12 posts tagged “personal”
... Because Yours Truly has now hit the 20 year mark, the big 2-0 (Birmingham 2, Joni 0). Although nothing peculiar per se (I love writing that, since if you take out the space in between, it means ass in Finnish. *sigh* I still have a simple mind...), I always used to think that, even though here you're eligible to vote and buy most alcoholic drinks at the tender age of 18, 20 was the definite "adult-being" age; a kind of age when, I used to reckon as a child, you were simply old enough. Adult.
And that's a definite hitch, since I still feel like a little kid. I just haven't "grown up" yet, and still, according to prepubescent little me's definition of adulthood, I "have". It's just funky because I didn't really think I'd feel this juvenile at this age. But I was pretty much on the money when it came to trying to guess how little I'd have achieved by this time. Woop!
Then again, maybe I have grown up a wee bit. Most clearly visible when checking my birthday-presents (those I have already gotten, but I am not yet satisfied -_- ), especially since they were exactly what I was hoping for, which is always nice.
The Big Present, the one I got from my parents, was an Alessi Blow-Up citrus basket (pictured), something that I specifically asked for (for Christmas). The fact that I went "*gasp* OH!" when I got it may earn me some adulty-points, since the kid inside of me would probably have wanted a TIE-fighter toy instead. But the soon-to-be broke university-gopher, was extatic.
I also gave myself a few presents: a dictionary and a few forms, but more on the paperwork once they're actually through. The dictionary, is probably something I should explain. I got it because it's part of a small promise prepubescent-me did at some point in my life: have learnt at least one new language every decade-birthday. So I decided to go for it full-time, and took up studying a new language for, well, for the fun of it. It's especially weird, since I've never willingly read through a dictionary to expand my vocabulary (or otherwise, either. Rational me says "WTF mate?")
But today's not really about me, at least that's what I'd like to think. All the "happy birthday!" greetings I've been getting have just made it even more clear, since stupid ol' me actually took almost 20 years to actually realize it. I personally would like to dedicate today for all those people who consider me a friend, because it's you people who actually keep me going. You make my life so much more fun, in part because you're the best (and sometimes sole) audience for all my antics, and you make me want to surprise you even more. I know I don't say it enough to you all, but seriously, I love you all. Friends make my world go round; money just makes it go 'round faster.
But seriously, happy 17th guys and gals of my life, you rock my world!
Today has, actually, in all ways been a good day. Not only do good days rarely happen to me, but to top it all off, it's a Monday! Monday's are supposed to suck, that's a law of nature as unmovable or indestructible as gravitational pull or academic suck!
But still, It's been a good day. Why?
- Because of my fever I had to call in sick today, meaning I didn't have to work on the suckiest day of the week. Which rocks.
- I was finally able to get the last little bit of my retainer taken out at the dentist's office today. It'll take a while 'til the back of my teeth have gotten accustomed to stuff like hot and cold, but at least I no longer have to explain that "it's not a piano-wire, it's my retainer" at the security check at airports. Which rocks.
- Surprisingly, the laptop I decided to order yesterday came in today. And because I know it wasn't even over-nighted I'm flabbergasted. OK, so I payed myself silly to get it and the dent in my bank-account is enough to make the iceberg that hit the Titanic blush, but now I finally have not only a computer that can actually keep up with my rendering-needs, but it's also my first computer! I now have something to keep me occupied for the rest of my time until I move out and start studying next fall. Which - duh! - rocks.
- I not only double-parked, but parked at a "no parking" parking spot, on someone else's reserved parking spot, and I still didn't get caught! And that rocks!
The only bad thing about today is that, like all good things, even this day must come to an end. And because today was such a non-suckfest, I dread to find out what kind of menacing things tomorrow might bring along. That, and the fact that I partially cut through a (few) window frame(-s) I wasn't technically supposed to with a chainsaw might have a little something to do with today's anxiety. Oh well, you reap what you (chain-)sow.
