Problems Extracting Backstabbers

There's a slight hold up in the development of the 5th "episode"/segment/whatever, but I hope I'll be done with it soon.
So patience, patience my little birdies.

A veces es mejor que quando escribo ustedes no me pueden entender. A veces tengo la idea que si escribo, y les cuento un cuento en por ejemplo, Espanol or Fines or no se, quizas Frances, es mucho mas romantico, igual que no lo entiendan.
Yo creo, como los expertos dicen, que quando uno piensa en una idioma, su percepcion es totalmente differente. Cuando pienso en Ingles estoy mucho mas analisante, pero impulsiva. En Fines estoy seria y logica, y en Castellano o Espanol (como quiera) me siento como una senorita de 17-18. Siento el permiso de hacer mis propios errores y mi propio camino. Siento como que el dinero no tiene ningun importancia en el mundo, y el amor y la pasion es el unico necesario. Siento el poder del arte moderno, lleno de colores y secretos que nadie puede entender. Siento el poder de la architecture, como un arte, no solo una carrera para los que tienen un talento con matematica y saben dibujar.
A veces pienso que si mi mente me hablaria en Castellano, mi vida seria mucho mas feliz. Pero Ingles tampoco esta mal.
Ademas, si pienso demasiado, quien sabe, podria olvidarme totalmente.

Jack.

There was once a man by the name of Jack. Jack hated his last name, and changed it to "." when he was 23. Jack . is his name. Jack. wrote a song about sex, where he sang about daydreams and spooning, but never mentioning sex itself. He named it "the song about sex without mentioning sex itself" because he felt that a long obvious title would make him seem more hipster, because being hipster was hip.

There's a reason why the story is told in past tense. But the reason will remain hidden for a few more paragraphs.

Jack. lived in a flat that his first girlfriend had painted in rainbow colours. The stripes went diagonally and they all faded into white at the top. All except one wall, which was the first one upon entering the flat. You see, you open the door and on the left is a hallway. The left wall of the hallway on the left is white, and covered in mirrors from all ages and of all sizes. This Jack. did himself, because he thought he liked to look at himself. 

Jack. thought that after he wrote "the song about sex without mentioning sex itself" he would become a great success in the hipster community and be praised by fourteen year old girls calling themselves "August" or "Midnight" with christmas lights around their room, because that was the hipster thing to do.

He thought he would grow older in a day, and instead of being youthful and 23, he would look successful and mature. He didn't. He doesn't like looking at himself in the mirrors any more, but it's good for all those pretty little party girls he sometimes picks up. They like to look at themselves.

Jack. went out in the rain, and was just thinking up lyrics for his next song: "the song about rain, except it's not wet" when a flock of crows flew past and pecked him to death.

Jack.

The man who appreciated true purpose, without ever experiencing it himself.

He died with his boots on.

Extracts from unrealistic dialogues.

This is a short dialogue between a male and a female. Age and looks you may go about deciding yourself.

Boy: You never talk to me about yourself.
Girl: You never ask about me.
Boy: Will you talk to me about yourself?
Girl: No.
Boy: You asked me to ask you.
Girl: I know, but I don't want to tell you. I don't want to you to think about who I was or who I wanted to be.
Boy: It doesn't matter, I want you as you are.
Girl: Thank you.
Boy: Who were you and who did you want to be?
Girl: I was lost and I wanted to be found.
Boy: I've found you.
Girl: Thank you.
Boy: Do you still think you're lost?
Girl: Sometimes.
Boy: Maybe being lost is better. Being lost, in love and beautiful.
Girl: Did you just call me beautiful?
Boy: Yes.
Girl: Thank you.
Boy: Do you always reply with thank you?
Girl: Yes, I'm sorry.
Boy: Do you apologise for no reason?
Girl: Yes, I'm sorry.
Boy: If I tell you I love you, will you thank me?
Girl: Yes.
Boy: I love you.
Girl: Thank you.

I have problems but I love me

In the past few days I've heard from multiple people that multiple people think I'm... what was it?
High Maintenance.


