, shoot me. Like I care.




I wanna be badass, dammit.

I wanna get into a fistfight. Haven't done that since 6th grade, and I remember it relieved a lot of pressure to rip the stupid little prick a few of his precious buzz cut black hairs from his head. I still remember rolling around on the concrete, pulling and pushing and throwing half-arsed punches around 'till the ladies who were supposed to be watching us got us apart.


I must have looked a sight.


I remember I was breathing unnecessarily hard through my nose, which must have make me sound like a snorting horse. My glasses were askew and my face rated 9 out of 10 on the redness scale.

I was truly angry. And I don't remember why.


But what I remember best of all was the feeling. It was glorious, no matter that none of us had won or lost, I had bitch-slapped the annoying little fucker that was AD.


I want that feeling back. I haven't felt euphoria in ages. Then again, if I needed to be truly angry to get in a fight, it's logic I haven't fought in the last 6 years. I never got past the stage of  'supremely irritated'.

So, I wanna show some real fisticuffs. Big deal. Don't think I'm ever gonna get an occasion to that.


And I will leave the school with a blank record at the end of the year, missing my only good resolution I wanted to accomplish. I suck.



Help me, people! I'm seriously clueless and need to get in detention for something other than being late before the end of the school year!


I am so uncool. *Sigh*

Well I guess that crap is genetic too.


PS: Here are some more wanna be badasses like me. Not that the original ever was.

Shut up. Just... shut up.

There's a kid in my house.

There's a kid in my house that I barely know and that won't stop talking to me.

There's a kid in my house whose name is Jules and that I'd love to strangle.

Shut up. Just... shut up, you fat 'moulin à paroles'.

Shut up or I'm gonna kill you dead with my Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Omnibus you've been stopping me to read by talking to me or to the TV. Shut up. It's a Wii. It's not gonna answer.

I think I like your sister Emma better. She might look and act in a slightly depressed way, she might creep me out, but at least he shuts UP!


Did shut up, anyway. They left now. They were the kids of a nice, real quiet guy, a hunter, that my mother is desperately trying to set up with one of her best friends. A totally doomed teenage enterprise only my mother could think up. But enough about all that drama, how have you been?

I've been okay, I guess. I had a nice evening. I had a 'groupe d'activités' thing, I usually hate everything related to that because the guys look at everybody either not talking to anyone but their friends or making fun of everybody, half of the girls are petty and mean and the other half looks at you as if they'd just discovered you in a heap of dinosaurs dung.

But this time it was okay. Perhaps because only half of the group was present, but more likely because the activity revolved around food.

I love food. I guess this isn't the first time I'm telling you, but I really, really love food.

We made a three-course dinner and ate it afterwards. I had more fun making it with the others than eating it with the others. I liked the 40 year-old cooks better than the people my age. The usual.

I have a theory on food. Making food makes people friendly. A cook is always better company than a dietician. People are chagrined when they are hungry (which is why you show your report card at the end of dinner and not before).
Posts on this blog are either bemoaning or euphoric. When they're euphoric, it's mostly because I achieved something in the kitchen.

One of the cooks was a Frenchman. I don't like them all that much: the ones I know that are grown up are bitchy. The cook wasn't. See there the wonderful effects of good food.

I  know I'm being irrational. There is a grown-up Frenchman I know that is friendly. Then again, he might be grown-up in body, I strongly doubt he is in mind: he still plays with cars. Admittedly, his cars are big live old-timers, but they're still his toys.

All that fuss to say that I barely passed the introduction of my omnibus and dinner was good.

*Sigh...*


Well, what are you still hanging around here? Go do something productive! Write a blogpost!

It iz fini, Madame.

It iz finished. I'm finally over that pathetic impossible love phase.

Only one thing I can say, 'bout bloody time. Really, I'm ashamed to think what a mess I've been on the emotional side for the past few weeks.

How I can be so sure?
Let's just say that I saw the guy and didn't feel the stupid pang of yearning any more. It seems my mind has come to terms with the fact the impossible does not happen, unless it's possible and trust me, this is just so phantasmally phantasmagorially impossible that doubt does not exist. Comparing it to last month's thoughts it seems unbelievable, but I'm just happy to let him be. Amazing that it stopped like that.

Makes one wonder if I was in love with the guy or in love we the idea of being in love. It's bound to happen when your fellow teenage girls spend the majority of their time talking about it and the majority of the songwriters advertising the 'wonderful feeling' (and there you go, now Flashdance's 'What a Feeling' is stuck in my head).

