terrible-lies.com

It’s another of my favourite season gone and I still haven’t made it back to my beloved Edinburgh where I fell in love back in 2003. The autumn colours were good to my eyes and the smell of maple a pat on my cerebral surface. It was a sense of melancholy that had produced tears of joy. But instead of spending the money to go anywhere, I decided to join the gym and book my flight back home. Finding it more important to visit your family instead of a well-deserved holiday in solitude is normal. For solitude, I only need to find a different place behind a closed door and it should be fine. But I won’t tolerate any noises other than my own and that of the boiler. In a town like this, it’s very difficult. You would imagine I’m better off in a hut somewhere in the mountains. Maybe…but ghosts would haunt me. My head would release too many sounds and misconceived images. How inspiring they might be sometimes, I couldn’t handle the overkill. The overkill of anything would drive me towards the edge of what’s left of my own mercy.
Mercy, yes, you heard right. The word just randomly shot through my head and it makes perfect sense, but in a non-biblical way of course.
There are people who can’t forgive themselves and who are unkind to themselves. And those people you can no longer save from insanity.

This morning was my first time jogging through the cemetery. Pretty much all grave stones were moss-covered, the paths hilly and uneven, but all those names still have meaning. While thinking about that I felt a tingle in my stomach. All those names were begging to be revived, but I don’t remember any of their names.

Someone insulted me by saying I was the female equivalent of Schopi. Why would they say that? If there’s one dog breed that I don’t like, it’s poodles. Scarily enough the night after, I dreamt about petting an abandoned white poodle. Poodles are so weird; always so anxious and so full of themselves…
If I say I cannot give the required motherly love to a baby, this also applies to dogs; your most loyal friends. Strangely enough, the idea of looking after someone seems to mean the world to a lot of people, as if they had no other purposes. I feel sorry for those, but at the same time I admire them. At least they know how to function and interact with creatures of the same kind; the kind which resents you for not feeling the same way; the kind that doesn’t understand that a feeling is never mutual.
We may smell the same, but the ingredient of our sweat is of different origin. People never will understand.

27, and still can’t use a basic tin opener, I get confused about whether I’m a right- or left-handed person. There’s nothing that confuses me more than that. So this morning I couldn’t have beans on toast, because I ran out of Heinz beans – you know they have a ring pull system which other brands don’t have! Why would I buy non-Heinz beans? I was so screwed this morning. I was too embarrassed to ask my landlady for help – you know me, I don’t ask for help – I haven’t got to that point yet where I’m shameful enough to do so. And yet, I’m telling you this. That’s because for me, you don’t exist. Not many things do.
But decent tin openers exist and I will buy one today.

I think in order to get the person that I really want, I need to work a lot harder, not for his sake, but for my very own. Maybe I will get to the point where I will tell him “I no longer want you”. Then I will watch him drown in his own perplexity while I cry on the inside shouting at myself for being a piteous liar.
And there’s nothing worse than lying for the sake of pride.
It’s inevitable that every day we do things that we hate. And hating only signifies that we are prisoners of our own emotions – the feeling of being trapped; doing things that we don’t want to do, but our duties are more than clear. You may call it discipline, OCD or whatever, but it doesn’t change the fact that the concept of freedom is only wishful thinking; imagination striving for escapism. It has never been different.
Once you have arrived at your desired place, there will always be something missing.

Going back to Schopi, I don’t like him as much I as I like Cioran, who expresses a lot more anger and determination and truth, while Schopi was just hateful and resentful of those around him, particularly his mother.
I just realised that all my favourite philosophers never believed that life was about something more. To them it is all about staying alive and feeding our boredom.

Please note that all these words I write I don’t talk about. If we meet, please kindly keep this shit to yourself, because I don’t discuss things. I couldn’t discuss things with anyone.
What if we could? Then you must be the character that I’ve been waiting for all my life. I want you naked on my sheet of paper…so bad…

If we live only to delay the end and to distract ourselves from the end, it will make more sense to pretend that there is no end, like we already do and yet, some cannot wait for the end, they even speed up to meet the end.
The only reason why I’m in a hurry is only because I’m not sure how much time is left. One hour is like thirty minutes and five minutes like two. Living in this city doesn’t make things any easier.

