One of the modern facets of true love.

I can't say I've written anything on my blog that's about my life, really, other than pictures and writing about books I've read. I know, frankly, that few persons give a terd about what I write about books, films and shit like that. When I want to read what people write, I don't care about their age, as long as they don't write in a boring way. They can write about the most typical shit, but not in a boring way. As long as that's the axiom, I'm game for anything that happens. I hope to write more like that coming up. I hate the term "kill your darlings", but I prefer a term that I just picked up from the new album by Future Bible Heroes, and that's "keep your children in a coma"; a reverb, an echo, a touch from the past is never wrong, but please, I don't want to write like book reports trying to sound like they're from the fucking New York Times Book Review here.

Right now, X's the breadwinner; she's at work. I'm at home, listening to the new album by Future Bible Heroes. I've got a surprise lined up for her. I love to do that, to (literally) hide stuff from her and have her discover it as, say, she's about to go to bed or do a crazy dance. Then I just take her every action in. Because she's one of the most honest people I've ever met, I instantly know if a gift is good or shit. Tonight, I think I'll be fine.

Lunch at work today was fine. Nobody commented the food others ate. They didn't speak about the weather. People spoke about upcoming vacations. Nowadays, I've almost stopped bringing up stuff that I'm fond of, because of how seldom it interests others. I'm definitely not special. I'm not esoteric in any fucking way. Not at all. People at work just don't like to talk about film, music, books, how they truly live and love. Well, I haven't displayed that here for a long while, so their lunch is kinda what my blog's been like for a long time.

I can't wait for Thursday. That's the Swedish National Day, which means Swedes do fuck all but care about nationalism and instead enjoy yet another bank holiday. It's splendorous. X and I will meet The Pirate Cats (a long time since I used that term of endearment), and just have fun. It's so fucking simple to hang around them. Quite like with Bobby and Malin, and a handful of other people. I feel as though I don't have to care a flying fuck about what happens, because they're friends, you know? I can't help as though work is work. Yeah, it's work. It's nothing more. It's definitely not defining me. I mean, what's that really supposed to mean, when you meet strangers for the first time, you feel as though, yeah, this seems to be an interesting person, and they wonder what you do for a living. I'm sure 99% of all people who ask that don't think it defines you, but rather ask it just to be polite, but have another drink, please; I'm grateful that my job - technical IT support (really, that part usually drops interest like a pile of fucking bricks) for a licensing and inventory company - provided me with a title so uninteresting that I can leave the bit about my work far behind me when not being a professional.

A Professional. I'll never write that with a capital "p" ever again. And when it's time for my funeral, remember to storm and grapple anybody who starts talking about what I worked as.

A true profeessional. I wonder if I've ever heard that term before, or if I just imagined it.

Now it's time to play Morrissey songs on electric guitar while I wait for this:

Oh yeah, freak out to this if thou shalt: