And then there was yet another outfit post since I never seem to cease wearing clothes

Hi again

I'm not sure whether anyone reads this anymore. It's never been much of a blog, it's mostly a place for me to gather my outfit pics and put up a lot of navel gazing stuff.

But I left everything for a while, and I've grown so much over the last eight months. I have made discoveries about life and myself, some of them expected and some of them entirely new to me, foreboded only by a life long sense of not belonging. I've been in almost a vacuum for some while now. I'm not sure what I've done, exept read a lot, loved like there was no tomorrow and accepted what I cannot change.

I should get out again and meet people. Soon my last year of university studies will start. Soon I should get started with what might become a really good band. Soon I should try to secure what might become an exellent job opportunity.

Soon I should finish a fucking book.

No, now. I'll do it now. I know who I am and what I want now, more clearly than ever. I just have to get out there, now, or I'll be stuck inside my own head forever.

Dear deer

My new Lotta JSK!


Also I have a new wig:

Also, I have interesting things to blog about, but it won't happen right now. I have too much to do at university. Plus I write more for myself  these days, and one of these days I feel like it might result in a book I don't hate.

I awoke from some dream

A fragment

Jag minns när vi var skönheten och odjuret
Fast ingen visste vem som var vem, inte ens vi
Var jag en olycklig bortskämd prinsessa och du min räddare?
Eller var det helt och hållet tvärt om, var du min prinsessa?
Några sa att jag var för empatisk för någon som dig
Andra sa att du var för beundrad för någon som mig
Alla sa de att vi var för dåliga för varandra
Tydligen förtjänade vi båda någon sämre
Men vad gjorde oss dessa ord,
När vi lekte som de sköna odjur vi var?
Ingenting.

I remember when we were the beauty and the beast
But nobody knew who was whom, not even we
Was I an unhappy spoilt princess and you my savior?
Or was it the other way around, were you my princess?
Some said I was too empathic for someone like your
Other said you were too adored for someone like me
They all said we were bad for each other
Apparently we both deserved worse
But did these words matter to us,
When we played like the beautiful beasts that we were?
Not at all.

Things that shouldn't happen

It was some time during January 2010. I was going to see a Depeche Mode concert with some of my friends. It was a cold winter day and we had to wait in line outside, jumping and rubbing our hands togheter to keep warm. We all looked and felt fantastic, apart from the cold. We had party clothes on, mine being a black silk blouse and a below-the-knee high waisted white pencil skirt. I had put my hair into a complicated 20's-inspired updo with a single curl on one side and I wore my favourite hat at the time. We all had red lipstick shining like bright wounds on our faces, but not much other makeup. We were happy and going to see a band we really liked. It had all the prerequisites to be a fantastic evening.

It wasn't. It became one of the worst evenings of my life.

When we reached the entrance after a very cold hour of waiting they looked through our bags. I remembered I had my defense-spray with me(a legal spray that irritates badly and colours skin red for a week or so, you're meant to spray it on someone if they physically assults you). I asked the people at the entrance if I could bring it. They said I couldn't, and I would either have to drop it of at the lockers in another building and wait in line again or throw it. I threw it away, of course.

This is all very ironic. If I had kept on forgetting about having it(entirely possible, as my bag is always full of stuff) and they hadn't looked through our bags, the evening might have had a quite different turn.

We got inside. The place was crowded. I'm not sure exactlly what happened, but suddenly my two friends had tickets to the standing spot instead of the seats. If thibk they traded with two people who's legs hurt(possibly from standing in line in the cold for hours) so they had to sit or something. There was no "seat numbering" at the standing spot. If my friends pushed enough, they could get right in front of the stage. We were all placed far away from eachothers anyhow, and would not be able to socialise no matter what.
"Is is okay that we go?" they asked.
How could I say no?

So I took a seat by my self, my friends standing about 300 meters away from me in the crowed. They had pushed enough, and managed to get really close to the stage. I was happy for them. Next to me sat an older man and his 20-something son. They kept to themselves. That was fine by me. I'm a very introverted person. A group of drunk men in their 30's walked past. They were yelling and lauging and going "party!!" and one of them tried to high five me and the men next to me. I held up my hand for the high five so the men would stop bothering us and we all smiled patiently at them. They sat down in front of us.

After a while one of the men turned around and smiled drunkenly at me. Trying to touch my leg he said: "Why wont you talk to your friends?"
I moved my leg and pretended not to hear nor understand him. He tried to poke the men next to me. "Talk to her, talk to your friend."
They looked visibly annoyed. He left me alone for a while, and Depeche went on stage. They played and it was great. Dave Gahan danced funnily. I tried to have fun and I took some pictures of the band and the stage decorations. The music drowned my ears. Then, after 40 minutes or so, I felt a hand on my inner thigh. It belonged to the man in front of me.

"Don't touch me", I said. For some reason, I said it in english. I often think in english, especially about music since most music I listen to is english, and if I'm stressed I have trouble switching back to swedish. The man stared blankly at me.
"I mean... Rör mig inte. Sluta." (Don't touch me. Stop.)
He smiled at me in a really creepy way, the turned around. He left me alone for ten minutes or so. Then he touch my inner thigh again, more firmly this time.
"Sluta."(Stop.)
He stopped temporarily and looked at me. His friends had started noticing what he was doing. I thought they would tell him to knock it off, but instead they smiled at me, just as creepy and just as drunk as the man. The man now put his hand on my again, caressed my thigh repeatedly. I tried to get away, but he grabbed a hold of my thigh with all of his hand. I felt truly frightend then. I almost never had before. My body froze and I couldn't move.
"Sluta." I told him to stop several times, with a broken voice. He didn't until Depeche started playing "Personal Jesus" and everybody stood up. Execept for me, because my body was frozen. I felt more powerless than I had ever felt before in my life.

When the song ended the men turned back at me. He started to repeatedly poke my knee as if to provocate me. His friends laughed. I looked at the man and his son next to me. They looked at me with blank faces and said nothing. The men turned back to the stage when some other song started playing. I think it was "People are people", but my memory from that point on isn't entirely clear. I just remeber that ever ten minutes the man turned around to grab another part of my body. My calf, my arm, the area just below my breast(I guess he missed my breast by being too drunk?). When I wasn't looking I tried to signal to the sceurity guard to come over. he looked at me as if he couldn't make out what I could want from him for the sake of his life.

Then the concert ended. The men got up. They stood next to me. The man and now another man tried toughing my thigh again. This time the man who started it all touched me almost all the way up to my cunt. The man and his son next to me saw exactly what happened. The group of friends smiled and giggled and hooted. Then they left. Then the men next to me left. Everybody left, exept for me. I was still frozen. After 10 minutes I regained my full self. I walked out. I met my friends when getting my coat.
"Where were you?" they asked. "Were there a lot of people, was it hard to get out? It was so much fun anyhow. Haven't been to a concert this good in years. And, OMG, we were so close to the stage!"
I smiled at them.
"Is something wrong?" one of them asked.
I told her about the men. I played it down. I just said that a man touched me several times even though I told him to stop.
"What a fucking asshole!" my friend yelled. "Ruining people's concert experiences like that. He's a grown man, he should know better."
Yes. He should indeed know better.

I didn't start crying until I told my family what happened. And then I couldn't stop. I cried all night, with only small pauses.

My friends say it was one of the best concerts they've been to during their teens to this day still. It could have been one of my best too. But it isn't. It is a memory that fills me with disgust. It makes me feel vunerable and sad. I remeber feeling tainted for days afterwards. I remeber crying in the shower and trying to wash away his touch and my memories until my skin went red.

