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Badly infected with the badboy-syndrome

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This is completely unnecessary, but I can't help it. I never considered myself the sharpest tool in the shed, but I just reviewed my grades from my university years so far (not finished, there are more to come) and I found the following:

3 x A
6 x B
1 x C
1 x Pass (don't know why they wouldn't give us grades in this subject, but hey, a pass is a pass)

I'm... surprised at myself. And a wee bit proud, which is why I post this here, of course. My, my. I think I will probably feel good about myself for a few days now :)

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Well, what can I say? I just watched the musical "Rock 'n Roll Wolf", or "Ma-Ma", for the first time and I now find myself strangely attracted to the big, bad, pipe-smoking wolf Titi Suru. He would be the mysterious creature on the left right here:

I say strangely because it is not normal, in any way, to be attracted to creatures in tights and purple wigs. But there it is.

Oh, and I get to take a class called "The Victorian Period" this coming semester. Joy ^^

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Have you ever felt like you're being verbally tied up and then emotionally raped? Or rather, let me put it this way: have you ever tried explaining something to someone, something which meant so much to you it practically made you cry? You stand there, talking agitatedly, trying so hard to make the other person see why you're so worked up over this, and then they just throw it in your face and humiliate you? Then you look into the face of the person who has just belittled, ridiculed or otherwise affronted you, and you expect to see the sneering face of your worst enemy, because what they said demonstrated such disrespect for you as an individual that you're gob-smacked and can't really find your tongue. Instead you see one of your friends. One of the boys.

The thing is, they don't really mean anything by it. They're not trying to be cruel, you tell yourself, even though they just took something that really meant something to you and threw it in the gutter with a coarse laugh. They just made a few jokes, really, they just cracked a few snippy comments when you were trying to be serious. You keep telling yourself that. They didn't really mean anything by it, they were just having a bit of fun at your expense.

But it still stings like a bitch, doesn't it? And you just know this guy is going to do it again at some later point. And again, and again, every time he feels like it. And you're powerless to stop him. You're trying so hard to connect with him, trying to explain something important, and all you get is a grin, a horribly harmless comment about something to do with your personality, and sniggers all around from his pals.

Why do men do this? They seem to be getting some sort of pleasure out of seeing me hurt or angry, or preferably a combination of both. “You're so cute when you're mad, that's just because you're a girl, see what I have to live with?” And those are my close friends. Whenever I'm trying to communicate with a man, and he – for whatever reason – loses interest in the conversation, he makes it a point to offend me, just to see me angry or upset. They get a kick out of it. I don't know if it's because they can't hold their own in a serious discussion, or if they're sadists, but for whatever reason, they love seeing me hurt.

Me as in, women in general.

Please, darling Internet, explain this to me. Are they sadists? Are they afraid of women on a general basis? Do they feel better about themselves if they see someone else hurting? Do they think it'll be easier to get into my pants if they make me cry first? I am begging you, particularly the men out there, to explain this to me. I'm not joking and I'm not trying to be a bitch, I just need to understand this. I have never, not once in my life, wanted to hurt someone else for fun and I have never done it on purpose, either. What is it that is so appealing about making another individual feel worthless just when they are thinking about something which is truly important to them?

For the love of pie, just tell me!
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Angst. Angst. Angst. ... ANGST!

I wanted silvery grey hair. Y'know, because I like how it reminds me of werewolves and other cool, supernatural beings. Aes sedai, maybe. And I've seen other girls with hair like that, and I figured it couldn't be so difficult, right? Well, I started by bleaching my hair - I was a brunette before Operation Gandalf, so I had to kill all the pigmentation - and I looked like an overgrown chicken for a full day (my hair has lots and lots of red and yellow pigments in it, they tell me). Then I got out the pack of silvery grey colour and I went to it.

I followed every single instruction to the letter, for both bleaching and colouring, of course.

I am still a blonde.

I do not want to be blonde. I don't mind the haircolour when it's natural, but on me, it looks anything but. It's horrid. It's ghastly. It's practically yellow. And with my severely black eyebrows, it looks worse still. I look like one of the Backstreet Boys in their early era, or the Hanson brothers.

I think I'm going to shave it all off tomorrow and get the awesome zombie tattoo I've always wanted.
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I want to do this. It's the old pilgrim's trail to Trondheim, and I want to walk it. Three weeks of hiking through unfamiliar country all by my lonesome. Sounds like a good challenge, yes? :)

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The always inspiring storyfan just posted some very gorgeous women on her journal, and seeing as I can't think of anything else to write about today, I'll go ahead and copy her. Click to see the one woman on this earth who could have turned my sexual preference around:
Giant picture warningCollapse )
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I will be completely and utterly MIA for the next five days. I'm going to that strange, wonderful place called Finnskogen, where the Internet is yet unheard of and the cell phone networks are scarcely scattered at best. So don't expect any input from me until Friday.

