Password, password, password

Just so you know, Tom and I have so much fun together. We make normal, everyday, sometimes even tragic things hilarious.

Here's one example. A couple of days ago, we realized that we have a complete nutzo living underneath us; a guy who keeps repeating the same word over and over again. We are not sure, but we think the word is "password". So, basically, we think this guy at some point probably failed to log into a website and kept trying over and over again, for months and months, until he went completely, yeah you get it, nutz and has been repeating the word password ever since.

Quite annoying, really.

So, last night Tom asked me to follow him down to the laundry room, which happens to be next to the password guy's apartment. Tom also asked me to undress. He had a plan, you see. A very smart one. He imagined that seeing me naked would cause the password guy to swallow his own tongue, and that, if anything, would most likely keep him quiet.

Aren't we a lovely couple, say? And isn't Tom a smart guy? Needless to say, I didn't follow Tom downstairs. And needless to say, as far as we know, the password guy is still mumbling his mantra downstairs.

I did, however, take my clothes off. In front of Tom. He swallowed his tongue as soon as he saw me desnuda.

It has been kind of hard to discern what he is saying ever since.

I am not sure, but I think he is trying to say "password".

The elevator is coming to get you

This is exactly the kind of stories elevator-fearing people like myself love to hear about.

Trygg med tryck

Sitter på flyget över evigheten. Sovmasken på. Tänker på dig. Hur väl du känner mig. Ingen annan än du vet mig. Kan mig. Läser mig.

Jag tänker att ingen annan än du vet att jag blir trygg av tryck. Försiktigt låter du hela din kroppstyngd vila mot mig och väntar tills jag har somnat. Lättad, med ett leende på läpparna.

Jag tänker på dig och börjar gråta. Stilla men envisa tårar av lycka bakom masken. En och annan tår tränger sig ut. Kinderna blir våta; halsen. Och jag tänker för mig själv att om någon frågar ska jag berätta för dem om dig.

Om fantastiska lilla du.

En pyskolog i skinn

Jag upptäckte häromdagen att min pyskolog (ja, hon heter faktiskt så) sitter i en Eames. Nu kan jag inte längre koncentrera mig på våra djupa samtal.

Det enda jag ser och hör är den där underbara svarta stolen.

Food is war

Found @: boingboing tv

Screaming babies and celebrities

Image: photoshopnerds.com

I think really weird things sometimes. Really, the only thing that saves me from getting branded a complete idiot is either that the person I am talking to (1) assumes I am joking, (2) stopped listening a long time ago because I am talking too much, (3) is an idiot.

Due to the weirdness of my statements and comments, I get really (and I really mean really) happy whenever somebody actually understands me or says something equally idiotic. It doesn't happen often, but when it actually happens it feels like finding a new friend or a twin that you didn't know existed because she was adopted by another family right after you were born, or something.

I found one of those long-lost twins the other day. I saw a movie, Say Anything. In one of the last scenes the female lead character starts rambling about her fear of flying and about the fact that knowing that there are small babies on board the plane makes her feel more relaxed; unless the babies are crying, because that makes her think that the babies know something that nobody else on the plane knows: the plane is going to crash.

My mind works exactly the same way. I hate flying. I always prepare to die when I fly. I call family, friends, former lovers, and teachers who didn't give me an A and ask for forgiveness. There are only two things in this world that can make me feel relaxed at take-off: (calm) babies and celebrities. I know it doesn't make much sense, but to me it does.

It's like: Why the heck would God kill someone who obviously is on a mission?

Kungafamiljen burde se gladare ut

Foto: Jonas Ekströmer/SCANPIX

Har för första gången i mitt liv köpt en väggalmanacka med tema "Kungafamiljen". Anledning: omslagsfotot går (enligt mitt tycke) till historien som tidernas sämsta porträttfotografi. Klicka på fotot så får ni se själva. Jag vet inte riktigt var jag ska börja. Prinsessan Madeleine är visserligen den enda som faktiskt tittar in i kameran men hon ser ytterst besvärad ut. Kungen ser ut att vara arg. Rasande, till och med. Vanligtvis så vackra Drottning Silvia ser ut att somna vilken sekund som helst . Endast kronprinsessan Victoria och prins Carl Philip ser någorlunda normala och belåtna ut. De tittar å andra sidan åt helt olika håll, så det hjälps inte.