My parents asked me why I didn't simply get up and walk away. I couldn't be that hard? I told them I was to scared to. Then said I shouldn't have responded in english, because maybe he didn't understand. I told them I reponded in swedish afterwards, and that I can't really control these things. They wondered if perhaps it wasn't that serious. But it was.

It wasn't rape. But I still felt violated. Things like this had happened to me before, as to most women who leave their house, ever. But this felt especially horrible because I've never felt so out of control before. Because I felt like i was something that existed for the amusement of others and not as a real individual.

I don't like it when people touch me in most situations, even people I care about. I dislike the feeling of skin against skin, unless it's the skin of someone I'm attracted to. I hate losing control over my body.

I don't know how many times I've been sexually harrased. I stopped counting at eight.

Having this happen to me has not changed me, not really. It hasen't made me scared of men or changed my views on sex or made me go out less. Other things make me go out less these days, but I refuse to be scared. I hate being scared. I dont let it dissuade me and I do what I want to. Sometimes my mother get scared when I ride the train alone at 21.00 to get to my sweetheart, who lives a few stations away. I'm twenty. She says she'll pay for my taxi so I won't take the train. I'm more afraid of taxis that early on in the evening. At 24.00 it's about the same and after that the taxi feels like the better option.

I do what I feel like because it just seems like if you're alive at all there's a huge chance you'll get raped. I go places I want to go wearing my normal clothes at whatever time the clock happens to be. But other people fear for me. And it shouldn't have to be like that.

Last year some relatives made fun of my mom for wanting me to take the taxi home. They said I was so spoiled and that it was ridicoulous. She said that if I take the train I might get harassed, assulted or raped. They said that things like that pretty much never happen and that if you walk with confidence no one will mess with you.

I told them that wasn't true. I told them a little about that night and other nights. They tried to joke about it, saying that only weird people and drunk tourists are the one who do shit like that. Saying that I should learn karate. Saying "perhaps they don't really mean to touch you?".

I don't like it when people joke about horrible things that have happend to me.

I haven't been harrassed in a year or so now. People have been creepy towards me, grabbed me in non-sexual ways and hit on me in stalkey/weird ways, sure. But no sexually meant touch, at least. But then again, I've stopped going to most nightclubs, and being a university student I spent most of my time at home writing essays so I don't hang around town that often. When I don't go out, nothing happens. People say shit like this happens if you're out late at night or dress weird/sexily or you're drunk. Bullshit. It can happen at a nightclub, at a concert at 20.00, at the train 9.00 or when walking around town at 14.00. I'm never drunk. And the less "weird" or "sexily" I dress, the more it happens. It's not my fucking fault. It's the fault of people who do it. The only way to prevent it entirely is to be so buried in work or school that you have no socal life. So stop being ridicoulous.

Things like this shouldn't happen. They just shouldn't. But they do.

It's been a long time.

Hi. My computer broke, I had tons of work at university, my band kicked me out for not being a man, and I got myself a proper romantic relationship that's official and all that these days. Err, yes. I'm exhausted.

But now I'm back, sort of. And I'm happy, but stressed out. Yes. Hopefully I'll post something tomorrow.

Day 19-22

Day 19 – Share beauty advise and take a photo of your make up.
Beauty advise? Dear god, who am I to tell anyone how to look "beautiful"?
I guess all I can say is, if you wear make-up it's really a very good idea to get some primers because no one like it when their make-up gets smudged. Or, you can just do the old classic of hairpraying your make-up whe it's done to make it stick. Probably dangerous as fuck, but oh well.
Oh, and some more incredibly basic information that only "baby bats" could have missed; crimping irons are great if you're gonna tease your hair. It makes it a lot easier. A lot.

Anyhow, my make-up:


Day 20 – If you could dye your hair any colour what would it be?
Ehh, red. Which I have already dyed my hair for 5 years.

Day 21 – What body mod do you have or have you considered?
I've never seriously considered any body mod other than what I already have(pierced ears, rarely used). Partly because I'm scared of needles, but also because I would hate having something more about my body that I can't change at whim, and none of the mods I like are easy to remove...

Day 22 – If you could attend any Goth event what would it be?
There is no goth event that I really wish to attend. I guess I could go to WGT if more than five good bands were playing. I dunno. There aren't a lot of good goth events.

Little angel

Cassandra

Yes, this is in swedish. If you can read swedish though, do read it, I quite like it even though I wrote it myself. It's a bit silly and naive, but my writing often becomes silly and naive for some reason. Either that, or just plain distrubing. Wrote this in 2010, I think.

Jag minns inte första gången jag träffade Cassandra. Inte tydligt i alla fall. Jag tror att jag var på något relativt hipp klubb inne i city, och att hon sjöng på scenen, ensam, och ackompanjerade sig själv på piano. Jag minns detta, för att jag tyckte att det var udda med så akustisk musik på en klubb som den här. Sedan satt hon helt plötsligt bredvid mig i baren och drack champagne med absint, något jag också mindes för att jag tycker att alla sorters champagnedrinkar är synd och skam. Varför förstöra fin champagne genom att hälla något annat i den? Jag tror att vi pratade lite, det måste vi ha gjort, och hon måste ha charmat mig rejält för tydligen tog jag med henne hem. Efter detta fanns hon bara i mitt liv. Jag är inte helt säker, men jag tror inte att hon lämnade min lägenhet någon längre tid sedan första gången hon kommit in i den. Jag måste ha gett henne en nyckel, för hon kom och gick lite som hon ville. Av någon anledning störde det mig inte att jag plötsligt fått en inneboende. Cassandra flöt in i mitt liv gradvis, så tyst och försiktigt att jag inte märkte vad som hände. Jag hade ingen chans, jag kunde inte försvara mig, så jag tog emot henne med öppna armar.

Först hade jag tänkt kasta ut henne morgonen efter, för jag var verkligen inte typen som raggade upp folk på krogen för engångsknull och jag kunde inte för mitt liv föreställa mig att någon som gjorde så skulle vara en lämplig partner. Tydligen hade jag fel. Jag minns det inte tydligt, men det låg en tyst vägran i luften, en tyst vägran ifrån Cassandra att gå därifrån. Precis innan jag började finna detta alarmerande, föreslog hon att hon skulle laga pannkakor till frukost, som tack för att hon fått sova hos mig. Hon var allergisk mot både ägg och mjölk själv, men hon kunde ta något annat senare. Jag släppte på min gard, och tog det första steget till att släppa in henne i mitt liv. Under frukosten satt vi och pratade, och snart skrattade vi så mycket och så länge att vi inte längre kunde minnas vad det var vi först börjat skratta åt. Jag blev försenad till jobbet och fick panikcykla alla de femton kvarteren. Cassandra stannade kvar hemma hos mig, och när jag kom tillbaka var hon fortfarande där. På det viset har det varit enda sedan den dagen.

Hon var speciell, min Cassandra. Väldigt hemlighetsfull. Hon vägrade tala om sitt jobb, men på grund av hennes framträdande på klubben den natt då jag mötte henne antog jag att hon var någon form av konstnär, artist, och jag antog att om jag lade mig i skulle jag förstöra hennes skapande. Hon var nästan alltid hemma hos mig, spenderade dagen med att lyssna på musik och läsa gamla böcker. Ibland gick hon ut och promenerade sent på kvällen. En mer svartsjuk kvinna än jag skulle kanske ha antagit att hon var otrogen. Det gjorde inte jag. Det kanske var dumt, men jag litade på Cassandra. Trots att jag knappt visste något om henne.

