Today marks the 4 year anniversary of M’s death. It really doesn’t get easier. It just gets different. This is the email I wrote him last year.

Today is finally over. 3 years. I’m having a drink, so cheers, mate.

I hate this day. Every year I fucking hate this day. I still remember it so vividly, which is odd. I was in class, German, when I got told. I held it together until the break and then the world shattered into tiny little pieces. It felt like the world stopped, like it didn’t move any more, like everything froze. And then all Hell broke lose. I didn’t even make it out of the hallway; the times I’ve cried in public can be counted on one hand, I reckon. That was one of them. I remember my teacher telling me to go home and me looking at her, wide-eyed, her words not making sense even though the rational part of my brain understood. I asked her “I can go home? Are you sure that’d be alright?” and a girl from class went and got my things and I walked home, dragging my feet behind me, as my world tumbled and collapsed around me. As it shook and trembled. As it shattered.

I hate this day, every year. Every year I try to keep busy so I won’t have to remember it all, every moment, all day. I dread the coming of this day and I welcome its leave with relief. The hole is there every day, but every year this day hurts a little more.The hole grows a little bigger.

I’m sorry we never got drunk together or went and discussed girls IRL together, like we did online. I’m sorry I let you go; he wasn’t worth it. That’s the one regret I’ve carried for years. I let you go because of a self-righteous man, acting like a wounded child. I didn’t wanna put you in the middle. It was a noble thing to do, alright, but it was a stupid thing. I reckon I’ll take that regret with me to my grave.

Here’s to you, buddy.

Dear World – About the Asylum Crisis.

Dear World.

I am a Dane. I was born and raised in Denmark. I look like a Dane. Walking down the street I have never had to suffer people calling me out because I look different. I have been lucky; I was raised in a good country, a country with compassion and room for difference. Or so I thought.

I am writing this because I do not believe my country listens to me. I know many who feel the same way; many who are ashamed, many who are shocked and in disbelief. Some of them even voted for the current government. One of the big buzzwords in Danish politics right now, is the fact that the voters do not believe they actually have a say. They do not believe anything will change. They do not believe the politicians will keep their words. We don’t trust our politicians at all. And why should we? Why should we trust you, Denmark? Why should anyone?

You were a beacon once, a country of milk and honey, of hope and dreams. A country looked up to by others, studied by many. You were a country other countries wanted to be, the place other countries talked about. Now you’re the international picture of what not to be. And the worst part is, they – those people outside of Denmark – did not do this to us. We did. We still got the milk and the honey, but we’ll be damned if we wanna share it.

I like to travel, meet people, make friends from other countries. I always loved sharing stories about my country – a country I was proud of. Now, when my friends ask me “Is it really true that this is happening in Denmark?” I feel ashamed as I say “yes”. Now, when I meet someone not from here, I hesitate before telling them where I’m from. A second of hesitation where I pray they are not coloured by all of this, where I pray they will not meet me with the distrust my country has sown. So for a second I brace myself for impact, so I can face whatever comes next. These days I often feel more like one of them, because the values I’m being told are Danish, well, they are not my values. They are not the values I was born and raised with. I never thought I’d live to see the day, when other countries told Denmark off for not inhabiting the very values I was brought up to believe in. The world used to feel like a much bigger place.

Truthfully this all began at one of the previous elections, with a previous government. It’s no comfort to you, World, that Denmark started making life hard for our own weakest first, but it’s the truth. We have gradually changed into a society that makes life really difficult for anyone not fitting the norm. I also think we are all so afraid, so we do what foreigners do what they come to a new country: We hold onto what we believe to be ours. Imagine how much fear it takes, for an entire nation to be exhibiting a behaviour we normally see with people trying not to lose their roots in a new country. We do not feel secure in our own nation, so we lash out at anything foreign to maintain our false sense of security. We raise our kids telling them that integrity and values cannot be taken from you; that they are only conquered by our own insecurity. Yet we blame the foreigners for our own insecurities. We accuse them of taking away our culture, even though culture is something integrated into our beings; it’s not a slab of land. It’s a state of mind.

So, unless they can change our minds, I don’t see how our culture can be threatened by sick, hungry, poor, desperate people. If anything they make me treasure my Danish values more; I feel for them, the poor and the hungry. No matter their colour of skin. I have compassion for their young and their old, to have survived such ordeals.

