I had a bit of a weird spout of weirdness on twitter last night, where I theorised about what the official (probably mostly restraining orders) letters of horror movie characters looked like, and wanted to expand on that because, as kids say these days, it was "hella fun".
Samara from The Ring's landlady:
"Samara dear, I've been receiving letters of complaints from other tenants saying the walls between their and your flat have severe water damage. If this is not sorted out, I will have to evict you. I locked myself in to assess the damage earlier, and it is simply not healthy living in such damp conditions, as it will end up covered in mould. I am rather curious as to how you managed to get it wet all the way to the TV though....
Sincerely,
Mrs. Higgins"
Jason's parole officer:
"Jason, we've received complaints from families visiting your camp, complaining of a terrible stench coming from your cabin and that you chase them with a machete. These are quite serious accusations, and I will need you to come by the station Monday morning for a testimony.
Sincerely,
Bobby Joe Doughman"
Jason's intervention letter:
"Jason, mate, this is very difficult for me to say, but you need to bury your mother. It's getting to the point now, where it's really awkward coming over and see her head on that shrine. Let her go, mate. She loves you, but you need to let her go to get on with your life. If you struggle to cope, you really should look into seeing a counsellor. It's for your own good.
-Jimmie"
Jeeper's Creepers dietarian:
"Jasper, I've had a look at your diet now, and I found alarming amounts of Hummin meat? Never heard of this before, but the amounts you eat can't be healthy. I suggest going on a vegetarian diet for two weeks before you ease back into eating meat. Your system needs a break. Please look at the attached recipes if you want to boost your immune system and get your metabolism going.
Thanks, see you Friday! Happy dieting!
Jenna"
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde's wife's hastily written note:
"Henry, you've changed.
-Martha"
Dracula's doctor:
"Lord Dracula, I've received the test result for your last bloodtest and I've received a very interesting result... Did you know you are closely related to my assistant Gina? You could positively be her twin. Very interesting. You also seem to have oral herpes and I have written a perscription for you. It should stop being infectious in 2-3 weeks.
Sincerely,
Doctor Hammond"
Monday, 14 October 2013
Wednesday, 2 October 2013
Wednesday, 11 September 2013
Somewhat titled
The thing about smartphones that I really really really hate is the fact that you can't just randomly send "Oh I really thought you were a decent person, but this!? Sending me this!? No... You are just a massive perv. How dare you!" to people.
Such a bummer that you can see what you sent previously. Or the conversation, if you will.
Sad face.
Anyway, I've been working on this really long blog post about serious stuff of seriousness for a long time, and I just can't bring myself to post it. So I decided to give that up and try and write something witty instead. As I am in that kind of mood.
Bring the thunder.
I wrote a short story that I would like to share.
Oh yes. This shit is happening yo.
WITH shitty paint-pictures.
OK here we go. It is called
"Pen-pal" (dramatic music)
The last sentence was carefully thought through before I jotted it down and sealed the envelope. The stamp was carefully placed in the right-hand corner and dropped into the letterbox. I smiled. I had never had a pen-pal before.
The days went by slowly while I were waiting for an answer. I was anxious to read the reply of what I thought to be a thought provoking letter.
A rainy day, particularly nasty, I felt the need to take a walk. There was no particular reason for this, but on rainy days I feel there is something particularly forbidden, almost, about being outside in heavy rain.
It turned out it was my stomach leading the way. I headed down to the local pub, thinking a pint would be a nice consolation price for the weather. There weren't many there, just the barman and another customer sitting in the corner. A flashback to the scene in The Lord of the Rings where Aragorn is introduced crosses my mind. I turn away, barely able to stifle my laughter at this, now, bit of a cliché scene.
I looked over at the strange man again, and felt like he were staring hard at me. I decided that the pint would be enjoyed regardless of how quickly I drank it.
So I did, slammed the money on the bar, saluted the barman and left.
Making sure the hood on my jacket was fully covering my head as I trotted along in the rain, I decided that I could do my shopping. Little did I know that the stranger from the bar were following me.
Filling my head with prospective song lyrics and humming to myself I went home to watch TV.
Not one of my most creative nights, I'll admit.
I was oblivious to the stranger outside, looking at me through my window, lurking, soaking wet.
Thunder rolled over the sky, like a a warm wool blanket over the world. I noticed how dark it suddenly had got. I turned off the TV and headed for bed, possibly less clever than before, and drifted to sleep.
The stranger outsid
e stood there, staring.
And I were sleeping. Unaware of my visitor.
A particularly loud thunder clap woke me up a couple of hours later and I decided that a glass of water would be brilliant right about now.
Outside the figure had vanished.
When I saw wet footprints on the floor, I became somewhat sceptical of my current situation. I put the glass down and quietly went into the kitchen to get a rolling pin.
Invigorated with a new sense of courage, I turned on the lights and saw that the footprints led to my bedroom.
The blood in my veins turned into ice as I went in, ready to strike.
But I never had the chance to strike. I fell to the floor and remained there.
They found me with a letter addressed to me in my hand.
No fingerprints but my own.
