'em good old days
one day we're gonna look back at this time in our lives and say "those were the days"
(btw, hh is a town)
Knutschkugel (smoochball) 21:55
oh my god we are young and I am lying in bed eating chips
lets do the hh thing
we only live once
die Unbesiegbare (the invincible)21:55
how, now?
knutschkugel21:55
and if we're reborn I'll be in lisbon and you'll be somewhere else and others are suddenly animals
no, then
scary thought sometimes
JUST ONE LIFE
die Unbesiegbare21:55
now you're confusing me
knutschkugel21:55
oh god, and
uhm
die Unbesiegbare21:56
yeah but do we want to do the hh thing NOW
or what did you mean?
knutschkugel21:56
now? now in september, not now tonight
die Unbesiegbare21:56
alright, okay
knutschkugel21:56
I meant I just realized I'm 23 years old and lying in bed and eating chips
die Unbesiegbare21:57
yeah, if you were a us-american it'd be ok, but as a continental european, no way
knutschkugel21:57
no shit I'm a continental european too
die Unbesiegbare21:57
yesyes
I got cold feet and I'm looking at an online catalogue for watches. you are right,
something's going wrong
knutschkugel21:58
oh my
didn't we wanna try more?
god we got to go skinny dipping
die Unbesiegbare21:59
oh yes
it drizzled and I got a cold
but I bought my train ticket today
knutschkugel22:00
I had one hell of a cold in oportugal OHPORTUGAL
and i booked hostels in ireland and bought red shoes
die Unbesiegbare22:00
great
uh I did some shopping too
a turquoise skirt and an orange sweater
knutschkugel22:01
YES WAY
I suddenly like shopping and shoes
something's broken
die Unbesiegbare22:02
oh...c. calls. I don't want to. I feel sorry but I can't right now
knutschkugel22:02
yes not at 10 p.m.
oh hey grandma
Knutschkugel (smoochball) 21:55
oh my god we are young and I am lying in bed eating chips
lets do the hh thing
we only live once
die Unbesiegbare (the invincible)21:55
how, now?
knutschkugel21:55
and if we're reborn I'll be in lisbon and you'll be somewhere else and others are suddenly animals
no, then
scary thought sometimes
JUST ONE LIFE
die Unbesiegbare21:55
now you're confusing me
knutschkugel21:55
oh god, and
uhm
die Unbesiegbare21:56
yeah but do we want to do the hh thing NOW
or what did you mean?
knutschkugel21:56
now? now in september, not now tonight
die Unbesiegbare21:56
alright, okay
knutschkugel21:56
I meant I just realized I'm 23 years old and lying in bed and eating chips
die Unbesiegbare21:57
yeah, if you were a us-american it'd be ok, but as a continental european, no way
knutschkugel21:57
no shit I'm a continental european too
die Unbesiegbare21:57
yesyes
I got cold feet and I'm looking at an online catalogue for watches. you are right,
something's going wrong
knutschkugel21:58
oh my
didn't we wanna try more?
god we got to go skinny dipping
die Unbesiegbare21:59
oh yes
it drizzled and I got a cold
but I bought my train ticket today
knutschkugel22:00
I had one hell of a cold in oportugal OHPORTUGAL
and i booked hostels in ireland and bought red shoes
die Unbesiegbare22:00
great
uh I did some shopping too
a turquoise skirt and an orange sweater
knutschkugel22:01
YES WAY
I suddenly like shopping and shoes
something's broken
die Unbesiegbare22:02
oh...c. calls. I don't want to. I feel sorry but I can't right now
knutschkugel22:02
yes not at 10 p.m.
oh hey grandma
as we know it.
I have been thinking of writing in english for quite a while now.
so maybe that's that. I linked this blog on effing autostraddle and all these people get to see is something
written in a weird language with weird signs.
you will never read something in german here, though. it's fascinating how I, for months and months now, haven't
felt safe writing in my native language. so there's that. I think too much in english, and then I switch to swedish.
I have foreign languages, like this one
and I have a second language, which, coincidentally, is swedish.
it's my in-between language, I will never be a native speaker, I'll never be a foreigner to this language again.
In-betweener.
in-between languages are my favourite kind of languages, I wish everyone who knows me would speak all
my languages so I wouldn't have to speak in tongues to them.
it's what we say at university, after the second year or so, we speak "scandinavian". it's the moment when you,
who has been learning swedish and danish, write down a norwegian word in a test.
it's the moment when you
say "den eneste erdbeeren", part german obviously, but still.
it's the moment when that girl who has swedish as her first language suddenly starts putting danish
into her speech in swedish class.
so it's an in-between time now. I am not even close to where I've come from in my own thoughts,
and last night I spoke sign language with a half-deaf kid in my dreams.
