Fiction - or is it?

After racking my brain about a possible subject for quite some time, I finally decided to acquaint you with one of the new things that I'm really exited about. It's a graphic novel, a medium that I can definitely appreciate and that I find very enjoyable! I've already read Wanted, V for Vendetta and of course the 12 volumes of Watchmen, all of which are highly recommended by yours truly.
 

But the graphic novel I wanted to talk about today, is something else. It's something new and edgy, so of course it has caught my eye! I've always had a thing for controversial projects and stories, which is why I loved the short-lived television series Jericho and other independent projects. For the people who haven't heard of Jericho, here's a short summary: "The US falls under attack when 23 major American cities are nuked. A small town located in Kansas survives the nuclear holocaust and the show is about the struggles of this particular town and their search for the true conspirators behind the September Attacks."

I could give you a full list of all the interesting television, literary and movie projects that have inspired and moved me, but I figured since this is just a simple personal blog, one controversial project would suffice. And if not, don't worry, their will be more blogs which will undoubtedly include many other shocking and awe-inspiring things!

So without further ado, this is what I've been meaning to talk to you about...

DMZ
Welcome to America's second Civil War

DMZ is a graphic novel that depicts a world where overseas wars have caused the United States to neglect the silent war that was brewing in their Mid-West. The US government mistankingly neglects the threat of anti-establishment militias scattered across the country. Like a sleeping giant, Middle America rises up and violently pushes its way to the shining seas, sparking a second Civil War. The war comes to a shrieking standstill at the line in the sand. You've probably heard of this place before. It's called Manhattan. Or at least, it was. Now it's called the DMZ.

Matty Roth is an aspiring journalist who becomes stranded in the war-torn metropolis and is exposed to a world of car bombings, booby-trapped streets and buildings, snipers lurking in the once vibrant and crowded streets of Manhattan. Matty struggles to recover after his helicopter is shot duwn, cutting off his last escape route out of the city. Gunned down and in over his head, he finds refuge with the people still remaining on the island. But his integration into this new society won't be so easy. The city has become divided into different factions. And they're all looking for blood or another way of emptying their ammo clips. 

Manhattan ain't what it used to be...

So why, do you ask, does this particular graphic novel, this story interest me? Because I've always been fascinated with the question "what if?" In this vast universe that we all inhabit, choices are made on a daily basis, but we rarily grasp just how far these choices can stretch. So I enjoy reading stories about these alternate realities. A world different than ours. A turning point that made our reality go this way, and the alternate one the other.

I firmly believe in the existence of these realities. We don't live in a universe, but a multiverse. I can understand that this must sound very sci-fi to you, but I don't think of it in the CGI-blockbuster, alternative history way. I see people making choices. And when they chose one thing, they inevitably discard the other choice. But I believe that causes a breaking point in our world. We choose to go one way, but another part of us wants to go the other way. And within that dichotomy a new reality is brought into existence.

So what does this have to do with DMZ? Well, DMZ offers an alternate reality where the overseas troubles have led to a second American Civil War. A war between the US government's need for warfare and the anti-militia groups that have formed around the country.

Of course, all of this remains fiction, as it has not happened yet. But nobody is able to predict the future. We don't know where our actions will lead us. And within that uncertainty a multiverse is born. Each one slightly different from the other, but sharing one unifying anchor: choices.

My brother

It’s not always easy living with someone who has a mild form of autism. It’s even harder when it’s somebody close to you. Like for instance your own brother. The first thing you need to know about us is that we were never close. We always fought or called each others names, but we never became the close brothers we should have been. I’d often see my friends getting along fine with their brothers, even going so far as considering them to be real friends. I never had that. And I never will.

The second thing you need to know is that there was always something off about my brother. It started with little things such as his rather pointless remarks, his forgetfulness, his childish behaviour, but most of all the general way with which he went about his day. He would always shut himself off inside his world that he had created. He would imagine the most amazing and fantastic stories and let himself be completely immersed by them. When I was younger I would let myself get lost in his dream world too, but later on, I guess I outgrew them. He didn’t.