Hon hade sådan elegans, min Cassandra. Mjuka, graciösa rörelser och mahognyhår. Hon tycktes tala minst fem språk flytande, och kallade mig alltid för vackra saker på franska. Ma chérie. Mon ange. Jag märkte egentligen inte att det var något annorlunda med henne förens mardrömmarna började. Jag vaknade mitt i natten av att hon låg i min famn och skrek hysteriskt, alldeles kallsvettig. När jag väckte henne slog hon vilt omkring sig, som för att försvara sig själv mot ett farligt väsen. Om detta hade varit allt hade jag nog trott att hon bara var ännu en skadad själ med svåra minnen. Så var dock inte fallet. När jag väl väckt henne tog det lång tid innan hon återfick fattningen. Med vidöppna mörka ögon, fullkomligt klar i blicken, skrek hon åt saker bara hon kunde se. Jag höll fast henne och viskade att det var ingen fara, det var bara en dröm, allt skulle bli bra. När hon kom till fattning igen grät hon, rörde mjukt vid min kind och viskade ”Isabella, min ängel, mon ange. Förlåt mig.”
Vem var jag att förlåta henne? Min vackra Cassandra, hon hade aldrig gjort mig något ont.

Jag undrade om hon led av vanföreställningar. Om hon hallucinerade, eller kanske led av schizofreni. Jag började bli rädd för att lämna henne ensam i lägenheten, då hon började få ilskeutbrott under vilka hon skrek att hon hatade sig själv och den här världen, och slog sönder allt i sin väg. Jag slutade träffa mina vänner för att vara hemma och se till att hon inte skadade sig själv eller något annat. De ringde till mig, var oroliga. Undrade hur det egentligen var med min flickvän. Hon som verkat så trevlig. Tillslut började mina vänner be mig att lämna henne, säga att en galen flickvän var det sista jag behövde. Jag röt åt dem, sa att de aldrig kunde förstå, att jag älskade Cassandra mer än livet självt. Hon kanske var en galning, men hon var min galning. Efter ett tag slutade mina vänner att ringa över huvud taget.

Det blev värre och värre, och jag förbannade mig själv för att jag inte sett tecknen tidigare. Hon gick nästan aldrig ut, och jag hade aldrig sett henne äta. Nu för tiden vågade hon sig aldrig ut genom dörren, och hon blev bara benigare och benigare. Min vackra Cassandra. Vad var det som hände med henne? Jag försökte tvinga i henne mat, men hon spydde upp den. Hon grät och grät och sa att hon inte kunde äta. Att hon hatade sig själv, att hon inte visste vad hon skulle göra. Att allt var för mycket, att hon ville vara som alla andra och slippa sig själv. Att hon var ett monster. Jag visste inte hur jag skulle trösta henne, och ibland önskade jag att jag aldrig hade träffat henne, så att jag sluppit ta hand om henne på det här viset. Hemska, kalla tankar som jag försökte tränga bort den sekund jag fick dem. Hon sa jämt att hon var ett monster. Jag förstod inte vad hon pratade om, sa att hon alltid hade varit snäll mot mig. Hon sa att jag inte förstod. Jag höll henne i mina armar medans hon grät och jag sa ”Man kan inte välja om man ska vara ett monster. Men man kan välja om man ska bete sig som ett.”
Detta tycktes lugna henne, och hon slutade för en liten stund att skaka och gråta.

Efter ett tag verkade hon bli bättre, hon började ta sina nattliga promenader igen, och hon måste ha ätit någonting, för hennes nätta små händer var mycket starkare nu. Varje dag när jag kom hem översållade hon mig med kyssar och kallade mig för sin ängel på franska igen. Mon ange. Mon sauveur. Vi älskade igen. I sängen, i duschen, mot kylskåpet. Jag var lycklig, och det tycktes hon också vara. Tills en dag. Hennes kyssar på min nacke hårdnade, och henne vassa naglar på de nätta små händerna började gräva, genom min hud. Jag skrek till, kände hur adrenalinet pumpades runt i kroppen på mig och hörde mitt hjärta slå, blodet som dunkade i öronen. Hennes ögon var vilda, hon såg ut att vara besatt och hon hade rivit upp en flik hud över mitt hjärta. Jag vrålade av skräck och lyckades slita mig loss, ingen stor bedrift då Cassandra var så liten och benig. Jag stängde in mig i badrummet, grät i panik och undrade om detta verkligen var verklighet. Efter ett tag hörde jag Cassandras gråt från andra sidan. ”Jag ville inte skada dig”, pep hon med en ynklig, gråtmild röst. ”Snälla, försvinn inte från mig. Jag vill inte att du ska försvinna. Jag vill inte skada dig, jag vill inte skada någon.”
”Du har gått för långt”, svarade jag.
”Ser du nu vad jag menar med att jag är ett monster?” frågade hon.
”Ja”, svarade jag. ”Du bara förstör allt.”

Arg som jag var blev det istället jag som gick ut ensam på en nattlig promenad, utan ett ord till Cassandra. Det gjorde ont i huden vid mina revben, runt vilka jag lindat flera lager bandage, och jag undrade om jag borde gå till en läkare. Men hur skulle jag förklara detta utan att de tog Cassandra ifrån mig? För jag ville inte försvinna från henne. Vad jag än sa, så var detta det sista jag ville. Denna insikt fick mig att snabbt vända tillbaka, springa upp för de fem trapporna till lägenheten och slänga upp dörren.
”Jag skulle aldrig lämna dig!” skrek jag. ”Du är allt jag har, du är allt jag vill ha!”
Jag fick inget svar. Alla prydnadssaker i lägenheten låg i spillror, soffan var omkullvält och porslin täckte hela golvet. Badrumsdörren stod öppen, och ifrån duschdraperistången hängde Cassandras livlösa kropp i en snara. Jag blev yr, mitt huvud gjorde plötsligt ondare än mitt sår och tårarna steg igen svidande upp i mina ögon. Jag tog en kniv och skar ner repet, försökte ge Cassandra hjärt- och lungräddning trots att jag hade en känsla av att det redan var för sent. Det var det tydligen inte. Hon hostade och såg på mig med sina rödgråtna, men alltid lika vackra, mörka ögon. ”Du sa att jag bara förstör”, väste hon. ”Titta vad jag har gjort.”

”Din dumma, självdestruktiva lilla idiot, jag älskar dig ju”, mumlade jag. Jag hasplade upp min mobil ur jackfickan och ringde ambulansen.

På sjukhuset blev även mitt sår hopsytt, och hela tiden såg sjuksköterskan på mig som om jag var dum i huvudet. Hon undrade hur jag fått såret, och jag sa att jag hade fastnat på en spik i duschen. Sköterskan trodde inte på ett ord jag sa, antagligen antog hon och läkarna att det hela var en sexlek som gått fel. Kanske var det något Cassandra sagt. Hon var bra på att ljuga, och jag lade märke till att inte en enda av dem som arbetade på sjukhuset behandlade henne som en person som just genomfört ett självmordsförsök. Jävla dumhuvuden. Cassandra, min femme fatale, mitt monster. Flickan som kan få alla på fall.

