A broken neck

I hadn't ridden my bike in 14 and a half months. But today I did it again. Actually, it's my mother's old bike. It has flowers painted on it. I don't care. I love it. I rode it on the dark streets, singing Girls Just Want to Have Fun, and that's the happiest I've been in a very long while. I sang some Elvis too, of course. I'm going to stop walking and replace that with cycling.

I noticed that I'm faster and stronger than 14 months ago. It was all so easy. Lord knows why. Is beer a steroid? A bus drove by that said 'karaoke bus' and I thought that that's something that I'm going to get on sooner or later. Mark my words.

Would you like to know how I'm going to die? Of course you do. I'm going to die riding a bike. There's something fucked up about the way I do it. It's dangerous and awful, and wonderfully intoxicating. One of these days I'm going to think "That guy's gotta stop... He'll see me" and 3 seconds later I'll be dead. A broken neck. Multiple fractures. Massive internal injuries. Tragic. I'm going to try to get everything important done before this happens! 

I had genius when I was 16. Now there's a new genius forming in my head, and one of these is going to kill me if the bike doesn't.

The Sundays have disgusting songs that seem to exist solely for the purpose of showing off Harriet Wheeler's adorable voice. One of the worst (the best) examples of this is this:

I can understand if someone finds that annoying. Personally, I find it adorable, of course. Some annoying things are very adorable. Puppies are very annoying, if you think about it. Jesus, I love puppies. So much. One of these days I'm going to be famous and Harriet Wheeler is going to find all this stuff I've written about her voice and she's going to sue me and take all my money. That would be so adorable. Why exactly would she sue me? Is she nuts? I think she's going to write me a letter:

Dear "Olli Brander",

Please leave me alone.

Best wishes,

Harriet Wheeler.

I found the perfect boyfriend for the girl I love. Now I'm going to bring them together. That's a happy ending for everybody.

If by any chance you, the person reading this, happen to be a girl looking for a physically unappealing boy who hates nearly all normal things, doesn't tell you anything but expects you to tell him everything, is horny but too neurotic to have sex, and turns everything into a problem, please do let me know.

Being famous in Finland is like being popular in school. It's an illusion. Step out of the building, and nobody knows who you are. Of course, all fame is an illusion if you realize the size of the Universe.