It kind of worries me that I'm unable to make the difference. This is gonna sound very melodramatic (hey! it's weird long word day!) but what if I meet my soul mate (yes, yes, that's cheesy) and I get that feeling again and dismiss it as 'oh no, my mind wants to be in love' while I actually am in love?

How do you know that you're in love? Let's face it, the popularly advertised symptoms are far from clear. 'You think of him/her all the time, he/she is constantly on your mind'. I know people whose stomach are constantly on their mind. 'When you're near him/her, you feel like the rest of the world has vanished.' Oh yeah? Even when crossing the street? My, my, lovers must be an endangered species. And let's not even mention the 'butterflies in your belly' myth. I feel that when my digestion is getting grumpy.

And the most irritating thing of all is 'When it happens, you'll know.' No, I won't! That's why I'm asking! D'you really think I'd bother asking if it's to get that kind of an answer?

Besides, what good is it to feel all those things and end up with a one-sided love affair, feeling miserable for months like a... no actually two friends of mine. I think the girl (one of two) has it worse though, 'cause she got a taste of it before the guy back-pedalled. Not interested in relationships at the time, or something like that. I was kind of honoured when she told me, because even if she's a very outgoing girl, what's deep she keeps to herself. She told me her story, I told her mine, and altogether we had a very satisfying drama-swap.

Right now, all I understand from what I've heard are the innumerable 'love is such a torture' songs. Because I've been miserable. Utterly miserable, stupid and totally not myself. And it's not even a sweet torture, it's just an elaborate mind fuckery.

What really doesn't bring us one step closer to the heart of the issue: how do you know you're in love? Don't know the answer. Don't wanna keep asking the question. So I won't. It iz finished, I'm gonna focus on more enjoyable things from now on. Like knowledge. And food! Yes, definitely like food. Speaking of food, today's Candlemas! We should eat crêpes (which are like pancakes, but better)! Apparently, if you can flip one with a frying pan while holding a coin in the other hand, your family is assured prosperity throughout the year.

If you do it while holding heart-shaped candy, is it assured love?


(Yes, this whole post was a monstrous massive cheese attack)

Fact & Fiction Mix. You make the truth out.

Je suis rentrée et je me suis flanquée dans mon lit avec de la bouffe. La recette des grands jours, vous me direz. Parce que tous ensemble entre nous, y en a pas un pour rattraper l'autre. Y a juste ma mère, qui rentre jamais avant 7 heures de toute façon. 

J'ai donc jeté de côté tout ce que j'avais à faire, adieu responsabilité et autres gâches-métier, je me suis mis là au chaud et j'ai allumé la chaîne stéréo. Le tout Elvis était encore dedans, et j'ai bien écouté, sans préjugés pour une fois. C'est désuet. Comme moi. Allongé sur mon lit en chaussettes. Si je fumais, et que je le faisait à l'intérieur, je me serait grillée une cigarette, tellement l'instant semblait approprié. Je me suis mis à réfléchir. Je sais, mauvaise idée.

J'avais été à une réunion de famille. Du côté où elles sont bien moins fun que de l'autre. Et où elles tirent en longueur. Mon parrain, qui est aussi mon cousin, était là. Présent, mais ailleurs. Il m'a offert un livre -- parce qu'on a fêté la Noël seulement maintenant, et oui -- de Harry Mulisch, un type que mon parrain admirait (si je vous dis qu'il est journaliste, vous comprendre peut-être) et dont je lui ai annoncé la mort moi-même. Il n'était pas encore au courant. Une brique de 900 pages, imprimé pas très grand. Je lui ai demandé comment allait sa femme, il se sont mariés début de l'année passée, et elle s'était salement cassé la jambe (triple ou quadruple fracture, opération à la clé, réhabilitation après) début octobre. "Bien," il m'a répondu. Je pensais qu'il faisait allusion à sa jambe. "Je sais pas si tu sais, mais elle a fait une fausse couche." Elle était enceinte? Première nouvelle. Je ne lui en veut pas de ne rien avoir dit. C'est leur couple, leur choix. Mais j'ai pitié de Gaëlle. D'abord elle se casse la jambe, crève de mal et est HS pendant des mois, et en plus elle fait une fausse couche. J'étais horriblement mal à l'aise. J'aime ces gens, mais c'est quoi la bonne réaction face à une annonce pareille? Je sais que Gerald veut des enfants, je sais qu'il devait être dévasté à l'intérieur. Bon dieu qu'il le cache bien. J'aimerais pouvoir cacher les choses comme il le fait. A la recherche de la bonne réaction, je l'ai regardé parler à ma cousine. Sa réaction à elle était "Oh, zut.". Légère expression d'effroi sur le visage. Je savais toujours pas. Et je me faisait du souci: est-ce que Gerald avait le droit de balancer ça comme ça.? Et Gaëlle? Qu'est-ce qu'elle en dirait? 

