My Hair Keeps Falling Out.

Det er lenge siden sist, så nå er det sannelig på tide å gi litt livstegn fra seg igjen. Sommerferien har vært typisk norsk, rimelig grå. Det er sånn som trønderne sier, "Hadde jeg visst dette var sommeren ville jeg ikke gått på do".

Jeg kom nettopp på at jeg har kommet inn på et studie, der jeg ikke vet noe om relaterte yrker. Er ikke det spennende? De to mest innlysende yrkene er forskning og lærer, kanskje en fin blanding av de to. Takk gåsa, det fins yrkesmesser. Kort oppsummert vil det si at jeg kommer til å studere Molekylær Biologi og Biologisk Kjemi, ved universitetet i Oslo til høsten.

Fingrene min kribler etter å bla gjennom utallige bøker fylt med kunnskap. Forhåpentligvis vil ikke dette endre seg etter den første måneden. Vanligvis starter man, ihvertfall jeg, det nye skoleåret så full av energi og iver at selv duracell blir sjalu. Uheldigvis, etterhvert som dagene snegler avgårde og lærerne siler spenningen ut av faget, begynner energien sakte å ebbe ut av kroppen. Denne gangen håper jeg historien ikke vil gjenta seg.

Jeg har svært mange forventninger og omtrent alle er fullstendig urealistiske. Livet mitt kommer nok ikke til å endre seg på en dramatisk og spennende måte bare fordi jeg begynner å studere, hvis ikke en av professorene mine eller en medstudent er en vampyr fra 1800-tallet og blir hodestups forelsket i meg. Overgangen fra elev til student vil sannsynligvis gå rolig for seg, men så har jeg aldri vært spesielt begavet i sannsynlighetsregning så hva vet nå jeg? Uansett, håper jeg at en av mine hundre forventninger skråstrek ønsker vil gå i oppfyllelse. Jeg håper jeg vil trives. Jeg håper at studiet jeg har valgt passer hjerte mitt, slik at jeg slipper å bruke tre års av livet mitt for så å finne ut at jeg egentlig brenner for astronomi, istedenfor biologi. At jeg får ivrige og dyktige professorer. At jeg trives sammen med de andre studenten. At jeg kommer til å klare det.

Jeg. Håper. Jeg. Vil. Trives.

Spit In My Face.

You know those big-ass purses, and how things just seem to vanish the second they have been placed into one of these big-ass purses? Well today my big-ass purse, that really isn't that big,went completely Mary Popins, and not in a magical oh-this-is-great-now-I-can-carry-around-loads-of-enormous-useless-stuff-like-furniture-in-my-bag kind of way. It was more of an annoying discover, I figure Columbus must have felt the same way when he completely failed in his task in finding India and instead discovered an already found country. You see I discovered to major holes in the inner lining of my purse, we're talking hidden compartment within a hidden compartment. The hidden contents contained: 5 pairs of eye lenses, 2 lip glosses, 3 pens, 2 eye drop bottles, and 6 packs of gum. All of which I've been frantically searching for.

Are. You. Kidding. Me.

Sucking The Blood Right Out Of Me.

Okay so I decided not to write about Twilight awhile back, mostly because it would be a very hateful rant. I figured there was little point in discussing my disdain, and I did not wish to be a platform for its promotion, not that the series would need it, or that my sentences would make a difference. So I choose not to write about the unoriginal plot, where-girl-falls-head-over-heels-for-dangerous-and-slightly-wounded-boy, the lack of character development, themes, and motifs, and not to mention the infantile grammar. To this day the word "smouldering" gives me the gebbies. Granted Meyers deserves some credit for creating such a sucsessfull money-wagon, but her skills as a writer are lacking. The part that really twists my knickers is that her fictitious world is filled to the brim with pink-fluffy so-called "vampires" who glitter in the light. Which is also a reason for why I did not wish to discuss the book, since I would feel the need to compare it to real vampire literature, such as Bram Stoker's Dracula and Anna Rice's vampiric realm. I was not going to mention any of this. However it is fair to say that my cup runneth over after scanning a newspaper article my mother was about to through away.

The article was basically a how to guide on becoming Bella or a seriously lame vampire. promoting vampire lip gloss, vampire wine, a cookbook that consists of all the dishes Bella makes, and even referrers to a website dedicated to quote unquote "twilight stuff", the words"sleep like Bella" made my soul want to shrivel up and die.

Now I understand that people are different, and I am not saying there is anything wrong with those who like twilight, I am just saying their brain has some faulty wiring, and that they should look into it. No, but Seriously. Granted it's a little sad that people think vampires are like the Cullens, but if it makes you happy I am certainly not going to take it away from you. I just think the healthy interest has turned into more of a blind worship and devotion, where the fanaticism has become worrisome. Now I've never understood this kind of behaviour, which might be why I do not understand the twilight phenomenon. I understand the need to "need", or wanting to lose yourself in an other story because it's more interesting that your story. I understand all the whys to a fixation. Believe me I do.

The thing that strikes me as weird is going to such great lengths in bringing your own fantasies to life. (In my experience when fantasies become spoken words reality always comes crashing down) I realize I can only speak for myself. All the same for me fantasies and thoughts are private and personal. My fingers just went a little numb after typing that sentence. I guess it betrays me into some-what of a bigot. So to clarify I feel their are several different kinds of thoughts. Some are "innocent", and easily shared, blog-worthy), some are strange, and some are so personal you, at least I, can not share them without difficulty because they render you completely naked, stripping you down to the core of raw emotions. It is here my deepest thoughts lies beside my obsession, and that is why I would not want the corporate commercialism to taint my pure compulsion. Since on some days that little escape is all one has, and what escape would it be, if it was destroyed by consumerism?