Last week I dreamt that I could run up mountains, but now I find myself climbing with dry hands and broken fingernails. This is why I wake up, tired. I’ve been climbing all night!
This also explains my leg cramp last night which felt like a rat squeezing itself through a tight hole. Who knew that flexing your knees and pointing your toes downwards is not good for the blood flow in your legs? It’s an ordinary sleeping position.
My poor calf muscle…how ironic that these painful moments most frequently occur when you’re resting, when you believe that you’re at peace. Now suddenly I’m thinking about John Hughes’s death. Dreadful things can happen when you take a relaxing afternoon walk.
Other than that my landlady had decided to call someone to repair her shower at midnight. This is how out of order she is. And she knows I go to bed between 9-9:30pm. Inconsideration I do not tolerate and yet I am a coward for not saying anything.
I know I am an old girl who currently hates her life. And if my body hates me, I hate it back, but I still care for it.
Also I can’t believe that it’s time again to ask my landlady to top up my metre. I have 50pence worth of electricity left in my room and I know she will say it’s enough for another day.

I’ve met up with my new landlord a couple of times to sort out tenancy agreement, deposit receipt. Now that everything’s done, he’s revealing a little more weirdness and I no longer have this feeling that he’s a quiet guy. I was hoping this landlord-tenant-relationship would remain discreet. One doesn’t have to be friends with everyone. I’m getting tired of this game.

In one of John Martin’s painting there is a man struggling to climb a mountain – jagged cliffs everywhere. I forgot his name, but he is searching for the waters of oblivion.
You must have done something awfully bad, if you seek to forget. But he has made this his mission in life; he’s ready to go through hell just so he can forget. I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry about this. However, it’s his strong will that I admire, as it reminds me of Sisyphus.
No matter if good or bad, as long as you have something important to accomplish, nothing matters.
If art and photography are about capturing the moment, is writing then about finding sustenance in words?
There is a lot of art out there and living with art means to make it your own. The originality lies within you and how you plan to post-modernise it. See what Johnny did with Trent’s song. If you want to make something your own you simply apply it to your own life. Why worry about what’s been done and said. I want to know how you can do and say it. Nothing is ever the same.

Without my novel I feel naked and useless, I don’t know what to do with myself. I just realised that every day I wake up it’s to go to work, as if there was nothing more to live for. However, the break I’m taking from the book is necessary.
But I’m dying to read the comments on my thesis and I wish dear Maria would hurry and send them to me. This will be the last piece of feedback that I will receive from F. and I NEED it! Urgently!

Someone please massage my calf.

We can delay the end together…by massaging each other?

Europa is probably the second best von Trier movie that I’ve seen. The opening was a little haunting because I was reminded of last night’s dream in which I saw two hung people dangling from a tree. And strangely, I was on a train myself when I saw them.
As long as precognition comes true via film rather than real life, it’s ok, right?
Young Kessler is the exact image of how I have imagined Stuart McCormick. He just needs a little bit more determination and he would be perfect. Who would have guessed that the movie’s already twenty year’s old? Watching how the character attempts to show kindness, I had to giggle all the way through. The juxtaposition of colour and black & white was fascinating and striking. It was a sudden moment of revelation and truth. And yet, love covers up your eyes as usual.
While already bordering on madness, you realise that your kindness is not, in any way, changing anything. People will always screw you over. It doesn’t even matter if they love you. A lie, a betrayal…remain a lie and a betrayal.
It all ends in agony.

Today the fog covered up the city to give us a Dickean atmosphere. It was spooky, but arousing… When running this morning, my face and hair caught a lot of water – so cold, but still refreshing.
I slept in today and didn’t wake up until half past seven. Some say I should try to go back to sleep anyway, but I can’t. There’s too much to do…
And tomorrow I have to back to work again with a smiley face.

I have been looking at my shoes lately. My slippers are falling apart. My chucks have holes and so do my Fila trainers which I’ve had since Year 7. Despite having a professional job, I look like a school kid on the outside. It’s not attractive. When buying a kitchen knife, do you ever get IDed? As if they cannot see the exhaustion in my eyes, the lines running down from my nasal wings.
I can’t do my hair properly either, and besides, they need cutting.
However, I neither have the time nor the money to pamper myself these days and if I do, I’d rather dedicate the time to something productive like work on the video blog and finish the final paragraph of the novel before the revision process.

