Monday, 8 April 2013


Madeleine had never been so angry in her whole life. She dried the cutlery one by one, fuming, a knife, a fork, another knife, a spoon. After each one was dry she'd throw it into the drawer as hard as her thin arms could, making a loud banging noise every time. Soon Shannon came out from the restaurant to see what the cacophony in the kitchen was.
- Hey keep it down. - started Shannon, before seeing the look on Madeleine's face. She'd heard of people having blood in their eyes before, but she always assumed it was just a form of speech. - Wow, are you ok sweetie?
- That fucking cunt-munching, motherfucking piece of shit Pat made me sit down in her office for a whole half an hour just so she could scream that fat ugly head of hers at me, just cause I messed up one order. One fucking order and she feels the need to scream at my face for ages. Who the fuck does she think she is to go around talking to people like that? She's not my mum. She doesn't pay my bills. She doesn't wash my underwear. All she does is come in every now and then and sit her fat ass in front of the computer all fucking day and leave us to deal with every fucking last thing, and when I make one mistake, one bloody mistake, she comes and bites my fucking head off. I hate her. I hate her more than Hitler hated the Jews. I can't even look at that pathetic excuse for a face she has without wanting to strangle her. I'm gonna...
- Slow down, Chris Brown. I get it, she's a bitch. We all know that. Go have a cigarrette, you really need to calm down. Take as long as you need, I'll deal with Pat if she comes looking for you again.
- Thanks Shan. Oh, and if she does come looking for me tell her she best hope she doesn't find me or I'll fuck her up so bad her own mum won't recognize her.
- Yeeeah, I'm not gonna say that. Off with you, go.
Madeleine stormed off to the lockers to find her cigarrettes and ran outside as fast as she could. As she puffed on her cigarrette (long, drawn out, angry puffs) she chewed on what had happened. It was Friday night, the busiest night the restaurant ever got, and she had had to deal with at least five people giving her attitude. Madeleine considered herself to be very good at her job, thank you very much, so she had smiled, apologised and tried her best to fix whatever was wrong each and every time, all the while secretly hoping an asteroid would hit the establishment to put her out of her misery and give all those whiny assholes what they deserved. And then Pat came in. As usual, the bitch strolled through the packed restaurant, not even so much as thinking about helping one of the obviously over-worked, stressed wait staff around her, went to her office and sat there for two hours doing God knows what. When she came out they were having a blessed moment of peace, with only three tables still waiting on orders. Madeleine, glad to have only one thing to do at that specific moment, took two desserts to a table, all smiles and politeness, set them down and went back to the kitchen in the hopes of finding something to snack on. She had half a ruined chocolate gateau in her mouth when Pat appeared. "Madeleine, in my office, now." she said, before storming off there herself. Without much choice in the matter, Madeleine followed, only to be treated to at least half an hour of unnecessary abuse. Apparently one of the desserts wasn't what the table had ordered, and the other one was supposed to have a side of cream. And, logically, that meant Madeleine was not only useless, but also stupid, unreliable and lazy, and she should count herself lucky that Pat, like the saint that she was, let her keep her job. And now here she was, dangeriously close to seriously contemplating murder.
Madeleine wasn't an agry person. Quite the contrary, actually. She always had a smile to give or a joke to make. It was one of the reasons why she was so good at customer service. But something about Pat just made her blood boil. Her ugly, blemished face, her high pitched voice, the way she dragged her left foot a little bit when she walked. Everything about her was just so infuriating, Madeleine could hardly stand it. She could feel the anger like nothing she'd felt before, revolving in her stomach, making her eyes cloudy, clenching her fists. She decided to pack her things and go after that cigarrette. Better to deal with the consequences for leaving halfway through a shift than being arrested for aggravated assault.

