Life.

I quit smoking yesterday.
And my boyfriend decided, out of the goodness of his heart, or maybe just because I don't allow him to smoke indoors anymore, to join my detoxification.

But not yesterday. That was 'too soon' and he wasn't 'ready.'
But today he would, and we threw away all tabacco products and started a fresh and nicotineless life.

But then, he already managed to buckle, to beg one of his co-workers for a sigaret, whom he, very convieniently, had not told about his attempt at beating this addiction.

'Just this one'.
'The last one'
'Never again'

It all sounds so familiar.
And I feel down.
It just doens't seem fair.
That he would be 'allowed' to smoke after such short a time.
That he buckles, gives in, just like that, and gets his shot and just goes on with his life.

As where I work my ass off all day, resist the most terrible stress and overwhelming desire to eat and eat and eat and even manage to stay clean trough a night's work behind the bar at our local youth club

It's so unfair....

I want to smoke too...

Weirdness.

Strange, really, when I come to think of it.
Most of my nights are filles with English dreams.
At least two days a week I spend entire hours in English conversation with myself, the dog, tv, or one of my friends.
More than half the times when I write in my diary the lines are English only.
I watch series off of my computer, cos it's easier and I have them all in sequence, and they never have subtitles. When I watch something that does have subs, I set them to English, cos I don't like the Dutch.
My boyfriend and I are considering to give our children a bilingual upbringing.

So why, why is it that this blog is so much emptier than my Dutch one?
What is it about my life that I seem to value Dutch over English when I write?
Because, if I ever had to choose one of the two, I would definitely don't choose Dutch...

Oil of Olay.

When you hang out with young people you stay young.

But at what cost?

Ok, let’s start over.
New beginnings for new days of new weeks in new lives.
I have this friend. This gay friend.
His name is Kenneth.
He is near thirty and has some trouble finding a boyfriend.
He keeps, like me, falling in love with the wrong kind of boys. Not wrong in the wrong kind of sense but wrong in the way that they are too young, too inexperienced, too insecure, too straight or any other kind of ‘too’ that is in a field that Kenneth actually –deep down inside- doesn’t need.

If we would step back and look at this life from a distance and with a cold heart, things would be easy. We would give him a nice job, the kind where he meets lots of new people and that is right in his line of thinking. We could give him some new hobbies, ones that will let him interact with some peers and that still fit into what he likes to do and subscribe him to a dating site with guys who seek some real relationships instead of guys who just seek the easy gratification through sex. Just in case he doesn’t runs into the right guy at work or someplace else. I’m sure those site must exist, and if they don’t, we’ll build them. There have to be people like him out there.

But our hearts are not cold.
Which is good, because if they were, we would lose all compassion for what the people around us would really love and want.

So we look at Kenneth’s life again.
Twenty-nine and still not quite finished with college. Working a nine to five job at a company helpdesk that will dull his mind if he keeps doing it for too long. And spending his time at a youth club where all the people are five or more years younger than he is. Where he finds fulfilment and friends and participates in all he can get his time and hands on because he wants to feel needed. He is appreciated and, as being human and in need of appreciation, he like that. In the whole scheme of things his life might be not moving forward, but there is gratification. And there are boys. Lots of boys, to hug and fall in love with. He falls in love and wanders his mind if this can be the one. But most of the time they turn out to be lovely and wonderful and young and temporary.

We as his friends, love and stand by him.
We comfort if he feels insecure and give good advice when asked or needed. And, all in all, he feels usually fine. Change is hard and he is used to his life the way it is. And, besides that, he doesn’t really know what to do about it anyway.

Being a member of any youth club when getting older is a way to stay young.
Staying young had lots of benefits. You are not burdened with all the tiny little things that peers who have a life, house, dog and kids have and don’t get trenched in thoughts about nothing else than mortgage issues and who drives the kids to soccer practice. You don’t become your narrow minded mother, father or neighbour and continue to focus on the sparkly side of life and all the principals you still think are worth something cause that’s what you do when you are young.

But you forget that you are getting older.
And you fail to see the joy that could be in a sturdy life with a steady relationship and a nice picket fence. Because I really believe that white picket fences have their joys too.
A different kind, but joy nonetheless.
Besides, millions of people seem to be quite content with it.

So what should we do?
How does one acquire a civil life?
How do you break with old habits for a whole new world you know little about?
And should you anyway?
Should Kenneth?
Should I?

Nah.

Staying young seems good.
Staying young is familiar.

I think I’ll stay young.
Costs be damned.

Borderline traits.

After a long leave of absense it seemed time to put something down here.
The emptyness of my English blog and the fact that I had a good idea for a piece of writing made that I am now sitting in front of my too old computer trying to convince it to do what I want it to do instead of giving in to the urge to throw it out of the window.

Anyway, back to the actual subject of my wonderfull idea.

I am not that good at taking criticism.
Or, well, actually, I'm horrible at it.

Somehow, I would assume that, knowing I am not that equipped at handling this, the guilt and shame and irritation of not being able to handle it, would subside a litle.
However, that does not seem to be the case.

Whenever someone gives me any kind of critique I act like a toddler who's candy has just been stolen by the very mean nanny. At the moment itself I can be all grown-up and listen, use I-words and nod my head and even manage to see things from the other's point of view. But the second the conversation is over I want to cower away in a corner and cry.

The whole world is against me, they hate me, they never see the good sides in me!
Nobody ever lets me do anything and nothing I do can I ever do right...
My whole mind is filled with the most depressing thought one could think of at that moment. As if all the sad feelings I haven't had until then will have to be conjured up and make it all so much worse.

But surely, the worst part of all this would be the irritation. The anger.
That somehow feeling sad and rotten about the criticism you've just got is not enough and I need to be irritated because I hate being so torn up about the just recieved critique..

Really, life as a cat would be so much simpler...

Girl thingy.

One should not spent over an hour doing ones hair, straightning it all and carefully concealing all the fizzy parts with hairgel and then decide that there's not that much rain and the umbrella can stay home...

Empty'ish blog.

It's not that I'm absent, I'm just... busy.

Friday night's fun.

Like any good self respecting dansclub my student organisation had a whole bunch of coloured lights available. Usually they're being operated by a light-mixing-whizkid from out lights committee. They stand on high ground, near the DJ's, overseeing the whole floor.

This time I was actually working coordinating the evening. I watch all potentially annoying people for problems and make sure all our other members have enough fluids. Very responsable job. But, since the DJ's are located at such a nice spot to watch everyone on the floor, I stood around and let the light whizkid of the evening explain what all the switches and buttons were for. And than, cos I was there anyway, pushed some. And maybe, cos it was quiet on the floor anyway, pushed some more.

This proved rather fun. Pushing the buttons made more light in all sorts of nice different colours. Pulling some switches made light fade, or come back and all that can be done on the beat, inbetween beats, or in other nice fashions.
After an hour my also coordinating boyfriend came asking if I was planning to do some actual coordinating. After two o'clock, when I was finished working, the should-be light coordianting whiz kid came pushing me from his buttons cos he wanted to switch some as well. After four o'clock I wrote myself down on the evaluation form in the field for "light technicians".

I'm in love.
There's apparently nothing more fun than making lights go on and off on various beats.
To bad the audience didn't seem to notice any of it though...