Food porn night

This is probably the most stupid and uninspiring of all our brand new stupid and uninspiring categories.

For that, I give you Haruka's magic and bid you good food porn night, all without making a big deal of my having baked super attractive bread today.

You're no different than Darryl Hannah

One day I started wondering where the center of my soul is located. As one does. I think I found it somewhere in my head, behind my eyes, in between my ears and not too far from my mouth. Why not in my belly? Why not somewhere closer to my heart? Why not in my index finger? Why this audio-visual-oral fixation when it comes to pinpointing my essence? Probably because, ultimately, having a soul is having a perspective. And according to Science, and my hand puppet Sir Yessir, coordination of perspective happens in my head. So naturally, when I think of me and my soul, and when I try to reach my inner self, I imagine it resides within my skull.

But this is not merely a post about soul-searching, or the idea that perspective is bound to be subjective and objectivity thus nowhere to be found since it has no place in the human consciousness. No. This is, as many times before, a post about Lindsay Lohan. See, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it rumored that the girl lacks a soul. Now let’s assume those seemingly foul rumors are true (very unlike the admittedly foul rumors linking Lohan to theft). This would presumably make Lindsay Lohan the very key to absolute and sheer objectivity. It’s a grand and frightening thought to us mere mortal soulful persons. But at the same time an undeniably tantalizing opportunity.

Of course, she couldn’t share any of this with us soulfuls. Lohan simply wouldn’t notice any of the sheer objectivity since all this would mean she has a total lack of perspective. Oh, woe.

Again, the undying storm named Lindsay Lohan strikes me. As a riddle. The more I try to solve her, the greater a mystery she becomes. And all the more distinguished from the rest of the world she appears.

More or less.

And then what if there were five of us, and all wearing velvet capes.

Majestic hair.

Tag of the week

"Tag of the week" is one of the five brand new features presented below. A while ago. The why is both irrelevant and undefined. The idea, however, is to pick a tag from our quite large collection of used tags and create one or several posts in its honor. And this week's tag of honor is, as expected:

Lindsay Lohan.

Let me add and clarify that there is absolutely no need to wait for a whole conventional week to announce a new Tag of the week. All tag weeks are separate units that can and should exist alongside each other in individual cycles of one to seven thousand days.

Den Nya Posten

Riktlinjer börjar gälla från och med 1 september.

1. Modebloggstisdag
2. Food porn night
3. Dark&Cute
4. I wish I was a...
5. Tag of the week

2011 - the year of the ?

Ny tid!
Nya möjligheter.
Därför är det helt logiskt med en tillbakablick.
Give me your personal best of 2010!

Vinter


Vår


Sommar


Höst


Vinter igen!



PUSS!

Heh!

Det vi alltid har saknat! Nu kan vi bli riktiga medborgare!

Saker man inte vill tänka på #14

Vad i helvete har ni tänkt er att jag ska göra i nyår?!

Dagens Urklipp #saker man vill höra varje dag

"Du ser ut som nån slags konstigt superhjälte."

Dagens Urklipp #saker man inte hör så ofta

"Så vad vi har här är alltså två separata svin?"

Claiming land.

As my romanticist soul needed fodder I decided to avoid the capital this weekend and spend my time in the countryside; walk in a fairytale forest, fall asleep to the sound of birds and bumblebees and wake up with a bad conscience for getting up way too late to really make use of the spring morning. To repent my horrible sin of sleeping in I took the decision sometime after lunch to crawl up into a flowerbed and dig my fingers deep into the dark dirt. Half nude in the sunshine I encountered plants, worms, centipedes and a thousand yellow ants. As time in the flowerbed went by, I felt the boost of making difference. The difference consisted of me tearing apart homes, exposing roots and insects to the scorching sun and meting out punishment for the plants I found to be weeds and making room for the ones I considered flowers. I felt the omnipotence of my sheer fingerwork and I smiled to myself, excited by my recklessness, feeling the gentle pressure of dirt under my nails, carressing the lovemarks I had inflicted on the ground and despising the weakness of the weed plants spread out around me at an arm's length.

Naturally, the humanist in me is ashamed and frightened. Which only makes the satisfaction more intense.

And what will Lindsay Lohan think?

For months now, I have, from time to time, been detecting an ill-boding and unidentifiable smell. Since I cannot seem to find its source I have had to assume it stems from me, and possibly from the back of my head. This because I cannot reach there with my nose and thus not exclude the possibility that it is in fact the back of my head that smells. I am just waiting for someone, somewhere, someday to give me an awkward look and a “Hey, I think the back of your head is rotting.” And I will have no other choice but to reply with an “I know. It’s been going on for months.” And at that point, I won’t exactly be lying. In a way, it might even be relieving.

But until that fatal day when the world is exposed to my rotting skull once and for all, I will make sure to wear my beret whenever I go out. Naturally, I curse the spring heat.

Music: LCD Soundsystem - Drunk Girls

Om du var vaken, skulle jag GE dig!

I currently obsess over the band Kite and my approaching midnight deadline. It's an OK combination. That time when I obsessed over cheese and jelly candy was a much worse combination, according to some. Or that time when I obsessed over having my left foot removed in combination with buying leftover right shoes to some highly affordable prices.

Anyway, the above video is to be watched as a tribute to me and tiny's dream version of our time in Paris back in spring -07, with the introducing line "wake up, you fucking dyke".

Lord Henry OK'd it, once again.

Perhaps DIKT:APRIL was doomed to fail from the very start. Instead of sitting alone typing nonsensical words in sheer desperation, we decided to come together last week and create life poetry in the form of sunshine, people's beer and boffer sword production. This collective dream state went on for some days and in the meantime, DIKT:APRIL vanished like volcanic ash in the wind. And we would all rejoice, put on our most picturesque outfits and start thinking about future beautiful failed projects to come.

The only artists I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.

Lord Henry, in “The Picture of Dorian Gray” by Oscar Wilde

Saker man inte hör så ofta;

"Ja, du är ju i fertil ålder så det bör du nog inte göra."

Mentioning things in my room a Friday night/Saturday morning

Letters and legs and pictures of all
the modest arts that grace the wall
curry and tea cups and Christ in thorn
all of this by a fifties shelf borne
staples and sweetness and spoonfuls of lotion
placed and balanced on a table in motion
crumbs and cables and clothes for poor
these are most often found on the floor
a lamp, a lamp, a lamp and a lamp
light and scattered as a small town tramp.

Havre, sport, delikatess...

Mot hunger, förstoppning och stress
ja, det kan till och med bota tristess
en sorglig tunn liten skiva
som nästan vadsomhelst kan bliva
vissa kallar det magi
men egentligen är det bara god fantasi

för detta har jag äntligen fattat
Wasa, det är grovt underskattat

Dikt om en hemlighet

En mörk låda
med blåa ränder
orsakar klåda
hur man den än vänder

men du! du! du!
nu ska du få höra
i den bor en gnu
med stora ögon och ben sköra

det är därför det låter så konstigt om natten
som ett monster i garderoben
det är därför hon vaktar den noga som skatten
och försiktigt sköter om den.

Rot.

...
I indirectly blame Ape's recurrent, delirious and positively outstanding Cara/Kahlan subtext-posts for my somehow coming across and enjoying this song and video. But seriously. How is one supposed to be able to study when there is so much YouTube filth to surf!?

I'll live my next life as a male Bollywood star

And if I'm not able to pull off those moves (1:25, 1:56, 3:33, 3:45 etc.) plan B is to become a dancing Indian condom.