<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427</id><updated>2012-02-16T10:07:44.915-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Dreaming of healing</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default?start-index=101&amp;max-results=100'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>122</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-883240995562126474</id><published>2009-08-19T05:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-19T05:14:16.445-07:00</updated><title type='text'>With friends like this...</title><content type='html'>taken from an email conversation with my sidekick S:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"hehehe...i adore you you sick twisted biatch.."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So what comes to friends, their feelings and views about me, I think I'm well and truly set.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Break a leg tonight S!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-883240995562126474?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/883240995562126474/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=883240995562126474&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/883240995562126474'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/883240995562126474'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2009/08/with-friends-like-this.html' title='With friends like this...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-208577384332630652</id><published>2009-08-12T01:57:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-12T01:57:56.713-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The trouble with friends</title><content type='html'>...is that sometimes it is hard to know where the boundaries are. What is acceptable to say, and when, and how. Where is the invisible line. It would be easy if it would be the same with everyone. But it’s not. To some people you can say pretty much anything about everything and not offend or hurt or cause damage to the friendship. And then with some people it’s walking on eggshells. Or avoiding certain topics. Like what where you REALLY up to last weekend, or who drank what and how much or people you both know, or decisions you have made about your life, or they about theirs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why is it that with some people you can pour your heart out, tell about everything without shame or fear of rejection, except for one thing? There is always something you hold back. A detail from the past, an opinion, something.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then sometimes you just have to step up to the plate, swing the bat and hope you did it right.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-208577384332630652?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/208577384332630652/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=208577384332630652&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/208577384332630652'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/208577384332630652'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2009/08/trouble-with-friends.html' title='The trouble with friends'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-5950481521195328933</id><published>2009-08-11T03:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-11T03:39:22.553-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Things that make you go "aww"</title><content type='html'>When, after months of repeat repeat repeat, Boy B finally said my name. WITH clearly understanding it is my name and what he is saying. Made the gf a bit jealous, after all, his sister said my name first too. Oh well…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I met a long-time friend who I've kind of lost in the previous years and I saw a glimpse of the “old” her and noticed that the friendship we had is still there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I can’t wait for our wedding to be over so that we can start having a marriage.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When discussing the past with a friend I had an affair with sometime before the ice-age and before I started having a relationship with his friend he says “but I saw you first”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When thinking about the lost entertainment value of my social life, I just feel happy.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-5950481521195328933?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/5950481521195328933/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=5950481521195328933&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/5950481521195328933'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/5950481521195328933'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2009/08/things-that-make-you-go-aww.html' title='Things that make you go &quot;aww&quot;'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-2611102400739412298</id><published>2009-08-10T09:23:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-10T09:47:37.516-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Love lifts us up</title><content type='html'>...hah, I bet you think this is going to be some mushy post about my fabulous gf, or as I could call her now, almost-soon-to-be wife. Nah. That was just a line from a song that was playing when I started writing this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I should actually be doing something completely else but I just can't find it in me to be active and stuff. I already was for two hours after work, that should be enough... And admit it, you missed me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So yes, what I wanted to write about is that our lives are changing. In a way that was easy to guess and at the same time completely impossible. Just look at me. I am getting married in a year, maybe a kid or two later on, who knows and higher powers willing, and we are checking out loans, to buy somewhere our own to live. So normal it's boring. And at the same time it's not boring at all. I mean, getting MARRIED? Me? The Queen Bitch? The Incarnation of Evil? I have actually settled down, of my own free will and choice. I was out with a friend a while back and she commented something on the lines of "now that you are in a relationship you are not that entertaining anymore". Okay, sounds bad but I know what she meant. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I no longer produce entertainment by colliding head-on with people I should stay miles away from. I just am not that entertaining anymore. After all, I was VERY entertaining for YEARS. Talk about stupid choices and incidents with great potential for anecdotes. But then, isn't it time the stupid stories come from somewhere else? And are not the relationship type? Shouldn't we be past that by now?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-2611102400739412298?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/2611102400739412298/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=2611102400739412298&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/2611102400739412298'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/2611102400739412298'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2009/08/love-lifts-us-up.html' title='Love lifts us up'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-8513727681943165335</id><published>2009-02-16T02:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-16T02:11:52.773-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Little things that annoy, part 578</title><content type='html'>Lately I’ve been reading a lot of books of the chicklit genre. Just haven’t felt up for anything more thought provoking. But there’s one thing that annoys me to bits: factual error considering Finns/Finland. In surprisingly many books there are references to my homeland. Can’t for the life of me understand why. I don’t mind artistic freedom or saying something even quite nasty about our cheerful nation and it’s inhabitants.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But using names that actually do not exist here (and usually they sound vaguely Swedish or Norwegian) or writing about WHALES  in our seas. Last time a whale was sighted near Finland it was around 1978. We used to have a type of whale (Phocoena phocoena) around here but they are seriously long gone… Only thing dumber to say would be the time honoured tradition of thinking there’s polarbears in Helsinki.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The annoying bit is this: if the writers/editors have gone through lengthy factchecking process considering everything else (like the French daycare system or the income situation of single mothers and it’s development since the 1940’s ) they could not google the goddamn whale bit!?!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay, I understand that the daycare system might be important for the plotline. And those bits I’m annoyed by are just tiny little details, a mere mention to fatten up the character of the au pair but still. Urgh!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-8513727681943165335?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/8513727681943165335/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=8513727681943165335&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8513727681943165335'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8513727681943165335'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2009/02/little-things-that-annoy-part-578.html' title='Little things that annoy, part 578'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-4193591523849691425</id><published>2009-02-14T16:34:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-14T16:56:59.689-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Daffodil Lament</title><content type='html'>For some reason this song by the Cranberries has always been very important to me. I am trying to figure out why, what is the connection. There always is... All the important songs in my life remind me of something, someone. Soundtrack of my life...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's like with literature, there always has been someone before who has said things better than I ever could, that's why this is the highest form of writing that I will ever do. I know my limitations.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"...I have decided to leave you forever..."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe that's it. When this song was new I was in a point I had to let go of my first true love. It was basically a teenage thing, nothing to be counted as serious when you think about it now. But back then... damn... it was serious then. It was growing up. I can still remember how it felt. There's a lot of stuff that's escaped from me now, but not that. Not accepting that loss. First failure of that sort. Little did I know there was a lot of that kind coming up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's strange, the pain that just will not go away. The humiliation of being rejected. The memory of things that could have been very different if just... If I would have been different. But then I would have not been me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For someone who does not live in the past I sure do write about it a lot. That's my way of dealing. I write, and then I can not think about it again for a while. Emotional vomiting.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-4193591523849691425?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/4193591523849691425/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=4193591523849691425&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/4193591523849691425'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/4193591523849691425'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2009/02/daffodil-lament.html' title='Daffodil Lament'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-4819153205517143614</id><published>2009-02-05T03:19:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-05T03:20:50.859-08:00</updated><title type='text'>On a lighter note, part 1056...</title><content type='html'>I listen to the radio at work. Sometimes I hear some really strange stuff…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A recent Idols competitor (he was actually fourth on the competition and I can’t for the life of me understand how he got that far) moved in with his girlfriend. Okay there’s nothing strange in this. Except the fact you could wonder why that is newsworthy information. Broadcasted on a national radiochannel. Granted, in entertainment news, but still…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the happy couple moved in together after two months of dating. Nothing strange in that either. But the strange part is the phrasing used:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“xx moved in with his girlfirend xx FINALLY after dating for two months”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How is that finally? After two months? C’mon! And they are not even lesbians!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-4819153205517143614?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/4819153205517143614/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=4819153205517143614&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/4819153205517143614'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/4819153205517143614'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2009/02/on-lighter-note-part-1056.html' title='On a lighter note, part 1056...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-7920016785272910219</id><published>2009-02-05T02:13:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-05T02:16:39.773-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Learning stuff</title><content type='html'>Last Friday I was having lunh at work and idly looked through a magazine someone had left on the table. I came across a page where there were things to do and see over the weekend, and one of them was a memorial gig for a guy I knew when I was under twenty. I hadn’t known he had died the previous fall. I vaguely remember reading about a fire where a young man died but at the time I had no reason to believe I’d know the victim. He was a friend of a friend of a friend, someone I never knew well, who used to hang out with the same crowd of people, and for the last ten years I’d see him occasionally around, nod a hello, if even that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So then, the next day I was reading another magazine. There was a story written by a freelance journalist, a story about how her mother got cancer and how they took care of her until the end with her siblings. In the story was a mention how the night when her mother died there was a fire in the building where the journalist lived and in that fire a young man died. With the details and the timeline it was certain that it was the same guy. So how spooky is that?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I mean he had died three months earlier, I had no idea and then when I finally knew, he’s all over the place… I can spice this story with one more detail before the grand finale of this post. Three days before I read about his death I was in a recordshop and saw the first album he published with his band, and I decided to go and get it later. For the first time in a really long time I thought about him and the other guys. This is starting to turn into Twilight Zone episode…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last night I dreamt about him, I was on my way to go see his band play and I could’t find a parkingplace and when I finally did make my way to the gig it had turned into a memorial show because he had just died. And I left and I cried and cried and made my way into a bar in Lahti and drank and drank. But when I woke up I was feeling quite well, kinda relieved.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So what does this tell me? One line from Melissa Etheridge comes to mind, “the letting go has taken place”. I don’t think I had to let go of him, as a person, because I did not know him well enough to, well, personally mourn for him. Not really in any other aspect than the general way of feeling sad when someone dies young. But I think this was one of the moments when I let go of my youth. Of the teenage years, of the people I knew, of the person I was. And because it is me, drinking in the dream was a symbol for letting go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am letting go a lot of stuff, gradually. Moving on, letting some things rest. Learning to let go of things that I have no way of ever finding out why they happened. Letting go of hurt. Piece by piece.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-7920016785272910219?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/7920016785272910219/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=7920016785272910219&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/7920016785272910219'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/7920016785272910219'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2009/02/learning-stuff.html' title='Learning stuff'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-5969949716741275984</id><published>2008-10-21T08:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-21T08:41:11.537-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Me, defined</title><content type='html'>"Yes, your evil aura had to evolve since you found someone who neutralizes your ability to destroy lives.  This happened because you became involved - you see L's inherit goodness is your "cryptonite" when it comes to the ability to be "Destroyer of Lives" and therefore in an attempt to survive, your black hole of evil has branched out into a more subtle way of making people miserable - it stops them from being able to go to the toilet...  Next it will add the ability to make people hungry and think that wolves are chasing them at the same time."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Huge thanks to Stephanie who is responsible for this text.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-5969949716741275984?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/5969949716741275984/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=5969949716741275984&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/5969949716741275984'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/5969949716741275984'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2008/10/me-defined.html' title='Me, defined'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-3341178565830677346</id><published>2008-10-07T11:19:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-07T11:19:57.485-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Kieltäydyn kommentoimasta enempää.</title><content type='html'>Isoroba ei ole mikään Khao San.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-3341178565830677346?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/3341178565830677346/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=3341178565830677346&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/3341178565830677346'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/3341178565830677346'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2008/10/kieltydyn-kommentoimasta-enemp.html' title='Kieltäydyn kommentoimasta enempää.'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-6477618825811839304</id><published>2008-07-08T03:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-08T03:18:07.586-07:00</updated><title type='text'>In my previous life I used to be a straight man</title><content type='html'>I don’t get colors. I know yellow isn’t good for my complexion. And green makes me look like seriously seasick. But what comes to what shade of red our livingroom walls should be, I’ve no idea. I like the color we have now. Apparently it’s too dark. So if it’s too dark the obvious solution would be painting it a lighter shade of red. But no. Instead I’m looking at samples of yellow. Wtf.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-6477618825811839304?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/6477618825811839304/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=6477618825811839304&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/6477618825811839304'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/6477618825811839304'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2008/07/in-my-previous-life-i-used-to-be.html' title='In my previous life I used to be a straight man'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-4337647563427323095</id><published>2008-07-07T03:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-07T03:51:20.991-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Money money money...</title><content type='html'>It is amazing how much information there is in banking statements. I went through them yesterday, oldest dating back to around 1992. Apparently I’ve had lots of money back then because there were many payments made to me from different people. Either that, or I was a dealer and it just has conveniently slipped my mind. Oh and the amount of sexual innuendo! Well, not so much innuendo really… using the words “thanks for a good shag” in the message part is not very subtle… Maybe I should destroy them all, and not leave behind a stack of paper which makes me look quite suspicious. Especially if I turn out to grow up to some Mother Teresa kind of figure. Fortunately the likelihood of that happening is beyond miniscule, it’s downright negative.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-4337647563427323095?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/4337647563427323095/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=4337647563427323095&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/4337647563427323095'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/4337647563427323095'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2008/07/money-money-money.html' title='Money money money...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-120766067258126356</id><published>2008-07-04T00:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-04T00:16:41.122-07:00</updated><title type='text'>1 + 1 = 3,7</title><content type='html'>I got the most straightforward bootycall ever a moment ago. At this point in my life it only made me smile, chuckle a bit and politely decline with a ps. I’m getting married. That prompted a quick happy congratulations response and the exchange veered into neutral things, such as where do I work now, what he is up to and so on… I know it might sound a bit weird. After all it’s been almost two years since I started dating my lovely gf. Like did he just suddenly after all this time remember me? No, he’s an old friend and a fling and a few other things. We talk about every six months and he knew that atleast the last time we spoke I had a girlfriend. But there’s no harm in trying, right? And we’ve had this “call me up when you’re in need of easy uncomplicated sex” thing going on since… let’ see… since fall of 1994. It only ended 10 days short of two years ago, when I met my gf. At that point it had been a while since our last “strangers in the night” type of encounter but the possibility still was there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And now to the subject I’ve been thinking about for a week. At the Pridepark one of my friends said that I am a really good person. (Funny that, she has also said that I’m a cold cruel bitch but opinions change I guess…) I don’t feel none too good as a person. I even said to her that naw, I ain’t good, I’m just good at pretending to be. Is that as good as it gets? I mean I do have strong emotions towards some people,  I’d do anything for certain people, like for the little drunken midgets. I am protective and gentle and can act kindly. But in general, I don’t care for people, I dislike most of them, I intently am cruel sometimes… the list goes on. I don’t really have that much morals either. I KNOW what is right and wrong, I don’t FEEL it. Not most of the time anyway. Isn’t it something you should just feel in your gut? I have this icecold clear feeling instead, calm and calculated. It’s just willpower. And choices. Should I have to choose? Shouldn’t it be obvious, what is right and what is wrong? Do other people feel like this? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And for the record, these two paragraphs have nothing to do with each other, I am not contemplating about returning that bootycall. No need ;)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-120766067258126356?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/120766067258126356/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=120766067258126356&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/120766067258126356'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/120766067258126356'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2008/07/1-1-37.html' title='1 + 1 = 3,7'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-3595372869612697087</id><published>2008-07-03T05:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-03T05:03:58.281-07:00</updated><title type='text'>One track mind</title><content type='html'>At the moment all I have in mind is sex.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But before you yell “yikes” and stop reading let me assure you, I’m not going to write about that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Prideweek is over and I’m slowly coming back to my senses. For the whole week I pretty much worked in overdrive, on sheer willpower and nothing else. I made some new friends, learnt a lot (like if you are planning on distributing balloons you have to have a permit, city’s airspace and all that), slept way too little, missed most of the actual fun stuff and had the biggest adrenaline rush all through the parade. Some future year I will not be involved in arranging this thing and able to just enjoy and bitch about this and that performer/lackofperformer/foodstand/ticketprice/schedule/whatever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish our Lesbian King would have been there with me. There were moments when I would have needed her sense of humour to pick me up again, or her around to solve problems by suggesting dwarfs.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-3595372869612697087?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/3595372869612697087/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=3595372869612697087&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/3595372869612697087'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/3595372869612697087'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2008/07/one-track-mind.html' title='One track mind'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-7000808704103908440</id><published>2008-05-29T03:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-29T03:25:15.053-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Option B</title><content type='html'>I use this blog for two things. One is to whine. Second one is to whine about the “good old days”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My shortterm memory is shot and there’s not much to say about my longterm memory either. I remember random things, bits and pieces. And occasionally, even seeing proof, I draw a complete blank. Like yesterday.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We were packing up the old office and found a stack of pictures taken during Pride 2002, or the year before that, or after…. It was fun to see those pictures and to notice hom much the Pride parade has grown since. People look just the same still. Except…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Some of us may have put on a little weight… And a few more wrinkles. Some have grown their hair back and some haven’t. Some still use the same baseballcap. Some have the same girlfriend. Some have something completely different going on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One picture was especially thought provoking. There’s me and my friends and their friends having a picnic. One of the people in the picture is a woman I was somewhat  involved with much later. That picture is taken when I just knew her from the barscene, she still was in a relationship and there was absolutely no indication whatsoever about what would happen between us. I mean I can see in the picture why I noticed her in the first place. I don’t think that we had spoken anything by then, or before. So if asked, I would have said that I haven’t seen her there. But there she is, in the same picture, clearly hanging out with the same people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then the real thing. If I would have guessed what would happen with her would I have started it in the first place? Was it worth it? I know, these thoughts are completely useless, what’s done is done and so on. But even I am sometimes only human and think these things… Was it worth all the heartache and misery and loneliness and pain? Was there enough good to make up for the bad? Did it make me a better person to have experienced all that?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the end there’s something that made it worth it all, and ten times more. Without her I probably wouldn’t have gotten to know the woman that became one of my true friends. So no pain no gain, and I did hurt a lot, but what I got out of it made it all right.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-7000808704103908440?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/7000808704103908440/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=7000808704103908440&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/7000808704103908440'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/7000808704103908440'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2008/05/option-b.html' title='Option B'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-1716121047838894617</id><published>2008-05-16T02:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-16T02:23:12.876-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Similar features, part two</title><content type='html'>Through my work I met briefly a photographer. There was nothing extraordinary in that, except she sounded just like someone I used to care for. And not just kind of, but exactly like her. Every time she spoke I felt this little poke in my brain, triggering memories. It was strange. A good strange, but still.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While travelling with my friend we used to spot people who were just like someone we knew back home. Sometimes it was something like “that’s what X would look like ten years older” and sometimes something more far fetched, like “that’s what X would look like if she’d be ten years older, black, and male”. It is fun to see similar features in people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes though it’s not so fun to notice that you’ve started to behave like your parents. You know, the ones you said you’d never be like?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-1716121047838894617?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/1716121047838894617/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=1716121047838894617&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/1716121047838894617'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/1716121047838894617'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2008/05/similar-features-part-two.html' title='Similar features, part two'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-1314349639708050215</id><published>2008-02-13T11:32:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-13T12:11:54.690-08:00</updated><title type='text'>When did I look away</title><content type='html'>Walking down the street I could always smell when someone had been smoking pot. It's something you don't really forget, the sweet smell, kind of nauseating. And it's something you can't be wrong about, it's not like incence, not like herbs, not like scented candles...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sunday I was in a museum and there were lots of children around, it was a Pixar exhibition. I walked past a group of kids and instantly smelled the sweet, kind of sour smell of infant formula. That's something else you can't be wrong about. Once you've smelled it once, and had it spat back all over you, the smell is forever stuck on your memory.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When did I look away and this happened?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-1314349639708050215?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/1314349639708050215/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=1314349639708050215&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/1314349639708050215'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/1314349639708050215'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2008/02/when-did-i-look-away.html' title='When did I look away'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-8166151318286035001</id><published>2007-12-06T04:42:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-06T04:49:56.530-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Bye bye puppy</title><content type='html'>In my mind he is forever coming to our backyard for the first time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my mind he is forever looking out the window, curious.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my mind he is forever coming to greet me when I come home.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He is forever gone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wednesday 5th of december, 10 a.m.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-8166151318286035001?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/8166151318286035001/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=8166151318286035001&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8166151318286035001'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8166151318286035001'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/12/bye-bye-puppy.html' title='Bye bye puppy'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-6283925699500829368</id><published>2007-11-09T05:03:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-09T05:05:05.143-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Changes</title><content type='html'>I like going home after work when my gf is taking a nap. It’s quiet and dark and I  go next to her, she is warm and still half asleep (usually she wakes up when I open the frontdoor, every time too loudly). I give her a kiss and crawl next to her. We talk about idle things and she yawns like a cat, with her hair all messed up. It is nice. It relaxes me, makes me feel at home, content, happy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I liked walking home in the early hours of the morning, in the cold, when it still was dark, after a few hours spent with someone I barely knew. I liked coming home, brushing my teeth, taking a shower and then falling to my own bed, kinda laughing. I liked the freedom of it, the giddy feeling of knowing you’ve just behaved like a proper slut. I liked smelling these strangers on me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love what I have now. I loved what I had before. I’m glad I had what I had and did what I did so now I can be happy with what I have now. I wouldn’t change either of these into anything else.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ps. we REALLY need to talk about Kevin.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-6283925699500829368?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/6283925699500829368/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=6283925699500829368&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/6283925699500829368'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/6283925699500829368'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/11/changes.html' title='Changes'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-2216183987698725385</id><published>2007-10-30T04:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-30T04:31:15.376-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Last friday</title><content type='html'>I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Some things just weren’t how they were supposed to be and finding this out caused whole lot of other things to happen. Ignorance would have been bliss. It also would have meant a lot more other trouble later.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But this has meant that I’ve been really tired and busy these past few weeks. I should have slept more but I couldn’t because I couldn’t stop thinking. My hands have been itching like crazy, skin has started to flake away. It’s like ants crawling under my skin, I want to tear it open and let it all bleed out. Not that that would help.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Friday I was on my way to work, feeling completely exhausted. Also a bit relieved,  we got some stuff sorted out Thursday and I felt like some of this all was out of my hands, that there was nothing more I could to, a little less to worry. I was listening to my ipod, humming along to Dixie Chicks,  and suddenly I had to stop walking, lean into my knees and just let go. Tears were running down my cheeks, I was breathless, exhausted. This complete giving up just lasted for ten, fifteen seconds. But I felt better afterwards. I felt that I would be okay. All this would pass.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-2216183987698725385?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/2216183987698725385/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=2216183987698725385&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/2216183987698725385'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/2216183987698725385'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/10/last-friday.html' title='Last friday'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-8585797032648602048</id><published>2007-10-12T11:28:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-12T01:27:55.235-07:00</updated><title type='text'>12.10.2002</title><content type='html'>I wanted to say to a woman I was having an affair with that I loved her so much it hurt. The hurt was mostly the fact that I knew that the affair had no future, that it was doomed from the start. It was never meant to be an affair in the first place, just something that would happen once or twice but then it turned into months.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wanted to fuck an ex of mine because he always felt so good and never made me hurt afterwards. But I didn’t call him. Later, I wished I had.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wanted to find clothes that would protect me and make me feel strong as I would have to comfort my friend. I would have to be strong enough to take care of her while we watched her friends coffin at the altar. I would have to be strong enough not to give in to my grief over her completely. I wanted to feel secure and safe because I knew that we weren’t and never would be again, that this was the last straw. What I didn’t know was that the horrible thing that happened the night before, which just felt like something surreal and impossible, had taken away one more friend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wanted everything to be okay.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-8585797032648602048?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/8585797032648602048/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=8585797032648602048&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8585797032648602048'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8585797032648602048'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/10/12102002.html' title='12.10.2002'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-6538428688365473320</id><published>2007-10-03T11:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-03T11:36:47.830-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Dalai</title><content type='html'>He came to the world to amaze us two nights ago. It was a monday spent pacing around the office, achieving nothing at work, missing smoking so bad. I can't imagine what it was like for the mother, the one giving birth or the one waiting for her son to be born.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I met him yesterday for the first time. I wish I could explain the thoughts and feelings I had, and what went on during the hour and a half I had the pleasure of his company.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Joy.&lt;br /&gt;Fear.&lt;br /&gt;Jealousy.&lt;br /&gt;A lump in my throat.&lt;br /&gt;Shaky hands.&lt;br /&gt;Sweat streaming down my back.&lt;br /&gt;Softness.&lt;br /&gt;Fragile hope.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But above all this,&lt;br /&gt;Love.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-6538428688365473320?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/6538428688365473320/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=6538428688365473320&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/6538428688365473320'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/6538428688365473320'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/10/dalai.html' title='Dalai'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-6771537368559115728</id><published>2007-08-20T11:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-08-20T11:37:27.240-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sanonpa vaan</title><content type='html'>Kukkamekko, polkkatukka, ylipainoa 20 kiloa ja todella paha akne.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jos maailma olisi reilu se toimisi niin.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-6771537368559115728?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/6771537368559115728/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=6771537368559115728&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/6771537368559115728'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/6771537368559115728'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/08/sanonpa-vaan.html' title='Sanonpa vaan'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-5692426119591573885</id><published>2007-05-15T17:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-05-15T05:23:41.155-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Memories</title><content type='html'>The soft-hearted, broken Delirium, asks Morpheus at one point: “What’s the word for things not being the same always. You know. I’m sure there is one. Isn’t there?” Dream names the word for her. “Change,” he says. She also asks him: “What’s the name for the precise moment when you’ve actually forgotten how it felt to make love to somebody you really liked a long time ago?” Dream replies: “There isn’t one.” Says Delirium: “Oh. I thought maybe there was.” Delirium’s right, of course: there is one, and I think that in his heart, Dream knew it – but he wasn’t yet ready to speak it. That word is: “Mercy,” and it stands for an attribute that does not always fare well in the hard realities of waking life. It is only readily available, in fact, in that odd realm known as dreaming, and even there its blessings are epheremal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mikal Gilmore&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Going through my old stuff (junk of years long gone) has reminded me of people I’ve forgotten, some of them quite a long time ago. That quote from the introduction to Neil Gaiman’s awesome book The Wake, touched me deeply. It is a mercy to forget those things. And, in some cases, it is painful to notice you’ve forgotten. That something that was once the most beautiful thing in the world can’t be recalled anymore. It doesn’t even matter how good everything is for you now, how much better or more or how happy you are with what you have. Moments that made you who you are have vanished from your memory. First real kiss with anyone, your last kiss with the beautiful boi, and all that came in between…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In dreams, sometimes, I remember, just to forget as I wake up. Mercy is a blessed thing.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-5692426119591573885?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/5692426119591573885/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=5692426119591573885&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/5692426119591573885'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/5692426119591573885'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/05/memories.html' title='Memories'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-8928029712788926433</id><published>2007-05-06T20:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-05-06T08:26:41.048-07:00</updated><title type='text'>urgh</title><content type='html'>It is a really nasty feeling having strangers in your home. We are moving in together with my gf and obviously so my old flat is going to turn into someone else's home. That means I'm having a sort of open house going on for the next hour. Complete strangers come into my home and look at it and ask questions and generally are just, you know, in my space.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My friends now that I don't mind having guests over, even when I haven't cleaned (because then I'd never have anyone over). But that is so different. Now my home looks messy because all the boxes and other stuff that's just in where there happens to be place for it to be put down until I pack it away. I know these people come see the flat but still. It's my flat. With my crumbling walls. And cracked ceiling. And the dumb kitchen. Mine mine mine and don't you dare to judge it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Half an hour to go...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-8928029712788926433?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/8928029712788926433/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=8928029712788926433&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8928029712788926433'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8928029712788926433'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/05/urgh.html' title='urgh'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-8854288540233889983</id><published>2007-04-24T23:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-04-24T12:01:11.657-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Lovely bones, Alice Sebold</title><content type='html'>"When was it all right to let go not only the dead but of the living - to learn to accept?"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-8854288540233889983?