Theme: This Year I’m Celebrating Festivus!

Theme: This Year I’m Celebrating Festivus!

I am so excited about this you guys. This year I celebrate the second coming of Christ. He is back! Let me tell you. So last this morning at work the board was in a corporate meeting. We were reconsidering our investment in the car industry due to the latest turmoil with emission, lies and half-truths. As a company we would rather not be associated with these shady dealings as it may turn the spotlight on us. And when push comes to shove, we just do not need that kind of attention. Simon, our head of the accounting team, was making his case: “Gentlemen, if the media found out we made our investmenets knowingly, it would put us in a bad position.” “How so?,” asked our head of human resources, Pillock. Pillock was a furious charismatic chap with a smile as warming as a mother’s kiss. He was extremely good at his job. Taking care of employees and pandering to people with money came naturally to him. Our CEO, the good Mr. Greatbigmoneybags described Pillock as: “A brainless brown-noser,” yet Pillock was always invited on poker nights. “Isn’t it obvious?,” aksed Derrik. Greatbigmoneybags coughed: “Yes, quite.” Pillock looked like a biker caught in a storm without a helmet for a second, but he relented. “So, what do you think we should invest in instead?” “It’s not that simple,” began Derrik. “Why not?,” asked Pillock. “Isn’t it obvious?,” came the reply. Silence. “Let me elaborate,” Derik began: “If we flat out drop our investments now, we would stand to lose shitloads of cash.” “Can’t have that,” commented Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “So we need to invest in something that will facilitate the growth of the car industry while in and of itself being a good investment.” “Wouldn’t it be sufficient to just be an investmenet less terrible than our current engagement with the car industry?,” piped Ruby. She was the head of overseas production. Cute as a button and sharp as a razor, Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had noticed her talents early in her career. “Recent legislation demands at least 25% women on the board,” Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had told me: “She’s too many brains and too much initiative for her own good. Let her travel overseas when she gets too much. Let her lead the production, I say. And with 8 on the board and Richards murdered by the Chinese mob, or gangsters or whatever they call them, we need a woman more on the board. Awards us a bilateral amount with the whole ‘equalising women in the workplace’-thing going on. Good investment and we get her tits out of my tits. Win, win, I tell you.” None dared oppose him. And Ruby had just spend the week prior to the choice implementing a new paradigm at the coffee machine where if you would empty the machine, put a new one on right away, rather than have her make it every 30 minutes. We drink a lot of coffee. Needless to say, this was bloody annoying and she had to go. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags hired a local secretary to be her stand-in when she was overseas. Dumb-dumb we call him. Dumb and mute. Just as we like it. Makes a mean cup of coffee, too. And he never complains about making it. “Win, win,” as Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had said: “Win, win.”