And you know what? I will happily give up my meatballs if it means we put more effort into looking after everybody – I don’t believe they’re a big part of what it means to be Danish. Same thing goes for the ham; I don’t even like ham all that much and I’m supposedly pure-blooded Danish. I wonder what went wrong in my DNA, eh? I believe the Danish values are a very different thing, different from flags and, different from fear of foreigners. I grew up believing in a Denmark which put people first; a country where people were our main value. Not money. A country where we took care of our own and lavished upon the fact that we were not racists. I grew up believing in love, in companionship, in taking care of each other. In embracing what’s different and not fearing it just because it doesn’t look like “a Dane” – whatever that means. A country that believed in integration – not assimilation. And assimilation is what we’re demanding now. I think a lot of people in my country should open a book and read up on the difference in those terms.

Dear World, we’re not all like that. Many of us welcome the chance to help those in need. Many of us want to do everything we can to help. Many of us feel condemned and alienated by our own country. And I beg of you; help me do what I cannot. Help me remind my country what we used to be. We were so much more than this, once.

Dear Denmark,

You’re not just painting a bleak picture of the enemy and you’re not just sending out a signal of “don’t come to Denmark”; you’re not just scaring them away; you’re tearing our country in half. The fear and anger you portray on the foreigners take root here, in us, and it means anyone who doesn’t believe in these changes can be called a traitor – by our own people – can be called anti-Danish, be accused of not believing in Danish values. And anyone who believes those initiatives are right are being called racists, small-minded and what’s worse. You’re doing this to our country. You’re so afraid of what might happen, so you would rather ruin our image, inside out, than do it right. We used to have room for all of us; those who valued our flag, our pork, those who believed in compassion, those for the international society. Those who believed Denmark was about people and those who believed we’re about money. We used to feel like a bigger country, but lately all you do, is remind me how small we are.

We argue, as a country, that they should not be given better rights than Danish people; this is why we now seize their property. We argue that they should pay for their stay. I argue that it’s a lot of bullshit. Danish people get a right to welfare; we can be out of a job and get paid. We have unions. We are not stuck in tents or the likes during the midst of winter. We are not met with mistrust and accused of lying from our first moment in this country. They do not search our “luggage” to see if we break the rules (in truth they’d rather rely on us ratting out each other, but that’s a different story) and store more monetary values than we’re allowed. We’re afforded every courtesy compared to them – while they suffer every slight we can possibly hand them. I’m not saying I don’t follow the argument of them paying for their stay, but I am wondering about the logic; if they then leave before approved, will they be given their values back? Cause that’d only be fair; I do not want to live off of money taken from the needy. It also means someone would have to sit on their jewels and other belongs of some worth, until such a time where they are approved, because otherwise it might be damned hard to track down grandma’s ring when they wanna leave. Not to mention, if they do stay in Denmark and they have brought over values; where are they gonna spend them, I wonder? If you want a citizenship somewhere, in my book it’d be logical to assume they’d wanna use that money to make a new life. Ergo spending money. Here.

And even if we are to entertain the idea of them paying for their stay, then there were many other ways to go about it. Why do they have to pay with humility and lose their dignity in the process? Have they not suffered enough? I personally have a hard time believing it’s about fairness, considering how the government has acted; every move they’ve made, has been to prevent them from getting here and to make them go home when they are here. I think they would’ve gone home if the majority of them could do so safely. So my country does what it can to make life even more difficult for those who already suffered through unimaginable things.

We argue, as a country, that Asians and others integrate better than muslims; that the Islamic countries just don’t play ball well with the other kids in the play yard. I say we are doing a lousy job at integrating those people. I say we are part of the problem, because we meet them with mistrust, with hatred, with a strong disbelief that these people won’t integrate, but those people will. It’s not advanced psychology, realizing that people perform better, integrate better, if they’re met with open minds instead of mistrust and critique. I know for a fact that if I’m met with mistrust right away, before I even get a chance to open my mouth, I perform a poorer job. Because I get angry. I get resentful. I get confused. I get hurt. And I pray if I, and mine, ever end up in a position like theirs, that wherever we go, we will be allowed to keep our dignity. That whoever took us in would treat us with compassion and respect, rather than mistrust and rejection.

