Hello my name is...

I've been sitting here writing for like 40 min. I write something, and then censor it, and write something else, and censor it. It's a bunch of whining, really. Maybe it's just therapeutic to write it down. It's funny how little of what I think that I actually tell people. I mean, it's probably the same for everyone. I guess. How would I know? :p Maybe I should say, it's lucky how little of what I think that I actually tell people.

I censor everything that comes out. Everything, to varying degrees but still. I figure that also is the same for everyone, but I don't know that either. Some people really seem to say what they think, but I guess if you think fairly ok things then that's ok. Huh. That right there is another of my quirks. When I say things about people I envy or admire (it's the same thing though right?) it always comes out sounding like an insult, so I usually censor that. It's not an insult. Let me try again. If you think good things, then it's ok. Nuh, still kinda sounds like an insult. Like a pat on the head :<

The essence of my whiny mood lies in a few things: being stuck here with my family for too long (I need my independence dammit!), not having my computer (this made me realize how dependent I've gotten on it for social stuff), and my leg and back being crappily crappy and it bringing around some realizations. Like that if I have kids, I won't be able to run around and play with them, or catch them if they wander into the middle of the road. But I think what really brought this bout of depression down was that some people went to an amusement park, and I thought, well crap I would have wanted to come, and that funny guy Voice of Reason said, "No, you don't, because you can't walk for shit and after an hour you'd be sitting on a park bench with a hurting back and hurting ankle and a fake smile as they walked away from you to do something fun, or much worse were stuck sitting there with you". And then it turned into a merry little garden party when old buddy Who Do You Think You Are popped out to cheer me up saying, "Oh what, are you crying now? Don't be such a wimp, there's so many people so much worse off than you."

Oh good. This time I could write it with a bit of humor instead of deep black emo-ness. Therapy session over.

Wroom

Fell on the bike, first time since I started biking again. It's when I start or stop that I risk tipping over to the left, and if I do, there's a loooong terrible moment where I know I'm going to fall over and can do absolutely nothing about it. I can fret and wave about, but all it accomplishes is to make me look even more stupid. That's why I'm afraid of biking. I do it anyway because of the time it saves, but I'm always afraid of having to stop at a red light, always heave a sigh of relief when I don't tip over. 

And unlike falling when standing up or something, there is absolutely no way to fall gracefully on a bike. Either you get the damned thing over you, or under you, or it gets stuck to your pants or your shoes, and it has you collapse very un-prettily in a pile of arms and legs and metal.

In this case I grabbed onto the basket of a nearby parked bike to try and stop the fall, which only, of course, made that bike fall on top of me too. Once I'd untangled myself, there's a woman standing a few feet away staring at me. "Are you hurt?" And I go "no no" and say some excuse about my leg being bad and pointing to the thingy I have attached to help with walking. Drunk students everywhere around me, so she probably thought I was drunk. That hurt my pride something incredible, for some reason. Not only did she watch me have one of my damned, hated, fearful, humiliating battles with an immobile bike sloooowly tipping over, she also probably though I was too drunk to handle the immobile bike. I felt like attacking her, just to be sure.

I didn't though. Sometimes that's the only difference between me and a serial killer, that I don't, but that's all that really matters. That, and the fact that someone who can't handle a fucking immobile bike probably does not make an amazing serial killer.

Please do appreciate the wry cynicism in my voice here. I'm trying to deal with the fact that because I sloooowly tipped over on an immobile (fucking) bike, I'm going to be extra terrified for a couple of days, or weeks, or months. Last time I quit for several years. God I was such a whimp.

Creative breakdown

Hehe, first I pick on you guys for not blogging, then I sigh because I suddenly have to read lotz.

My writing is behaving strangely. (In case anyone wondered what happened to Kirya.) For one, I am nullifying the latest Chapter, The Way Through Heaven, because... well, I had plans, and I have new plans, and all in all no plans I ever make add up correctly, and I just think half of the chapter is the victim of inconsequential and very bad writing, especially the ending.