Stuart McCormick. I always imagine him as a six foot tall guy with glasses. He is the only heart surgeon to prove to me that a heart can be fixed. There is just no one else that I believe…

It’s close and there’s nothing that I can do about it. And before I begin to attach any blame to you, you’d better turn around and leave.
Did I ever mention that my last panic attack, before today’s one, was late August? I thought I did really well and my shoulder deserved to be patted, but as you know, certain things always return…like people who want more out of you. But a feeling like this is usually self-inflicted, usually because your environment unsuitable for your personal standards. Adjustment, they say, is important in life. I agreed to a certain point and now I no longer do. You are gifted if you have the ability to adjust. It’s part of the survival game (of which I am sick now!).

My evening run was horrific – started off really cold, but you either run yourself warm or take a cold shower and remain cold. Keep poking your immune system and suffer hard, it’s only for a moment. I felt warm eventually, but it was the first time a sense of paranoia impelled me to speed up. You think that only children suspect their shadows of following them? To be honest, I never looked at my shadow that closely before, the way it jumps, expands and overtakes me as I am running. I never look behind me when I run, but I could swear someone was behind me!

Having completed the novel I’m still not satisfied. I think I’m not entirely convinced of it yet, as I fear to look more closely at the darker elements behind the plot and character. It’s like gazing down at my end, not hers.
I’d give everything to be her, although on the emotional front, she is me already and she hates me for it. She is very contagious, especially her nimbus, which is now above my head, robbing my concentration, my calm and composure. Get rid of it!!! F***!

Funny that at the age of Seventeen I lived for the Sex Pistols song which saved me from the insignificance of peer pressure. And Alice Cooper’s Eighteen I completely forgot about. Jimmy Eat World’s Twenty-three gave me a sense of redemption. I hated that age, because my metabolism took a big turn. In the song Wish, Trent sings about being on the way to hell at the age of Twenty-six. And now looking at all the dead Twenty-sevens, I am actually quite anxious. I’m not quite sure where I am headed at the moment. I’m spending my time discharging the heat. I just want to keep my equilibrium? Be good. It’s not time yet. I want to become Twenty-eight – for there’s so freaking song about it.

Talking about anxiety, my sleep hyperhydrosis wakes me up every night. I knew that doubling my green tea consumption wasn’t the ideal option, but it was worth a try. Now I find myself washing my pillow case every other day. They say you should wash it weekly as apparently it’s dirtier than a toilet seat. Does anyone want to know how hygienic Lovecraft’s famous pillow is? That pillow holds your sickest and most nauseating nightmares. In comparison to his, mine is very harmless. In my nightmares you won’t walk on solid ground, but you’ll tumble and lose direction.
If you have an idea of how to diminish a hellish heat within, then please advice. Or maybe we could share our heat and get rid of it this way?

I am not being flirty, I meant it. Let’s become molten together.

So I’ve completed Ellen’s narrative, now I have to switch to the third person free indirect style, from the perspective of an innocent paedophile (you need Nabokov to explain this). Difficult but it needs to work. It’s only now that I kind of recall certain events on which my concepts are based on. But you rewrite everything in a way that it appears to be new like an original idea, but actually you have witnessed something in the past and you realise that your imagination is somewhat connected to the jelly in you. And over the years you attempt to harden up the jelly. It takes time.
I don’t know what’s going on, but I haven’t received my thesis results like everyone else. And Maria, the secretary is ignoring my emails. However, before I get them, I’d like to have the novel finished…in case of demoralization when reading Goldsmiths’ uber-critical comments.

Having worked for almost two months, I must say I have adapted myself quite well despite certain levels of hectic within the working environment. People are starting to let me “in” due to my integration and because I’m an early bird. I feel a lot more comfortable now.
I have noticed certain factors which are generally related to human relationships, no matter if friends, collaborators, partners or whatever, when it comes to money, you realise that a certain extent of discretion is required.
This is why you NEVER ask a friend to lend you money and you never lend money to them.

Business, eh?