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/8854288540233889983/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=8854288540233889983&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8854288540233889983'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8854288540233889983'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/04/lovely-bones-alice-sebold.html' title='Lovely bones, Alice Sebold'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-5900797425752477319</id><published>2007-04-17T12:11:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2007-04-17T12:11:19.932-07:00</updated><title type='text'>strange feelings</title><content type='html'>sometimes I feel completely out of place, it's the feeling of not fitting in. Of being the wrong kind, the wrong type. Strangely I haven't felt that in places I definetely should, like when I was at the bachelorparty held for my ex, and I was the only woman there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel that I'm not fitting in at work lots of times. With my family, sometimes. Even on occasion around my friends.  I am outside looking in, seeing, almost understanding but not quite. Almost wanting to belong but then, not quite being able.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last time I had the feeling of not fitting in was yesterday. I was listening to Rage Against The Machine as I was walking into Toys 'R' Us.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-5900797425752477319?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/5900797425752477319/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=5900797425752477319&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/5900797425752477319'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/5900797425752477319'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/04/strange-feelings.html' title='strange feelings'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-8709856488931227441</id><published>2007-03-26T11:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-26T11:59:41.532-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Scary</title><content type='html'>so I saw a picture of my old friend from school. Could have said, based on that picture, that the woman in it is atleast 45. Oh man had she aged! That was scary. Made me think do I look that old too? Then it occurred to me that probably not, I haven't had two kids, I haven't doubled my bodyweight and I have a way better haircut. And wearing an apron didn't help her appearance much, either.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is strange. How different people turn out to look when they grow up. I bet she still is the same nice girl I used to know, always quick to smile and fun to hang out with. It's just she turned out to look like one of those russian dolls, old plump ladys... And I turned out to look... well. A skinhead?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also bumped into a childhood friend who I have't seen since 1992. She looked just like I had imagined her to look whenever I've thought of her these past years. And she had the rare ability to hug naturally. We saw eachother and immediately she wrapped her arms around me in delight. It was not akward or uncomfortable. Just easy and warm. It was good to see her. She is happy. That made me happy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also learned that my habit of reading a book holding it up close to my face, like I wouldn't be able to see properly is something I've done since I learned how to read. Don't know why I do it. I can see good enough to read from the normal distance. Maybe it just helps me to focus. Makes me look like a half-blind nerd but who cares?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-8709856488931227441?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/8709856488931227441/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=8709856488931227441&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8709856488931227441'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8709856488931227441'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/03/scary.html' title='Scary'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-8289023456875187623</id><published>2007-03-22T13:10:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-22T04:10:11.579-07:00</updated><title type='text'>It's been a long time...</title><content type='html'>Three things.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One. I chatted with an old friend today, it's been a while since we last had contact. It felt like no time had passed, even though we went through the usual stuff you do, is he still studying, and all that usual what you ask when you haven't heard anything lately. It was nice. That's the best way to describe it. Nice. Easy. Like it should be. And we did get a decent rant on about gayrights which was fun, in a way... As it turned out we are kind of brothers in arms, working for the same causes in different countries. I am so planning on an exchange program so we could meet up and talk and scheme and someone else would pay for it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So those of you who thought I've vanished into the "married life" or become deeply depressed, here's me saying WRONG. I'm still here, alive and kicking, tired but not depressed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two. I went to see a band yesterday, and wow. It just dawned on me that I've seen that boy sing for over ten years. Since 1995, I think. Maybe even before that. I still like his music. I like watching him play the guitar. I like watching him on the stage. And I did enjoy seeing how he has matured, gotten older, how he has become an adult, not just some boy with a cool band and some cool songs but actually a man, comfortable enough with himself and his past to make a song about being seventeen and stupid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three. How come mtv only plays music non-stop during the daytime when there shouldn't be anyone watching because of work/school/etc?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-8289023456875187623?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/8289023456875187623/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=8289023456875187623&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8289023456875187623'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8289023456875187623'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/03/its-been-long-time.html' title='It&apos;s been a long time...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-1984287924997434944</id><published>2007-03-22T04:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-22T04:42:42.448-07:00</updated><title type='text'>When you´ve seen it all</title><content type='html'>This is something I found in my drafts and I think it's about time to get it said.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Inspired by a friends blog I started to think why is it that when people say "I´ve seen it all "it usually means they´ve seen a lot of bad things..? And when we think someone has been through everything it means everything bad and sad and wrong like abuse, violence, tragedies in the family, loss of health etc.?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How come seeing it all doesn't mean good things also? Finding friends, getting a job you love, being happy with your partner or being happy to be alone, seeing a beautiful girl smile at you in a cafe in Paris... What ever good things might ever be. I'd rather go for that. That you haven't seen it all until you've seen happy things and beautiful things and things that make you laugh and things that make you smile and things that will comfort you when those bad things happen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know bad things happen to people. I know.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-1984287924997434944?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/1984287924997434944/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=1984287924997434944&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/1984287924997434944'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/1984287924997434944'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/03/when-youve-seen-it-all.html' title='When you´ve seen it all'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-2977625179218291802</id><published>2007-01-30T23:12:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-30T23:12:53.723-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Darwin Award</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qLzpRrgIAc8/RcBBR7TZ9yI/AAAAAAAAAAM/IMR_GbMA1DI/s1600-h/suojaus.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5026088960378140450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qLzpRrgIAc8/RcBBR7TZ9yI/AAAAAAAAAAM/IMR_GbMA1DI/s320/suojaus.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-2977625179218291802?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/2977625179218291802/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=2977625179218291802&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/2977625179218291802'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/2977625179218291802'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/01/darwin-award.html' title='Darwin Award'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qLzpRrgIAc8/RcBBR7TZ9yI/AAAAAAAAAAM/IMR_GbMA1DI/s72-c/suojaus.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-5150443538604831289</id><published>2007-01-13T17:05:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-13T07:20:13.837-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Death</title><content type='html'>Lately death has been following me around. It all started a few weeks back when I had this sudden feeling of terror when I was going to bed. My gf was already sleeping, and I had been watching something from tv, some random comedyshow or something, nothing that should have raised these thoughts. I went to bed and suddenly  felt terrible fear of death. And I started to think that okay, I'm now 29 so that means I have about this much time left and nonsense like that. All this lasted for about half an hour and I just couldn't shake the fear away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next day I felt a bit weird but work and all that normal stuff made me forget those thoughts. But since then everywhere I look there's death. I'm watching something from tv, like Friends, and what is the episode about? The death of mr Heckles. I'm reading a book and on page two someone dies. I open the paper and it's death here death there death everywhere. I know it's just a coincidence, that in the books and tv etc there aren't any more dead people than used to be. Now it just catches my attention. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe the past year gave me so much to lose that for the first time I've started to feel fear of it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But, on a lighter note:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;table bgcolor="#ffffff" border="0" cellspacing="8"&gt; &lt;tr&gt;&lt;td valign="middle"&gt;&lt;img src="http://www.masquerademaskarts.com/memes/minicrest.gif" /&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;td valign="middle"&gt; &lt;span style="color:black;"&gt; My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt; &lt;span style="font-size:130%;color:black;"&gt; Milady the Most Honourable Hale the Educated of Ofsted in the Bucket &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://www.masquerademaskarts.com/memes/peculiartitle.php"&gt;Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt; &lt;/table&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-5150443538604831289?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/5150443538604831289/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=5150443538604831289&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/5150443538604831289'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/5150443538604831289'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2007/01/death.html' title='Death'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-8265459274744338096</id><published>2006-12-12T22:43:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2006-12-12T22:43:07.502-08:00</updated><title type='text'>What a great idea!</title><content type='html'>Sokeatkin pääsemässä metsästämään Texasissa&lt;br /&gt;STT-IA, 13.12.2006&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Myös sokeiden pitää päästä ammuskelemaan, tuumivat Texasin lainsäätäjät. Ampuma-aseita suosiva osavaltio valmistelee lainmuutosta, joka päästäisi sokeat metsästämään lasertähtäimillä.&lt;br /&gt;Toinen vaihtoehto olisi se, että sokeiksi luokitellut ihmiset saisivat käyttää metsästysaseita, jotka osoittavat kohteen valolla.&lt;br /&gt;- Tämä avaa metsästyksen huvit entistä useammille ihmisille. Aloite on mielestäni loistava, hihkuu lakialoitetta puoltava republikaaniedustaja Edmund Kuempel.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Texasin nykyiset lait kieltävät kaikilta lasertähtäimet. Myös kohteen valolla osoittavat aseet ovat kiellettyjä, sillä eläimet yleensä jähmettyvät paikalleen, jos ne joutuvat valokeilaan.&lt;br /&gt;Käytännössä lainmuutos päästäisi metsästämään henkilöitä, jotka näkevät jonkin verran, mutta jotka on määritelty sokeiksi.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh my... Accidents are just waiting to happen, aren't they..?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-8265459274744338096?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/8265459274744338096/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=8265459274744338096&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8265459274744338096'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/8265459274744338096'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/12/what-great-idea.html' title='What a great idea!'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-3950836159402015612</id><published>2006-12-08T15:12:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-12-08T05:12:21.362-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Once again stealing from someone else</title><content type='html'>It's my birthday today and besides a bit of a sore throat I'm in an excellent mood. I have nice things to look forward to after work, including going to see Zen Cafe at Tavastia. So the following quote has nothing to do with my current mood. I heard this song a few days ago and it reminded me of some things  and feelings some of my friends are going through at the moment. And maybe a bit how I've felt at some point in my life too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Luotettu ehkä liikaa siihen että aika korjaa&lt;br /&gt;se minkä vuoksi nähtiin niin kovin paljon vaivaa&lt;br /&gt;että hajalle saatiin&lt;br /&gt;se mikä kauniiksi tarkoitettiin&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kipu kuolee huutamalla&lt;br /&gt;alastomalla lattialla&lt;br /&gt;Miten kauan sitä kestää&lt;br /&gt;ei, sitä ei voi tietää&lt;br /&gt;Kehen sattuu ja kuinka paljon&lt;br /&gt;siitä kysymys enää tässä kai on&lt;br /&gt;kun on saavuttu siihen pisteeseen&lt;br /&gt;ettei mikään ole varmaa&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maailman pisimmät tunnit&lt;br /&gt;niiden otteeseen jää kiinni&lt;br /&gt;Niitä kantaa loppuun asti&lt;br /&gt;vaikka itse ei aina huomaa&lt;br /&gt;millainen on se taivas jota  ei löydetty koskaan&lt;br /&gt;Olen kuullut paljon siitä&lt;br /&gt;osan jopa omasta suustani&lt;br /&gt;voi niin pitkälle jaksaa kun itsellensä vakuuttaa&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Joku  meistä on onneton&lt;br /&gt;palanut mutta tunnoton&lt;br /&gt;katuva mutta uskoton&lt;br /&gt;enemmän kuin rauhaton&lt;br /&gt;Periaate on ehdoton&lt;br /&gt;perustelu on aukoton&lt;br /&gt;yhtälö ehkä mahdoton&lt;br /&gt;miten niin muka armoton?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Koneeseen Kadonnut, Apulanta&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-3950836159402015612?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/3950836159402015612/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=3950836159402015612&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/3950836159402015612'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/3950836159402015612'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/12/once-again-stealing-from-someone-else.html' title='Once again stealing from someone else'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-116290350876130465</id><published>2006-11-07T15:05:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-07T04:45:08.786-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Music can make you hurt yourself</title><content type='html'>I like cheesy music. You know, dramatic lyrics (usually they are actually very short, simple and repeat the same lines over and over again), that sad lovestory kind stories, preferably from the eighties. Best radiostation to listen to this kind of music is definetely Metro fm, they have nothing but that. I keep cracking up at work laughing because they play the funniest songs. These songs I haven’t heard in years. (and they still rock!) And they have this simple cool feature on their website where you can check out what’s playing and what’s coming next so I’ve actually found out few songs names/performers I’ve forgotten and been able to (ahem) “buy” them online now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And because of that feature I practically fell off my chair laughing. There’s this song called The Promise. I really like it. It has all the necessary qualities. And it gets extra points for worst artist name. Poor guy. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;a href="http://www.lyricsdownload.com/cock-robin-lyrics.html"&gt;Cock Robin Lyrics&lt;/a&gt;  The Promise&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...Tell me&lt;br /&gt;You'll be there in my hour of need&lt;br /&gt;You won't turn me away&lt;br /&gt;Help me out of the life I lead&lt;br /&gt;Remember the promise you made&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Could I rely on your faith to be strong&lt;br /&gt;To pick me back up and to push me along&lt;br /&gt;Please tell me&lt;br /&gt;You'll be there in my hour of need&lt;br /&gt;You won't turn me away&lt;br /&gt;Help me out of the life I lead&lt;br /&gt;Remember the promise you made...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-116290350876130465?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/116290350876130465/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=116290350876130465&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/116290350876130465'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/116290350876130465'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/11/music-can-make-you-hurt-yourself.html' title='Music can make you hurt yourself'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-116160535359705212</id><published>2006-10-23T15:07:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-23T05:09:13.613-07:00</updated><title type='text'>pikkusiskolle</title><content type='html'>En voi voittaa tuskaa.&lt;br /&gt;En voi väistää elämää.&lt;br /&gt;Yritän ajatella aikaa maisemana.&lt;br /&gt;On kuljettava läpi&lt;br /&gt;kun saapuu reunaan se loppuu.&lt;br /&gt;Reunassa loistaa Valo.&lt;br /&gt;Minun elämäni on matka kohti Taivaallista Valoa.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Elina Hirvonen&lt;br /&gt;Että hän muistaisi saman&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-116160535359705212?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/116160535359705212/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=116160535359705212&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/116160535359705212'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/116160535359705212'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/10/pikkusiskolle.html' title='pikkusiskolle'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-116057145419055825</id><published>2006-10-11T15:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-11T05:57:34.206-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Friendship book Lazyboy-style</title><content type='html'>Do you consider yourself intelligent? (yes, except sometimes I am the Queen Supreme Of Dumb Ideas)&lt;br /&gt;Are you ready to go all the way? (depends what’s at the end of the way)&lt;br /&gt;Are you married? (no)&lt;br /&gt;How do you rank yourself? (Queen Supreme)&lt;br /&gt;Are you punctual? (most of the time)&lt;br /&gt;When do you think you will have kids? (probably never)&lt;br /&gt;Have you ever had a nervous breakdown? (not really)&lt;br /&gt;Do you find yourself mentally stable? (mostly, just occasionally I’m a raving lunatic)&lt;br /&gt;How do you deal with pressure? (best by avoiding it)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do you find yourself qualified for life? (yes)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Don’t lie (just occasionally)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t kill (haven’t done so, yet)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t smoke (quit a long time ago)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t run (would like to)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t yell (rarely)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t panic (very rarely)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t steal (I don’t)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t cry (sometimes I do)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t die (do my best not to)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t act (no, trust me on that)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t drink (I do)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t stumble (I do)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t hate (I do)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t bitch (I really do)&lt;br /&gt;Don’t cheat (I don’t)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Remember to separate all your kitchen garbage (hmmm… yeah I know I should)&lt;br /&gt;And turn the water off when you brush your teeth (sometimes I do)&lt;br /&gt;Only buy organic food (hell might freeze over before that)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Get married (maybe someday)&lt;br /&gt;Get loved (I am)&lt;br /&gt;Get cleaver (aren’t I?)&lt;br /&gt;Get big (hopefully not much bigger than this)&lt;br /&gt;Get lucky (hell yeah I get)&lt;br /&gt;Get rich (just bought a new lottery ticket)&lt;br /&gt;Get good (I am)&lt;br /&gt;Get free (ditto)&lt;br /&gt;Get real (I try to remember that one)&lt;br /&gt;Get food (as often as I can)&lt;br /&gt;Get water (not enough)&lt;br /&gt;Get sleep (really not enough)&lt;br /&gt;Get sex (not going to kiss and tell)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(modified from the song Do you find yourself qualified by Lazyboy)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-116057145419055825?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/116057145419055825/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=116057145419055825&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/116057145419055825'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/116057145419055825'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/10/friendship-book-lazyboy-style.html' title='Friendship book Lazyboy-style'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115935472379474072</id><published>2006-09-27T14:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-27T03:58:43.810-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I hear voices</title><content type='html'>I finally caved in and joined a bit more to the nerd generation and got myself an iPod (nano 4 GB, for those who care about the details). Luckily I got it cheaply from my brother (the real nerd who just got a new better one). So now I can listen to music and stuff when I go to work and so on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There’s only two minor things…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Besides music there’s Denis Learys stand-up comedy on my playlist. So I look like a complete tosser while waiting for the bus, quietly and occasionally not so quietly, laughing out loud by myself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And if I get hit by a truck because I didn’t hear it coming and die you can blame Bullet With Butterfly Wings for that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; "…And what do I get, for my pain?