We argue, as a country, that other countries do this and that too, so why shouldn’t Denmark. So I ask of you, Danes, did your mother not teach you, that just because that kid did it first, it doesn’t mean you should continue? Were you not raised on the same values as I was? Raised to treat other human beings with decency and respect. Raised not to act like bullies picking on the weak?

We argue, as a country, that we should take care of our own. Yet I more often than not hear the poor, the homeless, the mentally ill and those falling through the cracks of our own society say “We do not believe the asylum seekers are taking away from us. We don’t mind sharing”. Stop using the weak as an excuse for your crusade. Stop shielding yourself behind those whom you are happy enough to ignore when the world outside doesn’t interfere. And stop using the names of those working the lousy jobs and doing volunteer work – with those who need it, both in- and outside the camps, on people with brown, white, yellow and any other shade of skin, stop using those people’s big hearts to justify you shouting “What about our own? Helping the asylum seekers means our own will suffer”. We are not your excuse. We are not your shield. We are not here so you can use us to defend your actions.

Denmark did this to itself. We reap what has been sown. And instead of accepting that we, as a country, made this choice, we now argue to defend it. The choices we’ve made are gonna need a lot of defending. But it won’t make it right, Denmark. Being ruled by fear and greed is not right. Kicking those who are already lying down is not right. This is not right.

How far will we fall before we turn around? When is it enough? Where do we stop?

Dear Denmark. I love you with all my heart, you’re my home. I love you so much it hurts, because I find it so hard to defend you right now. I have not given up on you; I still believe you can be the country other countries strive to be, but you have to stop being so afraid. You have to stop ruling by fear.

I will always love you, but I don’t like you anymore. If we are to restore our relationship, you have to change. You have to remember who you used to be, before you let fear in.

So today I got out of bed, I read the news and I sat down at my pc, with my breakfast, and started writing this. Not because I don’t have other important things to do, on this Wednesday morning, but because this is more important. I know some people will name me traitor for this. But honestly: Enough is enough.

I am human. They are human.

We are the same.


(Written mid-last week)

Dear Grandmother.

Dear Grandmother,

It’s Sunday and the funeral is tomorrow. Your funeral. I’ve spent the day between hopeless activity and pained inactivity. Yet at the same time it’s numb; like all that stir under the surface is miles and miles away. Maybe entire lifetimes. It feels like I’ve been hit by a truck, but still in shock, so the pain hasn’t quite hit me yet. It’s an odd state of mind. It’s not how I imagined beginning this year.

It was time. We all knew that; the last years you’ve been sat in front of the telly, watching this or that. Not moving, not walking, not doing anything anymore. You were so frail, so tiny, almost like time had folded you back into yourself. The last times I saw you, you didn’t even know it was me; you thought I was my mother. It was hard that you didn’t really recognize me, but at the same time it’s nice to know that in your mind’s eye, you always saw my mother in her vibrant youth.

It’s hard to know barely anyone will be at your funeral. The few friends you had are all dead. Your husband has been in the ground for 20 years and you were distant to a lot of the family. I know my mother will be there, I will be there. Maybe my two younger brothers, maybe my stepdad. I don’t know. I wonder if my older brothers will take time off to come and will they bring their family? I don’t know how many will come, but I know it won’t be many. It saddens me, because even though you were distant to us, you were a good person. You worried so about us, about what would become of us. There won’t even be an add in the paper. You’re just gonna leave this world as quietly as you lived in it. A whisper on the wind.

The truth is that I never knew much about you; I have no idea if you had dreams beyond being a house-wife. If you ever wanted to travel abroad and see the world. I do not know if you felt lonely or if you preferred the solitude in your last years; we tried to encourage you to go out in the years after your husband died, but you resisted us ever so fiercely and in the end we let you be. I don’t know if you were scared to go out or if you really didn’t want to. I know you wanted children and that was why you adopted your sister’s unwanted kid, but what your dreams and hopes were beyond that, I do not know. I know you were completely and utterly dependent on your husband and I know your world shattered into a million pieces when he died. I know my mother worried about you more than she let on.