At primary school he was doing really well. He got good grades, had some friends and even a couple of innocent and playful girlfriends. He wasn’t bad looking so he had a way with girls. It all started to change when he arrived in the sixth year of primary school. His behaviour would become erratic and slowly he started to drift off into his imagination more frequently. He began to invent stories and act strangely, but we never dared to think that something was wrong with him. Just being kids, I guess.

In secondary school it started to go downhill. He changed directions a lot because of his dwindling grades. More often my parents would receive remarks made by his teacher that he wasn’t paying enough attention, that he was telling lies. This carried on for three years. When I was in the first year of secondary school, we were seeing a psychologist to help him deal with his fantasies. I hated it, because my defiance to go to those meetings was to them a sign that I was somehow the cause of it all. I was mostly singled out because of my assertive behaviour. At that point I wanted to become a psychologist, so I could do a better job.

My brother changed schools and things got even worse. He was bullied and things spiralled out of control. Meanwhile my parents had him tested. Hearing: good. Sight: good (apart from the fact that he had to wear glasses, same as me). Motor reflexes: good. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him.

Because he had been held back two years, we ended up in the same year. We were both in the final year of secondary school. That’s when it all went to hell. I was repeatedly approached by his class mates wanting to know if a story he told was true. They were all lies. My parents got wind of this too and after he failed his exams in December he was forced to leave the school. During the next year and a half his situation completely deteriorated. He became nervous, agitated, angry and sometimes even violent. When I came home from Ghent he always seemed so lost. I wanted to help him about a million times, but we weren’t like that.

In late February the whole thing exploded. He was committed into a psychiatric institution for evaluation. The first three weeks he wasn’t allowed visitors and since I was in Ghent during the week, I missed most of his first few weeks there. But I vividly remember the first time I visited him there. It was heartbreaking.

My heart pounded from the second we got in the car to go see him. I had been in a psychiatric institute before to go see someone else I loved, but it all felt new again. Inside my heart was breaking. I was going to visit my two year older brother, in a mental institution.

When we got up the steps at the entrance I was about ready to fall apart. My Dad lead the way, while I was lagging behind. I wished the hallway would never end and we would just be stuck there, but pretty soon my Dad said it was the second door to the right. There it was. Inside I screamed my lungs out. Outside I appeared together and tried to smile.

The moment he saw me he jumped off the bed and he hugged me. It felt weird. It still does. I was so nervous and hesitant I had to force myself to hug him back and smile at him. I couldn’t help it. We went to the cafeteria to talk where we were surrounded by all those other patients. Their eyes all seemed to have glazed over. Staring. Waiting. Some quietly talking to themselves. It completely freaked me out, but I held it together. I had to.

At around seven thirty, he told us he had signed up for soccer. Apparently, they offered a wide array of sports and entertainment activities there. We went to the gym, where my Mom and Dad entered, but I said I’d stay outside for a minute. Watching my brother play and seeing the other mentally disturbed – by lack of a euphemism – I broke down. I ran for the stairs where I let the sadness flood over me. The tears bubbled up behind my eyes and soon after rolled down my cheeks.

He was my brother. He was turning twenty-one. He should have been in his third year of college or university. He should have had a girlfriend by now, or a boyfriend, I don’t care. He should have been outside of these walls, living his life, enjoying it. Instead, he was in here. There was something wrong with him and I didn’t know what it was. I couldn’t help him. I just couldn’t. Because we were never like that. I never had a brother. He was never my friend. We weren’t close. Yet here he was. Alone. And I couldn’t help him. It wasn’t until that moment that I finally realized how long I had wanted him to be my brother. How much I wanted us to be friends. How much I wanted him to be the godfather to my children. I wanted to tell him I loved him, but I couldn’t. That just wasn’t us.

I cried for fifteen minutes. Whenever I heard a noise I tried to compose myself as quickly as I could, but I knew you could still tell that I had been crying. The visit ended about forty-five minutes later. Our goodbyes were platonic, but I wanted them to be so much more. In the car I sent him a text explaining why I seemed so distant and cold. I wrote all the things I couldn’t say to him. I said I was sorry and that I wanted him to be the brother I always wanted.

