A Wild Old Man Suddenly Appears

I’m officially a terrible human.

At least that’s how I feel.

Have you ever felt like you’ve done something that really isn’t expected from someone of your age, position or appearance?

How about if you’ve done something that checks all three of those things? You’re an adult, you have kind of a respectable job, and you can usually be seen wearing professional attire, looking all serious and shit – would those three things combined make you feel like you need to behave a certain way?

If you’re like me, I’m first of all very sorry for you, but I’m also understanding of your feelings and you’d be happy to hear that I, too, suffer from our society’s expectations of us based on their perception of how we should be, and not of how we really are.

Earlier tonight, me and my girlfriend decided to go to the gym, which we have successfully done quite regularly the latest couple of months in order to not look like two complete bums who watch the entire Lost series in a way too small amount of time.

Usually, this is our routine: we change into workout clothes, head out to the elevators, take the elevator from the 43rd to the 44th floor, walk outside, turn left and walk alongside the rooftop pool*, head up one flight of stairs to the 45th floor, enter the gym, exercise for a while, feel like Johnny Bravo, flex for a while, feel like Johnny Bravo some more, then head back home, and give ourselves a nice, warm pad on the back.

This time, however, was different.

This time, after we changed into workout clothes and headed to the elevator, but before we stepped into the elevator, something… occurred. Something unpredictable. An unforeseen development.

Since my brain is moronic and random, I got a magnificent idea. My brain decided that it’d be great fun if I started to run away from my girlfriend and beat her to the elevator, leaving her to wait for the next one.

I know, I’m hilarious and mature and a true gentleman.

This is when a higher power decided to interfere and punish me for being lame and immature and a douchebag instead of those three nice things I just mentioned.

As I was fully sprinting towards the approaching elevator and the slowly opening elevator doors, excited from my brilliant idea, A WILD OLD MAN SUDDENLY APPEARS out of nowhere.

There he was, quietly and peacefully minding his own business, surely after a long, hard day’s work, counting down the last steps before he opens his door and sets foot in his condo. As soon as the elevator doors opened, there was, right up in his face, coming at him in full speed.

Naturally, he freaked out, made a shocked face and grunted angrily, which kind of sounded like “HAAAUGGHHH!?”, and then just cold-bloodedly stared at me while I tried my best to comfort him and apologise for my sick and childish behaviour. He then decided that he didn’t need my desperate apology and continued to stare at me in disgust while I embarrassingly entered the elevator and watched him watch me while the doors were closing oh so slowly. Had he decided to physically take me down and kick me victoriously in the stomach, no blame would be headed his way.

To sum things up, let’s establish what I have accomplished here:

I didn’t only almost succeed in physically assaulting and attacking an old man, I think I almost gave him a heart attack as a result of my sick interpretation of the concept of fun.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt like such an idiot.


This post was written in October (or something) and it’s been stuck in draft limbo ever since. You’d be very pleased to know that I still haven’t had to share a silent, stink-eyed, tormenting and excruciating elevator ride with this man since that night I almost killed him (and he contemplated killing me for almost killing him).


No, not that stink-eye, this stink-eye:

Could you imagine sharing a minute-long elevator ride with a man looking at you like this without ever breaking eye contact?

Although I’ve seen him around the lobby collecting his mail as I’m hiding from him behind the plants with the mosquitoes in the corners of said lobby, creepily watching him from afar, in pure fear of being confronted.


= brag


The World’s Smallest Violin is Playing Just for Me

“Gratuity”, also known as “tip”, is defined like this:


noun – gra·tu·ity – \grə-ˈtü-ə-tē, -ˈtyü-\

Something given voluntarily or beyond obligation usually for some service; see tip

Example of gratuity in a sentence:

A 15 percent gratuity is automatically added to the restaurant bill.

Related words:

donation, gift, present; bonus, favour, reward; contribution, offering


Today over lunch, I had an interesting discussion with some of my colleagues – NorwayJakarta and the just-now introduced Manila – regarding the insane and somehow also non-existent rules about tipping.

In my world – in an ideal world – a tip symbolises that a paying customer is so satisfied with the service that has been provided for him or her in various situations in life that he or she is willing to pay more than the actual price. So far, it seems like my views are backed up by Merriam-Webster’s definition above. Comforting.

