Bitches..? Party people? Anyone there?

Saturday was the big day. After one week of heavy planning, everything was ready for our (second) house-warming party (our first one was very fun but included only 2 out of 3 residents, so we promptly gave it another shot). The ox was slaughtered in the traditional halal way, and prepared with the finest spices from Oslo East (noted for both its quality, but mostly its quantity, of exotic tastes) and the freshest herbs of autumnal Norway. We had performed the sacred Wine-Blessing-Dance, and sacrificed a portion of our mead to Santa Claus. We even performed the secret and powerful Masturbation of Christ, just to be sure we had all our divine bases covered.

Well, it would seem that any more than one house-warming party is considered hubris, a deadly insult to the Gods. Because as we sat there, in our holy robes (open in the back), with Ravi Shankar blasting from our speakers, waiting for the guests, guess what happened? Nothing. Noone showed up.

Noone.

Actually, we were down one as well, as the third person living here (the one who missed the first party also) left to watch a movie with a friend. Expect pictures from our party, featuring Mr. Merde (the Incredible Balloon-Bouncing Man) and a pirate balloon, soon.

Something completely different: Apparently, Oslo has gotten some new subway carriages. As I stepped into one of them last night, it felt decidedly like the future. The cold and hostile future, that is (I was also reminded of the time, when waiting for tram no. 17, I suddenly found myself boarding tram X.. very Twilight Zoney). I'll probably get used to it with time, but I'm really not very fond of this sterile, hospital-like trend that seems to be spreading. Everything's supposed to be white, clean and futuristic these days. Call me old-fashioned, but I'll take the post-apocalyptic style any day, even if we have to fuck up the earth to get it.

True Stories from the Apartment of Somewhat Unpleasant Horrors

Strange happenings in the apartment lately. My roommate (who, at least for the moment and for no apparent reason, shall be known as Mr. Kurva), after a miraculous recovery from death (and because of this shall now be known as Mr. Kurva the Magical Death-Defying Miracle Man), brought home a deer some days ago. The deer, named Rudolphe (also called, sometimes, the Magical Mystery Deer of Power) was discovered wandering the streets of Oslo, perhaps prostituting itself, and seemed to enjoy life on the 8th floor. This, of course, is interesting, as scientists normally consider deer quite afraid of heights. He wandered around the apartment, cutely nibbling our socks (which are now full of holes), and generally being very charming. Anyway, since we both are animal lovers, and since Rudolphe was, at times, very annoying (and despite it not being christmas yet), we killed, cooked and ate him (with cabbage and black peppers, obviously). It was delicious.

Murder is quickly becoming the staple of this collective. Luckily, we have the big cellar, so it shouldn't be a problem. Actually, Mr. Kurva mumbled something about "army of zombies", but that might just have been posttraumatic resurrectionconfusion-syndrome, very common in people coming back from the dead. You know, if anything interesting happens, you'll be the first to know about it. Lucky bastards, you. One for the road, word combo of the day:
Candy-coloured cock.

Broken cups and strange dreams

Right, so I had this weird dream last night. There was this group of people, and they were going to beat me up for three days, and then kill me. They were quite open about it, there was no reason for it, and they were not happy about it. The disturbing part: Some of these people were my friends (in case anyone just got worried; not my real-life friends. In fact, they weren't based on real people at all). So I pleaded with them to stop, mostly because I didn't want to be killed (I would guess this is pretty normal), but also because I didn't want to kill them. You see, the only way to get out of this pickle would be to murder them, one by one, over this three-day period. So while they were simply toying with me, beating me around like a crash test dummy, I was constantly trying to
trick them in ways that would end in their deaths. But of course I didn't succeed, because I couldn't kill my friends, and the others were to plain strong for me. The dream cut off after the second day, when I was planning some serious mass murder. It was a cliffhanger ending that I hope will continue tonight; because I really liked this dream. It was like an exciting movie, it had all the important elements: Unmotivated violence, intrigue, emotional dilemmas, and a very real sense of danger and loss.

Does thinking like this make me disturbed and dangerous? Or was this dream simply a parable of the way I think of my life? Of course, there were some additional details.. but I'm keeping those for myself.

Anyway, storytime: My very first taste of coffee came from a small, blue cup, handmade and hand-painted. I later bought this cup, the very same one, and I've had it with me ever since. I've used it for coffee, as a urinal when no other option was available, for sperm when I've been jerking off, and for money during my many begging rounds through Oslo. So you see, I've made memories with this cup, it's comforted me when I've felt lonely, and it's been my only ray of light when I've felt suicidal. And yesterday, it got broken into approxomately 37 pieces. It was broken by my (late) friend, who I lived with until I killed him and stashed his corpse in our surprisingly roomy cellar. And now I have to pay double rent. Oh well. A small price to pay for justice.
The moral of this story, of course, is this: Don't kill anyone unless you're rich.

Sofa King

I woke up this morning (take note, this is not something I do every day) to this news story. For all you people to lazy to click on links, it's about the benefits of tea. Long story short; tea is good for you and you should drink three to four cups a day. The most interesting part, however, is that apparently neither tea nor coffee is dehydrating. You'll still feel like shit if you drink only coffee and no water, but you'll have a "net gain of fluid", the doctor says (except for the shit part, that was my personal opinion). Lastly, it's worth mentioning that the studies were paid for by the UK Tea Council. Make of this what you will. I want to believe.

In other news, I now have a sofa. It is quite big and very very comfy, in fact, it's once been used as a torture device by the Spanish Inquisition. I am hoping it will give me a new roll, since my last roll (which lasted for at least two weeks) ended approximately four days ago. I have been on several rolls this summer, but I've had this dreadful feeling lately that things are returning to normal. Which means no rolls for a long time. But we'll see. The saying goes "live and learn", but my own interpretation goes more like "live, learn, forget, get bored. Have a cup of coffee".

Oh well. Now I'm off to double, maybe triple, my daily intake of caffeine.