–verb (used without object)
1. to remain inactive or in a state of repose, as until something expected happens (often fol. by for, till, or until): to wait for the bus to arrive.
2. (of things) to be available or in readiness: A letter is waiting for you.
A few weeks ago I started working at a construction site close to where I currently live. In exactly one month's time I'll have hung around for 20 years, and I've yet to start studying at the university of my choice. I already got in last year, but due to mandatory conscription for males, I had to postpone building my academic future for a year. It's still about six months 'til the fall term starts, and about the same time until I move out of my parents' house to Helsinki to an apartment much too small to contain the mass that is my ego. But for now, I'm simply working to earn money, for stuff and for this future coming at me like a freight train in a tunnel.
The reason I'm telling you all of this, perfect stranger, is because this is in essence me for the time being. I've reached a fulcrum of thought where I've come to realize that I've been sucked in deep into something I've come to refer to asThe Wait.
Since I wasn't able to begin my studies last fall as "originally" intended (a misconception, since I was fully aware of my conscription starting at the same time nonetheless), I've considered the year between me intending and me actually beginning studying as a more or less useless year for me. Granted, I'm making money now, but I'm not, in my mind, coming any closer to my ultimate goal, which I, paradoxically, have no idea whatsoever as to what it is. Instead, I am forced to wait.
Wait is the primeval word here, boys and girls; in fact, I've come to think of it as a progenitor to humanity as it is. The word in itself may not be of much value, but the meaning is what, I'm starting to think, drives us forward.
Right now I'm waiting to be able to quit my job, move out of my parents' house and start studying. Before that I was waiting to get out of the army, and before that I was waiting to get into the army. Soon I'll start waiting to graduate, and right now I can't wait to travel a bit and meet some friends I've seriously made wait too long for a reunion.
You starting to get the idea yet?
Ever since we're born and are able to make a comprehensible thought in our brains do we begin to wait. We wait for school to start, we wait for puberty finally pass us by, we wait for the bus, we wait for the entry-exam results, we wait for our next paycheck, we wait for your girl-/boyfriend to finally show up, we wait for that next big career-move, we await death. Life ends up being, in essence, One Big Wait.
Everything that means something to us is preceded by a wait of some length, whether it be seconds, minutes or years. No matter how long or short, we just can't wait it out. Irony hits us like a 16 ton weight.
When I was in junior high I was one of the shortest kids in our grade. My mother said I'd eventually grow taller than all of them and that everyone in our family were late bloomers, but personally I couldn't wait to grow taller NOW. In the end I grew into a 6 ft. tall pile of man, and I'm still growing a bit. But back then, it was on my mind every time I was out in public. I was tiny.
In senior high I started seriously dreaming about a career in architecture. Years passed, and last year I got all the way through to the final entry-exam for architectural studies in Helsinki. In the end I was less than a point away from reaching my goal, but didn't get in... yet. Next year I intend to retry; this year I'll start studying structural engineering at the same university nonetheless, and I intend to finish my MD in both fields. I just have to wait 'til next year.
Once I've gotten through university I don't know what to wait for. Maybe that's why so many people fear their 30th birthday; to those who haven't crossed it yet, it's the end of The Wait, and we just don't know what to wait for after that. Getting married, having kids, teaching them while they grow, further our career, death? Us youngin's don't know what's beyond that magical milestone. Before that we're all enchanted by The Wait. It's our striving force, our source of motivation, our biggest let-down, our own, big adventure. Whatever it may be, We Wait.
But maybe all that waiting is what makes life worthwhile, y'know? Once fall's here, everything precedeing it will seem trivial, mundane. "We're here now, now we can start waiting for the next big thing." The longer we wait, the better it'll feel once we're there; make it or break it, we'll always end up "there", whatever it may be.
And they do say that the trip there is half the adventure...
–verb (used without object)
1. to remain inactive or in a state of repose, as until something expected happens (often fol. by for, till, or until): to wait for the bus to arrive.
2. (of things) to be available or in readiness: A letter is waiting for you.
