A while ago, I started thinking in English. It was a simple enough thought exercise that just sort of stuck around, even after I came back home.

Home, to me, is Iceland. You know, that little island in the middle of the Atlantic? First known for the actual vikings and then for the outvasion vikings of the economy, both famous for raping and pillaging their respective fields? What a barrel of bullhorns our history is..

And off course, it’s home. We’re so often blinded by ungratefulness when it comes to our home. It’s so laced with tourists these days, we’re continuously bombarded with their excitement and enthusiasm; those people that do not have to live here during the winter and irritate us with their dumbstruck awe of all things Icelandic. It gets hard to really see the beauty of your backyard, especially when you’re made so aware of not having fresh eyes to view it’s charm.

It’s home, you know, what else is new?

Well, me thinking in English is. The other day, I was biking home from down town, to my current home in Waterfall Valley, when I stopped to think. Waterfall Valley? Not once in my life have I connected any meaning to the name, it’s so close to my mind in Icelandic that I’ve never had the prospective to see it clearly. It really is quite beautiful; Waterfall Valley.

So, in the corniest of moments, I turned around to look over the city. The sun was pretend-setting like it does in the summer, dipping just bellow the horizon while leaving all its brightness behind, before popping up again, minutes later and in almost the exact location. And it gets so golden. This being an island and all, there’s no real pollution to stop the sun rays. Everything gets colored by that sheer golden glimmer, that, in the span of a consecutive sundown and sunrise, hangs around for hours and hours. It sparkles from our beer bottles and buildings and colors our faces and our memories of the glorious summers in Iceland.

I feel a bit silly now, having ever uttered the words ‘it’s Iceland; so what’. What a difference a slightly changed mindset can make. Sometimes we just need a little help, tapping into the magic.

And there surely is magic here. This really is a country of elves and exquisite nature, of extreme darkness and light, silence and sound. How dare I belittle peoples interest and emotion? You should be exited to come here, to be here, and if nothing else, do the golden circle. Just because it’s a tourist cliché doesn’t mean it’s not stunningly beautiful. Just because I’ve seen it before, just because it’s not new, that doesn’t undermine peoples right to be inspired.

I can see why people would want to come her. Home or not home, there’s no other place like it. I’m sorry I ever forgot that.

So, in conclusion; Bad, Jóna, bad!

Now go serve you punishment, sitting outside under the blue and golden sky, suffering through a glass of wine with your friends while getting a tan at 2am. And appreciate the fairytale land you live in, GD it!

I like doing a little math every once in a while. There is math in everything.

Put the calculator on your phone to rest for a couple of days and see how much math we really use, without even thinking about it. It can be quite shocking.

However, this is not the math I’m talking about here, not the kind that can be done on an iPhone. It’s the math of the soul, the kind that can be ever so hard to quantify.

But that’s the beauty of math. Even with messed up values, the laws stay the same. Making a relationship-list of pros and cons for example: Can cook, pro. Bad in bed, con. They might not be quantifiable values and you don’t have to assign numbers, but they still make up the math of your feelings. You’re adding up the positive and subtracting the negative. That’s math, any way you look at it.

Lately, the problem on my mind has been the following: if you like yourself, how much can you ever really like a person that doesn’t like you?

In a way, the math does already exist. Dating sites already use a mathematical formula to determine comparability between individuals people place values on hobbies, likes and dislikes, loving dogs, or cats or unicorns, and if another person doesn’t reflect on those things in the same way, the comparability likely won’t be great.

Whenever it comes to establishing any sort of relationship with another person, romantic or non-romantic, we have deal-breakers. I, for instance, allow myself to assume that if a person hates Monty Python or loves protesting gay rights, we will not be great friends. Those things carry too great of a value for me for a relationship to likely turn a positive result. The negative value is too great.

Everybody does this to some degree. Even the most tolerant among us have their no-go-zones.

What about the value you place on yourself then? Can you ever be okay with a person’s values if they don’t like you, and if you can, what does that say about your values? If you like someone that doesn’t like
you, doesn’t that sort of imply that you don’t like yourself that much?

