World’s Best Allrounder

If I had magical engineering powers, what would I build? Seriously?

A TARDIS, duh! Post’s over.

Oh, you wanna know why? Well, think for a minute, will ya? Sure, I could build a replicator to replicate food and other goods. OR I could go to a future where that already exists. Sure, I could build a robot servant. OR I could go to a time period where that’s already mainstream. Sure I could build a super fast quantum computer. OR I could pop into 2236 and try theirs.

I mean, I could also build a space ship… oh wait, I have one!

Or a time machine… oh wait, I have one!

Or a really big wardrobe that doesn’t take much space on the outside, oh hey, the Tardis’s got one.

Maybe some sort of magical laundry device, oh wait, we got one of those, too.

I guess I could just build something really impressive to steal your girlfriend, oh wait, I got a spaceship, chicks dig spaceships.

Literally, a Tardis is the only thing you’ll ever need, because the thing comes standard with so much technology and everything else will be invented eventually and somewhere, you just need to go there and get it. And avoid ill-tempered bastards in silly hats and robes while you’re at it.



So James Joyce, a Burnt Out Grad Student, and a Pair of Black Socks Walk Into a Bar…

Literally, my stat connection for this year so far reads like the beginning of a beer-fuelled joke. One that ends in something stupid, too, like “And then he says, ‘That’s not a duck’!”

Why were they successful, comparatively? Well, one thing: timing. Tuesdays are popular, somehow? Second: my tag game getting stronger.

Anything else? I dunno, topics? It’s not every day you see the late, not-so-great James Joyce getting slut-shamed by a big-mouthed grad student who’s in the midst of a slight breakdown after the umpteenth Joyce lecture complete with an interpretation of Ulysses. Actually, in hindsight, maybe the prof was just making all of it up on the spot because he secretly hates Joyce too and wants to discourage all the hopeful bright-eyed students from ever reading the damn thing. Certainly worked for me, kudos to you, sir.

Also… I just imagine I was not the only student struggling with a paper deadline in January and lengthily venting my frustrations, so I guess that’s why. Seriously, is there anything worse than writing a paper you don’t really want to write?

Actually, yes, there is. Writing a paper to impress your future thesis supervisor is definitely worse.

And the last one was a daily prompt that had nothing whatsoever to do with black socks despite that being the title, in which I wax less than poetically about my inability to communicate like a basic human. Again. But daily prompts have a large audience, so duh, numbers game.

Also, people keep clicking on my Tale of Two Titties post even thought it’s at least two years old by now. Which was also a daily prompt. With a pandering eye-catching, attention-grabbing, market-research-approved title. I dare you NOT to click. It’s not very good, anyway. Okay, so it has a couple of tits in it, but that’s REALLY NOT that interesting. Seriously, don’t click.

… you just clicked it, didn’t you? Bad reader!

NOT a People Person, Socks or No Socks

Okay, so first of all, “naked with black socks” describes my Boyfriend’s boudoir style perfectly. No, really. This man will get ready to go to bed, take off all his clothes… except his socks. And then he’ll walk around the flat, trying to find his phone, packing his work backpack, hunting for his sports newspaper… all while naked in black socks. It’s irritating and I’m always glad when he finally finds his pyjamas.

That being said…

The idea of talking to people at all, ever, in general, terrifies me. To the point where I get depressed when I have too much people contact. Happened to me just this week. I had an appointment with a professor to discuss a paper I had submitted, that same day I met my parents for dinner, then the next day I had another uni related thing. I almost started crying on public transport on my way home. No, it’s not rational. No, it doesn’t make sense to me, either. All I know is that always happens when I get too much sociality shoved at me. I have to time my entire social life around mental rest days, because otherwise I might make plans with people and on the day those plans are supposed to happen, even if I like the people involved, I feel like I’d rather nail my feet to the side of a moving car than to see any of those bitches.

Now put me in front of an audience.


Ironically, I was in a theatre group in high school. I never had problems on stage. Never forgot my lines. Never got stage fright. Probably because I wasn’t on stage as myself, but as someone else.

That’s why I hold presentations like I’m doing a stand-up routine. Relevant jokes and puns all planned. Three copies of notes. I used to be extremely intimidated by public speaking, to the point where I was literally shaking so much I lost grip on my cue cards. I started pretending I was playing a role to get over it.

