Ok, it’s whim o’clock, and what is every fibre of my being telling me to do today?
Move to Sweden.
Ok- so you know not to take my whims too seriously. Like when I wanted to go back to college and become a physicist, despite having ditched higher level maths and science when I was 15. And when I was going to become a pizza chef despite not wanting to work weekends, nights, or for lousy pay. Or pretty much any time I have said I was going to do something other than lie in bed and watch tv.
So take with a pinch of salt…
Today I feel very strongly that I would enjoy Sweden.
Reasons to move to Sweden:
1. It’s one of the best places to live, in the world, apparently. Or the best. I don’t care, it sure beats Italy.
2. Promiscuous women are apparently not judged harshly. Neither is drinking too much.
3. Sexism in general is supposedly even lower than my self esteem, which again… beats the shit out of Italy.
4. People speak real good English there.
5. Ah shit, do I have to keep racking my brains to make it look like a sensible whim? I’ll start again.
Reasons to move to Sweden:
1. MEN WHO LOOK LIKE VIKINGS and are ACTUALLY descended from Vikings. For fucks sake, do I need any further reasons?
I don’t know is it just that I am having a particularly horny week, but that doesn’t really mean anything because I haven’t had a low sex drive week since I played with LEGO. And now that I think of it, I used to build little sex dungeons for my LEGO people and rub them up against each other even though they had no genitals. I would sit in my room on my own for hours, playing out these scenes where the pretty LEGO girl with the ponytail would lure the LEGO man with the aviator jacket (he was the hottest LEGO guy I had) back to her sex dungeon under false pretences and then having her genital-free way with them. She was a total slut, that ponytail girl. This is why you should not have just one child, you should have several, and then they won’t be left alone for so long and develop these kinds of mental problems.
So, back to the Swedes…
I mean I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with Danes or Finns or Nor…w…s? (?) I just picked Sweden because of the other reasons I can’t remember now because my entire brain is being used to think of this guy:
And that, paired with, it’s ok to get drunk and sleep with a lot of different guys, all of whom look kind of like this guy, in my mind, well… I actually started looking up jobs and stuff.
But then, I was thinking about my new life in Sweden and I remembered how a few weeks ago I had the same burst of motivation and surety about Canada, after seeing a picture of a hot Canadian, and fantasizing about all kinds of rugged manly men catching salmon with their bare hands out of freezing water and then lifting me with one arm and fucking my brains out up against a sleeping moose…
And I do this all the time, fixate on some nationality… Oh but you’re so hot, men of the world. Why are you so hot?
The really really hot men are just so unattainable. I keep looking for a short cut. Like, if I’m a foreigner maybe they will overlook the fact that probably all their ex girlfriends look like this: (fucking hard to align shit, lower right picture anyway..)
And they will see me as exotic and be all, “I’m so over that flawless skin and blonde hair and blue eyes and ability to get a tan as well as spend time outdoors and be all fit and healthy thing, I want me some pasty lazy uncultured Irish girl”
And bam! I get to score way out of my league.
Ugh If I was a man I’d probably be in Thailand flashing my cash around and scoring really beautiful but poor Thai women. (And in case you are wondering I would be fine with ladyboys too, I’m shallow dontcha know, it’s what’s on the outside that counts…)
At this point my lazyness and desire to understand my surroundings has already got the better of my urges.
I won’t be moving to Sweden.
I also think, it would be really fucking awesome. I just… to be honest, not speaking the language and all isn’t what bothers me… it’s that gorgeous blonde critter to the right. I don’t think I would be able to live somewhere people that attractive are just… roaming the streets. My ego probably couldn’t handle having the evidence for my mediocrity thrust so blatantly in its face all the time. One time a woman who looked like that came into my shop. She was dutch AND taller than me AND had a really nice laugh and I wanted to kill myself for three days after she left the shop. And her boyfriend wasn’t even hot… their presence made me feel both ugly and shallow.
I had a Dutch boyfriend once. Well half Dutch. But when we went to Amsterdam together, I met one of his friends and she was like Doutzen Kroes except in casual clothing. (Doutzen ispictured below)
So not only ridiculously hot, but also all cool and nice and down to earth.
It’s not just the massive good lookingness they have over me, it’s their wonderful attitudes and personalities.. and lack of fixation on silly things like appearance.