The better, more professional form my writing gets, the more crap I write. Or rather; the better I know I can do, the harder I judge what I do until the smallest story turn into a novel project on life and death. And Kirya has hit a wall because Shemhazai is important, and I have to make him important without fucking up Kirya's importance, and I seem to have lost all contact with Obon's personality, and I'm just too fucking hard on myself.

And I'm writing this because I just copied the Kirya-file from my hard-drive to my memorystick and forgot that it was the file on the stick that was the latest version so I have just lost the remake of the latest chapter as well as two pages of the next. Shoot me. No seriously. Either shoot me or get me a boyfriend (perferrably doubling as muse), because anything in-between and I'll go raving mad.

It will take me days to recover from this (I know this from experience with lost texts). And I don't have days. Christmas break is soon over! Dammit.

I cried, but only a little.

I'm row row rowing my boat gently down the stream of impending depression, like every winter the last four years. This time it's arriving a little later than usual, probably because school is merciful on me, but I can feel its hand hovering in the air as it hesitates before knocking on my counsciousness. I wonder if life will be such a battle for survival every January for the rest of my life?

I always feel like I'm contageous. Like I can show that I'm down, but I have to keep at least a reasonable sanity, because you can't help me, and we all know that, and letting that show with it's full sadness will only make it worse. Compassion and mercy and pity and hugs and smiles and cheerings, it just makes me more and more and more angry until I just want to scream, but I can't: I've forgotten how to do it. So calm, I'm blind to my own ripples on the surface. I can't be angry because I don't know how to anymore. I can't be angry because what if I tear something apart that I can't fix later? I couldn't survive knowing I did that. So I scream inside my head instead, and wish someone could shut me up. Whine whine whine. Whatever I do, it's boring, it's old, words and actions said and done a hundred times that doesn't give me anything and God, can't you give me something new? Something mine?

Be strong. Cheer up. Pretend you're happy because that will make you happy. Do something even if it kills you, because it won't. Smile. Play. Hide.

Can't someone just knock me unconscious so I don't have to be aware?

You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know. Because I would never say this face to face. And I think maybe, being who you are, meaning what you do to me, you should to know. Thay always say in interviews after someone kills themselves; "We should have known." But that's idiotic. No one can know another human for sure. Not in real life. But that scene in FF8 where they think Seifer is dead and they all start to talk well about him and Squall freaks out because he doesn't want anyone to talk about him that way when he's dead... it hit me. So hard it hurt. And this is like that. I want at least someone to know who I was when I'm gone. I don't want people standing around saying shit just because they miss me, because death scares them. I want truth. And truth is dark. But so releasingly uncomplicated. I'm the only one who knows who I am, and I'm the only one who knows the people you are inside my head. All this will be gone without me. And that's why I don't want to die. Because I'm a squirrel; and you're my nuts.

Is there nothing original left in the world? Is there nothing that can touch me at my very core?

And guys, don't think I don't know you're sucking up. 5 votes on We want more Cloud? You're all idiots. But I love you.

Cold

All apologies for joker-letterboxes has been accepted. And do you notice how I get six times more expressive when I'm irritated and pissed, than when I'm happy and content? If I was pissed all the times, my writings would be over 200% longer... =P

I sense that I'm going to be irritable a lot from now on, though. I like the darkness and isolation of winter, but I hate the cold. Maybe it's the cold that kicks me down into depression every winter (peope speculated it was the darkness, but I've never found lack of light a problem) and in such case... what the hell to do? Move south as soon as I can? Meet you in Spain, dudes and dudettes.

On a completely different note... I never saw the movie where Littlefoot's mother dies. But I can feel the sorrow when you tell it. ^_-

Flat on the Floor

As anyone who reads this blog or is in my life knows, I was to Uppsala during the break. The nice part is that I got to meet everyone, and my life took a big happy swing upward. The not-so-nice thing is how I completely fell down and crashed first thing after getting back, and now I'm completely, utterly flat on the floor, emotionally. So tired, y'know?