Det var stelt mellan oss i månader efter den här incidenten. Efter ett tag, och många mardrömmar från Cassandras sida lugnade allt ner sig och vi föll in i rutin. Jag ansträngde mig på jobbet och blev befordrad och Cassandra började måla tavlor med motiv från gotiska skräckböcker och lyckades få en del av dem sålda. Ibland gick vi till och med ut och festade med vänner, mina vänner naturligtvis, då Cassandra inte tycktes ha några. Vi drack och skrattade tillsammans, och även om man aldrig såg Cassandra äta kunde vem som helst som ville bevittna hur hon gladeligen drack mängder av champagnedrinkar, trots mina protester om hur detta var slöseri med både pengar och bra champagne.

Ifall vi var lyckliga tillsammans, Cassandra och jag, det är jag fortfarande inte säker på. Vi älskade varandra, och stod ut med varandras sällskap. Det var allt som behövdes för mig.

Allt hade nog fortsatt i sin trevliga vardagslunk om jag inte en kväll fått för mig att på pin kiv följa efter henne när hon gick ut och promenerade. Jag undrade vad hon gjorde när hon var ute och gick, naturligtvis. Skulle inte ni ha undrat? Jag visste inte vad jag hade förväntat mig, men tro mig på mitt ord, det var inte det jag fick se. Jag hade aldrig kunnat gissa. Jag hade verkligen ingen aning. Tecknen fanns där, men jag hade ingen jävla aning. Förlåt att jag svär, men ni kan tänka er in i min situation.

Jag följde efter henne i alla fall, och först strosade hon bara runt. Sedan gick hon in i en sunkig gammal byggnad. Jag kikade in genom fönstret i källaren, och såg att det där inne stod en ganska snygg ung tjej, bimbotypen, med silikonbröst och sådant. Cassandra närmade sig henne förföriskt, som för att kyssa henne, men gjorde det inte. Istället mumlade hon någonting, och jag puttade upp fönstret som redan var på glänt för att höra vad. Jag missade det hon sa, men bimbon svarade ”Men varför här? Det är ju ett grymt skumt hus. Det här var liksom inte vad du sa på Internet.”

Ilskan dunkade i min kropp och jag var tvungen att bita mig i läppen för att inte skrika. Efter allt jag hade gjort för henne höll hon på och raggade upp småbrudar på Internet! Ni kan tänka er att jag drog förhastade slutsatser. Jag sprang in genom dörren som lämnats på glänt och skyndade så tyst jag kunde genom huset. Det tog ett bra tag innan jag hittade källardörren och när jag gick när för trappan möttes jag av en fasansfull syn. En flaska kloroform, en indränkt trasa, en livlös kropp och en skalpell. Min älskade Cassandra hukad över kroppen. Jag svor för mig själv, vilken idiot jag var! Hon var ett förbannat monster, precis som hon sagt. Hur kunde jag inte ha förstått?

Då vände hon sig om, min vackra Cassandra, och det låg något hotfullt, överjordiskt över henne. Hennes mörka ögon såg ut som ögonen hos ett djur och hennes tänder… Det var fasansfullt, de hade växt centimeter och varenda liten tand i hennes mun var spetsig. Hon höll flickans hjärta med sina bara händer och hennes mun var täckt av blod. Som en sjuklig konstrast till detta såg hon aningen mindre härjad, aningen mindre benig ut än hon gjort när hon lämnade vårt hem. Hon var ett monster, men inte den sort jag trodde.

”Förstår du nu vad jag menade? Jag ville inte skada dig. Du är den ända som funnits där för mig. Men jag är tvungen att göra det här. För att överleva. Det finns inget annat sätt.”

När hon sa detta pep jag till och brast ut i gråt. Hon sträckte fram sin hand för att smeka min kind, och jag ryggade tillbaka.
”Förlåt, min ängel, mon ange”, viskade hon, och sedan sprang hon, försvann in i mörkret på ett oförklarligt vis, som om hon hörde hemma där.

Förstår ni vad jag menar? Klart ni inte gör. Jag lovar, det här är allt jag vet. Jag har berättat det här flera gånger. Får jag gå nu?

More make-up from Urban Decay

My family went to USA and brought this back as a present for me. So sweet! <3




Eyeshadow in "Mildew".


Eyeshadow in "Kiddie pool".


Eyeshadow in "Griffter".


Lip gloss in "red light".


Marshmallow sparkling body powder. Which really smells like marshmallows.

Melody Doll

Me in Melody Doll and my new black wig... I can't decide whether I should sell this dress or not, I really like the print, but I don't use it that often. :(

Apple picking in the underworld

A strange little story, dorky as fuck and probably not the best thing I have ever written. I do quite like it though, it's cute. It's the story of two dead women and an apple tree. From 2010.

I had a mission. Before today I really had no idea about it, but apparently there was ways to get fresh food down here. You didn’t just have to re-slaughter the dead pigs that for some reason lived close to our camp. There was a woman, an apple-picking lady. Somewhere in this godforsaken grey dessert, made of dust and the ashes of those long dead, there grew an apple tree. A fully healthy one, I might add. One that was not wittering or bleeding like the others. When I was told this I instantly wondered why we had not gone there before. After all, I had been here for over a year, and we had never eaten anything but rotten pork. They told me it was the Apple Lady’s fault. She was a tricky kind, my group said. Would not let you take any of her precious apples unless she got along with you, and you helped her pick them. My group did apparently not get along too fabulously with her, but they wondered if I might so they sent me on a search for the Apple Lady.

I had been walking under the milk coloured sky for a long time, not being able to distinguish anything at the horizon but miles and miles of the grey dust, before I saw her. For a place with so many creatures in it, the Underworld sure was lonely and it was far between the camps. She was sitting under the apple tree, not bothered by the freezing weather and the chilly winds, wrapped in a warm blanket and drinking a bowl of apple soup. A big casserole filled with the soup was cooking over a gas stove and beside it laid piles and piles of apples so vibrantly green that they looked almost radioactive in this environment. There were also some sacks made of sackcloth and sticks with something attached to them at the end lying around on the ground. The Apple Lady herself was a stunning beauty. She looked like something from the Victorian days, clad in a black dress with details in white Venice lace. She could not have been more than 20 years old when she died. She had alabaster skin, a face like one of the movie stars in the 1940’s and curly hair so white it almost looked like snow. I felt like I was of inferior beauty with my messy brown hair and ordinary stone washed jeans.

As I approached her I quietly wondered how long she had been down here. It must have been centuries. I pondered on what an extraordinary fate this was, dying in such young an age and then ending up as perhaps the only apple picker of the Underworld.

“Good day, missy!”
I heard her soft voice tears through the cold silence like a warming breeze. She sure sounded perkier than I had imagined.
“Urm… Good day!”
“What brings you here, precious?”
“I wonder if… I could get some of your apples.”
She examined me from top to toe with a slightly irritated look on her face, but then she seemed to soften and got up from the blanket she was sitting on.
“Sure you can, dear, if you help me catch them!”
Catch them? I giggled.
“One sure can tell you’re a fine lady!” I said. “One does not catch apples, one picks them! They are fruit, not foxes!”
The Apple Lady snorted irritably, then picked up one of the sticks that were lying around on the ground. It seemed it was some sort of apple picking device. At its end there was a little sack attached, and a lot of big hooks that would snare the apples. The Lady directed it at the tree and the second she did so, the whole tree started twitching. The Lady made a quick tug with the device and a few apples fell down in it.
“See!” she said. “You do have to catch them, they twitch. That is because of how full of life they are. You see, this is not a dead tree. It came from a seed I brought with me from the Overworld when I died. I had it in my bag. I always carried it with me, as a memory of a girl I used to know.”
“Oh!” I gasped in amazement.
The Apple Lady searched through the apples and found one that looked especially pretty, and then offered it to me. I made a tiny bow and she giggled. When I put my teeth in the apple I felt my mouth water for the first time since I died. The taste was heavenly, so sweet and sour at the same time.
“You liked it?” the lady asked.
I nodded. She reached me another one of the apple picking devices and then we both started to pick the apples. It went rather slow for me in the beginning, but after a while I learned how to do it. I mostly got good apples, but after a while I found one that had been eaten by worms. This puzzled me at first, but then I decided that there had to be worms in the Underworld too. After all, worms die.

