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.

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.

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.

Not joking, past caring.

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

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

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

But I can't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bis repetitam non placent

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

Truly, this blog is starting to be terribly boring.

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

Probably why I am not girlfriend material.

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

Dance.

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

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

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

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

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

I can't dance.

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

Something's gotta grieve

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

00.00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday Night Fever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About the SLB.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow.

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

Sooo, this calls for drastic measures:

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

And all that before lunch. For the afternoon:

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

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


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