Just because I remember it so fondly

No clips have decent sounds. Doesn't matter. It was still nice. No it wasn't. It was better than nice.

Summersummersommercomekomhere

It's a beautiful day, said like we all know exactly what beautiful is. I say it's that time a year when you can't hope for a last brush of winter to save you from submitting to the sun. Every year I go through the same process of not wanting it. Summer is the end. It's the wet stain on the sheet and the last breath before sleep. It's the eggclock reminding you dinner's burnt. It's the exploding tires on the interstate. It's the last shake of the ketchup bottle.

It's a vacuum of nothingness. Long bright days that all sink into each other where nothing happens and nothing's exciting. For it's supposed to be exciting in it's mere existance. Throwing a party with the best of guests but lacking a script or a room to be in. Standing under the open sky holding empty glasses, summer's supposed to fill them all you know. Fill us all with joy and misplaced understanding of the greatness of life.

But what happens to those of us who won't succumb to the beast of a queen summer is? We'll hide behind giant hats and sunglasses and pout with teapots beneath the great shade of oaktrees owned by the crown. Leaving all that not aside, it's always the same where I patiently wait for those sun addicts to have their time, I soak my toes in lukewarm lakewaters and wait. Wait. Wait. Wait for September where life can begin anew. Without all the distractions of clothes barely worn and memories soiled by disapointments.

Those were the days

Some songs are themesongs. This is one of those and I claim it as mine. You can share it if you really must, but please don't. There are certain things I respond to, the bass being one, and this song, cupcakes, has one of the soundmats I base a lot of my other favorites on. Doesn't matter if you don't use the term "soundmat" the way I do. I still know what I mean.

Dumbo

It wasn't that long ago I realized just how old the movie Dumbo is. The marketing department of Disney is doing great work, as it wasn't long after that realization it was rereleased on dvd, and ever since I heard that I've been having a whiny little voice in me wanting to get it. What my little whiny voice tells me usually leaks whininess out of my mouth so here I am, fresh from watching it. I do understand whole heartedly why it made me cry when I was a child, it still does. The scene where he happily walks up to the children that are mocking him, simply because he doesn't understand it breaks my heart. It never fails.

Isn't that the perfect example of what we all fear in the emotional retardedness in the world? To walk into it, unguarded and unexpectedly being the one laughed at, the one excluded and the joke told. Or maybe not all of us fear it at all, perhaps some never think like that and deem me weird for shattering when I sense a repulsive atmosphere of mockery. When I interrupt a topic even when I've been quiet because I feel that brick wall approaching or how my stomach turns when I see a child walking with its head bent in front of a group of other kids. Only those ones that have been in that position knows it's always worse to walk in front than after. Walking behind you know what they're doing and if they're looking at you, if you walk in front you don't have that luxury, nor do you know if you can turn around and see if they're still there.

My claws come out and I growl from voids I don't like exposing when I can do something about it. I make it a point to speak to those who aren't spoken to and stand in the way if I can to take the heat. It's at those times when I know that an "it's ok, it's not your fault" would be too much, and a "hello" would be too little I want to tear my hair out.

I've read too much on bullying and I don't care about the argument of that it's the offender that's the real victim, and that they learn that behaviour from home. It's sad yes, but being treated badly is never an excuse for doing the same thing to someone else. The classic idea of two wrongs don't make a right. Some lack the depth of understanding how others feel. If you don't like something done to you, why on earth would you want to put someone else through that? Is it the whole misery loves company bit? And oh yes, I wish I could say it's "just" children, we all know it's not true. It happens everywhere, at universities, workplaces, online communities and sports clubs. There are times where I doubt that mankind is capable of in fact being kind.

Being sweet will never get you half as far in life as being mean, but I much rather be able to live with myself and up to my own ideals, I just can't ignore that stabbing feeling or faces turned around, a person trying to turn the other cheek even if the cheeks are vastly outnumbered by the amount of slaps handed out by those who just couldn't care less. There are many ways to break someone's spirit and that's a crime I hope I never commit. If I've done it to you, I apologize and I'm truly sorry.