So I did a bit of googling, because I know that it's not a positive thing to be called. This is what I found:


1. Needs lots of time

2. Needs lots of effort

3. Are very fussy and particular

4. Are difficult and troublesome

5. Are annoying

6. Have high expectations of her partner or date

7. Will be quick to reject a person if those expectations are not met

8. Hard to please, not easily impressed

9. Takes forever to get ready

10. Something all but the most patient and tolerant men should avoid like the plague.”


And then I found:


1. If your purse holds more than 5 lbs of ESSENTIALS . . .

2. If you own more than 50 pairs of shoes . . .

3. If your make-up case is a double-decker toolbox from Sears . . .

4. If a small family could live in your closet . . .

5. If more than 3 items in your closet still have price tags . . .

6. If your jewelry box used to be a high-boy chest . . .

7. If you have more underwear than you can wear in 3 months . . .

8. If a weekend trip takes more than 1 piece of luggage . . .

9. If you spend more on hair products than groceries . . .

10. If your dry-cleaning bill is more than your car payment . . .

11. If you have a weekly Botox appointment . . .

12. If you’re still making payments on your last plastic surgery . . . 


Now, I know exactly the individuals who think I'm high maintenance. Now let me clear something up, the only things I am guilty of on those 2 lists are
Being annoying
Taking forever to get ready (but only to an event)


Thing is, even if I was high maintenance, I can maintain myself. I've never needed a guy to get me make up, to go shopping with me, to buy me nice things, or wait around while I get ready. I go shopping only in the summer, which would be evident from the amount of holes in my clothes. 
Even IF I was high maintenance, it would not affect anyone but me. I've never chosen anyone based on money or looks (unless you look like the elephant man, then I might be a bit put off).
So I'm gonna say- fuck you. I'm not high maintenance. In fact, I'm pretty low maintenance. I'm quite content with everything.


Now while I'm on the topic of choosing people, someone I was talking to awhile ago said something that rather bothered me, but since it wasn't his main point, I ignored it.
And you know exactly who you are, you who said this.
"you weren't interested in guys like me. course you weren't. **** sorta proved that"
This bothered me. You know why? Because I don't go for people depending on their overall "essence". If I don't like Z's friend, doesn't mean I can't like Z. (Z being a random person). 
You see people, I don't have a type I go for. I don't even have standards. I can't say my dream person is so and so, or that I usually go for guys that are so and so.
If I like someone, I like them because of they way they are. Sometimes they're a dick, sometimes they're the shyest kid I know, but they're all real. 


Anyway, my little rant is over.
Nightnight.

Dividing this

All right, so I always have this urge to post beautiful pictures I find. But I know some people don't really care about them, so I came up with a solution:
TUMBLR.

This, blogspot, is for longer, more thoughtful segments of my mind.

BACKSTABBER EXTRACTS is obviously the Backstabber Extracts.

FORMSPRING is for questions.

TUMBLR is for pictures that are and are not taken by me.

DEVIANTART is for my photography.

So if you are bored, or just want to look at stuff, there you go.
Something for everyone, I guess. :)

Let's blow this shit up

I have a huge boulder in my past. It's this gigantic piece of rock, just stuck there in the middle of the road.

Some might say its what most defines me.

Then there's little stones and pebbles scattered around it.

I think we've all got one. It's that some thing that has the potential to fuck us up for the rest of our lives, if we let it. It's what we see when we're 5 minutes from really ODing on heroin.

It's what we think of when in a situation even closely resembling that. And we shit ourselves. 

But I can't move that piece of shit, and it's too big for me to climb over. I can't just sit here and wait for millions of years of decay to do its work, I gotta do something. I'm going to blow this motherfucker up into a billion pieces. Then I can pick them all up and set them in a basket, and leave them on the road one piece by piece exactly where I want them.

If I can just find some TNT, or any other explosive, I could get this damn thing out of my way.

BTW, I got new hairs.

FOUR

I want to call it the fourth episode of the Backstabber Extracts. It makes me feel more indie and cool.
But the 4th segment is up anyway:
www.backstabberextracts.blogspot.com

Horns of the Altar

Horns of the Altar is a collaboration book planned by myself and the honourable Tyne Muilerman.

It is truly a revolutionary piece of literature, written from the perspective of humans who have not been enslaved by the devil himself, also known as "God".

Many have praised it as a true revelation, and thank the authors for guiding them away from the harmful path of Satan and into the intellectual light, back into the sanity of humanity.

Finally the cryptic issue of violence following those of faith has been solved, as well as the strange behaviour they are overcome by when attending their sacred rituals. No longer is rape and paedophilia among those of faith trivial; greed and jealousy now have an origin. Those of faith are simply possessed by that which they fear, the devil. We must steer away from any religion, of any cult devoting themselves to a supreme being other than themselves and their families and friends.

Rid yourself of the devil.

And get our book.

Sunday

  

I am hypocrite

The universe is expanding. All those little particles, and those great clusters of stars are constantly moving away from the origin. That's kind of how our beliefs are going.
We began as simpletons with our own little ideas that everyone more or less accepted. Fire is magic. The sun moves up and down. Waves are caused by giant sea monsters throwing the water around.