There are very few things I like better than myself, if any. To some, this sounds arrogant, but to me it is nothing but logical. After all Monty Python did not consult with me when making their sketches. Nor
did Ben & Jerry’s when making their cookie-dough ice-cream. On the other hand, I consult myself on each and ever part of my existence. There is nothing within my personality that’s not there for a reason, the reason being that I put it there.

I made myself. Seems logical I’d like myself better than most other things. Otherwise it would be a rather harsh review on my own construction.

So. Based on all of this, I’m extremely tempted to dislike people that dislike me. Surely I possess many, many of the possible deal-breakers others might uphold, I’m not a dog person by any stretch of the imagination, I’m a health freak, and I only ever party at gunpoint, but shouldn’t these deal-breakers also be deal-breakers for me? I certainly have the math on my side! I could well make the algebraic case that I like myself far too much to also like someone that doesn’t like me.

And yet, for the first time in my life, I’m gonna lean to the feel-side of the math. Call it growing up or getting softer or using fewer drugs, but for once, I’m gonna swallow my obvious arrogance. I feel there are things to learn here, knowledge to gather. Why do the people that don’t like me come to that conclusion and can that conclution be tampered with? Is there perhaps a reason behind their math, a sense of physics I should look into?

So, to answer my own question with my own answer; you absolutely have the ethical, logical and psychological right to dislike a person that dislikes you. And yet, that may not the best way for you to grow as a person.

One of my all time favorite records, and lyrical masterpieces of our time, was retrieved from the garbage can of a dead man.

I suppose there was a shred of mystery surrounding Elliott Smiths death, but for me, there was never any doubt. There was this link between us, Eliot and me, a link that made me certain of what happened. We were kindred spirits and I felt his pain. There was never any doubt that he took his own life.

As for the album itself, most beautifully titled From a Basement On The Hill, it taught me a lot of things. It’s clear from his words and actions that Elliott absolutely hated the album, and I firmly believe it was that hate, pared with his drug addiction and depression that made him drive that letter opener into his heart.

That happens sometimes when you’re creating stuff. You get stuck in that place of loathing, the place where you’ve lost the glorious view of what you set out to create and haven’t made it back up to a place where you can see the beauty of what you’ve accomplished. Your mind gets lost in its own depths, far from all perspective, and further from being finished than when you started.

I call it the valley of hate, and it makes me thing of Elliott Smith every time I get stuck there. It’s been happening lately, with the book I’m finishing. I hate it, I cant stand it, and I’m not saying the letter opener is calling my name, but the delete button certainly is.

But then, you think of all the great works of art that were literally pried out of the hands of their creators. The ghost of dissatisfaction is one that’s always hunted artist.

You don’t even have to go into the threads history to see this function of humanity. All those times we had to talk our multi talented friends down from the ledge, all of those times I talked my grammy into just putting the pot-roast on table instead of in the trash can.

When we spend too much time on stuff, we lose touch with what other people see. We obsess about flaws that only exist in our head. This is a known fact, not a new realization!

So then, the only remaining question becomes painfully obvious.

How long do we make the same mistakes? How many times do we let out creative spirit run us down into the valley of hate? Never mind the feelings, they do not reflect on our works. They are irrelevant.

The only sensible thing is just to power through the low part, finish and then evaluate the product.

Elliott Smith taught me a lot of things. That is what an artist is supposed to do. For me that’s the true measuring stick of art and artistic expression.

It makes little difference to me that most of the things he taught were on how to not do things.

It seems like a silly statement, but very little progress can ever be made without change. It is the key ingredient in every type of development, how we go about achieving the desirable or overcoming the undesirable. It is the most natural component of our existence and without it, no nature would exists. No development, no evolution, nothing. Nada. Rien. And off course my native tongue, Ekkert.

It’s taken me a while to write this post, a little on a bus through Ohio, little on the airport in Boston and a little here, now, at the kitchen counter in the house I grew up in. Outside the giant living room window in my parents house, the city of Reykjavík is preparing to show us it’s summer colors.

I am home for the first time in a while. I am single for the first time in a while.

Which brings me back to the usefulness of change. Having just come out of what is undoubtedly one of the best, if not the best, relationships I ever had, I have some debate topics on the subject of change.

