Wednesday, 29 December 2010


What if we are not real? Nothing we work for or achieve has any meaning. What if we are a figment of my imagination, my subconscious plays you all like my own little private barbie army? Or someone else's, in this case a higher being who really is imagining everything, and none of this is real.

But then I don't believe in higher beings, thus I must reject that thought. However, what if that higher being were a figment of the imagination of a regular being? That would make us twice figments of imagination.

Then how about if we are real, but we have no meaning. None of our actions are real, and in the long run don't have any effect on anything because in the end we are smaller than an electron in the sahara desert when compared to the universe; to the real reality. If that one electron disappears, perhaps there is a slight imbalance in the atom, but looking at the desert as a whole it makes no difference. Does it?

So if our actions have no meaning in the long run, why do we exist? We are not here by chance, but by a very long chain of events, as we all know... but why? Does there need to be a why? Can we not just exist for the sake of existing? Why do we exist? Can we simply answer: "because we want to"?

Hang on a second, so if there is no reason for us to exist, and our actions may not be real, then we can do whatever the fuck we want? If our actions aren't real then the consequences can't be real either, right? So let's go on a murder spree because life has no meaning! Okay maybe our actions are real and have real consequences...

But do they matter in the long run? Do they really? Does that mean we shouldn't care, just because in a million years no one will give a shit? Well I don't know. Are we just hard wired by society to give a shit? Because it helps us to survive as a species, and all that biological blabber.

Because I'm an atheist, and this all goes on in my mind, am I more likely to actually go on a killing spree, do drugs and whatnot? It probably makes no difference in the long run of things, in a million years no one will know of me or you, and perhaps not even of Earth at all- I can do whatever the fuck I want, really.

But I don't want to go on a killing spree.

Let's love.

Sunday, 26 December 2010

Friday, 24 December 2010

Nasty fuckin' christmas

(Fuck yeah undercuts)

I hate christmas. 

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

A Man

He looked about with a suspicious eye. To the left, glaring at the old hag with her hunched back and her stained babushka. To the right where he saw nothing more than a wet long field of green grass, mown into a buzzcut like the buzzed head of buzzing military police. Bastards.

He took a staggering step to the right, correcting himself with an elegant swish of the hips, and bringing his flask to his lips. The grass was moist and cold and soft, and soon his thin legs could carry him no longer. He found himself on his arse on the ground, his knotty fingers knotting the grass around his knuckles. It was so cold his breath moved in a cloud of steam, and then stood hovering above him. Another gulp of vodka, of holy water, holy water to an atheist in the grass with the water seeping through his trousers.

A slimy thing made its way to his ring finger, and wrapped itself around it. This is the closest he had ever come to marriage. He picked up his hand, and with the other dipped his index finger in the holiest of waters. He tried to give some to the poor creature wrapped around his finger, but little did he know you can't tell which end is the crapper and which is the mouth. Kind of like him, you don't know which end spews the shit, really. So he tried both, there was a 50 percent chance he would get it right anyway.

He said whatever, and drank some more, lay on his back and stretched out his bony fingers. This thing lived underground, making tunnels with its head or its arse, no direction in life whatsoever. Sometimes it would come out when it rained, and let the cool rain splatter on and around it. Then it would go back underground into darkness and nothingness, waiting to be dug out by children wanting to fish. Maybe they could have children, his new wife and him.

The slimy thing fell off, sliming on his face and his preciously grown beard. A beard defines a man in Russia. If you have no beard you are a, how do you say? Homosexual. If he ever met one of those homosexuals he would curse them right out, tell them exactly who they are and how they are wrong. He'd put them underground. He stood up, staggering and cursing, wiping this slimy thing off his splendid beard. Splendidly, he staggered off somewhere where the worm never saw him again. This man, it thought, I wonder which end spews the shit, really.

Sunday, 19 December 2010

Friday, 17 December 2010

Pretty Little Thing

Pretty little thing,
Your pretty little mouth's been cut up
And your pretty little eyes are quiet.

Your little mouth
Is in pretty pieces, and they have tried
To turn you into a jew.

Your pretty bleeding
Mouth, and your throat are pretty dry
From all the pork pork pork they shoved down.

You're a pretty jew
Or converted, for only a jew can be cut up
And made to chew chew chew their little sin and their own skin.

Pretty little thing,
It's called a cat that cut you up
When your pretty parents are holding the knife.

Your little mouth,
Coughing and spitting the sins and the ham
And the jew inside you is screaming.

Your pretty bleeding
Heart, and your head hanging low
It's called a pretty cat with pretty a sharp claw.

You're a pretty little jew,
Or not a jew in fact at all, you all love a jew
But your pretty little mouth's been cut up, and you're made to chew chew chew.