Je pensais à tout ça, allongée sur mon lit, m'imaginant dans des volutes grises presque opaques en train de faire des anneaux de fumée. Et ce moment là, le destin, ce petit con, s'est mis en tête que de jouer 'Don't Cry Daddy' était une bonne idée. L'ironie du moment était tellement forte que ça aurait pu être du cynisme. Une grimace me contorsionnait le visage et une bile amère me montait à la gorge. Et comme à chaque fois que s'est arrivé dernièrement, j'ai pensé à lui. 

Il n'a rien à voir avec tout ça. C'est juste que ça fait mal d'y penser, c'est tout. Ça fait toujours mal d'être en face de ses propres erreurs et de devoir réaliser à quel point on est lâche, nulle, ou pur et simplement de la merde.

Le problème est simple, et la situation sur-utilisée dans chaque livre, film ou pièce de théâtre où un amoureux ou une amoureuse est présent(e) parmi les personnages: le triangle amoureux. C'est la plus vieille histoire de toutes qui pour une certaine raison a toujours du succès. Je me demande bien pourquoi, d'ailleurs: il y a toujours un malheureux quelque part dans l'équation 'Je l'aime, il l'aime, elle l'aime ou ne l'aime pas'.

La réponse est simple, comme la plupart des bonnes réponses. Dans les films, les bouquins et les pièces, ils s'arrangent. Quelqu'un du triangle est suffisamment détestable pour qu'on s'en fiche qu'il ou elle termine seul(e). Mais dans la vrai vie, les choses ne marchent pas comme ça. Personne n'est totalement détestable. Chaque assassin est probablement le vieil ami de quelqu'un, dixit la Queen of Crime. 

Et non, y a personne d'autre. Un(e) de perdu(e), dix de retrouvé, mon œil, oui: un(e) de perdu(e), un(e) de tout seul! Merci Gad Elmaleh! Essaye donc de lui dire, toi, à un amoureux, qu'il y en a d'autres. Il s'en fout des autres! Et n'allez pas me contredire, je l'ai déjà fait, je parle d'expérience.

Raisonner avec un amoureux, ça n'a pas de sens, parce qu'il n'y a pas de logique dans l'amour.
Et quand il s'agit de le convaincre qu'il y en a d'autres ou qu'elle n'en vaut pas la peine, vous comprendrez que vous pouvez aller vous brosser.

Ah, l'adolescence douce-amère... Je l'aime, il l'aime, elle l'aime ou ne l'aime pas. 

Non, la situation est vraiment simple et se résume à ça: je l'aime, il ne m'aime pas, je bouffe du chocolat.

On junk and other lost causes.

I managed to lose one slipper. One obviously from a pair of two. Do you have any idea how frustrating this is? I turned my whole room upside down inside out to find the other one back and I didn't.

I don't exactly know what bugs me more: the fact I lost it or the fact I basically cleaned all of my room, which is a real 'capharnaüm' by the way, for nothing. It's a pig's nest, a shambles, a big, big mess.

And amidst of it all, in the middle of my bright red rug, stands one slipper. Desperately waiting for the other to resurface. It's some kind of reminder of how terribly empty-headed I am. I look at it and get angry at myself, which might get me to do something productive instead of taking naps for no reason (I once read sleeping too much is a sign of depression) or lounging on the sofa doing nothing but squandering the net hoping for some flicker of interesting business.
But there isn't. Of course; it's the internet.

I get up in the morning, I stumble on that slipper in the dark and a wave of fresh frustration wakes me up. I kick it through the room in the evening to lose some pent up energy before going to sleep. I even remember religion because of that stupid slipper. I pray Anthony of Padua, patron saint of lost articles and the seekers of lost articles, to help me find back the other one. Yes, I am crazy. So shoot me. Or pray Saint Rita 'des causes déspérées'.

