On the road again

Spent Christmas with my boyfriend and his family up north. We were supposed to return home on the 26th and spend one night with my parents, so that we got to see everyone for Christmas. But a storm caused cancellations in all communications. Some people are still without power, it’s insane. It’s not the train/travel company’s fault that there was a storm, but seriously, some things could have been handled better. This is how things went down for us (and we consider ourselves lucky):

On Monday morning, the 26th, we read on the SJ home page (SJ is the Swedish railways company) that all trains are cancelled, there are no replacement buses and they won’t have any new information until 6 pm that day. So, we stay with my hun’s family for one more day. This meant that we didn’t have time to visit my parents, which obviously made me angry. And sad. But we booked a new date and I dealt with it. We had a nice second last day.

I call SJ to re-schedule or tickets (and we are travelling with a pet, so everything is more complicated). After 45 minutes of waiting in line, I am told to cancel the original tickets online and book new ones myself. If we don’t want to get home late as shit, there is only one option and it is a travel route that is longer than the regular one and costs twice as much. But I book it and I pay for it.

On Tuesday the 27th, we get on a bus, switch to another bus and then to a train. So far so good, right? Well, when we arrive in Karlstad, there is a powerline on the tracks further ahead, so our train ride straight to Stockholm becomes train, then bus, then train again. So all in all, five switches.

In Karlstad, the train is also an hour late. AND there is an accident that I witness up close, which causes all traffic to stand still for a while. This tiny person (I think it was a kid, but the news say it was a woman, but she was super tiny) just jumps down onto the tracks as a train moves in. She quickly lies down in the middle of the rail as the train drives over her. We had to board our train after that, but we heard the sirens straight away. Later read that she was OK. But the whole thing was so bizarre. It feels like a scene in a movie.

OK, so once we actually get on the train, it takes like 20 minutes before it can leave. And after five minutes of driving there is another error and we are forced to stand still for 20 minutes more. And then we make the switch to bus and then have to wait outside for the last train, which is late because there is no personnel (?!).

The whole trip takes about nine hours instead of five, which would have been the case with the original route on a non-error day. Devil had to spend nine hours in his travelling home. And some of it outdoors in the freezing weather. Not fun, but he’s a trooper.

Today I called SJ for a refund and they refuse to pay us. The new tickets that we were forced to get cost a fortune and they just refuse us.

I am beyond pissed at this point. But also, just thankful that we made it home in one piece.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Dennis was a lonely man
As lonely as an old man can
His children left
His wife had died
His siblings never even tried
 
Christmas time was never fun
No gifts to wrap or chores to run
The TV set
From start to end
Remained this old man’s only friend
 
One week before this holiday
A neighbor swiftly snuck away
As he returned
Our Dennis saw
A blanket that revealed a paw
 
The neighbor hid the puppy fast
His son would cheer and have a blast
In envy so
Old Dennis glanced
At the dog and tail that danced
 
He looked around his lonely room
Disgusted by its’ obvious gloom
He gave a nod
And took a stand
This dog would make his life so grand
 
On Christmas Day he crossed the street
To finally this puppy meet
The window locked
He broke it down
Face covered by a mask of clown
 
But no one slept as he had wished
And as he for the shovel fished
The dad did charge
And in this hour
Our Dennis swung with all his power
 
When dad was down he turned his head
Mom and boy was out of bed
Another swing
And then one more
Until the blood was on the floor
 
The puppy made a quiet noise
And ran across some scattered toys
Towards the man
That stood there still
And smile because done was his will
 
Man and dog were from that day
As one and all seclusion went away
For Dennis found
His new best friend
And Christmas was happy, in the end

Rats

I love having pets. They are such an important part of my life. Rats are my favorites. They are smart, kind, playful, silly, loving, curious, clumpsy, funny, sneaky and just adorable. There are only two downsides to having rats; they easily get sick and they only live for about two years.

So, every two years there is a tragedy in our household. This year, two of our three rats have passed. And now, our third and last little guy is seriously ill. And it’s killing me.

“Why rats?” people ask. “Why not a cat or a dog? They live for a lot longer.”