I mean, my original strategy was drinking a tall glass of whiskey with a little whiskey and a shot of whiskey before I came up with this solution, but hey, I got there. Now when I have to talk in front of a crowd I get out there and I’m not myself. I’m a 2.0 version of myself, someone who has her shit together and can open her damn mouth without stuttering.

Problem is, I have to play this role all the time. All damn day. Being an actor is exhausting, we all read the interviews. Now imagine you can never get out of your role again, ever. I can’t be myself with people because Myself would rather book a shuttle to Mars, but then, even if you can book online something will go wrong and I’d have to call the travel agency, and then at the space port there’d be people checking my passport, and gaaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhh, you can’t escape people.

And everyone’s still complaining that I talk too fast. Yes, I’m talking fast, you know why, because my brain is trying to run away from you. It’s detaching itself from my brain stem as I speak and tries to squeeze out of my right ear. When you see me moving my head side to side it’s not because I’m giving emphasis to the joke I’m telling you, it’s to get my brain to stay put because if I don’t it’s going to be half-way to Mexico and you’ll be talking to zombie-me. Zombie-me is not what you’d call a good conversationalist.

Ironically, again, is that people often describe me as hilarious once they get me alone. I can be the life of the party, provided the party consists of three to eight people and I know everyone. And there’s not too much background noise. And I’m not tired. But when the moon’s just right and the stars align and all that, I’m apparently really entertaining and everyone is surprised. But I mean… I have to wait an appropriate twelve months before letting slip the hounds of weirdness. You can’t tell inappropriate and slightly kinky jokes to just anyone, you know, that would be rude.

I’m just waiting for humanity to climb the next rung on the evolutionary ladder and develop telepathy. That would be so much easier! Everyone could see clearly that my reclusive shut-in brain is scared of social interaction and they’d keep it brief. Maybe. Or maybe they’d just start singing terrible and catchy songs inside their heads to annoy me. And all their thoughts would make so much noise.

Dammit! You just can’t escape people. One-way ticket to Planet Nine, please.

Mirror Mirror On the Wall, True Hope Lies Beyond the Coast

Think of your blog as a mirror: what does it reveal? Consider your blog name, theme choice, design, bio, posts… what does every element tell you about yourself?

That I’m a student without colour sense who complains too much. Also that my long-term memory is full of useless shit like ancient song lyrics because literally the only thing I could think of reading this prompt was this, which takes me way back, like waaaaay back, like… all the way to like eight grade:


Exit stage left feeling mild awkwardness. Like in eight grade.

Soul What?

Leaving aside for a moment the pressing question of whether or not a thing like the soul even exists in any scientifically tangible way…

How do I define soulmate? What kind of tired TV trope even is this ‘soulmate’ business?

Okay, so as far as my understanding goes, cultivated by abundant amounts of American movies, a soulmate is That One Person who just ‘Gets’ You (or anyway the person you end up with in act three of every romantic comedy after the Big Terrible Misunderstanding has been cleared up with minimal to zero effort). You know, that instant connection, something-meaningful-to-connect-two-people-for-the-rest-of-their-lives-and-no-one-else-can-ever-be-this-special kind of tired ass bullshit. It’s bullshit because every kind of media would have you believe that your soulmate absolutely has to also be your One True Love.

I like to call this the soulmate romance fallacy. Let’s try an example: Imagine you know this absolutely wonderful person, you’ve known each other for years, you just click, you can talk for hours, if you are apart for a while you fall right back into your old habits when you’re reunited, you have so many things in common, you’re a comfort to each other, you complement and complete each other, you stick to each other’s side in good times and bad alike. But you can’t be in a romantic relationship because you’re both women and heterosexual. Now what? Back to square one?

This obsessive tying of soulmateship and romance is what I see as the principle problem of the entire damn concept. Nothing about the suggestion that a soulmate is the person you like best and that you have the most in common with and that you get along with the best suggests an automatic romantic or sexual connection, yet this is probably the only kind ever to be portrayed in media. So, because I’m notoriously unromantic, I’ll give you some other possible scenarios:

1)Soulmate + Romance

a) You and your soulmate are in a romantic relationship. Everything’s fine, roll the credits.

b) You and your soulmate are in a romantic relationship, but it’s not going well. Despite your many similarities, your sleep schedules crash, you have different ideas what a commitment is due to your upbringing, and your levels of OCD when it comes to household cleanliness are not the same. So what do you do? Break it off like every other relationship that is not working out or stick with it because you feel obligated because after all, this is your soulmate and you’ve seen all the movies and know how it’s supposed to go? Are you still soulmates if you’re not together?