A few weeks ago I started working at a construction site close to where I currently live. In exactly one month's time I'll have hung around for 20 years, and I've yet to start studying at the university of my choice. I already got in last year, but due to mandatory conscription for males, I had to postpone building my academic future for a year. It's still about six months 'til the fall term starts, and about the same time until I move out of my parents' house to Helsinki to an apartment much too small to contain the mass that is my ego. But for now, I'm simply working to earn money, for stuff and for this future coming at me like a freight train in a tunnel.
The reason I'm telling you all of this, perfect stranger, is because this is in essence me for the time being. I've reached a fulcrum of thought where I've come to realize that I've been sucked in deep into something I've come to refer to asThe Wait.
Since I wasn't able to begin my studies last fall as "originally" intended (a misconception, since I was fully aware of my conscription starting at the same time nonetheless), I've considered the year between me intending and me actually beginning studying as a more or less useless year for me. Granted, I'm making money now, but I'm not, in my mind, coming any closer to my ultimate goal, which I, paradoxically, have no idea whatsoever as to what it is. Instead, I am forced to wait.
Wait is the primeval word here, boys and girls; in fact, I've come to think of it as a progenitor to humanity as it is. The word in itself may not be of much value, but the meaning is what, I'm starting to think, drives us forward.
Right now I'm waiting to be able to quit my job, move out of my parents' house and start studying. Before that I was waiting to get out of the army, and before that I was waiting to get into the army. Soon I'll start waiting to graduate, and right now I can't wait to travel a bit and meet some friends I've seriously made wait too long for a reunion.
You starting to get the idea yet?
Ever since we're born and are able to make a comprehensible thought in our brains do we begin to wait. We wait for school to start, we wait for puberty finally pass us by, we wait for the bus, we wait for the entry-exam results, we wait for our next paycheck, we wait for your girl-/boyfriend to finally show up, we wait for that next big career-move, we await death. Life ends up being, in essence, One Big Wait.
Everything that means something to us is preceded by a wait of some length, whether it be seconds, minutes or years. No matter how long or short, we just can't wait it out. Irony hits us like a 16 ton weight.
When I was in junior high I was one of the shortest kids in our grade. My mother said I'd eventually grow taller than all of them and that everyone in our family were late bloomers, but personally I couldn't wait to grow taller NOW. In the end I grew into a 6 ft. tall pile of man, and I'm still growing a bit. But back then, it was on my mind every time I was out in public. I was tiny.
In senior high I started seriously dreaming about a career in architecture. Years passed, and last year I got all the way through to the final entry-exam for architectural studies in Helsinki. In the end I was less than a point away from reaching my goal, but didn't get in... yet. Next year I intend to retry; this year I'll start studying structural engineering at the same university nonetheless, and I intend to finish my MD in both fields. I just have to wait 'til next year.
Once I've gotten through university I don't know what to wait for. Maybe that's why so many people fear their 30th birthday; to those who haven't crossed it yet, it's the end of The Wait, and we just don't know what to wait for after that. Getting married, having kids, teaching them while they grow, further our career, death? Us youngin's don't know what's beyond that magical milestone. Before that we're all enchanted by The Wait. It's our striving force, our source of motivation, our biggest let-down, our own, big adventure. Whatever it may be, We Wait.
But maybe all that waiting is what makes life worthwhile, y'know? Once fall's here, everything precedeing it will seem trivial, mundane. "We're here now, now we can start waiting for the next big thing." The longer we wait, the better it'll feel once we're there; make it or break it, we'll always end up "there", whatever it may be.
And they do say that the trip there is half the adventure...
I'll admit, I saw this one coming at me like an 18-wheeler on an empty highway in the Antarctic on a clear day, but I still let it hit me. But knowing that your own mom reads your blog is always a bit unnerving anyway.
And it's not like I even tried to hide this from her; my sister's been linking to my blog for a while now, and I knew my mom was reading her blog! But still, knowing that my mom has my blog in her favorites-tab and can check on my rants at practically any time she wants is kind of distressing.