I guess I have learnt now, a little too late, that sending a letter to a belieber with obsessive-fanatic tendencies is a somewhat bad idea.
And whatever you do, DO NOT send the half-burnt stub of a ticket.
Such a bummer that you can see what you sent previously. Or the conversation, if you will.
Sad face.
Anyway, I've been working on this really long blog post about serious stuff of seriousness for a long time, and I just can't bring myself to post it. So I decided to give that up and try and write something witty instead. As I am in that kind of mood.
Bring the thunder.
I wrote a short story that I would like to share.
Oh yes. This shit is happening yo.
WITH shitty paint-pictures.
OK here we go. It is called
"Pen-pal" (dramatic music)
The last sentence was carefully thought through before I jotted it down and sealed the envelope. The stamp was carefully placed in the right-hand corner and dropped into the letterbox. I smiled. I had never had a pen-pal before.
The days went by slowly while I were waiting for an answer. I was anxious to read the reply of what I thought to be a thought provoking letter.
A rainy day, particularly nasty, I felt the need to take a walk. There was no particular reason for this, but on rainy days I feel there is something particularly forbidden, almost, about being outside in heavy rain.It turned out it was my stomach leading the way. I headed down to the local pub, thinking a pint would be a nice consolation price for the weather. There weren't many there, just the barman and another customer sitting in the corner. A flashback to the scene in The Lord of the Rings where Aragorn is introduced crosses my mind. I turn away, barely able to stifle my laughter at this, now, bit of a cliché scene.
I looked over at the strange man again, and felt like he were staring hard at me. I decided that the pint would be enjoyed regardless of how quickly I drank it.
So I did, slammed the money on the bar, saluted the barman and left.
Making sure the hood on my jacket was fully covering my head as I trotted along in the rain, I decided that I could do my shopping. Little did I know that the stranger from the bar were following me.
Filling my head with prospective song lyrics and humming to myself I went home to watch TV.
Not one of my most creative nights, I'll admit.
I was oblivious to the stranger outside, looking at me through my window, lurking, soaking wet.
Thunder rolled over the sky, like a a warm wool blanket over the world. I noticed how dark it suddenly had got. I turned off the TV and headed for bed, possibly less clever than before, and drifted to sleep.The stranger outsid
e stood there, staring.
And I were sleeping. Unaware of my visitor.
A particularly loud thunder clap woke me up a couple of hours later and I decided that a glass of water would be brilliant right about now.
Outside the figure had vanished.
When I saw wet footprints on the floor, I became somewhat sceptical of my current situation. I put the glass down and quietly went into the kitchen to get a rolling pin.Invigorated with a new sense of courage, I turned on the lights and saw that the footprints led to my bedroom.
The blood in my veins turned into ice as I went in, ready to strike.
But I never had the chance to strike. I fell to the floor and remained there.
They found me with a letter addressed to me in my hand.
No fingerprints but my own.
I guess I have learnt now, a little too late, that sending a letter to a belieber with obsessive-fanatic tendencies is a somewhat bad idea.
And whatever you do, DO NOT send the half-burnt stub of a ticket.
Sunday, 18 August 2013
The mind of a crazy-person.
You've grown up, grown up to be one of the workers.
Like everybody else you've grown up to be the anonymous worker you've either always wanted to be or recently discovered you'd like to be.
Claim to be.
Claim to want.
Deceiving yourself to want.
Label yourself and blending in.
Contradictory. That's the way we like it.
The belief of a personality.
Being special.
Being.
Blending in, being special.
Like a snowflake. A snowflake in the sun.
Melting equally. Like the wicked witch of the west.
I have no idea what that was. But it was certainly as cheerful as a suicide note. Let's try that again.
Maybe a little cheerier this time.
I could talk about summer. How it makes my entire body swells up with allergies of the unknown variety, making me look more overweight than usual. Like a constant PMS-state of puffy bitchiness.
Getting crazier by the minute, the madness accelerating when "Hits for Kids" is being announced on TV, making whatever was on less attractive just because of that ad. Despairing for the kids today for listening to that sort of liquid shit.
Wondering if music is dead.
Summer is a lovely time. Time to have a vacation, relax and getting yelled at for not working.
I'll get a job, mum.
I'll become a full-time prostitute.
Not an escort, no. I want to be the cheap kind for your humiliation. Special offer today, you get a footrub and blowjob for only 100 kr!
Candy Sookalot. Greatest name ever. I'll call my prospective child that.
She'll be primary school's little diva.
When her brother finally joins she'll protect him. Bobby-Joe-Burton-Gordon-Burt is a tender flower, because of his mother's alcoholism.
Maybe I won't talk about summer after all...
Go forth, my children. Go forth and be anonymous.
Like everybody else you've grown up to be the anonymous worker you've either always wanted to be or recently discovered you'd like to be.
Claim to be.
Claim to want.
Deceiving yourself to want.
Label yourself and blending in.
Contradictory. That's the way we like it.
The belief of a personality.
Being special.
Being.
Blending in, being special.
Like a snowflake. A snowflake in the sun.
Melting equally. Like the wicked witch of the west.