My last relationship gets such a high rating because from the very beginning, it was meant to change. It was meant to end, meant to be inhaled and consumed before getting stale and old, meant to be a educational experience. And then we change. Maybe we date again, and we will most certainly stay friends, but we will never get to a place that’s faded. Never in the rut of habits and never one where there is nothing more to be learned.

Now, every single person is entitled to an opinion, but for those that value change, it’s a bit odd not to include love in the mix. It’s strange how people will say: “Everything should change. Don’t get stuck in your job, your sense of style or hairdo, your place of living; get stuck and stop growing. Except for your relationships. Those you should maintain at all costs.”

Through what channels of what logic does that make sense? Surely your relationships are one of your biggest zones of comfort! Why would you draw the line there? Why keep the biggest possible source of quicksand in your life while getting rid of all the others?

Let me take a wild stab in the dark at this, seeing as how it’s an honest question and one I really would like an answer to; is it an ego thing?

That does sound more logical than some possibilities. Your country doesn’t get offended when you wanna’ try to live somewhere else, your favorite band doesn’t get jealous when you don’t want to listen anymore. Things don’t hold grudges over being retired or replaced. People might.

If this is the case and it is an ego thing, fear of having yours bruised or bruising others, we mustn’t succumb to it. There is simply too much to be discovered and learned via paths of change. Sure the learning curve comes with a steep part, a path that can be hard to follow, but if you never go through that, you never learn anything.

If you choose to believe in love, that’s totally fine. But if you’re using it as a sloppy excuse to not grow to your full potential, think twice about your ideology.

If you strive to cultivate your mind, but still find yourself saying things like ‘Love is Sacred,’ consider the possibility that it’s really just your fear talking. Sacred is just another word for never changing.

Here is Reykjavík, we’re tumbling head first into the romance of summer, everything is starting to bloom and the ghosts of snowmen are leaving the city. So many things serve to remind us that fleeting moments are the best, change is the greatest fuel for the soul and that changing forms of beauty keep our minds alive.

No season should last forever, no pair of shoes, or way of life.

So when we get all excited about the prospects of future romance, with others or with yourself, try to stay clear of forever and ever. Try to find something that compliments the now, rather than characterizing eternity.

Just consider; in love, as in life, change is our friend.

I recently had one. A birthday that is; there was way more than one episode of sex.

Let us consider that the first intro to this post.

The second one is less braggy and more philosophical: it’s the issue of selfishness, an issue that gets dragged into my cobweb of ideas all the bloody time. Not by me, but by others. There are some truly strange ideas out there on the subject, and some algebraic methods that could prove both Gandhi and the Dalai Lama to be very poor humanitarians because they never actually worked in soup kitchens.

I’m not comparing myself to those two, or any other for that matter, my point is simply that society needs to recognize and trust that people have different ways of giving back. Different ways of maximizing their effort to make the world a better place. Different maths.

My maths tend to be based slightly more on the ‘teach a man to fish’ principle. It works better long term, obviously, but there will always be those that look at the fish in your hand and call you selfish for not sharing.

Love, for me, follows this especially well. You can give a person your love-fish every day for years and in the end it results in nothing but a quick starvation when you stop. Teach a person to love themself and they will be fine without you. As they should be.

But the fish are leading me down the wrong stream with this. I had something much more sexual and less biblical in mind for this post.

Sex, that’s it. Birthday sex.

What a loathsome thing. How sad that sex shops on- and offline advertise little French maid outfits, not for latex and role-play fanatics, but to the uninspired girlfriends of birthday boys. Do something special for your man! Get vanilla-scented candles for your lady! Buy cherry-flavored lube and do it exactly like she likes it!

Everything about the fluffy handcuffs and 5 minute blowjobs screams out that you just aren’t really all that into it. It’s the mental equivalent of a gift; something that costs you something. A transfer of values from one person to another, in accordance with obligation to make the other person happy on their birthday. Do stuff you otherwise can’t be bothered to do. Provide an extra slice of happy for the special occasion.

It is clear that the math is all wrong here. Not only does it tell a story of a couple that is badly incompatible, it tells a story of two people rarely getting what they want. And when they do, it’s in a somewhat coerced way.