“What should I do with the bad apples?” I asked.
“Put them in one of the sacks over there”, the Lady answered.
I did so and then I asked, hoping that she did not find me too inquisitive, what happened to the sacks with the bad apples.
“I give them to the death gods”, she said. “They do not much care about what they eat and as long as I give them food they do not give me any trouble. Usually it is not kindly looked upon to bring living things into the Underworld, but I have made a deal with them.”
She smiled at me and I smiled back.
“How many apples are there?” I asked. “They never seem to run out!”
“I do not think there is any end to them”, she said with a mischievous smile. “You could pick as many as you want. That’s the beauty of gardening in the underworld.”

We picked apples quietly side by side for what seemed like hours, sometimes bumping into eachothers and giggling. When we had enough apples to fill several sacks, we decided to stop picking. She offered me a bowl of hot apple soup that I greedily drank and then we sat down on her blanket and talked.

“How where you killed?” she asked. “I hope that is not too personal a question. I just thought, considering that you are so young and such…”
“It is not”, I answered. “I was hit by a car. Massive internal bleeding. I died during surgery.”
“Oh, that is so sad! I am not very familiar with cars, they where still being invented when I lived, but I have heard of them. It must have been awful!”
“It was, but there is not really much I can do about it. At least I don’t look as disfigured as some other people in here. One guy at my camp was decapitated during the French revolution. I feel kind of sorry for him, he always has to keep track on where his head is. But how about you? What happened to you? You don’t look particularly disfigured.”
“I was murdered” the Apple Lady murmured.
I was dumbstruck.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” I asked carefully.
“Why not?” the Lady sighed. “It happened very long ago anyway.”
She took my hand and started to tell her story.

“When I was alive I was a young british noblewoman. I lived a quiet life in a mansion together with my parents and my sister. As a child I would always play with the servants’ children instead of the children of other noblemen that my parents invited to the house. This much worried my family. My sister was happily married to a rich lord at age eighteen, and my parents wanted the same for me. I can not blame them for that. But I was helplessly in love with the kitchenmaid. She was the daughter of the cook and we grew up together. When we were thirteen or so, we decided to practise kissing with eachothers because my big sister had started to kiss boys and would always brag about it. We wanted to know what kissing was like. The second our lips touched we both knew we had to be together forever. We realised that none of us would ever let the other kiss someone else. We were happy like that, and every afternoon we would meet in the kitchen. I would help her bake apple pies and when we were finished we would run off and sit in the bushes outside and kiss. It continued like this until we turned seventeen. My parents realised what was up and decided to fire the cook and his daughter and send me to town to find a husband like my sister had done. I was heartbroken, but there was not much to do about it. I moved into the city and lived with my sister and her husband for three years. A lot of men asked me to marry them, but I could never forget about my true love. When I turned twenty I attended a party where I, as an attempt to escape a man who was particularly eager to marry me, hid in the kitchen. And there she was. My true love. Working as a cook. She recognised me immediately, took my hand and led me into the pantry. We closed the door and started kissing passionately, more passionately than we ever kissed before. When the man who was particularly eager to marry me found us, we were both naked and clutched tightly to eachothers. The man was absolutely furious. Screaming ‘So this is why you do not want me, you whore!’ he grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed us both repeatedly. So I died. Quite the tragic fate.”

The Apple Lady’s story left me blown away. My fate was nothing compared to hers. Passion. Love. Betrayal. I had never felt it during my life.
“But… but… Now? Can’t you find her now? She must be dead by now.” I stuttered.
“She is”, the Lady said. “I found her. She survived the attack with some moderate injury, and the man was sent to the gallows. He was apparently convicted not only for killing me, but also for trying to rape us both. That is how our lack of clothes was explained. But my sweet little kitchenmaid, she lived on. She was unhappy for a very long time, but eventually she found another woman whom she could truly love. She does not want to leave her for me. They still want to spend eternity together, even in the afterlife. That, I must say, is true love.”
“You must be heartbroken”, I whispered.
“I am.”

We collected the apples I was to bring to camp in quiet. When I was about to leave I looked at the beautiful Apple Lady, who now had a completely new dimension of sadness to her, and sighed. Then I made up my mind. I leaned forth to her and gave her a quick, light kiss on the lips. They where warm and soft but yet doing this sent a chill down my spine. The lady did not move. Then she reached me my bag of apples and said:
“You’ll come back tomorrow, will you not?” with a scared little voice.
I looked quietly at her.
“For more apples?” she asked.
I nodded and smiled.
Then she dropped the sack of apples on the ground and grabbed a hold of me by the waist, kissing me so passionately we both nearly tipped over. I felt her silky little tongue against my lips so I opened them, touching her tongue with mine. She threw her arms around my neck and we stayed like that for a while.

When she loosened her grip and I had picked up all the dropped apples, whilst promising to visit again tomorrow, I headed back to camp through the grey dessert, ashes blowing in my face, with a little smile on my lips. For the first time since I died, I felt hope.

No rest

This one's a darling. I wrote it sort of stream of conciousness-style, just writing exactly what I thought at the time. It might be a zombie story, or not. From 2010.

Cold. Wet. Where am I? I can’t see, and it feels like I’ve been here for months. Perhaps it’s just days. Or seconds. Time doesn’t quite seem to pass when you’re locked up with only yourself to keep you company. How long have I been here, like this? I can’t tell. I have no idea anymore about anything. I don’t even know how it started. All I remember is a past sense of peace, of belonging and now… This flesh. The flesh and the vile thing that is pounding inside my chest. How soft everything feels. The blood rushing through my veins. If I push my two hands together long enough they become warm. Water comes out of the surface of my skin, the tiniest little drops from the pores, but I can still feel them all to well. It feels like I am drowning. My body is so frail and if a put a hand towards my head then all that separates me from touching my brain is skin and a thin slice of bone, some membranes. It is disgusting. Over time I have started to feel even weaker, like I can no longer stand. Every time I rise I feel like I will fall and there is this horrific, twisting ache somewhere close to the middle of my body. The worst thing, however, is the pounding. I can not escape. I run, I scream and it still doesn’t go away. I pound back at it and it still doesn’t go disappear. I would focus on something else to make it go away, to not hear it, feel it, if there was only anything else to focus on. All there is, me and my decaying body and my lost sanity.

I was asleep for centuries and this is how I awoke.

A flash. Everything is suddenly so bright and parts of me that I forgot I had start to hurt. The air in the room turns white and I turn away and cover my eyes with what I think is my arm. Something sends tingles trough my nerves and makes me twitch. I feel a sensation that is so new and yet so familiar. Touch, the sensation of another persons hand on my shoulder. I try to brush it off.

“Hey, girl”, somebody says. “I won’t hurt you. I’ve been waiting for this for a really long time.”

