Whaddoya want from me, she asks herself. She tries the random test, which video is she recommended on YouTube this time. Well, gosh, Kajsa. You aren't Cleopatra. That irresistible traits women had in the past, doesn't apply to this dating world, not anymore duh.
Well, at least my bosses are nice. I can go to work tomorrow, if I want, or I could stay home and really get better from my cold. She thinks back to when she almost started this post in Finnish by 'oh, where does all this snot come from?'. That didn't actually have much to do with the next sentences she deleted. Ancient Greek belief system on the human body. Having a silver lining to things. Nope, it twas better to start fresh. Something had switched in her brain to English, or so she asked herself the question. Maybe she was approaching it wrong. From watching those videos, she reminded herself, that she knew all men love attention from women. And so, why would she write a diary just about herself. It was pretty obvious she had secret admirers from far away. There just wasn't much she could make to help them. A picture to fap to. No, no such hope should be given. Hadn't she figured that she'd be his cougar by the time she ever went to such faraway states. I need a better financial situation, badly, she admitted to herself silently. I'm not all perfect, but she would love to be that woman. Then she thought of all the things she'd admitted on this page before. Goodness. Her blog tried to flash in front of her eyes, but it was too big of a thought, even if it wasn't her own life. Small things become bigger things, she agreed in her mind with some fantasy book quote about tripples becoming rivers, and rivers becoming oceans. Yes, but what was she feeling today, if she hadn't already word vomited all the small things onto her page. She had eaten, she had drank. The neighboring store had carried the flavor of cola she had asked for before summer had started. Miracles do happen, just that they aren't them anymore, as they do happen. And that was so philosophical of her. They were all miracles. Galaxies own images, within the universe, all uncharted, just happening to float on a big rock in space. Impossible, but some sort of laws had to exist or a creator. Something beyond their eyes reach they couldn't feel or touch or by any sense but just believe. She couldn't really stitch her words into anything that made sense. After all, how did her writing ever hold proof of much else than chaos. She was thinking on putting some music on. Her favorite playlist of the week had become too unfamiliar that day. It just needs two songs after one another that don't mix with how she perceives the world, or she could jump those songs forwards and listen to whatever she liked best, but song by song her thoughts dismangled themselves. Maybe she should make her own playlist. Not live in someone else's past songs. Then, she heard the voice ask if she was still writing her blog. Apparently I am, almost giving a sigh, replied to the voice: Apparently I am, it is just my flowing consciousness doing it's job... which didn't really sound that same to what she said, only that word used was unfamiliar to her in this other language. She pauses. Yes, a word has negative meanings. Her memory doesn't fail her. It was years ago, when she last wrote things like this to a blog elsewhere. It wasn't hers, the site, just mostly about fitness and weight loss... she had got a membership for life, so if she stretched her memory, there still should exist something... but she didn't mind. Removing a log from your own eye before telling others they have a splinter in theirs. Hard. She pressed that space button on her laptop. Usually she liked the voice of her own typing. She used to just scratch on the keyboard, if her head was empty. And people would ask why, and even she couldn't give some answer out of nothing. The other voice returns, seems like they had lost their earpiece for talking on their phone. Soon it would be time to sleep again, it was that late. And what did she actually do today, her mind reminds her. Wake up, for starters and take her medication. But drugs don't have calories in them, right. She had been called names, and all that. Never mind how severe effects they had had on her. It was alright, her weight had been same for a log time now. Still, a big girl. She used to own a book written by a big girl. It was life as a fat woman but in a nice way, written by the fat woman herself. Complaining about her size maybe, but only that she didn't fit what the surroundings demanded of her. Seats breaking from underneath her. Sending her child to get her and her friend chocolate from a store. Am I confusing the plot now with some other book, as her thoughts run fast. Was the child abuse in a different book? Well, this wasn't a book review. And the sauce they had, it was that yellow sauce, but in the book it was bearnaise sauce, so she wasn't sure if she had eaten it, or not. And when she read the book, she had indeed by then. It was just that shopping trips to do grocery shopping wasn't very informative about foods, not when it was mostly with her mother at that age. Now she could determine what she ate, and she didn't really bother anymore, either. It was stuck somewhere underneath deep in her brain, about food, her pickiness. Not agreeing to eat. She would of course finish whatever she was brought in front. She didn't know it might be seen greedy, but she also learnt to eat fast. Burning her mouth, she would eat. She would eat willingly. Goddamnit, she would eat. Eating wasn't what was killing her. It was the habits that had formed behind when she did eat. The other voice in the room, it would encourage her to eat once a day and she would then eat more, when they actually needed to eat less more often. And if she bought food for herself, the voice would complain about buying food for only her to eat. Sometimes the voice would tell her to go puke, if she complained she wasn't feeling unwell. The voice who it belonged to, it knew her well, but he didn't give her what she needed. They were too alike. And if there was a man in her future, she would be sure to tear that up too. Oh, how she liked to sabotage her own life, even if other people were to blame for ruining it. When she was young, she would think she manipulated others around her. And now by some miracle of getting ready for bed, the other voice exclaimed how much she was writing. It didn't feel nice to her, not at all. Why couldn't she do the Hell ever she wanted. Who needs rest, when I have this mind. Her mind was sometimes too vast place to be. She had tried to torture herself once by not sleeping. Results were pretty average, she had fallen asleep on the end of day three. That can't be a very long time. Or had she lost her mind then? She couldn't know this, other people could better determine that. She had decided it on an impulse. She had always been a good sleeper. So she would be. brilliant, she thought. I was brilliant. They didn't deny that of me. But, I'm so much more. I am... witty, I am... she paused. She didn't care. Not all the positive words she knew could ever really storm up a good ending to the story of hers. She knew her life had been ruined by many and so many times, she could barely keep a thought together. Missing one day of talking in an advanced English course, and she was already closing up, today. Glancing at the words she left behind, or up, and she wanted to take back the words in her mind that her vocabulary was good. Even her view of the world was closed up. That's what the adults on that course hadn't said. They had sounded worse than her, but some day, she would be as old as they were. Maybe it was good she had missed this class this time, because she wasn't sure if they were making her English any better. She didn't care about what the world had to offer. She was inside it, but she needed to focus on herself. If that makes sense in a very, historical sort of way that Hitler was a vegetarian and didn't drink alcohol et cetera "good person" per se. It's just that, that monstrous person probably had gotten just as much mother's love as her. And, she added, that meant pretty much zero. Yes, her mother was monstrous but so was her mother and all mothers she had known. Her mother had been books. Books that didn't help her at all to write or understand what text is about. She wanted to get lost in her text. She wanted to disappear in it. And, maybe if nobody was interested in her writing, she was just as good as a writer than an honest one. the end, she thinks. Physical world is calling me back to Earth. I must stop before I feel worse. Thoughts are out there now. She feels a bit anxious. Why did she write about herself. This wasn't the average "my favorite color is lavender" kind of bullshit. This was, well, like the fat woman had written, nice. Nicely fat. Still fat, but... nice. And she had a lot of getting rid of being in her comfort zone. Was it comforting to have been gaining all that weight. No. She had been tired, she walked up and down 5 stories of stairs daily to get out the building and walk seven hundred meters to the nearest grocery shop. It had been a task that she was forcefully put into. Call it, her recovery. Drugged into a stupor for quite a few years involuntarily by an injection that they had controlled. It had been the wrong drug. Another severe thing that had ruined her life. But that was then, this was now... and she didn't know the difference. It had been her all along. She would remember. She would grow old, and forget, she would diminish... so why not remember everything she could now. But, it wouldn't interest others, she facepalmed herself silently. Well, do they know about my memory. I can always make false memories later, she almost yawned. Now would be a nice moment to stop. She glanced at the screen... so, so many she's. Maybe no one will count them. As they usually wouldn't, she reminded herself. My thoughts are a bit irrational sometimes. Good night, she thought. How long will it take to write this thing by itself? Well, actually she had already posted many times that day and many days before that... but she wasn't getting any more motivated, nor was she creating new better ideas. She could create new memories, but... maybe they already were that... because she believed to be a determinist. And humanist. So, the thoughts would maybe hunt her in her chaotic dreams yet again, tonight. Maybe she would have to pack and pack mountains of objects, again, that maybe didn't even exist. Her mind would just keep bringing up the luggage, what ever that might mean. Voice interrupts again. She forgets instantly what they spoke together. He is only hurrying her. For his own reasons. Sometimes, a tone tells more than the actual words.