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Weblog | I don't like the word blog, it's ugly. Anyway, new content happens here. (Swedish dito)

About me and the site | Twenty-something male who likes text. Obsessed with things such as books, reality, communication, and one or two tv-shows.

Archives | Things written here since... well, 2001. Some of it is good, some is utter shait.

Books | Books read, not books written. So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.

Photo | I like my camera and it likes me.

Links | Outwards, away, flee.

e-mail | J. Nicklas Andersson

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2001-05-07

This seems to be the “I forgot which day it is”-day. A global phenomenon that spreads with such an ease that Ebola is more like dandruff than a dangerous and contagious disease — leaping from person to person, rapidly and without much consideration to immunity-imposing drugs in the form of wristwatches, tv, or, if one likes to be truly bizarre, a regular clock nailed to the wall.

I chose none. I don’t care which day it is, not anymore. I don’t have to know the day until Monday. Sure, it’s a bit of a Catch-22, but I rely on other people to tell me when this day, this Monday that everybody is talking about, is here.

Time is not that important, not in itself. One always has more time, almost anyway. Sometime it will run out of those tiny grains, or in a worst-case scenario, they will get stuck prematurely and you’ll drop down, dead from a sudden and quite unexpected development of colon cancer.

Today, before lunch, I wasted another 80 minutes doing nothing at all. In a way it was like I was killing myself — not much but just a little bit — although it was self-imposed.

– It’s sickening I tell you.
– What?
– This is. This whole fucking thing, it’s Saturday fucking night and what do they show? The Eurovision Song Contest — the sanctuary, the last outpost for bad 80-ies-music scene. My brain rot from within, even the titles are bad.
– Come one. It’s camp-value-bonanza; it’s so bad it’s good.
– No, it isn’t. I’m not drunk enough for this — hell, I’ll never be drunk enough. Give me the remote.
– You’re not changing the channel!
– Give me the remote!
– No.
– I recorded Shooting Fish yesterday...
– You did? Shooting Fish, you say? Damn, well, why are we watching this shit?
– You tell me. You, Tell me.