How despicable this word is, I have learnt a lot in the last two months – from being scammed to being sincerely hired. I thought I had my own rules for the survival game, but when it comes to earning money, there are more rules to be added to the game. (Note that rules are ok when they are set by you.) The good thing is that you’re not required to be insincere, you just shut your mouth and I have no problems with that. As you know, I shut my mouth about a lot of things. And if I do say something, it always comes out the wrong way. (You remember my blog on Lars.)
Sometimes I know what people want to hear, but I just won’t say it. If I feel like deceiving them I pretend we share the same opinion and they’ll be like: “You and I are the same!”

Yes. We are sooo similar.

Is that the novelty of blending in, Dexter? Quite useful sometimes, isn’t it? Unlike you, I don’t want to be like them.
They call a “loner” but this word derives from “lonely”, so don’t fucking call me that.

I admit I have been very selfish lately; been treating my friends terribly. They invite me, I decline them. They text me, I ignore them. I need to keep in mind that when declining them, I shouldn’t give reasons. Whenever I give reasons I seem to be dragging them down with me.
The room in my life has become so small, I can’t even fit myself in, let alone a friend? I need more room.
I understand they all want to talk, but the thing with me is – I don’t. That’s the problem. You know what it’s like being around people with whom you cannot be who you are. They don’t realise that they have a problem with who you are. They might accept you for who you are, but they don’t like it and they will ask you to make an exception for at least a day. For instance, a friend invites you to her wedding, despite knowing you hate ceremonies like that. And they ask you to pull a happy face for at least a day. And it’s difficult, horribly difficult. In order to stop you from calling me selfish: I went to the wedding, but not more needs to be said. I will not attend any other ones, not even my own.

The power of green tea has saved my life, at least in the last two months. However, the angry sentiments have returned. And I knew they would. I clench my fists for no particular reason. No matter what I do to become a better person to myself, I seem to grow immune to all those…good drugs; my conscience does, if I still remember how it functions. Everything loses effect – so quickly. With me in particular. It’s as if this horrible thing can’t wait to salute me for real.

I was flat hunting again and surprisingly found something really fast.
There’s no way I’m going to extend my current contract. Landlady was having a massive argument with her son the other week – and this seems to happen frequently. Apart from that, she has her granddaughter over every damn weekend. She was squealing like a pig the other week; I have no idea what she was crying about, but a kid’s cry is so haunting. Besides, I envy them too much to be around them.
However, when my landlady and her son were arguing downstairs, I went to the bathroom and saw the girl in my landlady’s room. She was sad. In fact, I don’t hate her that much. I just prefer her quiet.
But there are several other reasons why I just do not wish to extend my contract. She turns small talk into small talk “conversation”. If the sun’s shining, she’d go on about the sun shine yesterday or last week, last month. Sun will probably shine tomorrow too or next weekend.
A conversation that can be short and simple becomes 30min. I can’t take it any longer. Even if it’s just once or twice a week.
I’d rather you enquire about my sex life. Or how about you tell me what you and your son always argue about?
Also, every month I have to ask her to top up my metre for electricity. Every time it shows“40pence left”, I get nervous about the food in my fridge. And she would say it’s enough for another day and a half.
So she’s only going to top up once the metre has gone CLICK? Yes. That happened over a week ago. And she was not in. I was sitting in the dark, typing until my laptop battery went off. This made me feel more horrible about my life than I already did.

I wish I had the money to live on fucking own. Give me some space. How much I love my friends, I have to admit I am glad to be on my own. Sometimes instead of going for a coffee with someone, I’d rather walk through the cemetery and steal beautiful names in order to create a new life for them…in a story. Not even writers would understand this.

From next month, I will be living with a quiet landlord with a strange personality, but he is reliable, quiet and clean – there is nothing more I look for in a flat mate. He says he is hardly ever home. And when he is I’ll only get to see him in the kitchen. I like the sound of it.

You’re anxious that I chose to live with a man, who, on the behavioural level is similar to me? Well, it was either him or extend contract with my current landlady who has started praying hysterically every morning like a madwoman. If God was the truth, why would people constantly call it The Ugly Truth?

