The unprepared runner

Roughly the effect I was aiming for...

The following incident happened a while ago. I finished work, took the bus, got off and went to the supermarket. I said the same thing I always say: I need just a couple of things. I don't know if there are people who walk into a supermarket and indeed get out with "just a couple of things". Maybe there are. I'm not saying it's as improbable as spotting fairies or dragons. I, however, am not one of them.

So I get out of the supermarket with my backpack bursting at the seams. I have no use for the average feminine bag; if I could carry with me a military backpack (or three), I would. In the one hand I have a chocolate milk with a straw, in the other hand another bag with what didn't fit in my backpack. I say to myself, no way you'll walk a kilometer carrying so much weight. You'll get the bus. 

I start walking towards the bus stop. It's at a distance. I take sips of my choco milk and walk, not a care in the world. Then I turn and glance behind me and realise the bus is at the traffic lights. Shit!

I start running and develop a good speed. Great, I say to myself, you'll manage to get to the stop before the bus. At the same time I feel that my trousers have begun sliding down, and my smile vanishes. I start opening my stride as much as possible, to stop the damn trousers from slipping further down. I probably look like a chubby pelican doing ballet leaps, with my legs stretched to the max trying to stop the inevitable. Just before my butt is fully revealed, I stop and place the milk on my right hand, the one that carries the bag with the groceries. I put the index finger of my left hand around one of the belt loops of my trousers to keep them in place, and resume running. 

Thankfully the bus driver saw this grown, mature woman keeping her pants in place with one hand and carrying what looked like a week's worth of provisions for the Mongolian army in the other and he took pity on me. He stopped before the bus stop and let me onboard. Thank you, Mr driver.

I probably don't need to refer to the fact there was a bus stop just outside the supermarket, in a small street nearby, and I discovered it months after that incident. Do I?

(As per usual, if you'd like to support this lunatic, please buy her a coffee.)

Things are definitely looking up!

We're in 2030.

The Greek refugee problem has been solved. Not because the wars ended or Europe opened its borders or anything. The entire Greece sank into the ocean after a colossal earthquake that stopped exactly at the country's borders. Rumor says it was courtesy of the legendary bad luck of the family of Prime Minister Kyriakos Mitsotakis. Now the remaining Greeks are someone else's refugee problem, and they don't like it. In response to their constant complaining, they are reminded that they were the ones who voted for him, and besides, they still owe money to the European Union, even though it does not exist anymore. 

The corona virus returns every September, just as swallows migrate to Africa, and goes away in April, when swallows return. The biggest companies in the world are the ones producing toilet paper. They have bought Amazon, Google, Twitter, and launched an app that finds your ideal mate comparing toilet paper preferences. Parties where you go dressed in nothing but toilet paper and a surgical mask are a thing. There are also new revolutionary masks that can double as panty liners, swimming suits, camping tents,  nuclear bunkers and spaceships. 

There is a heated public discussion that has been going on for a decade, whether the numbers of medical personnel are adequate or the governments should hire more people. Unbeknownst to politicians, all the medical personnel died during the first corona outbreak. They turned into mutant zombies that still frantically treat patients because they are so busy they have not realised they are, in fact, themselves dead.

The icecaps melted. Most cities are partly or fully underwater. A lot of babies are born with webbed hands and toes. Trump has been elected yet again, and claims it is all fake news and that the communists are behind it. Communists, on the other hand, are too busy learning to swim and forage underwater.

The British politicians haven't noticed any of these things as they are in an ongoing Brexit phase. The Queen is still alive and makes public announcements about how unhappy she is she outlived everyone of her relatives and generally, everyone she's ever known. In her free time, she commands the armies of the undead, including the medical personnel.

Remember the girl or guy you liked? The one you were bananas for, and hoped that they would eventually see the light and break up with their icky significant other? Well, good news is, they finally saw the light and you are in a relationship with them! Problem being, one of you has erectile dysfunction and the other is in menopause, which means you mostly spend time on the couch watching pre-disaster movies, eating unhealthy shit and farting.

The author of this entry is dead/ does not exist/ was sucked into the black hole of Greek economy and never returned. Do not try to find her. If, however, you'd like to support a dead person, please buy her a coffee.