&lt;br /&gt;Betrayed desires, and a piece of the game…&lt;br /&gt;Now I'm naked, nothing but an animal&lt;br /&gt;But can you fake it, for just one more show?&lt;br /&gt;And what do you want?&lt;br /&gt;I want to change&lt;br /&gt;And what have you got, when you feel the same?"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115935472379474072?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115935472379474072/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115935472379474072&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115935472379474072'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115935472379474072'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/09/i-hear-voices.html' title='I hear voices'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115815260210376379</id><published>2006-09-13T16:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-13T06:03:22.120-07:00</updated><title type='text'>10 things I want to remember</title><content type='html'>1. The day he came home for the first time, his bewildered expression and looking like his skin was four times too big. Kurttu, we called him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. His innocent look when we found out that instead of just taking a nap under the sofa he was chewing it from the inside for his teething pains.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. His floppy ears when he’s running down to the lakeside to go swim and to try to drink the lake away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. How amazingly brave he is, especially when he is securely being held in your arms, preferably inside, and barking to those beastly squirrels.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. His love for sauna.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. His love for food...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. and for napping.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. The way he goes to look for his puppy Lurppa whenever someone comes over, to show him off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. How he taught me to drive the car to the driveway very very quietly and to open the door without waking him up at four in the morning.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10. His joy when we open christmaspresents and he gets to open his own.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When it’s time it’s time. But not just yet, please?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115815260210376379?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115815260210376379/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115815260210376379&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115815260210376379'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115815260210376379'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/09/10-things-i-want-to-remember.html' title='10 things I want to remember'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115700802917422962</id><published>2006-08-31T10:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-31T00:07:09.186-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Matala ärsytyskynnys...</title><content type='html'>Olen viime päivinä lukenut erästä Anne Holtin dekkaria. Kirjan henkilöihin kuuluu mm. ahdistunut lesbopoliisi, hänen turkkilainen upporikas kumppaninsa, taloudenhoitajaksi siirtynyt entinen huora, erakoitunut ukkeli, toisiaan ristiin rastiin oikeuteen haastanut surmansa saava perhe ja lukuisa määrä muita.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ja mitä ilmeisimmin he ovat kaikki karhuja koska he jatkuvasti TASSUTTELEVAT joka paikkaan.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115700802917422962?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115700802917422962/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115700802917422962&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115700802917422962'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115700802917422962'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/08/matala-rsytyskynnys.html' title='Matala ärsytyskynnys...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115639917353239808</id><published>2006-08-24T09:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-23T22:59:33.543-07:00</updated><title type='text'>www.toivottulapsi.com</title><content type='html'>spread the word&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115639917353239808?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115639917353239808/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115639917353239808&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115639917353239808'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115639917353239808'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/08/wwwtoivottulapsicom.html' title='www.toivottulapsi.com'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115636091422374265</id><published>2006-08-23T22:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-23T12:21:54.280-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Finally</title><content type='html'>I hold on to so much junk. I save up things I have no longer need,  just random stuff, bits and pieces of things I don't want, miss, or really even remember why I saved them for.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today I started to throw them away, both literally and mentally. So now  parts of my life are in the trash. But I do feel a bit... cleaner, I guess. Why keep all that?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I lost myself for a while, I just kept on going,  kind of doing, or performing,  my life instead of living it. This time it was not a question of putting a mask on every time I left my home, pretending to be okay when I was not, because I wasn't that unhappy or anything,  just that I couldn't be bothered. Bored, I'd say. But then summer came and I had my head filled up with Pride-stuff and I was so waiting for going away to England and hanging out with Mira and I started to feel that I was actually paying attention to my surroundings, being here for real. And then, well, I saw something...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am having the weirdest time of my life at the moment. I am looking into my sunny garden, holding a book... There's the chair in the middle of the greenest grass ever,  it is warm and the breeze is gentle. It is perfect. I am almost there.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115636091422374265?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115636091422374265/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115636091422374265&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115636091422374265'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115636091422374265'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/08/finally.html' title='Finally'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115512330341600444</id><published>2006-08-09T14:33:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-09T04:35:03.436-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Robin Hood's tree</title><content type='html'>I went to Nottingham to see the famous oaktree from the tales of Robin Hood. It was raining like it only can in England and we drove to the Sherwood forest (not with a horsecarriage but in Jo’s efficient little car) through the fields. We get to the forest and start walking through the, let’s admit it, slightly creepy woods. It looks like the kind of place that is beautiful on a summer morning when it’s bright and warm. It’s easy to imagine yourself lazily strolling around, maybe with a picnic basket and a blanket under your arm… But at twilight, in the rain, it looks creepy. Suddenly fairytales, the ones where Queen Titania comes and steals children to be slaves in her castle don’t seem to be just tales.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The forest seems to be alive, not just individual trees and birds and bushes but the forest. It has a spirit of it’s own. After walking a while we see The Tree. It’s huge. Magnificent old tree, something you can easily imagine been there forever. It looks like it has seen kings and queens come and go, it has seen war and peace, it has seen great deers in it’s shadow, maybe some thief was hanged from it’s strong branches… The tale of Robin Hood feels real when looking at the tree, what adventures it must have seen!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then we look at the sign next to the tree:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Is this the tree in the stories? No.”&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115512330341600444?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115512330341600444/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115512330341600444&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115512330341600444'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115512330341600444'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/08/robin-hoods-tree.html' title='Robin Hood&apos;s tree'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115406473005708231</id><published>2006-07-28T08:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-07-27T22:32:29.623-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Travelling...</title><content type='html'>Elämä on niin yksinkertaista&lt;br /&gt;Senkun vain elää&lt;br /&gt;Senkun vaan hengittää&lt;br /&gt;Se en ole minä joka kannattelee elämää&lt;br /&gt;Elämä kannattelee minua&lt;br /&gt;Oikea jalka&lt;br /&gt;Vasen jalka&lt;br /&gt;Hengitä sisään&lt;br /&gt;Hengitä ulos&lt;br /&gt;Rakastan tätä katua&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lukas Moodysson&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115406473005708231?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115406473005708231/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115406473005708231&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115406473005708231'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115406473005708231'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/07/travelling.html' title='Travelling...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115316330474478633</id><published>2006-07-17T22:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-07-17T12:08:24.756-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Haunted by the thought</title><content type='html'>of a beautiful woman with the most amazing eyes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Butterflies all over.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115316330474478633?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115316330474478633/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115316330474478633&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115316330474478633'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115316330474478633'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/07/haunted-by-thought.html' title='Haunted by the thought'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115270044032014624</id><published>2006-07-12T13:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-07-12T03:34:00.330-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A thought for today...</title><content type='html'>That which does not &lt;em&gt;destroy&lt;/em&gt; us...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;generally&lt;/em&gt; puts us in a truly &lt;em&gt;vicious&lt;/em&gt; frame of mind.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115270044032014624?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115270044032014624/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115270044032014624&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115270044032014624'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115270044032014624'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/07/thought-for-today.html' title='A thought for today...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115211928562365071</id><published>2006-07-05T20:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-07-05T10:08:05.706-07:00</updated><title type='text'>8 things I've learned from booktitles</title><content type='html'>1. Please don't eat the daisies&lt;br /&gt;(pretty flowers but not necessarily good for you, can be said about a lot of things, pretty doesn't equal good)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Facing up&lt;br /&gt;(whatever happens)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. You can't do business with Hitler&lt;br /&gt;(well, for obvious reasons not... but to be atleast semiserious, there are some things/people/ideas people are better to stay away from, or atleast read the fine print Really carefully)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. Tomorrow will be better&lt;br /&gt;(always always things will get better, maybe not tomorrow but maybe the day after that)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. It is dark only for our eyes&lt;br /&gt;(sometimes it's good to change the point of view)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. Go insane&lt;br /&gt;(do I really need to explain this?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. Half-lives&lt;br /&gt;(I see that around me,  I'm not saying mine isn't sometimes but I try to avoid that as best as I can)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. Smoke and mirrors&lt;br /&gt;(sometimes there are things I better not see)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115211928562365071?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115211928562365071/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115211928562365071&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115211928562365071'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115211928562365071'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/07/8-things-ive-learned-from-booktitles.html' title='8 things I&apos;ve learned from booktitles'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115188166489290490</id><published>2006-07-03T02:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-07-02T16:09:38.980-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Scars</title><content type='html'>Some I have... Some of those anyone can see... Sorry to say that atleast in one case it's one of those that hurt the most. Not the making of it, like some would think, but what it reminds me of.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In a way it also makes me stronger. It reminds me of getting through things. That things work out fine, even if they don't work out the way you wished for. It might even be better that it didn't work out that way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But, after all this bravado of surviving and being strong and all that there still is the fact of being completely at loss when seeing her smile.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This keeps playing in my head:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"And I think it's gonna be a long long time&lt;br /&gt;Till touch down brings me round again to find&lt;br /&gt;I'm not the man they think I am at home&lt;br /&gt;Oh no no no I'm a rocket man&lt;br /&gt;Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115188166489290490?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115188166489290490/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115188166489290490&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115188166489290490'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115188166489290490'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/07/scars.html' title='Scars'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115131499773313915</id><published>2006-06-26T00:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-06-26T02:43:17.746-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Do not give weapons to generals or other children...</title><content type='html'>Just had to post the highlights here from the link Satu kindly posted as a comment on my previous post. I've heard this before but it cracks me up every time...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"The US military investigated building a "gay bomb", which would make enemy soldiers "sexually irresistible" to each other, government papers say. Other weapons that never saw the light of day include one to make soldiers obvious by their bad breath.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The US defence department considered various non-lethal chemicals meant to disrupt enemy discipline and morale. The 1994 plans were for a six-year project costing $7.5m, but they were never pursued.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The US Air Force Wright Laboratory in Dayton, Ohio, sought Pentagon funding for research into what it called "harassing, annoying and 'bad guy'-identifying chemicals".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The plan for a so-called "love bomb" envisaged an aphrodisiac chemical that would provoke widespread homosexual behaviour among troops, causing what the military called a "distasteful but completely non-lethal" blow to morale. Scientists also reportedly considered a "sting me/attack me" chemical weapon to attract swarms of enraged wasps or angry rats towards enemy troops. A substance to make the skin unbearably sensitive to sunlight was also pondered.&lt;br /&gt;Another idea was to develop a chemical causing "severe and lasting halitosis", so that enemy forces would be obvious even when they tried to blend in with civilians. In a variation on that idea, researchers pondered a "Who? Me?" bomb, which would simulate flatulence in enemy ranks. Indeed, a "Who? Me?" device had been under consideration since 1945, the government papers say. However, researchers concluded that the premise for such a device was fatally flawed because "people in many areas of the world do not find faecal odour offensive, since they smell it on a regular basis". "&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115131499773313915?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115131499773313915/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115131499773313915&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115131499773313915'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115131499773313915'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/06/do-not-give-weapons-to-generals-or.html' title='Do not give weapons to generals or other children...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115066001757760848</id><published>2006-06-18T22:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-06-18T12:46:57.603-07:00</updated><title type='text'>five minutes of being a good human</title><content type='html'>Gotta love the net. In five minutes, about, I signed three online petitions (torture here, torture there, torture everywhere), forwarded them to a bunch of friends and e-mailed some straight friends (gotta love categorizing also) about some stuff they should look into, because stupid white middle-aged men are trying to walk over them  too. But I will not start my rant about babies and dykes and familyvalues and single moms here now... I'm sure you all know what I would say.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I laugh, I feel&lt;br /&gt;I make believe it's real&lt;br /&gt;I fall, I freeze&lt;br /&gt;I pray down on my knees&lt;br /&gt;I hope, I stand&lt;br /&gt;I take it like a man&lt;br /&gt;I try as hard as I can "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kasey Chambers&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115066001757760848?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115066001757760848/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115066001757760848&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115066001757760848'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115066001757760848'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/06/five-minutes-of-being-good-human.html' title='five minutes of being a good human'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115050466053858159</id><published>2006-06-17T03:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-06-16T17:37:40.550-07:00</updated><title type='text'>"sometimes it grows back"</title><content type='html'>the nurse said and that's all I have to say about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But it's strange how some things stay the same, no matter how much you change. Like the name of the next of kin to notify if something bad happens. There are certain names and numbers that stick in your head, no matter are they close to you anymore or not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was walking home from a bar tonight, a warm summernight, it was not dark and it was not bright, something strange in between. Suddenly I remembered something I haven't thought for a while, one of the best moments in my life. I remember this one time, I was with my friend in a bar and afterwards we decided we didn't want to go to sleep just yet, so we got a pizza and a bottle of scotch from her place and walked down by the sea. We sat and ate and drank and talked and all around us it was summer, it was warm and light and everything was peaceful. Maybe it's just because we were drunk... Maybe it was being happy, right then and there. Being with someone important, enjoying yourself, enjoying the freedom to just be.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115050466053858159?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115050466053858159/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115050466053858159&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115050466053858159'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115050466053858159'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/06/sometimes-it-grows-back.html' title='&quot;sometimes it grows back&quot;'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-115005326298502227</id><published>2006-06-11T22:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-06-11T12:14:22.996-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Not one original thought today</title><content type='html'>...who's gonna help you when you've had enough, one goodbye was really all it took, now you thumb through the pages of your little black book, somehow all the numbers look the same, ain't nothing you can rise above...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think of moments when all is good. I think of sunshine and friends and music, I think of all that flowing through me, in me. Like today.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think of liking stupid bad songs, I think of forgetting. I think of finding comfort in cheesy phrases in silly songs. I think of feeling the beat of the drums instead of my heart.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...don't forget to catch me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-115005326298502227?