(no subject)

I am in the middle of writing a more detailed entry (it really means business, might even involve an LJ cut). For now, a piece of literary news:

The Millions' most anticipated 2010 publications. 4 Bolaños (a short story collection, among other things), DeLillo! Shields' Reality Hunger: A Manifesto looks very interesting, and more McEwan. I am going to go on an Amazon pre-order spree.

Oh, 2010, I shall love you!

(no subject)

I am in the middle of writing a more detailed entry (it really means business, might even involve an LJ cut). For now, a piece of literary news:

The Millions' most anticipated 2010 publications. 4 Bolaños (a short story collection, among other things), DeLillo! Shields' Reality Hunger: A Manifesto looks very interesting, and more McEwan. I am going to go on an Amazon pre-order spree.

Oh, 2010, I shall love you!

I'm so Cool I No Longer do Titles

Christmas passed in a haze of wine, food, laughter and aquavit (a kind of Scandinavian liquor, with approximately 40%, traditionally chased by a swig of beer). We cooked for two days on end, I wrapped a mountain of presents – my own, my brothers and the ones Dad bought on his own –, we ate too much. But it was lovely. A few days before the 24th, the sky fell down and as it was -20, we got snow. The past three weeks we have been living and walking the dog monster in a Christmas card: snow-laden trees, smoking chimneys, branches covered in layers upon layers of frost.

New Years Eve was, er, bizarre. We partied with Kristine's ex, who is ridiculous in his own way. I had a magnum bottle of decent red wine, and Dad sponsored a delicious champagne. You will have guessed where this is going, we did get very drunk. Fell around in the snow, danced in it. But you will not have guessed that the 'really fit men' we were promised were 15. One of them managed to sit a metre away from me on the couch, trying to pick up his courage to ask, 'May I sit a bit closer to you?' Had he not been underaged in all possible ways, it could have been sweet.

Ah, yes, I forgot to tell you about the outfit. I found a twenties/flapper inspired dress a while ago. Delicately covered in silver and cool-gold sequins. Brother and I dubbed it 'Chainmail +3, +2 Charisma'. A strand of sequins unravelled, I repaired with surgical accuracy with Kristine's invaluable assistance. Following a nasch with the kiddies, I promptly crashed on a couch at 7:30. Woke up to see people leave, Kristine do aerial cartwheels and throw a duvet my way. At the very least, I maintained my decency that night.


Fast-forward:

At the moment I am so pissed off with university spoiling my plans for the semester, that I think I am going to clean. I will blast Panzer AG too loudly, and I will fucking clean. Panzer always helps when I can't go totally mental because people happen to be around. Industrial helps in general, particularly the screamy, German kind. --> That is what I get for reverting to drafts. I did not clean, but took the dog out and screamed along to Panzer in the snow. And the semester no longer looks horrid. Post-colonialism with a wretched lecturer, translation, an introductory theory course, and a mash-up of realism, modernism, post-modernism and theory.

I'm so Cool I No Longer do Titles

Christmas passed in a haze of wine, food, laughter and aquavit (a kind of Scandinavian liquor, with approximately 40%, traditionally chased by a swig of beer). We cooked for two days on end, I wrapped a mountain of presents – my own, my brothers and the ones Dad bought on his own –, we ate too much. But it was lovely. A few days before the 24th, the sky fell down and as it was -20, we got snow. The past three weeks we have been living and walking the dog monster in a Christmas card: snow-laden trees, smoking chimneys, branches covered in layers upon layers of frost.

New Years Eve was, er, bizarre. We partied with Kristine's ex, who is ridiculous in his own way. I had a magnum bottle of decent red wine, and Dad sponsored a delicious champagne. You will have guessed where this is going, we did get very drunk. Fell around in the snow, danced in it. But you will not have guessed that the 'really fit men' we were promised were 15. One of them managed to sit a metre away from me on the couch, trying to pick up his courage to ask, 'May I sit a bit closer to you?' Had he not been underaged in all possible ways, it could have been sweet.

Ah, yes, I forgot to tell you about the outfit. I found a twenties/flapper inspired dress a while ago. Delicately covered in silver and cool-gold sequins. Brother and I dubbed it 'Chainmail +3, +2 Charisma'. A strand of sequins unravelled, I repaired with surgical accuracy with Kristine's invaluable assistance. Following a nasch with the kiddies, I promptly crashed on a couch at 7:30. Woke up to see people leave, Kristine do aerial cartwheels and throw a duvet my way. At the very least, I maintained my decency that night.


Fast-forward:

At the moment I am so pissed off with university spoiling my plans for the semester, that I think I am going to clean. I will blast Panzer AG too loudly, and I will fucking clean. Panzer always helps when I can't go totally mental because people happen to be around. Industrial helps in general, particularly the screamy, German kind. --> That is what I get for reverting to drafts. I did not clean, but took the dog out and screamed along to Panzer in the snow. And the semester no longer looks horrid. Post-colonialism with a wretched lecturer, translation, an introductory theory course, and a mash-up of realism, modernism, post-modernism and theory.