For instance, people I think we’d all happily agree deserve a nice tip, if good service has been performed, could be:

  • Waiters and waitresses in restaurants who actually know stuff about what’s on their menus, and can recommend good shit that go together nicely with other good shit
  • Non-jerk cab drivers who don’t rip you off, drive comfortably, and know the quickest way to your destination
  • That hotel dude who’s struggling to carry your ridiculously overpacked and intensely heavy bag up to your room. Also, every time your bag is ridiculously overpacked and intensely heavy, the hotel in question is almost always not really a hotel, but a resort or another establishment that doesn’t really believe in elevators

These cases are normal, tip-wise.

But, there’s a major dependent variable here. Let’s consult the homemade equation I just made up to see if we can find it:

Service Performed + Nicely Done = Tip is Deserved


It would seem like a tip is appropriate only when a service has been performed in a nicely (satisfactory) manner.

But wait, there’s more.

The Plot Thickens

If you remove the Service Performed part of the equation, there wouldn’t be any need for a tip – in fact, there wouldn’t even be anything to tip.

It would also seem like the Nicely Done part is significant, because a service performed just for the sake of performing it would mean that the person performing the service has barely put in any extra effort in making you, the customer, feel extra satisfied and inclined to reward him/her.

If you go to your barber or hairdresser and they greet you with a smile, make pleasant, comfortable conversation while you’re just awkwardly kinda sitting there while their touching your hair, they offer you a water or a coffee, and they give you solid recommendations regarding styles and products, they would sure as hell deserve a tip. They’ve not only done their job, they’ve done it in a very impressive (“nicely” on steroids) manner. Tip fucking deserved.


Continue reading “The World’s Smallest Violin is Playing Just for Me”

Roaches: Roaches Everywhere

Pre-post note #1: Ugh. It happened again.

Pre-post note #2: This post is about my never-ending feud with the titular freaks, otherwise known as cockroaches. I’ve encountered these assholes on three occasions in my Bangkok condo, and this post is a result of encounter number two, a few days before Christmas. However, the post never got published and sadly ended up in development limbo. Until today, just now, after encounter number three.


A few weeks ago, I was out for a business dinner and had a few drinks. This little detail will prove vital later in this post. I came home, headed to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth before going to bed, and decided to give my teeth top priority.

Now, I didn’t wanna wake up my girlfriend, so I had to leave the lights off. Why couldn’t I turn the lights on, you might ask? Well, our bathroom is surrounded by glass walls, with a large part of the walls being frosted. So, if I turn on the lights in the bathroom, it would light up the entire bedroom as well, and wake her up, since the bedroom and bathroom are wall-to-wall.

Luckily for me, one of the walls in the bedroom is entirely made out of windows, so the neighbouring sky-skrapers and their neon lights were more than enough for me to brush my teeth. While I’m making my dentist proud, I see something very unpleasant crawling in my peripheral vision.

It’s a roach.

A hideous, disgusting, creepy-looking roach, all up in my space, zig-zagging on the bathroom countertop.

This was encounter number two.

I’m not afraid of roaches – or other large, intruding insects for that matter – but I sure as hell don’t like them, and I definitely don’t approve of their presence in my home.

I kinda have a GTFO-type of approach to these foul creatures.

When I was living in Guangzhou, China a few years ago, I was having loads of them in my room (which I shared with a Chinese-North Korean dude) and got kinda used to their presence.

This was back in 2011, I was there for five months, and my rent was 300 RMB (Chinese Yuan) per month, which would be 45 USD per month in today’s currency equivalent. Ridiculously cheap, I know, but there wasn’t anything luxurious about the place, and it was evidently crawling with roaches.

Very often, I’d be standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth or taking a shower, and I’d see a complete family of roaches somehow squeeze their exoskeleton bodies through the smallest cracks imaginable in the walls. Then they’d stare at me for a while, make me feel like was bothering them, silently judge my naked, showering body, and then squeeze their asses back inside the wall. After a while, both parties would sigh in defeat and greet each other with a casual “Zup?” and continue to go on with our lives.

Other times, I would open one of my drawers where I had my cash and other valuables, and I would find another sweet family of roaches lurking there. Apparently, they had been sleeping, and I happened to wake them up. They’d freak out and I would then close the drawer to give them some space, wait for a few moments, and then open it to now find it empty.

