On Blogkeeping and Changes

The only change that doesn’t change is change. Duh.

I’ve been up to no good, as always when I’m up to something. In the unlikely scenario that you’re a professional stalker and stalk me proficiently, you would have noticed a few months ago that I went sort of off-the-grid. Not because it’s fashionable and the internet is full of it—see the irony? how can you report your off-grid experience when you’re off-the-grid, huh?—but because I woke up one day with the excellent idea to remove myself off of the face of the earth. (Is there any linguist or language user who would explain to me how to use off of? Or is it of off? Does it even make any sense, language-economy-wise?)

This time, I wasn’t thinking of a literal removal of my person from among the living—though it is indeed my favourite image to dwell upon—but a partial removal of my online persona from among the asocial people who socialise online. I’m kidding, as per usual. Or am I? In any case, in a rare moment of deployment of common sense, it occurred to me that since I’m not using the gazillion social media I senselessly subscribed to, I could just as well delete my accounts. Following this logic, I killed myself on Facebook, Twitter, Flickr, Tumblr, Blogloving, Vine (the latter was a step ahead and had killed itself before I did) and probably elsewhere I don’t even remember now.

My blog in 2014 according to the WayBack Machine,  which is terribly wrong about the design

I only kept this blog—should you wonder whether I kept the blog that you’re currently reading, you know—and my Instagram, both of which I hardly use anyway, but anyway. My point is that if you happened to notice me having disappeared, it’s not you—neither is it me; it is what it is. (I understand that a point should be deep, hence the populist and Buddhist crap respectively.) My killing spree also affected the blog as I took down some images that I in retrospect evaluated as too revealing. Keep your pants on, I don’t mean revealing in the good way, as in nudes, but in the indifferent way, as in showing too much of my real-life person, as opposed to my blogging persona.

Please don’t refute this point by arguing that I don’t have a life, less so a real life. I’m aware of this fallacy. Also, no need to point out that once shit gets on the internet, shit gets real; in other words, once online, always online. I’m aware of that, too. My message here is that you may see some images on the blog that you can’t see. See? As in the classic rectangular outline with no content but a cross in it and a message that the image can’t be displayed. Duh. As to the thought of preserving my blog for posterity—though I don’t intend to multiply, so I won’t produce any posterity of my own—the WayBack Machine does this job. Even if poorly, as you can see in the snapshot of my blog from four years ago.

A Quick Log

A Quick Log

Bought a new yoga mat. Nothing wrong with the old one, but the cat needed the box.


If You Must…

Whatever. Here’s my painstakingly hand-crafted happy holiday card.

Dark Violet Snow Flakes Christmas Thank You Card

What D. H. Lawrence (and My Granny) Said

What D. H. Lawrence (and My Granny) Said

We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.

I repeat to myself this D. H. Lawrence quote often. Several times a day, whenever a new sky falls. And skies don’t fall in a good way. Which reminds me of my grandmother, who had a peculiar saying. She probably didn’t invent it, but I never heard anyone else say it. It translates poorly, but it roughly says He who craps himself will have the crapper falling on his head. It means that when you’re in bad luck, you can expect more bad luck. My grandmother wasn’t very encouraging. Here’s a picture of a sky falling.

A Quiet Day: An Apocalypse Is Impending

A Quiet Day: An Apocalypse Is Impending

It’s been such a wonderfully quiet day. No one called me, no one mailed me, no one came banging at my door in the misled belief that when I’m the concierge, I can set their problems and the world to rights.

Only the cat has been disturbing me. She’s excited I didn’t leave her forever after all, as she was home alone the whole day yesterday. So tonight she’s been climbing on my desk when I was working or sitting sullen and awake on top of the radiator, further from me than usual because the human put her big reference book at the cat’s usual spot.

Humans suck. I agree with the cat. This quietness means one thing. An apocalypse is impending. I’m scared to go to sleep. Which is why I’m typing this, in bed, in the dark, with the cat nowhere to be seen, which means she’s up to no good either. Catocalypse is coming. 

I’m Literally Bloody Dying in Here

I’m Literally Bloody Dying in Here

Heyall (my autocomplete corrected heyall to Jerusalem, WTF was it thinking)! I have some news. I’m literally bloody dying here on so many levels (the autocomplete suggests a Bloody Mary).

One, my radiator man is a Godot (I don’t know the word for the guy who does radiators). It’s the second time he promised to show up and was no-show. The bastard is reimbursing me for my electricity bill because my electrical heater is at full blast all day and night, since my regular radiators don’t work.