Monday, 22 November 2010

you are the death inside us all. youarethedeathinsideusall.
lovemeloveme love me love me me me love me love me stay love me stay

you are the death inside us all

temptation to derail, no no no staystaystaystaystaystaystaystay love me love me love me hate me love me feel me
love me love me let me go statystaystaystaystaystaystaystay and derail with me
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhold it down there is not much you can do staystaystay love me lovelovelovelovelovehatelovelovelove me

lovelovelovelovelovelovelove me love me love me love me lovemelovemelovemelovemeloveme kill me leave me

Saturday, 20 November 2010

Finding all sorts beautiful

It's been a while since I shared music. Here's a very nice playlist of some dnb (drum & bass) and mellow dubstep that I find extemely beautiful.

  1. Heavy Metal (TGunn remix) by Deep Focus: (original is great as well, and would be on this list if it weren't for the repetitiveness).
  2. Beautiful Lies by B-Complex:
  3. Starlight by Netsky:
  4. 2-1 (Murdok remix) by Imogen Heap:
  5. Killing for Love (Beatfanatic remix) by Jose Gonzalez:
  6. Windows by Mutated Forms and Netsky:
  7. Space Time by Delta Heavy:
  8. Deepest Blue by Memro:
  9. Chance by Tarot:
  10. Pass Out (Stinkahbell Spliff remix) by Tinie Tempah:
Hope you check them out, some may tickle your fancy, or punch you in the fanny, whatever rocks your boat.
Have a nice day, ladies and fellas.

Tuesday, 16 November 2010

Cut by Sylvia Plath

The poem Cut by Sylvia Plath is about how she cut her finger while cutting onions, presumably by mistake (however with her you never know if it was or was not by accident). A simple cut would hardly provoke much emotion, yet Plath exaggerates it to make it seem more dramatic than necessary. For example, at the end of the poem she calls her cut thumb a "thump stump," a blunt and almost insulting conclusion to the poem. However, from the first and second stanza we know that she did not cut her thumb to a stump, but merely skinned it, cutting a piece that was a "flap like a hat."

In the first line of the poem Plath says "What a thrill-." She may be referring to either the rush of adrenaline she got from the pain, or she is being sarcastic. Considering that cutting your thumb while cutting onions is a very day-to-day event, she is probably sarcastic.

She seems to like giving her damaged thumb personalities. In lines 9-10 she calls it a little pilgrim, "the Indian's axed your scalp," referring to when the white pilgrims were being attacked by Indians and their scalps were removed, much like the way she cut off the tip of her thumb.

In line 12 she says "carpet rolls," referring to the way the blood rolls out of the cut, like unrolling a red carpet. She then goes on to explain how she put pressure on the wound and applied a disinfectant. The words she uses, like "pink fizz" gives the whole thing a sense of glamour with red carpets and fizzy champagne. She even calls it a celebration.

However, she then goes on to say "out of a gap, a million soldiers run, redcoats everyone." Once again she is describing the flow of blood once the disinfectant has been applied. The blood fizzes, and runs like a million redcoat soldiers, drawing connections again with American history. This time she refers to the Revolutionary war, she is asking whose side the soldiers are on, a confusing question since looking at American history the redcoats were British soldiers (of whom yes, some were traitors but most were not).

After that, in lines 22 onwards she becomes more dramatic. She says her thumb is making her feel ill and that she has taken a pill to kill the papery feeling she has now that she cut off a bit of skin that is still attached to her thumb. This of course is ridiculous because the papery feeling is not painful. Even if she was alluding to the fact that the loss of blood has maken her feel thin, she could not have lost that much blood from cutting her finger.

She refers to her thumb as a kamikaze man (she keeps switching the gender of the thumb, calling it both a man and a girl), almost saying that her thumb brought it upon itself. The poem has taken a complete turn here, her thumb/the cut has changed from an innocent victim and a celebration, and she now compares her white, pale skin to the gauze of a member of the Ku Klux Klan. She says her blood is tarnishing the gauze and forming a babushka (Russian for a headscarf tied under the chin). Babuska could also refer to a Matryoska doll, with layers and layers of skin that is being tarnished by the blood.

In the second to last stanza Plath is basically describing how the blood flow is coming to an end, the blood is drying, "confronting its small mill of silence."

In the last stanza we get an echo of the very first two lines. With the same effect as sarcasm in the first stanza, she is now self-condemning. "How you jump-" may either refer to herself when she cut her thumb, jumping back from surprise, or she may be making fun of her thumb. Both make sense, as next she calls her thumb names "Trepanned veteran." Each means something different. Sylvia refers to her thumb as a trepanned veteran who has lost his mind, as if the cut was enough for her thumb to lose its mind. "Dirty girl, Thump stump" refers to herself and is full of self-loathing, finishing the poem that began innocently enough with something painful, short and real.

Themes: sarcasm, filth in blood lines, death, self-loathing.

Comments on style: she avoid a lot of commas towards the end, as if she was frantically saying the lines, really fast, as if she was "freaking out." In the beginning she uses more punctuation, making everything seem more deliberate and thought through.

Saturday, 13 November 2010

Not interesting

It's been over a week, sorry about that. I haven't had anything to say, so instead I'll post a list of some all right films for you to watch.

