After almost two months of—as a friend put it—“radio silence” I decide to start things up again.. not with a whimper.. not with a bang.. but with an ’effin flame. Well, not just any ’effin flame. The Olympic mother-fucking torch of all mother-fucking flames![^1]
Please, please contain yourself.. you’re gasps and amazement are dripping all over the floor. And trust me when I say, it’s significantly cooler than you think.
Nah, I’m kidding. It was actually surprisingly lame in the end. (Yeah, there I go spoiling it right away..). Hundreds, possible thousands of people, waking their children up at dawn, hurrying to the streets just to watch as a dude dressed like any random jogger runs by, a torch in one hand and waving with the other. And done. Now it’s just like you would have been there. No need to thank me, I do this from the kindness of my heart. Though I obviously wouldn’t say no to a blow job. Now you might be wondering why I would attend something that I clearly have very little interest in? Well.. I was curious and I figured “This is probably one of those ‘once in a lifetime’ -sort of things”. Unless I go to to where ever Mr. Jogger will be in a couple of days and watch it again, thus defeating the “once” -part of the saying “once in a lifetime”. And before you ask—yes—the mice keep me up at night, so I get plenty of time to think about how to be clever in my blog.
Yeah, we have mice. I’m going with plural because I’ve been told you never have a mouse-problem.. you have mice-problem. Pest Control has already been here, nice guy, first thing he said when stepping into our flat was “Oh, you look like you have a cocain-problem rather than a mice-problem!” Referring to the enormous line of flour lying on the kitchen floor. I wanted to see where in the kitchen the mice were coming from, so I had poured flour on the floor the night before. He took a look under and inside our kitchen cabinets and concluded that the mice were probably coming in from the big gaping hole in the wall. Big might sound a bit on the extreme side, but it’s about 20 cm in diameter and I’ve slept very little so you’ll have to excuse me if I’m a bit over-dramatic. But yeah, apparently we have a giant (it’s expanding as we speak..1) hole in the wall, so now I need to contact our letting agency again and request that they send in a builder. It shouldn’t be a problem, they have been very helpful so far but it still annoys me a little that whoever renovated the kitchen in the first place felt it acceptable to leave an enormous herculean (oh god, it’s becoming sentient![^3]) hole, knowing full well that it’s not uncommon to have mice-problems.
That aside, life is pretty sweet. And as we speak (though I do most of the talking in this relationship) I am trying to take some good (and not so good) pictures to post in the all-encompassing “Living In Alan, With Alan” post, that I will write soon. Very soon. I promise. I have the entire weekend to write it, so I’m fairly certain I’ll get around to it at some point. Not conviced? Fine..
I, Carlos Eriksson, hereby do solemnly and sincerely swear to write a blog post entitled “Living In Alan, With Alan” containing both in photographic- and written form, a full disclosure of our current living accommodations by “this weekend” as defined by a mutually agreed upon relative perspective of the space-time continuum know as “this weekend”, not Euclidean space because fuck that guy for no reason.
Good, see you then.
Snakes on a plane -reference? Yes. Have I watched it recently and now think it’s really awesome to say “mother-fucking” in front of everything? No, I haven’t seen it at all.↩