Another year gone by.

And suddenly another year has passed by.
Parents calling and singing Las mañanitas in phone. After another day in the library with my beloved group (spending two hours debating a name for our paper, another hour doing the final last reading through, and four hours making the last changes), handing in The Falklands war and stepping out in the sun for pizza, wine and tiramisu. Raspbery- mojito at Deabaser with fina Matilda follows. Get home to find a book from dad in the brevinkast. Mig äger ingen. "En storartad kärleksförklaring till en pappa som älskade sin dotter över allt men ändå inte räckte till", it says on the back. Inside it an out-torn page from his old sketchbook for math-formulas with congratulations. My dad who still thinks of himself as an old-fashioned vänster-proggare would rather write congrats on toiletpatper than sink to level where he buys a glitzy birthday card. Out of pure principles. It still manages to produce a tear in my eye. "Många graulationer på födelsedan. Riktig present får du i Götet! kramar P."

I then proceed to walk around in circles.

Yes, that is actually what I did (Berndtsson, 2008: 31f). I'm officially going nuts (ibid). I woke up and started writing about the Falklands war. At 10.30 I went to the library to research the Falklands war. I went home at 19.30 and continued with the Falklands war. I ate. I continued with the Falklands war.
My professor says we're close to getting the grip of it when we start dedicating all brainfunctioning to the cause. Sleeping should be no exception (Kirkegaard, 2008: 86f).
I went downstairs to wash something. I continued with Falklands war.
I then proceeded to walk around in circles.

All work and no play

I'm not usually gnällig. I'ts such an ugly word. But these days, I allow myself to be. What good is the sun if you're sitting inside a library, studying about yet another conflict, or if you're supposed to be ledig but working instead, serving the ones who are lediga? I hate everyone who's not working. I hate the ones with normal 9-17 hours, who gets their weekends off. I hate everyone showing off their tan, cause all I have is a red nouse. I hate my parents who call me at 9.00 in the morning on a Saturday and say: "Ah, working? Ok, but we'll talk to you later. Not tonight cause we're going to the theater". I hate the fact that I'm never free. Is this the blossom of my youth? Is this what I will look back on and say: "Ah yes, those were the days, I remember them like yesterday. I ususally sat on the same spot in the library every day but then came weekends and I went to work. But every now and then, like one day every two or three weeks I got a day off so I could do my laundry and clean. Yes, those were the days".

Those days, when the ones wich are not study-days, are work- days, I take pleasure in the strangest things. I like the fact that I am sitting at Gäddan one monday until 23.45 and hand in my paper by midnight. I like getting out of school and everything is not illuminated but dark and I like biking over the bridge looking out over the sea on my way from campus. I like leaving school at that hour because it is my one chance to feel wild and crazy.