Ta daaah!

I know who my enemies are. They are the Grey Black Reptilian Jewish Gay Freemasons, who also happen to be Communists, because their answer to everything I try is "NO". I knew it! I fucking knew it. I could tell by the way the postman is giving me the evil eye. The fact I sometimes order books that weigh half a tonne and he's developed multiple hernias the size of a witch's hut is irrelevant.

Because the stars are right and my lower back hurts (again) and there's been a string of incidents of unmitigated entropy, I declare war on seriousness. I demand to fondle boobs and butts on a daily basis times three, or else. Money would also be nice.

If my demands are not met promptly and in a satisfactory manner, I shall eat a barrel of beans and proceed to fart the sweet Bejeesus and Infernal Chorus in vapour, which will in turn kick the living daylights out of your detestable species homo cretinus. I shall continue until the entire country is lost in a bubbling green-brown cloud that is a hair away from developing self-awareness and buying an iPhone. DO YOU HEAR ME?!?

Other points of interest include: 

• my Schrödinger mustache, which both exists and doesn't depending on who's looking (I can see it just fine, yet others say it's my idea) 
• the fact one of my cats mews like a horse accidentally inhaled a canary and then a cat accidentally swallowed the horse and now all three are having a conversation
• mosquitoes in February buzzing over my head and sounding like a hoover is sucking air through a fan, but in slow playback
• bending time and space by living on money I have not received yet and won't receive until three months later
• there is. No chocolate. In the house. No chocolate. In the godsbumped. Whorefucked. Sunfried. Pimplejuiced. Asstapping. House. None. Whatsover. Arghh! L'eeeengh! Weghjanitor, bepantholldopel visavickslkanjig xkajax lgjwalrusswl! Yggdrasil!

I started speaking in tongues, it's a sign that heralds the oncoming beanapocalypse. You can still stop it. Send me money. Lots of money. I need it for the vet. And chocolate. Digsbums a la creme! Motherstacking infidels of borderfine generalities! Shub Niggurath wearing nipple clamps! Ai, ai, my lower back hurts! Fhtagn!

I don't know what I am doing wrong, but I suspect something is not done right. xD
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Tarot reading

This wonder of wonders is Louse. She is small, cute, stubborn and the Queen of mucus. This is why she is presently on my bed, on a small heating mat and on antibiotics. She was in the garden of my building, but she is too small to be able to survive winter outdoors. She got sick on top of that. Meh. Need I explain more? I think I don't. Wish me luck. I hope to find a home for her.

This was supposed to be a funny entry on tarot reading. I am not sure I can be funny at the moment. I can try.

As you may or may not know, I read tarot cards. I do readings for myself, my mother and some close friends. This isn't an entry for advice on reading. There are countless books and online sources on how to do it. I'm sure I don't have something new to add. I can tell you how I do it for the laughs though.

I always light a candle before reading cards. Fire and salt are the most ancient ways of purification. If you have some incense to burn, do that too. Fire keeps evil at bay, incense binds itself with the positive ions of the air and takes them out of the room if you have a window open. So don't be lazy, burn incense if you have it. It does what it says on the label.

Next thing on the menu. Interpretation. I have this special relationship with my cards. I talk to them. Sometimes it works.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Piss off! Don't act like you don't know!"

"Oh, that's reeeeaaally helpful now, reeeaaally clear, thanks for nothing."

"That's it. One of us here is pulling the other's leg, and you haven't got any."

"Are you on fucking drugs? I mean, seriously, are you?"

(Initially in a sweet voice) "Do you know what you need? Purification by fire. Unless you tell me, I'll use you for kindling, you useless piece of symbolic fluff."

"Oh yes, why don't you give me more people cards, I mean I need advice and I get every person in the tarot plus their close relatives and best friends. I thought this was a reading, but you seem to think it's a blasted wedding! Well let me tell you something, it's not a wedding, it's a funeral. Yours."

"Do you see these scissors? Huh? See them? Wanna take a closer look?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, you have one job."

"Are you giving me the lip now? Is that it? Feeling adventurous today, are we?"

"That's it. I am buying a new deck, and you are going into the spare box, together with the dust bunnies and your useless lazy sisters. Okay, half sisters. That's not the point."