We’re a family of islands. We’re all so separated and most of the time we don’t let much on. We’re not always good with bridges. You knew as little about me and my inner motions as I did you. You did not know that I became mentally ill from a young age, that I tried to kill myself more than once and that my upbringing was the cause. You don’t know that they say I’ll be ill the rest of my life and you don’t know that I find life to be a bit of struggle. I think it’s good that you didn’t know. I remember when I was in my late teens and you told me that if only you could live to see me married you’d be happy. You never met most of my boyfriends and I haven’t married. I don’t have kids. You’ll never see me in that white dress. It was a beautiful sentiment though and I’m sorry we didn’t know each other better. I’m sorry I didn’t see you more often; I know my reasons were real, but it’s not easy to look back and feel inadequate. I know it wouldn’t have made much of a difference and there’s no point in playing the ‘what if-game’ – I’d just wish things could’ve been different.

Of course my mother told me stories, memories, but they’re her stories. They’re not yours. I wonder what you thought about all of it. I wonder who you were, beneath the helpless exterior. Another truth is that you’re one of the unsullied memories from my childhood. I have carried anger and resentment towards my parents, for not taking better care of me, but you – you were a positive. You never inspired me, but you were good. You were gentle. You were sweet. You covered for me when I fucked up and you worried about me, even when you didn’t have to.

I’ll never forget the floor in your bedroom, where I spent so many hours organizing your box of buttons. It was one of the best toys of my childhood. You had so many, in so many colours, shapes, materials. I loved that box. I was heartbroken when I realized it’d been given to someone else, because it – like you – was an untainted memory. Something true and good in a world I grew up believing to be evil, twisted and insufferable. It was the only thing you had which I truly wanted. You also let me have your magazines when you were done reading them; I’d read the romance stories and wonder if life could ever be so… simple. The answer of course is no, but it was a window into a different type of life. A whispered maybe. You let me cut them up and colour organize the various things, you got me clue so I could make collages. I’d sit on that floor until every muscle and every bone in my body hurt – but I’d feel content. Not quite happy, but almost. And that, to me, was – and always will be – utterly priceless.

You were good to me, and although we didn’t see each other much the last years, you were never far from my mind. You made my life better.

Thank you.

Fallout Diaries pt. 1

Dear diary.

Another day in the wasteland. I’m getting really sick of having sand everywhere and I’ve run out of bandages: There are giant blood-sucking insects everywhere.
Earlier today I spent a long while putting down a Deathclaw in a small, confined area. With a 10mm gun. I can’t entirely explain why I figured it was a good idea, since a Deathclaw can fucking kill me in one go if it gets too close. I saw its handywork on the people who came here before me. I have to hand it to it, it’s very thorough.

I don’t think Piper liked me using her as bait (rather her than me), but she still reacted moderately positive to my flirting afterwards. I mean, she’s not entirely ugly, so why not? – And I helped her out with some personal issues, so I think we’re okay again. I think I’ve made good on her broken leg and the trauma she must have suffered from dealing with its bad breath.

Otherwise I feel really guilty about sending Dogmeat back to my hometown. I miss his furry face and weird sounds. I have to go back soon, so I can tell him hi. Maybe the locals have gotten the two-headed cow out of my bathtub in the meanwhile. It’s a little impractical to have a cow in your bathtub. Also, Preston is having meetings on one of the rooftops.

I don’t get the locals. *shakes head*

Online Availability.

I have a hard time with this concept. The 24/7 being available to other people, no matter what. The way FB is expected to be checked, read, responded to/with/by on the same note as a text or a phone call. The way emails pile up and need attention. The constant and never-ending demand for attention, no matter what.

I find it very difficult. I am not a people person, in general. I have my favourite people and then there is everybody else. I don’t particularly care about everybody else. They’re just not important to me. And even my friends, well, I’m not constantly available for them either.

I know people find me frustrating: They send me a message and I might not check FB for days and thus not reply. They send me a text and I might not see it until I go to bed. Why? Cause my phone aint glued to my hands and it’s on silent when I’m busy with stuff. I am very easily distracted, so I tend to disconnect distractions. If I’m spending time with a friend, I’m spending time with that particular friend. I’m not on FB, texting with friend x, y or z, flirting with cute guy from shop on the corner, checking my email or anything else. We might not be saying much, but they still have my full attention. I might check texts or the likes quick if they go to the bathroom, but the second they come back, away goes the phone. I am old-fashioned enough to expect the same of my surroundings.

Because, honestly, I don’t wanna have a conversation with your phone. I wanna have a conversation with you. The person I made plans with. I’m the exact opposite online from what I am offline; in person I’m engaged, interested, alive. Online I’m short, don’t speak much, reply to needed things but generally have little interest in smalltalk.