Now, I have been called selfish for a variety of things, sometimes simply for the fact that I know what I want and then get it for myself, rather than settling for what’s being offered to me. The alternative is apparently to give up most of the things you want on a daily basis and then sacrifice your knee- and jaw-comfort for 5 extra birthday minutes a year, and in turn get an equal exchange of b-day value plus the warm and cozy notion that someone loves you enough to sacrifice their happiness for your benefit.

Screw that. I can swallow a whole lot of things, but not this concept.

My birthday sex was awesome. All my sex is typically awesome because I’m selfish enough the pick bed-buddies that want exactly what I want in bed. I’m selfish enough to not make sacrifices. I’m also smart enough to not have to.

It should take no one more than a cup of coffee to get to the bottom of the math here. You’re treating your significant, even insignificant, others much better if you pick people that like what you like. In life, in bed and everything. There should be no extra love-points awarded for sacrificing your time, body and mentality for something you don’t really wanna’ do.

As nice as the equation is, if you have to consciously do something nice for your partner instead of your desires naturally colliding, your math is unfavorable. Maybe, just maybe, you might wanna consider the possibility that you’re not all that compatible.

If you find yourself waiting for a special occasion to ask for something you really want, take notice. Why should you have to ask for, give, or accept sexual charity? Why shouldn’t it be amazing ALL THE TIME?

Aim a little higher!

If the sexual infrastructure of your relationship is sound, there should never be any need for alms and handouts, sacrifices or birthday sex. Things should just be equally awesome for both people, all the time.

Realizations are a funny thing. A part of your brain can have one, but if the rest doesn’t like it, you’re are perfectly capable of hiding it from your conscious mind. Sometimes this goes on forever.

You can subconsciously realize that you’re gay or love tap-dancing (not mutually exclusive) or that you hate your chosen course of education, all years before your conscious mind comes to terms with it.

They are like that, realizations; they fester unattended in your mind and will never take your skillful ignoring as a sign to leave, and, somewhat amusingly, you’ll most likely know once you man up and do the acknowledging, you’ll feel a hundred times better. This has nothing to to with the nature of what you’re hiding from yourself and everything to do with the nature of the hiding. It’s not good for us.

Realizing you no longer love your spouse is one of those. The longer you ignore it the harder it’ll be to deal with.

Coming to terms with the fact that you no longer believe in love at all is a bit more tricky. For one I’m not really sure it’s a bad thing. For two, I haven’t got a clue how this realization should be dealt with.

That, of course, has no bearing whatsoever. The truth is, through a thoroughly strange turn of events, I have managed to disprove the notion of love. Not for everybody, just for myself, but still. For myself, there will be no more speculation. There is no such thing as romantic love. Not for my own private self, anyway.

Many boys have pushed me, a European centimeter at a time, toward this conclusion, but it’s the one I’m currently dating that has pushed me over the edge.

He did so by being utterly perfect.

If I had sat down a year ago and made a list of all the things I wanted in a boy, he would be that list. He has all the things I can neatly quantify, regulate, and comprehend in terms of me liking him: he is fun, sexually and mentally stimulating and, most importantly of all for a person like me, none-intrusive.

And yet, all of my mathematically valid feelings for him just don’t add up to that mythical number of love. They are no bigger that the sum of their parts and regardless of all their potential, I just don’t feel the need to root down or have a normal relationship.

A tiny little part of me, no more that a couple cells, was still open to the notion that, maybe, somewhere over the rainbow, there was a man that could change my cool and calculative ways. He would perform just the right combination of opening doors for me, getting silly while quoting the Flying Circus, and fucking me to smithereens; then — voila! — love.

A feeling that’s greater than the sum of its ingredients. Something that makes you think, Well, this is nice. Forever.

Now, I know there is no such thing. I have conclusive proof. And the best thing is that I now realize that there is absolutely no reason for why I should ever have thought there would be. I love my cool and calculative ways and I never believe anything is bigger than the sum of its parts anyway. It’s just not my thing.

If you get a bigger sum than your collective numbers offer, you simply added it wrong.

I’ve been coming up short on love for years now, thinking my calculations had to be off because my love just never equaled the love of others.