Pillock looked puzzled at the statement and Derrik was somewhat taken aback: “Yes, that would be sufficient, but not optimal.” “Optimal in what way?,” asked Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “Financially,” answered Simon and Derrik in unison. “Can’t have that,” coughed Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “Well, do we have any ideas or alternatives?” Silence. Our head of marketing, Reginald, an old gentleman with over 50 years of experience in his field groaned: “How about,” and at least three of us sighed at once. Reginald was the slowest talker on the planet. When he opened his mouth, time stood still. He continued: “Oil is at an–” “Get to the point Reginald,” flashed Ruby impatiently. “In due time, sugartits,” answered Reginald slowly: “As I was saying,” another sigh echoed around the table: “Oil is at a low. Maybe we should consider this investment.” “How do you get from cars to oil,” protested Simon. Pillock seconded the confusion. Ruby intejected before the old man answered himself: “Well, cars run on gasoline. Gasoline is refined oil.” “Rather, shouldn’t we then invest in the gasoline industry?,” asked Pillock. “No, no, the gasoline industry is doing fine. Oil is not,” answered Simon glacially. “How do any of these investments facilitate the car industry?,” asked Derrik. “Yes,” murmured Pillock and continued: “Neither the gasoline nor oil industry run on cars.” “That… that’s not really the point,” remarked Simon while our head of research and development, Dexter, snorted in derision. Dexter was a young engineer with no practical experience in research and development. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had met the bloke back when Dexter was a student. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags sized Dexter up to me: “There’s a fine young gentleman, if I’ve ever met one. Not a single thought in his head. No ideas. No initiative. Monkey see, monkey do. Exactly what we need for research and development. Have him copy the good ideas from our competitors – and we take no risks. Let them do the risky business and we then do fat cash and success. I like it!” “The problem is not the car industry, but the people reporting on the car industry,” remarked Mr. Greatbigmoneybags’ personal assistant Penny. “Hush girl,” Mr. Greatbigmoneybags interrupted her. She was a pretty young woman. Small, slender and exceptionally beautiful. We all knew the latter quality was the quality that landed her her job. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had plenty of assistants and had no need of a personal assistant. When asked at the last corporate retreat by our then head of research and development Martins, Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had answered: “It’s like this. You’ve an empty spot on the wall. What do you hang there? An ugly piece of shit that’ll make your feel worse every time you glance at it, or a piece of pure beauty that’ll put a skip in your step and a hard cock in your hand? I had an empty desk in front of my office. What’d you do with it?” “But you just had that desk installed,” came the reply. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags fired Martins then and there: “Can’t have that kind of people around the office. Bad for business.” No one questioned his choices of personal assistants since. She was clever, though, no one could deny that. “So what you’re saying is, we should invest in something detrimental to the media coverage?,” asked Pillock. “Obscurring facts and being counterproductive is unethical,” interjected Ruby. “Oy! I told you, I hate that word. That’s two strikes now, Ruby,” warned Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. That was when the herald of the second coming of our lord and saviour entered the office.

A ragged man in raggy clothes entered the office and slammed the door with a bang. “Who the Hell are you?,” started Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “Your Lord and Savior. I have the solution to your problem.” “Aw, bloody Hell, I’ve the head of every organ in the company on this board, but where’s the head of security when you need a brute.” “That’d put us below the 25% female threshold on the board,” interjected Penny. “Right. That’d lose us some government cash. Can’t have that. Get the brute in here. Why can’t the crazy hobos ever be chicks? It’d improve my bottom line.” “My name is Plugg,” began the hobo: “And I’ve been to the Hell and back. And now I come to save you from your salvation.” “What?,” asked Derrik and Dexter in confused unison. “The man’s here to save us, jeez,” explained Pillock. “That’s not what that means,” sighed Dexter. “Sure it is, it’s on wiki,” said Plugg: “Look it up.” “Security!,” called Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. Plugg continued despite the unrest around the table: “It started a week ago, when I was begging at the corner of 1st and Southwest when this girl–” “Did you bring her?,” asked Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “No.” “Damn it, man. Think of my bottom line! If this gets out–” “She dropped her phone,” continued Plugg: “And so I went on the Internet. To Hell and back.” “That’s it?,” asked Dexter. “Yes. I’d nothing else to do, so I browsed the web. I spent a week reading 4chan, reddit, tumblr and countless YouTube comment sections. I come before you, born anew. Back from Hell. And I now understand how this world and life works. I come before you with the answer to life, the universe and everything.” “It’s 42,” sighed Dexter. “How’d you know!?,” protested Plugg. “It’s in a book.” “Book!? That’s some hipster shizz right there. No, your assistant had the better of it. The coverage’s griefing is imba.” “Griefing? Imba?,” asked Reginald. Slowly. “Yeah, it’s harshing your mellows. You have to convince twitter that the emission debate is sexist or racist. Preferably both. Then, you’re back in business.” “No, that’s not how this–,” began Ruby when Pillock interrupted her: “Oh, just entertain the hobo, will you? While we’re waiting for security. Won’t cost us anything.” “Alright,” commented Mr. Greatbigmoneybags: “In that case, let’s hear him out. How much’ll this proposal of yours set us back?” “Social media accounts are free,” answered Plugg. “I like where this is going,” commented Mr. Greatbigmoneybags and beckoned Plugg to continue. “You see, there’s no greater force in this world than hate on social media. Picture this. It’s like a whale in the sky – a sky whale – that, when told something is racist, sexist, ableist, or our Lord forbid, offensive, will fall from the sky and flap violently in the general direction of the issue, but never actually touch the issue itself. Flapping sky whale terror, gentlemen. That’s exactly what you need.” “Huh,” exclaimed Derrik after a pause of silence. “Right,” commented Mr. Greatbigmoneybags: “How’d we go about this?”

