The girl on the tram

She walked on to the tram in plimsoles, faded jeans and a peacoat jacket. She sat down on a single seat, facing the opposite direction from the one the tram was travelling to. It was the last seat in that column of seats; she could only sit on the last single seat facing the opposite direction.

She sat with her legs crossed, she has bow-shaped legs, so she is not comfortable when her legs are not crossed. Or perhaps she feels more put together, more tied up and thus less likely to fall apart. She did not move.

She did not move for the whole ride, except for a few flickers of the eyes when an unwanted thought crossed her mind. Every few minutes she would look down at her iPod to check the name of the song playing. She never changed the song. It was probably a force of habit.

In her hands she held her iPod, her phone and her tram card. She clutched them all tightly, the iPod on top, phone in the middle and her tram card on the bottom. Routine. A loud beep signalled she received a text message; she looked down to see the flashing light but did not check the message.

She was not ugly. She was beautiful, made so by a thin layer of makeup that made her lips a little bit more red, a little bit more shapely; and her eyes a little bit wider and elegantly shaped, and her cheekbones a little higher and a little more defined. Made so by careful blow drying and straightening of hair. In reality, the tip of her nose was a little too round, and her cheeks were a little too chubby, and her eyes a little too set-in.

She was not beautiful, but it was difficult to picture a man who didn't know her who would say he wouldn't fuck her. In other words, she was probably much uglier in personality than in looks. Or perhaps not.

She did not look up, but at her stop she stood up and quietly walked out of the tram, simultaneously putting away the phone in one pocket, and the iPod in the other, to balance out the weight. The card she kept in her hand. She would have probably broken had she moved any more.

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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.

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.

picspicspicspicspics

I'm lacking all my best pictures right now, so here's some to... yeah.
I'm off to search for some stunning pictures now. Cheerio.

You're my water for chocolate

I just finished a book that was assigned to my English class called Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel. It's quite a short book, separated into 12 chapters, each named after a month of the year, and beginning with a recipe.

I like the book a lot. It made me sad. No, no it didn't. It made me think, and wish.
I want to fall in love like Tita. I want to glance at Pedro and exhange something completely otherwordly in that look. I want to feel the energy, fire, skin, sweat, sweetness, bitterness and everything else that comes with that love. That'll be it. One look, and I'll know, he'll know that this is the best we can ever get. That this is for us. Nothing else would matter, it would all be sorted out eventually but this is what you have to do, this is what you're both meant to do.

Love is too complicated nowadays. There are so many things that factor into it. We can't just choose love, crude and raw and bare. Neither could Rosaura, because she was not Tita and she didn't have a Pedro. Even if we don't mean to, we think about how the other person looks or portrays him/herself in society. We think about their wealth, if they can provide for us, though that's more 1950's than now (with exceptions). We think about what others will say. We think about where everything will lead to, how things will turn out, how soon is too soon, and all other kinds of ridiculous things.

I really, truly just want to be swept away. I want my fire.

However, that only happens in books where there is no limit or rules to love, lust, death, life, words, food, looks, places, dimensions and anything else you can imagine.
So for now, I'll be content with what I can have. I have to go pick up my own wood, and make my own fire to which I can draw someone, like a firefly to a flame. Or vice versa. Then we can sit around it, listening to soft music and saying nothing. Smoking, thinking, reading, painting, living, hallucinating, messing up and finally falling asleep.

Happy Friday.