Icelandic music makes me horny.
You know what I hate most about people - it’s when they are chameleons, when I see how a person acts absolutely different in front of another person, says something absolutely different compared to what he shared with you a couple of minutes ago. Those people disgust me in a songle mone tif though those couple of minuted ago I felt we had something in common. Not anymore, not now. Sorry, not sorry.
I wish I had time. But I can’t. No one can. It’s literally unbearable.
Having eaten the food I cooked myself I realised - I would marry myself.
So I brushed my teeth with the other hand: everything seemed to change. The toothpaste tasted different, eyes caught the ring on finger, and even the water flow seemed to run in a different direction.
There is something temptingly nice about eating ready-made salads from supermarkets straight form plastic packages with plastic cutlery. No washing needed, no time spent on cooking, served for you as a small portion, the taste is good and it can satisfy your taste immediately. I sometimes catch myself on shopping for this stuff even having a cooked meal back at home, just because it is so fucking special.
Every night when I come out to run, I listen to pretty much same music, going pretty much the same distance and track, but every time it is so unpredictably different. The breath, the stamina, the feet, the muscles, the air - everything. I every night I discover my body, every night i I try to figure out how it works and every night I try to understand its language so that to feel myself better in that body of mine the day after. Every night it’s revelation of the whole universe captured in a beautiful creation that we call a body.