“You see, the problem is some cars are lying about emissions. Not because of some Terminator-BS with machines rising up against us, but because the cars were told to lie.” “By who?,” asked Pillock. “Whom,” corrected Reginald and Ruby. “That’s just it. No one knows except internally. And they ain’t talking.” “Do they outsource car production to Asia?,” asked Dexter. “No, sadly, otherwise this’d been an easy case.” The door slammed open and a tall brute burst in: “You called security?” “Took you long enough,” said Mr. Greatbigmoneybags: “This hobo just wandered in. What kind of operation are we running here?” The brute looked at the hagged hobo Plugg: “I’ll take care of it.” “The Hell you will. Look around. We’re eight guys and two chicks in here. If someone was to snap a picture, I’d stand to lose thousands a year in government funding. Get out and get a girl in here. Now!” “Sir?,” asked the confused head of security. “Get out and get a girl in here!,” roared Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “Any girl?,” asked the head of security. “Any girl will do.” As the door shut, Reginald took the word. Slowly: “Well, the Danish government reported the descrepancy in emissions to the European Union over a year ago. No one reacted or cared.” Plugg nodded. “Do anyone else feel ten years older after that comment?,” asked Dexter. Laughs all around. Except Ruby. “Okay, so the car industry is lobbying an anti-Scandinavian agenda. It’s a start, but not really shitstorm material.” “Why not?,” asked Derrik. “Well, there are only six million Danes that may get pissed off. And little more than half of ’em are anti-EU. So you’re looking at three million potential hate mongerers.” “Needs more appeal, then,” nodded Derrik. “We could slap some tits on it,” proposed Reginald. Slowly. He continued: “Maybe a fine ass or two as well.” “That’s pretty sexist,” mumbled Ruby. Plugg budded in: “No it’s not. What you need to understand is that Reginald is old and just a product of his own time.” “What?,” protested Ruby, but found only disagreeing head shakes around the table. She sighed: “Nevermind, go on.” “Hey, I don’t make these rules; the Internet makes the rules,” Plugg consoled but received only a retaliatory scoff. “I think we’d better take an environmentalist approach,” said Plugg: “The most toxic of the hate mongerers are pro-environment no matter what.” A flash of enthutiasm sparked in Plugg’s eyes: “Oh, this is a great idea! Those never fail to piss off the anti-pro-environmentalists.” “What are those?” “People that are against people who are openly pro-enviroment. Technically it’s a bit broader than that. Those people are anti anyone pro-anything.” “I’m confused,” admitted Pillock. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags shot him a disapproving glance.