Now, in the light of this Ah-Ha! realization, it turns out I was right all along; a relationship offers a value of affection that directly correlates to its qualities, no more and no less, and when, by the nature of things, some of these qualities start to dwindle, that removes your investment in the union. When all interest is gone, so is the relationship. No supernatural adhesive.

This means my value for (what is sadly best described as) love is no longer inconclusive. It’s simply a value that doesn’t exist. There is no magic to it, no mythical elements, simply a calculative readout from the things you like and dislike about a person. No higher authority of emotions. No romantic love.

It is the single most liberating realization of my life. It comes with the freedom to live life exactly how I want and not feel bad about not feeling how I thought I should be feeling all along.

For me, the realizations that bring you a little closer to knowing who you are and what you want in life are really the best moments. They give you a better lens to your happiness, and I’ll always prefer happiness over love.

In fact, happiness is a value I value above everything else because there is nothing inflated or mythical about it.

But this is all just me, others should do their own calculations in life. Different maths for different paths.

I look at the mess I’ve made in just a couple of minutes. A simple thing like taking a shower at this point pretty much means uprooting my life. That is, if my life is tied up in my belongings.

When folded up nicely, the current mess of my entire belongings fits into one backpack and one messenger bag that I’m pretty sure is meant to carry diapers. Amazon did warn me about this, but I liked the pattern so I bought it anyway. As an alternative to an apartment, it works quite well for housing my stuff.

Then there is the other bag, the one that’s been with me forever. It opens from all four sides and can envelop the contents of my life in seconds.

It is also magical.

Its magic lies in the sound of the buckle that goes around it. It is a sound that echoes through my past. My favorite parts anyway. Every time I click it shut my mind jumps to a previous time when I closed it.

The last click pitched the memory of the time where I had to pack one-handed because my other hand was wrapped up in bandages. After I was attacked by a lion. Really. It was a rather small and partly trained lion — the partly part highlighted by it attacking me — but there are only so many excuses one can make for a lion being a lion. It was a bloody lion. And it attacked me. One click of my magic bag and it all comes back; the physical pain and the emotional joy of having the story, and the inner debate over where or not to tell my grandma, whose only advice for my trip to Africa had been “watch out for the lions.”

Statistically there are a lot of clicks from Africa, being on the road for a long period of time creates a whole lot of packing. Every day for months I stuffed my stuff in that bag and headed for a new destination. Every night I set up camp and unfolded my belongings. Every time the packing was done, it meant having checked thoroughly for scorpions and other deadly hitchhikers, packing up the tent, and emotionally moved on from the previous adventure. The click meant the current one was over and registered as a memory within the bag itself.

Then there were the other times, the less rapid and more significant moments of packing. I unpacked that bag when I moved to the Caribbean, I packed everything back up when I couldn’t take the nudist stripper colony anymore (who ever could have predicted that a nudist stripper colony was not a great idea?) and unpacked everything in a house just down the road. I loved that house. It belonged to my boyfriend at the time, and overlooked some of the most beautiful hills in the world. Everything on it swayed towards the passing sun, facing our way at sunset. I stayed there until things got bumpy and my bag once again saw some action.

Then there was the time I moved into the tiny little studio my soon to be husband lived in when we first met. We were so in love there was no need for unpacking for several weeks after. We just sort of stayed in bed and had a 4-month-long conversation that ended with him proposing with a box of fast food onion rings. Then there was the apartment we got as newlyweds and then we weren’t wed any more, and I, for the first and last time, packed that bag for someone other than myself. It all happened in the click of a bag.

Click: moved to India.

Click: packed all my stuff and headed for the States.

Today, I’m back on the road, and that yet again brings on a whole lot of packing and unpacking. Every time that buckle makes a click sound I know more adventures are coming my way. Every time my life is neatly packed in those bags I know it is all about to change.

By now, I am very much aware of the fact that packing is a privilege. It is not a thing to be hated. Ever. Packing means you get to go somewhere. It means opportunities and hope, as well as an almost mandatory episode of personal growth.

Even moving between apartments is a big thing in life. Whether you want to or nor, it will bring about new neighbors, new routs and a new episode of your life. You know how your memories will be colored by the places you’ve lived. It’s a new you, every time.