I signed. In my dream.
I have been trying to come home for a week now and will write more and more about my holidays
in the next days and weeks,
these two weeks that felt like a month and made me cry on the bus when I had gotten back
to my hometown.
this trip was thought to be a healing trip and it was, kind of. it burst me into pieces and staring putting
them back together right around the end.
So the stories will follow.
About family and pool parties with siblings and the hot hot heat. dead chameleons and red hills.
About the end of the world as we know it and an awfully wrong played scrabble game.
About leaving on a bus and riding the metro alone for the first time without freaking out,
about climbing hills and the tram and those buildings and the seaside or riverside and bridges
and people and french and falling in love over again with a place
and then leaving once again to another place with other people and one special person to meet,
among others equally so special
and then leaving again for that first place and feeling at peace and at home
and that last evening
when she draw me that labyrinth as a riddle and sent me to bed with one question
"which player will you move first?"
and the answer in the morning. I am not going to move any of them.
Feeling free, at last, just to find a cockroach on the toilet seat.
and then the crying on the bus and now life and work and those damn old
topics in my head like "women and me and how it never works out"
and if anyone at auto-effin-straddle read this I might consider writing in english more often.
Off to my friends, we are going to knit together (yes) because it feels like it's autumn here.I have been thinking of writing in english for quite a while now. so maybe that's that. I linked this blog on effing autostraddle and all these people get to see is something written in a weird language with weird signs. you will never read something in german here, though. it's fascinating how I, for months and months now, haven't felt safe writing in my native language. so there's that. I think too much in english, and then I switch to swedish. I have foreign languages, like this one and I have a second language, which, coincidentally, is swedish. it's my in-between language, I will never be a native speaker, I'll never be a foreigner to this language again. In-betweener. in-between languages are my favourite kind of languages, I wish everyone who knows me would speak all my languages so I wouldn't have to speak in tongues to them. it's what we say at university, after the second year or so, we speak "scandinavian". it's the moment when you, who has been learning swedish and danish, write down a norwegian word in a test. it's the moment when you say "den eneste erdbeeren", part german obviously, but still. it's the moment when that girl who has swedish as her first language suddenly starts putting danish into her speech in swedish class. so it's an in-between time now. I am not even close to where I've come from in my own thoughts, and last night I spoke sign language with a half-deaf kid in my dreams. I signed. In my dream. I have been trying to come home for a week now and will write more and more about my holidays in the next days and weeks, these two weeks that felt like a month and made me cry on the bus when I had gotten back to my hometown. this trip was thought to be a healing trip and it was, kind of. it burst me into pieces and staring putting them back together right around the end. So the stories will follow. About family and pool parties with siblings and the hot hot heat. dead chameleons and red hills. About the end of the world as we know it and an awfully wrong played scrabble game. About leaving on a bus and riding the metro alone for the first time without freaking out, about climbing hills and the tram and those buildings and the seaside or riverside and bridges and people and french and falling in love over again with a place and then leaving once again to another place with other people and one special person to meet, among others equally so special and then leaving again for that first place and feeling at peace and at home and that last evening when she draw me that labyrinth as a riddle and sent me to bed with one question "which player will you move first?" and the answer in the morning. I am not going to move any of them. Feeling free, at last, just to find a cockroach on the toilet seat. and then the crying on the bus and now life and work and those damn old topics in my head like "women and me and how it never works out" and if anyone at auto-effin-straddle read this I might consider writing in english more often. Off to my friends, we are going to knit together (yes) because it feels like it's autumn here.I have been thinking of writing in english for quite a while now.
I have been thinking about writing in english for quite a while now.
so maybe that's that. I linked this blog on effing autostraddle and all these people get to see is something written in a weird language with weird signs.
you will never read something in german here, though. it's fascinating how I, for months and months now, haven't felt safe writing in my native language. so there's that.
I think too much in english, and then I switch to swedish.
I have foreign languages, like this one
and I have a second language, which, coincidentally, is swedish.
it's my in-between language, I will never be a native speaker, I'll never be a foreigner to this language again.
In-betweener.
in-between languages are my favourite kind of languages, I wish everyone who knows me would speak all my languages so I wouldn't have to speak in tongues to them.
it's what we say at university, after the second year or so, we speak "scandinavian". it's the moment when you,who has been learning swedish and danish, write down a norwegian word in a test. it's the moment when you say "den eneste erdbeeren", part german obviously, but still. it's the moment when that girl who has swedish as her first language suddenly starts putting danish into her speech in swedish class.
so it's an in-between time now.
I am not even close to where I've come from in my own thoughts,
and last night I spoke sign language with a half-deaf kid in my dreams. I signed. In my dream.