The voice is dark and low and it soothers me. Suddenly the light is not as bright anymore. I can see. In front of me is a man and he is holding out a blanket towards me. I suddenly realise that I am naked, so I grab it and use it to hide myself. In horror I realise that my hands are nearly dried out, cracking. Yellow. I try to shout but all that comes out of my mouth is a raspy groan.

“Don’t worry”, the man says. “We’ll fix it. You need more fluids. We just have to get you cleaned off first.”

He carries me up a couple of stairs and we enter a room full of strange machines. The man puts me inside one of them and presses a button and a flood of water falls down on me. I shriek and the man tells me not to worry. It is supposed to do this, the machine. The water is warm, but not too warm and I stand there for a while. When I look back at the man, I realise that he is looking away. I do not know if it is out of courtesy or due to the disgust he must feel for my dehydrated naked body. A strange smell is coming from my decayed body and it is unbearable. I look at my hand again and instead of being cracked it is now sticky and swollen and has started to turn into a sickly shade of grey. I am not certain whether this is improvement or not. I take a step towards the man in order to alert him and then I see my own image in the mirror. I would cry if I could. By now, I have regained enough sense to realise that a human being should not look like this. My face looks like it is melting, decomposing, and parts of it has fallen off. The one of my cheeks which is still relatively whole is covered with blisters. I imagine my skin bubbling, boiling. It is a dark yellow mixed with blue and green. I have lost nearly all of my upper lip. I move my eye a bit lower and realise that there is a big hole in my torso, big enough to see my guts. I would vomit if I could. The man realises what I am up to and comes rushing to me with my blanket.

“Don’t look”, he says. “I told you we’ll fix it. Later. I need skin to transplant to you first, and some new organs.”

I don’t understand a word he says but due to my lack of voice I can’t object. He looks as me as if he is trying to figure out what to do and then he sweeps me up in the blanket and carries me to another room. He puts me down on an uncomfortable, green couch and goes into another room. He returns with some woman’s clothing, underwear and a very simple red dress.

“Here you go”, he says. “I hope it’s the right size. I did not take your measurements, it seemed like a improper thing to do.”

He helps me put on the clothes and then smiles at me, like a proud parent.

“You are such a marvellous creation”, he says. “I can’t believe I actually managed to do this.”

I still have no idea what he is talking about, but I have the feeling it is something of greater importance than putting clothes on me.

He lifts me up again, saying my legs won’t be strong enough to keep me stable for several days so I can’t walk. However, I should apparently try to wiggle my toes. It should help, somehow. He carries me down to the kitchen where he proceeds to feed me an ill-tasting liquid.

“We’ll probably need to get your vocal chords replaced. They’re beyond repair”, he says.

“We will accomplish wonders, you and I”, he says.

Let me take your hand, I'm shaking like milk

Ice cream macaron with strawberries

Det här är inte ett inlägg fött ur desperation, det är en distanserad betraktelse

Jag kan inte tala. Jag vet att jag inte kan tala, även fast jag kan. Det bor en annan person inom mig, instängd. Som inte alltid kan ta sig ut och då det blir det ”jag vet inte”. Det är inte alltid det att jag inte vet. Ibland är det att jag inte vet, ibland är orden bara ett försvar. När man säger dem får man inga fler frågor. Tre små ord som ingenting betyder. Jag vill komma nära. Jag har alltid velat komma nära, men det är alldeles för nära för att fungera. Jag sätter gränserna själv och vet inte ens varför jag sätter dem. Samtidigt vet jag. Om ingen kommer nära behåller jag min distans. Om ingen kommer nära slipper jag känna. Min kapacitet att ibland inte känna är den största anledningen till att jag finns kvar här idag. Jag skriver bättre än jag talar. Nu för tiden talar jag väl, förut talade jag som ett brådmoget barn, innan det talade jag inte alls. Jag skriver bättre än jag talar ändå. Jag har vänner som säger att jag är en annan person i skrift. Det oroar mig. Vem är den riktiga mig, i sådana fall? Jag har vänner som säger att mitt skriftliga jag är så kallt, aggressivt, direkt, sarkastiskt. Jag tycker mest att mitt skriftliga jag är besatt, tvångsmässigt. Med andra personer blir jag en annan person. Jag låtsas inte bli någon annan, utan jag blir det på riktigt. Den fnittrande, nöjda, lite osäkra, positiva, knasiga är också jag. Jag kan vara så när jag är ensam med. Fast när jag är ensam märks det knappt för tvångsmässigheten. För det kalla, hårda, aggressiva. Lycka är ingen djupt förankrad egenskap hos mig. Den fladdrar bara på ytan. Jag måste kämpa för att ankra fast den ordentligt. Ibland är allting samma sak och ingen skillnad finns. Ibland uppstår total upplösning, sönderdelning, sönderfall. Jag är lite överallt hela tiden. Jag är många olika saker. Det är så det ska vara, men jag orkar inte. Det kanske är så att allt är samma sak, men bara delar syns. Toppen av ett isberg. Så varför syns inte allt? Varför kan inte hela mig tala? Det bor en annan person inom mig, instängd. Hon kan inte alltid ta sig ut, men ibland kan hon det. Det lätta flyter på ytan och syns för alla. Det jag faktiskt bryr mig om kommer fram när jag litar på dig. Mitt skriftliga jag sidor låses oväntat upp av olika personer som råkar besitta olika kvaliteter som kan locka fram en sida, men bara en i taget. Många har sett något, men ingen har sett allt. Men inget går att pressa fram. Det är viktigt att komma ihåg det. Jag stryps på en gång. Var försiktig. Döm och håna inte, och du ska få se mer än vad du tror. Jag kan vara mitt skriftliga jag öga mot öga med dig då, tillslut. Bland annat. Jag behöver bara tid och en brottningsmatch med min hjärna. Tillslut står jag där, med insidan på utsidan. Många har sett något, men ingen har sett allt. Vill du se allt hjälper det bara om jag skriver till dig. Att ingen tänkt på det. Om livet var delvis skriftligt skulle allt vara mycket lättare.

Puppet

I'm moving all my old short stories to this blog, one by one, and will post them here instead in the future. I wrote this in 2009.

Jack is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, trying his best to stop the seemingly endless stream of blood coming from his nose. Nosebleed, again? Jack wonders if there is something wrong with his nose. A childhood friend of his had very sensitive veins in his nose, Jack recalls. Every time he as much as touched his nose a little too hard, or if someone else bumped into it, a massive stream of warm red blood would start to flow from it. It would not stop for nearly an hour. Later in his life, Jack’s friend had to go through a medical procedure which involved burning the veins slightly, in order to make the bleeding stop. Jack remembers that his friend’s description of this procedure in class the next day disgusted him greatly. Now Jack is wondering whether he might have a more mild case of the same condition. He decides for himself that he probably does not, but he had been bleeding from his nose every day in an entire week, which really started to worry him. He pokes another piece of paper into his nose in order to soak up the blood, but it keeps on flowing. He pushes the piece of paper in deeper, and suddenly he feels an excruciating pain spread rapidly trough his body. He falls to the ground, passes out and wakes up on the cold stone floor about half an hour later. This settles it, he thinks to himself. I’m going to the darn doctor.

