It's Sunday. And, in the classic Sunday-sense, it's a bit rainy and gray outside, I had bakery-buns with Nutella for breakfast, Ella Fitzgerald is playing on the stereo, my homework is done, and the only thing left for me to do today, is debate which crappy show I want to watch, and eventually waddle down to the gym.
This is what I call down-time. Sunday is my no-human-contact day. The only people who get to see me on Sundays are my family; and that's just because they happen to live with me. Otherwise, no one is welcome in my Sunday Sanctum. Except perhaps Bridget Jones, Jude Law, or Barney Stinson.
I ♥ S U N D A Y S B E C A U S E :
♥ It's my no-human-contact day.
♥ I wear my pajamas all day.
♥ My homework for the entire week is done, thereby removing some of my constantly nagging stress.
♥ I have time to watch crappy and ridiculous Youtube videos, bad TV-shows, and read F My Life as much as I want.
♥ My dog that comes in to my room to visite me, squeaking a little, as he presses his wet nose into the palm of my hand, and sheds all over me, as he pushes his furry body against my leg to be petted.
♥ I don't even consider wearing make-up, and I just sloppily dump my hair in a bun for the day.
♥ My room is always cold on Sundays; and that suits me well, since I mostly end up cuddling in my woolen sweater, my sweatpants, my fluffy pink slippers, and a scarf that covers my entire head.'
♥ I can always hear my parents having lunch together, though I don't join them, since I have slept in, and Ella Fitzgerald chiming in to the clinks and clunks of their forks on their plates.
♥ My friends call with news and saucy gossip from the weekend, and I politely try to dodge human contact before late in the afternoon, while enjoying giggling Sunday girl talk.
♥ I get to read the paper, especially the culture section, or MS Berlingske.
♥ I always end up scavenging what tiny bit of chocolate I can find.
♥ My mother comes padding in with my laundry at half-hour intervals, perhaps smiling at me, though without saying anything, both of us completely content with this silent ritual, and the passing smell of clean clothes socks and T-shirts.
♥ I eventually force myself out the door late in the afternoon, for the first time of the day, to go work out at my gym, where, after some self-coaching, deliberating, procrastinating and hesitating, I end up feeling great.
♥ I come home, hopefully to a steaming hot meal, perhaps watch a movie, and fall asleep as soon as I hit my bed.
Don't you get tired of being serious all the time? I know I do.
Everybody (well, practically everybody) in Denmark is getting ready for the election, which is, uh, let me see, when was it again... TOMORROW. So tomorrow we'll know who's going to rule our country for the next 4 years. Cheers to that!
It's been an exciting few weeks for me, listening and watching the debates, sometimes even getting so close to the heads of the parties that I could lick their noses, and I have grown more and more agitated. And for once, I actually kind of care what's going on in this election.
Which is why it, of course, drives me absolutely insane to hear about it all the time.
I simply can't take any more serious pre-election talk. I can't wait for it all to be over tomorrow. I still have another 2 years to go before I can vote, so it's not like I'm even rooting especially for one party (though Enhedslisten, Radikale Venstre and SF are a few personal favorites, thank you for asking). It seems that everyone at Aurehøj, my high school, is really geared up about it. And though it's really quite interesting, I can't help but snicker when things get a little too serious...
I guess I'm just that immature.
A new hobby of mine has been to look for vandalized and/or unfortunate posters for the various political parties...
Translated from Danish: "Starting the growth - in the weiner*"
* Penis / dick / cock / disco stick / joymaker / little general / lovemaking tool
To translate this, I have to tell you, that the man running for the party Ny Alliance (New Alliance) is Joachim B. Olsen, a famous Danish shot putter. Let's just say that I, and many others, find his way of expressing himself, and discussing political manners... Interesting. And that, when he goes to various high schools (including mine) to promote his work, there is alwaysat least one person - student, teacher or competitor - that comes with some ball-related comment. Yes, I know. It's extremely mature.
And I love it. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. I'm so sorry. I have to laugh. Just this once.
Translation from Danish: "I throw yellowrock balls"
I have no idea what yellowrock means, or if it is an actual word. Google translate doesn't know either, haha.
Translation from Danish: "I throw balls" (again)
Written on his forehead: "Gay"
I guess this last picture can't really be translated in the same fashion. Well, as you might have noticed, there is a woman on this picture, which is a political poster for the party Radikale Venstre (B). The name on the poster is Lars Richard Rasmussen. We have already established that she is female, no?
