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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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...