Broken

This morning, I read an unimaginable news post. An eight-year-old girl in Yemen had died during her wedding night. Due to severe inner bleedings…

Beasts, they are.

This afternoon, I saw a shocking video. An eleven-year-old girl had fled her own family. Her mother and father, her brothers. They wanted to marry her off to an old man. She managed to get away. But tens of thousands like her didn’t. And tens of thousands never will in the future…

Abusive greeds, they are.

This evening, I saw horrific pictures. Small, innocent children in Syria were being tortured, abused, killed, hanged. And they will be again. And again.

Molesting barbarians, they are.

Culture, you say??
WHAT CULTURE???

This world is broken.
Please, can I get a new one?

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creep

incredible how the months creep by, unnoticed.

incredible… you do, too!

incredible to think a blog would make a difference.

incredible…. to think you would, too.

incredible how life sucks at certain times.

incredible… you do, too.

no.

you always do.

creep.

time flies

….even when not having fun.
Well, let me tell you something. Time doesn’t fly. It simply evaporates while you’re breathing. Pooffff. Gone.  That was time. A second. And another one. And another one. And so on. Did you do something useful with that bit of time? Did you exhibit your love? Did you pick your nose? No. No, you didn’t! You were reading this shit. Pahhh 🙂

Ah well. Whatever. Time is definitely not on my hands, that’s for sure. I’m getting old… My period seems to not wanna come to me anymore on a regular basis. Even my period is leaving me. I’m having flashes during the night, so no need for pre-sleep showering anymore: I’ll just bathe in my bed while I’m sleeping. While you are sleeping, too. I’m drinking too much coffee. I’m smoking cigarettes… (oh no, not anymore, thank-the-midgets for that). I seem to be a deputy of habits as well. And of hazards, as a matter of fact. Oh and I just about forget everything. But otherwise, I’m really only lonely after dark, thanks Melissa!!

But hey, nothing a glass of good, strong red wine and a few pills can’t fix.
Time flies. On broken wings.

I wish

I wish you were there wens
where I want you to be.
I wish you would stay
so I would not see
The things you do right
The things you do wrong
The things you seem
to do, always to me.

I wish you were mine
I’m glad that you’re not.
I wish I was just fine
and not some autobot
On remote control
On too little fuel
On different roads
that won’t intertwine.

I wish I had brains
and you would see that.
But I’m more like the remains
of a run over cat.
Yearning for life
Yearning for love
Yearning for a hairdo
My life is so sad…

pop-up pope

I know it’s old news already and I shouldn’t waste any words on a sick phenomenon like the pope is, but I’m known for not being able to keep my mouth shut. If you’re a religious, pope-friendly catholic, please stop reading here. We won’t agree on this subject anyway. Ever. Please do yourself and me a favor and do not read this blog post. Please.
.

.

.

.

All left?

Well enough.

We’ve got a new pope. My first thought: We??? Who is we?? I didn’t want one in the first place, never wanted one, for that matter. So I’m definitely not part of ‘we’. Well again. The church has a new pope. An Argentinian guy named something like Bergoggles just popped up on the second day of the conclave. Those Italos made it sound like ‘Bergoglio’ like all their Antonios and Julios, but I’m sure they got it wrong altogether. He’s got goggles alright? Anyway, he won’t need his goggly name anymore until he also steps back from the mess that Ratzi left for him. And he won’t clean it up either, why should he. After all and in spite of the dress, he’s a man, isn’t he? And there are still enough souls out there to worship whatever foolishness he will be propagating.

Just as ‘the Ratz’, this Jesuit firmly opposes abortion, same-sex marriage, and contraception. He was even accused of complicity in the 1976 abduction of two Jesuit priests. How nice. He has denied the charge, of course. Holy as he is. It’s simple: gangsters choose gangsters to protect their own. In my humble vision, this whole clique of over-aged, hypocrite, senile men in dresses has once more chosen a chief that will do nothing that has anything to do with or that will ever meet the needs and demands of our modern world.

If, in spite of this whole ridiculous theater, you still want religion and you still want to believe in something (whatever that is) to give sense to your life, please make up your own mind about what is good, what is believable, and what is not. Please, don’t let yourself be influenced by the middle-aged, rotten ideas of a bunch of old men. I keep the faith that the majority of mankind still has the wits not to follow nor support this idiocy. But hope is slowly but definitely dying when I look at those immense cheering crowds at St. Peter’s Square… It frankly scares the shit out of me.

