NG

Yes, Angie is explosive. And it is not solid. But is this the matter of choice, really? The not-solid Angie cannot be the rolling stone you see.. It only is what it is: a liquid, and a trans-parent one. And so it flows, both assuming and sculpting the shape of the surroundings. If you don’t mishandle, it will never go off. Needs to be hit, dropped or shaken.. forced to send the carefully manufactured, neighbouring molecules into the neverwhere. And Angie prefers to apply itself elsewhere, assist those with hearts under attack, really. Slowly disperse in their mouths, sweet and acrid in taste (they say). Bring them some moss to rest upon. Or to chew and spit out, but nevermind.

Yes, Angie is explosive. And it is not solid. But it's active. And this is the matter of choice.

MANY HAPPY RETURNS

If anyone claims they wanna die before they get old, that's because they haven't met my grandma. Were it not for her, I would still be erring like that, too.. Not that she's particularly nice. In fact, she's quite far removed from the overidealistic image featuring little old ladies committing senseless acts of kindness and showering children with sweets. Instead, she puts her own needs first, she's greedish and rather cold. She's self-sufficient to the border of obsession and won't let you help her on any account. Silly me, she won't even ask for it in the first place, so there's no point offering any assistance. Honestly, the lady never ceases to astonish: constantly on the move and so determined to do things that I feel moribund and senile in her presence. Her memory is more reliable than mine and she's one of those who actually remind me of things, which is even more mortifying. Oh, you're gonna love this one: visits at the dentist's are.. pleasurable to her. Briefly put, she seems indestructible and immortal, I like to imagine. Don't know what it is that propels her, but if that's what the latter years may look like, maybe it's time to start biting nails in anticipation rather than recoil from the thought. I've never seen my grandma crying or complaining, and neither will anyone see me, when the time comes.

For the time being, however, I'll be grouching and dramatizing to my heart's content, if you take my meaning.

THE GUILTY PARTY

Dancing is probably the only physical activity I can't get my head (and body) around. Decency requires hatred towards it, as a result. Someone even accused me of not being capable to have fun. The whatsoever she added only made it worse. But should I really care? They say it's all about rhythm and the so-called musical intelligence. If so, I mustn't grumble. I've proved to be extremely music-conscious at times and to have a relatively fair taste in music. My handicap regards my not being able to bring myself to move to the rhythm. So what? Does it make me a bad person? Of course not. It makes me old-fogyish and putrid. And dull. That's what most people reckon. But I don't mind. I don't like most people. (If they did like me, I'd be insulted.)

Don't get me wrong, I don't claim dancing ought to be prohibited. There's simply not enough alco-hole to make me demean myself by doing it.

KEEP UPRIGHT

I know how much you adore the romantic side of life, but I must object or else I'll die of asphyxia. Idioms related to the l word are plain stupid and none is the exception here. The phrase fall for somebody is the most eye-offending of all. It conjures up the image of a puppet stumbling upon nothing at all for no purpose in particular. Sorry, but the idea of voluntary banging against the ground, if metaphorical, appears outright absurd. I don't want anybody to fall for me simply on the strength of this phrase's slavish conotation. If you wish to bruise yourself, go ahead. I take no responsibility.

Why the hell do most l***y-dovey phrases suggest leaning out of perpendicular? Whatever happened to human dignity, I ask you? What's wrong about the upright position? Remember I'm not gonna stoop to any level below my own, I prefer standing. Don't go down to your knees, don't find yourself swept off your feet, don't fall for me. Ever.

And one more thing, to carry a torch for me you must bite my arms off.

DESULTORY FASHION

Women's love for rags and accessories is, to put it mildly, disturbing. How silly of me to have thought that a person is defined by what they wear; therefore, a limited number of pieces of clothing would be advisable for them to remain consistently dressed.. I do recognize people by their usual look; the moment they dress up I find myself inconveniently distracted and insecure. Almost as if the person I thought I had known was a complete stranger to me. (Because maybe it is so, as I can never shake the unwelcome impression that by swapping outfits people wish to become somebody else, be it conscious or unconscious on their part.) Why anyone would wanna change every 24 hours (or intimidatingly enough, twice or thrice a day) is beyond me. I would willingly wear a hair skirt all my life and feel thoroughly satisfied. Feel free to shake heads until they drop off. You'll be standing out a mile, you bunch of preppy headless hens.

DON'T TOUCH ME IN MY PRESENCE

I hate being caressed without permission. This includes: hugging, stroking, patting, squeezing and, above all, kissing. Unwanted physical contact is an abuse of mental well being and I disrespectfully disagree with those who claim that craving for touch is natural for everyone. It’s not for me, and I still regard myself as a human being. And I don’t really think there's something wrong with me just because I’m not in the habit of encroaching upon people’s bodily premises and smearing them with my surplus of germs and saliva. Logically, there’s no way I will let anyone satisfy their alleged needs at my expense. If the attitide fails to scare the interlopers away, I’ll be forced to mark my territory with freshly produced piss.

KITSCH AND KIN

I was lying on the couch, comfortably alone in the dark next room, thanking gods for that unique moment of silence and solitude when I was brutally disturbed by my next of kin who demanded I got up and joined the other kinspeople. Needless to say, it was the last thing I felt up for, so I bravely refused. It may have been selfish of me, but after just one hour exposure to their blabbering, I only craved for shooting myself on the brainbaby maker. Therefore, staying away seemed like the lesser evil to me.

I know family is important. And I know it’s Christmas. But it's still not enough to make me put up with idle conversation.