Me, me, me

Some things I've learned today taking quizzes on Facebook; In a previous life I owned a bordello, stupidity pisses me off, my inner crazy bitch is Sylvia Plath and my soulmate is Johnny Depp. It's all very self indulgent. The person that matters the most to ourselves is in fact oneself. I remember taking quizzes in the teen magazines as well, the difference is that places like Facebook allow us to broadcast our result and with that making us seem rather witty and important. Do I honestly think my Facebook friends care about who I was in a previous life? No, not really. Do I think the people who actually care about me would get a laugh out of it? Possibly.

I can't even call it selfishness, when it's more self fascination. It's almost as if we should be suprised about the results of them, some stranger composing them, like an all mighty god telling us who we are, identifying our cores based on what colours we like, which music we listen to, what TV shows we watch and so on and so forth. As if everyone cares so much about us that they know us better than we could ever know ourselves. A camera sweeping over my face as my eyes sparkle in the special on TV about my wonderful life, all the grand things I've done and how I changed the world. Or when I accept my award, my gorgeous dress the flashes going off to capture a bit of me, the audicene applauding until the palms of their hands turn red. All good daydreams, and the Internet makes it possible.

Thing is, and this is something I've brought up before, when everyone's special, noone's special. Also, and again subject of an older blog post, with all the possibilities of the Internet, in all the ways we could become wiser we focus on the topic we love the most - ourselves. From time to time I do a Google image search with "self portrait" and giggle at the results. This, my friends, is how we want the world to remember us, as quirky different people, an ocean of individuals all trying to peak and be better, prettier, sexier, witter and more googleable. What you need to remember is that when everyone's selfish, noone cares about you either.

This about having dreams.

I don't remember the exact words, but it went something like this
Spongebob: I had dreams, once
Mr Krab: So what, I had kidney stones once, everything passes.
It's so delicously subtle, the two different kind of people in this world. Those who are focused on the practical aspects of life and those focused on things more theoretical and abstract. For what is a dream? It's something we don't have yet, something we can lose twice.

It's rare that I wear white, and it has nothing to do with lack of innocence, the older I get and the more cynical I become I come closer to my own innocence, there's no point to hide from it. There'll always be things I don't understand and things I'm happy I don't understand. I can however see the reasoning, the events to lead up to a certain point but my cynisism will never be greater than my hope. At other times my hope is not half as grand as my desperation. That kind that latches on to my spine and sucks the marrow out of me, leaving me barren and shriveled up in a corner. How can my sarcastic view of life help me when I fail to see the obvious, the vanity in chasing dreams.

Good things come to those who wait, so I'll wait while I'm scattered, not sure what I'm waiting for, maybe to meet myself as who I was, being someone without things I've done, a scaled down version of Molly.

That torn piece of wallpaper

So I was trying to decide what to do with my hair. I somehow manage to always end up with the same haircut, in variations. below my shoulders, a little layered and some kind of brown. That is of the last 10 years or so. And it's getting to feel awfully uninspired. I know I have alright hair. It's naturally curly, but I straighten it to feel good about it. Straight hair is just more socially acceptable in my world.

Question is though, why do I want to change? Why do we always think we want something different than what we have. A constant motion towards a goal we can't quite picture. We can be like stubborn little children proclaiming that "I don't wanna" but things will change, with our without our help. Moments can't be frozen and emotions aren't always as predictable as we think. Lets do an example. In 3rd grade a friend of mine and I had some sort of pocket horses, really small that we used to play with. It was fun. I enjoyed doing it. The habit of doing so three times a day is however broken. I have no idea what happened to my horses, they probably fell off the road somewhere down memory lane along with a lot of other things. But the memory is still there. Now, how does this illustrate my point? I was quite happy when I played with her and those toys, but I had to change, I outgrew it whether or not I liked it. I lost touch with her even though she was my best friend for years. I don't feel about her the way I did when I was a child, nor would I enjoy playing that game in the same way if I was to meet her and attempt it again. The world has shifted too many times since then for those moments to come back. All I can do is bottle that emotion and try to feel like that again. But can I? Really? Part of being that child is to not see the bigger picture and not worry about what's to come but to only play with those horses in the grass outside a brick building.

Change happened, it's not something I decided on. What makes us happy also changes over time, as does our ability to know what happiness is. Perhaps happiness isn't a state of mind, only an ability to notice the good things and not being blindsided by all the other issues that bring us down, and hoping that those brief moments of sheer happiness aren't too far apart. Yes I have now solved the mystery of happiness.