A Beautiful Mind

The Oxford Murders

Son of Sam

Green River Killer


And that is all today, folks.

Thursday, 4 November 2010

rexia rosa

It might come as a surprise to some of you, some of you who see me as strong and independent and anti-conformist and what not, but I've had this thing for a while. Well, I had it, but now I don't, and now I hate that I had it. It's this small little thing called Anorexia nervosa.
Now here,


Yes, you have that out of the way. You can now continue reading.

When I was 15 I was nice and curvy, a bit too soft here and there but with a nice rack and enough to hold on to. I was pretty confident too. Then I moved to America. The thing about America is that either you're fat, or you're anorexic. If you're not fat, you're so afraid of getting fat you go anorexic. That's the way it is, there is no way around it (unless you have an exception gene or something).

The problem is though, "But Kristiina I thought you lived in Holland?" I do.

I moved here on January 1st, 2010, and have lived here ever since. Yet here my weight loss didn't stop, it continued just the same. In short, in the past two years I've gone from 60kg (a lot of boobage weight, remember) to 50kg. I don't like it.

I don't like how my hip bones stick out like the pelvis of a starving dog, I don't like knowing that I have at least 5 bras in my drawer that are at least a cup size too large now, I don't like seeing my collarbones outlined like crossbones on a pirate flag, I don't like any of it.

Most of all I don't like my rib cage sticking out. I don't have a flat tummy, I have a caved in one. The worst bit is that I still have a lot of body fat, so I'm bony but I'm soft. I hate all of it. I want my tits back, I want my ribcage to stay in, I want my collarbones to look normal... It's made me uncoordinated and clumsy, because I still move and behave as if I weighed the same amount I used to.

I hate it. I want my boobs back.
But I'm totally over it.

Monday, 1 November 2010

doing time for thought crime

I am becoming more and more paranoid of the world. Anyone who has read any of my longer or more passionate blog posts will know that I am an ardent anti-religionist and strong atheist. 
Before now, I'd always been quite okay with religion, thinking that since this is the 21st century, the mighty 2000's, the time of rapid scientific advancement and discovery, this sort of ridiculous thinking was dying out.


Contrary to what I thought, religious extremes are not dying out but growing. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY. People are becoming more and more afraid, and are losing their wonder for the world. They want to believe in something more, in something extra. Human life, and human values, and humanity itself is NOT good enough for them. Where is this coming from? Why are we not enough? Why is THIS not enough?

Extreme Evangelist Christians in the United States are at a rapid raise. These people are ridiculous. They establish bans on childrens books- Harry Potter is banned (witchcraft is of the devil), they scar children by making them believe their friends and family are going to burn in an eternal fire for silly things, teaching their children plain nonsense and most of all- not letting people, children mostly, enjoy their life. Then these people grow up, create offspring and pass on these ideas. 
These people wish to create an Evangelist Christian militia that aims to eliminate people of other religions and of no religion. These people will badger you and bug you to accept their views (which are completely ridiculous and erroneous, by the way) or they will condemn you.

Does this sound familiar? Yes, it sounds like every other major religion; Judaism, Islam, Christianity, Catholicism, Hinduism, etc.

I used to be an advocate for free belief. I still am. Yet there's a limit. You have the right to freedom of religion, of belief, of speech, of life of whatever. But the kids being brainwashed lack this freedom. They don't get freedom of choice, they don't choose their beliefs. And this makes me sick to my stomach. These people are are the dog that bite off your hand when you offer them a pellet. 

The world is becoming polarised. Perhaps
  1. These people will end up killing each other and the rest of us can continue to live and finally rid the world of idiocy
  2. These people will kill us and then end up killing each other
  3. One group of these people will kill everyone and take over
  4. People will come to their senses and there's a happy ending
  5. The rest of us can try to stop the brainwashing of children into believing what their parents believe, and slow down the polarisation of theists!
Today I support Richard Dawkins and the atheist bus and billboards.
(yeah you can't actually click the donate today, don't worry).

Thursday, 21 October 2010

I hate to do this twice a day

But today, instead of doing all that yummy schoolwork I'm supposed to do, I think I might just tell you, or show you, about Shigeru Ban.

Shigeru Ban is a great Japanese architect, but I won't bore you no more, just check that out:


ヴィラ K




ナインブリッジズ ゴルフクラブハウス

Jose Gonzalez, my therapist

What's the point
if you hate, die and kill for love.
What's the point with a love that
makes you hate and kill for.

The point is, my dear Jose, that there is nothing else to live for.
The point is, my dear Jose, you are right, there is none.

Monday, 18 October 2010

Reverse antennae

Can you feel yourself closer to death every second of the day? Maybe if you realised that you would stop being a fucking loser and do something with yourself.


Then you have to love those moments that you know you will remember. 
6am biking and freezing to death. Getting home bruised and covered in blood. It's okay baby I don't feel anything, it's too cool for my little red soldiers to run screaming. Yesterday I woke up with no memory and no place to stay.

