"We WILL force the Polish to play..."

Monday. Here I am. Indulging in a sad and familiar chemical comedown still lingering from the three days past after-work beer that ended in the usual drunken haze of taxis and underground events. Yes three days past. It's too long ago to expect any kind of sympathy. Well, not that I at any time after this said Friday expected sympathy, especially not from the people I exposed my drunken self too. The drunken-me, oh that horrible nemesis of mine, talking too much and too loud. You'd think a woman of my age would know better!? Anyway. Normally a hangover would pass within a day. But not this time. No, this time I fall head first down escalators on the following Sunday(!) afternoon to shortly after fall asleep at the table at Sunday dinner with my Gran. She's going on 95 this year, yet I sat there envying her and her relentless energy. I hate cliche sayings and quotes but "the youth is wasted on the young" have never been more true.

So just now I arrive home after a day at work, wondering if I maybe should take the window exit to rid the world of another useless waste of oxygen, and suddenly I feel a bit better. Just as my irrational self loathing and pathetic hangover depression is about to leave room for some creativity and constructive thoughts, I make the worst mistake. I decide to look through the pictures. The pictures are not that bad actually... sure, a bit blurry but the lighting was bad and my camera IS a bit dodgy sometimes... surely it wasn't JUST me being drunk. Surely. But then I see the video. THE VIDEO. Man. How on EARTH could my judgement be SO BAD that I actually recorded video of this... mayhem! Why couldn't I just let it be a distant memory, left in the back of my mind to fade with the rest of my nightmarish fragmented images of how I actually act as drunk.

At first I thought it was OK, people seem almost normal. Like slightly tipsy, sure. But not more than usual. Then I realize that shrill, annoying voice babbling incoherently in the background, was me. And from the noise I manage to distinguish the line ..."we WILL force the Polish to play..." whilst I from behind the camera point a wooden sword into the stomach of a poor undeserving colleague.  I then decided I had seen enough. Not only did I have no recollection of the event or what I was actually talking about, who was Polish and why they had to play, I had plunged right back into the misery I was about to emerge from. So now I sit here. And my only comfort is that I can, potentially, move country. And/or do a "Britney" and shave my head. I somehow doubt it will help. I do however have heads in bags for you.

They thought they came from Japan

But they, clearly, didn't. Though you almost presumed they did not come from Stockholm, judging by how they acted. Animals they were, vultures even. Maybe they really believed they were in Japan, or FROM japan. They acted like people do when they know they are in a place they will never return to. Obscene, vulgar and yes, DRUNK. Above all, drunk. So drunk the pure motor skills of lifting a bag over someones head was reduced to lifting a glass to ones mouth. The Bag, however, did not get to enjoy the sparkling juices of France's most overestimated wine district. It barely heard the ringing of glasses as they violently smashed together in guttural, wordless squalls. Neither did it savor even a sip of the almost weightless spirit of Vodka, so desired by all it barely touched the table before it was gone. No, unfair as the world is it instead suffered a weight of approximately 10 winter coats as it sat in the guarded sofa and waited. Yes the sofa was guarded. It has its own guard. The Sofa Guard. He looked unhappy. Looking back I wonder if he really loves his job or if he does it for that shiny guard-pin he gets to wear.

During the evening's early hours, a certain someone DID manage to put his head in the bag. I am desperately trying to trace this person and have spent long hours doing so this weekend. Normally I don't care about the identity of the bag-heads. It is kindof the point even, to NOT know. But this one is special. I have strong beliefs and grounded suspicions that this very person might be Lady Gaga. If the rumors are true I have to send her a letter and ask that she stays away from our parties from now forth. I've never liked her. Plus, she steals way too much attention. cough*hore*cough.

Lady... Gaga? Is it you?

He might not be an actual Ninja, but he sure knows the Ninja-pose.

I have no... words. 

Animals. Truly appalling.  

Its funny, really. I almost got there in the end. How ironic.

It starts again like it started once

The time has come.

Long have the people been left in despair. They have wandered through their meaningless lives in a void of uncertainty and doubt. Will life ever be as glorious as then? Will the time that has been promised ever arrive? I know, because I too have been left there. Is has been limbo, only a mere shadow of what life should be like, never knowing when this veil of darkness is to be lifted from our eyes. But hope prevails, and as long as is does there will be a spark. From this spark my friends, a fire will start. Slowly at first, but steady growing until it consumes our world once more. That fire is now lit, and soon the light can be seen even in the darkest corners on the interwebs.

Head in my bag -is back.

As you all know this all started at a Christmas party. As a real and true atheist I don't spend any time caring for sweet baby Jesus. Though, y'all have to admit Christmas is special. Maybe, just maybe, things DO start to sparkle and jingle bells can be heard in the distance all American coke commercial-esqe. Maybe magic do exist around Christmas. Well, magic or no magic Head in my bag came back to life again at it's 2year anniversary.

If I had a say in the end of Milo it would have involved a virus and then followed by a f-ing epic gameplay of turning innocent people in to zombies with kinect. However sadly, I did not have a say in it. My involvement in his fate and my time at LH came to an end shortly after the cake war. My move from LH back to the Swedish game developer scene did...  mess things up with the blog. At first it was all about time. I simply did not have it. I let it slip out of my hands, lecturing animation at Futuregames and then joining the Fatshark team. I got too excited about our games, Krater and War of the Roses. Eventually, when enough time had passed, I even.... god I feel so embarrassed admitting this, but I guess its a first step... I need to be true to myself... and to YOU, dear fans/celebs/readers... ok here is goes... I got a new bag. Yes. I did that. I am a horrible human being. I replaced  THE bag with another one. It was yellow. And then I went to Japan, and I got ANOTHER one. A blue. It was like I had lost it, the will to live and my self respect. I kept getting new bags, and using them as well. Leaving my one special bag to sit on a shelf at home, all alone, staring in to the hallway of a suburban rental flat south of Knifsöder. But you see, I have come to an insight now. I know. I know what I had to do, and I did it. I begged and pleaded for forgiveness, I washed it, and I gave it flowers. I brought it out for a night on the town and introduced it to my new work colleagues and friends. And then it was like nothing had happened, like time had stood still. We found each other again, and we above all found our true purpose.

Heads. Bags. Bosh.