Nuff said. Nuff ranted.
I have turned my back to any religion whatsoever long, long time ago: the minute I started using my brain and thinking for myself.
So this new pope is another one that can kiss my royal A…

Anyone in for a nice bedtime story?

you fool

you idiot, you liar, you fool.
did you really think
we would never get it?
Oh, we got it.

you bastard, you miserable fly.
screw you as you’ve
screwed around.
got it? really?

you filth, you thief, you fool.
karma’s still a bitch
and she’s on our side.
Run and hide…

Meet Rage.
Meet Revenge.
Meet Yourself.
You’re toast.
It will be my pleasure.

Oh and DO see my evil grin…

Hell no

I have no clue why I picked this title. It just popped up.
Why not ‘Hell yes’?? Why the ‘no’? No clue at all. Hell no.
Seems like my mind has reached the HELLNO-phase.
Kinda like it.
Hell yeah!
Oops…

Will I finally drown and become a whale?
Hell no!!
Did that & already am one. BAM!!
Will I search for more and reach further?
Hell no!!
Won’t find more & am better at grabbing. BAM!!
Will I go to sleep and accept that Status Quo?
Hell no!!
Sleep when dead & going Down Down! BAM!!
Will I give in and pass out?
Hell no!!
Give up and pass on is still better. BAM!!

The Frustration of Mother Whale.
My next literary explosion is coming up.
I feel it in my sea waters.
I feel it in my lucky bones.
I feel it in my spilled guts.

Do I?
Hell no…

 

save me

..from myself. PLEASE?? Yeah, yeah… I know, it’s that time again. Or soon to be. I’m down. Depressed. I feel lower than the lowest low life. I wish I would just dissolve into nothing. I really got no clue how to go on right now. So what do you do if you don’t know what to do? Right. Drink wine. Which I’m doing. My dear husband is snoring loudly on the couch. Like every evening. Some boring stuff on TV. Like every evening. The remote in his hands. Like every evening. Like I care. He’ll wake up when I turn off the TV. He’ll wake up too when the remote drops from his right hand to the floor as soon as he sleeps deeply enough.

I’m listening music instead. No TV, no problem. No music, no life. Simple as that. I’ve listened to P!NK, Red Hot Chillipeppers, Cat Stevens, Lana Del Rey, some kinda terrific guy called Andrew de Leon on America’s got Talent (awesome) and some dutch and other stuff. Music makes me me.

My thumb hurts. Cut it.
My head hurts. Smashed it.
My back hurts. Twisted it.
My heart hurts. Broke it.
My eyes hurt.
There’s even water coming out of them.

I’m one big chunk of hurt.
I’m gonna bandage myself.
And become a zombie.

But zombies can’t run…

Sweet-I

Yesterday I babbled something about morons. Today, I’ll discuss the other half of the population. The sweeter ones. Because I see the word “sweetie” about 28 times a day and I use it myself a lot too. Sweetie is just another term of endearment that sounds quite nice. But the trouble that got me on this subject is that it’s (mis)spelled in about 8 ways…

So tell me. What is it. Sweetie? Sweety? Sweaty?
One thing is sure. It’s “Sweet-I”. But that’s not the issue here.
The correct spelling is “sweetie”. Even my online spell checker here says so by marking every sweety in this blog text (there! again!). What does the official thesaurus say?
.
sweetie [ˈswiːtɪ]
n Informal
1. sweetheart; darling: used as a term of endearment
2. (Cookery) Brit another word for sweet [20]
3. Chiefly Brit an endearing person
4. (Cookery) a large seedless variety of grapefruit which has a green to yellow rind and juicy sweet pulp
.
Okay then. Numbers 2 and 4 are not interesting here. And I’m leaving out ‘sweaty’ for now, I estimate the  intelligence of my readers to be as such that they will understand why. Then what does Wikipedia say?.
.
Sweetie or Sweety may refer to:

  • Sweetie (term of endearment)
  • Sweetie, a 1929 college musical film starring Helen Kane, Jack Oakie, and Nancy Carroll
  • Sweetie (film), a 1989 Australian film
  • Oroblanco or sweetie, a fruit that is a cross between an acidless pummelo and a white grapefruit
  • Sweety, a Mandopop band
  • “Sweetie”, a 2006 Japanese song by Fumiko Orikasa
  • Sweetie Irie (born 1971), British reggae singer and DJ born Dean Bent
  • Sweety Kapoor, British music promoter
.
So Wikipedia says ‘Sweetie’ unless you’re totally into music. Now, let’s get to the real core of all worldly things: Google. You get about 43 million hits for ‘sweetIE’ and about 38 million for ‘sweetY’. That indicates either that both are kind of correct or that loads of people simply don’t know how to spell and use ‘sweetY’ after all. But. If sweat becomes sweaty, where does sweet get off using ‘ie’ instead of ‘y’? I think it’s the descriptive part of it that does that. If it’s an tweetypieadjective (a descriptive word like cosy, silly, nosy etc.) it gets a ‘y’. (no, I didn’t forget the -n here). Sweetie is in the first instance a pronoun, a name word for a lovely/loved person or a candy. When something is sweety, it theoretically is ‘kind of sweet-like’. But you don’t need that anyway: sweet in itself does the trick, no y necessary. A sweet pie. Or: a sweety pie. Both correct. But then again, as term of endearment, it’s sweetie pie…So my conclusion is: SWEETIE.
.
But why on earth is that darn birdIE (!) called TweetY then??

Moron

Today (actually, yesterday…) I had a thought (yeah, sometimes that happens. Even to me. Hard to imagine but still, it does). I thought something like: “Hallelujah, idiots of this world, unite. Because you are one sad bunch of lonely losers and if you don’t unite, you’ll keep on being just an itch to scratch.”

Now why on earth would I think something like that… It’s really just because of one pathetic Internet flea that keeps on itching and biting by writing silly things. I simply know he shouldn’t be writing anything at all, even the WORLD knows he should better not be writing anything at all but apparently YOU, flea, you don’t know that yourself.

Writing a blog is a personal thing. Putting your private thoughts on screen, publishing feelings or mere earthly views on the Internet, flashing your attempts at poetry, that all takes courage, openness and some sort of writing skill to make it readable. And last but not least it takes heart. A lot of heart.

Now imagine. Someone, not EVER in his or her miserable life creative enough to write something that makes sense or reflects creativity, takes YOUR humble blog and rips it apart. Ridicules it. Rapes it. Tears out the piece of heart that’s in it and crushes it. Simply because it’s there. Because it’s open for the world to read and because that someone has nothing better to do with his (yeah, his…) simple, groaningly boring life.

I personally think that is theft. No. Actually, it’s worse. I would rather literally call it a blog rape. And I sincerely hope that the victim of such a flea-like lowlife will get justice for that. Let the blog rapist pay dearly for the personal damage done, please?

Because even when something is simply there to read, that doesn’t mean you can just take it, copy it and ‘rape’ it in public. Not even non-publicly, for that matter. You can’t just take someone’s car because it’s standing there unlocked either, can you? That’s still theft. If you find a nicely filled wallet on the street and you keep it to yourself instead of to the police or even back to the owner if you know who it belongs to (which isn’t too hard to find out nowadays), that’s also theft. You can’t just have forced sex with a vulnerable woman because she’s there on the street and not wearing a chastity, can you? That’s rape. You can’t take a person’s creative work, copy it, modify it or even ridicule it and then call it yours by posting it as your blog.  You simply are not allowed to, get it?? And besides all that, it’s simply pathetic.

YOU MORON!
Oh, sorry.
It just slipped out.
I’m really, really sorry.
Sorry.
But I pity you.

Oh. By the way. Should you read this and have the feeling that I’m talking about you, I probably am. Should you decide to comment, feel free, see box below. Should you however decide to just take it, republish (parts of) it and call it yours because you simply added some pathetic comments, please read my disclaimer-and-copyrights thingy first (see menu on top). I’m covered. And I will very likely act.

Solo trip

guess this is the typical example of a solo trip.

Some people need an audience. Others just an Audi. I need nothing. This blog is the perfect example. I know, I know. There are some readers here (thank you five dearly, love you) but my overall amount of views is kinda… well, let’s put it this way… cosy and neat.

Of course, I could’ve been famous by now. With my ranting and songtext-raping talents the world is clearly missing out on an unrecognized fool artist. But that’s the world’s problem, not mine. The world doesn’t want true talents. The world wants to be soothed, pampered and fooled. The truth is boring anyway.

What keeps you, world, from reading and seeing the real stuff? Don’t want to see what really is? Don’t wanna have to look at your proletarian circles of life and all the environmental care you think you should’ve had? Don’t want to feel all the love wasted on non-deserving idiots, to hear all those words wasted on the wrong issues? World, wake up… Life ain’t gonna get better. Not even on you…

What do you think, it’s worthless. I’m adoring. Sun
You don’t want the truth, truth is boring.
I got this fever, need to leave the house, leave the car
Leave the bad men where they are…
I’ll leave a few shells in my gun, stop me staring at the sun…
[just wat he says, that clever guy Robbie W.]