At home I was greeted by our dog, but I still couldn’t shake the day off of me. My Dad made a stupid joke and I laughed, briefly. I fell into his arms and the tears started welling up again. In his arms I sobbed until I was ready to let him go, but I knew I never could. I pulled away eventually and retreated to my room. I fell asleep very quickly after that. But he never left my mind.

Now when I see him, I try to be understanding and supportive. But I won’t deny that it’s hard. For the first time in nearly eighteen years I have a brother, a brother with a mental disability. It takes some getting used to.

Prospect of life

Having just finished my final article for the school news paper, I can't wait to see that baby hit the newsstands, and by newsstands I mean the cafeteria tables of the HUB campuses.

For the first issue I've written two movie reviews, three book reviews, a lifestyle piece about the vanity and cosmetic-surgery oriented world of today as well as two articles about school campagnes. Hopefully the first issue will please hordes of students so that I can continue writing next year. I don't think I can wish for a better catalyst to set my future journalism career in motion. And just think about the abundant bylines this will give me!

To think that years ago, I saw myself becoming a psychiatrist or a social worker seems almost too hard to believe right now. Never had I thought that this urge, this need to write would prevail over my lifelong desire of studying psychology. I never saw myself as a writer. First off, it didn't seem to be quite lucrative and secondly, since I've never been able to see a story through, I was surprised to find that each time I woke up I began to think about writing. It's strange to think how far it has brought me.

I mean, here I am, writing my twenty-faux blog or something, one having more consistency or literary value than the other, but nonetheless there they are, plain for all to see. My writing. My words. My world. Sometimes I wonder how many people have read my words and if they liked them. I occasionally scroll down to the bottom of the blog to see if anyone checked interesting, cool or funny.

But the truth is, I don't care how many people read my words. I know that this blog is just a grain of sand in this massive desert of words and pictures. I'm not as presumptuous as to think that my blog would stir up something in the minds of my readers, something so profound that they'd never be the same again.

Later on, I would love to write something that could change someone's world. If I can reach out to just one person and make that person's life better or give him/her some kind of purpose, I would know that I did something right. It would give my work, the work that I love to do, meaning and that is one of the most precious feelings in the world. To know that what you do, actually means something.

So for all those journalists out there, remember that your work means something and that it can really touch someone. One day I hope to join your ranks. And for all those editors out there, reading this small and insignificant blog, who are touched by my work, please consider these writings as my resume and if you have any openings available, please be so kind as to think of me when you're reviewing possible candidates.

With the push of a button

Social network sites. Often hailed as the flagships of online communication, but nobody bothers to tell you it can also be the reason for the collapse of said communication.

By know, you're all caught up with my history with M., but today I received a veritable core-shaking blow. A severe heart trauma for which there is no known cure - except maybe redemption. To think that the order of certain letters and the clicking of a button could lead to something so disastrous and yet so full of hope seems almost unbelievable. 

It started off with me typing in her name. Those seventeen letters that formed those four words that I knew all too well and that I could never erase from my mind - even if I wanted to. I typed them into one of those million search boxes scattered across the world wide web. With a slighty trembling hand I pressed the button "Search". In the past, this had worked out so well for me, reconnecting with past friends, getting to know new ones and keeping up with the ones I already had, but it had also disconnected me from the people that I had once loved.

In life there are some people who become persona non grata and to which all access is denied or blocked - as the correct internet term would have it. Up until ten minutes ago, I thought M. belonged to that group. For eight months I had blocked her and in response she did the same to me. Seemed only natural by the way we had let it crash and burn.

Sometimes I would find myself wandering off to see how she was doing. I would find loopholes that would allow me to see her profile. Alas, reason got the best of me and closed the page, wiping her picture from the screen. It always left me feeling empty and regretful.

But a few nights ago, I decided I didn't want her to not see me anymore, so I unblocked her. I still couldn't see her though, but I didn't mind that. I just wanted to ease the tension that had been built up between us. Let her know I was still there, waiting, hoping. A small act, one which I never expected to have any consequences.