I cannot breathe; cold sweat, continuous eye lubrication blurring my vision…
An ice cold shiver has eaten its way through my limbs. I’m gasping for air like an asthma patient.
My entire past – an accumulation of dirt has just overflowed into my present; the morass no longer keeping the dark faculties at the bottom and the heat exhuming out of it is fighting against my body’s attempt to cool down.
I find myself lying down on Buddy’s bed. With shaking hands I pull my duvet down from my bed and cover my entire body.
Underneath the cave, the evacuation of heat continues to permeate my whole environment, unraveling a cursed energy that I now can taste from the bitterness on my sweaty upper lip. It’s getting damper, the air is tight.
It’s funny how in moments like these you feel most alive. But I have already told you. The art of struggle always gives you a reason to fight back.
The more I can keep this poisonous nimbus underneath, the better. I shall no longer inflict anguish on anyone with my precipitation. But like every cloud, I was made, made by little particles which were hoping to evolve and create. It’s nothing but biology, physics, chemistry. And yet, there are people who believe in the existence of spirits.
And like each creation, you believe there is good and bad. As for the definition of good and bad, there is none. It’s like there is no God, unless you believe. God exists in the heads of those who strongly believe that there is good. It’s the kind of autosuggestion that can make you feel better eventually – believing that there is a higher power that watches over you, just so you don’t feel alone.
Pathetic.
Ultimately it’s them who have created something in their heads. They are the producers of their own good. Is humanity, in the broader sense, merely a hoax? You doubt yourself, and instead of working on it, you find trust in yourself via your own God.
How different is a Christian from someone with an authoritative voice in his head? The voice I hear has temporarily stopped asking for blood. Ever since the transfusion, my needs are no longer excessive, but the dark faculties haven’t altered, if anything, I’ve become more aware of them and I’ve begun to view them with less fear.
Having analyzed my blood, I realized that mine and Scott’s are completely identical. Even if you have the same blood type, under the microscope, if you have a sharp eye for detail, you will see distinguishable movements, peculiar and deformed shapes of certain cells and whether or not they are loners or clingy bastards.
The cells, although unaware of good and bad, have a job to do. All my life I have related myself to them. You dedicate your life to a job that distracts you from everything around you. The only thing that distracts a cell is bacteria. The cell’s instinct will ultimately incite it to diminish the bacteria. If a cell kills, it will be for a good reason, which is to save you.
Overall, no matter if good or bad, there is always a creator – a creator that doesn’t always care about his product. And this is where the problem begins.

It wasn’t love…
During my recovery I had spent a lot of time thinking, redeveloping the negatives in my head. I understand now that the reason why I hadn’t tossed these negatives was, because it’s not possible. They are not physical like an appendix that you can remove and dispose of. Pictures of the past, however, in whichever form, will remain with you as a piece of psychic material until you bite the dust. Personally I find physical scars prettier, they are easy to grasp and also come in various shapes.
Stuart left me a sweet one on my waist area. It looks like a centipede.
I have never learnt to live with those images; I have spent years studying them, figuring out how it was best to fix them, filter them, because I do not and I cannot accept them. Once I have, then what ?
They say, in spite of reshaping the past and memories, your feelings will always tell you the truth, no matter how well you try to veil or modify them.
But…
I have no feelings. The only way to judge the image is by facial expressions, gestures and other body language.
Now as a successful heart surgeon at Mount Sinai I’ve begun to question the purpose of my life. Like the Brothers Grimm, I had, throughout my life, tried to embellish the truth with the idea of love – unrequited love that resembled a fairy tale without ever accepting the origin of these stories. The lucky ones, like Mr. Adkins for instance, to whom Kant, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche are unknown people, aren’t even aware that there is a so-called truth. If one denies the truth, he denies himself. The truth is not God, neither the world’s core, but it’s you alone; it’s the lines on your hands, each single hair on your body, the 60 000 miles of veins beneath your skin. The cells are the real people who walk down the roads of life, every minute, every second. You, as a person, are merely the product of those inner faculties – in other words: thoughts and feelings. We have never really come to an agreement on what these things are good for and yet the red sea is producing life out of us and communicates through pain, but what for will always remain a question….

This is the kind of revitalising cold that I enjoy; under a windless winter sun and Gustav Mahler in my ears to dissolve the heat in the core. – This is what I thought at 6am and by the time it was 12pm, the heat rose and I sweated like a pig in my winter coat.
It’s not quite autumn, yet. I’ll give it a few more days.

