Some people sing, some people draw on sand, some people bend their tongues in the most unorthodox shapes.

My unexpected talent is growing mold on things. The other day I discovered several distinct colonies in a cup of tea.

Like, seriously, plain ordinary rooibos tea that I left standing on the kitchen counter for a couple of days. Without sugar, milk or anything that (to my poor biochemical knowledge) even remotely could constitute an energy source for anything carbon-based with a metabolism.

Any suggestions how I can put this little gift of mine to pecuniary use?

So, I’m reading a romance novel right now. (Actually, it’s marketed as 19^th century English literature classic, but that’s probably because the Harlequin concept wasn’t yet invented 150 years ago).

And the problem is that I have a really hard time understanding the characters… We have our typical beautiful, noble but-oh-so-poor heroine and a handsome, manly & rich hero who start off their acquaintance in mutual dislike. The hero is soon smitten by her fine eyes however and falls in love. A proposal takes place but is firmly refused. That's about how far into the book I made it to date, but we all know where this is going. (And no, it's not Pride and Prejudice I've just described.)

Anyway.

As romantic as the description above sounds, it’s simply not something that I have any experience of and thus can relate to.

Now, a romance novel more applicable to my reality would have a plot along the lines of:

A chubby, plain and generally unsympathetic heroine falls for a tall, dark and knee-weakeningly handsome hero. For some reason, understandable only to a licensed professional, she chooses to deal with this simple fact by first avoiding the hero and then down-right ignoring him when he tries to be nice and say hi. She continues avoiding/ignoring the hero for a few weeks, thereby creating a tension that makes life uncomfortable for both (have I mentioned that our heroine is an idiot?). The one time our couple ends up speaking, (coincidentally, the last time they see each other) the heroine is plainly mean & impertinent to him, while actually, she’s overflowing with desire to run her fingers through his hair. The epilogue takes place ten weeks hence, with our heroine still love-struck and miserable but with no prospect of a happy end in sight.

Somehow, I doubt that it would be a bestseller though…

On a figure skating forum I frequent, there's a pretty vocal group of connaisseurs who consider this girl to be overweight.

Sad. Just sad.

Получила спам. Обычно я (естественно) такое удаляю не открывая, но имейл с заголовком Request from Russia просто кричал lol.

Вспомнился анекдот:

Mark Twain once in his youth wrote to the president of America: "My dear Mr. President! I see by the papers that you are very prosperous. I want to get a hymn-book. It costs 2 dollars. I will bless you, God will bless you, but do not send the hymn-book, send me the two dollars.

Yours truly, Mark Twain

Back when I was in 7^th grade (good lord, it’s almost 9 years ago now!) the librarian at my school handed me two newly published books and asked me to read them and come back with my opinion.

The first of those books was one of those perfunctory paint-by-numbers attempts to make teenage girls feel good about themselves.

Or something.

It’s a very Swedish phenomenon, I think: every now and then, when some Big, Serious Issue related to contemporary youth is discussed in the media, some obtuse Swedish journalist named Sara or Johanna (I’m not thinking of anyone special, they are simply always named that way) hears The Call to end teenage suffering through penmanship. The outcome is usually a collection of every single stereotype from here to Alaska and the quality of the writing makes me weep for the trees sacrificed.

And they wonder why people don’t take literature catered to young adults seriously.

The second of those books made me who I am today. 

I know how we can really make this world a better place.

Lets take all the tall, dark and knee-weakeningly handsome men and ship them off to some remote isolated place (Australia comes to mind) along with all the hot, leggy blondes of this planet so that they can all mingle among equals, interbreed to create a race of aesthetic übermenschs and finally stop being a distraction to the rest of us normal people.

Because this normal person, for one, doesn’t deal with distractions very well.

You know, these last few weeks I actually began to feel good about myself. About my body. About my face. I actually, for once in my life, imagined myself being pretty. Or at least tolerable.

Then I saw myself on tape and now I’m converting to islam. The strict kind.

And with the money saved on clothing, I’m so doing boob-reduction surgery.



Picture here for no other reason than because it cheers me up. It's Lviv this july.

You know, I envy Swedes.

I envy the fact that they’re returning home when they pass through the gates of Arlanda and that they’re treated correspondingly. I envy the fact that they know who they are and can give a short and simple response to the question “so where’re you from?” if they’re abroad. I envy the fact that they don’t need to add “yes, I’m here legally” or “no, I’m not here to sell sex” if they happen to visit, say, Portugal or Czech Republic.

I envy the fact that when their country makes international news, more often than not they don’t need to blush. I envy the fact that they know exactly what their mother tongue is and that they can teach it to their kids if they happen to have them abroad.

I envy the fact that half of the Swedish population does not try to pass for Norwegians (Danes, Finns) simply because it's "cooler".

I envy the fact that they have a culture and a history and national identity and that they don’t need to defend the fact that Selma Lagerlöf was Swedish. *cough* Nikolaj Gogol *cough*

I envy the fact that nobody contests the origin of the meatballs.

I envy the fact that this is not a picture that could have been taken in their country.

My experiences these last few months have enabled me to firmly conclude that one day, in a hopefully not-too-distant future, I am definitely going to make a particular man very, very happy.

The man in question will be my therapist and he’ll be happy not only because I’ll be making him rich, but also because I’ll be providing him with enough material for two PhD theses should he have academic ambitions.

I don’t mind, you know. There’s clearly not enough happiness in this world and if my social ineptitude can serve as source of joy for anyone, then, hey, party on. I myself am obviously a lost cause.

This having been said, I proclaim this chapter of my sad existence to be concluded.

Now, if only it were so easy…

Intellectual snobbery is quite possibly the biggest turn-off I have.

Seriously.

I’m all for the scholarly superiority of Joyce and Dostoyevsky, I actually consider War and Peace a light and entertaining read, I would rather go to the Louvre than the Disney world and I like classical music as much as the next gal (the next gal in question being my neighbor who has a habit of playing unidentified (to my shame) violin concertos late at night). But when a person sits across me and with a straight – and haughty – face communicates how (s)he wouldn’t dream of  reading anything below Saramago , my first impulse is “oh, grow up”.

To each his own obviously, but personally, I have a lighter side deriving entertainment from Eurovision and Disney movies, Harry Potter and the Simpsons and I am completely not ashamed of that side because its existence does not in any way exclude me picking up a Fowles novel as the Mulan (my favorite Disney movie, btw) closing credits begin to roll or rewatching Casablanca after a the Simpsons episode.

So, having bought Dan Brown’s latest, I did not, in any way, expect intellectual nourishment. I expected a pleasant Saturday night. You know: me, the book, a cup of tea and October rain beating on the window.

But my oh my, do I feel that my brain was just raped. Brutally. Where do I sign to get the five hours of my life back? That was complete and utter rubbish that – in no dimension – could be considered entertaining.

The only thing remotely good about this – in lack of a better word – book was this review it inspired. This paragraph in particular made me spill my morning coffee all over the magazine:

It’s easy to run Brown down because his writing isn’t exactly deft. The unfortunate sentence “His massive sex organ bore the tattooed symbols of his destiny” should itself be forcibly tattooed on Brown’s massive sex organ.

Read the review. Stay clear of the inspiration. Protect your little grey cells, kids!

Today the professor at the new course I’m taking called me his soulmate*.

Methinks I’m going to like this course.

*In a perfectly non-creepy sort of way. We simply discovered that we’re reading the same books. Earlier this week we bonded over Dawkins and today I brought Günter Grass with me to class and it sealed the deal. He’s German, you see. =)