Well, the Sun doesn’t know the truth either.
What truth…
Give me solo trips like these
and my world is just as fine again as yours…

I feel fat

I feel fat, tuhhduhhtudduhtuhhduhdummm
I thought you knew that, tuhhduhhtudduhtuhhduhdummm
I feeeheeeel fat, tuhhduhhtudduhtuhhduhdummm
I just ate the cat.
(sing along with James Brown, will ya)

Nah. I didn’t. No cats today.
I hate the taste of cats anyway.
But I do feel fat, guess that’s my fate.
Some of things about me I really hate.
Guess I feel it coming all over again.
You might not get it, as you’re a man.
Now don’t you worry, I didn’t mean YOU.
You’re so vain and you don’t have a clue.
I hate feeling fat, but let’s not distract,
It’s not just a feeling, it’s merely a fact…

I feel fat, tuhhduhhtudduhtuhhduhdummm
I thought you knew that, tuhhduhhtudduhtuhhduhdummm
I feeeheeeel fat, tuhhduhhtudduhtuhhduhdummm
I won’t eat the cat.
So fat, ooh ooh,
So fat,
no more cat.

selfstorage

So why don’t ya

You say you want to say something.
So say it?
You say you want a revolution
So stand up?
You say you want to love me.
So, love?
You say you want a piece of me.
I only come in whole.
You say I’m killing you.
No, not yet.
You say you want me to say I need you.
I won’t.
You say you want to do with it.
So why don’t ya?

American Pie

(a small fairy tale)

Long long time ago, americanpie
I can still remember
how that loser used to make me smile…
And I knew that if I had my chance
I could make that idiot dance
And maybe I’d be happy for a while…

But the thought alone made me shiver
With every step he would deliver
Dancing like a drunken rhino
Wobbly steps, pathetic whino.
I can’t remember if I cried
When I heard about his latest ride
But he no longer touched me deep inside
The day my illusions died…

So bye-bye, mister Don’t-ask-me-why.
’cause my payload got to heavy,
and then you made me cry
Now this good old gal is thinkin’ “I’ll make you fly”
Singin’, “this won’t be the day that I die…
no no, this’ll be the day that YOU die.”

Did you have a notion of love,
or do you prefer the boxing glove?
If your schizo mind tells you so?
Do you believe in the facebook troll,
Can viagra save your mortal soul,
And can you teach me how to kill real slow?

Well, I know that you’re incapable
of nailing me on the snooker table.
You kicked off both your shoes.
Man, the stench gave me the blues.

I was a lonely redhead with no luck
Believin’ love on ration was a true lame duck
But I know now that you do really suck
The day delusions died.

I started singin’,
“damn, damn, no not THAT all again”
Don’t you walk out and oh, don’t shout,
you’ll leave when I tell you when.
This good old Lou will first tell you all why
And you’ll see this’ll be the day that you die.
This will be the day that you fry.

The next ten years you’ll be on your own
And you’ll grow fat, cooking all alone,
But that’s how not it works, you see…
When you tried to tame this dramaqueen,
In a straitjacket made so neat and lean
With a scream I tore myself free…

We both were singing,
“bye-bye, tasty american pie.”
Shove that jelly up your belly,
But my shite stayed too dry.
Them good old days were over, don’t ask me why
Singin’, “this’ll be the day that you’ll fly.
this’ll be the day you’ll shit pie.”

Oh, and as I watched him in his rage
His hands attempting to break my rib cage
No moron born in hell
Could break my satanic spell.
And as the flames climbed high his sight
To light that sacrificial rite,
I saw satan laughing with delight
The day the that loser lied

As he was singing,
“bye-bye, miss hormonical fly.”
Drove my willie up your hillie,
But the hillie was dry.
Them good old toys were stinkin’ miserable, aye
Me singin’, “this’ll be the day I’ll get high.
this’ll be the day I’ll get high.”

I met a boy who sang he couldn’t lose
So I asked him for some nice new shoes,
But he just smiled and turned away.
I went down to the wicked whore
Where I’d heard the music years before,
But the man there said the jukebox wouldn’t play.

