Hello, every beautiful one of you out there! Awfully sorry that posts on this blog have become rather.. rare. I've been working, sleeping, drinking, laughing, sleeping some more and getting ready for China. I'm leaving tomorrow morning, and can't waiiiit.
I promise though, (pinkie swear!), that I'll be a #1 Awesome blogger of the world when I get back. And when I'm not eating things I probably don't know what is, at a place I most probably don't know where's located - I'll even try to take some pictures. Gonna be awesome, promise. I'll see you in a little less than two weeks. Hang tight.
And oh, while I'm all energetic and high on life: thank you, everyone single one of you, that reads this blog. And for those who comment aswell: I'm sending you virtual kisses over the net. It's heartwarming to see how people keep visiting, even though I've been too busy to actually blog. I like you, yum.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Caffeine with some extra caffeine on the side, please
....ah. Forget all I ever mentioned about not having to inhale crushed coffee beans dipped in Red Bull anymore. I forgot that I am a career woman; busy, busy, busy. Haha, naaah. I'm actually just standing around at shipping arrangement, smiling at business people and showing lost men in suits where they're supposed to be. "Champagne to the right, boats to the left, enjoy!" Could get your money in far worse ways, I'd say. Well, then. I'll snort a box of coffee powder and run to work. Toodeloo, beautiful people.
"Where they go hardcore, and there's glitter on the floor."
Ah, summer! I'm finally done with my last exam, six hours of my life I'll never want to talk about again, and I'm not yet grasping the feeling of not having to study, not having to concider injecting coffee into my arm to make it more efficient. Aaah.
The past few days have been wonderful; I've been drinking cava, eating strawberries, running down the streets with my friends while making dinosaur sounds and in general dancing around like a idiot to silly music. The concept of planking? There have been attempts to grasp it. Jumping on notebooks and school articles? Yes, yes, they've seen tough times these last days. Oh, summer. I think I can like you.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
On a sugar high
Thumbs up to the Starbucks-guy that entered my university yesterday, put an indecent amount of ice coffee on the tables and then left. Just like that. A few hours later I discovered that consuming more than three units of the nauseatingly sweet mix of coffee and chocolate milk will make your heart beat faster than a hummingbird's, and your general state of well-being will.. well, go straight to hell. I felt seasick until I fell asleep.
But oh man, the time before I crashed down from my high - I was a super student! Thank you caffeine! Three more days of chasing the bottom of coffee cups and working on those panda eyes slowly growing more visible. Three days - and then my final exam. Teehee.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
There is a real life, and it's good
The last ten hours of my life have been spent in a sugar and caffeine-provoced frenzy, with a hint of bloodshot eyes and low speeches primarely made up by swear words and curses. I'm not complaining; I've chosen this myself. But sometimes, it's good to know there exists a life where I can see my friends without panic, books and academia:
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Happy birthday Norway - you be so awesome
So much cava, so much food, so many strawberries consumed. But it's okay, it's allright - on the national day of Norway it's actually socially accepted to drink champagne from early on. And then cava is totally accepted as a companion to your brunch, lunch and dinner aswell. Hope you all had a great day, I sure know I did.
Bubbles and giggles are such a great way forget about the upcoming exams one might be frightened by!
Monday, May 16, 2011
Sky blue
The other day, I walked past a really old wrinkled lady, with white hair and a rather conservative dress. And sky blue cowboy boots. I loved it! And I kept fantasizing about why she would wear something like that - because you have to admit, blue leather it not usually what you'd think of when someone says "old lady". I don't, at least.
And, as I walked home, I started to think that maybe she'd been married to a strict man, one that followed the rules and dresscodes of society to the extreme. A perfectionist. And then she'd hidden those boots, (that she'd once seen at display in the window of a fancy shoe store, and just had to buy), in the back of her closet, for years, ten years, more, maybe even fifty. Every time he'd been away on a business trip, because he was a business man of course, she'd taken them out, danced in their perfectly furnished living room for a few minutes, and then carefully tucked them back in at their usual spot. It had been her escape from a life so full of routines, it could kill a man; a life so correct a nun would appear inappropriate. But she was not cruel - neither was he: he treated her kindly, so she could not leave him, people didn't leave husbands that didn't hit them, or drink too much, or gamble money on horses and football maches. And he didn't; he just lived his life, their life, correctly.