Mais oh well, it's not like she'll find out anything about me she doesn't already know about, and even if I blurt out something incriminating (which I most definitely will at some point), it's not going to be the end of the world (or more importantly, Sunday-dinners), is it?
And it's not like I'd be more careful or civil in what I'd write about; every little anarchist dreams of having The Man (or in my case, Mom) watching them do their mischievous little deeds. And it's good to know that there's one more person in this world who won't for the love of God not frequently check my blog for updates! Hooray!
So stay tuned, folks, Big Br-... Mother is watching...
I've noticed over the years that, whenever I'm stressed out, I start exercising relentlessly, and since I've been stressing out about getting/not having a job, I once again started another exercise-a-thon right after coming out of the army. Every spare moment I have goes to doing all kinds of cardio- and fitnessthingies, just to get my mind off of things. I also happen to be one of the crazies my sister writes about because jogging has become a near-fanatic thing for me lately.
This is the point where I should be telling myself that the temperature averages around a constant -10ºC and that I shouldn't be out jogging in a snowstorm. Nevertheless, this is what I've been doing.
You have to understand that, even though sane/foreign people wouldn't go jogging out there to save their life (did I mention the ice?), jogging seems to have misplaced itself next to my bathroom-selector in my brain: when you gotta go, you got to go!
Perhaps it's just the jogging, or perhaps it's the mind-numbing cold, but running around for an hour in midwinter has a wonderfully "emptying" mental effect. Even my usual existential crises have been averted simply by getting my "flow" on. And the wonderful thing is, my flow-feeling's started sticking on to me and staying with me even after I've stopped my jog for the day.
I don't really know what it is with running; ever since I was really tiny (let's add "young" as well, since I was still "tiny" five years ago) and we'd drive past a field, I got this immense urge to get out of the car and just go running up and down that field. Even as I've gotten older, every now and then, when I've felt really aggravated or stressed out, I've simply put on my shoes, gone outside and started running down the street. A couple of blocks later and I just feel more in toon with my inner "flow" again, y'know?
But like I said, I don't know if it's just the jogging in itself, the surroundings or the idea of "running 'til your heart stops" that makes people get their flow on, but sometimes the only thing that really helps is running really fast. And emptying your brain out on the dirt-track really gets you in tune with yourself. And an empty brain means there's more room to be creative.
But let's de-zen this post for now. I got a job.
Big things afoot, big things indeed, and although my sister has been here for the past few days and only left today, that wasn't a jab against her. She's quite slender.
But anyways, my sister Jenni was here for a few days (like she is every week, but for once I was in the house as well!), and fun conversations were had. Every time we're both in the same room it all ends up like rabbid family-reunion: fun times and funny noises. And really weird conversations...( and I still think Salma Hayek's hotter. I'm a guy, so by default I should win!)
In other news, I've been a busy little bee (-astard), getting all those things I was worrying about in the army done in a few days, whereas my earlier estimates predicted I wouldn't get them finished 'til summer. Of 2012. Shows what a little backbone can do, huh? Among other things, I've been in the (now successful) hunt after a new pair of glasses. Not going to go into that until I 'ave 'em on me face and pics can be posted on how fabulous I look... oh, and the glasses as well..
Quite surprisingly as well, today saw me getting an offer on a possible job. It'll be in construction, so it kind of seems I'll be continuing with my career of trying out manly jobs for a bit longer. Maybe I should screw universities and just become a fireman. Or a pornst--... The funny thing about it all, though, is that even though I'll be doing oddjobs upon odd jobs, they still want me to submit a freeform résumé before I even can talk moolah.
I mean, c'mon, right?
Writing a résumé wouldn't in itself be so hard to do, but y'know, to write a résumé you kind of give the impression that you think I'd actually have some qualifications or shit. I mean, freeform gives lets you go creative, but I still can't whack a blank paper on their table, can I?
