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IAMA human being. AMA

Sometimes I forget that I am a human being and I don't care that you're hungry or that a hurricane blew the roof off of your house or that you've lost your way and are lost and tired and scared. Sometimes when I read about the horrible things that have happened to you and yours I just shrug and carry on with whatever it was I was doing at the time, like clipping my toe nails or tweezing the hairs in my armpits. 

Sometimes I wish you'd fall on your face and skin your knees through your pants and even if you're wearing some made out of a really sturdy fabric like thick denim you'll be picking at itching scabs and strands of loose skin for weeks. Sometimes I wish you'd bite the inside of your cheek so bad it swells up into a tender little knob that you just keep accidentally biting on every time you eat something and even when you're not chewing your tongue will seek out the bitten spot and prod it relentlessly. Sometimes I wish you'd miss your last bus and drop your winter mittens in a puddle of polluted city water. Sometimes when I hear on the news that your country has been subject to another school shooting or another terrorist attack all I can think about is how much I don't care and how little the lives of those lost mean to me. 

Sometimes I'll stub my toe and I'll wish that concentration camps were still up and running, that slavery was still legal and that no amount of charity fundings will ever ease or end your hunger or your suffering. Sometimes I have to bite my tongue to keep from smacking you right across your stupid fucking face. 

And, you know, I saw on the news about your missing baby girl and sometimes I wish she turns up dead.

But then I remember that I am a human being.

Can Adrian come out and play?

The idea of being an actor has never appealed to me, even though I've been schooled in carrying myself both behind and in front of the camera, but on rare occasions I do happen upon a person whose acting makes me feel like I'm in some way incomplete. Like I'm somehow stuck expressing myself through written letters and it's not enough. Often enough I imagine I fail at getting my point across to you, trying to explain to you how I feel and why I feel when all I'd have to do would be to look right into the camera and you'd know from the look in my eyes, from how bloodshot they are, and from how I don't blink until they start tearing up. I imagine the benefits I'd reap from just opening my mouth and moving my lips even though not saying a word. It's frustrating.

 All About Evil (2010)

This little creature has got to be one of the best in his trade. Yes, it might be pure luck or coincidence that he's pretty much only starred in films I've really liked and I probably wouldn't have been too excited about his performances if I didn't enjoy his films, but I have noticed him and I am indeed beglamoured. Of course, the better actor someone is the easier they make it look, and the easier they make it look the less impressive their acting appears to be, right? No. This man is a fucking magician. The proverbial flip just switches and you see the expression in his eyes change, his face twitches and you swear he's almost morphing right in front of your eyes. There's something so fresh and new and almost crisp about his first appearance in any film and you're always expecting him to be listed as introducing even though you've already seen him before. He's never been the same person twice and he makes me stop and wonder where his personas go when the credits roll and you reach for the remote. I am convinced they still exist somewhere, that this Noah Segan manages to create parallel universes for each and every character when he's done portraying them. I bet they secretly hang out. And there's always so much blood, in the films he's in, gorgeous, gorgeous blood! So that's my simple recipe for a night in; Noah Segan + fake blood. Mix well before eating etc.

 Cabin Fever 2 (2009)

But why take my word for it? Follow him on twitter or facebook and experience the awesome firsthand.

Work through the layers

Imagine waking up one morning and not recognizing your own reflection.Oh, it's still you, only you're almost 100 lbs heavier and those prescribed medications that were supposed to cure you... not quite working, are they? This transformation did take place not over night but over a course of three months which means fast enough weight gain to cause severe skin breakage over the entire body. I don't ever want to bear children. Now I look like I've had ten of them.

 Ah, yes, vanity, I hear you mumble. Don't be afraid to say it out loud. Do you think it's something I've not heard before? If vanity is wanting to feel like you are yourself and not a complete stranger wearing a ridiculous fat suit, then yes, I am vain. If it's wanting to feel like you're something better than a garbage disposal doctors can try out new medications on, accidentally prescribing you something that will add almost an entire human being's worth of bodily mass to your physique and then doing absolute fuck all to help you lose it again, then yes, I am vain.

The time and money alone I spend on finding bras to fit these overgrown monstrosities would be enough to fund a small malpractice lawsuit. Oh no, I am not pregnant but something is definitely eating me up inside.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with being curvy or with being a 'real woman' as they've patronizingly started to justify looking like exactly what you do which is eat too much and exercise too little. I don't want to be super skinny, I just want to be myself again. And if being held prisoner inside your own body against your will is vanity, then yes, I am vain as all fucking hell.