Why? Because of EVERYTHING except for the two downsides stated above. They are always excited to see you, especially when you bring food or a new toy. They wrestle and chase each other around, playing tag, so innocent and joyful. They eat everything and they love to lick soft cheese from your fingertips. They have adorable little round bellies. Their eyes have such a kindness. They are easy to bring on journeys because they acclimatize quickly and sleep most of the way. They love it when you scratch behind their ears or brush their fur. They don’t cause allergies the way cats and dogs do.

I love rats. But right now, I just hate that the one little guy we have left has to suffer.

The world is not fair.

Smokey (RIP), Panic (RIP) and Devil.

My workout story

So, I pretty much haven’t worked out in six months. To make a long story short – I have been struggling with a depression and I think I finally see the light. I am starting to get my energy back to actually get down to business and do stuff instead of just whine about them. So, I am getting back into my workout groove.

I just signed up for 12 months at a gym that offers several dance classes and a ton of other stuff, but I’m mostly after the dancing. And I want to have fun with it, not stand around with a bunch of wannabe pro-dancers who will roll their eyes if I miss a jump. No thanks. Working out is about having fun, why else would we ever do it? I know some people torture themselves at the gym and hate every second of it. That’s just stupid. Why not find something you actually enjoy instead?

I love pole dancing, as you know if you’ve followed me for a while. But I haven’t been keeping up with my pole skills as much as I would have wanted. Right now I have lost pretty much all my strength and flexibility. And I have put on a few pounds that bother the crap out of me.

So, in addition to taking dance classes at the new gym, I will also try to get my poledance groove back. Maybe I won’t be able to do both and maybe I will, we’ll see. But I am gonna try!

And also (and my best friend should totally take credit for trying to remind me of this every single day); working out is the best way to feel good about yourself. I feel like a fucking idiot for not realizing it sooner, but hey, the past is the past.

And now, I shall look to a future that involves a lot sweat, fun beats, crazy moves and hopefully – some results!

Keep you posted!

The dinner

He never even thought about it.
He never saw it coming.
She angered him sometimes.
She had her ways and he had his.
He just wanted her to obey.
He never even thought about it.
He never saw it coming.

She wore her hair a different way.
He wanted it to be longer.
She didn’t listen and cut it off.
He never even thought about it.
He never saw it coming.

She chose a dress that wasn’t black.
She picked the pearls that were too big.
He wanted her to wear the red.
He never even thought about it.
He never saw it coming.

She didn’t like the sauce he made.
She thought it was too spicy.
He loved that sauce.
He never even thought about it.
He never saw it coming.

She insisted on cutting up the meat.
He wanted to do it.
She took the knife from him.
He never even thought about it.
He never saw it coming.

She cut the meat into ugly, uneven pieces.
She ruined the dinner he had made.
He felt betrayed and like a fool.
He never even thought about it.
He never saw it coming.

She sat down and started eating.
He slowly grabbed the carving knife.
With a fast movement he slit her throat.
He never even thought about it.
He never saw it coming.
She fell to the floor at once.

Her blood coloring the floor red.
He put the knife back on the table.
He never even thought about it.
He never saw it coming.
The minutes passed and all was quite.

Her eyes were still open, but life had left.
Suddenly he was alone. His heart was aching.
He never even thought about it.
He never saw it coming.

My number one fan

That feeling. Like he owned me. Like I was just a piece of property that he could use as he wanted and dispose of when he got tired of me. Like I was nothing. Noone. That feeling stayed with me long after I broke free.

It started out so great. I was so flattered. He was my number one fan. That should have tipped me off right there…he called himself a “fan”. Loved all my videos, posts, links and ideas that I spread across the Internet for everyone to enjoy. Just like everyone else. I just wanted to create, to have something to offer in this world. To leave something behind. Maybe make a difference.

For him, I was the answer. The solution to a problem he didn’t even know he had.

We met at a store. Just a regular store. He started talking to me, said he recognized me from my videos. He was my number one fan. I laughed, he smiled. We went for a coffee. He kept asking questions, wanted to know everything about me. And I answered.

I didn’t even realize that he had drugged me until I woke up. I had known him for less than two hours. He said that he had known me for months. Tracked me down. Followed me. And had fallen for me. He knew we had to be together, he said. It was the only way.