 A warm shower and a marathon of Community later, and Madeleine was still just as enraged as before. No matter how much she tried to distract herself, she kept going back to thinking about what Pat had said, how wrong she was, what she should've said instead of just sitting there and taking it. Finally, she decided to just go sleep the rage off. She turned off her computer, snuggled under the duvet and fell asleep almost instantly.
And she dreamed. She was in an empty room. All the walls were white, almost blindingly so, and she couldn't see where the light was coming from. And Pat was there, mocking her, laughing and pointing. Madeleine tried running towards her, but the more she ran, the further away Pat got.
She could feel the rage building up inside her, warm in her belly and cold on her fingers, filling her up more and more and more, like something was pumping boiling oil inside her, making her swell up more and more and more and more, and Pat there, her ugly face twisted in laughter, Madeleine's jaw clenched so tight she could feel her teeth cracking, and that hate overflowing more and more and more and more and more until she couldn't hold it anymore. She started throwing up, gallons of a black sticky liquid, like molten asphalt, pouring out of her mouth, the foul smell making her more sick, making her retch up harder and the liquid coming out and out and out and out until it was over.
 She looked up. Pat was still there, laughing, but it didn't seem to matter anymore. Madeleine felt light, airy, like she could fly if only she could jump high enough. She looked at the pool of steamy black goo at her feet, vaguely wondering how she could fit what looked like three swimming pools worth of liquid inside her petite body when something happened. Something started rising out of the liquid. At first she couldn't make out what it was, but soon she saw it was a person, twisting and turning, covered in the foul smelling goo, trying to break free. Fascinated, Madeleine watched the figure break through the muck and stand up. Without ever turning to face her, the creature ran towards Pat and started savagely attacking her, punching and kicking and biting and slashing and Madeleine cried for it to stop, but if it heard her it didn't care, it just kept on bashing and beating and thrashing until there was nothing left of Pat but a bloody mess of broken bones and spilling guts in the ground. Madeleine was crying, screaming. She wanted to run away, get as far away from that monster as it was humanly possible, but her legs had turned to lead and she couldn't move. Slowly, the creature turned around. Like in slow motion, her face (for it was a woman) turned towards Madeleine, and slowly she realised who it was. Her. Madeleine. An exact copy of herself. Except for the eyes. The eyes were red. But Madeleine only caught one glimpse of them before the whole world seemed to melt around her, and all the blood seemed to leave her body until she was awake.
Sitting up in her bed covered in sweat, Madeleine noticed she was shaking. "A nightmare. Only a nightmare." she told herself. Still trembling, she got up and went to the bathroom. After washing her face with some cold water and waking up a bit more, she stared into the mirror. Her eyes were the same dark and dull brown they always had been. It had all felt so... real. "Stupid dream." she thought, turning off the bathroom light and heading back to her bedroom. Once there, she got back in bed, put the covers over her and turned the light off. She had been staring off into darkness thinking about the dream when something caught her attention. On the corner of her room, amidst a darkness so thick she couldn't see anything else, were two flickering red lights. Madeleine rubbed her eyes and looked again. They were still there, only now they seemed to be brighter. With her heart on her throat, Madeleine debated if she should turn on the light first or just run. Before she could make up her mind, the red lights moved lightning fast, and all of a sudden hands squeezed her throat, harder and harder and harder, more painful than anything she'd felt before, her own face staring back at her with mad anger in those glowing red eyes, and she punched and scratched but the harder she fought, the harder the hands squeezed, and soon her strenght was leaving her, her vision getting blurry, her life leaving her, until all she could see were that pair of red eyes burying into her. Her last thought was of Pat, what had been Pat, with blood and guts and bones coming out of her. And she was sad.

Wednesday, 26 September 2012

When I grow up I wanna be April.

So. Parks and Recreation. Amy Poehler is hilarious you guise. Watched all four seasons in like 2 days and if you don't do the same you're stupid and don't understand the concept of fun.