A human being shapes its life around a goal. When it hasn't got any, it's looking for one. When it doesn't feel like looking (and I actually don't feel like anything) it still needs focus, something to build its actions around. Even if that thing happens to be one slipper. The thing has become such a thorn in my eye that I can't enter a room with a shoe lying about without picturing the lost one. It's gained so much importance in my pig nest I might just as well place it on a pedestal.

Amazing, innit, how stupid objects or people take such place in people's lives. Emotional value, let me laugh, as the Dutch would say. I'm a hoarder. I keep so much useless stuff in my room one day I swear it's gonna go through the ceiling of the living room below. Right on the pool table, now wouldn't that be a sight, a collection of old books I haven't opened in years, of markers that don't work any more, of newspaper articles outdated by years, of magazines I'll probably never read again, of broken earphones, of souvenir seashells, of plastic bags filled with presents I didn't like and would never use. Bath bubbles. Colourful but itchy woollen mittens. A pink and glittery Santa hat. Booklets from school trips destined to my brother. Scraps of paper I kept because in some way or other they praised me. I'm fucking vain.

And on top of all that junk that'll have landed on the pool table, among the coloured balls, there'll be that one slipper.  Because failure is always what one sees first.

On Control Freaks at Hunter's Dinner.

Okay, so I love these kinds of Saturdays (and loathe the Sundays that follow, but that's another story).

Today was Hunt  Day. The traditional hunt, involving family on my father's side. And a bunch of lovely people with or without kids that you really wouldn't picture holding a gun if you didn't know them under these circumstances. I used to accompany on these hunts. Call it reconnecting with my wild side, if I have one.

Sadly, I had work for school this morning, and couldn't accompany directly. It's no use trying to catch up later, because these are 'battues' -- the hunters and trackers move together. The victims are pheasants, this time of year, and only the males, season's finished for hens as well as other small things traditionally preyed upon at 'battues', like hares.

Hunt Day on the family domain brings a pretty pitiful tableau (that's what's been killed). Mostly, it exists of nothing, nada, zero, and the hunters are happy they spotted something. Which explains why mos of the hunters are long time family friends, or members of the family. You do not go to the Bosmans hunt for the game (the wild animals hunted for food), you go for the Hunter's dinner after, 'ambiance' and 'blanquette' from Den Dikke Beenhouwer guaranteed. You go for the wine, the friends, the stories, the memories, you go so your kids can play in what is unmistakeably kids' heaven.

I guess it's fairly easy to deduce how much I love my family when you read this blog. It's true. For example, I sat in front of Nicholas Simonart at dinner, who went to the same school as I go to now and whose former landlord was my former technology teacher. We also are some kind of distant in-law relatives. We shared school souvenirs and laughed about our mutual teachers. It's amazing how many of them he knew. I've got to say 'hi' for him. How embarrassing is that?


It's fun though. As is playing with the dogs, kids and other underdeveloped organisms.
And stuffing yourself full of food, of course. Blanquette with mashed potato? Talk about filling. You might just as well eat concrete, except concrete tastes nothing as good as that treat. I feel like my stomach turned solid.

Moving on. My mother once again made me ashamed of my genes. Seriously, did someone cast a spell on us so she would behave like the teenage girl and me like the rational woman? She played matchmaker today. Seriously, matchmaker. Trying to get one of her old friends to hook up with one of dad's friends. Help. I am so writing a book on childhood trauma because of parents' pathetic behaviour.

Finally, for the little freak out: apparently, I am a control freak. Aptitude test interpreted by a teacher, but still, I was about to open my mouth to protest when I realised it was true. Scary as hell, discovering something that important about you you had never even imagined before. I thought I cared. In fact, I was trying to control? That's very creepy. My aunt, whom I talk to about these kinds of things, says it's a family trait, that every Bosmans sibling has it, each expressing it in other ways. I've caught my dad's strain, which is to take a big amount of the workload on yourself because you want to control the process. Hullo, trust issues. She says it's a good sign I've realised it, because that means I can work on it. I wanted to ask her what her strain was, since it's such a recurring family trait. Guess I do have tact.