Apparently it did. It would be roughly thirteen minutes ago that I discovered she had unblocked me too. For the first time in eight months I could see her profile, no loopholes needed. She looked great, as she always did. It made me feel bad when I realized all the shit I had put her through. She didn't deserve that.

To this day, I still can't figure out why I overreacted. Was it my fear of me not getting what I wanted? Was I afraid of rejection? Or was it fate? Whatever the reason, there's nothing I can do about it now. To make matters worse, when she tried to re-establish contact, I pushed her even further away, seemingly shutting the door forever, only I didn't want that.

I have no idea if she will ever read this blog, or if she will ever read anything that I'll write, but if she does, I just want her to know that the door is still open. The door is open. If you will have me.

No sleep tonight

It's just one of those nights when you can't seem to fall asleep and you start to wonder off to the most inner depths of your mind, painfully and heartbreakingly bringing back the experiences you thought you never had to deal with again.

It feels like an old wound that's being ripped open, regardless of the fact whether you want to or not. It hurts. It keeps you from falling asleep.

I try to block the thoughts out, but they keep breaking through, as if they have a mind of their own. As if they want to be heard.

Every fibre in my body begins to tense. I feel my back beginning to burn. I need to do something, write it down, maybe that way I can deal with it faster, even though I know this isn't the type of problem that has a quick and easy solution. This is me, and the choices I've made and that I can never take back. But somehow, today, tonight, at this hour, I want to. I want to stop myself from sending that email. Control + A and delete. Seems easy enough.

Erase it. All of it. Take it back. I want to do things differently. I want to see her again at the party and talk to her, hold her. I can't get her out of my mind. Steadily the flow of memories creeps into my mind. The echoes of our past. Do I give in to them? Is this just a flash of nostalgia? Or do I just want to try and correct a mistake that I've made? The question is: "Should I?" Is it my right to shake up her whole world again, after all this time has passed? Maybe she's moved on. Or maybe, just maybe, she's thinking the exact same thing. Maybe. Such a beautiful word. Holds so much promise.

The whole situation is just fucked up. What is wrong with me? Why am I doing this right now? Why didn't I think it through before? I lost her. I pushed her away. How can I expect that she'll welcome me back with open arms? I don't deserve that.

All I can think about is this stupid line Mr Big said in "Sex and The City": "I know I screwed up - but I will love you forever." How come I didn't think of it before, back when it still mattered?

Her name keeps buzzing through my head. I need to do something, anything. But not now, it's late and I'm in no position to think rationally or even sanely. I'd hate to see my emotions getting the best of me and see history repeat itself. I need to do it right this time.

But what if I wake up and I feel completely different? What if this feeling doesn't come back? Is it something worth pursuing? Should I? God, I'm so messed up! I'm like an emotional train wreck, the pieces of my life strewn around me and my thoughts all twisted. Total-loss.

I'm afraid that the longer I wait, the further away I let her slip. She's already so far away. A good chance that she's already gone. Can't say that I blame her. She deserves to be happy. I owe her that much. I just wish we could have been happy together. Guess there's always tomorrow, right?

But what do I say? What do I say to make her believe in me again, in us? What can I say that will right all the wrongs, make her forgive me? What do I say so she'll let me back in her life? Is it still possible?

For M. - I'm sorry.

Hopes and dreams

"My name is Laurens and I'm guilty for wanting too much too soon."

Even though I'm only 19, I want to do so much more with my life than what I'm doing right now. I want to work as a freelance writer at a famous paper or magazine. And when I'm done with writing or working freelance, I'd like to be able to become an English teacher in the hopes of inspiring children to read or write and watch them grow. Chauvinism compells me to say that I love Belgium and that I can't think of another country to live in, but the truth is that I don't want to stay here. I want to live in a famous city like New York, London or Paris, even if that means giving up half my paycheck just to keep a roof over my head. I'd love to live in an apartment with an amazing view of the cityscape. I want to see the world and I want to start a family sometime in my early- to mid-twenties.