Suck.

Färgglada prickar som regnar ner

Vill också ha på min hemsida. Fint.

De kallar oss badkrukor

Vad tycker ni om min nya utrustning? 16 år sedan jag simmade regelbundet sist. Nu ska fläsket bort.

Tom säger att han tycker att jag är sexig i min badmössa. Stackarn måste vara helt disillusionerad. Eller blind. Eller både och, helt enkelt.

I am Fukranian. What are you?

I am sitting here, trying to figure out why I haven't heard of any more brilliant compositions like "fugly". Tell me, why aren't people saying stuff like:

- I heard that you once found a rat in your pizza.
- A rat? No man, that's totally a furban legend!

or

- She is incredibly stupid.
- That's the worst funderstatement I've ever heard.

or

- You Russians are all the same.
- You idiot. I am not Russian! I am Fukranian!

Depressiv realism

Har ni sett den här? En liten artikel om hur man fattar bra beslut. Under punkt nummer tre, "Ta hänsyn till dina känslor", står följande att läsa:

...akta dig för att fatta beslut då du är arg, för då tenderar vi att fastna för det första alternativet eller göra onödigt egoistiska val. Däremot verkar det som om vi fattar de bästa besluten när vi är nedstämda. Ledsamma människor verkar ha den mest verklighetsöverenstämmande världsbilden. Forskarna kallar fenomentet för depressiv realism.

Då så. Då var det sagt. Jag måste vara världsbäst på att fatta beslut.

Håll andan

Det är en prövning, Paulina. En liten men intensiv prövning. Tänk inte för mycket. Känn inte för mycket. Ta inte åt dig. Ta det inte personligt. Håll bara andan, blunda, räkna till tio och vänta tills det har gått över.

Tänk dig bort. Föreställ dig hur hennes bitterhet rinner av dig som vatten på en nyvaxad yta. Den berör dig inte.

Det är hon som mår dåligt. Kom ihåg det.

Hon måste må fruktansvärt dåligt.

American conversations

A: I get a lot of exercise these days. Do you?

B: Yeah, actually, I do.

A: You do?

B: Yeah, I walk a lot. I take the subway home from work and then I walk up a hill.

A: Wow, that's awesome!

Dream on!

I dream a lot. And although I must admit that I often dream weird dreams (sic!), I'm getting rather good at interpreting them; abnormal, almost artistic, representations of pretty normal, everyday things.

Still, there certainly are moments when I don't really know what to make of myself. Last night, for example, I dreamt that I somehow got my scalp chopped off and walked around, balancing the loose scalp on top of my head. Luckily, somebody eventually helped me attach it to my head with hairpins, but as far as I know I am still walking around with a semi-detached scalp somewhere in dream land (or wherever dreams happen).

I feel intrigued to find an answer. The first person who can make sense of my surrealistic dream gets a bingolott.

Trashy threats

When I got to work this morning, I found my office trash bag lying on the floor in front of my office door. It must have been the long knife cut across the stuffed bag, and the bag's hey-we-look-just-like-intestines contents, that triggered an intensely creepy feeling deep inside of me: "Oh, no, Jack the Garbage Ripper has returned and he is trying to get me to properly recycle my trash by doing a Godfather-horse-head-in-the-bed-kind-of-thing."

But I am not scared. If anything, I am amused. I will show this undeniably sick person that violence isn't the answer.

Come on bara.

That constant taste of mint

I already told Helene. And not too long ago, I believe I told you.

This time of year, when life is only a matter of surviving the winter cold and darkness, time flies. Faster than ever. As a matter of fact, I can no longer recall what I do; apart from waking up, brushing my teeth, then bushing my teeth again (before going to bed). It is as if I am conscious only twice per day; two seconds in the morning and two seconds in the evening. I look at myself in the mirror. I see a toothbrush in my mouth and that familiar white foam, and I think to myself that there must be more to life than this.

Then I slowly doze off again.

Beauty if you ask me

You can't trick a Media Lab'er

The look of love

Next Monday I'll reveal what caused this reaction. Believe me, it's worth waiting for.

Photo taken by Anders B

Things that make me puke

There are a couple of things in life that I just can't stand. American college girls is one of those things. Their loud girly voices and superficial girly discussions just makes me want to scream. And when I look down and see their girly French pedicure flip-flop feet, I want to kill myself.