Blogger is being really annoying today. First I tried to change my e-mail from the one I used to register this account (which I haven't used in like 6 years and am pretty sure has been cancelled for lack of use. I should check that, actually. Six years worth of spam would be a sight to behold). Apparently Gmail accounts can't be used for Blogger accounts. Does that make any sense to anybody? Aren't Gmail and Blogger both under Google? I thought we were living in the future here, but apparently hand-held, touch screen mini-computers with processing power far greater than anything available twenty years ago is far more feasible than using a company's e-mail account to register to THE SAME COMPANY'S blog service. The internet is made of lies, I tell you.
And then, after I login, it comes up with a bunch of videos and graphs and texts trying to get me to "focus on writing great blog posts". Don't tell me what to do Blogger. If I wanna write crappy blog posts that no one is gonna read once every 6 months that's my business.

I guess I'm just cranky cause I haven't smoked since like, Monday. Oh yeah, I quit smoking. Out of every single smoker I know, I'm the only one who has always freely admitted to being a smoker, and never had any problem admitting how much I love those little death-sticks. I mean, 90% of smokers quit 4 to 5 times a year. I've only quitted twice, and the most I've spent without smokes in the past five years was one long, horrible week. And now because I can't work and my little cigarette fund is dry, I'm being forced to give it up. Fuck irony.

Monday, 30 January 2012


(Scott, Janet.)

Suck in, hold for a bit, let it out. If there was anything better than a well-rolled, fat jay, Cherry didn’t know what it was. After a couple of puffs she passed it to Greg on her left (“Always pass to the left”, her brother had taught her) and pulled the cheap blankets they had found at an abandoned dorm room closer. That was nice. Those weekly meetings were the only thing she had to look forward to lately. All her close friends were gone, the café she used to work at closed and no professors were teaching anymore, so life was nothing but smoke weed and take care of Sheena, Meena, and Laveena, her three pot plants. Feeling the tingle in her fingertips that always started her high, she sighed and turned to Janet.
- So, Jay, what’s up with your life?
- Nothing, really. – answered Janet, taking the joint from Greg’s shivering hand. – Still living with Scott, watching loads of tv and going out every now and then.
- Is anything still open? – asked Michael, his eyes as red as the Flash t-shirt he was wearing.
- A couple of clubs. One or two bars. Joe’s Brewery is open 24/7 now, but it’s a shithole. Scott usually takes me to Feel, the gay club a couple of blocks from here, but the place is just a meat-market.
- What, a bunch of gay dudes trying to fuck the pain away all night? Sounds like a blast – said Cherry, with no sarcasm whatsoever. She made a mental note to ask Janet if they could go there later that night, and then promptly forgot about it.
- Yeah, it can be fun, but it gets creepy sometimes. Some boy got raped in the bathroom last week and nobody knows who did it. Don’t think anyone cares really.
- Well why should they? Consequences don’t matter when we’re all days away of dying. People only attain to the restrictions of society for fear of retribution. There is no retribution now. It’s a free world out there, in the worst sense possible. – Greg used to study Philosophy, before the university shut down.
- At least we’re better off than those fuckers over at Peru. I was watching the news yesterday and apparently the entire country is fucked now. People getting killed left and right and all that shit.
- You still watch the news Cherry? I thought no one bothered anymore.
- Meh, tragedy makes me laugh when I’m high.
- So what, if I tell you that my grandmother died when she was 32 leaving 3 children behind and a good for nothing alcoholic husband to raise my mum and her sisters you’re just gonna start giggling?
And sure enough, Cherry started giggling. And before long, they were all laughing wildly, most of them having no idea what they were laughing about.

