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

I'm an animal.

Since no one seems to be particularly alive I hereby allow myself to ponder freely upon whatever I feel like. For example, inspired by my dad and Ape’s family: The immorality of mixing meat from different animals in one sole dish.

You should know, that for the Ape family it is something of a challenge to put as many different animal meats in the same dish, and get away with it (something which they don’t always manage). As for my dad, he brought me disgust and inspiration when telling me of an extravagant dish consisting of a large turkey, in which there was a goose, in which there was a chicken, in which there was dove, in which there was a quail. And in the quail layeth an egg. Yeah, an egg in a bird, in a bird, in a bird… Or something along those lines. This is something that the old Romans used to eat. According to my dad.

Like the Janssons, I love food-related challenges. And like some of the more spoilt Romans, I adore gluttony. But there is something absolutely unethical in putting meat from different animals in the same dish.* I say we lose a portion of our humanity for every bacon-enfolded chicken breast we cut into.

Let’s say I was killed for food. I died for you. Then at least make me the star of your meal. I gave my life for your fucking jambalaya, don’t throw in a damn chicken next to me! Or a pork sausage. Or something else dead with a potential soul that isn’t mine. And don’t you dare eat me on weekdays. At least not my good parts. You're just shoving me right into your mouth without really tasting. Have my intestines for a hasty Tuesday tv-dinner, but damn you if you consume my fine buttocks in front of Days of our Lives! See me, see my value! Invite your friends to indulge me. Or better, have them watch you indulge in me. Make a sauce béarnaise to go with my inner thighs or smoke my cheeks with juniper berries. I don’t care exactly how you prepare me, as long as you do it with love and devotion. Think of me, who laid down my life to satisfy you.

One dish, one meat, one life, one soul, one love.

*Some of you out there might consider it absolutely unethical eating animals in the first place. And let’s not forget, we do have a former vegan in our midst (however, these days she’s *only* militant). I too, find it a somewhat weird and questionable custom, killing for food. But it is how I was brought up. The problem is that meat and the animals who bring it to us are way underrated. Cherish the meat, cherish the animals.

En sund själ i en sund kropp (attack riktad mot tiny, Ape och alla andra gymmande jävla jantelagsmotarbetare)

Rent parentesmässigt vill jag börja med att visa omslaget till Mariah Careys senaste album.

[paus]

Sedan vill jag säga att jag förstår varför man kan bli utsatt för våldtäkt när man traskar längs en dåligt upplyst cykelväg i någon av Uppsalas mer perifera centraldelar. Det är inte så att jag var speciellt upphetsad, eller särskilt sugen på att hamna i brottslig konflikt med någon (det vill jag mycket sällan). Men känslan av oövervinnerlighet, tillsammans med övertygelsen om att jag skulle kunna våldta någon, den var påtaglig, när jag powerwalkade där i mörkret. Endorfiner från träning, mina vänner, gör underverk. Och andra saker.

När jag kom hem tände jag ett stearinljus och funderade kring fysisk aktivitet och elitism.

Vem tror du att du är? Vad är det för samhälle du bygger? I jantelagens Sverige skulle ingen jävel skylta med att man går till gymmet och älskar hårt med sig själv i en timme. Du skulle inte skryta över att lägga pengar på att stå och blotta dig i ett spegelrum fyllt med sadomasochistiska tillfredsställningsmaskiner. Du skulle dölja dina armars avsaknad av gäddhäng.

Okej att alla gör det, men gör det diskret. För i helvete.