Yes, I know that to some, this sounds rediculous, but I just can't wait to jumpstart my life. If I could just fast-forward these obnoxious years at college or all of the crappy jobs that I'll have in between and just skip to the good part, life would be so much easier. However, I know that I will have to go through the motions. No pain, no gain is what they say - but whoever said that,  should be shot.

Still, I can't help but wonder what all those years at college are good for. We spend four years studying all sorts of things, taking exams and writing essays, but for what exactly? We sure as hell can't use any of it on our resume!

When I think about what I want my life to look like, I use - and I'm not ashamed to say this - television shows such as 'Sex and The City' and 'Will and Grace' as examples. I want to write for a living like Carrie Bradshaw (though not in terms of her sex column), go to the art gallery openings, visit all the hot new bars and restaurants and enjoy life to the fullest in a metropolis such as New York. I want to live in an apartment like Will and Grace do and be surrounded by my closest friends - I wouldn't even mind to indulge in some situation comedy once in a while. I know why those shows are so successful: because everybody secretly wants their life. They want the promisciuous lifestyle, the amazing friendships and all of the others things that the actors seemingly have and that they lack. Who could blame them, really?

So yesterday I started playing around on some real estate sites and I looked up a few apartments in New York. I suggested monthly rent between $500 en $1500 - which is already a lot of money - but I only ended up with crappy one-bedroom apartments. Needless to say that life in a major city can also cost major amounts of money.

Then I realized that James Frey, author of 'Bright Shiny Morning', already discussed the real estate hell that New York is in. Today it seems as though only the high-income superstar earners have a shot at landing a pre-war apartment that doesn't look as if it's actually been through a war. James Frey commented on New York's insupportable situation that Los Angeles has become a new haven for the people that have been rendered homeless by NY's rising rents.

Living in LA. It wouldn't have been my first choice, but definitely not my last! Sure, I wouldn't mind the 73% days of sun out of a whole year or brushing past superstars in the streets. No sir, I wouldn't mind that at all. Hell, if LA means cheaper apartments, more sun and a greater chance of celebrity-spotting, I'd gladly take a few tremors and floods to go with it.

Of course, for now, my situation seems pretty restricted to the borders of Belgium. But one day, and hopefully that day isn't too far off, I'd like to pack my bags, put all of my books and dvds in a box, bubblewrap my fragiles, plant a big "FOR SALE" sign on my front lawn and ship off to the New World.

Until that day, dear reader, I'll still be here, jammering about the days to come, the places to see and the desires that remain unfulfilled. Hopefully this aspiration won't lead to me becoming the male equivalent of a cat lady, sitting all alone in my one-bedroom apartment, grinding my teeth and talking to all of my cats (preferably dogs, since I'm not a cat person) about the good ol' days. Should this happen, please shoot me - or at least stungun me.

"My name is Laurens and I am a dreamer. Always am, always will be".

Between radiation and desperation

Imagine. You've just settled into your new apartment when you hear an explosion. You run towards the window, separate the blinds with your fingers and let your eyes scan the landscape. Then you see it. A black cloud rising above the rooftops. A million thoughts invade your mind and consume you. 'Are you going to die? Are we at war? Is this the end?' The "Dirty Bomb Diaries" tells the story of Misty, a young girl living in an unnamed city when it is suddenly attacked by terrorists. She must try to survive the chaos that is running rampant throughout the city.

Days go by and Misty sees the city unravel before her eyes. Panic engulfs the streets, shutting down traffic and every day life. Misty is confined to her apartment where she desperately tries to salvage the few supplies that remain from the increasingly empty stores. Power failures become mundain and the voices roaming outside her apartment are growing louder with each passing day. As Misty falls ill and unable to visit a doctor, she realizes she cannot do this alone.

After Misty recovers, she seeks out the help of a man who's able to get her a few supplies. But when someone tries to break into her home, she asks the man for something else: a gun. Slowly we see Misty change from an insecure, scared and helpless girl to a woman who is willing to do anything to survive. Changed by the dramatic circumstances she must fight in order to escape the decaying city around her.

