Latest ten days of posting

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 So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.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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2002-01-26

You know the old song that starts with: “It’s cold outside / There’s no kind of atmosphere / I’m all alone, more or less.” Well, it is cold, so cold that some poor sod decided to dump snow on the ground again. It’s not much, but it is enough, in fact it is too much snow as it is. If someone wants some, I’ll mail it to you free of charge.

And across the street some other goons are busy restoring a school. Lots of noise.

There is nothing good on the telly until 21:15 when Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead begins. Up until that moment, they show the worst crap ever spawned by human minds: the Swedish try-outs for the European Song Contest. And this is only part two of far too many; the other channels are equally bad. I need either more beer and even perhaps a whisky or one of those Brain Slugs from Futurama.

No. No. No. Please god stop! They are apparently up to song four and boy, I feel violated. This has got to be the worst thing since some bright young person came up with the idea of self-mutilation. Why do I watch this? Am I insane? Video might save me... Yes… Salvation.

Damn. The tape didin’t rewind fast enough, I saw song number five. I will not find peace in this lifetime.