Kidding aside, I've been using tarot cards since 1997. I have a lot of decks, yet this is my standard. It works spectacularly. Sometimes readings just don't work. The cards aren't to blame though.

(Having said that, once I got so mad with a set of clay runes that I pounded them to dust one by one, using a stone. Whoopsie).

The lousy Louse.

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The ocean of lost souls

 

Septicflesh/ Jon Simvonis: Portrait of a Headless Man. 

I have been busy doing what I can't refer to here. And what is just too mundane to write about. I know you are reading this blog because you're certain that any moment now, I may bare more than just my soul. You hope you may glimpse a tit. Instead you get cat photos. Such is the unfairness of life.

Well, my friend Jon Simvonis has been busy too. Unlike me, he has something to show for his efforts; the staggering music video of this post. He's responsible for the visual part, which is a feast of industrial SF horror and black slime. You see Septicflesh have been busybodies, and they pushed out yet another deliciously wicked baby called Codex Omega, which you can listen to here and grab here. If you want to begin your day with a torrentuous hail of unearthly growls married to brutal death metal onslaught while the orchestra of the damned performs in the background (using entrails for strings, dragon skulls for percussion and bladders for wind instruments), now you know what to do. It's probably what demons listen to while tearing the souls of the sinners to bloody shreds. It's certainly what I'll be listening to in order to deal with bureaucracy or depression.  

So September is here and I'll be soon looking for a job. I have a good feeling. I swam a lot this summer, and the sea has a calming effect on me. I don't know why the majority is afraid of the deep. There is nothing more tranquil than swimming in very deep sea. The open firmament above, the abyss below, and me balancing on the fine line of the horizon. Effort is reduced to a bare minimum, movement is unrestricted, relaxing, almost poetic. It resembles flying while wide awake. Let's not forget it was the ocean that gave birth to life. Like any other primordial element, it should be respected. It is the closest we have to the womb of creation on this planet. 

Do humans respect it? Ha. 

Do I give a shit about humans? No. I mean really, look at that and tell me why I should bother.

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Fragments from an old letter to a friend

Picture source: http://miss-mosh.deviantart.com/gallery/

Been re-reading old letters I wrote. Nice to see not much has changed. Irreverent, angry, anally obsessed and funny.

"Yesterday I had some large beans cooked with tomato in the oven for supper plus five eggs for dinner. The result is that today my ass levitates at some centimeters distance over the chair due to continuous and continual gas production. I look like a levitating Indian fakir. It’s ominous. I have farting spells that last for several seconds and change tone, tune and temperature at my nether region. Their result is usually clinging around the proximity of my ass as a cloud of fluff and instant death. I am forced to change my surroundings every time I am struck by this nasty muse’s endearments. In fact every time I release one of those I start running and never look back, propelled by the gas as much as by my legs. Seriously, if we ever find ourselves in the same house I’ll let you know in such a case, so that you don’t switch on the lights. If you do, they’ll find both our corpses next day in the ruins, blackened and burned beyond recognition. :P The joys of single life, farting as much as you please." 

"I want to go to heavens and butt-rape every single meddling deity that was ever born in the collective unconscious with gigantic, whale-size dildos with spikes, then take a shit and smear it on their faces. I want to organise a party with the heads of those deities stuck on poles greeting my guests, blue tongues lolling and eyeballs dangling. I want to commit acts of violence on their hides that no intelligent race across all galaxies has ever conceived. And I’ll be laughing constantly while reminding them every bad thing that has happened to me and the ones I care about.

There are days, or rather, moments in a day I am content. Not happy, but content. I can even glimpse a shred of meaning in breathing in and out. But most days are disheartening and infuriating and exhausting. Still, I refuse to give up. I’ll stay till the last credits to see what this fucking idiocy of a movie called my life was about. But whoever is responsible should beware, because I am getting my spiked whale dildos lubed up and ready even as we speak. I’ll kick their asses so hard they’ll spend the rest or eternity exchanging postcards with their missing behinds which will have landed in the farthest end of the other side of the bloody universe. I mean it and probably can do it." 