After the visit to the doctor, Jack is feeling even more confused and terrified than he did before. When he told the doctor about the horrible pain he had felt, the doctor wondered if he might have pushed the paper in way to deep, perhaps all the way to his brain. This was of course very unlikely, the doctor pointed out, but he still wanted to examine Jack’s nose to make sure that no damage had come to it. After looking up his nose with a flashlight and a peculiar looking instrument for a while, the doctor suddenly had a rather disturbed look on his face, and he told Jack that he had some sort of outgrowth deep inside his nose which the doctor could not indentify. He had probably pushed the paper too hard into it, which had caused the excruciating pain that caused him to pass out. He was to send him to another doctor, some kind of specialist, in the closest few days since this appeared to be a rather acute matter.

Now Jack is sitting in his car on the way back home, fearing that he has some kind of strange cancer.

The next day did not bring much clarity to the situation. Due to his recently acquired fear of strange diseases and a pain that he may or may not be feeling from the strange outgrowth (he is not perfectly sure, it could all be placebo), he had called in sick early in the morning. Right now, Jack is standing in front of the bathroom mirror again, trying to see the dreadful, disgusting thing that apparently existed inside of his nose. He is holding his head in the most awkward positions and waving a flashlight about in order to see the inside of his nose properly. Then he notices it, and cringes with disgust. Deep inside his nose there is a nearly half-moon-shaped formation, that seems to be made of pink flesh and has large visible veins running all over it, not much unlike spider web. Jack swears to himself. Well, of course it hurts, he thinks. I have some sort of monstrous tumour in my nose. He suddenly thinks it might be a good idea to try and poke it in order to see if it falls of, and doing so he once again falls to the bathroom floor, fainted. Jack awakes, and thinks to himself not to ever try and poke this thing again. The pain that comes out of it is not of this world. It is as if all of his body hurts, even though the outgrowth is only a tiny bulb inside his nose. Jacks ponders to himself, and finds that this thing probably has nerves running from it to all parts of his body, that it is connected and intertwined with every single part of him, and that by trying to get rid of it himself he might seriously screw up his nerve system. He decides to leave it be. However, Jack also makes an interesting observation. The pain seems to be at its strongest in the outgrowth, which means that it is made out of his own flesh and blood. And furthermore, the pain in it highly resembles what most people would call a headache, even though it is not technically inside his head. At the same time, his actual brain is merely suffering the same kind of pain that the rest of his body does. This fact confuses Jack greatly, but he decides to ignore it for now and tell the specialist doctor about it later on.

Jack spends the afternoon thinking about his childhood. He remembers that he always felt very left out, like as if he could not understand the other children. He had always had to study other people a lot in order to be able to appear normal to them. The only people who actually wanted to hang out with him were geeks, like his childhood friend with the nosebleed. His childhood friend who he now is sure he does not have the same condition as. He starts imagining that he is actually a different species, one with a strange nerve system centred in its nose. An alien, perhaps. Perhaps he can do extraordinary things. Or perhaps he just read too much science fiction as a child. Jack starts to get annoyed with himself, and decides to go to sleep.

The next visit, four days after the first one, determines that the outgrowth is definitely not cancer. The specialist had taken a small sample of the outgrowth, but this had caused a pain so strong that Jack had never felt anything like it before in his life. It felt like someone took a piece of him, a piece very vital for his function, and it hurt about as much as you imagine it would if someone spontaneously ripped your leg off. Jack passes out, and the greatly worried specialist called the IR. Now Jack awakes, sitting on a hospital bed with needles in the bends of his arms. The specialist is telling him that he apparently has some kind of until now unheard of parasite in his nose, and every time it is hurt it releases alien hormones in his body causing the excruciating pain he feels. It must be removed as soon as possible, and the hospital is currently flying in a specialist team from Belgium. Jack is still feeling awfully hurt and very nauseous, and that strange feeling of a missing body part has not yet left him. Weak and scared out of his mind he is leaning back against the bed. Jack is asking the specialist if there is a chance that he might die. The specialist looks at him with a very serious face and says: “I’m afraid there is.”

It’s time for surgery and Jack is pumped full of drugs and his supposed to drift away, but for some reason he dos not. His head is perfectly clear, although he can not speak nor move. He is very frightened, and feels like as if he is going to vomit due to the pain caused by the surgeons trying to cut the outgrowth from his flesh. Suddenly, the pain easies as he feels himself separate from the organism and finally he feels a freedom he has never felt before. He is cold, hungry, tired and in a great deal of pain, but there is nothing stuck on him anymore. Suddenly, a sense of alarm strikes him. He can not se. He could before, but now his sight is gone. As he tries to move his limbs, he feels that he no more has them. He is tiny, solid and round. Trying not to panic, Jack is trying to speak. Upon hearing hissing sounds come out of what is probably supposed to be his mouth, he is losing his clarity of mind. Screaming loudly, Jack hears the following words: “It is screaming! It is screaming! What kind of dreadful creature is this! For Christ’s sake, kill it! Who cares about the scientists studying it, it might kill you! It’s dangerous! Look what it’s done to poor Jack! He is already dead!”

Upon hearing this, Jack is experiencing the greatest confusion he has ever felt in his twenty-four years long life. He is trying to puzzle the pieces together, wriggling his round little body in panic. Then, there is nothing.

Tavelklänningar/Dresses with painting prints

Jag älskar tavelklänningar. Det är lite som om en naken brud sprang in på ett museum, hittade en tavla att skyla sig med och ba kom på: "Men guuuu va snyggt, den här kan jag ha som balklänning!".



I love dresses with painting prints. They sort of feel like as if some naked chick ran into a museum, found a painting to cover up with, and then goes "OMG so pretty, I can use this as an evening dress!" (This sounds a lot more fun in Swedish for some reason.)


Anyhow, that's why I'm going to buy one. Or several.

All pictures are from Juliette et Justine.

Day 6 -18

Day 6 – Handwrite your favourite lyric and take a picture.


I'm just doing what the challenge tells me to.
And if the challenge told you to jump off a cliff, would you do that too?
Err, probably not.

These are my favorite lyrics, I guess. Sex Gang Children's "Arms of Cicero". I haven't written the last part because I cannot for the sake of my life figure out what Andi sings there. If you can, please help me.

As huge a fan as I am of their sound on Song and Legend, this song has some pretty fantastic lyrics that I can't get out of my head. I mean, the lyrics on Song and Legend are awesome too, but this... This is mindfuck. And still so beautiful. Lyrics like this with a Song and Legend sound, though... If something like that existed, I'd probably burst out in tears of joy or something.

Also, on another note... Why do SO MANY goth songs contain the words walk away?
I mean this, Play Dead, SoM, even gothy new wave band Sys of Choi... Is walking away just a super goth thing to do, or what?

I'm also really fond of everything that Chrissie McGee of Bone Orchard has ever written. Can you tell I like slightly surreal stuff?
And as you can see, my handwriting is weird.

Day 7 – Ten of your favourite goth bands.
Just goth ones? Just ten? Okay, I'll try only putting bands that have made a large portion of goth music here. It might border into postpunk anyhow, 'cause that's how I roll.

Bone Orchard

Shall I Carry the Budgie Woman?

Stopping at the mouth
With leather corks
Reviving dead friendships
In a vegetable patch

As mentioned above in 6. I love love love them. Mancre! is fantastic too, probably would have posted it if I could find it on youtube.

Strike, storm the pause!
Like this is it, with daggers drawn
Stabbing like this, below the heart
With straining nylon ribs
Of dampened cellophane
A knife for a knife
She's kind as a rule
She wears me like a garther

Hell, I could quote the whole song. Or I would if I could, I can't make out a word a few seconds after this ends. Come to think of it, if I could make out the words, perhaps these would be my favourite lyrics. Someone with better hearing, please help me?