Then we start moving on to different ideas. We figure out that the fire is a form of energy, etc. Waves are caused by the magnetic field of the moon (you're free to correct me, I'm not looking into this), and the sun doesn't move, the Earth does.

We end up with people who are moving further and further away from each other. We get religious extremists, just those who are religious, those who don't give a shit, those who listen to scientific theories and wait for them to be proven, those who believe scientific theories the moment they are pronounced... there's a whole spectrum.
But I've met very few people who truly don't give a shit. We have people on both sides of the spectrum, but not many in the middle.
In other words, we have those who look for proof in mathematics and science, and then we have those who listen to imaginary people. No offence intended to anyone.

I stuck Jesus up there (capitalised only because it is a first name), not because I'm only talking about christians here, I mean everyone (except maybe buddhists, because like Alex said, they're not exactly a religion. It's more a set of values that a group of people believe in but that's a completely different area), now where was I?
I stuck Jesus up there because I'm a hypocrite.
Most of you know I'm a pretty strong atheist (atheist being: not believing in the existence of any deity, NOT "satanist" or "hater of those who are religious"). Yet at the moment I'm doing volunteer work at the Finnish Mariners Church... thing. Finsekerk, or Suomen Merimieskirkko.

I think it's quite funny.
I scrub floors and doors and window sills, and sweep porches for them for no pay.
Well, almost. I don't think of it as the church, but more as the Finn-House which is the part where they sell all sort of Finnish things.

But I do need my CAS hours. So like a true atheist, I'm only using them anyway.
Though I have to say, everyone there is really, very nice. If it wasn't a religious organisation I could almost say I really like it there.
Kind of makes me understand the appeal in churches, and other such places.

I'm going to leave you at that.
You don't give a shit anyway.

Playing ketchup

This house

There's not mirrors in this house. She can't bear to see her own face. There's no scales, no glass and no shiny surfaces, for any reflection of any kind might give her the sense she's actually human. If she were to see herself, she might have some sort of self worth. It's all fine though, since there are no reflective surfaces in this house.

There's no keys in this house. He can't bear to breathe the pure outside air. There are no windows, just walls. If he had the chance to see, hear, feel or breathe what's outside, he might get the sense that there's actual freedom. If he were to yearn for freedom, he might have some sort of self worth. It's all fine though, since there are no keys or windows in this house.

There's no food in this house. They can't bear to eat anything. There are no cupboards full of cans, and no refrigerator with milk, for they might get the feeling they were once alive. If they were to know they were alive, they might feel like they have purpose, they might have some sort of self worth. It's all fine though, since there is no food in this house.

There are no people in this house. You can't bear to see anyone. There are no mothers or father, sons or daughters, no sisters or brothers. If you would ever see any trace of family, you might feel like you're worth something. You might have some sort of self worth. It's all fine though, since you're all alone, for there are no people in this house.

There is no meaning in this house. I couldn't bear the idea of meaning. There is no knowledge, no care, no love in this house. If I were to ever get the sense of meaning, I might have some sort of self worth. It's all fine though, since there is no purpose and no meaning in this house.

DIY: Sequined Pumps

1. Buy some cheap black pumps (I got mine from Dinsko, I think they were like 9e)
2. Buy some sequins, mine are a very light shade of pink because I cut them out of a shirt I had. I think black, grey or white can also work here.
3. Get a glue gun! Or some sort of leather/etc glue that sticks
4. Stick them sequins all over that shit!

I only have a picture of my almost final ones, I still had to pick out all the random threads of glue hanging around.

I did mine in a sort of polka-dot fashion because I was going to run out of sequins. They also don't go around the whole shoe, just a little on the sides and front.
However, covering the whole shoe in sequins would also be quite cute, although I imagine it would take a while.
TIME: 30min-3hours depending on how much you do.

Future

Some days I wake up and I truly wonder where I'm going. Although generally I believe in living in the moment, as long as it doesn't jeopardise my future, today I realised I need to come up with something. I need to come up with an approximate idea of what I want to do.

For a few months I've been toying with the idea of graduating, moving to Amsterdam and working for a year, and then going to study architecture in England. Which is all fine and dandy since I love architecture. But then I wonder why I want to do it- and I already know the reason.