Ah, the arrogance of some deities... ;) And some butts.
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American (F)arts

Can I complain about something? I know some people will think I'm mad. I don't particularly care. Also, I am going to be graphic, disgusting, and fixated on the Freudian anal stage. Be warned.

Have you ever had a friend who offered to get you on a date with someone they know? Naturally, you're reluctant, so they show you a photo of that person, and he or she is drop-dead gorgeous. And hey, from what your friend says, you have similar interests! So you give your consent and your friend arranges a date. The suspense is killing you, you count the days backwards, you are happy. Finally the day of your dream date comes, they arrive at the restaurant and they look just like their photo. You can't believe how lucky you are. You sit down, giddy with anticipation, and timidly engage in conversation. For the first few minutes it goes remarkably well. Then as you open the menu to order and glance at your dream date, you notice with pure horror that they are digging inside their nose. You stare because you can't believe you are seeing that. You are still staring while they pull out a ginormous booger, give it a perfunctory once-over and eat it.

I've just described my relationship with American Gods.

I read the book years ago. It's not my favourite from Gaiman's arsenal, but Gaiman is my favourite writer, so naturally I was very excited American Gods would become a TV series. I had also watched and loved two seasons of Hannibal, so Fuller seemed a good choice. Alas.

Before AG started, I made an attempt to watch the 3rd season of Hannibal. I managed to watch two episodes. They were painfully slow, boring, and pointlessly gross. Bodies forming out of blood, becoming blood, Will wandering around aimlessly while being up to his eyeballs on hard drugs, blah de blah. I may try to finish the season... or not.

Then American Gods started. And in the first minutes of the first episode I saw a chopped arm flying in the air. And I shuddered, because this is not Gaiman's style, and hoped I was wrong. 

But I was right.

To do the series justice, there are some brilliant scenes, and the actors are doing their best. But the rest of it is that dream date of yours eating boogers while you watch in fascinated horror.

"Artistic" slow mo with flies and candles, lots of sex, pointless mostly, bodies forming out of some liquid dark material and being re-absorbed... Wait, am I watching the 3rd season of Hannibal again? 
-No you dummy, that's American Gods. 
-Oh, silly me. But why is it so slow?
-They use slow mo to make every episode last for three hours, so that you think you got more time for the same money. It's a marketing trick. You wouldn't understand.
-You are right. I don't understand.

-Oh, these two guys are having sex... That's sweet. But why are they suddenly depicted in the desert and they change colour, as if they are the negatives of a photo?
-It's esthetics. You wouldn't understand.
-But...
-Stop asking questions. It's a Fuller/Gaiman show. That alone should have made you fall on your knees and pray. Why aren't you impressed?
-Because it doesn't make sense. It's like Galadriel turning black in LOTR... But she had the One Ring.
-Shut up and let me watch the show.
-Okay.

Let's talk about women... All the attractive female characters we've come across so far are unavailable virgins, neurotic wrecks, or man-devouring insane bitches who use everyone around them on a whim and destroy their lives. Poor, poor Laura Moon. In the book you are not the despicable, ego-centered bipolar bimbo of the series. It takes effort to make a female character so loathsome, but they spared no effort. And they succeeded spectacularly. If she was on fire, I'd douche her with gasoline to put her out. Of her misery, I mean.

The esthetics of the book are fucked six ways to Sunday. The book may be slow at parts, but it captures perfectly the atmosphere of a growing storm. It lets the reader steal momentary glimpses of those dangerous beings and situations looming at the edge of one's perception, at the edge of normal and every-day. Those glimpses come to slowly replace the normal until they are Shadow's every day. But it is subtle, smart, delicate. And then you have the series, which replaces the melancholy and restlessness with grunge, gore, dirt, filth, kitsch and blood. It sounds good... if we're talking about The Walking Dead. Or maybe the streets of a large medieval city where sheep, cows and beggars with leprosy are happily stepping on their own shit next to a marriage taking place. Everyone is fondling everyone else's tit and other parts of interest with fingers covered in sour wine and grease, someone is vomiting in their plate, and the rest are hailing the groom and the bride. But is this the book I read, even remotely? No fucking way. 