You know it's worth it when you won't be able to forget it. Watch your lovers cut their heads off- pick them up and keep them in your heart forever.
Let's not fuck this up, we only have one shot- really.

There's no such thing as depression here.

Saturday, 16 October 2010

Epiphany from fish

Wow, it's been a really long time hasn't it? A lot has happened, hence my disappearance. The most impactful had to be the loss of my dear Fry, named after Stephen Fry, or Fry from Futurama, whichever you prefer. Fry is what I call my darling computer, and until about a month ago it has served as quite the loyal companion.
However it is getting fixed, and in the mean time I have acquired a new laptop, or notebook as they call them, and am now in the process of choosing a name for it.
Leave me comments with name suggestions, and reasons, if you want. If not, I'll let you know what I chose next time.

Beyond that, my auntie died a while ago, a while being a very short while. I wasn't very close to her, especially after I moved out of Finland and only see her about once or twice a year, both times within the same month.
But I remember being at my gran's house in the summer when I was an itty bitty child, not much taller than a bulldog but somehow much louder, my aunt would park herself and her caravan (gypsy heritage, I must point out) for the whole summer. She came to fish, and I stayed with her whenever I could because I loved the feeling of the rocking boat and the excitement when you felt that line tense. Sometime your whole body filled with euphoria when you drew that heavy lump of edible goodness out of the water, and then that moment of fear and sadness when you watch your aunt smash it's head onto the side of the boat four or five times, until the brains begin spilling and the eyes are hanging out, and you can be sure it's dead.
This past summer I'd noticed she'd gotten much older, much faster than I thought. Since she's a smoker, I figured it's that that's aging her.
And I suppose it was.
Lung cancer.
Everyone in my family dies of cancer. Someday it'll be my turn to choose a body part where it can attack.

The good thing about this, because yes- I hate to be an optimistic sod but - there is a good side, is that it's made me realise how easy it is to just disappear and die off. I don't want to disappear, and I don't want to waste a single fucking day.

That's why I won't be sad for my aunt, because she wasn't sad for those fish, and because she doesn't care I'm not sad because she's dead. Besides, she wouldn't have wanted me to be sad. So I spent a day being sad, frustrated, and got mad at people I love, until I ate some fish and remembered, and I didn't care any more.
The funeral's tomorrow, and I'm going to celebrate.
Good day, ladies and gentlemen, good day.

Sunday, 5 September 2010

Is lying the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off?

So I'm making this self portrait out of clay for my HIGHER LEVER IB ART CLASS (it makes me feel more talented when I emphasise it like that).
So far I look like a potato that came out of an elephant's arse.

That's not what I want to talk about though, today is devoted to... lies. I've always believed that lying is completely human. Everyone does it, whether they want to or not, whether they believe it's right or not. I've always told people "it's okay if you lie to me, I'll probably lie to you too."
Thing is, I don't mind lying as long as I never find out.
But then once, last week, I did. And that hurt. It's worse when it's something petty. Like "I have to catch a train" when really you just don't want to hang out (though that didn't happen, it's just an example). Now I've completely changed my POV, my opinion.

Don't lie. Unless it's to a teacher, you know, my dog ate my homework. Or to a parent- yeah I was having coffee with my friends when really you were at the motel two blocks away, getting your mind blown (or other things). Those things are better left unsaid.
"I didn't do anything" oh yeah? Apparently you got your dick sucked.
"I have to go" oh yeah? You're still outside.
JUST TO POINT OUT, these are examples, they have not happened to me.

So now... I think people should just talk. I've also believed that lying is not the same as not telling the truth. That you can always just shut up, but that, THAT hurts just as bad.
I think, and I have completely changed my opinion, that honesty is best in certain situations.

And you know what?
I'm going to stick to that from now on. Okay, okay, maybe it's nice to pretend and all- but not when there's a potential to hurt someone. Savvy?

Kristiina no lie no more (excludes teachers and family members).

Regina Spektor has all the answers. Seriously.

Thursday, 26 August 2010

You know school's not going to go well if it's the 3rd day and you've been yelled at multiple times, broken your fagban and you end up home an hour later than you should, dripping wet and 60e short.
I have a good feeling about this year.

But no one really cares about that. You all just want to hear scandalous things, but I'm not giving you that. Not this time.
This time I want to mention Jean Luc Godard and his brilliant films, and if you haven't watched them I really think you should. Try subtitles. Only if you like old films

I also want to mention high contrast drum 'n' bass. So repetitive, so good.
I'm not going to party on X till 4am and find myself somewhere I shouldn't. Obviously.

I'm totally blank, I have nothing to offer this time. I have no drive to do my homework, which Mr de Brown (because I can't spell his name) is expecting in tomorrow morning.
It's cool, maybe I'll actually pass then.

And that's it.

Tuesday, 17 August 2010

Drunk Bernard

I pinned all my tickets to my door, and all my clothes to the floor. My curtain has a hole where the moon is at midnight.
So I can look at it and smile to begin a conversation like we used to when we were young.