Two, I’m translating a contract concerning an extrusion line. Don’t ask me what that is. That’s to remain a mystery both to me and anyone who will read my translation. A sensible translation speed for a day’s worth of work is about seven pages. I’ve done fifteen in the last twenty-four hours and have fifteen more to go. Deadline tomorrow. Got the job yesterday. FML.

So what the heck am I doing here (besides dying)? Procrastinating. No, really, I just needed to stretch my legs. So I swung them on the window sill and am typing this in the mobile app again. I might even come to like it. Or hate it less.

If you’re knowledgeable in radiators, extrusion lines, legal English and legal Czech, or one of the aforementioned, come over. Now. Otherwise, send pizza and Oreos. Thanks. I’m off to die.

#nofilter #noedit #dontcare


Remember how I’m either too scared or too nonplussed to leave the flat? Well. I went out. I swear. The venture didn’t even require Lexaurin. Though I was tempted.

I strayed too far from my home and found nature. It’s alright but I’m no way experiencing anything transcendental and becoming a transparent eyeball. 

Right NOW I’m sitting on a bench and too fucking exhausted to go back. Any tips? And no, there are no taxis. I’m so lazy to go back that I’m typing this in the mobile app to postpone the inevitable. Or maybe I’ll just sleep over here.

Here’s proof of me being out and lost.

My Blog Is Freaking Me Out

My Blog Is Freaking Me Out

I get freaked out easily. (Thanks, anxiety.) I get startled by my phone beeping (yes, I realise it’s a common feature of phones), by the cat sleep-whining (I never know whether she’s having a good dream or a bad dream and whether I should wake her up), by a car door being slammed (which is all the fucking time because I live next to a frequented post office).

I’m currently freaking out about my blog. Not that there’s anything wrong with it (well, yeah, it’s all wrong, but that’s old news) but things are getting misaligned on it. My footer widget area couldn’t take any more of my Instagram photos and decided to throw them up all over the place. This is very bad. My OCD disapproves strongly. I know it’s probably one of these things that get fixed on its own, but uh. Look:


I broke the internet

That’s not all though! I have a huge request for you. If you’re not following me, please don’t  do it. If you are following me, please don’t unfollow me (I know you’re tempted but pretty please, mind my mental health). My follower counter reached 2K, and it is a good number. I like the look of it. So if you would, just don’t mess with it, ok? Because it looks so nice. Makes my OCD almost forget the Instagram widget fuckup. Almost. Look how pretty 2K is:

An Extremely Crappy and Crazy Ode to Lexaurin

An Extremely Crappy and Crazy Ode to Lexaurin

Got a panic attack. Took Lexaurin. Then got a panic attack that it’s not working. But later:

Aw, Lexaurin, my happiness pill
You make me feel chill
You make me divine
You’re forever mine
Will you marry me
Til either of us die?

How to Take the Worst Photos Ever

How to Take the Worst Photos Ever

I specialise at taking bad photos. Scratch it. I specialise at taking the worst photos ever. Since the internet is full of how-to articles on taking better photos, I thought I’d contribute with my valuable experience of how to take worse photos. And since I recently blogged an anti-recipe, let’s continue with an anti-manual.

Taking photos that suck something fierce is an art, like everything else. You’ll need to practise it to perfect your skills—but remember that the practice for crappy photo skills consists in taking pictures as little and as far apart as possible. The next you’ll need is to equip yourself with the appropriate gear (the cheaper the better) and to follow a few principles, listed below.

Gear for the Worst Results

Use your phone camera. If you own an iPhone, give it away to that homeless guy at the corner. If you’re serious about worsening your photo skills, you can’t hope to achieve it with an Apple device. Get the cheapest generic brand phone that is available to you. Make sure to treat it poorly. An important warning: never clean the phone lens! When you get your lens soiled and keep it that way, you’ll be always taking dirty photos. Cool trick, right?

Suitable Subjects

Forget about sweeping panoramas and people portraits. These are unsuitable subjects for a photographer who seriously sucks. Pick as lowly subjects as possible: a manhole, a candy wrapper in the gutter, a supermarket floor. Advanced students of the art of shockingly bad photography may proceed to selfies. Be careful though, your selfie must never contain a face! Aim at your feet, hands or crotch. For illustrations of the appropriate method, see examples above.


Cancel your subscription to Photoshop. Forget about Lightroom. Forget about any post-production at all. Your astonishingly bad photos must be presented as-is, #nofilter. Crooked horizons and tilted walls are highly desirable. Once you master the skill of snaps that suck, you’ll be able never to take a straight picture in your life again. If you publish your work on Instagram, don’t forget the elite tags: #random #whatever #icanteven. Happy shooting!