I miss somebody I could talk to about these kinds of things. The deeper turmoil. Perhaps I need a shrink. You know, that aunt, my favourite aunt, she's on anti-depressants. When I was little, my goal was to grow up to be just like Joëlle. Just like her. And even though she's a great person, she hasn't got a life I envy. She gets crazy by living so close to her parents, my grand-parents, who aren't getting easier to live with with old age. She was an arts teacher for mentally handicapped people, adults who had the mental set of a 6 year-old and still peed in their pants, and she often had terrible workplaces and bosses. Yet she kept going at it. Elle a la niaque. Until it really became too much and she quit. She loved it, but she's never going back. I believe she's a true artist. Are all true artist troubled on the psyche side? And how troubled do you need to be to be good?

I do not know anyone who's like me in enough manners to understand me completely when I talk like this. I suppose it's why what I really think about important stuff rarely comes out. Sure, I have friends. But not one I'd bother with this stuff. Not one that'd want to be bothered, too. I happen to be a weirdo. Tough, but that's the way it is, and I've got to learn to deal with it.

I wish I could talk to someone, though. Is there anyone volunteering to be my shrink?

On New Years and other Bogus.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Voilà, that's done. It's purely traditional and pro forma, but I don't want to affront people by not wishing them a happy new year.
People always jump to conclusions way too quickly. Me not wishing you a happy year doesn't necessarily mean I wish you a bad one. It probably just means I'm not thinking about it at that moment.
Social conventions are not the first thing I think about. The fact that I live in a family and village where it's customary to give new year's wishes until half February, isn't helping. You are not thinking about wishing a happy new year when you meet people mid February. Uh-uh. No go.

I had a New Year's party at home last night. Well, till 5 this morning actually.
One thing I learned: never again let some of these girls close to a wide range of different alcoholic beverages after they've eaten raclette. Two were thoroughly pissed, one was a lousy drunk who was in a terrible state (who manages to ignore their limits enough to wind up nearly unconscious before 11 pm on New Year's Eve!?) whom we first put to sleep on her sleeping bag in my brother's room. That was until she started to throw up. In the end I dumped her and her sleeping bag in the bathtub, next to a bucket in case she had more regurgitating urges. A bucket that she of course managed to miss. I let her clean up her own mess this morning. At least she didn't bathe in it; I don't think I would have been able to cope with that over the breakfast table. I hope the smell will leave before my brother reclaims his room.

The other was a talkative drunk, the kind who won't shut up even if everybody around her is ready to bash her head in. In the end I isolated her from the others, who were cranky, tired, and slightly drunk, the latter not helping the first two. They slept in the living room, and I stuck her in my brother's room -- the one that hadn't been vomited in yet.

When I got down, the rest was asleep. I turned off Flashdance and considered dropping myself on one of the couches, but since everybody was asleep and the room smelled of beer, cheap cava, leftover bits of various alcohols and most noticeably sweat, I thought my own room was the better choice.

It was five by then. Four hours later, a blond obnoxious person who hadn't been able to listen to the same song for more than 20 seconds and kept cranking the volume up till the sound quality was complete shit (seriously, why did they have to get all that music off YouTube while they had it on their iPods?). (Yes, I know that wasn't a sentence.) You know her, she frequently is the object of my intense frustration, and thus quite often mentioned in these pages. Her name is Marine.
Anyway she shook me awake asking where our talkative drunk was.

Seriously, I could have slapped her. Were the snores not speaking for themselves?

Anyway, I was thoroughly pissed off, so when she was back asking if she could take a shower, I groaned, even though it sounded like a bark and I wouldn't have been too opposed to have a pack of feral dogs attacking her right there and then.

I suck because I never do what I think. I spend a pathetic amount of time searching for the right words and actions after the event has occurred. Tough, a bit sooner would have been the better timing. Those social conventions I mentioned earlier on are indeed not something I think about, it's something I live with, thanks to the upbringing of my parents. It basically means that you don't slap your guests, even if they prove to be insufferable bitches who get drunk and vomit all over the bathroom rug, or come shake you up to ask some of the most stupid questions known to man.

On a sad, sad note, I did not get drunk last night. Too bad. The scientist in me wants to know what me hungover would be like.

On a happy, happy note, I improvised a particularly crazy dance to Footloose last year (Oh mommy, look! A dumb joke!) and it was the best moment of the evening (put in perspective, it's actually quite sad). I had a blast, broke a sweat and kicked off my shoes. That's what New Year's Eve is all about, innit?

Be this year better than your last, dear readers.