I keep all the keys I find in a Twinings tea tin. Some are rusty and some are clean. One of them has a pink rubber band over it, and I'm guessing it belonged to little school girl who dropped it on her way to her daily routines.

My wallet is my grandmother's, or was before she gave it to me. The zipper doesn't work and all my loose change scattered to the floor when I opened my wallet to get out my Visa card that doesn't work so I could bye useless things that I like to hide.

You blast your headphones at 100% to block out your mind. You've been working hard to be regular but now you're falling behind.

So I'm stepping up.
I'm a total push over.
It's okay, it's fine, I understand.

Time to man up. Just enough to not get stepped over.
Sometimes I'm so worried and so nervous I forget to breathe. Foolish child. Only because I don't speak when it matters.
Sticking up. Understanding is over, I'm done. I'm not letting you walk on me with those sweet feet, so I'll stand up.

This is why we fight.

I nailed my mirror to the wall, but I'm too short to see myself. I have to move my mirror, or grow up a bit.

I thought by now you'd be better than you are.

I think I've forgotten.
Boys and girls watch each other eat when they only want to watch each other sleep.
Addicted to hands and feet.
I used to not get touched, and now I'm touched all the time.

Insert smile.

Friday, 6 August 2010

Unruly poetry is a waste of time, really.

Ambition is a freedom of will.
Modeling for commercial purposes is like bad art.
Holding tongue.
Ambition for commercial purposes is a bad art.
Lack of ambition is not a talent.
Presence of it is less so.

Ambition will tear us apart,
Unless love gets us first.
A bad art, not aesthetically unpleasant but emotionally unpresent.
You will fall apart,

Financial success is naught but a curse.
An aesthetic career serves no purpose
But not at the end,
When holding on to pillows and nurse's hands.
That's the good art,
Your commercial last breath leaving.

Wednesday, 4 August 2010

What I want to know

I'm going to be discussing a series of topics of which I haven't exactly honestly expressed my opinion of. Religion is always easy to write about since I dislike it so much, and anger and dislike are always easy emotions to decipher. In the future I'll be covering such things as drugs, school, society, ambition, and all sorts of fun things.


Sex is always interesting to write and read about, isn't it?
I recently spoke of this with a friend of mine. We are both girls, and yes, we are both fairly young.
Sex often comes with side effects, or side emotions, such as guilt or shame. These are very common with religious association and societal influences. Why, though? Sex among animals is frequent and not confined to one partner. Sex is a physical process that begins, lasts, and ends, and often results in offspring.
Luckily for us, we can prevent having children.

Anyway, I'll stop explaining all this and get to the point: many say sex is a magical and beautiful thing. I say it's not. I'm not saying it's the opposite or that it can't be magical or beautiful, since I for one, love it. But I do think that whoever says it's to be given only to people you're in a relationship with, or you love, or god forbid, one person only, are mistaken and missing out. Obviously I'm not saying that I sleep with random guys from random places- I don't. I'm saying, if you know your partner and make sure to be protected, and are not in a monogamous relationship already, there is nothing wrong with having sex with someone. There is definitely nothing wrong with having sex with someone you're in a relationship with, even if you've been together for a day, or even before you were together, kids. And I know people tell you it's not responsible, but as long as you're prepared (condoms kids, condoms) there's nothing wrong with it.

I find sex to be like a good conversation. You share something perhaps intimate with someone you probably know, and then it's over, you're left with the memories of that brilliant conversation (though sometimes... it's a dud). If you're lucky, you can keep speaking to that person for a while ;)
However if you're in a relationship, where you've agreed not to be polyamorous, it's obviously not right. Once you're in a relationship sex takes on a new meaning. It's still sex, but it's part of that relationship. It's no longer a conversation with someone you know, it's more than that.
But once it's over, or before it began...
It doesn't matter. Enjoy it, but be safe and... well, preferably be mostly sober.

I don't think that the amount of partners you've had makes you a slut or a manwhore or whatever you call each other nowadays, and neither does the amount of people you've fallen in love with (which is far more dangerous for your mental health). What makes that difference is lying. 

Sex is not restricted to a number of people, size, looks, gender, though place may sometimes be an issue.

Love is not a gift, it is a commodity, and as sharing is caring, we should be allowed to share love, physical or emotional, with anyone and everyone we wish.
Let's be sluts.
Except for now, I'll be sticking to one person.

Sounded more like a lecture, really. I'll do a better job next time.
If you guys have any suggestions on what to come up with an opinion for, tell me in the comments :)

Tuesday, 27 July 2010

Popular videos

I've been exposed to various videos on VOICE TV lately, due to my brothers insisting it be the only channel we may watch.
I've actually seen some really cool music videos.
However, the videos are quite kewl.

But yeah, I should make a list of my personal favourites some time. Later.

