Nietzsche and Rain

One downside, of the very many downsides, of living in Holland, is that the weather has a nasty moodswing problem. This can not be innocent.  I sincerely believe there is a diabolical plot in this somewhere, and the weather forecast is secretly conspiring with the weather gods ( which I'm guessing are Zeus and Taylor Swift, who can have it rain whenever she feels something emotional is about to happen) to break everybody's fragile spirits.

This morning, I woke up with the sun streaming through my blinds. Let this be a lesson to you; never trust the morning sun. It's an elaborate lie. You see, as I was glancing out of my windows at this yellow beast, I didn't know the sun was trying to set me up. The morning sun was so brazen, I had even decided against wearing a jacket.

Yes, I'm aware that that's stupid. Unfortunately, this entire week has been filled with stupid decisions as such. Why not go to bed at two am when I have to get up at six? Why not miss the bus in favor of my morning coffee? Why wear a jacket during autumn? Why take notes when I can just stare blankly at the teacher? Why not agree to have coffee with the creepy German guy who has had a past with stalking me? The only thing missing from this list is: why be a civilized member of society when you can also go around stabbing everyone?
Thankfully, I am not that stage. Yet.

The point is, the sun fooled me. I had my mind set on a sunny day, and all I got was rain in return. Yes, I am a fan of metaphors the way thirteen-year-olds are a fan of Justin Bieber. My notebooks are also filled with I <3 Metaphors.

To make it more obvious, there is a metaphor in the weather-line. Sometimes metaphors just aren't enough. And that was a metaphor too. INCEPTION.

There was literal rain too, today. Sometimes the weather is very accomodating towards my life events. But you know those days when anything, anything at all, can make you reach unknown levels of rage. Like, someone has to sneeze in your direction and all your suppressed rage comes boiling out? Today was one of those days. Though, to be fair, there was justified reasoning behind my outburst as well.   But it was all so very high school. Typical trash talking reaches its tipping point, and you want to stop the pretense and just be a complete raging bitch in their face intead of behind it. So, I did.  I am not known for being nice. In fact, when I stop being my level of nice, and go full-blown bitch, Cruella Deville can take pointers from me. Unfortunately, when the beast is out, it is all out.

I literally couldn't be any meaner, or a bigger cliche today. Example: "See, I'm sitting in front of you. That should make it easier for you to talk behind my back."

Maybe I should work on my people skills.

It is raining all weekend. I have to study for three huge tests. This is just the world conspiring against me. I am sure of it.

And to end this happy blog, I present to you a picture of Nietzsche, who is more depressing to hang out with than I am. And trust me, dear readers, that is a true accomplishment.

Look at that mustache, isn't it marvelous?

 “My genius is in my nostrils.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Index

You may have noticed that I posted three of my older blogs in the span of two minutes. In the future, when there's a movie made about us like that Facebook one, the reason for this mysterious and puzzling event will be thoroughly and dramatically explained and exaggerated. Because we don't want to spoil the movie, we can't give away the reason just yet, so you will have to watch the movie "The Blog" (2020) to discover my particular reasons and all the behind-the-scenes-drama.

To apologize for all the confusion, a picture of Zac Efron:

In the movie, Zac will play my boyfriend. His character is called "Zac Efron"

Dorothy Parker is Awesome

It's Monday, and as you all know, my day is supposed to be Friday (don't worry, I'm sharing it with Rebecca Black) Only, because I have this phobia for planning, deadlines and anything that has to do with time management, I'm doing it today.

I know we're supposed to introduce ourselves on our first blog post, but I won't torture you (You is a hypothetical term. I don't know who "you" are, probably Enya or Eylinn or the voices in my head, maybe even some nameless stranger who found this website on internet. Hi nameless stranger!) with the boring details of my equally boring life. Let me introduce you to somebody awesome instead.

 This is Dorothy Parker. She was born in 1893 and died in June 7, 1967. She was a writer, poet, feminist and basically fabulous woman. She was also badass, she had affaires with married writers like that dude who wrote The Great Gatsby, and she stood up for the rights of coloured people. And she was such a bitch, a quote: "If you have nothing nice to say, come sit by me."

"It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard." (hihi)

Someone told Dorothy that Clair Boothe Luce was even kind to her inferiors; Parker replied "Where does she find them?" (hihi)

"His ignorance was an Empire State Building of ignorance. You had to admire it for its size."

She also had a bob, which was the flapper-style haircut of the roaring twenties, which makes me love her even more. I think she lived in a pretty cool time, just when the world was about to get away from the dated Victorian ideals, when Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald were alive and there were smoky jazzbars and flappers and those black-and-white movies I love.

When she was being interrogated by the FBI (because homegirl was apparantly supporting communism. Some people have cocaine addictions, and Dorothy had supporting communism as a flaw.)she said:

  Listen, I can't even get my dog to stay down. Do I look like someone who could overthrow the government?