Cheerio, all!

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... simply doesn't get more beautiful than this:

It's from Matthew Bourne's production of Swan Lake and it's the most heartwrenchingly beautiful thing I've ever seen. *sniffles*
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I got an A! On my Modern Norwegian History exam! Oh frabjous day! C'mon, everybody dance now!

*does the Macarena*


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Re. the colonoscopy: all was well and I have nothing to worry about. YAY! ^^ I'm happy again now.

In other news, I'm having my hair cut today. My regular hairdresser could squeeze me in at short notice, fortunately, because I never go to anyone else. Not since I discovered the inability of Norwegian hairdressers to make anything stylish out of short hair. They just go, "Uh, short? Like, a guy's cut?" No, you idiot. Short like a girl's cut, with a little variety from time to time. My regular hairdresser does this, and I'm always very happy with the results.

Also, I've been asked to organize a weekend outing for my band in August. Spiffing! I absolutely love organizing things, and I know just where we're going and what we're going to do. But it's a "secret outing" (blåtur, for you Norwegians out there), the kind where you just show up and get poured onto a bus, and then you don't know where you're going until you get there. I'm in squee ^^

Lastly, I've got a house to clean and a walk-in closet to decorate. So toodle-pip for now.
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A goodish while ago - in fact, in December 2006 - I wrote an emo entry in which I notified all and sundry that I had broken up with Hope of Love, i.e. that I had resigned myself - for the time being - to not chasing after boys for a little while since they obviously weren't interested in me.

I just realized that I never got Hope back. I mean, I don't cry my eyes out over it anymore, like I did when I was young and silly, and I don't really feel the need to go around waiting for Love either, but I never actually started hoping I might fall in love again, you know? I think I realized it's all fairytale romance and Disney movies, and that that's not for everyone.

I mean, come on. I'm rather emotionally stumped as it is, and I really don't need another embarrassingly failed romance to make it worse. Also, I can't think of a single thing - excluding sexual gratification - I'd need a man for, thus a boyfriend/lover is not a necessary commodity to me but pure luxury. One does not need luxuries; one wants them. And one simply cannot have everything one wants.

Try as I might, I just can't make myself see Love as a realistic feature in my life. However hard I try, I can't seem to convince my mind to hope for anything connected with it. I have no hope of finding a partner beyond a comfortable physical arrangement; not because it's impossible that I should find someone who likes me, but because I don't like anyone. I don't think I have for half a dozen years. I have no expectations. Come to that, I'm also completely impervious to romance; I don't squee at a sweet gesture, I don't sigh happily at the end of Sense and Sensibility, I absolutely hate chick flicks and I read Jane Austen with the same detached amusement as the Skulduggery Pleasant books - they're utterly lovely in every way, but they're just fairytales and stories for children. Things like that don't happen in real life.

But isn't it absurd to feel this way at age 22? I mean, shouldn't I either be languishing in my loneliness or daydreaming of Prince Charming? Shouldn't I hope for a white wedding, or cry myself to sleep because I don't have a boyfriend, or at least take a healthy interest and date desperately like girls my age do? I think I should, but I just feel coldly resigned to the fact that Love is for Disney princesses and pretty, silly girls, not realistic women with an ounce of good sense in them.

And don't give me that bullshit about "just you wait, one day you'll find someone, too" because I have met a lot of men. A LOT of men. And they're none of them too impressive, for one; they inspire absolutely no feelings in me. Even when Shop Boy, the most charming creature I've ever met, sent me a note by messenger boy to tell me that I was cute, I felt nothing. At best I smiled a little more than I usually do. That's not to say that I don't know any good guys; I do, it's just that no matter how funny and charming and sweet and interesting they are, I just don't feel things like that anymore. I think I've outgrown it. I think I should feel things for some of them, but I just don't. It's as if, on the last occasion I had my heart broken (and that was years ago; I can barely remember it), it was never stuck back together but just frozen as it was. Broken, and unavailable.

Oh my God, I've turned into Cruella de Ville.
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I was going to post a long happy-rant about this, that and th'other. But I'm afraid I don't have time, since I've got an exam tomorrow and I still don't feel I've done my research. So. I'm going to go off and read about the inter-British unions of 1603, 1707 and 1801 now. Oh, and the English Reformation.

If anyone happens to have studied this and know good, reliable websites, do let me know. I can't make it to a library today. But the odds...


