There’s this unwritten rule that say: ”Alone-people don’t like to hear about the together-people. Even if the alone-people are alone by choice.”

Because it’s sort of mean. It’s like bringing a six pack to an AA meeting.

We all go around with this glorified picture that love solves everything. It’s okay to have a shitstorm as long as you have someone. In a way that’s true. ’Cause at the end of the day, when it comes down to it. All we really want is to be close to somebody. So this thing where we all keep our distance and pretend not to care about each other... it's usually a load of bullshit.

We tend to stay close by, no matter how much we hurt them and get hurt by them. The people that are still with you at the end of the day, those are the ones worth keeping. And sure, sometimes close can be too close. But sometimes, that invasion of personal space... it can be exactly what you need. And we're all just bodies fumbling around, trying to survive without getting our hearts broken.

Someone who didn't have her heart on her sleeve was Jenny, she had a business deal. Fuck me right and you’ll get breakfast.’Fucks-like-a-ferret-guy’ had called again. And here I thought getting some was good enough. But nope, she was not wasting breakfast on ’Fucks-like-a-ferret-guy’ if he can't fuck properly. Banana pancakes are only for cocks, not ferrets.

In another part of the world Anna was enjoying her man in the african sun of Marrakesh. I hadn't seen Anna since I was in London in September, visiting her. But from what I gathered, sandy beaches and sunbathing isn't too shitty. At least not generally.
Exquisite food and delicious drinks were served in Morocco. As they enjoyed a day at a resort, Anna was enjoying the interior design of all the toilets. Lost at a resort in forty degrees celsius with yesterdays food coming out of you like timed sprinklers in the garden can’t be fun. Not even in Marrakesh.

Caroline and I was having a dinner date over the phone since she took off to Stockholm so now I’m stuck here with a lot of food and no one to help me eat it. And Caroline only knows one thing to cook and that’s tacos. Take out for her. And well, everything in the fridge for me. Caroline met a french guy druing her first week in the big city, and obviously he was moving back to France.
This is our curse, if you will. Caroline and I have a thing for guys we under no circumstances or solutions can ever have. So we keep each other close so we know that no matter which wall we run face first in to, we have each other and lots of food when our knees give out.

And I think I made a huge mistake by eating my own bodyweight in food before the christmas month. But to numb the anxiety I got another membership at this new gym so I now have two gym-subscriptions. And in this paradoxal thought-maze I'm in, I think it’s the thought that counts (calories).

Actually going? - I’m still debating that with myself and my beer-gut.

Competition, it means different things to different people. If it's a battle of superiority, fight to the death or just a friendly rivalry. The end result is always that there will be a winner and losers. The trick is to know which battles to choose. But know this, there is not a victory that comes without a price.

Throughout time there have been small battles and big ones, the one that will never end is between the sexes. Not so long ago women were considered less because ”they were weaker than men”, survival of the fittest: home edition. What men have failed to understand is that we all know that the vajayjay, if not taken by force, trumps the bone most of the time when it comes to having your shit together.
When it all comes around the true backbone of every successful relationship is a supportive partner (doesn’t matter which sex).

In the good ol’ days, a true horse of a woman (not Sarah Jessica Parker) was all the family needed. Without her, the man would come home to, well basically, shit. Cooking, cleaning, taking care of the children and being a true rock when the shitstorms rolled in.
As I was making pancakes (I’m a horse), Caroline watched an episode of Desperate Housewives and she looked at me with horror in her eyes and apathetically said: ”Bloody hell, kids are fucking disgusting”.

She’s definitely not a horse in this relationship. She might be a lion.

A little bit further into the city, Jenny was visiting the doctor. As she stood in the elevator, she gazed at herself in the mirror, proud of the body she has worked so hard to get back. She’s going for the body so she can lure in men and objectify them. Let them know how it is to be looked at as an object.

She’s a crossbreed between a horse and a black widow, poisonous if you will.

When she stepped out of the elevator and into the waiting room a smaller wave of panic washed over her when she saw the sign. If her scans for an STD would come back positive, she will have ruined thirteen relationships with thirteen different people. That's thirteen dicks. That's a whole football team. The whole fucking team, the starting line-up and two substitutes. Let’s just say that I made pancakes for two guests that afternoon.

When the girls had left I thought to myself, we’re not roles in a play, but auditioning actors searching for a counterpart to pick up the slacks we’re not able to bring to the table. It’s not sex-oriented and yet our ancestors is trying to force this gender biased manuscript down hour throats like we can’t write our own.

I can’t help but wonder, if there’s a price to pay in this battle, has the price already been paid?