2) Soulmate + Unrequited Love

a) You found your soulmate. For whatever reason, however, you can’t be together. They’re in a relationship. You’re in a relationship. Maybe they’re gay. Maybe you’re not. Maybe you live half a planet away and only communicate online while both of you are happily coupled with someone else. Maybe you live next door but there just is no sexual attraction for any number of reasons. What do you do? Become romantically involved anyway, even though it will not work out?

b) You found your soulmate. You’re in love with your soulmate. They very much do not feel the same for you, even if you are their most important person, they just don’t feel that way about you. So now what? Do you remain friends? Do you get over it? Do you do the awkward fade out? Do you obsessively try to make them fall for you because after all, you’re soulmates? Maybe they are in a relationship with someone else, would you sabotage that so you can be together?

3) Soulmateship vs. The Infinite Irony of the Universe

a) You found your soulmate. But you are not this person’s soulmate. No one ever said soulmateship had to be a mutual thing.

b) Your soulmate was born in a different time than yours, either having died before you two could meet or they are yet to be born, probably when you’re dead.

c) What if your soulmate is not even a human being, but, say, a cat? One of the twenty five you own because you’re convinced you never met your soulmate and opted for the next best thing, namely dying a crazy cat lady/man death? Or maybe it’s a place, or an occupation, or a book, or a culture, or, dunno, horticulture?

d) Your soulmate was born in a different part of the planet, or even on a different planet, and you’ll never meet.

e) Your soulmate is a giant squiggly ten-eyed tentacled alien from planet Zoon but you’ll never find out because you two have absolutely no way of communicating with each other even if you do meet. Star-cross’d lovers indeed.

4) Soulmates and Numbers

a) Where is it set in stone that everyone gets only one soulmate? Who decided this? First door on the right, one soulmate each? I don’t think so. So you have one and then they die, then what? You can never have a soulmate again? You spend the rest of your live in sub-par relationships because, after all, they’re not your soulmates but merely props to fill the void in your sad trampled heeeeaaaarrrrrt, so they can’t possibly be as meaningful?

b) What if you have multiple soulmates at the same time? But not all of them are mutual? And not all of them are in your time or your planet? This is getting pretty confusing.

5) Extra Credit

You’re your own soulmate. Boom!

And that, in a nutshell, is why the entire idea of a soulmate is doomed from birth. Too many variables. Too damn complicated. Also, too damn clichéd, go back to watching The Notebook if that’s what you’re into. Your soulmate sure as hell isn’t.

Once More With Feeling. And Lots of Money.

Yes! A thousand times yes to another chance at life! I fucked this one up, can I get a new one? Great.

If I could get a free rebirth there would really be only two logical choices: rich kid, or said rich kid’s cat. I mean, it’s always good to be a cat, but a cat with a rich owner? Set for life! All you have to do is nap and eat and look cute for instagram pictures.

Not famous-rich, though. Nothing worse than being famous, you’re in character 24/7 if you’re famous. More like, effortless old money rich where your family has been known for 200 years and everyone always went to the same college. A traditional richness. Wealth that doesn’t necessarily require work. The rich kids on instagram kind of rich. You know, like those rich bitches who just run a fashion blog and do Pinterest projects in their spare time, which is abundant.

Only I wouldn’t do that, I’d just study 15 different subject at this renowned old university my family has patronized since the 1700s and then use my family members’ massive influence, not to mention generous donations, to get a fellowship or something. Like who wants to be a CEO in their grandpa’s company, teaching and research is where it’s at!

Ans hey, if you throw in a penis and a general lack of melanin in with the rebirth, I’ll never have a problem again in my life! I’d love to know how it is to have an opinion without everyone around me rolling their eyes! I’d love for people to assume I can do technical stuff even though no screwdriver in the history of tools has ever been operated with a penis. I could be a drag queen! I could be whimsically feminine because I’m sure in my masculinity and all the liberal ladies would be crawling all over me. I could have three Ph.D.’s and a bitchin’  beard! Ah, that would be the life.

On the other hand, as a cat I’d just have to eat, sleep and look stupidly cute while chasing laser dots. I’d never have to worry about money, or rent and bills, or politics, or inequalities, or anything, really. I’d probably have to deal with cameras every once in a while, but that’s okay. I can just slap my human and thus earn them 100,00 views on Youtube. I’d be fine.