"Dirty Bomb Diaries" is a sixteen-part miniseries that is available on YouTube and each episode is around 2:30 minutes. Definitely worth to take a look at. Even though it is a low-budget and home-made series, it is still quite enjoyable and echoes the great nuclear holocaust movies such as "The Day After" and the exhilarating "Jericho" series.

A Week In Milan

When somebody told me that I could go to Milan by airplane for just € 25,

I accepted without hesitation.

Even though Milan wouldn't have been my first choice

it is a well-known European city like any other, so why not go and see it?

When that same person told me we would be going with a group of about six people,

I started racking my brain for company - who to bring, who to bring?

The list was finalised.

Some wouldn't have been my first choice, but to hell with it, I'd manage - or so I thought.

The gang.

So there we were, our party of six.

We had just barely handed in our final exams,

when we were heading towards Charleroi Airport.

The flight to Milan was on time.

The hostel where we were staying.

It started with the elevator.

Do you know of any elevator that needs to be started by jumping up and down?

This one had to.

I sincerely doubt Otis would've approved...

During our stay the boiler continuously made this awful noise,

we were sure it was going to explode any day now.

On the fifth day, the power went out.

The owner came to us and immediately asked

if we had heard an explosion.

The boiler - The boiler - The boiler

Thankfully it hadn't exploded and wiped out the surrounding area - at least not yet.

Although it did mean that we didn't have any hot water for the rest of our stay.

The view from our room - Milan chique.

Don't be deceived by how good the neighbourhood looked, I can assure you,

it was a miracle that we made it out of there in one piece.

Our visit to the Duomo, THE main attraction of Milan!

Our first day there we visited the Duomo.
It was magnificent. A truly divine building.
Not so much a testament to God,
but a testament to the strength and brilliance of man.
(That's the atheist in me talking)

Me and my best friend, on top of the Duomo.

I don't think I could have survived the trip without her.
Even though we had that terrible fight,
we just gave each other some room and talked it out the next day.
That's just how we roll - we fight, we make up.

A building I saw while we were standing on the roof of the cathedral.

Don't know what it's for, but I find it just amazing to look at.

Whenever I look at it, it's as if I'm in a communist country

or some sort of dystopian future.

It's strangely otherworldly,

but I like it.

The six of us, gracefully poised on the roof of the Duomo.

The Shopping Gallery for those who don't mind to give up a month's worth of pay

for a handbag or a pair of crocodile loafers.

A beautiful fortress in the middle of a park.

We really lucked out with the weather!

Colourful drinks are a must when on vacation, can't enjoy a city without them :)

(That's my inner boozehound talking)

Lake Como, as seen from way up high.

Way up: cable kart.

Way down: by foot on a trail that screams murder and rape.

A shame the weather was foggy and drizzly,

but we still managed to enjoy ourselves just fine.

On this trip we were accompanied by two girls from England

whom we had met the day before at the hostel.

The infamous road down... Get the murder/rape reference?

In retrospect, the trip would've been better had certain people stayed at home,

but of course this is not something for me to decide.

The trip did however, teach me a valuable lesson

in terms of who to bring on vacation and who definitely not to.

It starts at 8 PM

At 8 PM somewhere in the world, when the sky is locked in a dual state of pink sunset and encroaching darkness, eight people gathered around a table in a garden and started telling each other their names. Some of these people were interconnected through school experiences and existing friendships. Others were just getting acquanted.

About five minutes later they started playing a game called Drunkminton, which is essentially a fusion between the commonly known sport of batminton and a drinking game. While this didn't really serve a specific purpose to ameliorize connections, it was a fun way of spending time together.

Later on, these eight people would move into the living room of a house somewhere. They would gather around a coffee table and start sharing their secrets and desires and memories even though there was no call for it. It was just something that happened with the slightest infusion of liquor; abundantly present in the form of shot glasses and circled stains on the table surface.

An hour later a ninth guest joined the ranks of this merry group of eight.