And in the streets the women screamed,
The spinsters cried and the whinos dreamed.
But not a word was broken;
The promises still unspoken.
And the three men I admire most:
My father, son, and my website host,
They all gonna have some jam on toast
The day my traumas died.

And they were singing,
“bye-bye, you’ll be lonely and I’ll
get my hopes up at the truck stop”,
but then in the meanwhile
Those good old cows were stuffin’ water and rye
Mooin’, “when will be the day I’ll eat pie.
when will be the day I’ll eat pie…”
.

.

With very special thanks to Don McLean
for his initial sketchwork on this song.
My gratitude to you.
Yours sincerely, Hormonoloulou.

Dynasty

Zapping along, I stumbled upon Dynasty.
Sammy Jo was polefree poledancing on the floor.
Which got Alexis pissed off again majestically.
She called her a cheap and slutty whore…

I desperately wanted to zap on but got stuck
On viewing Adam and his beautiful, quadratic jaw.
This mystic man with all that money and bad luck
Piercing eyes, black hair, yes I was in awe…

Jeff collaborated with Krystle over Blake
while Fallon fainted over her own shoes
Oh, heaven help me, for god’s sake
25 years after and I’m back in Dynasty blues…

Steven is no option for he appeared to be gay.
A praise for Dex Dexter on the other hand.
I’m drewling over all that fake beauty that may
Dillute my vision of the only true grande.

Waiting for the day that it all dies again (and again)
I’m lost in the depths of Jeff’s eyes, that banger.
Blake’s definitely too old, even for my sick brain
but for the rest I do need that Moldavian Cliffhanger…

ZAPPP!!!

 

(c) Hormonoloulou

I (don’t) need this

I need the darkness, the sweetness, the sadness, the weakness…
Yes, I need this…
I need a lullaby, a kiss goodnight, angel sweet love of my life…
Oh, I need this…
Your face saving promises, whispered like prayers.
I don’t need them. No, I don’t need them…

Such sensitive, true and highly emotive words from Nathalie Merchant [My Skin].
They go for me.
I think I need you.

I’ve always thought I needed you.
I just didn’t know you yet.
Now I do.
Listened to your words.
Tasted the promises.
Licked the non-existent love.

I’ll sing myself to sleep now.
I don’t need you.
Oh, I don’t need you…

Black and Blue

So comfortably numb
after just a split second
of feeling strangely dumb.
It’s quite normal, I reckon…
I wish I were so good.
No, wish I were just better
Never really understood
as to why it should matter.
You wanna be bad.
And so desperately loyal
to someone who had
no clue of my truely royal
sense of admiration
for a person so dull
as if under sedation.
Now banging my skull
against the concrete wall
of ignorant, dull bliss.
A love so incredibly small
Nothing but a major kiss.
What did I ever see
In a person sad as you.
Put you over my knee.
Butt black and blue.

But I’m not allowed to…

 

(c) HormonoLouLou

coming

everybody starts to sing
that that bearded guy
is coming around again.
let’s see what he will bring…

kiddos all excited
mom secretly too
he’s coming, he’s coming
god we’re so delighted!

well, he came
like any other guy
with cries of joy
and zero shame.

and like any other man
he then fell asleep
deeds were done.
oh yes, we can.

 

 

the impossible happened

Oh.
My.
God.
It happened.
I had my period without any ranting, moodswings, complaining, sarcasm, impatience, explosions or other external mental inconveniences (the other external inconvenience was clearly there, of course).
The ultimate impossibility.
But it happened.

And now I’m wondering about my existential rights.
Can I still call myself…
Have my hormones finally…
Could it be possible that…

Nahhhh.
Next month, all will be perfectly fine again.
With all that lovely mental imbalance, that normal explosivity and joyful irony that make me ME.
I just didn’t have time for it this time.

Please tell me I’m right…
Please?

Vice versa, Superman…

I step into his small-ville life

as life’s all about small steps.

I hear his pumping, beating heart, but

that heart beats only for my pumps.

We take a walk, we feel the Fall

and fall together, a walk of no fame…

I finally stand still to further order

Ordering him to take  a final stand.

I touch his super arm to pacify, but

his super army’s got slightly touchy.

I taste the concrete base of his salty lips

But salt is merely a basic, irony taste.

I feel his inner utmost fears

but most, he fears my human feelings…

I’d  love to hold him up so close

but he’s so down and closed to love…

I wish he’d stay a little bit longer

His stay prolongs his wish to go

History has made it clear enough

Now he only wants to clear his story.