Think about time like a piece of string with tiny knots. Each knot is a moment of happiness, if the string has lots of knots it brings texture and you don't lose intrest in following the string. That is if they happen occationally, if they happen constantly you'll need an even bigger knot to notice them. We need those flatlines inbetween to notice the knots, which, yes, are being used here to mean happiness. Therefore happiness can't be a constant state, it's those smaller parts that makes us look back and think "wow, that was pretty amazing", like playing with some pocket horses in the grass.

Change means to leave things behind and move on to find new moments to remember. And now I also remember why I have this haircut. I can't decide what else to do with, and it will change over time as well, no matter what I decide to do with it, it'll turn grey and perhaps it'll get thinner. I can live with that as long as I get to decide for myself which way it's cut.

Twenty below and flurries instead of stars

Yes I know the whole world is covered in snow. Part of it at least. My part especially. It's freezing, it's snowing, the shoes are creaking. What happened?! Wasn't it summer just the other day?

I wish I could see some stars instead of the flakes dangling as if being held up by fishing lines, ready to be jerked back up like a theatre back drop, killing the illusion. Let us bow our heads and remember the summer passed. It was hot, it rained, there was music, it contained trips, books and my arms stretched towards the sky in an attempt to embrace it.

It'll be summer soon again and I'll wonder what happened to winter, I'll wonder how spring managed to escape me and life will change once more. Perhaps it's just the new year howling. I'm ready. Come get me. I don't fear you right this moment, but maybe it's the stage set up that makes me comfortable.

Fragments of an association game

Irony, writer unable to write. Solution, none in sight. Sight, something about seeing. Seeing, unclear. Unclear means grumbled. Like the waters on the east coast. Seaweeds chasing legs. Sun too bright. Blinded, blindfolded, tied up, captivated. Swept away. Swept of feet. Fall. Fall is over. Winter now. Cold. Fall. Classes in the fall. An ad that said Art and culturetrips spring and fall - Rome, Paris Provance and English castles and gardens. www.kwkulturresor.se. Something misspelled, but not in the translation. Misplaced. Disgrace. About those dogs. A horrid scene. Was the movie as good as the book? Can't remember. Always better in the head. A tune stuck, playing over and over. Memories on repeat, shuffle button activated. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Laughter randomly shuffled. Wake up laughing. A deer the size of a mouse. A bite electrocuting. It was funny. Wake up laughing. Wake up laughing.

Irony, writer unable to laugh. The funniest clowns. Tears of clowns. Rainbowed tears. Pink popcorn? Like pink cottoncandy. Purple's a fruit. Yellow is a colour. Twenty years ago. The climate change. Unable to change. No change in the pocket. Pocket leaking. Catching a fish. Keep it in a bucket. Those seaweeds, like hands. Clinging to like drowning. Selfcritical drowning. Wash up. Wash out. Wiped away.

Click, click, click labels. Label me. Then I'd know.

For the sake of time

In Sweden we have the tradition of letting children take music classes, usually starting around 3rd or 4th grade. Getting to leave class to go toot a trumpet or bang a piano seemed like a waste of time. My best part of the day was when two bullies had lessons right after one another, they never came back on time and the room settled. Even back then I couldn't quite grasp the concept of musical notes, so I never learned. Not even playing twinkle twinkle little star on the piano or flute. According to my high school music teacher I'm not worthy of living.

I'm wondering how many of those people still play their horns, drums, clarinet or violin. Did they keep it up for long after it offered an escape from class or was just a ploy to make kids into musicians?

There were concerts too, endless concerts with instruments out of tune. The idea wasn't really to teach anyone to play well, it was more under the banderole that anyone can, everyone's good, if only they try. Those poor souls that didn't participate in the concerts were forced to listen, as I recall we were five children. Five to applaud twentyfive. Do the math for an entire school...

I would like to see some statistics for how it was in different parts of the country, and not only in this god fearing area full of farmers and factory workers. (Dear Molly, that was such an evil thing to say) But seriously, I have a point in that. Maybe it's more appealing to those who didn't have classical music around them anyway, to those whose mother didn't say "Listen to this sweetheart, can't you just hear how the build up fills your whole being and then explodes in your heart?", repeatedly playing the same symphonies over and over. And maybe I would have been able to enjoy the out of tune concerts myself had I not been dolled up as a child and taken to places a child had no place.