Saturday, 28 January 2012



- Hey, did you bring any milk?
- Oh, hello, Janet. I’m great, how are you? – Scott’s roommate wasn’t the most polite person in the planet.
- Yeah, whatever. Did you bring it or not?
- Nah, pretty much every store is closed or has been broken into. Just go next door and ask Gary.
- Gary left. He went back to his parents’ house.
- And so we lose another one. Are you going to that university thing tonight?
- I don’t know, maybe. There’s only like another three people going. – Some students back at Janet’s university had weekly meetings where they talked about stuff. It was kinda like group therapy, except they only did the therapy thing for ten minutes, and then someone would take a joint out. It was quite fun, but lately hardly anyone showed up. Everybody seemed to be getting back to their families.
- Well, just wake me up if I’m sleeping and you don’t go. There’s a documentary about lions on tonight, and I bet it’ll be awesome stoner television.
- Sweet, will do.
As Scott went to his room, Janet turned on the TV and snuggled in the couch. TV was good. Most channels had given up on covering the end of the world, and just played re-runs of their best shows. The night before she had spent a blissful thirteen hours watching a Friends marathon. Not a single thought had gone through her head.
It didn’t use to be like that. Back when the first news broke out, she freaked out. Earlier than most people, actually. When everybody still seemed to think it was some kind of stunt, she was going to the supermarket and stocking up on batteries, canned food, torches, electric blankets and anything she could possibly think she might need in case of a big disaster. But the day came and gone and nothing happened. Well, not exactly nothing. The sky had been grey all over the world for over two weeks, breathing was hard and it was getting colder and colder. Some people had died already. The last time she had dared to watch a news program, the exhausted looking anchor had said scientists predicted another three weeks at most before the atmosphere collapsed completely or something dramatic like that. And when everybody started going crazy, she suddenly got calm. So everyone was gonna die. Big deal. If anything, it was kinda cool being part of the last bunch of humans to exist. She had even made a playlist on her computer of songs she wanted to play when everything went down. Where is My Mind by The Pixies was a favourite.
Six hours and one too many episodes of America’s Next Top Model later, Janet decided to go to the university meeting. She was running out of pot, and Cherry always brought more than enough to share with everybody. Might as well go stock up for the week. Grabbing her coat and a loaf of bread to trade with Cherry, she left.

Tuesday, 24 January 2012


Just something I've been writing for a while now. It's one story divided in parts, and I have no idea where I'm going with it. Here's the first one:

Scott hated Sunday mornings. The last time he remembered waking up on a Sunday morning without a death defying hangover was at least six months ago. He shielded his eyes from the grey light coming from the open window and surveyed the room. Clothes were all over the floor, an empty pizza box lay on top of an empty night stand and next to him laid some guy he had never seen before. Not that he could remember anyway.
Trying his best not to wake up his unknown bed companion, he got out of bed and started gathering his clothes. As luck would have it, his underwear was nowhere to be seen. Oh well, it wasn’t the first time he left some guy’s house leaving behind a souvenir to be remembered by. He was just about to put his shoes on when the guy in the bed woke up.
- Hey. – He didn’t look much better than him at that moment, but even through the eye gunk and the messy hair Scott could see he was quite gorgeous. Prettier than any guy he’d managed to pick up sober.
- Hey.
- Are you leaving already?
- Yeah, I’ve got some stuff to do. – A lie. The plan for today was the same as any other Sunday: lie in the couch watching Oprah re-runs, drinking water and cursing the invention of alcohol. But if Scott ever learned anything from eavesdropping the “women talk” his mum had with his sister whenever she felt like passing life lessons, was that men only keep what was hard to get in the first place. A failed reasoning, he knew, since he was standing in the guy’s room with no underwear on. But it was worth a try.
- Ok. I’ve got to go meet a friend too, so I’ll just jump in the shower. See ya. – And tossing the blankets away, he stood up, gloriously naked, walked over to the bathroom and shut the door.
Feeling that he would be quite insulted if it weren’t for the pounding headache he had to contend with, Scott put his shoes on and left.
There was a girl sitting in the couch at the living room. Scott half-nodded to her but she merely looked at him for a moment and went back to staring vacantly out of the window. Her eyes were red and swollen. She looked like she had been crying for days. Which she probably was. Lots of people cried nowadays.
Outside, barely anyone was on the street. A homeless woman pushed a supermarket trolley with a dog inside, mumbling quietly to herself, or maybe to the dog. A man walked with a girl no older than four on his shoulders. She looked ecstatic, licking an ice cream and carrying a teddy bear. The man seemed distracted; every now and then he would stop and look at a house, or a tree, or anything else in his way, and his eyes would swell up. But whenever that happened, the girl would poke his head and tell him that they should keep walking.
Scott shivered. Looking up at the sky, which had been getting greyer and greyer in the past two weeks, he wondered how much longer they had. The news had said it would all be over in ten days, but ten days had come and gone and everything was still there. Things were going to end, no doubt about it, but it seemed like the impending doom was playing with humanity, like a cat with a cockroach, giving them a sense of relief only to snatch them all up when least expected. With a sigh and a slight feeling of embarrassment over his tendency to come up with cliché metaphors for everything, Scott started making his way home.