Well... Lars is a man's name...
Confused? So am I.
I can tell you that Lars Richard Rasmussen looks like this:
They are not the same person. Can we agree on that?
Maybe it's just me, who doesn't get his campaign. Is he supporting women's right? Is the woman on the picture a member of Radikale? Or does she just serve as a classic sex symbol (which may be underlined by the fact that someone wrote "Fuck me" with a magic marker on the poster), a confusing factor in our soon-to-be-final political decision, or something else entirely?
I don't really know. In fact, I don't really know what has motivated any of these people to point the tips of their sharpies at the different parties, and use different sex-related euphimisms to ridicule them.
All I know is that it cracks me up. But hey - am I the only one?
Have a good election people. And bytheway, who are you voting for? Or who would you vote for, if you could? I'll make a survey in the side of the blog, so you can just tack off the party you like the best.
10 years have gone by, since the Twin Towers were hit by that airplane, which sent parts of our world spinning out of control. One could think that it is scary, how much the world has changed since then. On the other hand, it's scarier to think how little the world has changed in reality. Just think that this could be our world, our country, our city. Now, in a month, tomorrow.
Just consider for a moment, how one action like this can change the entire world. Yours. Mine. Everyone's.
Then consider what it's all for. All the wars, bombs, terrorist actions, and fights. What's it all good for? Money and resources? Democracy or dictatorship? Power?
Do you want to be one of the people adding to the explosions?
Friday night, I ended up going to a bar called "Lumskebuksen".
There really is no way to translate this into English. "Lumsk" translates into "insidous". "Buksen" translates into "pants". So I went to a bar called "The Insidious Pants".
You might ask me how I ended up in a place like that. And how it was. And if it really is as sleazy and suspicious as it sounds.
I can assure you going to Lumskebuksen was the best, and most entertaining part of my night. And that, if given the choice, I would gladly choose Lumskebuksen over where we had actually set out to go.
Arctic Monkeys Dancing Shoes
Before going to Lumskebuksen, we, a group of friends from Aurehøj and I, had planned to go to the Meatpacking District of Copenhagen, "Kødbyen", for an event called "Dance For Africa", where a bunch of the clubs were having famous DJ's playing, for free, to promote the cause supporting Africa's famine. We were really hyped about it, and after much ado (fighting our way through the less inviting part of Dybbølsbro station, avoiding the eyes and near-drooling mouthes of gross old men, walking through more interesting, dark-alleyed parts of Vesterbro, and finally avoiding the hooker standing on the street-corner by Kødbyen) we eventually made it to the club.
Let's just say that we left quickly...
I know that clubs are supposed to be packed to the nearly suffocating madness of a human sardine-can, and that dry-humping random strangers while side-stepping your way to the bathroom is what qualifies as an almost agreeable break from the mindless chit-chatting, which has morphed into a shouting contest, due to the pumping bass and unrecognizable dance-tunes, and that after you finally get to the dancefloor where people are surrounding the DJ, you realize that you can't even wiggle your ears without knocking over someone's drink, and that dancing has been reduced to awkwardly shifting your weight from one foot to the other, and wriggling in your too-short dress, until you finally discover the sense to try and fight your way out, and the dry-humping and drink-splashing and foot-trampling of innocent strangers begins anew, as you awkwardly fight your way to the door, where you discover that not only are you drenched in sweat, and wearing far to little clothing for anything but the human sauna you have just exited, you are also the only non-smoker for forty miles, you have dropped all your change, your skirt is crawling up towards your bellybutton and your shirt has chosen the exact opposite route, while your underwear is bundled up in a strange tangle some unmentionable place, and your mascara has chosen to have a heated love-affair with the sweat, that, incidentally, is dripping off your face in a fashion that could remind your of the Niagara Falls.
I'm not saying that clubbing isn't fun. When done right, it is! I love dancing and partying with my friends. It's just that, in clubs, it's not like you always get to actually do these things!
There's always a problem with clubs. First of all, there is the coat and jacket-problem... Oh, and the "Now where the hell is she?"-problem. And let's not forget the "I'm sorry, your name was...?"-problem.
T H E C O A T A N D J A C K E T - P R O B L E M
Let's say you finally get in to the club. It's a Friday night, you're gonna be out all night, and have to make it home at some should-be-unconcious hour. What do you do? You bundle up, of course. If you, like me, live in a near-arctic climate (at least it feels that way when you're unsuccesfully trying to hale a cab in your minidress and high-heeled shoes at 4 in the morning), at least some sort of jacket or sweater is a very good idea.