I sob and cry, my tears are dry

And he tears away, a freedom cry.

Now fly…

Hormonally yours,
Lois

The truth

How come…

How come that children and drunk people always seem to speak the truth.
How come that I always feel better in my own private state of delusion.
How come I need that severely headstuffed feeling every now and then.

So badly..

The truth is, I always speak the truth. It’s just me.
The truth is, that I’m trying to run away from my own complicated, blurry thoughts.
The truth is, I need to feel comfortable with this stupid, irrelevant brain I got for my birthday.

And that…

I still love you???

Resist

Shocked
in silent trances
Our eyes search
just to know
What makes flesh
and body hunger
For another burning soul

Conscience
quiet pleading
In the corner
of my eye
But seeing
is believing
All consequences fly

A demon’s day
in madness kissed
I swear I never
had it like this
Forbidden yet
I cannot
resist…

Yep.
Melissa knows what she’s talking about…

Transmission ends

I drove all night, just to get to you…
But somehow, you were not waiting for me.
Never was, never will again.What a bitter pill indeed.
I’m a good girl, I’ll take my medicine.
And swallow for sure.

Taste your sweet kisses , your arms open wide…
Once for real, but reality hit in too soon.
Never really was, never will again.
Nights in white satin, but not with me.
Mails I’ve written, never meaning to send.
I can’t say anymore.

Oh, how I loved you. Gazing at tweople,
some understand, thoughts I cannot defend.
Where has all the lovin’ gone…
No more sad goodbyes that never were.
I’m the utter queen of the world.
No more.

Transmission ends…

closed down

dying in the flames of a terrible sound

hijacked, where we should  be talking

had to save a girl

in a gathering flock

I’d feel a broken gladness

wanna fight back

but we all have a weakness

drop to my knees

just feel sinking sadness

pull out the match

ask for forgiveness

worth fighting for

I shouldn’t feel it

try to take all the control

things fall apart

I’m the unbreakable heart…

 

Today, a day later, I’m commenting my own posting. Kind of a PS-thing…
I just wanted to tell you all that the above are in fact not my words but a mix-up of phrases stemming from about five songtexts. Lyrics I was listening to yesterday evening. With tears in my eyes and a heart about to break. It didn’t. It’s unbreakable, after all.

The Men Rules

In reply to my house rules (see facebook), I was sent a list of male house rules for women, just to show me how I should proceed and anticipate in case I should meet and interact with a man somewhere along my path. (This case is just theoretical, of course). As nice as I am, I promised to post this list as well, so there would be some equality of house rules.

Well here we go.
Oh, and please do not mind my totally inept and unnecessary comments along the line…

Men rules for women.

1. Men are NOT mind readers.
I knew that one. Men hardly read anything at all. They merely look at pictures, as far as I know.
1. Learn to work the toilet seat. If it’s up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don’t hear us complaining about you leaving it down.
Fact is, WE do not pee all over the toilet. If you pee, the thing is sprayed all over with urine and not very attractive for us to handle in the first place. So if you need it up, DO IT YOURSELF!!! That’s what men are all about anyway, not?
1. Crying is blackmail.
So??  Crying is still a legitimate body function, isn’t it?
1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!
Just saying it doesn’t work either. Can you please clean the toilet? Could you please do the dishes? Can you hang out the laundry to dry? Rather clear questions they seem but hardly a single man seems to understand them. Not even “could you please just LEAVE???” works. What else should we do to make you men move it???
1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.
Yes. I agree. What’s the point of pointing that out?
1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That’s what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
Agree again. If I have a problem with my car, it will most likely be solved by a male person when I ask (and pay) for it. Most other non-practical problems seem to stem from men-issues anyway, so what’s the point in asking you to solve yourself? We’re not that stupid…
1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 days.
Make that 1 day…
1. If you think you’re fat, you probably are. Don’t ask us.
If you think you’re drunk, you probably are. Don’t drive anymore, you moron. And don’t ask us to come and pick you up either.
1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.
That’s a good one. In fact, I like this rule.
1. You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.
It’s no use anyway. Once male, the curve of learning capacities deminishes rapidly.
1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials…
Why not marry the TV to start with?? It gives you all you need: entertainment, sex, joy, sports and even a remote control to chew on… But please: don’t pee on the thing. TVs are generally not into golden showers.
1. Christopher Columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we.
… and HE ended up in America instead of India, didn’t he?
1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.
Neither do we… But we still know what a red traffic light is, you think it’s all green…
1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.
Ah, those dogs are all the same… Oh, and if it itches that much, you should shower more often.
1. If we ask what is wrong and you say “nothing,” we will act like nothing’s wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.
OK. Deal. From now on the answer to this question is no longer “nothing”: it’s “you”. YOU are always wrong. And why asking what’s wrong in the first place if you don’t want to know the answer anyway??
1. If you ask a question you don’t want an answer to, expect an answer you don’t want to hear.
Well, we just cleared that one up… you men do exactly the same. See the rule no. 1 above this one.
1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine. Really.
Great. Now where are my crocs…
1. Don’t ask us what we’re thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as football or motor sports. You have enough clothes.
As if we ever assumed there was anything else you were able to think about at all. Oh wait… there was something starting with an ‘s’ and ending on ‘ex’… (how appropriate, that ending…) If we ask you what you are thinking about, we meant to ask ‘which game’ or ‘what run’ or ‘whatever pole position’ you were thinking about (speaking of poles…), wasn’t that clear enough?
1. You have too many shoes.
No, I don’t. Still looking for my pair of crocs, as a matter of fact. And no is a perfecty legitimate answer, we just learned.
1. I am in shape. Round IS a shape!
Pear is a shape too. And a color, by the way.
1. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight; but did you know men really don’t mind that? It’s like camping.
I’ll put the couch in the tent in the garden next time. Everything for your comfort and good feeling, my dear…