A girl entered gingerly. “Aw, he sent the ugly black one from HR,” sighed a disappointed Reginald. Slowly. “That’s my assistant,” Pillock reminded the old man. “That was racist and sexist, Reginald,” protested Ruby. Plugg then reminded her once more, why that was not the case. “Sit down, and hush. Try not to listen. If anyone comes in with a camera, smile,” said Mr. Greatbigmoneybags and gestured her towards a chair at the back of the room. Slowly she walked around the table ever so lightly socked Reginald square in the face as she passed by. “That’s sexual harassment, though,” said Plugg. “What!?,” roared Ruby. “No no,” coughed Reginald slowly and chuckled lecherously: “It’s fine. I like it rough.” “Ewwww–,” started Pillock when Plugg interrupted and got back on track: “So, we spin it like this: the industry’s anti-environmentalist and supports the eradication of the rain forest, the bengal tiger and pandas.” “But that’s not true,” defied Ruby. “I’m starting to see a pattern here,” said Plugg. “Yes, quite,” said Mr. Greatbigmoneybags and straightened his tie: “Ruby, be a darling and go fetch us some refills.” “No,” protested Ruby. “Penny, you do it, then.” “No!,” roared Ruby: “Why can’t a man do it?” “Hush, the men are talking big business here and it’s obviously too much for you to keep up with. Get out.” “But then your ratio’d be wrong again.” “Right, right. Take Reginald with you. PR’s nothing to do with marketing campaigns anyway.” The old man and Ruby got up and left the room. Simon took the word: “Right. So we’ve got a campaign strategy. Who’s to take charge?” “I’ll do it,” said Plugg.” “You don’t work here,” protested Mr. Greatbigmoneybags: “I’d have to put you on the payroll. Don’t like the sound of that.” “Well, it was worth a shot,” Plugg nodded, bowed and left the room. “We can finish without him,” said Simon. “Yes. Social media is a recent development, right?,” asked Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “Yeah,” nodded Dexter and Penny. “Dexter’ll do it, then. He does research and developments. Go do social media. And I want a report on Monday.” Dexter looked confused. Reluctant. Uncomprehending. Then he nodded in agreement: “Got it. I’ll take care of it. Lying cars kill pandas.” Mr. Greatbigmoneybags smiled: “Good. That’ll be all.” Derrik threw me a glance: “And what does the head of quality assurance have to say about all this?”

Let me tell you. The reaction to the campaign was astronmical. The Internet blew up and the hate mongering spread like wild fire. Death threats became a daily, hourly and minutely event. Of course, the real world does not operate by social media rules. Facts eventually emerged. The death threats vanished. The hate turned to reflected affection and empathy. Empathy! Can you believe it? People felt sorry for the undeservably hate-ridden poor sods. No one cared about our campagin. No one cared about us. Sure, the stocks took an initial blow. But what is dead may never die, but rises again with greater profit to the shareholders. I guess this was a kind of Stockholm-syndrome: feeling sorry for the needlessly scorned. And needless scorn is easy to come by on the social media, it seems. And it was this crazy hobo that had us embrace the eighth wonder of the world: Social media. None of us even saw Plugg again. Then again no one cared to look for him. Anyway, this year I celebrate the hobo that opened our eyes and saved us from a potential slight financial loss. Cheers for the free hate-mongering jackasses on social media that allow themselves to be goated and manipulated without thought: the best development in marketing and campaigning in the history of the World. And it is absolutely free. Thanks guys! As Mr. Greatbigmoneybags would say: “I like the sound of that.”

Reflections: A Hard Sell

I see you in the bottom right corner of my screen. And for the umpteenth time I banish you. No, I do not want to upgrade to Windows 10, no matter how much you are shoving “It’s free!,” into my face. I do not care.

It may be that the blatant cash-grab model of “Free 2 Play” – or “Fee 2 Pay” depending how you look at it – has jaded me over the past few years, and you may call me an ungrateful jackass. I do not mind. And I do not care. I have a setup on Windows 8. I finally got used to its Xbox-wannabe interface and so far I have had no issues with it. The games I play work on Windows 8. The editing and music software I use works on Windows 8.

Tell me, how is upgrading my OS – even if it is free – a good idea when everything works perfectly and smoothly? I do not see a gain here. I see a risk. And I am not going to play Russian roulette with an as-perfect-as-I-can-conceive computer setup.

It may cost me nothing, but what is in it for me?

The answer is “benefits down the road,” but that rubs me the wrong way. The upgrade is not going to stay free forever. Why is the massive corporation attempting to lure people in with promises yet to be fulfilled? Colour me jaded, but every alarm bell inside my head is ringing.

So, thanks to Microsoft for the offer, but I think I would rather cough up the cash when there is something tangible in it for me – not just vague promises of sunshine, lollipops and rainbows… eventually.

Theme: I Don’t Believe

Theme: I Don’t Believe

It would be easy for me to list the plethora of elements in this world that I do not believe in. That sentence saddens me. It saddens me because it makes sense to me. So much around us is man-made and requires some measure of belief in order to serve a purpose. Religion is the obvious example of this, but I will avoid this particular topic, as religion and beliefs in and of themselves tend to bring out the very worst in people – the worst in mankind. I do not believe in religion – nor the religious.