I’m the one who gives a shit about this… they don’t.
I’m like a really bad arm wrestler who makes a huge deal out of arm wrestling. And they are all nonchalant, like it doesn’t matter, let’s just take it easy… no need to arm wrestle. And I am like NO I WILL FUCKING TAKE YOU and then they knock me over with their pinkie finger and I’m like ah.
But obviously this battle is in my imagination. We both just know the score. (It’s an unspoken thing between women, I think. I can never tell because they won’t admit it, friends always act like we are all entirely equal on the field of beauty but I am pretty damn sure that we are all fully aware of our and each others places on the hotness ladder. It makes me very uncomfortable, especially because I’m not 100% that this isn’t just some delusion of mine.)
The worst part is I can’t even hate them, because they are so cool and nice. BITCHES.
So no, I won’t be moving to Sweden. I’m already having a breakdown just thinking about Doutzen Kroes and WHERE DO YOU GET OFF, LOOKING LIKE THAT?
I wish I just didn’t care about this stuff, or there was some kind of cool tradeoff to not looking like that, to make it kinda worthwhile.
Like for example, if only really incredibly good looking women were ever raped or murdered, I would be able to deal with it, I’d be like, ok, well at least I can look forward to never being raped or murdered.
But unfortunately rapists and murderers don’t give a crap about how I come to terms with not being the most attractive person on the planet ever. They probably prefer beautiful supermodels but don’t find them wandering the streets drunk and confused and alone, so they would probably settle for me with very little qualms. (what IS a qualm?)
Doggammit, that picture is depressing the pants off me.
I guess I’ve found a tradeoff after all: No woman will ever hate me with such unwarranted passion as I hate the Doutzen Kroes(s) of this world.
… But then, that’s not putting me at ease at all because, since when do I care if women like me?
Ugh too miserable to keep writing..
I’m going to go to lie down so I can give my full attention to feeling bad about myself.
Talk to you soon.
ARK! I was lying down trying to stop hating my appearance long enough to fantasize, but I kept giving up and going WHAT is the point, AS IF my mental image of hunkdom would say that to me… Muhuhhuhuhuuuu….
…. when the doorbell rang. It was the building administrator’s lackey looking for the money for the last 2 years of heating and building administration bills… Basically the back of rocks and shit around my neck that husband landed me with when he left.
I have the money put away for a while now but it feels like my money, I don’t want to part with it and I’ve been waiting for them to send me a revised copy of the bills but that’s just an excuse really… so much money… really, jesus fuckballs, a lot of money. So he was giving me shit about when am I gonna pay and it’s quite a sum, eh, eh? And asking for me to pay off a quota of it now… and I’m like, you know what? HERE. And I gave him ALL THE MONEY.
And he wrote me a receipt that felt like a piece of crap kind of trophy for that kind of expenditure, but that’s it now it is PAID in full.
I have no more debts.
I am freeeeeee… ish.
All my fuck all monies are belong to me now.
Now resist urge to go shopping.
you know what happened the other day? I went into H&M and I needed a jumper, but then I tried on these ridiculous beige shorts and I was all, oooh they will look really nice if I wear them with this other top I bought recently that i shouldn’t have, and I was trying to muster some kind of imaginary situation they would be suitable for, and then I’m queueing to pay for them and thinking what is wrong with you, woman? You need money. you look awful in beige, and you don’t need any more clothes.
But I didn’t care.
And then the checkout girl is like, sorry the tills are suddenly broken, you can’t buy things unless you have exact change. And I didn’t have exact change because I wanted to impress hot barman with my exact coins, so I couldn’t buy the shorts.
And that, my friends, is how the universe gave me a gift of 20 euros. But deprived me of a pair of shorts my ass looked really good in.
I must not go back and buy them but I won’t lie to you it’s a possibility.
OH and then I bought boots (sorry, sorry… but that wasn’t a bad thing because I know good leather boots in the sales are an excellent investment for someone moving to London) and I went to put my headphones on as I was leaving the shop but the shopping bag was in my hand and I poked myself in the eye with the bag corner and that really hurt.
Ok stop writing now I was just so fucking excited about finally being out of debt. It’s all good, I don’t even care if I’m not Doetzen Kroes any more. I bet she’s a real nice person too.