So I just thought I’d write this small manifesto for future reference, should I have to kick some ass. I would also like to note that from here on out, if I hear people complain about having to pack, there will be ass-kicking. Guaranteed.

Savor it. Breath in the spirit of the metaphor; you are going somewhere.

This is an utterly unoriginal debate. For inspiration; go elsewhere. Or don’t, it’ll only take a minute to read this and hopefully I’ll make half an original argument. If for nothing else, it will serve as a soul-hanky and clean my mind out a bit.

Now, I’m fully aware of just how much this poor drum has been beaten, but my, oh, my are the States an odd place to be.

For those already sickly tired of that beat, I assure you I’m not gonna’ judge or even mock in a satirical fashion. Not here, and maybe not ever, it’s not really my thing. My thing is more to comment on the phycological affects of their buffoonery.

As of 2010, Iceland and about 15 other countries made an agreement with the States called ESTA (Electronic System for Travel Authorization) that is supposed to be an easier substitute for a proper travel visa. It kind of is, but not really: there is still a whole lot of paperwork, a fee, and a mandate for a plane-ticket out of the states form the airport you came in through. And even with all that stuff in order, I still got pulled into that little room and questioned about my intentions, my past, religion, and favored ice-cream flavor. I suspected as much would happen; maybe it’s the hair color or the tattoos, but I usually get pulled into those little airport rooms.

As a non-judgment side-note, I’d just like to point out that all first world countries deal with illegal immigration. All of them. Not just the States. Seeking out greener pastures is one of the most fundamental elements in human nature.

Since I’ve been here, I’ve gotten accustomed to carrying my passport because my debit card does not meet the qualifications of proper ID, even if it has a magnetic line and should be next to impossible to forge. And besides, I’m turning 27. If I want to buy booze, I am legally allowed to do so, in every country in the world gentlemanly enough to sell such things to women. I also can’t get a phone card for my phone on account of not being a citizen, and most websites won’t accept my perfectly normal visa card because it’s not registered to a local address.

And then, one day, while trying to order Brazilian wax online and being denied my right to not be hairy, the thought creeps in. Wouldn’t it be nice to live here?

Seeing as how just a few week ago I came here out of sheer morbid curiosity, intending to shun all things typically American, I have to close my laptop and think for a second. What the hell is happening? Moving to the States would not really be a step up for me comfort-wise, and I’d sure as hell get tired of being treated like a dirty foreigner. I like my own home just fine and besides, I have all of Europe at my disposal. Most countries would be glad to welcome one of the 380,000 Icelanders on the planet into their home. Most have been. Even when they think I’m smuggling stuff.

And then the most obvious of clichés dawns on me: I only want it because I so obviously can’t have it. And who’s making a point of exploiting this rooted part of human nature? The States!

They’re playing hard to get. And worse yet, they’re playing hard to get about something that I don’t want, and they have no intention of giving.

And from there the ball unravels. Why the hell is it called the American Dream? The dream of a better life is surely not a new concept, let alone an American one. No other country makes such a public fuss about their immigration issues, and from here I’ll draw the obvious conclusion that most of the illegal immigrants that come here do so because they’ve been sold on the very dreams peddled by the US of A. The dream that’s self-titled by America.

Statistics of how many people try to get in are tirelessly flaunted by this country, while no other nation bothers to do so. There’s an air of bragging that surrounds articles about all the people drowning and freezing to death on rafts, because they do so while trying to get into America.

That last sentence can not go without a hint of judgement, but I’m done with that now. Promise.

The point I’m trying to make is not that there’s a feel of elitism to this country, the point is that it works. I belong to a club that’s in many ways much more cool and interesting; it comes with a great variety of cultures and languages and a history that’s more than two hundred years old. The only difference is that Europe doesn’t advertise in the same way. It doesn’t make such a public display of the people that aren’t allowed to in.

It seems like a funny notion, trying this hard to sell something people can’t actually buy. But given the apparent appeal of this strategy, I now find myself compelled to close off the soft and naive part of my brain, the part that’s susceptible to such marketing. It is way too easy to fall prey to the colorful hypocrisies of the American Dreams.