I have been trying to come home for a week now and will write more and more about my holidays in the next days and weeks, those two weeks that felt like a month and made me cry on the bus when I had gotten back to my hometown.
this trip was thought to be a healing trip and it was, kind of. it burst me into pieces and started putting them back together right around the end.
So the stories will follow.
About family and pool parties with siblings and the hot hot heat. dead chameleons and red hills.
About the end of the world as we know it and an awfully wrong played scrabble game.
About leaving on a bus and riding the metro alone for the first time without freaking out,
about climbing hills and the tram and those buildings and the seaside or riverside and bridges
and people and french and falling in love over again with a place
and then leaving once again to another place with other people and one special person to meet, among others equally so special and then leaving again for that first place and feeling at peace and at home and that last evening when she draw me that labyrinth as a riddle and sent me to bed with one question
"which player will you move first?"
and the answer in the morning: I am not going to move any of them.
Feeling free, at last, just to find a cockroach on the toilet seat.
and then the crying on the bus and now life and work and those damn old topics in my head like "women and me and how it never works out"
and if anyone at auto-effin-straddle read this I might consider writing in english more often.
off to my friend, we are going to knit together (yes) because it feels like it's autumn here.
true colours
Nej men tack själv! Du är underbar, du säger det som det är, du ser ut som mitt ex men whatever. Det är det underbaraste jag läst och hört på länge. Du får mig att vilja skratta, gråta och ligga med dig på en och samma gång.
Tack.
To all the beautiful, kick ass, fierce and full-bodied femmes out there, I would like to extend my thanks to you.
It is for you that I press my shirts and carefully iron my ties. It is for you that I make sure my underwear and socks match. It is to you that I tip my cowboy hat. It is for you that I polish my big black boots.
I know that sometimes you feel like nobody truly sees you. I want you to know that I see you. I see you on the street, on the bus, in the gym, in the park.
I don’t know why I can tell that you are not straight, but I can. Maybe it is the way YOU look at ME. Please don’t stop looking at me the way you do.
All of my life I have been told that I am ugly, I am less than, I am not a man, I am unwanted. Until you came along, I believed them. Please do not ever stop looking at me the way you do.
I would never say that the world is harder on me than it is you. Sometimes you are invisible. I have no idea what this must feel like, to pass right by your people and not be recognized. To not be seen. I cannot hide, unless I am seen as something I am not. This is not more difficult, it is just different.
I know those shoes are fucking killing your feet. I want you to know how much I appreciate that you are still wearing them. You look hot. I love you in them. They look great with that dress.
If it makes you feel any better at all, the boots I have on right now weigh approximately 12 pounds apiece and they make the soles of my feet burn like diaper rash in a heat wave and it feels like I’m wearing ski boots when I have to walk up stairs. But I wear them for you.
Even still, my new boots are velvet slippers compared to your knee-high five-inch heels. I notice, and I salute you.
I promise, I am not just staring at your tits. I am trying to look you directly in the eyes, but you are almost eight inches taller than me, please see above note regarding your five-inch heels. At the same time, I would like to mention that while I was trying to look you in the eyes, I couldn’t help but notice your lovely new pendant. I am sure it really brings out the colour of your eyes, if I could see them.
I want to thank you for coming out of the closet. Again and again, over and over, for the rest of your life. At school, at work, at your kid’s daycare, at your brother’s wedding, at the doctor’s office.
It is for you that I press my shirts and carefully iron my ties. It is for you that I make sure my underwear and socks match. It is to you that I tip my cowboy hat. It is for you that I polish my big black boots.
I know that sometimes you feel like nobody truly sees you. I want you to know that I see you. I see you on the street, on the bus, in the gym, in the park.
I don’t know why I can tell that you are not straight, but I can. Maybe it is the way YOU look at ME. Please don’t stop looking at me the way you do.
All of my life I have been told that I am ugly, I am less than, I am not a man, I am unwanted. Until you came along, I believed them. Please do not ever stop looking at me the way you do.
I would never say that the world is harder on me than it is you. Sometimes you are invisible. I have no idea what this must feel like, to pass right by your people and not be recognized. To not be seen. I cannot hide, unless I am seen as something I am not. This is not more difficult, it is just different.
I know those shoes are fucking killing your feet. I want you to know how much I appreciate that you are still wearing them. You look hot. I love you in them. They look great with that dress.
If it makes you feel any better at all, the boots I have on right now weigh approximately 12 pounds apiece and they make the soles of my feet burn like diaper rash in a heat wave and it feels like I’m wearing ski boots when I have to walk up stairs. But I wear them for you.
Even still, my new boots are velvet slippers compared to your knee-high five-inch heels. I notice, and I salute you.
