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?




Bob Dylan once said, ”Some feel the rain. Others just get wet”.
As I walked home from work to meet up with Jenny I thought about what she told me when she broke up with ’Mr.-not-able-to-compromise’. She had been living with this guy for almost three years and during some of this time she just got wet.
Two birds, one dog and a lovely apartment must be enough right? Focusing so much on what must be instead of what could be, really can get you lost sometimes. She couldn't falter or take one step out of line. Neither on herself or on their plans together, how could she? She had it all right?
But being grateful and happy are two different things, why is it that some of us can’t set them apart.
Meanwhile Caroline was with ’I-can’t-be-seen-in-jeans-guy’ and just got wet. He had just told her that he dropped out of school to start this new job. In another town. Two hours away. Caroline had two choices, get wet or be supportive. And she jumped, she took a shot. ’Cause he was worth supporting, and it’s not that far. Busses leave everyday and they both had things to finish on their own. She could support this, they’ll figure something out. One week of showing hearts and he put his away.
It was like dumping a bathtub over her head. Trying was asking too much, apparently.
How come that sacrificing a little for someone else is a sign of weakness and not strength?
For some of us a storm is comforting ’cause we get to go out and cross our heart that we will feel anything at all. It’s all different to each of us, getting wet and feeling it. For those who feel pain. Maybe we like the pain. Maybe we're wired that way because without it… we just wouldn't feel real. ”Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop”. For those who’ve become numb from being (un)happily grateful for too long are happy they feel something. Anything… again.
Compromising is part of living and it comes in different sizes. Just like my jeans that I stubbornly select in one size too small just so that my legs and butt look great. I feel sleek and elegant but they’re squeezing like the seventh ring of hell and I can’t eat more than one piece of sushi or they’ll burst at the seams. And the endless desperate chase for something that either gets me soaked or makes me feel. Both are equally scary. ’Cause these are my good pair of pants. And I need them dry. But it makes me feel the wrong kind of rain.
I can’t help but wonder, what shitstorm’s do we get to choose? And can we endure one shitstorm if we get some of that summer rain that makes us feel alive?



Validation, we all crave it. Some of us are just to scared to admit it. Some of us don’t know when we receive it. Some of us are narcissistic enough to get it from ourselves and some of us just take it by force.
As Jenny and I closed in on the gym for some self-proclaimed validation her phone vibrated violently. And just like that, Jenny received some pre-gym-validation in the form of a text message from ’Up-the-butt-guy’.
Jenny had been seeing this guy a couple times before, strictly sex. What this guy didn’t get though was that Jenny wasn’t at all interested in the up-the-butt-action. And ’Mr.Netherlands’ was still in the picture. Even after saying butt or nothing at all, he couldn't stop ’buttycalling’ her. For her it was front-butt or no butt. For him it was just butt.
But(t) is validation compromise-able, and would provisional be enough to cover deficiency?
On the other side of town Caroline and Anna were having drinks before Caroline’s date with ’I-can’t-be-seen-in-jeans-guy’. I joined up with them after spin class and saw that Caroline wore black jeans that were ripped at the knees. Caroline has this habit of doing the exact opposite of what is comfortable for others just to see their reaction. She takes it by force.
The night went on and it turned out that ’No-jeans-guy’ was really nice after all. Some guys you can’t judge by the cover. And some you can tell right away, they’re like wrapped candy with the wrapper inside of the candy.
A little closer to home, Anna and I talked about her source of validation; ’No-labels-guy’. This guy has three layers of wrapper, with no label on it and is bolted shut. Validation deficiency.
Does provisional validation really work for the sake of well-being? Would we have to ’buttpromise’? Maybe Nemesis did wrong by punishing Narcissus for being is own source of validation.
I can’t help but wonder, if we only have one candy in the jar, do we pry until the wrapper comes of or do we simply give up?



Once upon a school time I met the first love of my life, Anna. We’re like the old married couple, eating dark chocolate and drinking tea late at night. My next love was Caroline, she went to the same school as Anna and I. Caroline thought I was the most annoying person that has ever existed, this hate later turned out to be love. Who’d guess, right? Last and definitely not least, in the mythical world of high-school, I finally bumped into my last love, Jenny. Who are these girls?
They are my soulmates.
Anna is the driven one, the one with the fancy school, apartment in London and has it all going for her on the business front. Let’s just say she could sell you shit and you would think it’s a gift from god.
Caroline, she’s the logical one. The street-smart, spontaneous one. She knows how to cram school, work, gym and partying all together in one and still have time to travel everywhere in the world.
Jenny’s the live-like-you-might-or-might-not-die-tomorrow. She’s the blonde literature student who quotes books and makes you laugh until your heart content. But don’t let her quirky personality fool you, she got the brains to back it up.
So here I am now, with my fabulous, gorgeous girls, a black and white wardrobe and a job at a Froyo-restaurant, trying to get my life together without falling down the rabbit hole.

I can’t help but wonder, did Alice really go to wonderland or did she simply go insane?
Anyway, welcome to my monthly column. Enjoy!