Cogs can think.

So like, I went skiing yesterday with Renate and Bart (her boyfriend). It was awesome, but obviously, I was pretty tired when I got home at around 18:45. Seeing I had to get up at 6:30 the next morning for university, I decided to go to bed early, at 22:00.

Which is rare. Normally I’m not in bed before 00:00.

The result is that I woke up at 3:45 this morning, fully awake, fully capable, ready to start my day. I had absolutely no idea what to do. I mean, it’s like, night.

Is it, then, worrying that my first idea was to clean?

Some short notes:

My mother was operated on again last Thursday. Not too long ago, she had a complicated breast reconstruction surgery done, but one of the breasts actually got infected, and needed to be removed again in a rush surgery. This week they fixed the situation, so let’s hope she doesn’t get an infection this time. Everything went well, and she will be discharged from the hospital tomorrow.

I introduced Renate and Bart to Battlestar Galactica (starting with the miniseries, of course), and they seem to like it so far. Bart is into sci-fi and space stuff, so no surprises there. Renate, on the other hand, isn’t a particular fan, so it’s nice to see her liking it. Let’s hope they’ll like the series as well.

On a very related note, Nicki Clyne agreed to an interview for OSNews. Nicki Clyne portrays Cally Henderson in Battlestar Galactica, and the first moment I saw her in the miniseries I had a sensation of wait-I-know-her-load-up-imdb, and as it turned out, she played a 5-line role in Dead Like Me (“DON’T tell your mom…”). I’m really looking forward to the interview - too bad it can’t be a face-to-face one (seeing we live on opposite sides of that thing filled with water, and I can’t swim), but hey, you can’t have the whole world. We’ll make do.

It’s 2am here, I demand a shower and a bed.

It was a rather cold January night, about 4.5 years ago. I had been tossing and turning in my bed for about one or two hours now, and I already gave up on ever getting some decent sleep done that night. My mind was stuck on something. Something was wreaking havoc through my brain. Tapes, coming out of ears, sticking me to the roof of the attic room that I slept in back at my parents’ house. I decided to do something that I usually did when I get stuck.

I jumped out of bed, put on some jeans and a shirt, and walked downstairs, through the kitchen, the storage rooms, and into my dad’s office. It was around 1am, he was sitting behind his computer, probably working on some poetry or one of his longer stories.

Dad, what if I don’t like her? What if those feelings that I think I have are nothing but an illusion? What if I’m interpreting this all wrong? It came out a little blunt.

Son, you never really know, my father reassures me. It’s nothing to worry about, we all go through this at one point in our lives. It’s perfectly normal.

I looked down. I started to explain. But I feel guilty, I say, what if she loves me more than I do her? What if I’m just doing all this for the sake of doing all this? Just to be able to say, look, I love that girl - just to be able to say it?

So what? My dad replies matter-of-factly. That’s nothing to feel ashamed about. We all want to pretend we feel something even when we don’t when we’re as young as you are. It’s called life. Learning to understand your feelings is more or less what life is all about. And when you die? You still won’t know for sure that all those things you felt were actually really true.

—

A few days later, it ended in tears, followed by a few big bangs. I did what I usually do whenever I don’t have a clue as to what the hell is going on: I blame someone else. Pointing fingers is something I happen to be really good at, you see. Pointing fingers moves the spotlight away from yourself, forcing it to focus on someone else. But it wasn’t solely her fault, as the people around me said. She was a weird piece of human, that’s for sure. An odd-ball, different than any other girl on this planet, but she wasn’t wrong. She was sweet, intelligent, and dealing with some really difficult things in her life - just as I was (and still am) dealing with some really difficult things in my life. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong people, wrong everything.

Oh, and she started dating someone else, which, oddly, kind of didn’t help the situation. And to make matters worse, I wasn’t in love with her at all, just as I feared. It took me a little while to find out, but there was another girl in my life. A girl that made me forget everything that I had learnt up until then.