The music of AG can be divided in two categories. The songs are incredibly bland. The creators of the show seemed to have picked the top 40 of pointless songs which cause mild irritation while they are being played, and get immediately erased from one's memory as soon as they stop. The rest of the soundtrack is a dream sonnet written by a renown proctologist. Every time something creepy/otherworldly happens, the music is literally from another world. Imagine three or four people with various wind instruments inserted in their anus. One has a saxophone, another a trumpet, one has a flute, and so on. Imagine whatever you like. These poor people are tied up and gagged and some psychos are torturing them. One of the psycho torturers repeatedly inserts a needle in the flesh of the guy with the saxophone in his butt. He can't scream, can't move or fight, hence those bleating, desperate little noises coming out of his other end. Something's gotta give. On the other side of the room, another psycho torturer is stepping on the gout of the person who has the trumpet in his butt, steadily increasing pressure. And so you get that deep, insistent, ominous wail that shudders, ululates and changes in tone. It really is a thing of beauty, if you have a poster with Tomás de Torquemada on your bedroom wall. And you masturbate to it morning and night.

Honestly, I know I am going to be part of the minority who hates the show, and I can understand why someone may be impressed by it. But I don't care. This show sucks. It sucks so much that it could easily have been the vacuum cleaner the Almighty used on the Sixth Day, to clean the mess before He rested. If you ask me, He's still asleep, and the creators of American Gods stole the bleeding thing and turned it into a TV show. That's how much it sucks.

Rant over. Watch the Handmaid's Tale. It's amazing. 
Off to bed.

PS: If anyone, absolutely anyone, dares say that the reason I don't like the series is that I can't take it, I'd like to inform them that horror is my favourite genre. Also, if they think I dislike it because I am a prude, I'll make them a part of that anal quartet I described above, and have demons gang-rape their mouths while I record the musical achievements of their butt for the next season of the show. I may even become rich, who knows? So don't even think about it.
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Busy, broke, chubby and strangely pleased.

Chris and Seth, founding members of Septicflesh (and their cute as a button daemon-familiar).

I've been trying to tie loose ends for the past two weeks. There are countless little chores I've been avoiding like the devil avoids incense (as the Greek saying goes), but they need to be done. So lately I've been tackling them. They aren't important, but completing them offers me a strange sense of accomplishment. They are boring and unpleasant and necessary, so every single one that gets out of the way is one boring task less. I'm mightily impressed with myself.

On the good news' side, I plan to do an interview with the extreme metal band Septicflesh. They are Greek, they are awesome, and I've been a fan for many years. If you aren't familiar with them and you love symphonic death metal, check them out. They are excellent and constantly evolving. I hope they'll agree to an interview. My blog isn't music-related; it exists to document my obsessions so that my psychiatrist can have a better clinical picture er... so that I can write about my interests. Yes, of course. I have already started sacrificing pizzas and ice-creams to darker entities (it's plenty dark inside my stomach, believe me) to make sure I land that interview. If I don't, I'll just increase the number of sacrifices, fart despondently and wallow in disappointment.

Psst. Let me tell you a secret. I hate all those metal bands. Well, 'hate' might be too strong a word. Almost without exception, members of those bands have longer hair than mine and about 2.345 more tattoos than I do. I am jealous AF. That without referring to the fact men with long hair and tattoos accidentally press a special button inside my brain. I start secreting ginormous amounts of saliva while staring at them, one eye rapidly blinking, drool running down my chin, moonstruck smile splitting my face in two. I'm usually fantasizing that I have then in my bed in full metalhead gear and I comb their hair. Oooh what pretty hair you have. Oooh let me comb it for you. Show me your tattoos. Oooh you bad boy you, all dressed in black and leather. And so on. Of course, any sane person that sees me during that phase is certain I am having a stroke combined with a psychotic episode, and slowly tiptoes out of my field of vision. I don't even realise, too busy combing imaginary hair. *Sigh* My chances of capturing one of those specimens to enact that bedroom scene are slim to none, especially bearing in mind two facts: 1) the unreasonable number of cats on my bed 2) my super audacious chubby tummy, blowing raspberry to possible suitors from under my (carefully selected) loose t-shirts. But one can dream, right?

 

Quiz: cats on my bed. How many can you count? Plus foot porn.