Several people in the living room already had gone through similar experiences before this one, so they knew exactly how to behave and how to survive these somewhat treacherous social gatherings. It's not that hard to fall into a trap set by your close ones or to loose yourself in the comfortable numbness of alcohol and good company.

Luckily, all the people present succeeded admirably in avoiding the dangers and mishaps of this particular event. However, there were some people who had let themselves carried away by the waves of liberty and I-don't-give-a-damn attitudes. These people weren't demonized or critisized, they were adored for their valor and their ability to disengage themselves from what people expected or from what society expected.

Two of these people even allowed their minds to converge and become hive-like. It's extraordinary to see how two people, who haven't seen each other in a long time and who don't spend that time apart missing each other, can find each other again and become intertwined. Without a doubt a certain liquor factor must be taken into consideration, but I like to believe that something more profound and primal gave way to this illusive, yet much desired bond of closeness. To be that intricately connected with  another human being is something that most of us can only crave.

At 10 PM the group was completed when the last two guests arrived, however their visit would be brief, but quite enjoyable.

The social gathering lasted well through the night and early morning. Of course, there were some moments where fatigue and exhaustion would claim its toll on the unsuspecting people, but still they were able to pull through and hold out until the digital clocks in the house depicted 5 AM.

The party was considered a success. There were funny occassions that will forever be captivated in a short movie. There were moments of calmness, exitement, laughter, anticipation and of course those immortal moments where the line between sobriety and intoxication, a line that flirts with responsability and devil-may-care is continuously crossed.

"To alcohol! The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems." - Matt Groening

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone,
but they've always worked for me." - Hunter Thompson

"I have taken more out of alcohol
than alcohol has taken out of me." - Sir Winston Churchill

Pop princess paradox

I've been listening to Top-40 hits for quite some time and it has drawn my attention to pop singer Kesha (or if you prefer the more stylized version: Ke$ha). Now I'll admit that 'Tic Toc' is a pretty decent song and is undoubtedly a huge hit in clubs and bars. But that's not what bothers me. If you listen (and watch) to how Kesha behaves, you can't help but wonder if she's had a few too much to drink?

Sure, Hollywood loves its alcoholic beaverages and fancy cocktails with umbrella's, but what I'm more concerned about is how teenage girls will respond to Kesha's "off-the-hook" behaviour.

The girl definitely loves her Jack (Daniels), as she mentions it in pretty much every song on her album 'Animal', but I don't think it was ever meant to brush your teeth with. So the picture that comes to mind is that of young girls listening to Kesha, looking all ghetto-ish, grabbing their daddy's bottle o' Jack and spilling it all over their bright pink toothbrushes.

Moreover, Kesha's second song 'Blah Blah' begins with her asking you to meet her at the jukebox with a bottle of Jack (that's a given) and then drop trou and flash her some male flesh. Can you imagine the parent-teacher conferences that are going to be held over little Tommy who was flashing his goods to Sleazy Susy behind the bleachers?

Now it's pretty obvious that Kesha's kind of promiscuous (or downright slutty), but in most songs (say Nelly Furtado's 'Promiscuous Girl' or any other 'damn sexy bitch' or 'how many licks' song) this flirtatious attitude is appreciated and moreover adored. However, Kesha's gone all over by not only adressing sex and alcohol, but all the while acting completely bombed while she's adressing those items.

This is made clear from the very beginning of every single one of her songs: her speech is slurred, her movements aren't as coordinated as they would be with sober people - or even slightly tipsy people. In one song, she even thinks it's cool to 'mess with grammar' ("It only matters who I IS") and further idolize being hammered on international radiowaves.

People have often proclaimed violent games and subtitles as the seed of destruction for the minds of the young, but I can't help but wonder how these people will feel about Kesha's liquor-soaked lyrics.

Now somewhere in Kesha's mind, she thinks her attitude is really cool and that it will get her to the top, maybe even knock Gaga off her throne (never gonna happen, but we can always dream, right?), but the more she wants to be respected as a singer, the more she just comes over as a self-righteous, totally slushed, completely out-of-it whore who thinks she can make hits by knockin' a few back. This is what I like to call the Pop Princess Paradox.

