Ved du ikke...

... at jeg sover bedst på højre side?
... at jeg er bange for klovne?
... at jeg altid går op af trapper med højre fod først?
... at jeg ikke kan klare, når nogle filer negle i nærheden af mig?
... at jeg altid hopper over støvsugere, fordi jeg er bange for, at de skal suge mine fødder op?
... at jeg bedst at lide at ligge inderst?
... at jeg ikke kan holde ud at høre på, når folk børster tænder?
... at jeg ikke kan sove med åbent vindue, fordi jeg er rædselslagen for, at der kommer en mand ind i løbet af natten?
... at jeg ikke kan kigge ud af vinduer, når det er blevet mørkt, fordi jeg tror der er nogen, der kigger på mig?
... at jeg altid græder til disney-film?
... at det første jeg tænker på om morgenen, er 'hvad er klokken'?
... at jeg er vild med platte fantasy-bøger?
... at jeg ikke kan lide te, uden 10 sødetappeletter?
... at jeg ikke vil have andre end læreren til at læse mine stile?
... at jeg har en knup i min hovedbund?
... at jeg hader cola, fordi jeg kan mærke, hvordan det ætser mine tænder?
... at jeg nulrer al stof jeg kommer i nærheden af, med min pege- og langefinger?

Men allervigtigst; ved du ikke, at jeg ville ønske du vidste alt dette, fordi du havde tilbragt en masse tid med mig - i stedet for, at jeg fortalte dig det?

Aldrig havde jeg troet der skulle komme et oplæg angående dig. Det havde du nok heller ikke selv. Du ved sikkert ikke engang, at denne blog eksisterer. Eller at jeg gør, for den sags skyld. Dette er en tilståelse til dig, og om andre på bloggen læser den, har intet at sige. Den her er til dig, og alt hvad du står for. På det sidste har jeg været lidt forvirret. Eller, det sidste år faktisk, men det er her på det sidste, at det er begyndt at fylde lidt mere. Jeg er begyndt at tænke;
Jeg ved ikke om det er dig jeg er vild med... Eller om det er tanken om, at vi kunne blive vilde med hinanden, at jeg er vild med.

19 år = ét trin op af alderstrappen, og ét ned af selvtillidsstigen...

Creative writing

Der tages ikke højde for stave- og/eller trykfejl. 

She is lying there next to him. She is feeling her own skin accidently touching his, once in a while, as they are talking. It is one o’clock in the morning. The snow has just started falling outside the window. She loves the snow; it makes her feel like a child again. She excuses herself, lists keen downstairs to watch the snow through the big windows in the living room. She stands there for God knows how long. Short after she hears footsteps. It is him; ‘’C’mon babe, don’t stand there, come back to bed.’’ He reminds her of John Mayer with that sentence. Her favorite song, playing on repeat in her mind, when she misses him. He strokes her lower back as he looks her deeply in the eyes. He kisses her forehead, smiles at her and then finds his way back upstairs. She follows with that ‘I-am-so-in-love’ kind of smile on her face. When she enters their room he is already lying in the bed, snoring a bit. She cuddles herself into him. Apparently he awakes, because she starts to feel his fingers slow dancing on her back. She cannot stop smiling and soon she falls asleep.

She does not know for how long they both have been asleep - or just, for how long she has been asleep. She moves to her own side of the bed and tries not to awake him. As she is lying there she just looks at him sleeping and slowly, without noticing, she falls asleep herself.

This time she checks her watch. It is only 02.16 o’clock in the morning. She must not have slept that long, apparently. She says his name out loud to determine whether he is awake too or not. He answers and asks her the same question. She does not answer; she thinks that is a silly question. She just finds her way to his side of the bed and cuddles herself into him once again. She places her leg over his and her head on his chest. His fingers now starts passing across her thigh which makes her think of another song she loves. There is quiet for a time, but then his rusty, sleepy voice breaks the silence with those magic words girls love to hear;
“I know you’ve never loved your thighs. I know you always talked about how fat you think you are. I know you hate your freckles. And I know you can’t stand those little crinkles by your eyes when you smile. But one thing you do not know, or at any rate seem to not know, is that; all these things you hate about yourself, is what I love the most about you. I love you babe.” He kisses her forehead again. That one spot he knows is the weakest of hers. That one spot that makes her so relaxed and beloved. She does not say a word. He knows that is not a bad thing and just kisses her again. She clasps him to her, looks up at him and kisses his chin. Then his jaw, then his cheek and then she stops. She is looking him right into both eyes. She is holding her breath, for no reason she thinks, blinks once and then kisses his libs. Those libs. Those soft, but still intense, libs that she loves so much. No feeling can ever replace the feeling of him kissing her with those libs. As she is lying there observing the two different colors of his eyes he catches her breath by letting his fingers slow dancing up her back, holding her neck and giving her the best kiss she has ever experienced. 

Nogle gange bliver jeg bare så træt....

Jamen så hold da din lille lorte kæft når du hverken er en skid bedre selv, eller har noget som helst har byde på. Kraftfuck i helvede...

Det er godt nok længe siden nu, hva'? Men nu er det også ved at være tiltrængt.

Der bliver sagt så meget pis. Og skrevet lige så meget lort. Hvis ikke mere. Nogle gange skal man bare holde sin kæft, hvis man ikke har noget har sige. I stedet for at rode sig ud i noget man ikke har en skid styr på. Hvor du alligevel bliver flået op og forhørt bagefter. Derfor er det nogle gange bare bedst, at holde det for dig selv. Så skriv det i din dagbog. Dikter det i din diktafon. Og find det så frem igen en kold vinterdag og krum tæer over hvor satans nedern du egentlig er.