Let me tell you something.
I've always wanted to be an artist. Or a writer. But I know that in today's society if I were to be successfull as a writer I would have to write in a way that well... SUCKS. When I say successfull I obviously mean "I can pay the rent."
So my dad convinced me that architecture combines both art and a comfortable living. Yet there's the problem. That one little word there that freaks me the fuck out. COMFORTABLE.


-----------


The world is wasted on us.

The future is surely scowling down on us, knowing we're going to arrive some day soon and not looking forward to it. Future is probably hiding all the best wine, scotch and the expensive Danish biscuits so that when we come all we'll be offered is the cheap beer and old waffles.

I'm sure when we called future and said we're coming, future delightedly said "Oh yes, so looking forward to your arrival!" then angrily put the phone down, a hand to her head and said "It's best I hide the silver now, they might be coming early."

Future knows we'll be taking the silver. Future knows we'll be scouring the cupboards in search of her best wine and scotch and Danish biscuits. The worst part is we think we're so careful, so stealthy and clever, all the while she's staring at our hunched backs with our bottoms sticking up as we look under her cupboards and tables and sofas.

www.thecoolhunter.net

Worm

Worm crawled out of the wet, soft earth whenever it began to rain. He poked his head, or his arse (for they look the same to any me or any you, and thus it is hard to tell) out of the ground and shook it around to rid himself of any loose pieces of sand that were stuck to his slimy, pale skin. He stretched himself to the max, and with great effort finally pulled out of the tiny pathway he'd created for himself under the grass. 

Each raindrop was the same thickness as his body, and each one created an electrifying ring and momentary headache, or arseache, as it hit. He slithered and slimed through the blades of grass as the thundering noise of falling droplets shook the earth and blocked the little ear holes somewhere on his long body (somewhere, since any I, or any you can't see them from such a distance). 

Worm finally reached the end of the pasture, having travelled a mind blowing 15cm. He sighed to himself, feeling on top of the world as he slowly but surely dropped down from the dirty surroundings of the uncivilised beetles, ants and other worms, reaching for something he knew was out there but had never seen. The rough asphalt scraped his tummy, or his back (for they look the same to any me or any you, and thus it is hard to tell). The raindrops no long quaked the earth, or the asphalt. Instead a much louder sound was audible. No the soft chirruping of those bastard birds in the early morning, or the distant bark bark bark woof woof woof of some hairy slobbering creature trapped in a life of obedience. 

Worm turned his head or his arse to look to the left and to the right, trying to decipher the origin of this terrifying rumble. Two bright lights and gust of unnatural wind later, worm was dead.

The child with the pink shoes and dirty fingers wobbled up to worm, poked him and licked her fingers.

Lena Palladina

When I left America I left behind a couple of things. I left behind lots of pennies. I think there was about $3 worth of pennies scattered around my floor. I left a bar of soap, and half a bottle of shampoo. It was herbal essences. I paid a lot for that.
I left a bloody good pair of shoes in the trash behind my house. I left a pink dustbin also. In fact, I left a white tub of paint and a lot of hairpins.

I left my AP History course, and Physics. I'm glad about that though, since both were kicking my arse. I left all them teachers.
I also left a lot people. I left people I wish I knew better. I left people I'd never met but wish I had. I didn't leave much memories because I didn't really live in America. I left people I was familiar with, or people I could call friends.
But there's one person I left behind who wasn't just a friend. It's like we both watched each other morph into what we are today, or what we were 4 months ago. It took a year and a half and we both started as the 2 new foreign girls with short hair, weird clothes and random conversations. We were shy and both scared and excited to be at Eastlake, a huge school with not-so-good of a rep among the other schools.
It worked.
I can safely say I've learned more about myself with this girl in these one and a half years than I have in my whole life.
We went through the clingy friendships with third wheels, whom we managed to dump on the side of the road as we speeded by. We went through the guys, those who were hot, those who were nice, those who were dicks, and those who were gay... or bi, should I say?

I miss the Wednesdays.
And I miss your sporadic hating and loving of my family. I even miss our fucking mood swings. I miss your mum. And Kaisa. Or is it Kaysa? Kajsa? You Russians spell things funny.
I miss ridiculous random fits of laughter, and I miss praying to the virgin mary and looking at a field of cunts.
I fucking miss you.

Please come visit. I promise I'll introduce you to all the cute guys.
Love you.


CHECK OUT HER TUMBLR, IT'S THE BEST:
http://indiechildren.tumblr.com/

Day 1

It's now been one day since I decided to change things around a bit. So far I haven't had a single cigarette, absolutely no weed whatsoever (not that it would be normal for me anyway) and almost saying what I think.

It's fucking difficult, this impulse business.