Oddballs, perfume, curse of the mousse

Ape puts on perfume and smells like one of those sunshiny, flowery, fairytale spring mornings, where clean isn’t simply a description, but a 4-dimensional cartoon, which you can smell.

Lolly puts on perfume and smells like the oriental mistress, whose comforting touch and libido is woven of silky embraces of musk and oranges and obscure passion.

tiny puts on perfume and smells of inexplicable and unearthly perfection and something supposedly ephemeral, for no matter how much you smell her you can never fully grasp its complexity.

And me, I put on perfume, which as it hits my skin reacts, evolves and smells of something sticky, unbearable and ill-boding. Almost like the way you might detect an assertive-smelling smell, not knowing what it is and wonder whether it smells good or bad before you realize it’s rottening garbage you smell. Or zombies. That’s me using perfume. Any perfume.

A Challenge!!! with exhibitionism!! and jacuzzis!

We like pictures. Shiny pictures! Do you like pictures?

The year of "förpuppning" is coming to an end, and we like sums. Sometimes it is even fun to summarise. Therefore lets each provide a mathematical term to describe the past 12 months of our joint, or not joint life. Or we could just describe our year in a series of 12 more or less pointless, arrogant or plainly plain pictures.

Pressure, but good pressure, like in a steamy jacuzzi with glistening and tanned and flexing and pumping and....yeah, nevermind. In reality this is just a mindless attempt to fit a few more posts into the 2009 archive of this blog. If you feel like this is a worthy cause then upload your 12 pictures describing the past year and lets all look at them and laugh ourselves silly while we engage in a brilliant example of virtual exhibitionism.

I was six months old, speaking in tongues in the local missionary church to an audience in awe, when suddenly…

Someone pointed out that listening to a baby gurgling couldn’t possibly be considered divine. And that was the end of that career.

Howdy! I’m experiencing something of a spring break from the supposedly wondrous world of developmental psychology (babies!) and have thus taken refuge in the countryside. The soothing spring air will cleanse my mind and the crystal clear sunshine will burn away what stains I have gathered in sin. The euphoria of this last weekend is taking its backlashing toll in the form of melancholy. Oh, woe! There is nothing to do but wait and possibly gluttonize. Everything has a shade of black to it and everyone is looking at me with pity. And I’m looking back in fear.

All the goldfish in the garden pond are dead. It appears they drowned and ended up deep-frozen within a solid layer of ice. And now they’re millimeters away from reaching air and the possibility to rot. That’s the thing about spring. It’s such a dramatic process, this restarting thing we’re doing. Old presumptions and dirty secrets suddenly have nowhere to hide and are forced to stand, bent down, in an unforgiving, dazzling sunshine. It’s not like we have a damn choice. If we want to restart and get renewed life, we have to encounter the stale and the old and the stinking. Like making that unpleasant phonecall so that you can move on. Or cleaning your room in order to get your candy. That’s spring for you. Together, of course, with brand new clothes in bright fucking colors. No wonder people get anguished and depressed.

Me, I’m not depressed at all. I just need some well-deserved cocooning. Weeklong. Planning on pondering upon whether I’m more of a sociopath or a socioholic. Might settle for sociorexic. And daddy promised to remove the fish. Only a couple of millimeters now…