So if Rebirth Inc. ever opens, I’m so buying their cat package.

Sort of Young and Tired as Hell

You mean, when was the last time I actually felt awake? Never. Pretty much never. Maybe that one time the year before last when I had a bout of flu and the fever finally broke. The first feverless day I was like, “Who wants to swim to Africa and back?!” and then I faceplanted into the floor trying to get out of bed. Never trust feeling rested.

Considering I got up at 11 am I should feel rested, but predictably I’m not. There is not a single day when I wake up and don’t immediately want to go back to bed. I don’t even wake up on my own. It’s either alarm clock, construction work starting at 7 in the morning, or my dreams are so weird my brain gets fed up with itself and decides to push me into the waking world.

My dreams are one of the main reasons I never feel recharged. My dreams are just exhausting. You know how other people have nice normal dreams of being in their underwear at work, or at least creatively weird dreams that can inspire short stories? Well, here’s what I get: So I’m in this like 19th c. big house and they have a reeeeeally long oak-panelled corridor. Every once in a while people are walking through that corridor towards the other end because there is a school play, but right now no one’s here so I wonder to myself if I could do a ballerina jump, so I start to run up and jump but of course it doesn’t work because I’m wearing skinny jeans. So I hope that no one saw that and pretend like I’m just going to see the school play. I sit next to a man in his forties who keeps pushing his arm on my armrest and his hand on my knee so I push him away and the entire row starts to move away from me, chairs and all, and laughing good-naturedly. Then the play starts and a seven year old boy starts to sing a song about a treasure hunt with a voice like Barry White.

Yeah. I guess at that point my brain was like WTF self, and kicked me out of sleep.

And thus I begin every day lurching around like a zombie. My morning doesn’t look like a cereal commercial; my morning looks like an episode of The Walking Dead, minus all the drama.

I once read this post on tumblr (yes, yes, I know) about someone wondering how the first human to fall asleep felt. The poster argued that this person would have felt most confused. This post upset me because it ignores the entirety of human development from ape-like creatures to the homo sapiens of today, all of whom arguably slept and all of whom arguably dreamed. Though I guess their dreams were different back then, because dreaming of being naked at your workplace could only have happened after clothes and workplaces were invented. I wonder if they also had weird ass dreams, like, dunno standing on top of a hill, being pursued by a bear and suddenly the bear starts singing and pirouetting. Or maybe being late to the clan meeting and forgetting to bring the tree bark. Or something.

It’s 1 pm now, is that too early to take a nap? I wonder….

Exit, pursued by a gangnam-styling bear singing California Girls.

Risky Business, Also Known as Daily Life

As a slowly recovering sociophobe (ignore your spell check, it’s a word), I take chances every damn day.

I mean, I guess the biggest chance ever to take was to get actual psychological help, which did not work out at all. But that’s a sad story and I’m not feeling it today.

So instead let me regale you with the fact that sometimes I get up, get ready, get my stuff, open the door…

… go “Nope” and head back inside.

Some days leaving the house is just not happening. I mean… people. Construction workers. Children. Parents with children. Dogs. Birds. Social interaction with cashiers and ticket inspectors and random weirdos and those elusive beings called acquaintances. Hundreds of thousands of people being carried through the public transport system like so much cholesterol in an American’s bloodstream. The noise of a million grunting voices, crying, yapping, tapping on their phones, the irregular tick-tock of two million shoes going in every direction and at every pace, all while you are trapped in the enormous body heat of a stuffed subway car like you were travelling through the bowels of some huge alien creature. Smells like it, too. And you want me to partake in all this? Nah.

So some days, I step outside, decide that ‘literally, I can’t even’, and go hide in my bedroom.

I’m absolutely convinced this is where this dreaded phrase comes from. You’re so paralysed with fear you can’t even finish the sentence. Your brain just shuts down from sensory overload.

But sometimes, you do have to go out. Yes, even me with my thorough calculations of how long I can put off buying toilet paper. There’s university, and grocery shopping, and going to the drug store for tampons, and visiting relatives, and a billion other things you just can’t avoid. And then you just have to brace yourself, give yourself a good mirror pep talk about how you are a kind and loveable and entirely normal not-at-all-weird-or-awkward person, and go.