A daily night-terror?

Waking up to these guys hovering around me like starving flies, rubbing their spindly little hands together and wordlessly begging me for scraps. Early mornings and midnights have never felt as charged, as loaded, as strained as they do these days. In the beginning of June I felt something loosen inside of me and since then I've been playing this waiting game with myself, waiting for things to fall into place, waiting for further instructions. Everyone is bargaining but no one has yet the upper hand so the price for my affection is at an all-time low.

How is it that I started to change at this specific time? Was every beer and every kiss aligning to point me in this direction? For once I'm not seeking the easy way out and, consequently, I have never been more scared in my life.

Image art courtesy of: Anton Semenov


The bench I sat on while waiting for my train was drilled to the floor, which was a good thing for me since the only thing that stopped me from running across the turnstile and flinging myself in front of one of the moving trains was clutching hard with both hands to the armrest of said bench and squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I could. No, I don't want to die and I didn't five minutes from that precise moment either, but for a precious few minutes, or it might only have been seconds, I was loose and all my instincts were telling me to jump. Except the meek survival instinct that from the very back of my brain did the chemical equivalence of going "ahem, excuse me? excuse me, hello?" and as I have trained myself to listen for it I heard it and let it reason with me. Still, the sweat was literally dripping off my face and for a moment there I was already dead, or perhaps only grievously mauled against the rail road tracks, I saw my life snuffed out and everyone I've ever met was bawling their eyes out at my funeral. Then suddenly I was alive again, realizing the whole scenario was ridiculous and the passing train was picking up speed again. No blood on the tracks, no blood spattered against the white tunnel walls, no train driver traumatized for life by the sight of a human body having the ick and goo spluttered out of it against his windshield.

I was just going home, but I can be anywhere at anytime and I always have to be ready to fight these urges. These episodes become less and less frequent but as they decrease in occurrence my defenses get more and more lax and I fall increasingly easier prey to them and the lowly voice of reason, the one that exists to ensure my future survival has been drowned out more than once already.

I know that I am weak but in itself that knowledge is the strength that keeps me alive.


I'm resuscitating this blog for one reason and one reason only; I desperately need an outlet. I need to vent before I explode and since no one actually reads this blog I feel comfortable using it as my diary. Also, since no one reads it I can say whatever the hell I want. So fuck you. And you. And the guy standing behind you a bit to your left. Fuck you too. And fuck YOU in particular.

You're kind of cute though, what are you doing later?

The story of Kisces

It’s quite a funny story actually, as you’ll soon see for yourself. It was an ordinary day; sky, wind, oxygen, hot salty-looking pavements and a couple of houses. Almost exactly as the previous day had been save for one difference, nothing major, just the fact that Kisces wasn’t breathing anymore and her body consisted of a rather tattered looking torso, blood-tangled hair and bulgy eyes with a broken look to them. Her legs had been severed slightly below her hips, although severed seem like a far too civilized word for the description of what Kisces’ lower part of her body had gone through before finally being tugged off, by then being little more than skin surrounding a mush of pulpy flesh and splintered bones. No, not splintered, those bones had been damn near sawdusted.

I said this would be a funny story but now I might have to take that back. You see, Kisces was killed by her lover who wasn’t really in love with her to begin with. So with regards to both living and dying, Kisces was a very unlucky girl. And that’s what love is all about; a complete and total lack of luck. To put it shortly, I met someone, started to love that someone, was mistaken pretty badly, and just decided to ignore the whole thing. I didn’t get beat up and destroyed by my emotional side-stepping the way Kisces did, but in some way I still feel the need to be pitied because my heart aches and whines, resembling more than anything else a honey jar that’s stickied too tight to ever be opened again.

Kisces lover (who will continued to be referred to as such, even though he didn’t really love her) was your average guy. He never intended Kisces any harm, at least not until he stomped her kneecaps for a good half hour until they felt soft and almost powdery beneath his boot, but he also never intended for them to be together. Kisces was quite jadish and immature and far too easy to get into bed. When things got too serious she was easy to steer back in line and when things got completely out of hand she was even easy to rape, maim and leave in the woods to rot.

I don’t remember who first claimed love to be like some kind of flower (a rose, wasn’t it?) but whoever it was, they were absolutely right. Love is nice, and sweet, abundant and inevitably wiltering. We need togetherness, results, big talks, physical connection, closure, forgiveness, answers, fidelity, but we should all just shut our needy little mouths and consider ourselves lucky we didn’t meet the same fate as Kisces. Or, that we haven’t yet.