Sex Gang Children

State of Mind

Yes. Dear god yes. Beautiful and slightly chaotic.

Blood and Roses
(Okay, I know they're not *super* goth, but also peace punk, blah blah punk, what have you. I'm no genre expert, don't throw rocks at me. I just felt I needed to put them here. Don't say they've never made a goth song, or I will hide outside your window and play "Necromantra" for you every time you try to sleep for the next year or so.)

The Tower Falls

These are pretty new to me, only listened to them for a year or so... But I've had all of their songs on repeat many many times and I never seem to get tired of them. Awesome guitarr, awesome lyrics, a slight Aleister Crowley obsession.

The Virgin Prunes
(Also not *super* goth, please cease the rock-throwing.)

Twenty Tens

They are long time favourites of mine, I've loved them since I was 14 and I keep liking them more and more for each year.

13th Chime

Cuts of Love

These are lovely.

Siouxsie and the Banshees

Israel

The first band I ever loved. Heheheh.

Look Back In Anger

Flowers


Ausgang

This is Where I Was Meant to Fall


The Dancing Did

Badger boys


Danielle Dax
(Also not *super* goth most of the time, but the video below totally is.)

Pariah

Gosh, I love her music. And her hair used to be so amazing.

Day 8 – What's your worst and best experience with non-Goths?
Well, since I don't only hang out with goths, both some of my best and some of my worst experiences has been with people who can't fucking stand goth music. I've fallen in love with non-goths, had fantastic friendships with non-goths, had acts of unexpected kindness done to me by non-goths, been lied to and betrayed by non-goths, been cheated on by non-goths, been bullied for many, many years to the point of total breakdown by non-goths.

Oh, I'm just messing with you. I realise that this means "what are the best/worst things that happened with non-goths due to you being a goth", I just have a disturbing sense of humour. And none of these things happened to me because I was a goth.

The best... I dunno. People telling me how cool I look. And variations on that. People giving me stuff (I've gotten earrings, necklaces, puzzles...). People holding up doors for me. People just seem to have a nicer attitude towards me when I look goth. Hahah, no, really! When I dress down and try to look "normal", shady guys grab my ass and I get cat-called. When I dress cutesy, people become assholes-of-doom, or at least stop me everywhere by grabbing my shoulders only to ask me really stupid questions. You'd think it'd be the other way around, no? But it isn't. People respect me when I have teased hair, red lips and winklepickers. God knows why.

The worst... Noone has ever done anything really bad to me because of the whole goth thing. People have acted like assholes when I've dressed all cute and colorful, but when I look like a goth.... Noone acts rude towards me, or any ruder than they would to any other young female at least. No idea of why. I guess swedes just love goths?

Day 9 – What genre of music do you dislike?
Err... I'm not sure I dislike any genre. There are plenty of genres I don't like, but it's not dislike, it's this neutral can't-be-bothered-ness. I guess I dislike schlager?

Day 10 – What do you hate and love about the subculture?
What I love:
The music, first and foremost! Duh. It's beautiful. The only other kind of music I like as much is postpunk. And if you say that goth and postpunk are the same thing, I will bite your nose 'til it bleeds, then lecture you to hell and back. They are indeed similiar, but not the same thing. As I have tried explain to many a drunk goth or synthpop or industrial fan at parties. (And by industrial fan I don't mean a device that fans, which is used in industries, but a person who likes industrial music.)
I've met some really awesome people due to a shared interest in this kind of music too, which is awesome.
I love the way most people in the subculture, even posers, assholes and total newbies, tend to have incredibly awesome hair. The world need more awesome hair.
That the goths who don't fall into the categories mentioned below in "what I hate" are usually really nice and have an excellent sense of humour and know to make fun of themselves.
That the genre never fucking dies. It can go horrible, then great, then horrible again, but it never disappears. It is incredibly stubborn, no? I like stubborn things.

What I "hate" (Such a strong word!):
Misconceptions in the media. All the "goth-specialist" culture critics who wouldn't know real goth music if it bit them in the ass.
Posers who tell me I'm not goth for not having a deathhawk.
How some people are really arrogant and still so sensitive about the subculture. How they act all "gother than thou", but can't tolerate being questioned themselves. How they go up to anyone with teased hair and accuse them of being a hipster who probably has never even heard the Banshees, but then has no idea about the actual history of goth music themselves. True story bro.
Lack of diversity in visuals. Deathrockers are super pretty, I can't stress this enough, but it's not for everyone and the way everyone seems to be wearing ripped tights intead of shirts and pants, underbust corsets, contrasting neon colors and have meter-high deathhawks in this country is making people think that this is all that goth is, and that anything unlike it is "not troo". Also, I want to see teased hair in other styles than deathhawks. Please, be creative. Make me happy.
Also, bad modern "deffrawk" bands that sound like electropop gone wrong. Ugh.

Day 11 – Is Goth a lifestyle for you?
In a way it is. I mean, the music is a pretty big part of my life, I listen to it pretty much every day. Also, I really like the aesthetics, not just with clothes, but with art, interior decorating... (I'm not talking frilly *gothic* aesthetics here though, but rawer, more surreal ones. Think of the cover art to "Pornography".) It's like there's always a little piece of the subculture with me all the time. OMG I sound like the biggest dork ever.

However, it's not all I like nor all I do.

Day 12 – What's your gothic inspiration?
Music-wise, see 7. Duh.

Fashion wise, I get inspiration from looking at clothes in stores, people's outfits, makeing stuff up on my own... My favourite way of shopping is going into a second hand store, finding something incredibly ugly, deciding to put it on to see how stupid it will look, falling in love with the damned thing and realising it looks awesome on me and instantly coming up with 15 different outfits that go with it. That's how I get most of my fashion-ideas.

Also, this tumblr makes me to horrible, wonderful things to my hair: http://nowthisisgothic.tumblr.com/

Day 13 – What was your first band t-shirt?
A The Cure t-shirt. I actually don't own that many band t-shirts.

Day 14 – What was your best and worst DIY disaster.
I don't DIY much. I've only altered straps and sleeves and the like, and it's always gone well.

Day 15 – Your favourite or most expensive item in your wardrobe.
The most expenive one is my Innocent World winter coat. (Though mine is black.)


But we're talking goth compatible stuff here, no? (Although wearing my IW coat with trad goth stuff due to lack of a warmer winter coat has earned me many a compliment, strangely enough.)
That would make it this corset from Morgana Femme Couture:


My favourite however cost me like $15 so expensive really does not equal favourite haha. It's this skirt:


Day 16 – What's the most casual you've ever dressed?
I dress casual all the time. Black pants or pencil skirt, black top, leatherjacket, zero makeup = me 4-5 days a week. I don't know where this nonsense about goths being super dressy all the time comes from?

Day 17 – Your favourite Goth brand.
I don't like most "goth brands". Their stuff is usually terrible of both quality and design, and honestly not even particulary goth looking. I thrift a lot and possibly alter stuff a bit. And I buy from independent designers. The only goth brand I care for at all is Alice Auaa. 30% of their stuff is tacky as hell, 30% is complete utter brilliance and 40% too uglypretty not to like.

Day 18 – Worst hair experience.
Ehh... I don't know. I guess when my hair refuses to stand up where it's supposed to? Or combing out teased hair? I've never really had a super bad hair experience.