Saturday, 24 July 2010

Friday, 23 July 2010

I'm a die hard for love

Hey kids it's been a while. I've fully forgotten the hobo incident, have painfully removed my spontaneously acquaired fake nails and am eagerly waiting to get back to Holland.
In the past few weeks I've completely forgotten everything I am, in a weird strange way. I've been running around town doing Jim Morrison knows what with Nicki Minaj knows who (because I reject conventional religious figures).
I've turned myself into a bored, sit at home all day and stress, sort of person. Bitch please.

Sit down and teach me some rational functionalism relative to modern romanticism.
That would be good.
Or behavioural norms.

I miss you.

I want out of Finland, but for the time being I'll have to endure it. The more I run the further I'll get.
I've managed to forget all my school related things in Holland and thus cannot complete much of my assignments. I am royally


Somehow sometimes, in that realm between falling asleep and being awake I have a feeling that the world I was in before this one is racing past me at a hundred miles per hour while I'm lagging behind still tying my shoes.
But that's just my imagination speaking.

What I've forgotten about myself is that ultimately I live for love, knowledge and creativity, as those lovely indie hipsters put it. I may not excel in any 3, or I may indeed, but it's something I've forgotten.
I'm an average 17 year old, and I don't want to care about anything except what I like and what I want to care about. I've forgotten what I like because I've been trying to fit myself somewhere where I won't fall out of. Kids, I still like what I liked when I began Lifetime of Lightbulbs
Music (all kinds babe)
Cider, wine, shotsshotshots, but all in moderation
Love, sex and all the likes
Cinema, especially black and white, and French
Not being at home

Pretty standard, but I had to remember that. There's more but I'm sure you didn't even make it this far.
Now it's time to go enjoy sitting in the park with cranberry cider and enjoy not being in trouble any more.


Friday, 16 July 2010

Hobo and a girl

7pm. Still light.
It was raining lightly, but that didn't bother the hobo because he was downing his however-bloody-manyeth beer of the day. He wore his matrix-esque sunglasses slightly askew, possibly due to lack of attention rather than by intent. Lighter, ciggarette, mouth, draw, puff, sigh, sip, repeat.
A girl walked through the park the hobo was spending his time in, with blonde hair and red lips, brown trousers and a tye dye shirt, taking a short cut home because the city was getting boring. The hobo liked her look, or in his drunken stupor thought he did.
"Hey Marilyn, hey you you look like Marilyn Monroe!"
The girl kept on walking as if she hadn't heard a thing. The hobo thought she hadn't heard a thing. He wobbled up and set his beer down, which immediately spilled but the hobo didn't notice.
He grabbed her arm and said, as charmingly as he could, "Hey, you look like Marilyn Monroe. You're fucking beautiful." The girl looked scared, until a second later she said, "I'm sorry, I don't speak Finnish."
"Oh you're foreign well well well I like I love you let's go" He began pulling her.
"No, fuck off!" The hobo was startled, and for a second looked like he was about to cry. His big belly wobbled as he slouched, and the girl almost apologised for being so rude. Then the alcohol elevated his brain to a whole new level of emotion, this being anger. His face wrinkled in concentration and as the girl was about to open her mouth with an "I'm sorry but I really have to go" he drove his fist as hard as possible into her stomach.

Poliisi ei ole autoriteetti.
The police has no authority.
No kyllä ne vielä täällä päin sut putkaan voi laittaa.
Well they can still stick you in jail here.
Nii mut ei ne mun päätä koskaan valtaa.
Yes, but they'll never get into my head.

The hobo stood still, shocked as the girl stopped breathing and collapsed on her knees. Ohshitohshitohshitfuckfuckfuck. There was no one there to see, he walked back to his bench, calmly took the rest of his beers and lit another cigarette, and walked away.
The girl waited for her breathing to go back to normal, got up, and went home.

Pittää mennä kottiin kattoo stargatea! Mutten mää viiti ku siellä on se Eve.

Wednesday, 30 June 2010

A bit Moore

I've almost forgotten how much I love poetry. 
Favourites of the day:

O my beloved, how divinely sweet
Is the pure joy when kindred spirits meet!
Like him the river god, whose waters flow,
With love their only light, through caves below,
Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids
And festal rings, with Olympic maids
Have decked his current, as an offspring meet
To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.
Think, when he meets at last his fountain bride,
What perfect love must thrill the blended tide!
Each lost in each, till mingling into one,

Their lot the same for shadow or for sun,
A type of true love, to the deep they run.
Thomas Moore

Enjoy your Wednesday, fellas.

Tuesday, 29 June 2010

i < 3 u
I don't understand... you can't have inequalities with imaginary numbers.

I still find it queer how those of us with the highest IQs are the ones who don't seem quite as smart.
But still seem the smartest of all.
Just maybe not academically.

I'm low on that scale.
Low on the need for reproduction. Like that.

This doesn't make much sense, it lacks in organisation. You'll have to excuse me.
Surely there's enough war to go around. You're not as complicated a jigsaw puzzle as you think, you just have a lot of pieces to be pieced together, and some of them look the same. A human eye can't distinguish between the shades.