So when you get to the club, you have two options:
A) Leave your coat etc. in the checkroom, dance around in a slightly less sweaty fashion, and try to avoid the frequent dives outside into the ice-cold air, constantly fearing that your hoo-hoo will freeze off, if not baked in the Sahara Desert for at least 33 days.
B) Stubbornly keep your coat etc. on while in the club, and dance awkwardly in your, hm, let's say leatherjacket, while feeling the fabric sticking to your skin, which is slowly turning into a humid, sticky layer of slippery sweat, and you awkwardly club people in the head, as you try to fan yourself for air. Dive as frequently as possible into the cold air outside, and spend your time avoiding cigarette-buds and flying drinks and dark alleys and whatever comes with standing outside the club.
OBS: Note that whenever you have left your clothing etc. in the checkroom, you will, by some ironic twist of fortune, have to go outside every 5 minutes, for half hours at a time, and since you have incidentally payed for your own growing misery, you will be too stubborn to get your coat every time. And if you have left your coat on in the club, you will be trapped inside the sweltering heat, wondering whether the inside of your oh-so-fash leather jacket will boil you to death.
T H E " N O W W H E R E T H E H E L L I S S H E " - P R O B L E M
Somehow, when I go to clubs, or parties, or dinners, or afternoon swimming classes, or chess matches, or any other big, social gathering for that matter, I always manage to lose my girlfriends to the throngs of people.
The sentence "I will never leave your side tonight!" could easily induce the following exchange the next day.
Friend: "Hey, where did you run off to last night?"
Me: "Oh, nowhere... I was raped in the ally by a scotsman on a horse, I took cocain from the bare butt of your little brother, and I spent the night in another country. What about you?"
I just don't get it. I always end up linking arms whith my friend, desperately trying to hold on to her for the night, and thinking that this simple measure will be enough. We could be having a conversation ordancing awkwardly wriggling together, when I discover that I need God knows what from my bag, and that I have to let go of her arm. As I continue talking to her while searching for this apparently inevitable thing, I'll turn around, to comment on something to my friend, or laugh at my own clumsiness, I will find that I am suddenly standing friend-less and completely alone on the dancefloor, not counting the couple in front of me, who look like two lions trying to devour eachother.
It always seem that, no matter what extent I go to, to stay with my friends, I always end up losing them after and hour max, and spending the rest of the night avoiding Gunnar from I Don't Care-ville, some douchebag with greasy hair, sleazy lines, and an annoying tendency to grab my ass every five minutes (No offense. I hear that I Don't Care-ville is a great place to live, situated right in the state of Go Fuck Yourself).
T H E " I ' M S O R R Y , Y O U R N A M E W A S . . . ? " - P R O B L E M
Ooh. This is one of my favorites. A classic, that, nomatter how many times I have met the person, or that person has met me, always occurs in the course of the evening, in one way of the other. The thing is, I have an issue with names. And there's always one poor soul, whose name I can never remember. I like to think of myself as a human goldfish - I have the memory span for chit-chatting of about 3 seconds.
The most popular situation in the joke that is my life, goes as follows:
Caroline joins group of conversing people. Caroline laughs and converses. The people whom Caroline knows leave the conversation. Caroline is left talking to a complete stranger, who seems nice enough, so she stays. Caroline introduces herself, and inexplicably, forgets to listen to the name of the person standing next to her. Caroline goes an entire conversation, or sometimes even an entire evening, talking to this person, having too good a time, and being too embarrassed to ask the name of the person again. Caroline will get off with calling the person you, sweetie, mate, or other lame names. The next day, Caroline will desperately try to claw for the name of this person, and will realize, that not only has she completely blocked out the name of the person, she has also forgotten how the person looks, and now has no way of ever repeating the conversation with said person. That is, until said person says hello to Caroline in the hallway. Caroline doesn't recognize the person, but says hey anyway, and abides by the rule that it is better to be cool than dumb, and will therefore most probably learn the name of the person 6 months after the conversation occured.
It's also awkward when it's the other person, who forgets my name. That happens a lot too. But, inexplicably, it's much less awkward if you both agree that you have forgotten eachother's names, and therefore can ask the same favor of eachother - which is repeating your names again, and therefore possibly having a chance of actually remembering the names of eachother. At least for the next 3 seconds.