This is neither here nor there. What I want to talk about is a few quirky disbeliefs of mine. I don’t believe that…

  • the ‘Lord of the Rings’ trilogy was well-written. Quite the opposite, I found it terribly hard and ludicrously laborious to read,
  • Batman is a character worthy of any attention. Nor his companions. Nor anything around him. He and his universe just do not appeal to me in the slightest,
  • the cake was a lie. It was there if you stayed past the end credits,
  • any aliens have ever been close enough to observe humanity. If any superior race had noticed us, our industrious nature, our ambition and hunger for power, we would have been wiped out immediately,
  • the Olympics should be for professional athletes. I would rather see it return to its ancient roots featuring nothing but amateurs and ordinary people,
  • the Game of Thrones TV series is any good. It is rubbish if you ask me. The books are amazing, though,
  • OJ was innocent,
  • the epilogue of “The Deathly Hallows” should have been written. However, I do understand the purpose of it, yet, it still made me want to heave,
  • homeopathy is anything but a shameless sham,
  • astrology is any better, but it is easier to make a buck off of telling people what they want to hear than telling people they are garbage,
  • sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never harm me. Words stick with you. And words can haunt you forever – especially a truth,
  • the Phantom Menace was that bad, but a few things rubbed me the wrong way,
  • the Return of the Jedi was any good, at all,
  • virtual reality is the future,
  • social media – in particular, Twitter – was ever meant to bring people together. Quite to the contrary, they seem designed for commercialised hate-mongering,
  • people should be persecuted if they sodomise anyone using a selfie-stick in public for its intended purpose.

Seriously, the selfie-culture needs to sod off. I have no patience for it. “Here I am posing in front of Michelangelo’s ‘David’,” they would say presenting their selfie. Great vacation photography with some random plebs face obscuring the sight of a masterpiece. Not only a massive waste of time, but also a massive loss of genuinely interesting material – lost to a pleb face in a self-centered ploy for attention. I imagine these people will be massively disappointed when scientists determine the center of the universe and found out that is not the selfie-enthusiasts.

Theme: Freedom, Sex, Food and Key Chain Fobs

Theme: Freedom, Sex, Food and Key Chain Fobs

Back in January I was looking through the themes for 2015, and this month’s theme: “Freedom, Sex, Food & Key Chain Fob,” had me puzzled. I thought that it was an English/American saying with a non-literal interpretation, but no. To be fair, English is not my native language although most of my day passes in English. I am using it to get by. I leave it to you native-English-speaking types to account how the sentence “Some people can’t stand sitting,” came to make sense. Anyway, I threw a 4-sided dice (yes, they exist) as to which keyword I should focus on, and this month we talk about food. I leave the freedom, sex and key chain fobs for the rest of my co-bloggers to cover. So in line with a zine I went out and challenged myself to make some food. I am now a man that has made his own tomato sauce. And it was easy! Do not let anyone else tell you otherwise. It is easy.

You take 1 kg. of tomatoes. As to which type of tomato, I do not care. Ain’t nobody got time for that, and several gastro-scientists on the web have already posted deep analysis of which tomatoes to work with. They did the research and I ignored it. Which type of tomato should you use? The red ones. Simple as that. 1 kg of fresh red tomatoes. Anything else, I will not be responsible for the outcome. You take the tomatoes and wash them for dirt and whatever else they are crawling in from the market. And without any further processing you throw them in a pot with water and put them to a boil. Any boil. After 2-5 minutes in the boiling water, the skin of the tomatoes will crack. When cracked, pull them out of the boiling water. Might want to use a strainer. Put the cracked-skin tomatoes into a some cold/ice water to cool them off. Once sufficiently cooled off, you take each tomato and peel the skin off. I did this on 1 kg. of tomatoes in 5 minutes. It is easy. Messy, but easy. Remember to talk the center stalk-bit out as well. Ain’t nobody wanna eat that. Use a knife. When should be left is just below 1 kg. of red lumps.