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/115005326298502227/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=115005326298502227&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115005326298502227'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/115005326298502227'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/06/not-one-original-thought-today.html' title='Not one original thought today'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114962139504208390</id><published>2006-06-06T22:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-06-06T12:16:35.053-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Be still, my beating heart...</title><content type='html'>I have that butterfly feeling, I have pills for that. I don't know if they help but they make me feel a bit more secure. They make me feel there's something I can do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is the weirdest feeling, so unreal. It's terrifying. It makes me do two things at the same time, to feel very focused on my body and to drift away from it. (It's the lack of oxygene in my brains, ha ha.) I can feel everything very clearly, the pressure and the tingling and the strain. And I can kind of be outside of it all, it's just my body, not my spirit, not my mind... But it strains me, makes me weak, makes me fear.  This I don't want to fear. Not again. Not anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...kun hengität, hengitä syvään...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114962139504208390?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114962139504208390/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114962139504208390&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114962139504208390'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114962139504208390'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/06/be-still-my-beating-heart.html' title='Be still, my beating heart...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114869095703449981</id><published>2006-05-27T04:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-05-26T17:49:17.046-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I hate</title><content type='html'>to live in a world where calling someone gay is an insult.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114869095703449981?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114869095703449981/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114869095703449981&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114869095703449981'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114869095703449981'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/05/i-hate.html' title='I hate'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114788785774634313</id><published>2006-05-17T20:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-05-17T10:44:17.796-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Little wings</title><content type='html'>It starts with a slight tingling in my fingertips. Then it starts to burn up my arms, reaching my elbows. It turns into a wave of nausea, all through my head and chest. After that it feels like a butterfly fluttering, rapidly first and then slowing down, easily, softly...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What's left is being scared.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114788785774634313?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114788785774634313/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114788785774634313&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114788785774634313'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114788785774634313'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/05/little-wings.html' title='Little wings'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114762923803931256</id><published>2006-05-14T20:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-05-17T10:26:40.126-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Stand still, stand still</title><content type='html'>It is weird how when everything is calm and quiet I start to feel like I have to mess up, fuck up my life. When I start planning on buying an appartment I start feeling like running away, leaving leaving leaving. Where to? Nowhere really, I have no desire to live anywhere else. I'm happy here, or as happy as I can be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tonight this feeling mostly comes from spending the whole weekend with couples, happy couples, happy families. Sometimes it's tiresome. And the sentence "I can't understand why you are still single" does not help, really. It's the words that are left unsaid, the "are you just so goddamn picky, are you afraid, is there something wrong with you". Yes, yes and yes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Feeling a bit whiny tonight, apparently.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Keep one eye on the road&lt;br /&gt;The other one fixed on the one you hold&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The windshield is bombarded by rain&lt;br /&gt;I can only see black and yellow in my brain&lt;br /&gt;As the colors of containers in a dark distance&lt;br /&gt;Flare up in my face like sparks in my pistons&lt;br /&gt;Fuel gage almost pointing at empty&lt;br /&gt;Evidently the high speed has taken a toll&lt;br /&gt;Break and roll very gently down to the waterfront&lt;br /&gt;Maybe ten feet away&lt;br /&gt;My 500 stallions have sent me to stay for a purpose&lt;br /&gt;To observe just a five minute silence&lt;br /&gt;A break from the circus of everyday humdrum&lt;br /&gt;And the effect is like a shock from a stun gun&lt;br /&gt;Some run far, some run fast to return soon&lt;br /&gt;The thought of going everpresent as it burns true&lt;br /&gt;A part of me is always close to the harbor&lt;br /&gt;Sailing with the ghost of my grandfather&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Keys in the ignition, headlights rising&lt;br /&gt;Playing with the rain, but the rhythm is random&lt;br /&gt;I sit in abandon with a hand on the wheel&lt;br /&gt;But I'm still unable to leave&lt;br /&gt;Dazed by the slow moving mass of the cranes&lt;br /&gt;Sedated by the memories I only remember to forget&lt;br /&gt;Like a radio signal in a flash&lt;br /&gt;And at last I am cleansed out&lt;br /&gt;If you could see what I see, if you could be in my sleep&lt;br /&gt;If you found me, I'd be lost&lt;br /&gt;No cost is greater than to let go with a past like yours&lt;br /&gt;It doesn't make sense how nothing makes sense now&lt;br /&gt;Stand still, stand still&lt;br /&gt;But the more I command it, the more I know&lt;br /&gt;Leaving is nothing but an act of will&lt;br /&gt;And I feel my diverging path&lt;br /&gt;Has taken me as far as I have to go&lt;br /&gt;Fathers become sons, tables turned&lt;br /&gt;I know that I have been unaware, unconcerned&lt;br /&gt;Now haunted by the thought, I grab the keys&lt;br /&gt;Step outside and see purple&lt;br /&gt;On the road, out on the seas&lt;br /&gt;We'll be reunited within the red circle&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Leave a light on, I'll arrive on time this time and try to stay&lt;br /&gt;Leave a light on if the night's too dark, the spark has gone away&lt;br /&gt;Far or near, tomorrow's here&lt;br /&gt;Follow me, and I know the road is clear&lt;br /&gt;What you need now is not me&lt;br /&gt;How could I breathe out all this fear?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Road: Don Johnson Big Band)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114762923803931256?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114762923803931256/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114762923803931256&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114762923803931256'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114762923803931256'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/05/stand-still-stand-still.html' title='Stand still, stand still'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114659445385546955</id><published>2006-05-02T22:25:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-05-02T11:27:33.876-07:00</updated><title type='text'>And I looked into those eyes</title><content type='html'>and saw things that could have been . I looked at her wicked little smile and saw what she would look like first thing in the morning. I looked at her strong hands and saw how they would touch mine. And then I remembered why not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I turned away and looked into someone else's eyes and saw they still could be looking only at me, seeing no one but me. And I did not want that anymore.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114659445385546955?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114659445385546955/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114659445385546955&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114659445385546955'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114659445385546955'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/05/and-i-looked-into-those-eyes.html' title='And I looked into those eyes'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114631463071927812</id><published>2006-04-29T15:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-05-02T11:28:24.056-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A thought from yesterday and Placebo</title><content type='html'>I had a brief discussion about pain, especially inflicting pain, with Stephanie last night. I kept thinking about it and then at home I was listening to music and Placebo's Every me and every you started playing. Some parts really got my attention. So here's those parts, I butchered the lyrics somewhat, took out the parts that didn't hit home. Why they did so, I'll keep that to myself. Besides the obvious reasons ...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"My heart's a tart, your body's rent&lt;br /&gt;My body's broken, yours is bent.&lt;br /&gt;Carve your name into my arm,&lt;br /&gt;Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed,&lt;br /&gt;Cuz there's nothing else to do,&lt;br /&gt;Every me and every you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Another love I would abuse,&lt;br /&gt;No circumstances could excuse,&lt;br /&gt;In the shape of things to come,&lt;br /&gt;Too much poison come undone.&lt;br /&gt;There's never been so much at stake,&lt;br /&gt;I serve my head up on a plate,&lt;br /&gt;It's only comfort, calling late,&lt;br /&gt;Cuz there's nothing else to do,&lt;br /&gt;Every me and every you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Like the naked leads the blind,&lt;br /&gt;I know I'm selfish, I'm unkind.&lt;br /&gt;Sucker love I always find,&lt;br /&gt;Someone to bruise and leave behind,&lt;br /&gt;All alone in space and time.&lt;br /&gt;There's nothing here but what here's mine.&lt;br /&gt;Something borrowed, something blue.&lt;br /&gt;Every me and every you."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114631463071927812?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114631463071927812/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114631463071927812&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114631463071927812'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114631463071927812'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/04/thought-from-yesterday-and-placebo.html' title='A thought from yesterday and Placebo'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114616512135127443</id><published>2006-04-27T22:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-27T12:12:01.363-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Once upon a time...</title><content type='html'>another little princess was born to bring awe into our lives...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114616512135127443?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114616512135127443/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114616512135127443&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114616512135127443'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114616512135127443'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/04/once-upon-time.html' title='Once upon a time...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114598815541077629</id><published>2006-04-25T21:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-25T11:02:35.426-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Still happyhappyjoyjoy</title><content type='html'>Obviously I think about death when I'm surrounded by birth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think about who will be there to carry me when I'm dead. I want to be cremated but I think there is something beautiful in carrying the coffin, so my friends, I want you to do that, before the big party... I still feel sorry that I didn't do that favor to my grandpa when I had that chance. I once read that everyone should have atleast six loved ones in their life. It takes six to carry a coffin.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am happy to know that I have more than that.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114598815541077629?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114598815541077629/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114598815541077629&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114598815541077629'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114598815541077629'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/04/still-happyhappyjoyjoy.html' title='Still happyhappyjoyjoy'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114552423998827903</id><published>2006-04-20T00:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-20T02:10:40.006-07:00</updated><title type='text'>About family...</title><content type='html'>I might never have a family of my own but today my godchild was born, the daughter of my dearest friend. That's family to me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114552423998827903?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114552423998827903/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114552423998827903&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114552423998827903'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114552423998827903'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/04/about-family.html' title='About family...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114529047154518877</id><published>2006-04-17T19:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-17T09:14:31.566-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Torgrim Eggen...</title><content type='html'>"Hän kuulosteli sydäntään, tai missä sisäelimessä tuntemukset nyt sijaitsevatkin, ja kaiken muun saastan keskellä asusti pienen pieni joo."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114529047154518877?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114529047154518877/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114529047154518877&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114529047154518877'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114529047154518877'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/04/torgrim-eggen.html' title='Torgrim Eggen...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114510689363964626</id><published>2006-04-15T16:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-15T06:14:54.356-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Emotional kick in the groin</title><content type='html'>I think there should be a law or something that people you've fancied big time should later turn ugly. And NOT look hotter than ever. That is just plain wrong.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw this girl from my past yesterday, chatted with her for a while (oh, you just got engaged, how nice!) and then felt like it would be a good idea to drink myself into oblivion. But I do have some sense in my head and I didn't (because I didn't want to ruin tonights Zen Cafe gig). Damn it felt weird seeing her. It's not like I'd think there could be anything anymore, or that there ever really was a real chance for that. I just liked her so much back then and it did hurt quite much when she said I am not the right one for her. It was true, but still I did wish for it not to be so then. Those of you who know me better understand what she meant for me, you can see that in my left arm, probably always will. One of my Queen Supreme ideas, that one... Around that time she was one of the most attractive women I'd ever met. Sadly for me, still is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just hope seeing her would stop making me go weak.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114510689363964626?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114510689363964626/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114510689363964626&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114510689363964626'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114510689363964626'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/04/emotional-kick-in-groin.html' title='Emotional kick in the groin'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114478428521833085</id><published>2006-04-11T22:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-11T12:38:05.230-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Writers block</title><content type='html'>Once again I have trouble finding words. I can't get the words out, not anything that would describe the way I feel right now. Confused and happy and sad and bored and tired and alive and empty. See, not very clear...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But two things: first of all, I got a permanent job now, or atleast so permanent than a job can be. I was offered a new contract on friday and I did take it, even though I felt before I probably would not. But it was a good offer and I can always ditch the job with two weeks notice so not bad. So this means I can really start planning maybe buying my own apartment, getting a home of my own (well, it would be the property of bank for a really long time but anyway). Makes planning my life a lot easier.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Second, I finally got a message from an old friend of mine I had worried about for a few months. He's not the happiest person in the world and not hearing from him for a while made me anxious. But now I know he's okay, or atleast alive and all that. Huge weight off my chest, I can breathe a little bit easier. And not be so cranky.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been listening to Stella's song Piste repeatedly for the last few days. It helps me. With what? Accepting. Here's the lyrics:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Kun puhalletaan tulta tähän sammuvaan hiileen&lt;br /&gt;Se savullansa meitä tukehduttaa&lt;br /&gt;Ja jos vain muistellaan jäädään kiinni ikuisuuteen&lt;br /&gt;Eikä eletä ollenkaan&lt;br /&gt;Kaikki tämä vähäkin vain tuhotaan&lt;br /&gt;Rohkeempaa on luovuttaa&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kyllä sinä muistat kuinka katse viiltelee&lt;br /&gt;Kyllä sinä tiedät miten lehdet putoilee&lt;br /&gt;Kaikki on jo nähty siksi pisteen nyt teen&lt;br /&gt;Anna jo olla&lt;br /&gt;Anna mun olla ja unohtaa&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kun nyt jutellaan voidaan hyvin katsoa silmiin&lt;br /&gt;On nähty nämä seinät ennenkin&lt;br /&gt;Mutta ei saa koskettaa, ne aamut meidät imee vain kuiviin&lt;br /&gt;Ei tästä tule näin valmiimpaa&lt;br /&gt;Ehkä on jo aika irrottaa&lt;br /&gt;Kai saa nyt luovuttaa…?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kyllä sinä muistat kuinka katse viiltelee&lt;br /&gt;Kyllä sinä tiedät miten lehdet putoilee&lt;br /&gt;Kaikki on jo nähty siksi pisteen nyt teen&lt;br /&gt;Anna jo olla&lt;br /&gt;Anna mun olla ja unohtaa&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kyllä minä tiedän kuinka kehomme kietoutuu&lt;br /&gt;Kyllä minä muistan kelle ihosi tuoksuu&lt;br /&gt;Jos tulevatkin vuodet käsiimme vain rikkoutuu&lt;br /&gt;En jaksaisi olla&lt;br /&gt;Anna mun olla ja unohtaa… "&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114478428521833085?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114478428521833085/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114478428521833085&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114478428521833085'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114478428521833085'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/04/writers-block.html' title='Writers block'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114461222705578912</id><published>2006-04-09T23:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-09T12:50:27.113-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sundayblues..</title><content type='html'>Going to sleep at five am on a sunday morning really fucks up the whole day. I woke up around one, watched tv, grabbed something to eat and then it's time to go to bed again, or actually is way too late and I should be sleeping already but can't, because I woke up so late after sleeping too little...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I did go see Capote today and it was a good movie, although a bit unnerving. But it made me glad not to be a writer or artist of any kind. Maybe I would be the kind of person he was and go way too far for the sake of getting a story. If it went anything like it was pictured in the movie, maybe it was right that he never could finish anything else after writing about those murders.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It's as if Perry and I grew up in the same house. And one day he went out the back door and I went out the front."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114461222705578912?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114461222705578912/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114461222705578912&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114461222705578912'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114461222705578912'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/04/sundayblues.html' title='Sundayblues..'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114435471763828508</id><published>2006-04-06T23:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-06T13:18:37.653-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Stealing again from someone else</title><content type='html'>Everything is so messed up in my head I can't even begin to write it down, yet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But this joke I want to share with you:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"British Airways passenger cabin was being served by an obviously gay flightattendant, who seemed to put everyone into a good mood as he served them food and drinks. As the plane prepared to descend, he came swishing down the aisle and announced to the passengers,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Captain Marvey has asked me to announce that he'll be landing the big scary plane shortly, lovely people, so if you could just put up your trays, that would be super."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On his trip back up the aisle, he noticed that a well-dressed rather exotic looking woman hadn't moved a muscle.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Perhaps you didn't hear me over those big brute engines." he said, "I asked you to raise your trazy-poo so the main man can pitty-pat us on the ground."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She calmly turned her head and said, "In my country, I am called a Princess. I take orders from no one."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To which the flight attendant replied, without missing a beat, "Well, sweet-cheeks, in my country I'm called a Queen, so I outrank you. Tray-up, bitch."