—

I’m not an easy person to live with. Sure, on the outside, when you first meet me, I’m all easy going like The Beach Boys on Sunset Blvd, but when you want to get too close, when you want to know more than just the 5-10% that’s stuck to my outer self, you’re in for a hard time. I don’t let people in easily. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that my past left such a big mark on me, and seriously damaged the trust that I should put in those close to me, that I’d much rather build a little wall around me, with just one door that opens from the inside only. No windows.

That is, until I met her - and more importantly, her. The former fixed the door so it could open from the outside too, and the latter put in windows, and removed the lock from the door - in fact, she tore down the door, put a big sign on the doormat that reads “Welcome!” in Trebuchet MS, brought in a postcard with a ‘thank-you-for-being-you’ note, and then cosily put a comfortable chair inside of it for her to sit on whenever she felt like it.

The first girl? She was the one who I mentioned earlier, the other girl, the girl who I was actually in love with. This wonderful woman made me realise that I had so much more to offer than I gave myself credit for, she tapped into that sense of playful arrogance and pride that was lurking deep within me. She opened my door, and allowed me to be me for the first time. And I loved her so much for it.

But I didn’t want to know. My friendship with her was so close, and it meant so much to me, that I didn’t even realise that I was actually in love with her. The girl who I talked about with my father? She was a surrogate. And a surrogate that couldn’t even hold a candle to the real deal, no matter how hard I forced myself into believing that she could.

It would take me years to figure all this out. Surrogate girl didn’t become surrogate girl until only about two years ago. My friendship with non-surrogate girl (blogging without names sucks major ass) watered down rather quickly when she changed schools. I’ve been effective at pushing her away, and she has been effective in accepting that.

By the way, she never knew. And still doesn’t.

—

The tearing-down-doors-and-bringing-in-postcards-and-comfortable-chairs girl? That’s a completely different story, and she actually has a name.

—

I look back upon the last five years as somewhat of a revelation. I’ve changed dramatically - for the better, I think. I’ve become more open, outgoing, and I actually learned a whole new word, a word that opened so many doors for me, a word that made me realise there’s more to life than doing what people ask of you: no.

Still, I’ve got a long road to go, a lot of things to learn. But like my dad said - learning what your feelings mean is more or less what life is all about. More than ever, I now understand what he meant when he said that. I’ve got so many years of learning and mistrusting my feelings ahead of me, and you know what? I’m looking forward to it now more than ever. What’s happened has happened, what’s coming is already on its way, with a role for me to play.

I’m me, I’m open to suggestions, but I can’t guarantee I’ll take them into serious consideration. That’s life, peanut!

Being multilingual is both a blessing and a curse. Especially right now, when I’m continually speaking and writing three different languages at the same time.

I’m on a short vacation in Germany visiting friends, so I’m speaking German with all the people around me. I phone home a few times a day, and send emails in Dutch to friends, so I still use my mad Dutch skillz. And obviously, I’m still ravaging through the depths of teh internets every day, using my superb comprehension of the routinely disorganised English language. Still wondering why on god’s sweet earth those pesky Americans decided to McDonaldise the Queen’s English.

Anyway, you can see how difficult it’s going to be to keep those three languages separate from one another. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve unknowingly reverted back to English while trying to construct a beautifully grammatically incorrect German sentence. Or the downpour of Dutch words intertwined in German-English geschichtes.

My thoughts are all messed up too. When I’m thinking of my Dutch friends, or I’m telling a story about them to my friends here in Germany, I see them wearing lederhosen while holding 1ltr beer glasses - and moustaches. Lots of moustaches. Even on women. Sorry Renate, I’m never getting that imagery out of my head.

I’ve seen you wearing lederhosen, while having a moustache. BEAT THAT, BART.

Bestest best friend Renate and her boyfriend Bart spent the evening at my place, watching some films, some TV, you know. At the end of the evening, I dropped them off at Alkmaar North station.

