Drunken Ramblings of a Rambling Swede

Friday, eve of Saturday, and after a jolly Irish time in a Irish pub drinking irssafh…isari…irsah…irsh… Irish cider; no wait – it was Swedish cider, and I’ve managed to find my way home. Admittedly the fact that the taxi stopped right at my doorstep might make that accomplishment less of a… accomplishment, per say, but no matter! Hom, slightly tipsy and talkative. That’s the only thing important. Currenclty. Perhaps.

Really? You are in Ireland, and you’re drinking cider? Really? Really really?

It’s not my fault okay! I just can’t stomach beer, regardless of brand. It’s a preexisting condition! Don’t jtudge me!

Continue reading


How I Did Not Became A Dragon

What ever should I do with you Mr Blargh. We always come back to this place, you and I. To this moment. Together, fates betwixt in the vortex of love.

Now kiss!

Schhhh, don’t spoil this moment. This is a beautiful reincarnation of a long forgotten shack in the ever expanding metropolisium of Internetia.

You’re a pretentious ass-hat and this is a sham, just like the last time.

Schhh, schhh, schhh, don’t say that; daddy’s got you. Schhh, schhh. That’s right. Daddy’s got you.


Damn. I creeped myself out there. Anyway. I should (for real-sis yo, brah) look into having some sort of activity in this blargh and not just fill it with posts about not posting any posts, before posting about not posting any posts about posting no posts becomes its livelihood. Did you catch that? I sure didn’t! Continue reading

This is Why We Can’t Have Clean Things [Irish Adventures]

Some dudes. Living in Ireland. It’s Irish Adventures! Pip pip!

*theme song goes here*


So we wanted to vacuum the apartment with the supplied vacuum cleaner. The previous apartment dwellers had obviously, at some time during their debauchedly lifetime,  also had the same notion.

First impression, that led to the discovery of something that needs to be purged a’la lobotomy, was that there was no suction. Strange, says our naive minds, heedless of the terrors beyond the veil. Fuck Cthulhu; this shit is real.

So we opened the poor machine. It turns out the previous dwellers – now forever by the name of “Miss and Mr Bag-of-Dicks” – had not managed to process and act upon the simple act of not being great floating bags of dicks (see previously mentioned names) of the greatest calibre. In that they hadn’t used a bag for the cleaner. And never cleaned it. So the accumulated filth (underlined, bold and coloured for precision targeting) of an indescribable amount of time  had collected inside the machine.

Dog ends in the hundreds, all the dirt on the moon, ash from six forest fires and a sort of a nightmarish… goo… mixed in. It actually got hard to breathe in the room when we emptied it. It felt like being stuck in a 1 square meter asbestos-walled discotheque where the DJ is called DJ AssBetos and play only the most popping of the asbestos songs (like “Knocking on Asbestos Wall” and “Good God That’s Filthy”).


And that’s that story told. I’m selling the scrip for the price one bundle of new vacuum bags.

Pi-pi-pi-ip-ip Irish Adventures pip pip!


There There, It Only Stings A Bit

Another day, another five hundred words, another rejected job search.

Did you know that if you have spent, basically, your whole (short) life studying and achieving only mediocre stats, as it were, then you aren’t high on the list for hot prospects in the general vicinity of the job market? I had. No. Freaking. Idea. Really.

Wait. Does sarcasm count as a disability? The more important question, I guess, is: Can I get money for it? Please? It’s very severe.

I’m sounding so bitter for some reason. I’m going to sit down with Dwarf Fortress while  Miracle of Sound, and a sprinkle of The World Is Saved, is playing in the background. Dr. Doctor did recommend a remedy of tantrum-raging, booze driven dwarves this evening.

Undecided Monkey Business

When you haven’t got the inclination, or even the funds, to purchase some sort of design freedom from WordPress you are confined within the available and free themes.

I changed theme again because it was annoying for the eyes to read long text in the last one. Maybe this one will feel better. If not then I will throw this one in the pile I hereby like to call Thematical Dung Heap Of The Youthful Generation But Not Really Youthful Because I’m Sure It’s Being Used By People Or Personages Of An Statistical Higher Age And Health. Or T.D.H.O.T.Y.G.B.N.Y.B.I.S.I.B.U.B.P.O.P.O.A.S.H.A.A.H for short.

Yes, sometimes I even groan at myself.

Take a picture of a pink and square bird with one wing and chicken feet for your pain.

Evolution puked

The Art Of Ooh How Does That Work

Whenever I go into writing mode – which, sadly, seems to happen less frequently than it used to – I seem to find a new thing to read about every paragraph; be it the proper way to dig a latrine for a company of soldiers numbering in the hundreds, or why not how the westerly winds affect the mountains at the coastline and the intermediate land beyond over the course of a couple of thousands of years.

Will a certain elevation increase or decrease humidity when XX things is in effect, close to those YY things?

Can there be a stable/sustainable civilisation when the proximity to an enormous plain; populated almost entirely by raiding, star worshipping, horse people; is as uncomfortable close as your rather creepy Aunt is when she’s downed the entire production line of wine from a minor country in her belly and is feeling particularly frisky?

How would a rather spoiled, influential, person with instantaneous resources react when perceiving offence by your characters perfect imitation of a cracked wooden plank while delivering deadpan comments so dry that the wet paint on a house in the desert city of Ghyt on the far eastern continent shrieks in terror and dries faster than a swallow mating with a snapping turtle… and that metaphor went away from me. It went so far that… Oh shut up Daniel.

The slightly annoying part? Often the thing I start reading up on and spend unhealthy amount of time figuring out will, perhaps, take up, maybe, a sentence. At the most.

The even more annoying, and whining buh-hu-slap-me-I’ve-a-boo-buu, part? I should be writing! Not clicking on links to more articles about the enthralling process of collecting urine from the privy, let it turn into ammonia in pretty and dainty jars and then sprinkling the festering waste-fest on poor, unsuspecting animal hides so it can magically transform into glorious, piss stinking, leather.

I’m not even going to provide a link for that. I’m not that horrible a person.

At Least He Knows How To Fish

How come I have been able to write tall tales, pages numbering into a near value of infinity, with word spewing nonsense about silly and, in a great burst of retrospection, rather useless subjects for, let’s say, a course in University; but when it comes to writing a fantastical themed story from the ground up with characters I am starting to like, and consider my own, my fingers hover over the keyboard like some sort of indecisive hawk with a dreadful phobia for rodents?

Perhaps it’s a lingering and hidden compulsion to not mess up something I care about.

Perhaps it’s a lack of creativity, or rather, lack of active creativity.

Perhaps I just suck at creating scenes and explaining in a pronounceable language a world and character interactions that solely exist in my mind (and in a GIMP file called ‘World Map’).

I hate introspection. Screw it, I’m going to go pet a cat and sit in the sun. The story isn’t going anywhere.