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought this was hilarious, I can just picture it... And being the Queen Supreme of all dumb ideas, well... And still bored at work.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114435471763828508?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114435471763828508/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114435471763828508&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114435471763828508'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114435471763828508'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/04/stealing-again-from-someone-else.html' title='Stealing again from someone else'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114374673023375983</id><published>2006-03-30T22:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-30T11:25:30.316-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Unreal</title><content type='html'>sometimes everything seems a bit unreal, a bit surrealistic. I go through the usual routines of my life, go to work, see some friends after that, or maybe go over to Seta for some thing or another, go see a movie, go have a beer. Sometimes it's like watching all this from outside, in my head I'm somewhere else. I'm watching myself  having a life, not actually living it. Maybe it's a sign I should slow down so I could actually be in the moment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And Tii, I am sooo bored at work.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114374673023375983?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114374673023375983/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114374673023375983&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114374673023375983'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114374673023375983'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/03/unreal.html' title='Unreal'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114340131984191286</id><published>2006-03-26T22:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-26T11:28:39.923-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Old letters and things I have forgot</title><content type='html'>I'm at my parents house and went browsing my old stuff, boxes and boxes of it. There were tons of old letters, pictures, paper clippings... I took some of the boxes to take home so I could go through them properly. Most of it I will burn (as soon as I find someone who has a fireplace)  but some of it I will save. Like postcards from Tallinn from the year -96, signed by Jeffe, Laffe and Miffe, also known as the Trio Oralevato... Sorry, you just had to be there to understand that... It made me smile, big time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's fun to remember old jokes and stupid little nicknames people had (and is there someone who thought Hale is the name I was born with?) and trips we took and bright ideas we had while being away, or at home... I doubt I will find any love letters, on account never receiving many of those... Cold bitch that I am ;)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I did check for old toys I could give to my godchild who will be born at the end of next month, if that little rascal isn't too keen and borns before due time.  I doubt I will have children of my own and my brother, well, he'll have them eventually but there were plenty of our toys to go around so I think it's okay I took some. And I even found something for my dollhouse! A tiny wooden bucket, for sawed off legs and such...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Funniest thing I found was a little box filled with mementos from people I can' even remember! I have absolutely no memory of who the hell they were! But, apparently, I've had huge crushes on them. The girls I could remember but those boys... But still, atleast I've had people I've felt for. And that's good.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114340131984191286?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114340131984191286/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114340131984191286&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114340131984191286'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114340131984191286'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/03/old-letters-and-things-i-have-forgot.html' title='Old letters and things I have forgot'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114288372408689446</id><published>2006-03-20T22:36:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-20T11:42:04.103-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Little something that made me smile...</title><content type='html'>Q: What do agnostic, insomniac dyslexics do at night?&lt;br /&gt;A: Stay awake and wonder if there's a dog.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114288372408689446?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114288372408689446/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114288372408689446&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114288372408689446'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114288372408689446'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/03/little-something-that-made-me-smile.html' title='Little something that made me smile...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114254258940004524</id><published>2006-03-16T23:50:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-16T12:56:29.413-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Happy</title><content type='html'>Sometimes there are pure moments of being completely happy. They do not last for long but it is sweet. When everything inside is calm and quiet. And at the same time it's million fireworks exploding in you at the same time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had one of those moments yesterday. Nothing hurts for a while.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114254258940004524?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114254258940004524/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114254258940004524&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114254258940004524'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114254258940004524'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/03/happy.html' title='Happy'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114219785146255610</id><published>2006-03-12T23:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-12T13:10:52.910-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Whatthehell?!?</title><content type='html'>So yesterday I was going over to a party with my friend, and we were walking somewhere around Myllypuro with my mate, trying to find the right street. We pass an empty building, clearly under some construction. There's a sound of the firealarm shrilling like crazy, coming from the house. No smoke or flames in sight, just the alarm. We stand there for a few minutes considering should we call it in or what, mainly the problem being that we have no idea what street it is. After some time we see someone and ask what street it is and I call to the emergency number.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"you have called to the emergency center, please hold on until we can answer your call, do not hang up"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Christallmighty! That is just plain wrong! You should not be put on hold when you call that number! Atleast they didn't have any music playing while waiting for someone to answer...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This time I was just calling to report that there might be a problem and that someone should check on it, if not for any other reason but because the sound of the alarm must be annoying to people living near. But what if there would have been something really dreadful, like someone being stabbed or something? Okay, I was on hold for 15 seconds, but still...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And to otherwise sum up my weekend, well, let's say that it was entertaining and sometimes I don't care if people laught at me and not with me ;) The main point being that people laugh and that is good. Atleast I laughed a lot this weekend. None of the jokes were good.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114219785146255610?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114219785146255610/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114219785146255610&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114219785146255610'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114219785146255610'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/03/whatthehell.html' title='Whatthehell?!?'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114167469810415705</id><published>2006-03-06T22:50:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-06T11:53:30.330-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Weddings and so on</title><content type='html'>Friday one of the greatest friends I've ever had got married. I have no sisters but she is like that to me, someone I just wouldn't be able to cut off my life if I ever wanted to because you can't cut off family completely... And someone being family has nothing much to do with sharing genes or bloodline. Family is family.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Which brings me to the other thing that happened last weekend, my friend I've known almost fifteen years now had his firstborn son christened. Or being somewhat pagan they had a party where the name was revealed. Besides him his mother was the only person I had ever met before but I had a great time. Sometimes it's good to be somewhere else with people who don't know you. And it was great to see his mother, last time we saw was almost ten years ago.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All this didn't even make me sad like I expected. At the moment I am in that content phase, where I don't feel like I'm missing out on something by being alone. Next week or tomorrow things might be different. I don't care. Just now I am okay. That's good enough.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114167469810415705?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114167469810415705/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114167469810415705&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114167469810415705'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114167469810415705'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/03/weddings-and-so-on.html' title='Weddings and so on'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114159241568689775</id><published>2006-03-05T23:00:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-05T13:01:43.046-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I'll choose evil</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/536/1757/1600/bush-gay-marriage.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/536/1757/320/bush-gay-marriage.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114159241568689775?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114159241568689775/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114159241568689775&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114159241568689775'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114159241568689775'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/03/ill-choose-evil.html' title='I&apos;ll choose evil'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114087796554003111</id><published>2006-02-25T18:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-02-25T06:32:45.553-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Isn't it ironic?</title><content type='html'>Just when I've been thinking a lot about drinking and let's face it, drinking more than I have in a long while but not so much that it's a problem (no getting drunk on weekdays, no blackouts, still money in the bank, not missing anything because of being drunk or having a hangover, no midnight crying sessions) it's then that I have to deal with someone else drinking too much. It takes a lot of...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's so sad that its funny. Every time I start to feel blue something happens and kicks me in the face and I have to deal with that and while doing so I forget what was I down for in the first place. Getting some real problems helps to forget that I am just bored. It's the "stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about" way of life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But tonight... I'll dance with the devil on a saturday night...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Don't forget to catch me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114087796554003111?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114087796554003111/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114087796554003111&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114087796554003111'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114087796554003111'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/02/isnt-it-ironic.html' title='Isn&apos;t it ironic?'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114072322660859377</id><published>2006-02-23T21:25:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-02-23T11:33:46.663-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The queen supreme of all dumb ideas</title><content type='html'>but I am not telling what it is... Because there's a good chance I will not do it, so there's no reason for others to know what I think of doing. Annoying, I know. But I am writing this because just seeing these words help me, maybe this will get it out of my head.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been having this feeling for a while now that I need to act out a bit, let out some steam. And last night it came to me in a dream, I was overcome with stupid fantasies about what to do. Sometimes I just get totally bored with myself and everything and then doing something not reasonable at all helps. Well, it doesn't actually help, but it clears my anxiety. Or atleast makes me anxious about something real, in a  "ohmysweetjesusonapogostickwhydidIdothatfor" way. It is not a question of doing anything harmful,  atleast harmful to anyone else besides my poor heart and soul, just letting go of control for a while. Sometimes it involves other people, sometimes just me hopping on a boat to Tallinn. It's a form of walking away, moving on, even when it seems like going backwards, doing something I haven't done in years. Letting things go by living them again? Maybe that too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then something completely else... People who annoy me: gays who attend everything in Pride events except the parade because someone might see them in the news and figure out they're gay. That's real pride of yourself you got there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not saying I don't understand that some people have difficulties being out in their workplaces or to their family etc. and  everyone has the right to live just as out they choose. But you know the type, flaming gay or the bulldyke of the town, except if there's a chance someone straight sees it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(I just met someone like this so that's why the rant.)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114072322660859377?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114072322660859377/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114072322660859377&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114072322660859377'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114072322660859377'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/02/queen-supreme-of-all-dumb-ideas.html' title='The queen supreme of all dumb ideas'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114055791736061180</id><published>2006-02-21T23:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-02-21T13:38:38.050-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Remembering again</title><content type='html'>KORVAAMATON (Lautala)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kaikki kurkkuun kumotut määrät&lt;br /&gt;eivät tuo kai sinua takaisin&lt;br /&gt;ne puuduttaa tunteeni hetkeksi&lt;br /&gt;ja saavat kai jaksamaan eteenpäin&lt;br /&gt;Joo, sä tiedät kyllä ketä mä huijaan&lt;br /&gt;jos sanoisin että: "kaikki on okei"&lt;br /&gt;se kaikki on vain hetken huumaa,&lt;br /&gt;joka korvaa hetkeksi menetyksen&lt;br /&gt;Kuka korvaa poistetun sydämen?&lt;br /&gt;Mikä korvaa, jos sä poistat mun sydämen?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Älä sano mulle, että se on korviketta&lt;br /&gt;mä tiedän sen taas kun aamu valkenee&lt;br /&gt;ja paljastaa kalpeat kasvot ja päässä,&lt;br /&gt;pääsee helvetti valloilleen&lt;br /&gt;Kuka korvaa poistetun sydämen?&lt;br /&gt;Mikä korvaa, jos sä poistat mun sydämen?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The boy who wrote that song was a friend of a friend some ten years ago. One night I was waiting for the last bus late at night and he comes up to me with his friend and asks me to go to a  bar with them. I'm tired and say no, so they leave. Ten minutes later he comes back, gives me a thick black pen (the kind you use to write your name on the walls and signposts and the back of the seats in a bus...) and says that if someone comes and tries to do something nasty to me I should poke them in the eye with the pen. And leaves again. I stand there, laughing, until the bus comes. I think that was a sweet thing to do. Weird and a bit twisted, but sweet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That little story has nothing to do with the following:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Years later he wrote that song and it felt really familiar to me. The lyrics are simple and there's nothing much to them except... Something in them always hits home, even if the reason for my drinking days never was a broken heart. And besides, there's always a reason to hit the bottle, if the need is there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now I just feel like having an ice cold coke with crushed ice, no lemon. Hold the vodka.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114055791736061180?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114055791736061180/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114055791736061180&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114055791736061180'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114055791736061180'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/02/remembering-again.html' title='Remembering again'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-114003839214818175</id><published>2006-02-15T23:22:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-02-15T13:19:55.576-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Missing someone</title><content type='html'>I've been reading Antonella Gambotto's book The Eclipse: A Memoir Of Suicide. Strangely positive book, even if it's not written in a positive way. It is about hating yourself, and about sadness and depression, and of losing control, about pain, sorrow, of being tired. And still, somewhere under all that it is encouraging. And not in the go kill yourself today way...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But what it made me think is this: how to deal with the fact that someone is gone and you can never ever touch them again, no longer kiss them, hold their hand, trace your fingers over their lips. I was reading that book and suddenly I was overcome with terrible grief. I had a friend years ago who died in an accident. We were friends and then we were some kind of lovers for a while and later stayed as friends. Before he died I hadn't seen him for a while, the last time we met was briefly in a store, we chatted about idle things and talked about going for a beer sometime soon. Next, I open a newspaper on my luncbreak and there is his name. Now it has been a few years and I sometimes think of him,  remember how we met and how fun it was to be around him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But now I suddenly missed touching him. I missed the feeling of his skin, his hair, everything. I don't miss any of my ex-anythings like that because there is a theoritical chance to touch them again. They are alive, they are around and even though obviously they are not available in physical sense anymore to me they are not impossible. Most of them would atleast agree to hug me. But him, he is out of my reach forever. If I could have a choice between talking to him for one last time or kissing him, I'd go for the kiss.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Skin remembers. A gentle touch can tell about love more than hundred words.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-114003839214818175?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/114003839214818175/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=114003839214818175&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114003839214818175'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/114003839214818175'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/02/missing-someone.html' title='Missing someone'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113951339582319986</id><published>2006-02-09T21:21:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-02-09T11:29:55.836-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Things not to do</title><content type='html'>when my mimosaskin is itching like crazy:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-take a shower&lt;br /&gt;-wash the dishes&lt;br /&gt;-eat an orange&lt;br /&gt;-go outside&lt;br /&gt;-rest my hand casually on my leg if I'm wearing jeans&lt;br /&gt;-go near brick walls&lt;br /&gt;-touch my shaved head&lt;br /&gt;-have a normal life&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate my skin. I really really hate it sometimes. I hate my stupid sensitive easily infecting skin. I hate my weird  stigmata hand. I hate my fingers I can't use properly because they are swollen or the skin has dried so badly it just cracks open. I hate not being able to touch things without causing damage. I hate wearing stupid gloves all the time. I hate taking pills to stop from itching so I could sleep. I hate always having to carry creams and lotions with me. I hate taking antibiotics five times a year. I hate complaining about them.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113951339582319986?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113951339582319986/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113951339582319986&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113951339582319986'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113951339582319986'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/02/things-not-to-do.html' title='Things not to do'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113943119523535560</id><published>2006-02-08T22:24:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-02-08T12:39:55.316-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Breathe</title><content type='html'>I'm alright I'm alright&lt;br /&gt;It only hurts when I breathe&lt;br /&gt;And I can't ask for things to be still again&lt;br /&gt;No I can't ask if I could walk through the world&lt;br /&gt;In your eyes&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ryan Jordan&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113943119523535560?