So I suppose I should be grateful that they were given the chance to discover the things I was given for free. Just like I had to learn to play soccer and hockey. I never would have gotten the idea to try had it been up to me. It saddens me that the activities I had an actual intrest in weren't part of the curricilum so the soccer nerds never had to learn to ride horses.

School isn't only about teaching you to read and write, it's also about showing you new things, something that doesn't have anything to do with your family and friends, a chance for you to grow and discover who you will eventually become.

For me, that ment I discovered I'll never be able to read music, and I ice skate better than I kick a ball and I have no personal use for the periodic table, but that's a completely different story. My love for books, words, music from another angle, cats and the colour red has completely different origins. Although, I will give school some credit for helping me with the basics of a different language.

Children's songs

My favorite songs as a child was one about Smurfs drinking raspberry lemonade, a snail that should avoild getting caught, a sleeping bear, about a kid that got lost in the woods, and a cat in labour pains. I also enjoyed a ryhme about some monkeys that fell off a bed and went to see the doctor, well one died, but that was the best part.

On TV I watched shows like the one where a boy kepts losing his toy mole and it almost finding death, a grown man with a beard telling stories to dolls in his bed, about toys that were malfactured and broken, this was all spiced up with children dressed in red shirts singing the aforementioned songs.

I wouldn't be the nerd I am without mentioning the books I read, it was one about Alfons Åberg and his imaginary friend. It totally freaked me out, as I had a hard enough time seperating dreams from reality as it was. Then it was Ronja Rövardotter, about the daughter of a robber that lived in the woods. Hm, what else, there was one called Mio min Mio about a boy that died and went to different stages of lands of sagas, signifying different levels of death.

In a way, it's a wonder that my whole generation isn't insane.

Song of last year's season

November is Dad's month

November isn't only the month Dad was born in, it also holds Father's day (yes, I know it varies between countries, but in Sweden it's the second Sunday in November) and now also the day of his death, on the 30th.

I've had almost a full year without him now, and I don't know why it reminds me so much of that poem by Dylan Thomas. My dad was hardly a child when he died, nor did he die in a fire, he wasn't a girl and he didn't die in London...

A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.

Perhaps it's simply the last line, after the first death, there is no other, and knowing that dad never seemed to get past the death of his own father, or maybe it's that he never became himself after the passing of my brother. Yeah, after that first death we sieze to be innocent children, so in that way every death is a the death of a child.

In the time that has passed between now and his passing it's been a suprisingly large amount of people that seem to have seen my greif as theirs, that my loss is their personal loss. Do they know what was taken away?

He was born in 1946 in Söder, the Katarina neighbourhood. Those blocks aren't now what they were then. He used to speak of his childhood's streets the same way that Bruno K. Öijer speaks of his. That happiness was held up by the houses with history and the narrow streets and the filth. Once that disapeared life was never the same.

He had a guniea pig that chewed on an electrical cord and died. He used to talk about it every time we went to Ölands djurpark and saw the guniea pigs there. That's how I know. He started working as a running boy when he was about 11 and ate hotdog buns with mustard that cost him a couple of öre at the time. He used to do pranks, and even in his 60s he giggled about them. He's the only man I've known that giggled. I always liked it, he could fake laughs, but never giggles.

After his dad died his mother got remarried, that's where my last name comes from, that marrige. Apart from a new last name he also got two blond younger brothers. He did his värnplikt in the air force and after that was left out of his mother's house. I guess he was concidered an adult by then.

I don't know much about his 20s, other than that he worked in stores, and he hated doing returns on clothes in one of them, and just stuck the returned garments in a storage room until a boss found it and he had to deal with it then. He also got married in 1966 and had a daughter in 1967. The marrige didn't last long.

He had a couple of businesses, one lunch resturant, a sallad bar, a candy store, and a gift shop, and later on he had a women's clothing store. He used to travel to find garments he wanted to sell. He enjoyed a steak in Mexico, and something that turned out to be a monkey's brain in India, he got lost in New York and forgot to tip a waitress.

In the 70s he met my mother, married her in a civil cermony on December 27th 1973 and they first lived in an apartment that smelled like bleach and later on bought a cottage without electricity or running water. With his own hands he made it up, he even dug a sewer line to connect to the community one. Around the time the house was done I was born.