In other news, I am broke as FCUK. Therefore I have started selling things I don't need. Right now I have three stamp albums listed on Ebay, official products, sold out years ago and completely impossible to find under normal circumstances. If you want, please take a look. They are very reasonably priced and I'd love to re-home them and use the money to buy more urgent things.

Items I sell on Ebay are here.

I'll keep you updated on the interview. Now go out and be as naughty and impudent as my round tummy.
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Two cats on one lap

"What do you mean you want to check your Facebook? Surely you can fit us both on your lap while typing on the keyboard!"

Of course, they are not happy that they are BOTH on me, because each would rather have exclusive use of my lap/ boobs. So they are giving each other dirty looks.

  Aaaand there is another one on my bed waiting for her turn.

Life isn't boring around here, not ever. 

 Those two gray bumps are my boobs.
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Black Books

My friend J. gave me to watch the old British sitcom Black Books. It's so funny it makes my knees rubbery. There are instances I have fallen off my chair and struggle to breathe between waves of laughter so painful that my stomach hurts. I have grown a six pack because of the damn series, and it's good, I guess, because there is no other way I'd ever grow a six pack. I am far more likely to grow tusks. 

I am window shopping inks for my beloved fountain pens since I came across this amazing site on how to take proper care of my babies. The majority of my writing nowadays is done on the PC, with the exception of my diary. Still nothing can replace the feeling of a fountain pen in my hand and the steady, velvety flow of ink on paper. There is absolutely no comparison with any electronic device.

It's scary and adorable how much the inside of the Black Books bookshop reminds me of my home. There is nothing resembling normal in my life, except for the fact I have a job and a house. The rest is pretty much random heaps of objects and cats, jumbled occurrences and an insane, if adorable, mom. It's OK, I don't really mind. That's how it is and there is no reason to worry about it. Things will take care of themselves, I guess, or they won't, and I'll have to take care of them. I'll cross that bridge when I get there. In the meantime, worrying is a waste of time. I have a very difficult December looming ahead, with very long work hours and a mob ahem... customers wanting to buy Christmas gifts and pralines. The fact the majority would love to lace those same pralines with poison to get rid of their relatives is not strictly relevant. ;) 

The human race is equipped with an amazing ability to go on living even after a nuclear disaster. Look at me, window shopping ink while I still can't figure out a valid reason we are inhabiting this poor, poor planet. There are nights the owner of Black Books is an avid humanitarian compared to me. Other nights, I want to take care of everyone. But still, here I am tonight looking at inks and wondering if lilac is a good colour choice and if it will still be readable in twenty years from now. As if there's any guarantee I'll still be here in twenty years from now. Heh. Humans.

Enjoy a new song by P'haan and Calliah while you're here. They are as good as pralines, maybe better. 

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The end of times is nigh!

 

Source: http://ekukanova.deviantart.com/art/Maglor-633283749

I am dating. It's probably a sign of the end of the world. Take cover, keep your nuclear bunker stocked, wear clean underwear and don't talk to strangers with more than two eyes. If it starts raining frogs and the such, you'll be ahead of the game. :-P

Insomnia conspirators

Things that can and will keep me awake at night, usually occurring in a row, and just as I am about to fall asleep.

Outside factors:

• Crying baby
• Mosquito(es)
• Cat fight
• Dog barking
• Car alarm
• Passing drunks screaming their heads off/ singing
• Motorbikes screeching
• Loud noises due to wind
• A gig at the square close to my house
• My cats throwing down a mountain of metallic objects like pots and pans
•  Idiotic companies calling early in the morning/ SMSing in the middle of the night 
• Cat in the room scratching on the door to be let out
• Sheet wrinkle at exactly the wrong place (strategically placed for maximum discomfort)
• An exceptional book (but that kind of wakefulness is voluntary)

Factors related to me

• Coughing because of my dust allergy 
• Needing to pee (usually five times in a row)
• Foot twitching violently (for some reason I don't understand, my foot has dance aspirations, especially in the a.m.)
• Being horny
• Sudden stomachache
• Stress over having to wake up early/ run errands
• Just because 

Possible solutions that take care of all the factors, except for book reading: BOMB THE PLANET AND SLEEP FOREVER AND EVER IN PERFECT PEACE...
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