Cogs can think.

Would the following qualify as a religious experience?

Right, so there we all were. Marco, Martin, Robbert, Gemma, Robin, Thei, Levi, and I. Onno and Annemarie had left a few minutes earlier. We just had a barbecue on a roof terrace in the middle of Amsterdam - the weather is 20+, lots of sun, really nice. The table had mostly been cleared, except for a large bucket of potato salad, which was just screaming at me THROW ME INTO SOMEONE’S FACE.

Naturally, I felt obliged.

So, what do I get from you guys if I smack a spoonful of this stuff into Levi’s face? I ask. Marco takes out his wallet, and pulls out a twenty Euro note. I act quickly. Let’s split the profits, I say to Levi, and the spoonful of potato salad comes hurling towards his face.

Marco hands me the twenty Euro note, Levi hands me ten, and I hand Levi the twenty Euro note. Easy profit, or what? I tuck the ten Euro note away in my empty wallet.

Fast forward a few hours later, about 00:30. I’m in my car, about to turn onto the A10, when I notice I need to go to the petrol station to fill her up. A petrol symbol appears on my satnav, so I take the exit, and I put 15 Euros’ worth of petrol in my car (about 10 litre). I think to myself, that should be enough for the week, I’ve got no plans whatsoever.

I’m in the little shop, grabbing a bag of liquorice, when I flip open my wallet, and feel the rug being pulled from underneath me. The little slot that carries my bank card is empty. I realise, god fcuking damnit shit ass bitch ho, I left my bank card in another pair of jeans, because I needed to quickly pay for something while at work yesterday, and didn’t want to carry my entire wallet through the shop. My bank card was still at home, 60km away. That’s what you get for failing to check for your important stuff before leaving, just for one time. You know, IT’S NOT A COMPULSION WHEN IT’S NECESSARY.

And that’s when I realised I had the ten Euro note. Thank you potato salad.

But that still wasn’t enough. The guy behind the counter doesn’t really know what to do about it, and nor do I. That usual gutty type of panic comes crawling through my intestines right about now. Then I noticed someone else who wanted to pay for his petrol. I let him pay first, since I was still busy trying to find the reset button ON REALITY.

I had no alternative. Sir, may I ask you for a small favour? The guy, middle-eastern, I think, smiles - he noticed my fumbling around and had already realised what was going on. He took five Euros out of his wallet, and gave them to me. Thank you so very much sir, you’re a hero. Thank you ever so much. My hero leaves the shop.

So, it’s either god, or potato salad is sentient. Your call.

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.

Someone just told me his apartment lacks curtains.

So, I said, no prancing around naked while singing Spice Girls songs?

Not that I do that, of course. At least, not regularly.

One key feature for most users was a sense of community. Even though blogging is an inherently one-to-many activity, most readers felt a personal connection to the author. This could foster the feeling that the reader belonged to the community even in the absence of participation, and led those who did participate via comments to agonize over their content.

Hi, I’m Thom Arvid Holwerda, born on 1 December 1984. I have two brothers I never talk about, because their (in)actions severely damaged the connection I had with them - most likely beyond repair. And I don’t even care. My mother suffered from breast cancer a few years ago, which taught me a serious lesson about mortality. I have a lot of friends whom I appreciate and love dearly. I vehemently oppose the death penalty, legalised guns, and intolerance. The principle of unconditional equality is one of the two most important values - together with unconditional loyalty to the people I care about.

I am superawesome, incredibly smart, incomprehensibly funny, and NOT AT ALL ARROGANT.

Now, CONNECT GODDAMNIT.

It seems I have seriously changed my preference in women. And then I mean the looks department, as the character department is still the same.

I used to be a total long dark hair person, and eyes didn’t really matter to me. However, these days, I’m totally into lighter hair colours, preferably natural blonde, with bright, blue eyes. Blue eyes are enchanting. Green eyes are okay too - my Fiona has them, and one of my ex-girlfriends had them too. Green eyes are mysterious. My eyes are darkblueishgrey, by the way.

My last, err, object of affection had brown eyes. Maybe that was why it went so horribly, horribly wrong.

I SURE FCUKING HOPE SO.

The Groningen weekend has already settled itself firmly into my long-term memory. Synapses have been firing for so long now, that permanent paths have been created between them, and have been strengthened. It has found its place next to Antwerp and La Roche.

Gemma has put her photos of Groningen online. This is a selection (the entire album itself is locked for you outsiders, you see).

Gemma wins a round of Yahtzee. Somehow, this photo turns a big smile on my face.

Sarieke and Nadia. These are what I call manipulation-smiles. When you, as a girl, want something done from me, just smile like this. I’ll do anything.

Sarieke, me, and Nadia, walking towards the Thom Martini Tower. Yes, I’m balding badly, and no, I don’t give a rat’s ass.

Nadia, Marco, and Martin, atop the Martini Tower. I was downstairs, ready to puke my brains out. This was during ‘the morning after’, you see.

This is Lot, crawling through the narrow access into the living quarters of the boat. It’s a miracle no one got hurt.

To quote The Goo Goo Dolls, god it’s good to be alive.

My bestest best friend had to transcribe three interviews from a voice recorder to plain paper. She hadn’t a clue as to how the thing worked, so whenever she wanted to turn it off, she just yanked the battery out of the poor thing. She didn’t use any of the buttons since she was afraid she’d erase something.

But despite this crude but effective safety measure the universe still found a way to fcuk with her. It let her accidentally press the dedicated ‘erase’ button, resulting in the loss of a 30 minute interview.

I couldn’t help but laugh when she told me over the phone a few days ago. Usually I’m the one who performs brilliant actions like this. Or so I thought.

I also remembered how about a year ago, I let a customer walk away without having payed for the 800 EUROS WORTH OF WOOD MY COLLEAGUE WAS LOADING IN HIS TRUCK ‘ROUND BACK.

The moral? I can counter every act of stupidity with something stupider. You get used to it.

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.

I’ll be away for the entire weekend starting noon tomorrow. I’ll be away with a group of my best friends.

The last few times we did this, it involved getting kicked off graveyards, carrying drunk people around the Belgian countryside, and spending the night in a pub opened specifically for us, with a projector showing porn.

Just so you know.