Sunday, 1 January 2012

Bottoms up

Currently in a state of "Fuck everything. Fuck you, fuck the world, fuck Wellington, fuck everything.". If I were 13 and if this was 2006 I would totally have a greasy fringe over my eye and Simple Plan playing on repeat. But I'm 20 and this is 2012, so I'm just gonna lock myself up in my room for a while til I feel like I can leave without murdering someone.
And here's something I wrote ages ago and forgot to post:

- Hey.
- Hey.
- What are you doing?
- Spending some quality time with my friend Jack Daniels.
- It’s 2 in the afternoon, dude.
- So?
- So… That’s not very good.
- Not everything in life is.
- Very poetic. What happened?
- Pissed some people off. Having a bad day. Took the first drink to forget, and when it didn’t work I thought I might as well go ahead and have the next twenty four.
- Why are you doing this?
- I believe the technical term is “self-medication”.
- Don’t go all cynical on me. It’s not cute.
- Not cute. Ha. Good one.
- Stop being a jerk. We can talk about why you’re having your liver pay for your mistakes or you can go ahead and start planning your schedule around your soon-to-come A.A. meetings.
- I heard they serve pretty good snacks.
- Oh Rick. You’re a riot. Now, seriously, what happened?
- I told you. Pissed people off. The wrong people. And now I don’t have a job, I can’t pay rent and my life is pretty much over. But hey, on the bright side, I’ve thought of quite a few witty things to write on my signs when I start begging on the street.
- Just look for another job.
- Please. You know how long it took me to get that one. If I start looking now I might be able to find something around 2034.
- So you’re just gonna spend all the little money you have left on booze and then go sit at some street corner asking people for money so you can buy more booze, is that it?
- Well, not entirely. I might turn some tricks too.
- Fuck it then. Drink your misery away. Call me tomorrow if you don’t end up drowning on your vomit.
- Will do. Although, having my very own Jimi Hendrix moment is starting to sound pretty good right now.
- I know what you’re doing by the way.
- Really? And what am I doing?
- Crying for help and masking it with sarcasm so not to look weak while doing it. Really Rick, I expected more from you.
- Yeah well, you don’t seem to be doing a particularly terrific job of helping me, now are you?
- Excuse me for not wanting to be abused. You want help, sober up and ask for it.
- Well darling, we both know I’m not gonna sober up for a while. Tell you what: why don’t we start working on levelling the playing field and you sit down and have a drink with me?
- Seriously?
- C’mon. Jack here is quite the charming companion after you get to know him.
- And when does that happen?
- Around the fifth shot. Come, drink. Let’s celebrate the end of my happiness. We can mourn the death of all my ambitions tomorrow over a jug of water and a few aspirins.
- Fine. But don’t ever say I’m not a supportive friend.
- I would never say that, honey.
- You pretty much did 30 seconds ago.
- Did I? Well, maybe it’s starting to work and I’m finally forgetting. Now, bottoms up!

Tuesday, 11 October 2011


I don't get people. You know how everyone always assumes life is this incredibly valuable thing, and we're here for a reason and all that crap? I don't get that. Cause logically speaking, chances are most of the 6 billion+ people that live in the world are not special. Most of us are gonna go through life without ever achieving anything truly important, without making a difference, without leaving any kind of recognizable mark. Yet everyone seems to believe they are, actually, special. And then they look at me weird when I say I don't really think there's much point to anything. At the end of the day, I'm not gonna have a kick ass career, or become famous, or earn millions. I'm just gonna find a normal job, get a house for myself and spend my days living the comfortable yet purposeless life of a middle class guy. Does believing that means there's something wrong with me, or deep down everyone knows it but no one acknowledges it?