Now, some might say I totally bailed on my promise not to judge good old America, but I beg to differ. It’s really not the country or its politics I’m judging as much as my own unsuspecting nature. It might be their crazy Kool-Aid but it’s sure as hell my choice whether or not to drink it..

..metaphorically. Sans metaphor I have a pocketful of cherry flavored Kool-Aid. I just like the way it turns my tongue pink!

Why must we all have a thing?

Now now, I’m not here to complain. I have my learning pants on.

But given my current company, odds are I do hear this argument more than most people. Not only must you have a thing, you must live your thing, breath your thing, and be able to pitch your thing in a tweet.

Well I am a complex individual, damn it!

Being condensed down to a thing, as fun as that can be in some situations, feels a bit limiting in life. A thing has such a strong implied meaning. Like a pair of scissors. You only ever have the choice of getting funky and using them as contemporary art, or you know, just cutting things.

Why can’t I be more of a concept? Something like a book. Something you can use to make the table unwobbly but can also pick up and dive into?

Better yet, why can’t I be a recipe? A recipe for a human being. Something you throw out there and see what kind of return you get from your dinner guests.

Most people may lick their plates, while others may tolerate it or be indifferent to it. Still other people may be allergic to some of the ingredients you use for your recipe. Like peanuts. For example, I’m a glitter-loving, mini-skirt-wearing lolita of a feminist, and some other types of feminists have a big problem with that. The old kind, the kind that still fails to understand feminism completely.

If you suffer from peanut allergies but don’t hold those values, I’m sorry for the comparison. Didn’t mean to call you a dried-out cunt that holds women down. If you, however, belong to that slim cut of the venn-diagram that’s inflicted with both peanut and miniskirt allergies: screw you, too.

Sorry for the detour. Peanut allergies really get me going.

I’m just so used to letting other people read what they want into me as a person. Occasionally they judge me and I judge their conclusions, but most times I’m not even bothered to know.

And therein lies the answer, I guess. As sad as it seems to have all my flavor boiled down to a single tint of dry seasoning, I do totally understand the concept of control.

Control appears to be exactly the point. You want to have control over other people’s uses of you, your images, and your things. And the more your image is condensed into scissor-like things with a clear-cut purpose and aim, the easier it is to use.

However this applies only to ones public profile. The real me will still be subject to inner debate, recipe changes and all the questions anyone will ever have. It’s just that now, my net-persona will be more of a thing.

So I better get to work on condensing my philosophies. As a temporary experiment I’ll have no pitches, rules, or inner regulations that won’t fit in a tweet.

And I actually am kind of excited to see what comes of it. Who is this Jóna-the-Thing person? What area of my vast mental space will be the thumbnail of my cyber life? How will my essays on existentialism and convictions fair as one-liners?

Yet again it’s time to sit down, achieve philosophical photosynthesis and grow as a person. And a thing.

Wish me fun!

Ring-a-ding-ding.

If you read on, that’s the modern day equivalent of opening the front door.

When you do, your porch is occupied by Tinker Bell and Peter Pan asking that forever-young question: do you wanna come out to play?

As of the 15th of February, me and Colin are heading out to explore America. After all, I showed him mine. Time for him to show me his.

I hope to see some of the things promised in the movies; cats and mice with no concept of property damage, and skunks that levitate with love, not to mention the glamorous dance choreographies with all the elephants and the genies and the singing teapots. It’s gonna’ be epic.

Another thing that is gonna’ make it epic is the fact that we’re gonna’ couch surf. Bus hop and couch surf. And see it all.

If I have to snort my own fairy-dust to make it — which for an elf is kind of creepy — so be it. For two whole months, it is on like Donkey Kong. Non-stop like Carrot Top. Really.

And so back to the previous question: do you wanna’ play?

For those who do, let us know. If there are things you think mythical creatures like ourselves would appreciate, let us know.

If you think your town could use more blue haired girls and devastatingly handsome guys, let us know. If you think the same holds true for your bedroom, let us know in advance so we can stalk you and make an educated decision.

All good will and hospitality will be met with a child-like enthusiasm and bottomless pits of potential. We’re in the process of making a plan as is so do drop me a line if you’re at all interested.