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113943119523535560/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113943119523535560&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113943119523535560'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113943119523535560'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/02/breathe.html' title='Breathe'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113864874294897681</id><published>2006-01-30T21:21:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-30T11:19:05.800-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Never come home drunk with a canoe</title><content type='html'>I love sit coms. I love Friends, I love Frazier, I love Will And Grace, I love Third Rock From The Sun, I love Men Behaving Badly... Very different kind of shows but they are all great, and the list goes on. Maybe this started with watching The Cosby Show as a kid. Sometimes it's just fun and good to watch something silly and where everything will turn out fine in the end. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Soooo.... I was just watching 70's Show and burst out laughing. In the episode Eric destroys his girlfriends wedding dress. First by ripping it, then throwing it over just polished shoes messing it up, then ripping it more, then trying to hide the dress in the fridge and messing it into tomatosauce and then finally while trying to wash it turns it grey.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I laughed so that coke came out of my nose. I so related to that. I can see myself doing just the same. Often I feel like that, that while trying to fix something I mess everything up even more. Often with comical side effects.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The show I feel I'd fit in the most? Men Behaving Badly, definetely. I drink like they do, eat the same things, watch a lot of tv, think about trivial things and do completely dumbass moves when it comes to women.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113864874294897681?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113864874294897681/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113864874294897681&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113864874294897681'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113864874294897681'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/never-come-home-drunk-with-canoe.html' title='Never come home drunk with a canoe'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113856804328543333</id><published>2006-01-29T23:34:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-29T12:54:03.396-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Sometimes...</title><content type='html'>I want to say oh, the hell with it, and just let myself go, do whatever I feel like, not care what happens later. Just go with the flow and look behind later, look at all the bridges that are burning. But obviously I won't, I will keep on behaving atleast somewhat correctly, do as a decent person is supposed to do. But sometimes... I just wish I could let go. I want to let go, not care.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Caring hurts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...kun tapahtuu on helpompi hengittää...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113856804328543333?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113856804328543333/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113856804328543333&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113856804328543333'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113856804328543333'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/sometimes.html' title='Sometimes...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113839431187821632</id><published>2006-01-27T22:25:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-28T09:12:45.146-08:00</updated><title type='text'>"Kiss me" she said</title><content type='html'>just when you think I'm going straight on you...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She was my friends girlfriend when we met, ten years ago . A funny sweet pretty girl. I didn't think about her that much at first, she was just a nice girl my friend had hooked up with, nicer than the one before her or the one before that (which was me). One night we were having a little party, just hanging with some friends and drinking, way too much drinking. At some point (her boyfriend had promptly informed her before that I'm into girls too) she turns to me and says she has never kissed a woman, would I kiss her? I laugh and say yeah, sure, not thinking it as anything, her boyfriend says it's okay, go ahead. But I don't want it to be a show for the boys and I take her outside. We kiss and I lose myself. Everything else disappeared from my mind, her lips and taste and her warmth against me were all I sensed. We got back in and I might as well have been walking on air. Sometimes love starts with a kiss.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Some time later, we kiss more and more and more...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113839431187821632?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113839431187821632/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113839431187821632&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113839431187821632'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113839431187821632'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/kiss-me-she-said.html' title='&quot;Kiss me&quot; she said'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113830637087952362</id><published>2006-01-26T22:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-26T12:14:23.366-08:00</updated><title type='text'>When our eyes met...</title><content type='html'>(whatever comes next is to be blamed on my dreams and Brokeback Mountain)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember seeing him, really seeing him for the first time, in a bar, surrounded by friends and strangers. We looked at each other and there it was. Not love at first sight, no, that came later and in a very different form from the usual. I saw in his beautiful eyes something I needed. I saw connection, understanding. I saw something that moved me, something that made me feel desire. I did love him later, but it never was the way I'd love someone I'd want as my partner. There wasn't that between us, that wasn't necessary. What it was about was finding moments to get away, private places, stolen moments when we were supposed to be somewhere else, with other people. I remember his hand on my back, just barely touching, making me feel such aching to feel him completely and all the while talking to someone, pretending it isn't happening.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It has been almost eleven years since that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've dreamed of him a few times on last couple of nights. It has made me smile. It has made me want to call him up and say hey, you've been missed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But maybe I'll just keep it like it is, as a sweet memory of a man who understood me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113830637087952362?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113830637087952362/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113830637087952362&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113830637087952362'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113830637087952362'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/when-our-eyes-met.html' title='When our eyes met...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113785783294827854</id><published>2006-01-21T17:29:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-21T07:37:12.960-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Joy of running</title><content type='html'>I went to play badminton today with a friend. During a waterbreak I was jogging a bit, to keep warm (damn it was chilly in there!). So I was slowly running and feeling good, it felt like my steps came easily and naturally, like when I used to train running (100 meter sprint was my sport a long time ago).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just when I was about to comment on that to my friend something said "tviiiing" in my knee and sharp pain, like a big fat needle, pierced through my knee.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the joy of running lasted about twentyfive seconds.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Damn.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113785783294827854?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113785783294827854/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113785783294827854&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113785783294827854'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113785783294827854'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/joy-of-running.html' title='Joy of running'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113779766883835715</id><published>2006-01-21T01:02:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-20T14:54:32.776-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Yes, I am sad</title><content type='html'>I've been sad for a long time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It would be so much easier if I could feel just one thing at a time. Like tonight. Stephanie asked if a friend of ours is happy. She said, in a heartbeat, hell yeah she is. What I felt? I felt joy for her, for being happy, for having what she has been missing for a long time. I felt envy for not feeling like that. I felt aching to feel that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What makes it funny I can't remember ever being happy. I just don't think I have it in me. That doesn't mean I'm unhappy all the time. Sometimes I just am, I am content, I have found my sunny garden to rest... That's it. I've been content. For me that's better than happiness, that's something that can last. I've had peace.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's knowing who am I, knowing myself, seeing all the dark parts, accepting what is there. Being me, completely. Even if it means things that are not pretty to see.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So Amanda, you were right.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ja Satu, hienot Kädet!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113779766883835715?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113779766883835715/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113779766883835715&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113779766883835715'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113779766883835715'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/yes-i-am-sad.html' title='Yes, I am sad'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113770269449090379</id><published>2006-01-19T22:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-19T12:31:34.506-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I remember</title><content type='html'>the first time I drank alcohol. It was vodka with orangejuice. Before that, maybe I had taken a sip from daddy's beer but I don't remember doing so. I remember vodka, the disinfectant smell of it, the bitter taste, the warm cheap orangejuice it was mixed with. I remember it tasting bad. I remember the feeling of getting drunk. I remember it calling to me in some level I never knew I had in me. I remember drinking for a long time after that first drink, considering I was barely a teenager. I remember wanting to drink, needing to drink.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I remember stopping.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And starting again at seventeen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have a problematic relationship with alcohol. It has brought me a lot of grief, it has done damage to my liver (luckily, at young enough and it recovered, not to it's best but good enough not to matter), it has cost me a lot of money... And yet... There's the calling, the burning.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got strong enough to resist it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113770269449090379?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113770269449090379/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113770269449090379&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113770269449090379'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113770269449090379'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/i-remember.html' title='I remember'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113744151549205652</id><published>2006-01-16T22:43:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-16T11:58:35.566-08:00</updated><title type='text'>A promotion? No, thank you.</title><content type='html'>I was offered a "better" job (more responsibility, different department, more money) at my work on friday. I promised to think it through and let them know today. So today I went to the big boss and said thanks but no thanks. They must think I'm really strange. This was the third time I was offered a promotion and every time I've declined.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why? When this job would have meant I could aply for a loan and buy my own apartment. But it would have made me miserable. I am not interested in our sales department, I'm not interested in keeping Nokia happy with endless statistics... So am I interested in accounting? Not really. But it's not something I strongly dislike.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I will not make decisions I know will make me unhappy. Or more unable to be atleast even content. Even if it means I have to still move other plans in life further away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But it has been a good day.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113744151549205652?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113744151549205652/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113744151549205652&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113744151549205652'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113744151549205652'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/promotion-no-thank-you.html' title='A promotion? No, thank you.'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113733537356854457</id><published>2006-01-15T16:13:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-15T06:29:33.656-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Similar Features</title><content type='html'>but with longer hair...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But enough of that and moving on to more important things. Like friendship.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw an old friend of mine yesterday at the bar. We haven't really seen for a while, which is a shame. She is the kind of a friend who has always been there for me, in good and in bad. She knows me. She knows what to say. She gives me freedom to be myself, to laugh, to cry, to be stupid and emotional or to rationalize everything. She has given me pills to make me get through the day when I thought there was no way to do so, she has opened my eyes to new worlds. I've missed her like she has missed me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The bit that made me all emotional yesterday was understanding she is not the only that kind of a friend I have. I have many friends like that, and many of them had been hanging out at my house for the evening. They may all not be able to give me drugs but hey, nobody's perfect all the time ;)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113733537356854457?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113733537356854457/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113733537356854457&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113733537356854457'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113733537356854457'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/similar-features.html' title='Similar Features'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113729094071061029</id><published>2006-01-14T04:53:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-14T18:09:00.740-08:00</updated><title type='text'>More about dancing...</title><content type='html'>sometimes I get stuck with ideas I have... I was at a bar tonight and one of my favourite songs came on, the queen herself, Madonna.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Music can be such a revelation&lt;br /&gt;Dancing around you feel the sweet sensation&lt;br /&gt;We might be lovers if the rhythm's right&lt;br /&gt;I hope this feeling never ends tonight&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Only when I'm dancing can I feel this free&lt;br /&gt;At night I lock the doors,&lt;br /&gt;where no one else can see&lt;br /&gt;I'm tired of dancing here all by myself&lt;br /&gt;Tonight I wanna dance with someone else"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But tonight, again, I had no one to dance with, really. For a while, yes. And then came the moment of understanding that, atleast for tonight, I am the wrong kind. No biggie. But for a while it breaks my heart, makes me wonder what is so wrong about me. Why I'm the one who holds a woman's hand when she is crying, tells her it is going to be allright, makes her believe in herself again and then ends up with a thank you and goodbye.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After all is said and done I am still left behind. I will not accept this. I will move on. There is something waiting for me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113729094071061029?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113729094071061029/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113729094071061029&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113729094071061029'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113729094071061029'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/more-about-dancing.html' title='More about dancing...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113720491572736829</id><published>2006-01-13T04:05:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-13T18:15:15.743-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Why I love to dance</title><content type='html'>I didn't before, I started dancing when I was around twenty. Which is kind of strange considering how physical person I am and used to be, I loved to run, to move.  And then after stopping all that else I found dancing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's feeling connected to my body in a way I never feel otherwise, not even what comes to sex. It's being completely IN my body, feeling every part of it. It's moving without thinking. And when I find someone who can move with me, it's something words can't begin to describe. It is amazing to have someone who can be an inch away from you, not touching you, just following, or maybe I'm the one following, no matter, just being together in one smooth continuous movement.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's why I love to dance. And always looking for someone to dance with me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113720491572736829?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113720491572736829/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113720491572736829&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113720491572736829'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113720491572736829'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/why-i-love-to-dance.html' title='Why I love to dance'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113709599029122941</id><published>2006-01-12T21:46:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-12T11:59:50.303-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Feeling old</title><content type='html'>which I shoudn't because I'm not, I'm not even thirty (and next year is far away when I will be) and even then I am not old. Today I felt old. I was discussing a book (Arabian Lauri) with some people and one of them said she couldn't relate to the book because it was describing the eighties, that it was too different kind of world. Umm... I was a child/pre-teen during the eighties (she was a toddler) so I do remember things and I don't think it's that far away. I still remember Matti Nykänen as an athlete, for chrissakes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Although, in a different discussion (Steph, you remember this) I said movies from the eighties are old. In a way they are, especially what comes to movies. It's 20-25 years, about third of average lifespan around here. So it's a long time but not that different world. Lot's of things have changed but not that much...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm old and tired and I'm going to bed to rest my tired old bones now ;)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(the radio is on and Roxette is playing Listen to your heart and I will not even think when that song first came out because I'm starting to suspect it's really been a long time and not the "a while back" I have in my mind which covers about last of the 15 years...)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113709599029122941?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113709599029122941/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113709599029122941&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113709599029122941'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113709599029122941'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/feeling-old.html' title='Feeling old'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113683337261667143</id><published>2006-01-09T21:02:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-09T11:02:58.086-08:00</updated><title type='text'>12 things I have learned from music</title><content type='html'>1. Michael Jackson has trouble breathing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Some bands, like people, are just not meant to be together. (U2 and REM doing "One" live together remind me of some horrendous blind dates I've been, all the pieces are there but still it is awful.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. Sometimes la la laa is enough.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. A song played with a tambourine sounds dumb.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. Dyin' ain't much of a living. Duh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. Sooner or later everything is over. But occasionally, it is necessary to keep going on for one night more.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. Be proud like a god.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. Remember that gods can fall down and can be forgotten too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. White "bikingshorts" should be burned, along with the people using them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10. Weakness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11. Coming back as a butterfly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;12. My my, hey hey,  rock and roll can never die.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113683337261667143?