Look, honestly, I don't need more friends. I don't want to puke op my intestines trying to be nice and social and polite and correct and find more ones. Come on, please? Give me a nice black hole in the forest. Or through my head.

And if I'm going to be an author and work a little by the side with some weird-ass technical shit, why do I have to write essays on Buddhism when all I really know I have to learn outside of lesson, and read idiotic modernistic ugly unorganized books with golden pages by some freak little partygirl with shiny shoes and blackboardscratching colormatching and a bottle of whiskey in her belly who thinks she knows how it feels?

And why does everything I write have to make sense? Goddammit. If you guys would just accept that things are as I say they are, hey, why not just read my mind right away and I could skip the work of writing it down? Okay. Now I'm being ironic and a little frustrated with how Semhazai absolutely refuses to cooperate with me in the next chapter though I love him so much,

but the rest is serious.

Loss

I discover new losses with my memory card every moment.

The levels and aeons of FFX. All the old Ratchet & Clank, that I need for the new games. The file with an almost completed Resident Evil 4. All the money and equipment earned in Soul Calibur 3. The file in Kingdom Hearts 2 where I was about to deafeat Sephiroth. The 100% in Final Fantasy X-2. The damned work I put down on Devil May Cry 2. //.Hack, that I'll never finish again. Okami. Shadow of the Colossus. ICO. Syberia... and so much more. Hundreds of hundreds of hours vanished with one stupid person's ignorance. The list goes on and on and... what should I do?

What. Should. I. Do?!?!

Sorry, no phone calls will be taken.

Hehe, hey, look *waves* I'm alive!

Though not at school today, thank Pillow. I haven't written that modernistic/futuristic/surrealistic poem we were supposed to, and I seriously consider not doing it at all. I like that we get to try out different styles, but modernism has never-ever-ever been a thing for me. I may like it, like some of Salvador Dali, but I can't do it, and certainly not write it. If it was a drawing, then maybe.

My throat still doesn't like it's new population of acid clot-beings, but I guess they'll come to terms eventually. In the meantime, though, I'm thankful if I can avoid speaking. So phone calls will be turned down kindly unless my grandma is dying. Sorry.

Actually, you should be thankful. My brother keeps laughing at how I sound when I try to speak. I can't say m, n, ng, b and so on, and most of the time when I start a sentence I sound like a suffocated rat. "Automatvapen" is for some reason no problem to say, though.

God, that short story in swedish, over there <---, it just gets worse for every time I read it. What the hell was I thinking? It's like some stupid vending machine love story written by some 50 yo lady. I have to do something about it.

Bus 300 at 13.52 next! (WARNING: extensive whining)

Friday morning I woke up, felt that my throat had become the victim of vicious, acid clot-beings, turned off my alarm and slept until 13.30. By 16.30 I realized I had to eat something and went to dinner, despite the headache. By the time I had eaten, I felt ready to faint on the floor. After having turned down a glass of gold (whiskey, which I gravely regretted I didn't accept afterwards, we'll get to that) I went to my room and thought that I'd feel better if I distracted myself. Twenty minutes later I was shaking so bad I couldn't use the computer anymore. I went to bed, but, mark my idiocy, I took off my pants. Which meant I spent the next hour and a half in heavy - heavy - fever, feeling as if my legs would freeze and fall off any moment, yet was half-unconscious and unable to move thus could not get the pants back. That was when I began regretting the whole alcohol turndown.

Five hours later, I was at least feeling alive enough to be bored with lying there. Not like there was anything else I could do, I was still fevery and dizzy, but I always feel bored when I'm ill. And I was regretting not going home, like mom and several other people told me to, and I was missing my Wow account, and whining together a whole novel of why life sucked and why I would end up incapacitated for my whole life because of my fucking stunt with the pants.

I still have a fever, and I'm not typing as fast as I normally would, because motor skills seem to have dropped 5 points, but at least I can move around. My right leg still feels strange, though, which is creepy. And also why I write this. Because if my leg falls off in six months, I want to remember why.

Which leads me to this glorious conclusion:
Fuck this, I'm going home.