So yes. There are a lot of problems with clubbing and partying. So why do we do it?
Oh right... we're young and stupid, and we want to try new things, feel the rush, tap the unending resource that is our life. But it's more than that, too.
It's feeling like you can let loose for an evening. It's knowing the normality of running to the grubby toilet to pee every five minutes. It's awkwardly wriggling in one spot instead of dancing, and sweating like a pig for doing it, but somehow enjoying in anyway. It's clumsily groping the ass of a stranger, as you trip over the curb outside the club, and starting yet another awkward conversation with some unknown person, who just might be your next best friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, babysitter, dogwalker, pizza-delivery guy, you name it. It's knowing that for the night, nothing is certain.
Except that it just might get awkward. But wonderfully so.
But let me just say this: While clubbing is fun, and I still enjoy doing it, even with all the awkward moments that come along with it... after going to Kødbyen and attempting to go to the club, it was nice to settle down in Lumskebuksen, have a cold beer, sit in the booths and talk loudly with my friends, and listen to hits rolling off the juke-box by the bar.
Recuperating at Lumskebuksen with my friend Natasha. As you perhaps have noticed, I was having a very good time. Cheers!
During these first few weeks of high school, I have hardly had time to stop and take a breath. Which means that a lot of things probably have gone amiss on the blog. I do apologize. I'm working on it.
One of the things that I proooooobably should tell you about, is Aurehøj's intro party, which I went to last Friday...
Which was awesome, obviously.
N A K E D B O Y S , S A L T , A N D A W K W A R D M O N D A Y S
Jay Z and Kanye West Niggas In Paris
Okay, so what did I do last Friday night?
First of all, I went with my class to the warm-up with our sister-classes. Here we were welcomed by a cheering crowd of 2nd and 3rd year students, who were delightedly shoving shots at us. I was then told that I had to take a shot, and dance the limbo under a pole they were holding, before they would let me in. I thought "Hey, this isn't that bad!", since I had expected massive amounts of beer-chugging and pre-warm-up hurling before entering.
But don't worry. That wasn't nearly all the had in store for us poor 1st year's.
We were then presented with a completely naked young man; lying on a table, covered in salt, surrounded by tequila shots, and holding a lemon in his mouth...
Now guess what the girls had to do.
My friends of course had already decided to get totally wasted, so I was left in a state halfway between buzzed and slushed and slurred, while said friends continued to shoot down mouthfulls of Vodka etc. I should probably mention that it was the 2nd and 3rd years' goal to get as few 1st year's to the actual party as possible. And this goal was, to a slightly impressive extent, realized for many.
I was one of the lucky few that actually went to the actual party at Aurehøj.
Fumbled for my student ID at the door of the party, and got pushed back several times by the towering security guard, as I tried to sneak my way in (unsuccessfully). Then proceeded to dance with a bunch of wonderful strangers all night, and let new friends buy me cheap beer. Found out at 1am that my friend had been driven home, because she was drunk out of her mind. Sat outside on the cold, cold ground and talked with my friends for half hour's at a time. Had to call a cab twice before I succeeded in actually catching it. Went home and slept until 11 the next day. And of course, I lived through Awkward Monday today, nicknamed due to all the awkward memories of last-Friday-night-hook-ups that rear their ugly head in the presence of the Monday after. I'm just glad that I didn't do anything, that I regret.
So, all in all, my first party at Aurehøj was... Pretty fucking awesome.
I hope you all had a great weekend. And that you're not too fed up with me, already.
Life is full of details. What I look like every day is composed by a thousand, tiny little things. A stray freckle here, a new ring there, a hole in my tights here, a strand of hair there. Things that I don't notice - that no one really does... Except for those small occasions, where I give myself time to pay attention to the details of my daily life.
The shudder and gasp of the early fall wind, rustling through the slowly orange-turning leaves. The suede-like fabric of a new, dusty red shirt. A sunbeam shattering in the lenses of my cheap sunglasses, turning orange and green and blue. Knee-socks and buttoned-up shirts. A cloud of breath in the cold morning. Mismatched earrings of different kinds, silver and gold, blue and black. Bare arms and content sighing in the warm afternoon sun. Details. All around me, dizzying, intoxicating and confusing in their numbers.
Sometimes it's nice to get lost in their vastness. And sometimes it may seem frustrating to do so.
But sometimes, like today, I just realize, that they exist.
Tommorrow's my intro party at Aurehøj. I'm really excited. Hope that all goes well!