If you ask me what I choose between catching up with my friends and writing, I’m going for writing. Catching up with friends would mean depressing them, infuriating them with my current view on things. The weekends are currently mine and mine alone. I spend 45 hours at work during week (-5 hours for lunch) and by the time I get home it’s almost seven and I spend about 2 hours writing before I go to sleep at 9pm. It’s like back at school! Exciting? Maybe, I do like getting up at 5am; it’s calm, cool, comforting, but the horror begins on the train – you Londonic idiots know.

When I was at the Loafers Café, I didn’t realise that it was an open day. I found myself staring at all the newbies with pure envy. Also I was hoping to bump into a certain someone, catching his Tintin posture. I was kind of testing whether I really couldn’t write in public. However, I ended up writing a good 500 words in two hours. Haven’t I told you that I’m a slow writer? Words don’t just come like that in my head, but a certain emotion, thought or tickle in flesh come almost instantly and they all need expression. It takes time, for me at least. It’s because I don’t use big words like you; you who aim to sound over intellectual and poetic. I’m no native English speaker after all. I do try to be articulate.
Apparently at work I don’t articulate myself clearly enough in my remarks and tour reports. But I have to communicate with Japanese people from sales offices whose English are dreadful and on top of that they use tons of abbreviations (as they all do in this company) thinking that it’s smart. It’s pure LAZINESS. I condemn everyone who’s lazy, especially in the use of words.
And they say I don’t express myself clearly…

For your information, I’m not depressed, just angry, as usual, surrounded by Londonic idiots with nothing good in store; it’s either Londonic idiots or despairing newbies who don’t know their way round. But I like watching the newbies as I can compare myself with them and check who is better at adapting himself to the Londonic environment. I cried a few times, too, until a few months ago I realised that this icky place deserves no tear, neither does any place.

It has been somewhat terrifying reading Houellebecq for the past week. Although the book’s one year old, the contemporary contents were over-contemporary and foreshadowing. Pretty often the opposing image of Jobs and Gates was presented with an emphasis on Jobs’s sad face. Then it took a slight Dorian Gray-turn in terms of art but in conjunction with financial aspects and a lot of relation to Houellebecq’s view on society, customs, religion, apathy/decadence and a dysfunctional love life. I was just interested in the art bit and his of lack of interest regarding unrequited love. It’s the first time I noticed that about him. He longer gives a damn and neither do I. However, what he illustrates in the book is his own murder. And it is not committed by the novel’s protagonist, I wouldn’t have thought so anyway. (The voice switches from third person omniscient to free indirect style.) Although the protagonist is a male artist I had to imagine myself being him when he meets Houellebecq at his house in Dublin. It’s no secret that I am in love with the ideas and attitudes that this man represents, right? I am not in love with him; it’s just that I understand the sentiments behind his words, which his detractors find revolting and obscene.
In terms of other contemporary elements, there is a section where the protagonist’s father chooses to end his life via euthanasia in Switzerland. He thought the artificial anus was getting a little too ridiculous for the continuation of his life. I enjoyed the father and son story and how the protagonist, after the father’s “evaporation”, brutally beats up the Swiss woman who was in charge. I didn’t mean to write “brutally”, it was two hits. I would have smacked her up continuously.
Houellebecq, in the novel, pretty much depicts himself as a wreck, but a wreck that produces great words. Then he writes about maggots popping out of his mouth.
One day we’ll feed our words to maggots because there will be no one else that listens anymore. No detractors, no loved ones.
This makes me believe that even if you have enemies or detractors, no one will hate you more than you already hate yourself. And it feels good that way. I’m not saying that hate is a good thing, but I’m not explaining it to you.

What was I going to say anyway? Yes, Switzerland. Only lately I’ve been playing around with the thought of going there and maybe spend some time there. They say it’s a clean country, calm country, conducive country, but it’s a country where they practise euthanasia and keep anonymous bank accounts. However, I just want to visit the mountains – maybe spend a few days there in a hut and get paranoid. It’s about time to say hi to the monsters of calm. I have to keep them coming in order to get rid of them. This is the course of my life.
To lessen your concern, I’m by no means J.-B. Grenouille. Him I understand, too.

These men are not granted love, they just watch it slip and it means nothing. Anymore, anyway.