I resisted at first. Reacted with anger and fear. Screamed until I was hoarse and then some more. Spat in his face, kicked him and called him a disgusting insane person. Then I tried pleading. I begged and begged for my freedom. Told him I had a family and that I was missed. That there were other people out there that needed me too, not just him. But trying to reason with him only made me more angry. He treated me like a child. Like a precious child that needed to be locked up and loved alone.

After six months I tried something different. Or rather, I was completely broken down. There was no will to resist or fight, no energy to hope or believe. I gave up. And there-in, he started to trust me.

How ironic.

After those first months, I was only put in that horrible cage one more time. Before I gave up, he kept me in there almost all the time. I was unable to move, to breathe, to see anything. But he could see me. And I could hear him breathing, watching, listening. Talking to me even though I only responded in pleadings and cries. Please, please, please.

But once I gave up, he trusted me to walk around in his house. All doors were locked and there were no windows, so I was still a prisoner, but I was able to move around. I could watch TV if I behaved. And I could take showers and play card games with him.

The strangest thing about him, which was probably the reason why I survived at all, was that he never touched me. Never tried to kiss me or do anything sexual. As if I was the daughter, and not the girlfriend, of a psychopath. But he was my age. I guess that was just how his sexuality worked. He didn’t need the physical stuff. He got off on me being his prisoner.

That realization along with the new-found freedom that walking around the house meant is what made my escape possible.

On our one year anniversary, as he liked to call it, I was allowed out of the house for the first time. He wanted us to have a proper date and had reserved a restaurant nearby. And not just a table, but the entire restaurant, just for us. In case I decided to try something. The only two people on the staff were friends of his, who would never speak of my imprisonment.

We took a taxi there. I was blindfolded the whole time and didn’t recognize the restaurant once the blind folders came off. One table was set, candles lit, glasses filled with wine. We drank and ate, said cheers and talked about a movie we had seen the previous night. He proposed a toast to me, on our one year anniversary. He almost cried. It made me want to scratch the eyes out of his skull and serve them to him on a platter.

I almost lost my concentration, but he didn’t notice. After a whole year in prison, I had become quite the actress.

After dinner, I used my friendliest voice to ask for some air.

“Darling, I am so full” I said, laying a soft hand on his arm. “Do you think we can take a short stroll or just stand outside in the fresh air for a bit? Then I can call a taxi to take us home. OK?”

He smiled and nodded. All suspicion was gone. My heart raised at once, but I kept my cool as we left the restaurant through the back door. It led to an alley. I could hear people nearby. Laughing, talking. But I couldn’t reach them. He would be too fast. It was time to set my original plan in motion.

“Honey, do you need cash for the taxi?” I said. “Look, there’s an ATM.” A distraction that I was thanking every God I could think of for. “I know how you say you don’t like to pay drivers by card.” I nodded encouragingly towards the ATM. “I can call the cab while you get the cash.”

While holding my breath, I reached my open hand out, hoping that he would place his cell phone in there and let me make the call. Once again he smiled and ate it up.

I winked at him as he walked up to the machine. I sat down, to illustrate that I was not going to make a run for it. I dialed the number, asked for a cab and gave the address.

“Ten minutes” I said, as he returned to me. “Busy night, I guess.”

When the cab arrived, I could hardly move, I was so nervous. I was almost worried that he would be able to hear my heart beating beneath my clothes. It was deafening.

The driver game me a look just as the blindfold was put back over my eyes.

“She has a surprise waiting!” my kidnapper happily explained as he took away my sight.

It only took two more seconds after that. The bang was loud, but I didn’t make a sound. I just shivered as the person beside me was suddenly quiet and not moving anymore.

I rapidly took my blindfold off and looked at the blood without feeling a thing. The driver lowered his gun and gave me a long, worried look. So filled with anger.

“Thank you, dad” I said. “Thank you.”

The end of an era

I am 29 years old right now. When I was ten my aunt bought me my first diary. The first year I doodled and wrote down some stuff here and there, but not everything that happened to me. The year I turned eleven I bought a new diary and wrote every single day. And I have done it ever since. If I want to check out what my thirteen year old self did on the 14th of May, I can find that out. And I’ll probably laugh. Or cry.

For 18 years I have written every single day. But ten days ago, I stopped.