When you want to add to your tomato sauce does not matter. I used 1 red bell pepper and 1 red onion, sauteed with paprika. You do you, and it will be fine. I recommend at least adding the onion. Red bell pepper, garlic, cauliflower, beef stew, strawberry pudding, loafers or babies is all up to you. No turmeric though. Never turmeric. You may use curry if you want to, but no pure turmeric. This shit is not going to get commercial red as it stands, no need to add lying treacherous yellow colouring to the mix. Once you have your ingredients and your peeled tomatoes ready to go, we do things the Irish way: Put it in a pot and boil it until you can eat it using a straw. The second messy part of the job is crushing the peeled tomatoes. I did so by hand because my paprika sauteed onion and red pepper motivated me to proceed macho-man style. You may use a blender or a food processor if your fancy ass kitchen has one of those, but I do not. Put a peeled tomato into your hand, put your hand into a pot and crush ever so gently. Once all the tomatoes have become a red lumpy mush in a pot you squeeze the lumps, too. Until everything is a red liquid-ish mass. If you have done some research into the best kind of tomatoes to use, you may have a lot of liquid in the pot now, or not so much. Does not matter much though. You add all the other ingredients, 1 tsp. of oregano and 1 tsp. of thyme and put it to a boil. And after seasoning your tomato sauce extra carefully, you may punch a wall to gain +3 manliness buff to counter the “growing vagina”-debuff you will be sprouting at this point.

You boil this liquid mass until so much water has been reduced that you are happy with the consistency. Depending on your choice of tomatoes and added ingredients this likely takes between 30 minutes and three hours.

Now, what I got out of it after using a camping handheld blender to remove excess lumps and reach my favoured consistency: a few small lumps in a homogenous sauce, I ended up with about a half liter of tomato sauce.

You may want to sweeten the sauce to your liking using sugar or artificial sweetener if you are so inclined, or diabetes is ailing you. If you do not prefer it sweet, you may opt out of this. Taste and spice, that is the key here. Some salt and pepper should be added at some point in the mix, preferably while the sauce is boiling, but you can do so subsequently, if you want. This is not set in stone. None of it is. You boil tomatoes with ingredients. It is not rocket science. It is cooking. No need to make things harder than they are.

The sauce was not as red as the store-bought tomato sauce. But in terms of taste, I have never had better, and I have been to Italy and I have had authentic home-made Italian tomato sauce before. It trumps the store-bought tomato sauce by miles in terms of taste and you get to control what is in it. No artificial colours or preservatives. No added chemicals. You know what is in it. And it tastes much much better. In terms of price, I paid 12-13$ for the ingredients and seeing as I can get half a liter of store-bought tomato sauce for 0.99$…

There is an old saying, you should never cross a river to get water. This does depend if it is a particularly nice trip, or the water at the end is much cleaner and tastes better than the water from the river. If you know what I mean. 😉

Theme: My Name is Alice Johnston, This is a Day in My Life

Theme: My Name is Alice Johnston, This is a Day in My Life

My name is Alice Johnston and I’m the headline top model of the Copenhagen Fashion Week. This is a day in my life.

06:12: Today starts early with a nourishing vitamin water (only 0.3% fat) and broccoli vapors. Then I practice my facial expressions in the mirror: angry, moody, wronged, grumpy, unimpressed, apathetic and my favourite: Kristen Stewart.

08:30: Snack consisting of two pieces of gum (I sin as I’ve brought the sugary kind from home) and more water. It’s important to get energized for the long trip down the catwalk.

08:43: Just before going on the catwalk, security evicts one of the girls by mistake. The designer is angry. Can’t these people tell the difference between homeless and hipster? Geez.

10:25: Talk with the lady who hired me for the show this afternoon. Unfortunately, she’s unable to pay me cash, but she can promise with at least two glances from Donatella Versace. She is, of course, in Paris, but it is still better than last year, when I was paid in discarded knitted shirts by Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings from Sussex – all of size small – all too big for me.

13:15: I recuperate with a slice of pineapple from a tray with fruits presented by one of the designers. Kinda irresponsible considering how many calories are in it. I still manage to get into a pair of latex leggings, size 8-years-old.