I might as well let people think that I am a delight; it can be easy to blend in without having to tell lies. You just smile and keep your mouth shut. The smile, however, refers to some funny, mischievous thought or picture you have in mind and no one will ever know what it is.

I just ripped out a small article about Lars von Trier joking about being a nazi. You remember when he was at the Cannes Fest sitting next to Kirsten Dunst? Do you remember the look on her face? I know what type of a person Lars is; he doesn’t tell jokes; and unaware of this inappropriate dark comedy approach in front of a conventional crowd with boring moral codes, he was doomed to cause another scandal. And this is why he is brilliant. His remarks are not meant to insult and yet, ‘people’ think otherwise.
This is why introverts don’t talk much.
In the article he claims: “I do not possess the skills to express myself unequivocally…”
Lars, people like us don’t express ourselves with the spoken word; we use art and therefore what we express is stronger than every word spoken.
I also don’t blame him for refraining from giving any more interviews. Who likes interviews anyways? People who seek attention, of course. Unlike them, we seek attention by inspiring the ambitious. We don’t fool them into capitalism and mindless consumerism, not with ulterior motives.

Funny that when telling people that I’m a writer, they instinctively think I write romance for the masses. It’s hilarious. When I mention ‘transgressive fiction’ they don’t get it. So I keep on saying that I write obscene stuff that people don’t talk about. And you can tell how squeamish they get only after hearing the term ‘obscene’.

As you may have noticed, I’ve learnt a lot from Dexter. It does make life a lot easier to blend in occasionally, especially if you have to deal with dozens of people who only care about their own business and all they need from you is a little hint of positive attitude – no matter if feigned or not. They only need to see that you appear to fit in. Most are too blind or too indifferent to check what’s behind your back anyway or what’s lurking beneath the surface. To my luck, not many people are interested anyway, and some don’t even see it. I can’t tell whether it’s a good thing or not. Maybe there are more than two who accept me for who I am.

Whoever enters my room complains of it being cold. I sleep with windows half open and they’re half open throughout the day, unless I’m out. Yes, my room is cold and so are my hands, even if the heating is on. The heat doesn’t reach me. Like the blood never reaches my fingertips. Maybe I’m still boiling up at a certain spot in my body. I don’t know how long the green tea will keep me calm.
And well, I’m still not plagued by a cold because I eat more fruits than you do.

Now that it is autumn, everyone’s ill and whenever I’m on the tube in the morning, I am plagued by people’s morning breaths and farts. The only problem I have with autumn is that people are prone to colds and the last thing I need is people sharing their germs in the underground. I never hold on to anything when on the tube. If it gets shaky I pretend I’m surfing, I try to predict the next shaky movement, so I know where to load my weight. You may call me crazy, but I’m really not keen on your germs, really not. I’d rather you choke on them and burn.

It’s hell jogging in this wind. The smell of the autumn air is wonderful, except for the piercing wind inducing tears and runny nose. Running and crying at the same time makes you look like you’re turning your back on something. When running around the cemetery, I see crying angels, which doesn’t help.
Maybe it’s time to sign up at the gym again.

How I hate not having my own toilet. In the morning I go to the toilet about 5 times, because I drink gallons of water and green tea. So my landlady always sees me walking into the bathroom. She thinks I have chronic diarrhoea.

Someone told me that I shouldn’t expose too much, because there are a lot of people out there who will use the exposure against me, even friends. As I said before, there is no one in your life who wouldn’t use anything against you. Even your best friend would use your negative traits against you in an argument. But it’s only natural, isn’t it? I never know what natural behaviour is to you and what’s not.

Shaking.
It’s not always a sign of fever.

Melancholia left me with certain sentiments:
I feel so attracted to you, you rouse my female parts into action, make my nipples sore, but what’s the point? You’re going to crush me, destroy me anyway with that shimmering light of yours. You eliminate my existence for you cannot control yourself. Me – the only life that you’ve ever known. But I won’t run away, I can’t. Swallow me now and I’ll make your heart burn; the most painful heartburn you’ve ever experienced.

If we were to die today a sense of unfulfillment would forever leave us incomplete, wouldn’t it? Even as particles of the cold, we’d glide and move on until we’ve found a place that has space for hope.