I have no idea what that was. But it was certainly as cheerful as a suicide note. Let's try that again.
Maybe a little cheerier this time.
I could talk about summer. How it makes my entire body swells up with allergies of the unknown variety, making me look more overweight than usual. Like a constant PMS-state of puffy bitchiness.
Getting crazier by the minute, the madness accelerating when "Hits for Kids" is being announced on TV, making whatever was on less attractive just because of that ad. Despairing for the kids today for listening to that sort of liquid shit.
Wondering if music is dead.
Summer is a lovely time. Time to have a vacation, relax and getting yelled at for not working.
I'll get a job, mum.
I'll become a full-time prostitute.
Not an escort, no. I want to be the cheap kind for your humiliation. Special offer today, you get a footrub and blowjob for only 100 kr!
Candy Sookalot. Greatest name ever. I'll call my prospective child that.
She'll be primary school's little diva.
When her brother finally joins she'll protect him. Bobby-Joe-Burton-Gordon-Burt is a tender flower, because of his mother's alcoholism.
Maybe I won't talk about summer after all...
Go forth, my children. Go forth and be anonymous.
Tuesday, 13 August 2013
Flat-plans
I can't begin to describe how ready I am to move into a flat of my very own. I have big plans of how I'd like it to be. So I'm gonna pink-blog a little with stolen photos from Google... As I have no way of taking these myself, the poor bastard I am....
So one of my childhood dreams is having my own library, filled to the brim with exciting books and atlases, with a giant map on the wall with pins in the places I've been, an old brass spyglass for the adventurer-feeling I'm sure we all secretly love from our childhood when we played pirates, spies or what have you. I love the look and feel of libraries, they are so calm and cozy. Imagine having a fireplace (however hazardous in a room full of books) that you can sit in front of, it's snowing outside, and you curl up by the fire with your favourite book in a room that smells like, well, old books. There is no finer smell.
I'd also like a mini-blackboard where I can write messages, shopping list and what have you. It's really rustic and very homey.
I can't wait to start drawing profanities on it, and eagerly push it in my visitor's face. Heh heh heh...
I'm only joking, of course...
A bonsai tree. I have a soft spot for those bastards. They are so elegant, and after Stick, I feel like I need to keep one a little longer than 8 months before brutally killing it accidentally with balsam.
My sister pointed out to me that this is the 400-year-old Hiroshima bomb-surviving bonsai tree, which is hilarious. I guess I'm attracted to radioactive things. (I think the mushroom cloud of an atomic bomb is incredibly beautiful.) :P
Attics! Love them! I would really love a spacious attic flat. This particular one looks like a kitchen. I like it. I especially like it when the wood beams are exposed, and the contrast between those and the white walls.
I would have liked some herbs on the counter, like these, to add to the cooking, and add to the ambience of the room. There's nothing like a bit of fresh basil in your omelet is there?
I sure as heck am looking forward to that.
And of course a great big window you can spy at your neighbours from.
Imagine looking out from that, over the city scape of, say, New York. That must be gorgeous.
I really cannot wait until I can buy a place of my own. People may plan their weddings at the age of 5, but I planned out my flat. And I'd really like a nice one!
Well that's enough of that. Pink-blogging is fun for a little while. Though I suppose it's not proper pink blogging. I didn't find nail polish and bragged of how nice it looked without mentioning the name... Or a sweater.
Anyway, that's enough of that nonsense.
So one of my childhood dreams is having my own library, filled to the brim with exciting books and atlases, with a giant map on the wall with pins in the places I've been, an old brass spyglass for the adventurer-feeling I'm sure we all secretly love from our childhood when we played pirates, spies or what have you. I love the look and feel of libraries, they are so calm and cozy. Imagine having a fireplace (however hazardous in a room full of books) that you can sit in front of, it's snowing outside, and you curl up by the fire with your favourite book in a room that smells like, well, old books. There is no finer smell.
I'd also like a mini-blackboard where I can write messages, shopping list and what have you. It's really rustic and very homey.
I can't wait to start drawing profanities on it, and eagerly push it in my visitor's face. Heh heh heh...
I'm only joking, of course...
My sister pointed out to me that this is the 400-year-old Hiroshima bomb-surviving bonsai tree, which is hilarious. I guess I'm attracted to radioactive things. (I think the mushroom cloud of an atomic bomb is incredibly beautiful.) :P
Attics! Love them! I would really love a spacious attic flat. This particular one looks like a kitchen. I like it. I especially like it when the wood beams are exposed, and the contrast between those and the white walls.
I sure as heck am looking forward to that.
And of course a great big window you can spy at your neighbours from.
Imagine looking out from that, over the city scape of, say, New York. That must be gorgeous.
I really cannot wait until I can buy a place of my own. People may plan their weddings at the age of 5, but I planned out my flat. And I'd really like a nice one!
Well that's enough of that. Pink-blogging is fun for a little while. Though I suppose it's not proper pink blogging. I didn't find nail polish and bragged of how nice it looked without mentioning the name... Or a sweater.
Anyway, that's enough of that nonsense.
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