And then your brain puts on the next horror show. Did I lock the door? better go check again. Did I close the windows? There’s scaffolding all over the place, anyone could climb in, better go check again. Did I lock the door again after I checked on the windows? Better go check. Wait, did I check the kitchen window? Wait, did I turn off the stove? Should I really leave the dryer running, I heard that can cause a fire. What if someone starts a fire in the basement again? What if I lose my keys? What if I lose my phone? Wait, where’s my pepper spray even? Wait, where’s my list? What if it rains, should I take an umbrella? What if it gets cold, should I take a jacket? Wait, what if someone breaks the windows and steals all my stuff?! Maybe I should hide everything I own real quick…

And all this just to take a ten minute walk to the post office.

I took a huge chance today by going to a job interview. Do you want my inner monologue?

Oh my god, they answered so quickly! Wait, does that mean they’re desperate? Does that mean their last assistant quit suddenly? Did someone die? That’s why you can’t ask why the position’s free, no matter what they tell you in those get-ready-for-your-job-interview articles, because it’d be super awkward. Wait, how many other candidates are there? Oh my god, I really don’t have much experience, what if they hire me and then I can’t do it? Oh my god, what do I say when they ask why I want this job, I can’t say “Because I’d be getting paid”! But literally, that’s the reason. What if they ask me what my dream job is, I can’t say ‘billionaire heiress’! But literally, that’s the truth. Oh my god, what if they don’t like me? What if they’re mean? What if they make a joke they think is funny but is actually really hurtful and/or offensive? It’s going to be 90 degrees out, what am I going to wear? What if they don’t have AC? Ahhhh… blouse. Okay. Should I do pants? I can’t do my suit pants, too hot. Should I do a skirt? Great, now I look like I’m going to boarding school. What are they wearing on their website? Is this more business casual or business professional? What if that’s just for the photos and they’re really like super relaxed? What if I look odd? What if they don’t like my nose? Or my voice? Or my accent? Oh my god, I can’t do this. You need a job, though. I can’t do this! You need a job, though! I’m not half as good as I don’t even think I am! You need a job, though. Okay, so I’m here, and they are super relaxed about clothes. And it’s a group interview. Aww, all the other girls are so much prettier than I am! And they’re younger, too! Argh, Jesus, there’s no way they’re going to take me, not with that girl over there, she’s probably perfect. Argh, why can’t I pretend I’m a smiley, happy person, why is my strict organiser showing?! They want an organiser, though. Who cares, no one ever cares how efficient I am because I’m not a pretty smiling-at-all-hours sort of person! I’ve resting bitch face! It’s my natural condition! My masticatory muscle is cramping from all the smiling, this is the worst thing ever! Actually, this interview wasn’t so bad. Yes, it was. Wasn’t. Was. They seemed to like you. Didn’t! I said a stupid thing. I said a lot of stupid things, actually. Argh, why did I even go? Because you need a job. What I need is being a normal person!

So, yes, I’m definitely taking chances. Chances of going absolutely insane. Thank you and goodnight, I’ll see myself in.

I Don’t Pledge and You Can’t Make Me

Now that’s a prompt for the Americans if ever I saw one. Good thing I’m not America, eh?

No, I’m not patriotic. Patriotism isn’t exactly encouraged here because, y’know, Hitler ‘n stuff, that guy and his lot ruined it for us forever. And apart from that…

I mean, that I was born here wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. My grandparents found themselves here somehow after the war, and then my parents were too poor to live somewhere else, and now I’m too poor to live anywhere else. So, this it is, then. Not sure where the pride comes in, I didn’t earn anything here.

Sure, it’s not the worst country ever. The problem is that people take the fact that this isn’t the worst country ever as an excuse to refuse all attempts at improvement. So we have clean water, no atomic reactors, being poor is not a death sentence, renewable energy, good food, pretty architecture, we’re actually pretty well off. Buuuut that doesn’t mean it can’t get even better! And that’s what people don’t get. Mention any topic, say, oh I dunno, wage gap, marriage equality, foreign policy, rampant racism and xenophobia, education politics, rising unemployment, and everyone will shut you down with a mighty, “But it’s SO MUCH WORRRRRSSSEE in other countries!”

Yes. Okay. So it is. Doesn’t mean everything’s sunshine and roses here, either.

If you really try you can find something good about every country. Like, Dubai has pretty architecture! Look at all those skyscrapers! Okay, so they flog you to death if they catch you without your veil on, but hey, skyscrapers!

