Hello Dear Zagars

Two of my great uncles in Detroit. 

Bachelors4life.

When life was carefree

Ha. No, it never was. But, the day that this picture was taken was a rather lovely day. I wish I was then, because today I lost my keys, and tracked them the fuck down in the middle of the snow/gravel/slush-covered sidewalk. Don't get me wrong. I am very happy I found them. But back when this picture was taken, I'd never thought I'd entertain thoughts of St. Zita, the patron saint of lost keys.

It's not so much that I don't want to think about St. Zita, but that in searching a list of patronages, I found that:
Clotilde (what a fucking name)
Louise de Marillac
Matilda
and
Monica

are the patron saints of disappointing children.

THIS EXEMPLIFIES EVERYTHING THAT IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD AND MAKES ME HATE PEOPLE. herregud.

please, let me go back to the day from the picture above, where sour-ass perverts and biontches hadn't corrupted my brain with the knowledge that there are patron saints of "disappointing children."

Usch, usch, usch.

90 days of challenge. 90 days of 90 days jokes.

Today I started another blog with a friend of mine. I haven't decided yet if I will post a link to it here. Anyways, we are doing a 90 days challenge, which I had thought to start this past Monday, but didn't manage so well. Then I met my friend for a trip to the planetarium (saw jupiter's belts! and 4 biggest moons!) and told her about it, and she was so damn excited, that we are doing it together and it began today with an hours exercise walk early in the morning. Which right now is 7:30. But since the days are rapidly increasing in length (almost 7 minutes per day!) we will hopefully be getting up even earlier to do the daily walk.

So. 90 days challenge to live like we wanna live, to turn those desires into the habits of a healthier lifestyle.... or so we plan.

I also 1) applied for swedish citizenship today, which cost 1500 kronor, and 2) bought a new (used) bike. Even though spring has come waaaaaaay to early for 63 degrees north, there is still a lot of ice all over the ground, and I am totally scared biking on it. So much so that I might actually start wearing my helmet. 

I love my kitchen.

There is something to be said for moving out of an apartment you hate into an apartment you love: as much I'd like to say that I would be happy anywhere, it's a damn lie.

Elizabeth Hawkins-Whitshed Plus

Today is my birthday. 31 years old and not much to show for it, however you measure. But that's okay! Before me came the likes of Elizabeth Hawkins-Whitshed. I often think about the woman's uniform, and how strange it must be, if I could realize it, to not be skirted my whole life - unlike the daughter of Captian Sir St Vincent Hawkins-Whitshed, 3rd Baronet, who mountain climbed in style (From the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum):

And aaah, such elegance! When you are thirsty, you're thirsty. From National Geographic, by Kenneth D. Smith. Taken in New Hampshire, and not Mzzz. Hawkins-Whitshed.

Getting ready.

And listening to my new favorite podcast: Lexicon Valley.

And there's also this:
Play nice.

Hello, Dear Zagar!

Hello, Dear Zagar!

Cabin Porn

Gaaahhh, I am obsessed with Cabin Porn

Uncle Darrell

I made this a few weeks ago, and then forgot about it. *Sigh* I should have released it out into the webosphere (well, via facebook) when it was still relevant. Hard times in the 3 day memecycle.

My Moment of Zen

A broken heart feels like a heart on a grill. When you have a broken heart from love, the flames are really high and crazy and the heart gets burnt to a crisp relatively fast, and then it becomes a lump of hardened carbon which eventually turns into ash. The process is a lot slower when you are broken-hearted over a diminished friendship. There are no flames, just coals. The heart is grilled slower, but more thoroughly. The change to ash may never come - and within the change to ash resides catharsis. Ash can be blown away in the wind. So, since the heart never gets turned to ash, in the case of a broken friendship heart, it instead just stays in its hardened, slow-cooked state forever. Until it slowly rots and breaks down.

Friend, I miss you. My heart aches for you, as it's roasted over the coals of what's come between us.

Please don't stfu

I was sort of thinking, as you can see by the long pause, that maybe I should retreat into myself. However, for a person like myself this is a particularly bad idea. It is far better to allow one canal to exist, like a stent in the heart, to keep the blood flowing. Or rather, in my case, in the brain. My problems are thankfully not in the heart, just in the brain (just and just!). So, I guess I will continue this blog, although, I sort of wish that instead of a blog this was a communiqué written over several decades, in blank verse. Maybe it would have been sent to a relative, a cousin, say, back in the old country.


Finally, this first post in months deserves some food.

Here is my best lunch in weeks:

Whole wheat rye round with turkish yogurt, fresh mint leaves, an egg fried with paprika and cayenne, vegetables, and green harissa. Would that I could eat this everyday.