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Snagged from euclase, of course :) Because she always has the best meme's. Cut for length, and oh, I'm a total geek. I listen to Tchaikovsky more than any other music-related person. I'm sorry there are few bands on here :P

Meme behind cutCollapse )Please to be reposting and letting me read ^^

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Ohnoes, I just found out I that I have to choose an extra lecture for next year (though, thankfully not until next spring) - and the choices are so wonderful I don't know which one to take! They're all related to the English language and/or culture. I have narrowed it down to the following five contestants:

The Romantic Period
The Victorian Period
Women Writing: Feminist Fiction in English
Homotextuality: Gay and Lesbian Literature

I mean, come on! How am I supposed to choose? I want to take them ALL; but I want Homotextuality and Shakespeare more... I think... ARGH THE CHOICES! *happy yet angry dance*


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And I'm not usually allowed to hack around the interwebs while I'm at work, but I'm going to make an exception today - because I'm alone.

I work in a bookstore. Yes, that's right, people; I have the Dream Job over all Dream Jobs. Well, obviously being a full-time author would be better, and this workplace does have its drawbacks, but I do get to hang around books all the time. Not to mention, I get awesome discounts. Normally, we're always at least two people at work at all times, but my colleague just stepped out for a bit.

The reason for this whole entry, actually, is to ask my lovely flist something. Imagine that you went into a bookstore, and there were these little white paper tags attached to the books with personal recommendations from the people who worked in the store. This is, of course, the case in our bookstore. Now, imagine that one of the recommendations ran as follows:

"The Painted Man by P.V. Brett - AWESOMECAKES!"

Then the next one went, "This book [Skulduggery Pleasant] is so awesome I just don't know what to do with myself!"

How would you react? I merely ask.
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In three words, describe what's currently running through your mind.

Love and sex.
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Fanfiction: Do you love it or hate it, or are you totally indifferent? Why?

Oh. Oh, this question thingummy is too good to pass up!

I love, nay, I adore fanfiction. I get all warm and fuzzy inside when I meet people who are into it, and when my "literature" lecturer from Library Studies started talking about it, I couldn't contain the loud squeal of delight that escaped me. I don't even consider it my guilty pleasure anymore; most of the people I hang out with IRL know about my sinful habit and a few have even read some of my stuff. And, when I think about it, I've produced a lot of stuff. Fanfiction stuff, that is.

So why does one love fanfiction? Why do I love it? Let's consider some of the aspects of fanfiction. Legally, it's a grey area. Artistically, you can never take full credit for it, since the characters are not your own. And since a lot of it is, to be frank, pornographic, it's not exactly something you show to your parents to brag about. At least I don't. What's left to love, then?

The way it improves one's skills as a writer, for one. I read some of the stuff I wrote when I was thirteen and it sucks major balls, but I'm actually quite pleased with a lot of my recent stuff. I won't call it work, because it's nothing but fun, but it's mine nontheless. The writing, of course; not the characters. /disclaim.

What I mean is, I've written a lot of fanfiction and I've posted most of it online. I've written a goodish bit of original fiction, too, but none of it ever found its way online. I sort of keep it "secret" in case I should ever find the time to finish it and send it to a publishing house of sorts. But the fanfiction isn't ever going to get published, and I don't actually have to do research or hash out details etc to post it online. It's easy, it's fun and it gets me feedback. Which is, of course, what every aspiring writer needs.

There is also, of course, the joy of being a fangirl. When I start falling over myself with joy over a Jeeves reference made by my British Civilization professor, who will understand my squee and share a few squeals? The fandom. There's no point in telling my RL friends about the shiny Sherlock Holmes doujinshi I ordered, because even if they've read the Holmes canon they won't get my heartfelt joy at having found such a treasure. Fandom, however, understands such things. When I start skipping in my chair for pure glee, I can at least share it with other people - whom I know will appreciate it - if I can't talk to my cousin about it.

Finally, and perhaps one of my favourite things about fanfiction, is that one can actually learn things from it. Where did I get the background about the fashion of baggy pants and large shirts? From a Prison Break related fan conversation. How do I know what it means (or rather, used to mean) to wear lavender gloves or a green carnation buttonhole? The Wodehouse devotees, of course. Same goes for the scary disease acute glaucoma; it's amazing what fandom can teach you. It's not all necessary or useful information, perhaps, but who cares? Knowledge for the sake of knowing is a wonderful thing.