Later in the 80s we moved to another suburb of Stockholm, to a house that was half brick and half white. It had two balconies and a drive way bound to scrape your knees. Dad bought a yellow and red bus named Elin. We used it for holidays, we drove everywhere in it. Around the same time my brother was born. Dad continued his travels only occationally being home. He brought back exotic things and t-shirts with glitter.

In 1987 his first daughter gave birth to his first grandchild, a girl. She had dad's first greatgrandchild in 2007. He also has two grandsons, carried by the same first daughter.

It's easier for me to piece together what he was up to after I was born, and he was always singing, telling stories or playing the guitar. When he put my hair in pigtails they were always uneven and I was always late to daycare when it was his turn to take me. He was always the first one with gadgets. He had a cellphone in his car, the briefcase kind, so I always got to ride in the front seat in his car so that I didn't kick and break it. He started piddling around with computers then too.

About Elin, it must have been a piece of heaven that came down to earth. She had a max speed of 80 kilometers per hour and slowed down when the hills went upwards. We parked it every where and slept comfortably in her beds. Later on she also worked as a guesthouse kind of deal, parked in the driveway.

In 1989 we moved again, this time to the south. Dad and mom bought a house in the middle of nowhere, and without either one of them having jobs we found ourselves among trees, cows, sheep, chickens and pastures. It wasn't too long until dad did find a job though, with a long commute, of course, but still a job. When that company was for sale he bought it and moved it to another town. It was still doing well when he died and I felt bad when I filled in the papers to close it down.

In 1992 my brother died. Suddenly and unexpectedly. I don't know how dad really felt, I don't know what he really thought, all I know is that it became a constant thorn. Dad built a guesthouse next to our house and named it Tussebo. Elin retired then.

In 1994 dad and mom adopted my second brother.

I don't think I should tell more of his story as the rest of it is so much of mine, also I much prefer to remember how he was rather than what he became when he started getting sick.

His favorite flower was cowslip, his favorite colour was purple, his favorite food was kalops, he liked Monty Python, Benny Hill, Sällskapsresan, crime novels and Discovery channel. He always wore sheepskin slippers in the house and liked staying up late. His favorite season was summer, he hated being cold. He dreamed of opening a hotel in Greece or Spain and living in warmth when he retired, he never got a chance to.

I'm utterly grateful for having had him for a father. He's the one that taught me about the bigger perspective. He also taught me that if you fail it means that you simply found a way that doesn't work.

It's still so bizarre that he's gone, all those "never agains", and knowing that I have to figure out the rest in this life without him. In the year that's passed I've managed to forgive so many things and I've learned to see him in a different light, ironically that only makes me miss him more.

He always called me Humlan, and that's one of the "never agains". Noone will call me that again and I'll never again be suprised by his humanity.

Your body is a landscape

It's a landscape and a wonderland. The steps you've taken saved in your cells and the smells of damp, crisp flavoured air embedded in your lungs, continuing your travels with you. You're a physical testament to the places you've been and the things you've touched. The lines on your forehead are a map of your detours with your scars as fireworks on your arrival.

Are you a desert or a foreign land? A mountain or a hill? An ocean or a waterfall? Is your skin full of butterflies or tigers? Or are you simply the surface of the moon?

I'm the asphalt floating by two story houses with driveways lined with hedges and a cold blue sky and leaves in change, a distant sound of traffic and a scent of autumn rain drying in the wind.

Generations

A generation isn't the time from when one is born to another, perhaps it used to be, but surely now a generation is a group of people who grew up with the same children's shows, same toys, same music and fashions. A generation in this sense forms within a gap of four or five years.

Mine starts somewhere after Vilse i pannkakan and ends somewhere before Dawson's creek. I'm quite glad I could see the irony of Barbie girl while it was a hit, not quite so content with the fact that I for a brief period listened to Lili & Sussi. I was a child, please forgive my ignorance. My little ponies, Care bears, remember when summer lasted forever?

My time was somewhere in the mid 90's, perhaps early 90's, that's where I shaped my tastes the most. I was still young and impressionable. So yes, I wore big shoes and knitted sweaters at times. Bright colours at others. It was Radiohead, Oasis, Blur and Nirvana. Remember My so called life? Remember portable CD-players? Remember those days on the train with stained seats and trees rushing by taking you far into the heart of dakness?

How does a generation with themesongs titled Loser and Creep ever make it?