Oh and all these rules were numbered “1” on purpose, according to the sender.
Well, that proofs once more that men really can’t count at all.

OK. Done ranting now.
If some man sends me a list like this,
that man must expect
that I will react.
I am woman.
Hear me snort.

Got it??

I simply don’t get it. I must have lost some of my already so very scarce intelligence during the last forty years or so. Especially during the last decennium. (Oh, hey, young ones! Beware!! From thirty on, you got to carefully watch your braincells for they will start to get on the loose. Some might even break free and get lost to you for eternity…)

But where was I.
Ah right, I don’t get it.

I don’t get the fact that you and I were able to get close at all.
That I managed to kiss you in the first place.
That you’ve been able to fool me too. Me of all people…

I don’t get it that I was all ears for your problems and despairs.
That I believed you and even tried to console.
And that you didn’t get me at all.

I don’t get it that I thougt we had something special.
That YOU told ME that too.
And that I even loved you. (Baffled myself…)

I don’t get it that it was all just a fake.
That you are a huge bubble.
And that I don’t have a needle…

I don’t get it that suddenly, I was out.
That I was no longer needed.
And that I was never truly needed at all.

I don’t get it that I was so replaceable to you.
That you found someone nearer and more willing.
And that I’m a lost case now.

I’m definitely too stupid for this world.
Stupid enough to believe and be naive.
But still way too clever for you.

Well, I just had to get that out.
Got it?

Stay up

go to bed
lie awake
snooze, doze
lie awake
get up, 6AM
breakfast
coffee (+4)
work (type 1)
car shit
groceries
sports
work (type 2)
meeting
kids
cook
frustration
work (type 3)
drumlessons
kids
cook
work (more type 3)
internet
1AM. bed
lie awake.
snooze, doze
lie awake

get up…

I don’t have to GET up.
I merely have to STAY up.

Tinnitus: check.
aching stomach: check.
an overactive heart: check.
twitching left eye: check.
headache: check.
overtired: check.
full moon: check.
PreMS & DuringMS:  check.
Post will follow soon.

I’m going over the top…
Overkill.
I got so much to do that I’m overdoing.
I have to relax somewhere in between but I don’t have time for that.
Writing stress blogs at 7:30h AM is not exactly proof of relaxation.
Time to reflect.
If I only had time…

Got to run.

On(e)line lover

You and your demands
you made it look so awesome
It made me feel quite divine
You retreated into boredom.

meanwhile…

You and your two hands
you were a happy threesome
While talking dirty online
You gave yourself some freedom.

infantile…

You and your commands
Do this, do that, it’s loathsome
Your ‘love’ is caught in one line
while staring at the dotcom.

erectile…

You and your hand
You were just so grand
I simply do not understand
Why did that have to end?

The bitch called Karma

All the blabbering about karma…
What about karma anyway?
The only one association I have when hearing/reading the word ‘karma’ is with Dharma. You know, the girl from Greg. Loved her. And she was no bitch at all, although even she talked about karma a lot where she probably should’ve been talking about Greg. But then again, Dharma is also Sanskrit for something to do with law and order and so on. This is getting too complicated already. I think I’ll take Greg instead.