So, yes, I know it’s worse elsewhere. I know there are children exploding in Africa and all that crap I’ve been told since I was six to humblekick me into shutting up and accepting the status quo. (And yes, humblekick is a word now.) And I won’t, because what good exactly ever came from shutting up and accepting the status quo, I mean look at our history, on one side you get bossed by an emperor, on the other you get bossed by Hitler, nothing good came from either of those, so no, status quo is not acceptable. Everyone who tells you to accept things as they currently are is plotting something.

There’s always room for improvement. If you want an example, just take the historic heat wave we just had, where rescue forces ran up to 300 additional missions a day because most places of employment, shops, homes or items of public transport have no air conditioning. Don’t tell me that’s not a problem.

If you want another, how about the person who was surprised that their suggestion of dealing with the growing problem of refugee children with a flamethrower was met with minor public outrage, but more than enough people tried to pass it off as “just a joke”. Don’t tell me that kind of attitude is not a problem.*

If you want a slightly larger-scale example, how about we put some decent money in our higher level education if we absolutely need everyone to get a degree now? And how about we give people actual jobs after we forced them to get a degree? Don’t tell me that’s not a problem.

So in a nutshell, you ain’t gettin’ no patriotism. You want me to be proud of this country? Give me something to be proud of, then we talk.

And the first one to come in here with the BUT IT’S WORRRRSSSE ELSEWHERE is gonna get flamethrower’d right through the internet. Over and out.

P.s.: Funnily enough, if you google ‘patriotism’, you find nothing but America related pictures.

*And here is why it’s not funny, even if it was a joke: If you say you want to kill your colleague who always takes the last cup of coffee with a flamethrower, it’s humorous because that reaction is so off it’s obvious you don’t mean it, nor do we live in a culture where killing your coffee-stealing colleagues is the norm. But if you say you want to murder small children of a different ethnicity with fire because you think they’re a nuisance, you remind everyone that not even a hundred years ago people more than willingly put foreigners, Jews, disabled people and their own neighbours in death camps. Where they had ovens. Get it? That’s why it’s not funny. Because Hitler. Do we really have to go over this again?

Dead Girls Don’t Cry

Let’s just say that as a severely asthmatic child since the age of three you soon wise up to the fact that you may not leave the hospital alive. And having kinda old parents and no other relative under the age of fifty when you’re born helps, too. Growing up death was not a bit mysterious. It actually seemed sorta boring. One day you croak and then they put you in the ground so you don’t come back to bother anyone, and that’s that.

So, y’know… I was never under the illusion that I was immortal. I was, however, the most morbid kindergartner you’ve ever met. One favourite anecdote my mother lives to tell to shame me in front of strangers goes a little something like this: Three year old me loves to play with mummy’s jewellery. Mummy is scared shitless I could ruin something, because apparently I’m secretly the Hulk, so she locks the stuff away. Cue toddler complaining. Mum tries to console me with “Don’t worry, you inherit it all when I’m dead.” Cue me, “But that’s going to take forever!”


I spent an unorthodox amount of time planning an elaborate funeral for myself. Shiny black coffin! A wagon with six black horses! Huge parade all the way to the cemetery! My childhood megalomania lead me to imagine how my parents would even go so far as to pay people to come and say really nice things about me, how I had been just the best kid ever.

I became a bit obsessed with death, but I guess that’s just what happens when simple things like having a good laugh can send you to the ER. My mother had to answer questions about why a perfectly happy, if always a bit wheezy, kid was drawing nothing but skulls, albeit in pink. I wanted to see a real funeral. I started to put “before I die” into a lot of sentences. Usually whiny sentences like “I need a last piece of chocolate before I die!” To which my parents, who never so much as risked taking me to the playground, would reply, “Stop it, you’re not dying, okay!”

It all went downhill from there.

Teenage me never thought I was immortal, but certainly acted like I was. The funeral details took a backseat because between all the heavy drinking and depression induced recklessness I just didn’t have time or brain enough for planning. After all, all my normal friends were being shitheads who never thought of the consequences for anything, so don’t mind if I do! I mean, all teenagers are like that, right? After all, in the Middle Ages we would already have been considered adults, I mean everyone died at like forty, so it made sense to have a sixteen year old monarch and throw lavish court parties.

I think I just explained the entirety of human history in one sentence.

But seriously though, who thinks they’re immortal, then wakes up one morning like “Well, golly gee, guess I was wrong!”