That's so funny! ...isn't it?

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

humour or US humor
Noun
1. the quality of being funny
2. the ability to appreciate or express things that are humorous: a sense of humour
3. situations, speech, or writings that are humorous
4. a state of mind; mood: in astoundingly good humour
5. Archaic any of various fluids in the body: aqueous humour

Nevermind no 5. But hey, I didn't know about that, you learn something new every day. It's come to my attention that it's sometimes hard for strangers to tell when I'm joking. It's called dry humor people! When a joke is told without the face or tone of voice giving away that it is in fact a joke.

An example from the beginning of the semester before last. Picture this, 10 students, drinking coffee at a table made out of stone talking about politics. It's agreed that the heart is to the left, meaning that nine of the people around the table has said their share about the topic and Vänsterpartiet (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Left_Party_(Sweden) ) is the political party they all favor, then the 10th student says "But I find Fredrik Reinfeldt so charming and his politics are so right for Sweden in this time, so I voted for Moderaterna" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moderaterna) which is at the total opposite of the political spectra. Without giving anything away the 10th student takes a sip of coffee in silence and looks out the window feeling the sceptical eyes of the nine others when the air is still. Then the 10th student smirks and says "If you could see the looks on your faces, priceless!" Now all ten students are laughing in unity.

Unity must be the goal of humor and in the example the 10th student provided just that, the relief of laughter in a tense situation before everyone knows each other. Maybe I took it a step too far being coy and letting them hang for so long, but I can't resist. These people then got to know me and would see when I was joking if something didn't go with my persona.

I also have a sarcastic trait. I don't concider sarcasm mean at all, it's a language you have to be familiar with to understand however. I will push jokes hard and say semi-mean things with the excuse that it was "only" a joke but the truth is that our prejudices show in the jokes we tell. I don't mind making a mockery of myself for the sake of a laugh. I really don't take myself seriously enough to worry about that, the politics joke could have lasted for a week or two, I could have built on it by showing up in overly snobby clothes and started arguments and acted the part of a moderat. Actually, it's a bit suprising that I didn't.

That being said, I don't understand all kinds of humor. Well, saying that I don't understand might be too much, but I don't find all kinds of humor funny. I don't care for sitcoms at all, nor sexists jokes because I firmly believe that as long as the ideas behind those jokes exist, so will the jokes. Best get rid of them. Nor do I find the chicken fighting scene in Family guy funny, it's too lengthy. Jokes that take too long with no added substance is nothing but dull. There's an unwritten rule in stand up comedy that you must make your audience laugh within 20 seconds or you've lost them. I think being funny outside of a stage is a bit different though, your "audience" isn't always aware of that they are in fact that to you.

Humor is also about emotion, so I do understand that what's concidered funny sometimes goes hand in hand with what's taboo, but for the same reason I don't like sexist jokes I don't always find that funny either. What's funny to me is the slightly ironic and complicated, the things that take some thought, so I usually produce most of my jokes in the shape of riddles.

I find puns mildly amusing even though I'm close to unable to produce a successful pun myself. I like to see humor as a bit of connect the dots, you have to pay attention to catch what's funny. Close to everything can be turned into a joke if you look at it as a cliché, the bigbottomed ladies in hiphop videos can be hillarious to me, so can the fact that it always rains when the hero and heroine first kiss in sad movies. It's oh so sad/romantic/dramatic/scary, take your pick, and there I am giggling.

I also like goofy things, like speaking for my cats in strange voices, or a fish wearing a hat. In fact, I would find it more amusing than strange to walk down the street wearing a duck costume. I laugh at myself when I trip and fall, or when I make a mess of myself by spilling coffee and I'm still laughing when it ruins my notebook so that all the pages stick together. It's just so typical.

Does this mean I have no sense of humor? I doubt it. Does this mean I sometimes make fools of others for the sake of a laugh? It's been known to happen. But when I do so, it's usually because I find the person rather funny, under the same category as I do clichés. I take a piss at those who take themselves too seriously, or try to belittle me. My defense is always humor, and at times my object bites and I can push the joke even further. Does this mean I'm a bad person? No, it means I'm a good judge of character. Do I like to ask rhetorical questions? Oh, yes I do.

I also believe we have two ears and one mouth for a reason, we should always listen more than we talk. Who knows which funnies we're missing when we're yapping away...