Dororthy was even pro-gay, in the fucking twenties:  "Heterosexuality is not normal, it's just common."

And I will end this blog with a few wise words of Dorothy:

Resumé

"Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren’t lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live."

Comment

 Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,

A medley of extemporanea;

And love is a thing that can never go wrong;

And I am Marie of Roumania.

The Mean Reds

The Mean Reds. Holly Golightly introduced me to that term during Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The first thing you should know is that Breakfast at Tiffany’s is to me, what Star Wars or Star Trek or Harry Potter and even Twilight is to others. It’s more than a movie, it’s like this entire philosophy (Except that Audrey and Gregory Peck are both “entertainers” in the movie – that’s a philosophy I am not recommending)

Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?

Paul Varjak: The mean reds, you mean like the blues?

Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you’re getting fat and maybe it’s been raining too long, you’re just sad that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?

And ladies and gentlemen, as you might have suspected, today I had that feeling.

Normally, I wouldn't be surprised. It's Monday and something in the law has specified Mondays to always suck. But today, P.E. was canceled, the sun was shining, I was chilling with my homegirls most of the time and I barely had any class. I even got a kick-ass math grade. These are characteristics of a Good Day, not of a Mean Reds Day

And yet, I felt off. I was sitting in the bus, across from Girl With The Wannabe Gangster Gucci Shoes, and I was contemplating the sad state of the world. There was something wrong but I couldn’t put my finger on it.(I didn't know what was wrong with me, I knew what was wrong with the girl – her sense of fashion, for starters.) The sun pissed me off, it was too bright. The old lady next to me pissed me off, couldn't she walk a little faster? The man who was on a bike, outside the bus, made me want to tear out my hair - it should be illegal to own purple jeans, sir. And children were dying in Africa.The world SUCKED. I was angry at the world and all its inhabitants. Even puppies. Especially puppies. So, the Mean Reds? They were about as mean as a Chinese dictator.

This is a Chinese Dictator

 Getting the Mean Reds is tough, but getting rid of it is even worse. Holly Golightly was cured the moment she walked into the High-End jewellery boutique Tiffany's, but I prefer to do it my way (also, I don't have a Tiffany's like hers where I live. Here, the only Tiffany's we've got are girls like this:

They're probably all called Tiffany. Or Shaniqua. Or ShaNayNay

The way I got rid of the Mean Reds was through a few of my favourite things. (No not snow on eyelashes and stupid mittens and something with kittens)

 

Watch Breakfast At Tiffany's

 Listening to Continuum

Winningateverything.com

Lamebook

AND OF COURSE REREADING AWESOME EMAILS FROM MY AWESOME FRIENDS

A RECIPE FOR MOVING ON

Taken from Grandma’s old-fashioned recipes

Cooking time: 21 days

First, start with the base. Have something in your life that you just can’t quit. It’s bad for you, it’s impacting your life in a negative way and you know you need to get rid of it. This can be anything - beavers, chocolate cake, crushes, Twitter or orange juice. The important thing is that you crave it. Obsessively.

Then sprinkle 4 tea spoons of I Hate Myself on it. You wake up every morning, cursing yourself for your craving, your addiction. You can’t look in the mirror without wanting to write angsty poetry about your weakness. Your soul has been crippled by your lack of self-discipline and gluttony.

Then, add a scoop of denial. It’s not that bad. You’re okay! So what if you punched a baby in the face because it was sitting between you and the chocolate cake? That baby should have moved. Twitter is a part of you, it’s your window to the world, if you stop tweeting, how will your 32 followers know what you ate for breakfast? And come on, not visiting your sick grandmother in the hospital because you were watching beavers on discovery channel is not a crime. It is, in fact, perfectly understandable and everybody would have done the same thing in your position.  Besides, sitting in the bushes behind the bedroom of The Object of Your Affection is not stalking, unless you have two restraining orders.  

Add 10 buckets of determination. Ask yourself where the power went, when did you stop being able to say no to yourself, where did you lose that self-control, that self-discipline? When did beaversaremyhomeboys.com become your homepage?  Listen to Nicki Minaj (I recommend the song 'did it on em' - a quote: If I had a dick, I would pull it out and piss on em) , Glee soundtrack (Don't stop believing! Hold on to that feeeeeling!)  and any other song that is saying “I’m a fierce independent individual and I don’t need you, bitch!” If necessary, write that line down on a post-it, your wall or your face.  

Nicki Minaj would break the bad habit. And then break its face.

Add 3 Spoons of power, chopped fine. You are in charge. You are number uno in your life. Nothing can control you. Delete Twitter. Stop checking your phone obsessively for new text messages. Beavers are not that cool.