And, yes, I admit it. I like all the free smexings. I think we all do.
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I was directed, through a fellow blogger's most recent entry, to this post in a Disney appreciation society. To sum it up, so people won't have to read the two hundred-odd comments already posted to get an idea of what all the hassle is about, a girl posted a picture of a group of cosplayers in sexy Disney princess costumes, among other things. She suggested other people post their own pictures of a similar nature. Shortly thereafter, a flood of comments appeared, divided mainly into two streams: those who applauded the cosplay effort, and those who found them inappropriately sexy and called the costumes slutty.

Which, of course, rather quickly led to a debate on feminism and women's liberation, that most offensive of subjects. Slutty, sexy or liberated?

This is a discussion I myself engage in at rather frequent intervals. Every time I meet certain friends, or colleagues, or even go to certain study groups, the Battle of the Sexes begins. If there are feminists or male chauvinists anywhere, I will get into an argument with them. With either side, as a matter of fact; if they're extreme enough, I can't stand either side. Why? They both think they can tell me what to do.

The male chauvinists, of course, are the worst. They have no logical arguments; they simply tell me that I belong in the kitchen because I'm a woman. Of course, what such a man actually means, is that he doesn't respect my worth as an intellectual individual, and wants me to do all the things that he doesn't like doing himself. Also, men like these tend to say offensive things straight to my face because they think it's fun when I get angry. Isn't that supposed to be a personality trait of sociopaths, taking pleasure in other peoples' hurt or anger? Or is it just sadistic? Regardless, the moment a man opens his trap to say something degrading about women in general just because he gets a kick out of seeing me get angry, I lose all respect for him. And, of course, I dig deep to come up with all my logical arguments to counter his idiocy. Result? Argument.

With feminists, however, it's another cup of tea. And this is what that whole cosplay argument so beautifully illustrates.

I tend to wear short skirts and plunging necklines. High heels, too. And while I'm at it, I might put on that favourite outfit of mine that plays right up to men's schoolgirl fantasies, lace-top stockings and the lot. Why? I like men staring at me. I'm an attention whore and I'm not ashamed of it; I didn't know my body was acceptable until I was nearly twenty years old and the idea that men find me attractive is still novel. I love the compliment it is to see a man unable to take his eyes off you. I like dressing like a slag, so sue me.

Men never complain of this. I've never had a man come up to me and say, “You don't think that skirt is a little short?” or frown disapprovingly at my neckline. Never. I've been dressing like this for years, and I've never once had a negative reaction from a man. Even my gay friends look at me and go, “Whoa, girl! Who you fishin' for in that outfit? Hot day-um!” when I do my very best, wardrobe-wise.

Women, however, do. Oh, boy, do they ever! Complain, that is. They look at me like I'm Satan's spawn, come to steal their husbands right out from under their noses. They whisper behind my back, either trying to be obvious or thinking I'm absolutely deaf, about how they'd be ashamed to let their daughters go out like that. One colleague of mine, who shall remain nameless, repeatedly tries to straighten my clothes and tells me to wear a different sweater. They spread rumours about me; rumours which come back to me – with a great deal of laughter – through friends of mine.

I even have friends my own age who sniff tartly and tell me they don't think the battles of women's liberation were fought so I could objectify myself for the viewing pleasure of disrespectful men. And the angry feminists in my study groups always glare at me when I flirt with one of the boys, as if being a feminist is the equivalent of being an angry lesbian. Ooh, just the thought of that stereotype makes my blood boil. And yet, this seems to be just the stereotype which feminists are expected to conform to.

See, just like in those arguments after the Disney cosplay! Slutty or liberated? The strange thing is, it's the other women who get all moralistic and start running for the high horses. They even accused those Disney princesses of being anti-feminist and a threat to the liberation of women.

Let me just clarify a few things before I go on.

1.I am not going to make a statement regarding my personal opinion about those Disney cosplayers in particular. It's irrelevant to my argument; I'm concerned with modern feminism in general.

2.I personally consider a sadly large percentage of Disney films to be anti-feminist and chauvinist, because they're filled with swooning damsels in distress who can think of nothing better to do than to wait for their Prince Charming to come riding along. But of course, a number of Disney girls redeem that fact very nicely, like Mulan, Belle, Captain Amelia and Esmeralda.

3.Women's liberation killed gallantry. I don't care if people find this sexist or whatever; if a man tries to open doors, sling a cloak, escort one across a road etc these days, we scoff at him and state that we can bloody well manage on our own. I'm not saying it's right or wrong. I'm just saying, any man trying to be a gentleman these days, will find himself in the wrong. For what need is there for such consideration when there is only one sex?

Now, then. Why is a short skirt uniform with a slutty woman? Why is a sexual affair that people know about, an indicator that this girl will sleep with just anyone? Can you think of a single, reasonable argument for those claims? I've been trying, but I can't. In this modern day and age, we ought to have learned to think of clothes as clothes and nothing more. And yet, if a girl is buttoned up, she's a prude, and if she's showing skin, then she's a whore.