Good, I say to the happy couple, next time, we’ll meet up at your place.

Before the words even left my mouth, I hear a sound of a suddenly braking car inside my head. Bart starts running, and hides behind a wall. Renate starts laughing.

I look at her, I try to correct myself. I mean his place… HIS place, damnit…

Sometimes, my mind is WAY ahead of things.

Monday evening I was in Amsterdam, with bestest best friend Renate and her boyfriend, Bart. After quite the successful meetup a few weeks ago (LESBIANS! LESBIANS! LESBIANS! IRL!) we figured a follow-up would be in order.

I learned one thing. No matter how much apple juice you pour over a throw-away barbecue, it won’t quell the fire. It might seem that way, but the smoking and burning trash can in the Oosterpark kind of disagreed with that one. Bart and I wanted to do the sensible thing (don’t say a word, and RUN), but Renate had to be all goodie two shoes and sensible about the whole thing and fill a plastic bag with water from the pond to save the trash can.

In other words, we wouldn’t appear in the papers as VANDALS SET FIRE TO TRASH CAN. I never felt so disappointed in my entire life.

There were more important matters to attend to that night, though. I had brought The Holy Items along - the two Dead Like Me seasons on DVD. The Gospel has to be spread in these days of darkness, and as a founding member of The Church Of Dead Like Me, I had to do St. Georgia’s bidding and find new members for our Church. The good thing about this Church is that it doesn’t really involve anything. Just that you have seen the series at least 3 times, and can memorise at least 10 quotes, and use them in appropriate (or inappropriate if you have no social life) contexts in your every day life.

It wasn’t long before I got the two lovebirds hooked on Dead Like Me. It was hard to contain my excitement about having initiated two new members, as evidenced by my frantic rocking back and forth in the Ikea chair I was sitting in. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside, knowing St. Georgia would be pleased.

Sadly, we didn’t get to see the lesbians this time. I guess 2D pixelated ones from t3h intertubes will have to do for now.

I have an intrinsic fear of the concept of suicide. The whole idea frightens me so much, it even makes me panic a little bit. The idea that someone can be so deep in a pit that he’s willing to take his own life seems so unreal to me I simply cannot imagine it. I start locking up, and feel all uncomfortable and uneasy for days.

Last Saturday, when my bestest best friend Renate and I had one of our meet ups at my place (think us making fun of one another, watching TV, having deep conversations until deep in the night), one of our talks was about suicide. I explained to her the whole idea makes me sick to my stomach, how I find it highly unnerving, and how it makes me feel very scared and upset.

You know, it might have to do with the fact that I discovered my brother’s suicide note when I was 10 years old. THANKS FOR THAT ONE, ASSHOLE.

I don’t talk about what happened on St. Patrick’s Day, 4 years ago. Which is weird - what happened then had little to do with actions or wrongdoings on my end. Yes, it may not have been one of my finest moments, but considering the circumstances, I kept it together fairly well.

Today I was more or less forced to lift the curtain a little bit, as my best friends wanted demanded to know why I didn’t feel like tagging along to the Irish pub tonight. I didn’t want to tell them anything, but they just kept on guessing, and just to satsify their hunger for information (and possibly, something to hold against me in the future - I don’t blame them, I would’ve done the same thing) I fed them little bits of information on what happened.

So, then, I hear you think, what the hell happened? There are a few who know the details. Well - no, that’s incorrect. There’s one who knows the details. Renate knows what happened; Renate knows the months leading up to that St. Patrick’s Day, and more importantly, Renate knows the girl involved, who we aptly refer to by just the first letter of her name.

For some reason, referring to her by just a single letter makes it all just that tad bit more acceptable.

There is a small chance she’s reading this - I don’t think she does, but hey, who knows. Let me just assure everyone that I hold no grudges, no ill will. People make mistakes, and probably the biggest mistake can be attributed to me: I let it last for far longer than I should have. And in a way, that allowed it to explode in the way it did.