13:27: Another designer leaves the show in anger. His model had forgotten to smile to the camera. She had forgotten her line: “Cheese.”

14:44: After a full hour with the make-up artist, giving me the Africa-meets-backwater look, I am getting dressed in the so-called “Third World dress”, consisting of over a million strands of hair from Indian children, gold-woven silk and a very long train depicting Aung San Suu Kyi. No high heels, so that’s a relief.

14:59: Just before going on stage the manager comes back-stage and complains that the toilets are constantly occupied and staff has to cross the street. Also that the sound of vomiting is disturbing to some of the audience.

16:53: Finally I get a break and sit down with the Financial Times that I hide in a Vogue-magazine to avoid snide remarks. Yesterday I told one of the other girls that I do my own taxes, and she was so shocked she accidentally ate a slice of white bread.

17:57: I come across yet another angry comment about the Fashion Week’s sick beauty ideals from some lardy lump, weighing at least 105 pounds. I don’t understand all the commotion: If you’re happy with your fat, flabby, stout and dwarf-like body, why do you even care?

Theme: I Have a Love Hate Relationship

Theme: I Have a Love Hate Relationship

I do not. I do not have a love hate relationship. Or I have a love hate relationship with everything in life. Take your pick.

I hate, but in no way love, the totalitarian school of thought that you must either love or hate something, with nothing in between. Either complete infatuation, or complete loathing. To me, the platonic way of thinking about things, i. e. love is the least degree of hate, good is the least degree of evil and vice versa, etc. etc. is the natural way of thinking things. I mean, there are plenty of things I like, but there are few things I truly love. And everything has an asterisk, a footnote. And it should!

I super hate, but I do not super love, the notion that just because you like something does not mean that something is above and no longer subject to criticism. In my world, everything is subject to criticism, no matter how petty it may seem. Yes, advanced lesson for the SJW’s out there making the Internet a worse place to entertain yourself one meanderingly mind-numbingly dumb forum post/YouTube comment at a time: You can like something and still critique it. And you can critique something and still like it. Just because something is flawed, yes, it is no longer flawless (get a dictionary if this confuses you), but that does not mean it is not good (the least degree of bad). It just means you have a preference the producer/author/designer/editor/whatevor does not.

That in no way diminishes the work. It is your subjetive opinion about your own preference and thus nothing becomes objectively bad. Nuance takes brain cells, people, but this is immediately imminent if you get up Feminist Frequency on YouTube and sift through the comment section. If you do so, before you attempt a stage dive out the nearest window, it is apparent that one ought never stoop to an idiot’s level. Never do that. They will beat you with experience.

Now, back to the topic at hand. There are only few things I love. More things I like, a lot of shit I tolerate and there is a vast catalogue of drivel I dislike, ranging from mild annoyance to outright hate, yes. But everything I dislike, I also like in a kind of way, because most of everything has potential to be something I would personally enjoy. I feel like I need a “for instance” to drive home this point. Here are a few inconsequential choices (nothing deeply personal):

I am weary that my phone has so many ways it tries to keep tabs on me over the net, when all I need is a calling device and text messaging. That said, I find myself from time to time kinda-sorta lost, and being able to then go online and get directions or find information on-the-fly is handy.

I tire of laundry, but at the same time I enjoy clean and freshly folded clothes to put on every morning.

I am a passionate fan of strategic collectible card games (looking at you, Magic: the Gathering), but I also feel they are clearly cash-grabs more than they are games.

And I absolutely adore Eurovision, even though it is tacky, kitschy, over-the-top and ridiculous, more so for each passing year.

Having stated all this, there are things in this world that I struggle to find a single redeeming quality in and should just disappear out of this world, if you ask me. Selfies, for example. Boiled Brussels sprouts, too.

And turmeric. Tasteless curry-coloured lying pinch of shit to put in any dish. Use curry instead. If not, then use nothing in its place. Just sprinkle some air. Or piss in it. That is also yellow and does not taste of curry.

… if it does taste of curry, seek medical attention.