I often also choose to watch a movie, read a book, paint or do something else – completely solitary – and still choose not to be connected. I don’t have that need to be connected all the time. To be accessible and able to access other people. But I’ve also learned that in this modern age, my views on this seem to be falling a bit to the side of what’s considered the norm. Oh, and because I’m easily distracted, sometimes I forget to reply to things (I always apologize when reminded. Unless people are being bitchy).

I cannot count the amount of angry or passive aggressive messages I’ve received from people over the years; people who take my choice to not be readily available at any point in time personally. It’s not personal at all. It’s just how I like to live my life. I absolutely get that it can be frustrating to have to wait for an answer; I understand why these people get so upset. I’m just also frustrated that they seem unable to fathom how it’s equally frustrating to me, having people demanding answers and being upset I didn’t answer right away. I am not going to conform: I do not expect any of you lot to change, so please don’t expect me to change either.

It often seems like that lack of response is taunting people; like it becomes a deliberate insult to them, that they didn’t receive an answer within the (by them deemed so) appropriate amount of time. The irony is that the more they deem it personal, the less I want to reply: Send me a passive-aggressive comment and you’re back in the bottom of the pile. Post a passive-aggressive public comment and I will downright ignore you until you stop. Send me a friendly nudge reminding me, however, and I’ll make you a priority. It’s not exactly rocket science.

I don’t owe any of you a reply. It’s my spare time to do with as I please, and I respond to you because I want to. The world won’t end because you don’t get a reply right here, right now.

And if it’s that important: Call. My phone might be on silent, but it vibrates enough to generate a goddamn avalanche, so you’re fairly safe. If it aint that important then chill the fuck out and do something you enjoy. I’ll get back to you when I get back to you and the wait doesn’t make you any less awesome.

Reality hurts.

I constantly have to stop myself from making decisions I’d probably regret. Reel back in, before saying something stupid. Do not push confrontation. Make sure you don’t alienate yourself too much, but don’t be around people all the time either or you’ll snap. Don’t snap at people. Keep your temper in line. Don’t be overly nice either; it’ll make you feel like crap, because you’re pretending. Don’t pretend. Don’t be angry with them, it’s not their fault you’re going through a rough time. Don’t push people away. Do not be confrontational. Do not do something stupid. Do. Not. Do. It.

The eternal repeat. The honest truth is that I have trouble getting out of bed in the mornings. I am constantly on the verge of crying. Just writing this brings the tears close to the surface because it’s touching the infectious part of my psyche; the part where loss is living. Quite well, at the moment. I withdraw into myself because I’m so… angry. And sad. And frustrated.

I’m kind of giving up on the social side, because I don’t know how to deal. People disappear, people die.

I skinpick. I’ve been trying to stop, but lately it’s gone completely overboard. I pick entire patches off until it bleeds. It doesn’t make me feel better and I’m so frustrated with myself, but I’m not okay. I do subconsciously, because my hands are idle and my mind is torn and my heart is broken. And I’m worn out and exhausted and I want someone to take me in their arms and give me a long, hard hug. Tell me it’ll be okay, even if I don’t really believe them. I want someone to care enough to make an effort. To at least try to get past the wall.

I don’t blame them for not trying. I’m just sad. And scared; scared of letting them in, scared that they too will disappear or die. Scared of admitting how scared I am, of how vulnerable I am, of how much I need someone to hold me close and just say nothing much at all. I’m also scared of pushing them too far away. Scared of drawing them in too close. Scared, scared, scared.

And so extremely exhausted. When I don’t have other things to do, I lie in my bed and I cry. I cry my heart out. It was awful when M died and it took me years to just make it somewhat back on my feet after that, and then my other friend committed suicide and that put me back to square one. And I don’t know what to do with it.

I’m just… not okay. I’m spiralling and I don’t know how to stop.

It’s been raining all day. It breaks my heart. I took a walk a little while ago; there’s a half moon on the sky, clear stars, few clouds. I saw one of the wild hares living near my place. It’s all ashes. This, too, saddens me. All of those things used to make me happy.


I feel all warped up inside. I can’t do anything, cause then it’d seem like I just don’t want to help. He’s asked me to go shopping with him and other things too, several times. I am helpless in the face of the world.

I stood outside. If I couldn’t be seen, I didn’t exist. He doesn’t know what it means to be fucked up. Doesn’t understand.