I started writing to get stuff off my chest and to have a log to go back to for info if I needed it. But in all the years of writing, I have only read from my diary like ten times. When I wrote my final words ten days ago, I realized that it had become a burden. That instead of being all creative and analyzing, I now just list everything I do every day. What I eat, what I do at work, who I hang out with and so on. There is no soul in these diaries. Not anymore.

So, I stopped.

And you know what? It feels fucking amazing. The first week I felt really bad, almost guilty, for not keeping up with my tradition…but now, it feels like I have set myself free in a way. As if it was an important step on the path of becoming the final version of myself (if we are ever finished).

What’s the point of living in the now if you have to report every single thing you do?

The Legend of PowerPussy

She had always had strong legs. A strong lower body. She called it The Power Groin when she was a kid and went horseback-riding. When she was a teenager, she took all kinds of martial arts and re-named her crotch/thigh area The Thighs of Fury. As an adult, she became known as PowerPussy.

I know it sounds like she was a superhero, but she really wasn’t. I mean, really not.

Her name was Amanda, but she always referred to herself as Mandy. She was deadly in two separate ways, both extremely lethal. The first thing was her beauty. It hurt to look at someone like Mandy because of her perfectly sculptured face and deliciously curvy body. She had eyes like snow covered mountains, so light blue they almost looked white. Her blonde hair blew carelessly in the wind and drew even more attention to her perfect, plump lips. She was the kind of woman who wore black and high heels just to tick men off. At least, it started out that way.

Before she discovered the other extremely lethal part of herself, Mandy posted no great threat. She was a tease, sure, but she never physically hurt anyone. She saw no need. One dark night, all that changed in a second. After a trip to one of her usual hangouts, she left to find a cab and go home. But the man who picked her up was no ordinary cab driver and Mandy was forced into a situation where she found herself to be helpless for the first time in her life. So, she considered her options, as the cab driver held her down and tried to remove her clothes. Mandy decided that she was never going to be a victim and as she remembered her training, she managed to flip the cab driver around, so that she ended up on top. And as he started struggling to get back in control, she put her knees on the sides of his head, ripped her own underwear off, sat on the man’s face and smothered him with her vagina. He didn’t stand a chance.

When Mandy returned to her apartment that night, she felt no despair. No pain, no anger and no regret. She felt free and in control. All these years when she had just been playing around… This was completely different. This was real power.

So, she became PowerPussy. And no, she didn’t pick the name out herself, but she liked it. To her, it did sound like a superhero name. But to the hundreds of men that she killed by using her vagina to cut off their air supply…not so much.

The police never caught PowerPussy. She was too smart to get caught. She never left a club with one of her planned victims and she left no survivors. No proof, no trace, no way to find her and bring her to justice.

It was said that, during the three years that PowerPussy was out there killing, the number of women getting raped dropped by almost fifty percent in that town. The men were too afraid. Except for the really sick ones. They didn’t see the threat. Not until it was too late.

After a three year reign of terror, Mandy decided it was time for PowerPussy to disappear. Her vicious ways had spread to the women of that city and more of them started to take things into their own hands. This resulted in the rape rate dropping another twenty percent and a community called PussyPower was shaped. Thousands of women joined and trained together. None of them used methods as extreme as Mandy, but two years after PowerPussy decided to quit, not a single woman was raped in that city.

So maybe she was a superhero after all. She set them free.

Porslinskatter

Katterna flög genom rummet. Kors och tvärs for de genom luften. Vissa träffade Harald, andra åkte i golvet, kraschade mot en vägg eller fortsatte ut genom det öppna köksfönstret.

”Snälla Ingrid” försökte han.

”Vem samlar på katter?!” röt hon medan tårarna sprutade och armarna frenetiskt fortsatte greppa första bästa samlarobjekt för att raskt slunga det ut i luften. ”Ensamma gamla kärringar kanske, men inte trettiofemåriga män i ett stadigt förhållande!”

”Du vet att det var mamma som började köpa katterna åt mig” viskade Harald och skrapade försiktigt upp resterna av hans favoritkatt i porslin och höll skärvorna ömt i händerna.

En träkatt av modell större träffade honom nästan rakt i ansiktet, men missade med en centimeter och störtdök sedan ut genom fönstret och kraschlandade på balkongen utanför. Harald kunde höra hur flisorna spred sig som fnöske över deras kryddodling där ute.

