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?