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Half thundergod, half bear. Large body with stocky legs, lots of hair and much thunder.

You know.

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» Vomit Pt2

Shit and stuff
So my son shat himself. Not that strange, considering he is only two years old, although pushing three. We were playing outside, and I failed to notice in time. As we get in and start removing the outer layers of clothes it becomes much less unnoticeable.

So we start changing the diaper. Him on his back, fairly content and oblivious to the smell and foulness of his doings. The amount of shit would have made a silver back gorilla uneasy. Or on a human scale - enough to desire immediate undo of fathership. He is covered in shit. Shit running on the inside of his trousers even messing the socks. Shit on the back all the way to his neck and both his willy and his navel are covered in brown filth that unfortunately reminds me of the lasagne we had for lunch.

I refrain from running away by utilising all my strength and by using as little oxygen as possible. My son is chatting away, but all I can see is a babbling turd. I face my fears of throwing up. However, had I thrown up at this time, it would probably have ended well and no permanent wounds would have damaged the family structure.

As it happens he has a stiffy - small kids have that for no particular reason and its not really a big deal. Unless off course you have to clean it, because it is brown and it should be pink. I take a deep breath. I carefully clean it - leaning over a little bit to see if I got the bits under it. I don't want to bend it - hell I don't even want to touch it. He starts pissing. A full manly piss that would make me strangely proud if he did it in the garden. Away from me. Particularly so, if he did not do it in my mouth.

A cascade of lasagne escapes my stomach and thunders through my mouth. My gut reaction is to straighten up and back away. Unfortunately that results in me throwing up bulks of digested mince straight on my sons face. So he throws up and starts screaming - a dampened and frightened scream with sounds of bubbles. A sound that will haunt me until the day I die.

I take a further step back and look at the horrors caused by inside human stuff. I step on my wife's feet - she had tiptoed into the room to see how I managed and apparently stood there for a little while. I don't do many diapers and she wanted to see how we managed. Her two favourite boys. But as I am standing on her toes she does what one does when one wants to walk back but ones toes are stood upon.

She falls.

And grabs me from behind.

So I fall. On top of her. Still spewing.

The back of my head hits her nose violently and her nose explodes in a fountain of blood. The nose is broken and we both have a concussion. Not that anyone cares at this point in time. We are busy.

Busy throwing up.

Busy bleeding.

Busy crying.
(Sat 9th Jan 2010, 20:33, More)

» Asking people out

I love you!
Spring is in the air, flowers are blooming, the wind is mild and the gloomy winter is but a memory. Being 17 the main difference from winter to spring, is that hangovers are somewhat disturbed by evil rays of light, shining earlier than the human body of a teenager is comfortable with.

Luckily drapes are invented and my good friend and I were slowly gathering our strength, as the Saturday grew in presence and demanded that we sooner or later went out for more alcohol. Picture us cuddling on a couch in a dark room, our faces lit by the TV screen powered by the content of VHS cassettes. She was a very good friend, and our mutual sexual attraction was limited enough for us to stay friends. I lived out of town and often stayed at her place Friday and Saturday - or her parents place actually. The other options were to find a girl to sleep with, catch the last train at midnight or walk four hours to reach home. Finding a girl would have been nice, but was as likely as finding an honest investment banker. Catching the train often seemed like a good idea in hindsight and memories of walking on the tracks still haunt me.

Our taste in movies was not exactly aligned. I liked Bad Taste and she liked Dirty Dancing. Being to weak to resist I reluctantly accepted that she put on a VHS with her fathers footage of "National Gymnastic Gathering", or whatever is what called. Thousands of girls and boys meeting annually for the purpose of jumping. She had done well, and wanted to show me a sequence or two leading up to her getting a medal. I drifted in and out of sleep for the first hour, and all of a sudden my life changed. Who was that? A drop dead beautiful girl was running and jumping and doing her best to harden me. A sexy goddess.

"That is Victoria", my friend said. And gave me some details - she was in our school as it turned out, one year younger, bit of upper class, very good at gymnastics. In my mind she was already very good at gymnastics. Having known her for almost 10 minutes I felt it was time to act. I borrowed the phone, called around a bit and found out she would be on a certain bar tonight. I went home, showered and wanked and found my best shirt. Called some more friends and arranged for us to be at the bar.

At the bar everything went as planned, except off course Victoria did not show up. Feeling that it was her or nobody, I had no problems in asking some of the other girls to dance - because I did not care, they immediately felt attracted or at least not afraid of dancing with me. I danced a lot and had a pretty good time. Actually I probably danced with more girls that night, than I had danced with my entire life. Suddenly as I turned around, my new found Goddess beamed at me. I have no recollection whatsoever of what was said or done. She said goodbye, and I found my train.

I knew what to do.

I knocked on her parents door at 10am and asked if she could come out. "Thor" ? She said, tasting a little bit on the name - "we danced last night?" I nodded, although I could not remember dancing. "Do you fancy going for a walk?", I said, adding that I was in the neighbourhood for a morning walk in the beautiful spring weather. She nodded. Some people would probably have resorted to well known stalker-avoiding techniques, such as asking how I knew where she lived. Or why the hell I knocked on her door.

We walked. It was indeed a beautiful day. We stopped on a hill, overlooking the ocean. It was a beautiful spot - trees around us and a large opening that formed a window to the ocean. The sun was smiling, birds were singing and the wind was gently caressing us. I looked at her and took her hands. She smiled and looked kissable. In my mind I kissed her, and she me kissed back. I looked her straight into the eyes. I had to say something. Or kiss her. Speaking seemed less scary.

"I love you!"


You know the kind of comfortable silence that exist between couples who know each other well? When they are sitting on the couch, possibly reading, perhaps just sitting. A comfortable silence between soul mates.

It was not that kind of silence.

We were both frightened by the inappropriateness of the sentence. 24 hours ago she knew nothing about me and just this morning she had struggled remembering my name. I on the other hand, had known her for exactly 24 hours.

It was a long and silent walk home. It was also a long week. The words rebounded on the inner walls of my skull, and cold & hot waves of embarrassment washed through me. Next Saturday I pulled myself together and thought what the hell - might as well go down with style. I knocked on her door again. Her parents went and got her. I asked if she would go for a walk, we could go "somewhere else". She understood and she nodded. The three little words were not uttered for the next year, and the episode was not mentioned for three years - but we ended up having a great relationship lasting 6 years.

And yes, the VHS was telling the truth, she was a Gymnast Goddess.
(Tue 15th Dec 2009, 17:03, More)