”Du vet hur mycket de betyder för mig” suckade han och Ingrid skymtade en tår i hans högra öga.

Hon stannade plötsligt upp. Kroppen befann sig halvvägs igenom ännu ett kast, men armen fastnade kvar uppe i luften med en ljusblå porslinskatt stirrande upp i taket.

”Så det är så det ligger till” nickade Ingrid aggressivt. ”Du älskar katterna mer än du älskar mig!”

”Det funkar bara inte längre” försökte Harald. ”Jag trodde att du var allt jag någonsin önskat mig och jag hade gladeligen gett dig allt du pekade på, men…”

”Men vaddå?”

”Men du är inte…” mumlade han. ”…inte mänsklig. Du är så kall. Som en…”

”Robot?” frågade Ingrid och satte ner porslinskatten för att demonstrativt lägga armarna i kors.

Harald tittade skamset ner i golvet.

”Jag var så säker på att du skulle bli perfekt” fortsatte han. ”Men du är beviset på att en maskin aldrig kan ersätta en människa. Och jag skulle…” Han drog en djup suck. ”Jag skulle aldrig ha beställt dig.”

Ingrid stod tyst och tittade på honom i nästan fem minuter innan någon sa någonting igen.

De betedde sig som vanligt den kvällen. Åt middag tillsammans, såg på det där teveprogrammet som de båda gillade, gav den riktiga katten mat och kröp ner i dubbelsängen tillsammans. Allt under tystnad, men med en känsla av att det värsta var över.

Klockan var halv fyra på natten när Harald vaknade till. Det var kolsvart i sovrummet, men han kände på madrassens form att Ingrid inte låg bredvid honom. Efter ett par sekunder, när ögonen hade vant sig vid mörkret, kunde han urskilja hennes siluett vid fåtöljen borta i hörnet. Det vaga månskenet gav henne en blå aura som skulle ha kunnat uppfattas som mycket vacker, men någonting hos Harald sa att det här inte var ett positivt uppvaknande.

”Ingrid?” hostade han med nyvaken stämma. ”Vad gör du uppe? Kom och lägg dig igen.”

”Jag har kommit på det nu, min älskling” svarade hon med en nästan mekaniskt lycklig stämma.

”Vad har du kommit på?” gäspade Harald och famlade efter lampknappen.

När han fick tag i den och rummet lystes upp kastade han sig bakåt mot sänggaveln.

”Ingrid…” väste han.

”Du älskar katterna mer än mig” sa hon och log medan hon strök det mjuka byltet som låg i hennes knä. ”Så jag var tvungen att förstöra alla katterna.”

Harald sparkade av sig täcket och backade ur sängen genom att kravla sig baklänges till Ingrids sida och nästan ramla av kanten.

”Hon var lite svårare att ha sönder än prydnadskatterna bara” log Ingrid. ”Men jag kom på att du hade en gammal yxa i boden. Det gick i ett nafs.”

Hennes röst lyste av stolthet och hon höll upp den styckade kattkroppen mot Harald som för att räcka över en omtänksam gåva.

”Här, min älskling” sa hon. ”Nu kan vi vara tillsammans.”

Got ink?

My boyfriend and I got matching tattoos in London, a couple of days ago. A tiny skull on the hand. Easy, cute and quite romantic. :)

I really love tattoos. I mean, body modifications all over, yes, but tattoos…that’s my favorite thing when it comes to altering your looks. I currently have nine of them and I have every intention of raising that number.

Actually, I might go crazy Kat von D style and pretty much cover myself in tattoos. It’s so fun and personal and no one can take it away from you. I love that. They are always there. I can be asked to cover myself up, but my tattoos are still there. And now that I have one on the hand… I will always have at least one tattoo showing. Unless I’m asked to wear gloves of course, hahaha.

I have like ten more tattoo ideas ready and awaiting the funds. Yeah, cause it’s kind of expensive unfortunately. I’m hoping to get some help to fund a couple new tats when I turn 30 next year. So hey, any friends or family reading this – no need to think of a presents for my next birthday. Just help me get more ink! :)

My latest addition - a simple skull on my left hand.

My muse - Kat von D