It makes me shiver, this flow of information and knowledge.

And that is why I don't reproduce.
Or won't.
Or should not.
Not yet, anyway.

Monday, 28 June 2010

Let's do something differently

This is a more of a "let me tell you my problems since I have no one else to tell" post. You probably should not read on due to excessive amounts of whining and just general stupidity.

Hey, how are you?
Yeah good, good you know. School's going pretty good and my relationship is amazing! And you?
(This is where I think, well, I don't want to rain on their parade).
Yeah, fine as well, thanks.

How about, no? I'm not going to say I'm not okay, I'm perfectly okay. I'm just not good, and sometimes I wish someone could see that. And someone does.
Are you okay?
Yeah, yeah.
You sure?
Yeah, of course.
How about, no? When did it become unacceptable in my mind to not be okay? Why can't I just say "Hey, my name is Kristiina Heikura and this is what's bothering me: ..."

Of course, that's due to me not having good enough friends to do that. I love my friends. I have my chatter box girl friends, and I have my more friend-like friendships with people who know who they are, and I have my 3 very close friends... in Australia, Egypt, and South Africa. So I guess it's safe to say I don't really talk to any one about anything serious. Especially to my boyfriend- when is it an acceptable time to admit you might have more issues than they think?

Are you okay?
Umn... I guess so.
You guess so?
Well, not completely. But mostly yeah.
What's wrong?
Well... (I say well when I need to think of how to phrase what I want to say) how can I say this? I don't choose this, and I don't want this, but I don't think I have much chance of recovery right now. My parents haven't spoken to me since I got back from Paris, or well sorry I lie I lie, I do that sometimes and I'm sorry, my dad spoke to me, he was nice to me, until their love rekindled and now they're two little love birdies in love again. I'm not the type of person to be bitter about someone being back together, unless it's bad for all parties involved and trust me, this time they should be able to choose, or at least want this.
Why have a family with people you hate? Or at least strongly dislike. I have heard nothing but yelling and screaming and shouting and criticizing since I came back, when I actually hear something. Bring the buckets by the dozens because I think this might catch ablaze. This is going back to a place I don't like, back to some other time, with another person, to somewhere I don't visit and I don't think back to. Now it's inevitable though, because this is exactly where it is going. I would spill it, and tell you of that monster who spent four years with us, but let's be honest- you're not really that interested.
I have no one to tell this to.
I can't say, "Hey, I think my step-mum might be turning into a Päivi. I'm scared and I don't know what to do, since I don't speak to my dad and he wouldn't listen to me anyway."
I don't want to tell people I know, in case they don't listen, or in case they forget.

There's more to it, kids, but I'm pretty closed up when it comes to really personal things, and that's all that I can get through this door.
And now I'm done.

I promise I'll be back to normal posts in a few days.

Saturday, 26 June 2010

Why do I smell?

Do you ever have that feeling where you just smell? You smell and no matter how many showers you take it doesn't rinse off. So you shake, and you shiver and you cover yourself in other smells because you don't want anyone to smell you. Cucumber. Lemon. Burberry beat. Deo. Air freshener.
When people pass you they scrunch up their nose and their eyes squint, they turn their head rapidly to one side and step away from you. You're dirty, covered in muck and dust, and everyone can see it, smell it, feel it. You emanate filth. That's what guilt and fear look like.

Some people say I think too much, so I thought about it and I think they should shut the fuck up.

Sometimes I feel like people can read my mind, because my mind, my thoughts, they're so loud and there's so many of them, how can they not hear? That's when I get filthy, and I feel like people can see everything I am and what I've done. And then I think- what have I done? Absolutely nothing.
Put some thought into it.

I was wondering if you felt the same way.
You already know I do.

Maybe slowly all that faux-filth will wash off, because it's there for no reason. You're picking it off, bit by bit. 'Cause every time I try something comes along, and it all comes back. I'm not guilty, because nothing I've done is a crime.

I'm just a bit annoyed.
It doesn't matter.
No, tell me.

Maybe this is why people turn to god. That overpowering feeling of guilt and filth and fear of not being loved and wanted- at least god will give you that. He'll wash you and love you and want you.
But although I prefer living in an imaginary world to reality any day, I think I'll put god off for a while longer. Let's see if I can really piss him off.

Let's partake in a bit of thought, in a bit of love, and let's get clean.

Wednesday, 23 June 2010

Collaborative blog

My good friend Bryn de Kocks and I have began a memoir-blog, in which we record dreams and random discussion.
If you guys care, you should check it out. We have pictures! :)

Sunday, 13 June 2010

My mothers ears and my fathers tongue have been spiked and spiced with all sorts of drugs
They hurtle and fall through the abyss, they know not what they say or hear

And so I fail at mathematics, scoring an 18% or so.
And so I cook.
No need for mathematics in cooking.

Besides, as a follower of the hipstur gods, I have no need for intelligence.

We have no need for intelligence.
All we need is food and sex, and sex is our food and food is our sex.