Why can't they just give it? I could just storm in and start shouting something like "YOU! You there! Fat man with the tie! Yes, you! I'm fabulous and up for a job! You want to hire me, pays me munneh and have me come around on weekdays when I feel like it! I will drink ur koffees and eet ur donuts, and you will pays me good munneh for it! And a chair, I want a comfy chair!!"
Now why can't the world work like that, huh?
I know I should probably be talking about how great life is since this is my first day in the reserves (yes, conscription's ovah) and how I think pretty much everyone concerned in that part of my life can go swim sideways up Shit-creek, but I have more pressing issues to bleed unto yew now.
Seriously, I think I'm being followed.
And here's the dumb part: I'm being followed by a name. I know how stupid that sounds like, but hear me out: it started while I was reading Don Rosa's rendition of Scrooge McDuck's life and Scrooge was referring to himself being some kind of John Philip (de) Souza. No harm in that, the name just stuck to my head. Strike one.
A wee bit later I'm reading a webcomic around Teh Internets and I glance at the makers of the comic. One of them being Lar de Souza. I go "heh" and think it's kind of funny (not funny-hah, but funny-strange).Strike two.
The clock hits 9 o'clock, and I'm channelsurfing. I wind up looking at The 51st State, mainly because when I hit the channel showing it, Samuel L. Jackson was holding a little kid's head saying "Spit. It. Out.". Funneh.
NEXT SCENE!
The screen says Liverpool-something and I see two ugly mothers talking about how "shitty de yanks are". They keep talking and the guy's name is splashed on the screen. Name? You guessed it, it's a de Souza. Strike three and I'm out.
Ok, well, maybe not "out"; more like locked inside the bathroom waiting for some crazy Portuguese jumping through the door yelling "Aiiii mariachi!" (I know I should be expecting Mexicans, but this is what the name implies in my head).
On a completely other note, a little earlier I happened to be channelsurfing and watched about 40 or so women of different ages in their underwear on a stage battling it out for no apparent reason, all the while singing opera. It was a new rendition of Carmen. This is why I don't go to theaters anymore.
Also worth noting, just ate some blood orange-yoghurt, but I think it just tasted like regular orange-flavored yoghurt. *sigh* Promised the world, lower calories and taxes, but only forked up oranges. Oh well, dairy-companies 1, Joni 0. Back to the bathroom now!
Conscription coming to a full stop "thank-you-goodbye-keep-the-change"-wise and me on the verge of once again being a free man, I hadn't come to think about the fact that, while my last three days staring from tomorrow will mainly be about us giving back our equipment, I also have to give up my gun. Of couse, not for a moment did I expect them to let me keep it as a souvenir (although that would've been hella-cool), but still... I mean, how is poor ol' serial no. 965537 (or Mr. 37 as he's affectionately called) going to be able to take on the world without me?
More to the point: how am I going to be able to walk around town without a loaded 7.62 RK-95 TP - assault-rifle around my neck or in my hands? I don't mean that I'm some kind of gun-toting lunatic who just got a taste of the sweet life, lead'n'all, but dawg-gonnit, that rifle was the only piece of equipment in the army I actually liked, and kept liking for that fact! (even though the new gasmask does look trendy.)
It probably wasn't even nearly this hard to wean me from my mother's teat as it is to get me away from my gun. You get that, Mr. first-lieutenant, my gun! It just felt good to have that rifle with you, armed with a 30-round clip of good ol' FMJ-rounds, knowing that if anyone got to your nerves too much, it was one pull-down of the safety and another fast pull of the trigger and you didn't have to listen to him any more. It's not that I'd ever even think of doing that to anyone, don't get me wrong, but I've lived with that gun for quite a while, and it was nice to have, y'know, options...
I'm not sounding like too much of a gun-nut, am I?
No? Good. Because I haven't even started on ranting why I have to be allowed to keep my shoulder-mounted 112mm, 9,5kg, 293m/s high-explosive APILAS-rocketlauncher. I mean, that thing is 1,5kgs of pure, Munroe-effect-guaranteed fun (or highly explosive compound, but y'know, eye of the beholder, right?)!