What is karma anyway? Wikipedia does not make me any smarter than I already am (but I must admit, that’s hard, smart as I am already), the wiki guys ‘n dolls can’t agree on the ism karma stems from: hinduism, sikhism, buddhism and jainism roots are discussed but karmism was lost on the heavy road of explanation. And the basic “what goes around comes around” is too flat out easy in my humble opinion. Sorry for that. No not really.

Karma seems to be all about causes and consequences. At least all agree that the word karma is Sanskrit and means something like “wheel”. Well, let’s reinvent it then? We just did, so it seems.

“Karma forces us to (re)incarnate time and time again in order to finally solve the problems we have caused ourselves [so one first karma lesson I gather from this: mind your OWN problems, not those of others]. With every incarnation, you get the opportunity to learn some more in order to deal with (and not simply avoid) the problems we have inside of us.”

Well in that case, I got loads of hearty incarnations ahead of me: I’m still somewhat the hide-and-seek type when it comes down to the problems WITHIN ME. I rather dive into the problems of others after all. But that’s not karma…

“Action is reaction”
Yeah sure. No reaction without action, so what’s new???
“Let go of hatred, anger and fear”
Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Didn’t help but I must admit, it feels quite OK. For my stomach at least.
“Open yourself to absolute trust and love”
Trust and love truely are nice things. Now where’s that damn scalpel, I’ll open myself up instantly for that. Yes I can!
“You are only responsible for yourself”
Somehow, this doesn’t help a shit. I knew it…
“Luck and Coincidence are only names for a certain not yet recognized law of nature”
What a coincidence…

What other unrecognized laws of nature are still out there to haunt us?
Guess I’ll stick to the things that come around while I go around (like a beheaded chicken).

I’ll keep you posted about the results…

Miss Erable

That’s what I not-so-secretly call myself sometimes.

No good at keeping the drama queen exhibitionism suppressed.
Extremely bad at simply being a good girl. Okay, good woman. Okay, good granny. Grrrmpff.
An expert at feeling awful over the absolute minor things.
A professional swallower of broken hearts, mostly mine.
As a matter of fact, I swallow everything anyway (see Ken).

Nothing wrong with that.
But afterwards…

Simply miserable.

Miss Erable.

Gimme Ken

Finally. Finally they realized. Mattel’s product developers have found the button to press on mothers who simply cannot stomach the plastic-haired, edgy Ken that their daughters’ Barbies have to settle with (or to divorce, for that matter).

I can tell you: I want him. The hair: those blond manes that slightly and coolly cover the eyes just the tiniest, sexiest bit. And ahh, those eyes, absently peering into the nothingness yet still drilling into your humble mind. The lucious lips culturally formed into a Mona Lisa’s smile. The body a simple midas touch. It sells. To me at least. Let alone the shirt… Ultimate Boyfriend. Says what I want him to say, looks how I want him to look and with a little luck, he’s all mine until I destroy or ditch him because I suddenly and desperately want to play with something else. *sigh*

My daughter has one of the older plastic-haired 1.0 Ken-versions. That one never got any further clothing besides those hideous swim shorts he came in. Why should I buy a fake man like that any further clothing? There’s nothing on ‘it’ that needs (erotic) covering anyway.

But finally. Finally there is “Talking Ken” alias “Dating Fun Ken”. Well, gimme Ken!! With or without the dating, I really don’t mind. I’ll buy my daughter one a.s.a.p. And one for me too, maybe we’ll get a quantum discount. Buying men still has a nice touch to it. And I’ll make him talk allright…

At least I’ll have some eyes to stare into after all, on my weekly lonely nights (amounting to approx. two nights/week). But I do sincerely fear that, for he’s still an all American playman,  his eunuchly shapen ‘downside’ will not yet have been cured by Mattel yet… Ah well, I’ll swallow him as a whole, that might just about fit…

Ken you dig it?

Let’s go…

to the moon once again, please? Shoot.
Same procedure as every month, James.

Nah, the moon is a helluvalot too far away anyway.
Especially twoway.
Even with an extra balloon or two.
Fuck the balloons.
Fuck the moon.

Where to go then, when you’re all mixed up but not allowed to overtly spill the dirt beans into someone’s face because your hormones are making your head go berserk, black and gooey?

Honolulu?

Who knows.

Lou knows.

Hormonoloulou..