I LOOK SO GOOD

AT THE MOMENT I LOVE LOVE LOVE MYSELF



BALLS, BALLS, BALLS, FUCKERS




Edit (two days later): When did I write this? Was it really me? What the shit?

Spending the night watching porn

It's funny that I actually know James Dean personally. I just spent 2 hours and 5 pages with him. He couldn't believe when I told him he was dead. Maybe he isn't.


To those who've heard about my death: it's not true. It never will be. I'm standing by your side. Just open the book.

Hello

Life is strange.

I'm figuring things out. It's all clear now.

My neck hurts.

I don't know. My nose is incredibly cute.

MÄ ALOIN DEITTIÄ TUIJOTTAA EI TULE TEEVEESTÄ MUUTAKAAN. Oh Gimmel. Oh 2002. Oh childhood.

Strange people (my mother's friends) entered our house and had dinner with us. It was very difficult for me to concentrate on the eating event, so at some point I noticed that I hadn't used my fork at all. I'd been eating like a pig all the time. Then I just kept it up, cause, well, why not?

It's interesting how little my parents tell about me to their acquaintances. They ask me "Do you have any hobbies?" and my mother says "No." It's almost like I'm some kind of family secret or something. I guess it's understandable. I mean there isn't that much to say about me. My parents don't even know how I spend my nights. They have no idea what I'm doing. I like that.

I'm eating vegan kebab at the moment. I fucking love eating. I love drinking too. Someday I'll buy a motorbike.

I'm still living the way I lived as an 11-year-old. I guess I'll never move out of this house.



Literature needs BALLS. Literature needs YOUTH.

So, if you have these things, start writing. Don't wait till you're 35 and "more mature" - ugh.

I've posted this one before (actually just 3 days ago) but I gotta do it again.


Because when I talk about revolution, this is what I mean:

BE a bisexual vegetarian weirdo with weird clothes and a strikingly red hair! FUCK YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


A lesson I learned five years ago. A lesson I'll never forget.

My future is bright.

Considering the fact that I have zero friends, zero lovers and zero phone numbers, no job and no education, I am actually very happy.

Just wait for me. Just wait.

On books and guns

I'm quickly becoming the protagonist of my third novel. (I actually think it's going to be the first one that I get published.) The name of the novel is... um... The Bodies. Or The Dead or something like that. The other two are called Flesh and The Losers. I started writing Flesh almost two years ago. I've had a crush on all the characters ever since. I don't know why, but when it comes to fictional individuals, I'm strangely (and proudly) bisexual.

(^ That song is fucking good, listen to it right now.)

I stopped writing Flesh four months ago. I needed a break. It's an extremely difficult book to write. It's a bit like Atlas Shrugged but it's for and about the good guys. It's so political and weird that I just really need to have fun for a while and write about simpler things like Marilyn Monroe and vaginas and guns and punk rocking 15-year-old girls.


The loser book is another headache. I don't know how to carry it out... It needs to be perfect. The idea is perfect. The plans are perfect. I just have great trouble trying to figure out how to actually write it.


All I know is I really love the people I've created. To me, they are real. They exist. They are my friends, I think about them almost 24/7.


The hero of Bodies is... me, I guess. All my protagonists are angry young men, but this guy is me. (His name is Tommi, or Tommyboy as James Dean calls him, while my name is      .) His life is only a bit different from mine. And now I see myself becoming him, starting to make plans, starting to think about maybe living in a flat exactly like his, doing exactly what he's doing and so on. So that maybe, maybe one night I might just go out for a walk and stumble upon Marilyn Monroe and James Dean.



(James Dean's face is perfect. Or was. Now it's just bones under the ground or I don't know.)

For my future fans reading this right now (your now) in 2018: I will write a book in English some day. I already know the name of it: Letters to Kip Kinkel.

Kip Kinkel: killed his parents, spent the night listening to a movie soundtrack and then went and shot 2 kids at his school. Failed to kill himself. (I'd do that too, but I like my parents.)

To be honest, I've planned out pretty much everything. I have a file in the depths of my computer called notes.docx. At the moment it contains drafts for 16 books. Not all of them are going to actually become books - I'm going to take the best of the ideas and turn them into international bestsellers.



I should go to bed. But it's so difficult. I have too much to do, too much to think about.




Lately humans have been more pleasant than usually. And when people are pleasant, I don't hate this species as deeply as normally, and when I don't hate this species, I am able to be relatively happy.



I've almost written 3 fucking books and I haven't even lost my virginity yet. In fact, I haven't even kissed anyone. I've just sat in my room with a radio, and a guitar that I have no idea how to play. + ridden public transportation sometimes.


I'm a very extraordinary 18-year-old. Most 18-year-olds are boring. I just wanna go and strangle them and eat them.

Not really. Or...?



Stop touching yourself.




By the way: this particular blog has zero comments. Yet I know you're there. So...




THIS is your moment.





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