I have noticed one thing. When it's Christmas, I become increasingly happier because of the fact that some day I will be dead, and all this stupid shit will be over.
What's the point in living when I die anyway? Why do we have to live, even if we are dead most of the time?
What's the point in being happy or collecting experiences? When I die, they won't matter.
Wise people die, stupid people die, rich people die and someone else will inherit their fortune.
Will I ever meet my true love, and if I do, how can I know it's true?
Sometimes I look into the mirror and I am genuinely amazed at my beauty, but then I get sad because I know I won't be beautiful for long; some day I will be old, wrinkly and grey, but perhaps when I'll be 64 years old I will be mature and wise enough to know that things like beauty and youth won't matter, as long as you're happy with your life. I will wear my purple summer hat and keep on truckin'.
My Christmas Eve was pretty much the same as every year. Me and my family went to the Hietaniemi burial site to light a candle on my maternal grandparents' grave, and I had a terrible need to pee.
It was dark, only the thousand candles illuminated the night and everyone seemed to be in the festive mood. When mom laid the candle on the grave, I said, as I usually do; "There are grandma and grandpa, resting in the bosom of the Earth."
There was absolutely no snow on the earth, but I didn't care. As long as it's Christmas, those kind of trivial things won't matter, and besides, I like the grey and bleak weather. It appeals to me rather more than snow. While I miss the winters of my early years, I also like it when I or anybody else don't have to trudge knee- deep in snow or slip on ice, and there won't be power outages or trains arriving late and all around a complete chaos when it snows.
After having the Christmas feast and my parents enjoying a cup of coffee and mince pies, we distributed the gifts.
My dad got the biggest haul. I got only four presents, but I don't mind as it's quality over quantity.
# The book Hytti nro. 6 (Cabin number 6) by Rosa Liksom
# Calendar for the year 2012 as illustrated by the Dutch artist and environmental campaigner Marjolein Bastin
# Pair of off- white pajamas with a pattern of either owls or penguins, I'm not sure
# Three small BodyShop bodybutter jars; moringa, shea and wild cherry.
I have to take a dump time after time because I have been stuffing my face between meals; ginger snaps, mince pies, chocolate and so on.
I started a new diary.
I wish you all a merry Christmas, wherever you are.
For some reason, in my home I feel like I have to do my morning routines in a scrupulous order, I feel almost neurotic about it. And if I don't obey the order, I feel like the whole day is already ruined. Which is stupid because in the evening I don't even remember the whole thing, and besides, in this vast universe those kind of trivial things don't matter.
When I am visiting my parents, I feel like I can do my routines in whatever order I prefer. And I love it, I feel like I am a rebellious teenager again and I can do whatever I please!
It's just that I have a real hate/love relationship with my apartment; sometimes I love it and sometimes I hate it.
It feels like everything around me is covered with a thick layer of boredom, bleakness and sorrow. I wish I could move away from there, but I know that things won't get better.
I guess it just takes a little while to settle in. I guess I have to wait until my apartment starts feeling like home.
I have tried to pep my apartment up a little, placing rugs on the floor and hanging colors on the wall, but materialism doesn't seem to help at this point.
If I had to make a list about the things I hate the most in my apartment, well, first of all I hate the grey linoleum floor. It's such a dull color, and it always seems to be grimy no matter how much I sweep and hoover and mop it.
I also hate the piles of dirty dishes always piling on the counter. Sure, I could wash them up, but I never have the motivation to do it.
Another thing I hate is how no one is ever waiting for me, no one to shout "Honey, I'm home", no one to hug me and welcome me back home. Every single time I return to my apartment, it's always so dark and lonely.
I guess I spend a little too much time inside. I wish I had some place to go, a job or a school.
I could also visit some places during daytime, art shows, libraries, shops and other places, go for long walks or bike rides, but the problem is that nowadays I always sleep late and wake up somewhere at half past two in the afternoon when it's already getting dark.
I hate my life.