All those tricks in your porn films, those hurt most of the time. Not a good idea to try.
Besides, it is the hipstur way to be conservative and only fuck in missionary.
No sound.
Your baby is due in December.

Thank god I won't waste my life doing something meaningful.

A letter from me to my unborn children

Dear son or daughter that I will never have,
I'm sure you have a lot of questions that I will never answer. I'm never one to be responsible for each single little tear you let drop, or if you're a guy, tears you're trying to not let fall, when I'll stop you from going out with your friends for reasons you deem stupid.
I'll never be able to explain why I wish for you to excel in your academics, while preaching a care free and non-capitalist lifestyle.
I won't know what to say when you ask me why I want you to take kung fu lessons when I'm a pacifist. Or why I shelter you so much when I not only remember what it was like to be young, I remember what it was like to be young with restrictive parents.
I don't want you to wonder why people have children if they need to live in misery the last 4-8 years of their life at home.
So please son or daughter that I never had, or will have, don't judge me too harshly. Don't trust me, and believe me I don't know what's best for you.
Although I would love you, far too much, if you ever existed.  But you probably never will.

Thursday, 10 June 2010


I have this huge issue with life.
My issue with life is that I see no point in it. Hold up a sec though, when I say I see no point in it I mean I don't see any point in what is valued today. Life itself is amazing, and I want to experience every single thing and emotion at its extreme. But this, this life makes me panic, and it makes me anxious. It makes me want to run, run, run and not turn back.

Thing is, I don't see myself going to university so I can learn a profession, and then move on to work with or without my degree so I can afford a life of comfort, then accept an adequate man (or woman, who knows, I might turn lesbian) because he has money and I want nice dresses and books and a house in the country, and we'll have 2 brats, one of which becomes successful and brilliant, and the other hates everything and ends up shooting up in parks and accidentally killing himself by eating a pigeon with AIDS... or something.

This is what I panic about.
If I go to university I want to do it because I want a) to learn something NOT because I want to make a career about it, but because I'm curious and/or passionate.. like literature or archaeology and b) for the experience of prolonging the growing up stage a little longer.
I don't want to live in adequacy and emotional stability. I don't want to have to sort through bills and bills, and cry to my girlfriends about how I have no one in my life to lean on, thus making them feel like crap and making me a crap friend.
And it fucking scares me, because I am considering university, and considering architecture. Why? It's artistic and they make enough money. And that comforts me, but it scares and disappoints me.

Because this is what I want
I don't know what I want. But I don't care if I don't know either. I want to see, feel, taste, smell everything I can. I want to go around the world, penniless or a millionaire I really don't care, I want to listen to music I like and meet people. I want to fall in love whether it be just this once or a thousand times more and I want to wake up in the morning feeling like I can do anything I want.
I don't want to have to think about whether I can afford to live.
I don't want to have to think about what other people think of me.

I want to have the ability to walk around in Paris, but also to climb a mountain, and to swim naked without judgement. I want to write without having to think if it'll ever sell. I want to paint without having to think if it's good enough.
The system we're in is all a contest to be the best, the richest, the smartest, the most beautiful.
And I know it's hypocritical since I'm also scared of social perceptions of me, I do it all the time. I suppress myself in the fear that I'm being judged for being too out there, too emotional and too care-free, too do-what-I-feel-like. Thus I pretend to stress about exams (except maths, I always stress for maths), I try to control the way I portray my emotions to a certain someone.. and I try to show that I really care about quitting unhealthy habits (and I really don't). About an hour ago I asked if a friend was bringing heels to Paris because I didn't want to look like the odd one out with heels.

I want to live on animal instincts, to be truly free to do what I want and what I need to do. To fall in love, and be unhealthy as long as it's good.

Humanity still needs to progress.
We live in a dictatorship controlled by our own social norms.

Wednesday, 9 June 2010


This is how I feel

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Saturday, 5 June 2010

Jean Luc Godard and Pornography


I haven't posted anything good for the past few days/week due to an extensive amount of the following

  • Studying for exams
  • Jean Luc Godard's films
  • Very sexual photography
Jean Luc Godard is a French/Swiss film maker. My favourite film by him has to be Masculin/Feminin (1966 I think). It's absolutely breath taking. Vivre Sa Vie is also brilliant.
(clip from Masculin/Feminin)

But I know you don't really care too much for French cinema right now. Not when I've mentioned upcoming sex. Lately I've been looking at a lot of really sexual photography. Looking at some of them, I really wonder if pornography can be art. I know a lot of people who appreciate nude photography, even slightly sexual ones but they say once it turns explicit, it's no longer artistic. Now when I say pornography, I don't mean hardcore redtube porn or whatever it is you kids are into nowadays.
I mean

I realised most of the pictures are black and white. Does that make them seem less raw and more artistic to you, or is it all the same?
I don't know- what do you think? Do you just see the a screen shot of a lame porn film or what?

PS. I don't get off looking at these. Just so you won't need to wonder.