Having beautifully ignored your ever-friendly vox-carpetdealer (I'm serious - apparently "bhaaaaagh!!" means sandpeople [that's what they kept screaming in Star Wars! Don't look at me like that!] for "I want to buy a rug!") and having curtiously declined from a small legion of Facebook application-invites (bodycount today: 53), I finally got as far as posting on ye olde blogge. Unfortunately, by the time I'd gotten this far, I've already forgotten what it was that I was so furious about earlier on. Oh well, guess I'll have to resort to what I do in most of my posts.
Now where is that dog? Oh Improoov!
You see, today's the 27th, which means that Christmas is over, and people have to go back to work, if only for a few days. But that's not worth posting about: the 27th is also the day of the official kick-off for winter-sales nationwide. Screw the holiday-hype, this is consumerism at its best! 50% off being the standard of living for the next month, I thought I'd hit my place of haven before the douche-bags with considerably more money than me would get their chance to. Hence, I hit the bookstore.
I know, I know, it's not the most obvious place to start off the (not-so-manly) art of shopping, but then again, I was only window-shopping...
... for the first 5 minutes or so.
Every now and then, there happens to be a book or a movie that I, for lack of a better word, simply hunt. There happens to be some magnum opus or golden nugget of cinematography that I just have to get my hands on, often because I liked it so much the first time. Yes, it often happens to be a re-read or a re-watch, something I just want to own because of sentimental value. Then again, it also happens that it's not something like this, but instead something completely new to me, and you know how that often ends up, right?
Well, there I was, once again. At the bookstore. Many a euro had been (dare I say it?) squandered on books on whatnot and therefore, yet there I stood once more. And there I heard it once again, that dreaded sound most women hear in the [add expensive clothes-label here]-store:
-"Buy meeeee!"
-No, I will resist you, you vile temptation.
-"You know you want me. You want to touch me, own me, leaf through me!"
- I WILL NOT stoop to your level!
-"... you know you want toooo.."
-Oh come on, you're a book, for God's sake. You're not even talking to me.
-" I have pretty coloooors..."
-I will not fall for th- Ooh! They ARE pretty! And you're actually not THAT expensive (curse you, sale!)...
And off I went with yet another addition to my ever-growing collection of interior design/industrial design/architecture-books which I in actuality won't read through until girls wear mini-skirts again, by which time I'll have something completely different to look at.
Anyhoo, exiting the bookstore, I did the biggest mistake one can make in such a (consumer-) weak disposition: I went in to check the bookstore next door. Yes, next door. I was originally intending to go there anyway, so I didn't think that much about it. I was going to go check on a cheap version of Dante's Divine Comedy (pictures & all), but in a sudden flash of strength decided NOT to buy it. Reason? It didn't have an appendix. It may sound strange, but if you've ever read through the Divine Comedy (as I have), you'll know that reading it without a clarifying appendix by your side is like watching For A Few Dollars More in Chinese: you won't understand dickweed, you won't be able to follow the plot and you'll just have to settle for assuming. And we all know what assuming does, don't we?
It makes an ass out of you... and some guy named Ming.
BACK TO THE STORY! Having cleverly avoided the plot to steal yet more of my hard earned (pfaahahaha!) munneh, I headed off deeper into the store for some (Here we go again) window-shopping.
I lasted about half a minute.
Why do most women always come back with "too much" when they've been at a sale? Because a. "It was so cheap now, I just had to buy it! I mean, because I bought it for [x-y price], I saved [y]!!" or b. "There was only one left, and I couldn't let some tramp who wouldn't cherish it even half as much as I would go ahead and buy it, so I bought it!"
While I often grab my forehead and think "stupid, stupid, stoopid!" when I hear these two arguments (and hoo boy, I've heard them!), I now have to admit that, for the first time in my life, I actually thought just that. But hey, it's a book-series I'm collecting, and I saved 40%! (Though that very same 40% had already gone to buying the other book I'd already bought.)