And I hope I learned from that.

Every so often, you realise just how lucky you are.

I spent the entire weekend (photos!) on a boat in the harbour of Groningen with some of my best friends. We drank (a lot), and the die hards played board and card games until 6 in the morning - obviously, I’m so totally a die hard. The first night, a few of us got pretty up, up, and away (Martini Bianco (my favourite), Disaronno Amaretto (another favourite of mine), Malibu (another favourite), vodka (don’t like that one), beer (I don’t do beer), and wine (I don’t do wine either)), and it showed. I’ve been told a few things I will keep for myself. For good reason.

The second night, the alcohol barely flowed, and I didn’t touch it at all. We played Risk until we dropped - a three hour game. The fun of Risk is that you can just feel the “love” in the room - people get more and more arrogant, possessive, and bloodthirsty as the game goes on. Which leads to the inevitable ‘tapping‘ - where you just tap on a territory you want to attack, while uttering something along the lines of “Die, and get the fcuk out.”

Lot and I made a pact - a gentleman’s agreement not to attack one another, and to help one another if needed. Not liked by the other players, but not against the rules. In the words of the evening, Lot’s pink Gaylord Empire (a.k.a. Hitler) made a deal with Thom’s green ‘Vegan Streaker Empire’ (a.k.a. Mussolini). Trust me - don’t ask. Really.

A few of us went to bed fairly early the second night, but Marco, Annemarie, Nadia, Lot, and I continued playing card games until 6 in the morning.

Sunday morning, we were all pretty much dead. I managed to use Lot’s camera to make a photo I really like - Lot resting on Annemarie’s shoulder.

The good thing about weekends like this is that it’s not all just lighthearted fun, drinking, and entertainment. It’s serious stuff too. I’ve had brilliant conversations and moments with Martin and Marco, out on the rainy deck, looking out over the water, and during the first evening, we discussed one of my more painful moments with regards to a certain girl I used to, uhm, like.

But the thing that surprised me most is that I discussed ‘my brothers’ with Lot, during a walk through Groningen in the middle of the night, after we snuck off the boat. I never discuss ‘my brothers’ with anyone except my parents and Renate. I guess Lot and I have a tendency to sneak away, even though we barely get to see each other, and we in fact don’t know each other all that well. We did exactly the same thing 2.5 years ago in La Roche - only there it resulted in something with a graveyard and putting ‘gl’ in front of everything.

All this just makes me realise how lucky and happy I really am to have such friends. I am tired, though.

Three different stories, three different girls.

I ran into The Goth Girl again today. She was a lot less ‘goth’ this time, and it showed - without her prettiness obscured by weirdness, it was hard for me to keep my eyes off her. And before anyone gets their knickers in a twist again, she, just like everyone else, is free to wear whatever she wants, and look whichever way she wants. Similarly, I am free to voice my opinion on the way people dress and present themselves. The knife cuts both ways, you know.

What’s interesting is that her goth image may actually be her port wine stain. To quote myself, “I guess sometimes it takes an [perceived] imperfection to notice perfection. Which, somehow, I find a very comforting thought.”

I emailed Amy Walker a few days ago (after my blog post), complementing her with her material, and some other chit-chatter. Yesterday eve, I received a very kind reply; she thanked me for my kind and thoughtful words, and some other chit-chatter. This is really one of the great things about the internet; the ease with which you can get into touch with people, people who you admire or want to send a encouraging note to. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside (it is the little things that put the icing on my days’ cakes). I guess I’ll reply tonight.

And, most importantly, I basically spent my entire Sunday with Renate, which is always a good and wise thing to do. We did some shopping in Alkmaar, watched a film in the evening, and had some really good talks (as always). After bringing her home, I realised I still had an assignment to do for today… And it was 02:00. I don’t think I’ve ever worked on university stuff that late.

Anyway, three different stories, three different girls. In order of importance from least, to absolutely-utterly-without-a-doubt most.