Men, of course, are all whoring pigs and will sleep with anyone they come across, so they don't have to express themselves in clothing like we do.

What if I like wearing these clothes just to make men realize exactly what they can't have? What if, when wearing a short skirt, I go around thinking, “That'll teach them!” Because I do, believe me. Especially when I'm at band practice; there are some guys there who just need a little wake-up call and my stockinged thighs might just be that alarm clock. They can look, yes, but if they even try to touch I'll show them why I'm capable of felling small trees all by myself. What if girls wear deep necklines to separate the dogs from the gentlemen? The ones who can't sustain eye contact when faced with a bit of cleavage, are not the ones we bring home. Or something to that effect.

I'm just saying, it's not black and white. As the sneering women should have realized by now. Ask yourself, and be honest, how many times have you glanced condescendingly at a girl because she was dressed like a slag and thought, “What a whore?”

I consider myself feminist, because I truly, deeply believe that I am any man's equal and that there should be no socially created difference between the sexes. But I am also a woman, and I will keep insisting on my right to wear revealing clothing and flirt with men if I want to. Just as I will keep cursing and spitting like a man if the impulse finds me, and learn how to use a shotgun. Because I actually do believe that women began fighting for their rights so that I would have those choices, just like everybody else. So that I could wear outrageous dresses and laugh at men who just can't keep their eyes off my cleavage. So that I could bloody well do whatever I like, without anyone interfering.

And least of all moralistic hags who accuse me of being anti-feminist, when I'm doing what they should be doing and proudly carrying on as I like, regardless of what others say or think about my choice of clothing.
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So. I turn 22 in two days, namely, on Sunday. Birthdays have been, in general, a source of great happiness to me - especially the last few ones, as I really know how to throw a spiffing party. I plan my parties for months and I take every pain to make sure nobody leaves my party bored, hungry or at all sober (unless they're teetotallers). My parties always have a theme, so I plan costumes, both for myself and others if they can't come up with anything on their own; I decorate the house and I bake cakes and I prepare fruit platters like a rabid housewife from the 50s. I work on introducing people who haven't met and I make a unique playlist for each party to make sure there's something for everyone on it. I spend hours and hours making certain everything is just so. In short, I am thoroughly devoted to my parties.

On that note; last year turned out spectacularly well! We had a Roaring 20s theme, and almost all the girls wore flapper dresses and the chaps all showed up sporting braces and properly tailored trousers. We danced charleston and listened to Radio Dismuke all night. There was a thin film of champagne on everything when I cleaned up the next morning.

This year, the theme is Straight Off the Page - literary characters and persons. I'm going to be the Mad Hatter, and I have the most detailed costume! Furthermore, I'm moving all my books about the house so that people, no matter where they sit down, will find some printed treasure. And the welcome drinks will have all sorts of amusing colours, just because I can.

But here's the thing; people just don't seem to appreciate a proper theme party these days. Of course, most of my guests were immediately excited and began plotting their own costumes as soon as invited, but there are some who are just notoriously lacking in enthusiasm. And dash it, as much as I manage to work myself into a state of squee over this party, these blighters manage to throw a somewhat dull light on the event.

I mean to say, who shows up at a theme party without a costume? And they even tell me in advance they're not going to bother dressing up! Of course, if I hadn't specified that this was a theme party, I could have understood their reluctance to show up with pointy ears and long dresses or carrying a towel and a bathrobe or whatever. But I made a fairly big point of it in the invites; this is a theme party and we will be dressing accordingly. Why are there people who just don't get that?

Well, sucks to them, is all I say. They'll look pretty stupid in jeans and shirts, won't they just, standing next to twenty-two people in jolly fine costumes! And they won't get nametags, either, like the ones I've made for people who do show up in costume.

Also, I've discovered that my birth control pills work as happy pills. I've been off them for two weeks now - I forgot to buy new ones, dash it, and I only got my paycheck today - and I've been bally miserable! I start crying for no reason at all and I'm feeling depressed despite this perfectly wonderful party I'm having, despite my wonderful friends, despite the fact that I was courted by a very cute Eastern European boy last Saturday. Despite the fact that I own almost 400 books (isn't it fantastic??) and that I have a gay boyfriend who guides me through the most perfect music in history. I have absolutely no reason to feel miserable and yet I do, and it all started a week after I was out of pills.

If artificial hormones make me happy, then I'll gladly be chemically sterile for the rest of my life. Pills, please!
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