We've seen it happen so many times before (La Spears and her new hairdo - or lack of one, Lohan and her lezzy-phase) and we will surely keep seeing it as long as there is alcohol to fill those umbrella-tinted cocktails and as long as there is promiscuity and shamelessness in the world.

So from one lover-of-the-bottle to another: Kesha, for god sakes, get yourself together, stop drinking, learn some proper grammar rules and stay the hell away from that mic, cause no good can come of it.

Locked doors

There are places I can't go. Won't go. They are safely locked away in the corridors of my mind. Guarded by reason and stubborness. Shielded from passion and longing. Maybe one day, I can get my foot in the door. Wedge the door just a little bit.
Almost.
Briefly.
One day.
One day I'll break it down.

My fear

This entry is my most personal yet and for some it will be difficult to read, but I ask you to keep an open mind and to not let this change your opinions of me.

Ever since I was young I've had these cynic and dreadful thoughts about my future. At a very early age I lost my faith in the immensity of love. I knew that I could never bring myself to love one person unconditionally for the rest of my life, it just wasn't in the cards for me. All around couples were breaking up, divorcing or worse. My parents didn't really set a great example either. So to lose your faith in something that profound so early on is something that I've always regretted.

My greatest fear is that one day, when I've found the perfect girl and I've raised a little family, I will one day start to wonder how long it will last. I want to believe in a happily ever after where two people can love each other for the rest of their lives, but deep down I have this little voice that is telling me it's all a sham. Forever doesn't exist. It's just a state of mind. These thoughts frighten me. What if someday, I will stop caring, one day, I will stop loving someone, stop loving what we have, stop appreciating everything we've built up?

How can I stop myself from letting go of someone and keep them in my life?

What if

I've often wondered when I walk through the streets what would happen if we all stopped for one nanosecond and change what we are doing. Would that affect everything or nothing at all? Could that mean the beginning of something new or the end of something familiar?

Imagine a woman getting hit by a car. Now say she waited for just one second more on the curbe before crossing the street, would she get run over or would she walk away without a scratch?

Imagine your house on fire. If you woke up just a little bit faster, could you have saved your family and made it out alive? Or would you still become trapped inside?

Imagine ...

Infinite possibilities and infinite outcomes, but in the end there is only one. We don't get do-overs, we don't get second chances or borrowed time. Our life plays out without a pause, rewind or fast forward button.

Our present is constantly breaking up and turning into the past. Even when I'm writing this, I can just feel time ebbing away. The words I write, the keys I hit, the air I breathe, it is all in the past now.

I can't take it back. I can't erase the insignificant details of my life and see if they would have made a difference. I can't change any of it. It's an amazing and terrifying feeling of helplessness.

So suppose we could bend time to our will. Suppose in the future they have mass-produced handheld time machines. What would humanity do when bestowed such power? Would it lead to great fortune or utter ruin?

Personally, I don't think that the world is ready for something like that. We aren't ready.
Constricted by emotions, we would try to change everything that has ever gone wrong in our lives and forget or even refuse to live in the "present" or look to the future.

Go back to your childhood.
Make sure you don't experience the trauma's.
Make sure you pass your tests in high school
so you could get a better job later.
Avoid making the stupid mistakes
that have lead to a less fortunate future.
Relive your greatest moments.
Purge your life with all that you deem flawed.
Undo the damage you inflicted.
Take back your painful memories, erase them from your mind.

Rewrite your life.

Are we ready for this? Are we allowed such power?

Maybe the reason we don't get do-overs is so that we would think twice about crossing the street or making a choice. Maybe this forces us to be the best versions of ourselves. The knowledge that this is the only possible universe pushes us to make the most of it. Some people rise to the challenge and shine their light brightly across their world,

but sadly, there are others who prefer the darkness over the light, the sorrow and regret over happiness and forgiveness. They are confined to a single universe. A single life. Single chance. No do-overs.