He said that it’s impolite not to answer. As if I’m doing this just to fuck with him. Trying to force some answer out of my already warped mind. I’m bent outta shape and I’m trying to find the way out.

I feel guilty. I feel like utter shit and he wants to get things done and everytime he asks me to do this or do that I feel worse. I am trying to get it together here, even if just on autopilot, cause then I can at least do something to amend the guilt. Spend some of the energy I don’t have to buy a moments peace from the guilt, from him. Eat the food he made, drink the tea, help with the dishes. Brush your teeth and don’t speak (you’ve bad breath, he said so earlier) – it’s the least you can do, it’s all you’re good for. Well that, and fucking.

I can’t stop the thoughts. Logic cannot be applied here. I’m afraid to go home, home to the quiet. I cannot stay here. Time’s up; in 24 hours I’ll be home. Alone. Far away from everybody. Anyone.

I’ve been having suicidal thoughts on and off all day. I looked in the mirror and my eyes were dead.

Deathly Soap Bubbles

Today is really not a good day. I had horrible nightmares all night, spent most of the day in my bed doing nothing. Just curled up, sometimes crying, sometimes staring blindly into nothing. I feel awful. My head is a hot mess, filled with images and thoughts I’d rather not have and definitely do not want to deal with. I can’t find a way to dream myself to another place either. I’m just stuck. Tomorrow will most likely be easier, I know that, but I also know this emotional rollercoaster isn’t over.

On Friday it’s been a year since Christian committed suicide. I still haven’t deleted his number from my phone and his fb profile is still up, too. It’s so hard to reconcile myself to the idea of him being gone; leaving his beautiful fiancé and everything behind. Reality is a bitch sometimes and it was for him too.

Everybody always say that grief gets easier, but it’s been 3 years since Marc died and a year with Christian, and let me tell you, it’s not gotten easier. It’s different now, from how it was then, but it’s not easier. The black empty hole they left behind has not gotten smaller or easier to carry. You just get used to it being there. You get used to the gnawing feeling of something essential missing.

And it’s a terrible thing. To get used to something eating at you like that, every day of your life. To know there’s no going back; only forward, without them. I’ve never met anyone who lost someone important, had them die, say that it got easier with time. It’s one of those things other people say to try and console the grieving party.

It’s meant so well, but it’s also misguided, I think. I lost something of me, too, when they went. Part of me died, too. Part of me that I can’t ever get back.

It’s the bursting of a mental soap bubble. Reality changing into a new shape, forever. It rains and it doesn’t make anything better. Not today.

Tiny Flirt

I flirted with my optician today.

The harmless kind, but a flirt all the same. His name is Jesper and I’ve liked him since the first time we met. I can’t tell if he likes me as a person, or if he’s just that good at being sociable. I’m normally quite good with reading that kind of thing, but this is uncharted territory; I’ve never had a flirt going with someone in a work environment (except bars and stuff, but that doesn’t count). He’s different, but charming. He asked me what my hobbies are today, which wasn’t necessary for what we were checking, but maybe it was small-talk.
Either way; doesn’t matter. He’s sweet and he makes my appointments there quite joyful. It’s completely harmless, like I said, but it’s also nice and funny. He’s a little on the heavier side than what I normally like and he’s typically Scandinavian (blond and blue eyes), which also is not my usual “look”, but he always makes me laugh and I wouldn’t mind throwing him around on the sheets for a while (sorry for the graphical expression). Not that I’d actually be able to move a man of his height and weight anywhere he didn’t want to be moved to.

His name’s Jesper. He used to be in the army for a fair while (he has a lot of amusing stories from his time in there; I never thought anyone could make the army sound amusing, but hey – you live and learn, right?), got tired of it and decided to work with people’s eyes. Because logical transition, right? Nah, but apparently it pays well. And he’s good at it too; he’s been trying me on various brands of contacts lately to find the one that suits me best, and he’s not even trying to sell me on the most expensive brand. He genuine seems to want what’s right for me, what works for me, at the best price (for me).

He makes me awkward and I like him for it. And I don’t jump when he touches me, which is nice. I normally don’t like being touched – and especially not by strangers.

On a different note; I’ve begun playing the first Witcher (think I mentioned; had it for ages, just never got around to it) – I like it so far. I’ve also nearly rewatched all 4 seasons of Lost Girl. Please finish season 5 now, I need to know how this entire weird thing ends.