Do you remember the fat man in the red suit with tartan patterns? I still haven’t quite overcome my fear of him. Sometimes in bed, I listen to The Cure’s ‘Lullaby’ on repeat, and that’s when I feel his cold breath behind my ear. I wonder what E. would do. She has nightmares, too, except that I’d class my problem as hypnagogic paranoia.

I still have to figure out who my sweetest friend is. The one to tell me what I have become.

Do you even know what this means? Do you know how important it is? Normal would be to have 10 hours of it per day. You call me crazy, but in reality you’re just scared of it, you’re scared of yourself. I’m not saying this about everyone, just to those who accuse me of flirting with Houellebecq-ian and Cioran-ian principles. I already told you that I’m different from them, on the outside anyway. What do you care about what really fuels my engine? I’m smiling at you right now, aren’t I? That should be all that counts. After all I have hope, which means I’m no longer scared, just tired, but I cannot afford to be tired. There’s too much to do, still a lot to learn. Too many people to tell that they are not worth it and too many left to kiss. Six kisses in your life just aren’t enough. People get to a point where they lose count and I want to get there, too.

Yes I had a fabulous weekend on my own and I will have it again. I’m not going to call you, unless I’m ok with it. Have you got a problem with it? Then let’s end the friendship right here. At least I’m not saying I’m going to call you when I need something, I said I’m going to call you when I’m ok with it – big difference. I think about my friends all the time, how often do I have to tell you? Once I know I’m due for a “hello”, I will fucking say hello, ok.

I’ve been reading Houellebecq’s latest book as well and I like how he is faithful to his style. It still makes me smile when he separates his protagonist from human-beings.  And he loves choosing exceptionally beautiful women to be his girlfriends – there’s nothing wrong with that. I mean I wish I was dating a cardiac surgeon and I wish I was one myself. But Houellebecq, despite his stance towards society and life, he is a delight. He’s wonderful. Come on, we’re talking about a writer who falls asleep during interviews.

I can’t wait to move out and have a place of my own, with my friend and one day – maybe not in this bloodsucking country – on my fucking own. I thought my new room was nice, but I’ve started feeling claustrophobic, I have no proper space to move around, no fan that extracts the steam while cooking, etc. I can hardly do my Pilates on that soft depressing double bed, hardly space to move my mouse on the table. At the weekends the neighbours are noisy and about twice a week my landlord’s daughter and granddaughter come to visit, which incites me to hold my bladder to avoid going to the downstairs toilet. Sick, I know. But I don’t want to socialise, you see, not even a hello. And when I pee in the bathroom they can hear it in the dining room, because the fucking door doesn’t shut properly. Though, I’m not making it obvious how I despise socialising. My landlord still thinks I’m a delightful person. And the granddaughter looks at me as if I was her favourite doll – but I’m not having this. Talking about kids staring at me – I’ve always thought that it had something to do with my skin colour or my eyes, but it’s not true. The other day on the tube, there was an Oriental baby in the pram. It stared at me as if I was a disease. God, these fucking creatures!

Although things are pretty much settling down, I’m still in such a hurry. I don’t get home from work until about 6 or 7ish and by the time it’s 9, I’m already in bed. This is not life, is it? I have to work on my routine still – how much I hate routines.

Fuck, my room still smells of soy sauce. Cooking my lunch a night before is horrible, but yes, it saves me money. It’s just that re-heated food is not healthy, not just that, it tastes shit once it’s been re-heated in the micro wave. I threw today’s pasta with pesto away. It tasted dry and disgusting.

Well, regarding writing and reading, I only have little space for these activities, but I at least have the space just not always on a regular basis. Therefore weekends have become MY days. And if I don’t want to see you, take it personally, I don’t care. It means you know shit about me and right now I seriously don’t have the nerves to explain who I am to you. There are a lot of things that I do on my own: I travel, I go to the opera / cinema / gym / park / etc. on my own. If I want to invite you along I will tell you. By all means, I haven’t forgotten about you. But you’re offended, you don’t care and honestly, I don’t care about you feeling this way. As I said it’s up to you to put an end to it, I’m done with explaining. Sincerely, it doesn’t mean I don’t care about you as a person. But it’s time for you to believe what you want.

This may be hard to understand, but I know it makes sense to you in a way, although we have different ideas about friendship, human interaction and communication. Just fucking let me go to bed now.