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113683337261667143/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113683337261667143&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113683337261667143'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113683337261667143'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/12-things-i-have-learned-from-music.html' title='12 things I have learned from music'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113668762772128151</id><published>2006-01-08T04:12:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-08T04:53:38.186-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Some things are better left unsaid</title><content type='html'>In that situaton there is always the option of quoting someone, preferably butchering their words horribly by terrible translation... (okay I had a few drinks tonight, sorry mr Kotro)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"you missed the moment&lt;br /&gt;when I just&lt;br /&gt;stopped&lt;br /&gt;missing things&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;and then you find out&lt;br /&gt;when you think there's nothing to lose&lt;br /&gt;losing just begins&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;and when there's only one choice&lt;br /&gt;there's&lt;br /&gt;really&lt;br /&gt;no choice at all"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A friend of mine said tonight the sweetest things about her girlfriend. I listened to her and just wondered how it must be great to feel that. It reminded me of feeling the same way. It was a good feeling. It somehow made me believe that I will feel like that again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Ulla huomaatko, mä yritän olla märisemättä, ainakaan paljon...)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now I'll just put the music on and remember dancing with the girl who caught my eye, for the first time in a long while. The sun is coming out. I am walking on.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113668762772128151?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113668762772128151/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113668762772128151&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113668762772128151'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113668762772128151'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/some-things-are-better-left-unsaid.html' title='Some things are better left unsaid'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113631469457775118</id><published>2006-01-03T21:03:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-03T10:58:14.586-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Pikainen kommentti</title><content type='html'>Tämä on sulle Satu, mä tein mitä sanoit että mun kannattaisi... Ainakin otin ensimmäisen askeleen siihen suuntaan. Sanoinhan et mun tarvii vaan päästä itseni yli ja se vaatii vähän aikaa. Itsepäinen mikä itsepäinen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ja te muut, kerron sitten joskus myöhemmin mistä tässä on kyse.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113631469457775118?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113631469457775118/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113631469457775118&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113631469457775118'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113631469457775118'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/pikainen-kommentti.html' title='Pikainen kommentti'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113623174768894921</id><published>2006-01-02T21:45:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-02T11:59:06.720-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Identity issues</title><content type='html'>People my face resembles the most are:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My feminine side:&lt;br /&gt;Michelle Pfeiffer&lt;br /&gt;Katherine Hepburn&lt;br /&gt;Jodie Foster&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My masculine side:&lt;br /&gt;Fred Astaire&lt;br /&gt;Eddie Murphy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And these from the same picture. Michelle and I had a 65% match, Fred and I 53% and the rest between 40-50%.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eddie was a bit surprising but hey, maybe something in the eyes... Or teeth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is so hilarious, somehow I don't see myself as the Michelle type... But sure would love to dance like Fred, too bad the looks doesn't mean the talent also ;)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Go check out &lt;a href="http://www.myheritage.com"&gt;www.myheritage.com&lt;/a&gt; (thanks Stephanie for the tip!)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113623174768894921?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113623174768894921/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113623174768894921&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113623174768894921'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113623174768894921'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/identity-issues.html' title='Identity issues'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113614660745928499</id><published>2006-01-01T22:00:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-01T12:16:47.543-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Last hours of the first day of the year</title><content type='html'>and I should be sleeping, tired from last nights party. Soon I'll go, I'm suspecting no troubles falling asleep tonight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Some people asked me yesterday what's my new years promise, what I wish to change. Really didn't know what to say.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I was reading Tammy's blog (&lt;a href="http://www.hollywoodfarmgirl.blogspot.com"&gt;www.hollywoodfarmgirl.blogspot.com&lt;/a&gt;) and from that something occurred to me, here it is:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope to be able to say&lt;br /&gt;yes, now&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope to be able to know when I have to say&lt;br /&gt;no, later&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope to be strong enough to say&lt;br /&gt;no, something better.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113614660745928499?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113614660745928499/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113614660745928499&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113614660745928499'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113614660745928499'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2006/01/last-hours-of-first-day-of-year.html' title='Last hours of the first day of the year'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113580239897442035</id><published>2005-12-28T22:11:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2005-12-28T12:39:59.013-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Snowflakes</title><content type='html'>Just Jack says it something like "you've played all the games and you're no longer amused".  I think I should find something new to play around with. And I don't mean people. Well, atleast not for the most part.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I should get some things out of my head, including some people, things long gone, things that should be meaningless by now. Sometimes I feel I cling to things just because I have nothing to replace them with. I don't have anything to move on to. I've started to miss the weirdest people, and what's strange about that is I miss people physically, but not sexually. I don't miss knowing them, talking to them, I miss holding hands, sleeping, just sleeping together. And I wonder was there someone I could sleep with, was there a moment when I lost that and after that just kept on looking? Trying to find the peace in someone so I could find peace in me? That's dumb. It has to be in me, I have to find it in me. I wish I could remember better.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know what has gotten into me, why I'm feeling so sad so often. I'm really close turning into a compelete mush-fest, I want to go around and tell my friends I love them, no matter what. Almost like preparing them for something awful, like I'm about to get a rifle and climb into a tower and start shooting. (I'll start with the people who shouldn't use public transport and that includes all girls in their teens.) Because I also get irritated very easily. So maybe I should hold back with the declarations of love, or they might turn into I love you but shut the fuck up...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That goes for me too.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113580239897442035?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113580239897442035/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113580239897442035&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113580239897442035'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113580239897442035'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2005/12/snowflakes.html' title='Snowflakes'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113486770909640686</id><published>2005-12-18T03:32:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2005-12-17T17:04:17.650-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Feeling chatty today, apparently...</title><content type='html'>Inspired by my friend Stephanie's blog (I'll put the link here as soon as I can figure out how or get Stephanie to do it for me) and her results in one particular questionnaire here's results from my "which gender are you: male, female, androgyn or neutral"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;SINÄ OLET ANDROGYYNI&lt;br /&gt;(not surprising)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sinussa on melko paljon sekä feminiinistä naista että maskuliinista miestä. Olet sukupuolisesti hyvin harmoninen. Mieheytesi ja naiseutesi ovat tasapainossa keskenään, eikä kumpikaan puolesi hallitse persoonaasi toisen kustannuksella.&lt;br /&gt;(I have both feminine and masculine qualities.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Olet sukupuolishoppailija!&lt;br /&gt;(I'm a gendershopper!)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tiedostat sukupuolijärjestelmän olemassaolon, sukupuoliroolit ja odotukset kriittisestikin. Et juurikaan välitä näihin odotuksiin vastaamisesta, vaan käyttäydyt melko sukupuolivapaasti. .&lt;br /&gt;(I recognise the gender roles in society and the demands and expectations for men and women but I really don't care a fuck and act quite freely from them.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Olet sukupuolen suhteen melko itsevarma. Sinusta on luontevaa toteuttaa itseäsi sekä miehisten että naisellisten puoliesi kautta. Tulet hyvin toimeen miesten, naisten ja sukupuolineutraalienkin kanssa, koska et itsekään ole niin kaukana näistä muista sukupuoliryhmistä.&lt;br /&gt;(I get along with men and women and all in between because I fit in in them all.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cool. I can see myself in that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Also, I am:&lt;br /&gt;You are Lisa Simpson.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That I can't see but it would be great to know how to play the sax!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My results for "how weird are you":&lt;br /&gt;For 80 % you are: You're Not Weird At All! Take this as a compliment... and run for your life, it takes a lot to get this outcome... imagine how many people around you right now DIDN'T get this answer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You could also get this result:For 10 % you are: Pretty Messed Up! My god... I can't even look at you...knowing what you put as answers *shudders*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or even this one:For 10 % you are: Weirder Than Weird! Wow, you are mildly creepy and totally insane! Good for you! But lay off the RedBull.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Weeeel... I got a tiny severed doll's head in a bucket of blood for a birthdaygift and was thrilled... So mildly creepy, yes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And back to the theme I was on when I started this post, what should my name really be? (I took the boys test, feeling masculine today)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For 60 % you are: Your name is: Josh. You are cool and quite the lady's man. ooh-la-la. You are cute and everyone worships the ground to you. You are most loved, especially by the ladies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You could also get this result:For 30 % you are: Your name is: Nobert. How can I put this nicely...YOU ARE A GEEK! You love computers. And talk weird and you think using big words is cool Get a life man!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or even this one:For 10 % you are: Your name is: Alex. You are high energy and need medication badly! You like... mean LOVE monkeys! You are okay... when you've taking your pills. So you need to get a grip dude!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So good night , says Josh Norbert Alex.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113486770909640686?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113486770909640686/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113486770909640686&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113486770909640686'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113486770909640686'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2005/12/feeling-chatty-today-apparently.html' title='Feeling chatty today, apparently...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113484549597567852</id><published>2005-12-17T20:10:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2005-12-17T17:03:53.900-08:00</updated><title type='text'>What I did on 2002</title><content type='html'>12.1. we went to Messilä with Jt, Tiki, and her girlfriend at the time, Anne. Stayed at my parents, and the girls made a great impression on them. Especially Tiki carrying wine and greeting my dad (fresh out of rehab).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;15.1. obviously I had atleast some amount of hair because I had an appointment at a barbershop&lt;br /&gt;8.2. saw Maija Vilkkumaa at Nosturi with my brother and Jt (Maija on pooornoo!)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11.2. went to the movies with Tii to see godknowswhat&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;15.2. saw Kuutamolla&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;23.2 my grandfather had died a year earlier and we held a wake for him with my brother, drank whiskey and vodka and smoke cigars and forced everyone else to do so too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;26.2. went to see my first men's icehockey game with Tii, Hifk-Jokerit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1.3. saw Pauli Hanhiniemen Perunateatteri at Tavastia. Probably sang my voice away when they played Vieraslista.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;23.4. absolutely no memory why I had to go to Espoo courthouse.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;26.4. I went to a cruise but no memory of that either but probably for very different reasons.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;30.4. saw Zen Cafe at Tavastia&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7.5. movies with Tii, but what movie?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1.6. saw 69 Eyes at Nosturi.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11.6 Straight No More at Nalle!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;16.6. Paula Koivuniemi cruise! That was fun! Dykes supporting Paula with a big rainbowflag and trying to drink the ship out of Smirnoff Ice. Those were the days...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;24.6.-30.6 Pride!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4.7. Sir Elwoodin Hiljaiset Värit at Kaivohuone... Hmmm... Some memories from this one I will just keep to myself and the parties involved...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11.7.-17.7. Prague with Mira. What should I tell about this trip and Mira's excellent sense of direction? Really, she is good at reading a map but sometimes she just forgot to think at the same time... Going straight ahead will not get you to the place you started even if the buildings look the same, a bit... (sorry hon, if you're reading this, just had to tell) But there's more to tell about lost chances, we really should have gone to a secluded dark park with ten drunken soldiers like they asked us to. Probably missed the party of a lifetime.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;27.7. saw Amorphis. At the time they had the most fuckable leadsinger... hey, what can I say? I have a soft spot for musicians. And to be even more groce and graphic, sometimes even a wet spot for them..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9.8. saw really disturbing movie, Audition.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;16.8. Päivi and Suvi got married. Päivi still owes me a dance we didn't get to dance then.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;17.8. saw Nightwish. I wonder how I was able to go there after the previous nights festivities?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;21.8. saw Monster's Ball. Halle Berry totally earned the Oscar, if not for anything else then for the spectacular drunk scene.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;28.9. saw Don Huonot at Tavastia. I can't even count how many times I saw that band. Always made me forget everything while they played.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;12.10 it doesn't say so but I know this was the day when I was there with Jt to say goodbye to Hanna-Leena, not knowing yet that the previous night a bomb exploding at Myyrmanni had killed an old friend of mine. A sad, sad day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;19.10. at Heinola to see Zen Cafe with Mira&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;30.10. saw Sir Elwoodin Hiljaiset Värit at Savoy theatre.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1.11. Red Dragon. The symbol of his evil...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2.11. Zen Cafe at Tavastia. Todella Kaunis koskettaa jokainen kerta.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8.11. I got my first tattoo at Blue Dragon at five pm. And afterwards went to see Velcra play. I think this was the time I got hit to the face and had a mild concussion, I sent a message to Jt that I have blood in my mouth who was waiting for me at Dtm, I never showed up and well, I can understand why she was a bit worried... She's thinking all sorts of horrid things what has happened to me and at the same time I'm safely sleeping my headache away at Mira's couch.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6.12. A dinner at Colorado and afterwards to see Sir Elwoodin Hiljaiset Värit at Tavastia.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;14.12. Birthdayparty.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was cleaning up some old stuff and found my calendar, it was fun going through it... Some very good memories and some really bad. And some things I think I should remember but don't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'll end with a quote: "morning comes every time..."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113484549597567852?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113484549597567852/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113484549597567852&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113484549597567852'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113484549597567852'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2005/12/what-i-did-on-2002.html' title='What I did on 2002'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18053427.post-113483245348309291</id><published>2005-12-17T17:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2005-12-17T07:17:16.800-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Oh come on...</title><content type='html'>I stumbled into this somewhere, sorry for forgetting where... It's old news but anyways...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;PINKETT SMITH UPSETS HOMOSEXUALS&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a class="iAs" style="COLOR: darkgreen; BORDER-BOTTOM: darkgreen 1px solid; BACKGROUND-COLOR: transparent; TEXT-DECORATION: underline" href="http://www.contactmusic.com/new/xmlfeed.nsf/mndwebpages/pinkett%20smith%20upsets%20homosexuals#" target="_blank"&gt;Actress&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a class="bodyhyperlink2pt" href="http://www.contactmusic.com/new/artist.nsf/artistnames/jade%20pinkett%20smith"&gt;JADE PINKETT SMITH&lt;/a&gt; upset homosexual students during a recent speech at America's prestigious Harvard University, with her heterosexual take on gender roles.&lt;br /&gt;The &lt;a class="bodyhyperlink2pt" href="http://www.contactmusic.com/new/artist.nsf/artistnames/collateral"&gt;COLLATERAL&lt;/a&gt; beauty, 33, was honoured as the Artist Of The Year by the HARVARD FOUNDATION FOR INTERCULTURAL AND RACE RELATIONS in Cambridge, Massachusetts last Saturday (26FEB05).&lt;br /&gt;During Pinkett Smith's acceptance speech, she said, "Women, you can have it all - a loving man, devoted husband, loving children, a fabulous career. They say you gotta choose. Nah, nah, nah. We are a new generation of women. We got to set a new standard of rules around here. You can do whatever it is you want. All you have to do is want it."&lt;br /&gt;However, the Ivy League university's gay community were unimpressed with Pinkett Smith's viewpoint.&lt;br /&gt;JORDAN WOODS, a co-chair of the college's BISEXUAL, GAY, LESBIAN, TRANSGENDER AND SUPPORTERS ALLIANCE (BGLTSA), fumes, "Some of the content was extremely heteronormative (to imply male/female sexual relations are normal), and made BGLTSA members feel uncomfortable."&lt;br /&gt;YANNIS PAULUS of the foundation's student advisory committee responds, "She wasn't trying to be offensive."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm queer myself, I wear my Fuck Your Gender t-shirt with pride, I do volunteerwork for the glbt-community around here but hell... I think it's just dumb to expect that everyone should at every occasion mention that "whether you are a woman or a man or you are in a relationship with a woman or a man or..." or talk without using gender spesified words or expressions. I'm assuming Pinkett Smith is, besides hot as hell, straight, and it's natural for her to talk about having a husband. That still doesn't mean she'd be against gay people. I don't know about her thoughts on the matter so correct me if I'm wrong.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I'd like to add that yes, male/female relations are normal. So are male/male, female/female relations.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also had a kick about the part "a loving man, a devoted husband". Jada's saying you can have both! Is Jada polyamorous then? Wasn't that insulting to monoamorous people?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've said in numerous occasions that I have the skin of a mimosa but only on the outside, jeez, those guys at BGLTSA are supersensitive!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18053427-113483245348309291?l=preciouspain.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/feeds/113483245348309291/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=18053427&amp;postID=113483245348309291&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113483245348309291'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/18053427/posts/default/113483245348309291'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://preciouspain.blogspot.com/2005/12/oh-come-on.html' title='Oh come on...'/><author><name>Hale</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