No matter how well he followed the rules though, he, as all people will once day, died. No well-groomed hair, no neatly buttoned shirt could help the man when his heart just decided to call it the day. Maybe she'd heard some sounds from his office that day, maybe she's noticed a thump, the silence that followed. But routines were made to be followed, and she'd kept still in the living room, working on her embroidery - a very correct and suitable hobby for a woman with respect for herself. And when she had walked into his office to tell him how dinner was ready, 4 PM as every day, he'd already been gone, far beyond gone even. And as a correct wife does, she kept calm, called the ambulance, put the dinner into the fridge so it wouldn't go bad, and then sat down and waited.
After the burial was done - done in a very correct and normal manner, mind you, she'd gone back home. She'd walked upstairs, slowly, her pink slippers carefully carrying her to the second floor. They'd been there, as always, at the back of her closet, behind perfectly ironed suits and folded socks. The word "correct" seemed to dissolve as she kicked her fuzzy slippers across the room, and let her toes feel the shape of perfectly sized blue leather boots that took care of them. As the jumped down the stairs - two steps at the time - they seemed to know they were out of the closet for good, the boots I mean, and they looked brighter than before, the colour more radiant than when they were new - ten, or was it fifty, years ago. And then, she walked all over the word, the cage labeled, "correct", and let her blue boots carry her onto the street - damn the dresscodes, the looks of strangers, the thoughts they might have! Because right then, she felt so young and free and glamorous, Hollywood seemed dull - she was shining, she was a million bucks and more.
...or maybe she just was a odd old lady with a strange taste in shoes. But I like to think otherwise. I think it's good for your imagination. (And wow mama, where did all these words come from?)
And, as I walked home, I started to think that maybe she'd been married to a strict man, one that followed the rules and dresscodes of society to the extreme. A perfectionist. And then she'd hidden those boots, (that she'd once seen at display in the window of a fancy shoe store, and just had to buy), in the back of her closet, for years, ten years, more, maybe even fifty. Every time he'd been away on a business trip, because he was a business man of course, she'd taken them out, danced in their perfectly furnished living room for a few minutes, and then carefully tucked them back in at their usual spot. It had been her escape from a life so full of routines, it could kill a man; a life so correct a nun would appear inappropriate. But she was not cruel - neither was he: he treated her kindly, so she could not leave him, people didn't leave husbands that didn't hit them, or drink too much, or gamble money on horses and football maches. And he didn't; he just lived his life, their life, correctly.
No matter how well he followed the rules though, he, as all people will once day, died. No well-groomed hair, no neatly buttoned shirt could help the man when his heart just decided to call it the day. Maybe she'd heard some sounds from his office that day, maybe she's noticed a thump, the silence that followed. But routines were made to be followed, and she'd kept still in the living room, working on her embroidery - a very correct and suitable hobby for a woman with respect for herself. And when she had walked into his office to tell him how dinner was ready, 4 PM as every day, he'd already been gone, far beyond gone even. And as a correct wife does, she kept calm, called the ambulance, put the dinner into the fridge so it wouldn't go bad, and then sat down and waited.
After the burial was done - done in a very correct and normal manner, mind you, she'd gone back home. She'd walked upstairs, slowly, her pink slippers carefully carrying her to the second floor. They'd been there, as always, at the back of her closet, behind perfectly ironed suits and folded socks. The word "correct" seemed to dissolve as she kicked her fuzzy slippers across the room, and let her toes feel the shape of perfectly sized blue leather boots that took care of them. As the jumped down the stairs - two steps at the time - they seemed to know they were out of the closet for good, the boots I mean, and they looked brighter than before, the colour more radiant than when they were new - ten, or was it fifty, years ago. And then, she walked all over the word, the cage labeled, "correct", and let her blue boots carry her onto the street - damn the dresscodes, the looks of strangers, the thoughts they might have! Because right then, she felt so young and free and glamorous, Hollywood seemed dull - she was shining, she was a million bucks and more.
...or maybe she just was a odd old lady with a strange taste in shoes. But I like to think otherwise. I think it's good for your imagination. (And wow mama, where did all these words come from?)
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