Recently, Erika Ascot killed herself. She is one of the most well-known modern Swedish bloggers, followed by many, hyped by a lot and is solely the product of imaginative minds who made money off her existence.

She was made-up.

Boo-hoo. Who cares whether Erika exists or not? I just saw a show on Swedish public service TV that showed how old people are basically shelved like books, rather than living. And no bloggers are shouting to the roof-tops about that, are they? And is being sedated through medication, lying on a bed collecting sores living? In that case, let me rather believe the Ascots of the world as they live.

The content of "Erika's" blog was written by an advertising company and loads of lessers suddenly wanted to slay her:

"Don't you know that blog isn't for real?"

So fucking what? Bitch, get a grip on yourself! The contents are good, so shut the hellaup and jump off the idiot bandwagon. What's "real", by the way? Something that's sheer non-fiction? I read only biographies for a long while as I was sick and tired of the fiction genre. Of course, there was no way I could ever find out whether the contents of those biographies were in the least real, other than through vapid investigations of my own. I'm reminded of the Oprah/James Frey debacle.

Yesterday, X and I attended the spreading of the ashes after Erika Ascot. We walked from Storgatan/Sibyllegatan in à–stermalm, everybody picking up white lillies - even though we had already brought our own - and walking past the Hedvig Eleonora church to the end station, where ashes were cast to the wind and champagne was offered. Erika's last words were read:

All in all, a very lovely, sunny Friday afternoon.