I promise, I am not just staring at your tits. I am trying to look you directly in the eyes, but you are almost eight inches taller than me, please see above note regarding your five-inch heels. At the same time, I would like to mention that while I was trying to look you in the eyes, I couldn’t help but notice your lovely new pendant. I am sure it really brings out the colour of your eyes, if I could see them.
I want to thank you for coming out of the closet. Again and again, over and over, for the rest of your life. At school, at work, at your kid’s daycare, at your brother’s wedding, at the doctor’s office.
Thank you for sideswiping their stereotypes.
I never get the chance to come out of the closet, because my closet was always made of glass. But you do it for me. You fight homophobia in a way that I never could. Some of them think I am queer because I am undesirable. You prove to them that being queer is your desire.
Thank you for loving me because of who I am and what I look like, not in spite of who I am and what I look like.
Thank you for smelling so good.
Thank you for holding my hand on the sidewalk during the hockey playoffs. I know it is probably small-minded of me to smile wicked at all the drunken dudes in jerseys smoking outside the sports bar in between periods because you are so fucking hot, and you are with me and not them, but I can’t help it. That’s right fellas. You want her but she wants me. How do you like them apples?
Thank you for wearing matching bra and panties. I don’t know why this makes my life seem so perfect, but it really does.
Thank you for being the daughter my mother always wanted. You are so smart and successful and you dress so fine that you almost make up for her having me and my sister for her real children.
Thank you for reaching out in the dark at the movie theatre to grab my hand in the scary parts. It makes me feel like I am strong, that I can take care of you. Even if there is no such thing as vampires, and you do so much yoga that you could probably easily kick my ass.
I want you to know I love your crooked tooth, your stretch marks, the missing part of your finger, your short leg, your third nipple, your lazy eye, your cowlick, your birthmark shaped like Texas. I love it all.
I want you to know that I know it is not always easy to love me. That sometimes my chest is a field full of landmines and where you went last night you can’t go tomorrow. There is no manual, no roadmap, no helpline you can call. My body does not come with instructions, and sometimes even I don’t know what to do with it. This cannot be easy, but still, you touch me anyway.
Thank you for escorting me into the women’s washroom because the floor of the men’s was covered in something unmentionable. Thank you for asking me if I had a tampon in my purse really loud so the lady in the turquoise sweatshirt did a double take before gathering up her daughter and hitting me with a pool noodle. I can’t say for sure whether that is what actually would have happened, but thanks to you I didn’t have to find out.
Thank you for wearing that dress just because you knew it would match my shirt.
I never get the chance to come out of the closet, because my closet was always made of glass. But you do it for me. You fight homophobia in a way that I never could. Some of them think I am queer because I am undesirable. You prove to them that being queer is your desire.
Thank you for loving me because of who I am and what I look like, not in spite of who I am and what I look like.
Thank you for smelling so good.
Thank you for holding my hand on the sidewalk during the hockey playoffs. I know it is probably small-minded of me to smile wicked at all the drunken dudes in jerseys smoking outside the sports bar in between periods because you are so fucking hot, and you are with me and not them, but I can’t help it. That’s right fellas. You want her but she wants me. How do you like them apples?
Thank you for wearing matching bra and panties. I don’t know why this makes my life seem so perfect, but it really does.
Thank you for being the daughter my mother always wanted. You are so smart and successful and you dress so fine that you almost make up for her having me and my sister for her real children.
Thank you for reaching out in the dark at the movie theatre to grab my hand in the scary parts. It makes me feel like I am strong, that I can take care of you. Even if there is no such thing as vampires, and you do so much yoga that you could probably easily kick my ass.
I want you to know I love your crooked tooth, your stretch marks, the missing part of your finger, your short leg, your third nipple, your lazy eye, your cowlick, your birthmark shaped like Texas. I love it all.
I want you to know that I know it is not always easy to love me. That sometimes my chest is a field full of landmines and where you went last night you can’t go tomorrow. There is no manual, no roadmap, no helpline you can call. My body does not come with instructions, and sometimes even I don’t know what to do with it. This cannot be easy, but still, you touch me anyway.
Thank you for escorting me into the women’s washroom because the floor of the men’s was covered in something unmentionable. Thank you for asking me if I had a tampon in my purse really loud so the lady in the turquoise sweatshirt did a double take before gathering up her daughter and hitting me with a pool noodle. I can’t say for sure whether that is what actually would have happened, but thanks to you I didn’t have to find out.
Thank you for wearing that dress just because you knew it would match my shirt.
Together, we are unstoppable. When seen through your eyes, I am beautiful.
Turns out I was a swan the whole time.
[Ivan Coyote]