The point I’m miserably trying to make here is that I wasn’t freaked out so much about their presence back then, since I saw them so often. Here in Bangkok, they visit me more sporadically, catching me by surprise every time. I’ll tell you more about my amazing time in China in a future post.

So there I was, brushing my teeth, and there it was, looking me dead in the eye, violating its rights. I, feeling very confident after having a few drinks earlier, seized the opportunity by taking some paper and scooped his ass up, and flushed him down the toilet. I would never have the balls to take him with my hands had I not been a little tipsy. I know I’m lame, but that’s the truth.

The last time a roach invaded our apartment – encounter number one – I used the vacuum cleaner to get rid of the creep. This particular vacuum has no paper bags that need to be changed, but instead has one of those boxes that you just take out and empty. Very convenient. At least until I went to the garbage room in the corridor, opened the big trash can, took out the box and opened the lid, turned it upside down, prepared to shake the intruder out of the box, only to catastrophically fucking drop the box down to the bottom of the filthy, disgusting, now roach-infested trash can.

I was already sweating like I’m in a sauna, but this horrible turn of events took it to the next level. After I summoned a little drunken courage, I managed to retrieve my box from the bottom of the trash can and headed back into my condo and took one of the longest, most thorough showers anyone has ever taken.


Encounter number three, just 30 stressful minutes ago, was very similar to post-provoking encounter number two, but with the outcome of encounter number one. This was the biggest fucker by far.


Today I did a little research (just like I did that other time a roach decided to say hello to me). Once again, I discovered that one roach is almost always evidence that there’s anything from 100 to 1000 more roaches lurking inside the pipes, in the walls, or elsewhere in the vicinity. This is incredibly upsetting.

Since I’m a dumbass, I decided to google roach infestation, which is one of my most moronic ideas ever. Since I’m such a nice guy, I’ll just leave a link to these horrifying images instead of posting an actual image here. Happy New Year from me.


Speaking of bugs and their level of disgustingness, I can’t help to wonder why almost everyone on this planet think they are repulsive. I could understand why people are afraid of snakes and spiders, since they are potentially poisonous and lethal, but roaches? Sure, a cockroach doesn’t look very appealing, and, yes, it can carry diseases (but not necessarily), but I’d bet that it is more afraid of me than I am of it. Still, it’s super-icky to approach them, touch them or even look at them. But why is that so?


Could it be that, earlier on our evolutionary road, we didn’t have the proper knowledge to separate a potentially lethal bug from a harmless one, and we developed this “fear” in order to avoid all kinds of bugs to avoid getting bit and die?

Sounds logical enough for me.

They Didn’t Get the Memo

Also, roaches, along with spiders, houseflies and other annoying beings, apparently haven’t got the memo that conveyed that humans are atop of the food chain, and that we are to be avoided, for the sake of everyone involved. I don’t have to freak out and they don’t have to die horrible deaths.

Another thought regarding these terrible creatures – imagine if you could make a roach large enough to be five meters long and three meters high, instead of five centimeters long and three centimeters high. What would you get? You wouldn’t get a terrifyingly large roach, no, you would get an actual monster. The same can’t be said if you’d do the same with a dog. It’d still be a dog, only large.


In a total dick move, I’m gonna end this post with some disturbing facts about roaches I found in my research; facts you’d probably be better off without knowing:

Roaches can live without their heads for about five weeks;
they can endure droughts and starvation;
they can take about 4x radiation as humans can (lethal doses);
and they can of course loose all limbs and still live on.


I need to have a serious talk with the guy who invented these fuckers.


By the way, Norway left Bangkok for Norway over the Holidays, and had given me the keys to his apartment. I guess he figured I could check on it while he’s away, but now, in an insanely unpredictable plot twist, knowing a shit-load about roaches, I might go all scumbag and casually throw in a Big Mac and a half-eaten apple in his bed, to attract some oily, antennae-wearing visitors.

*Evil laughter*

But, no, I could never do that to another person.

Or… could I?

My Visit to a Store Called Pink Pvssy

Hello, there. I’m now kind of exactly six months into blogging, and it’s probably safe to say that I’m a pretty infrequent and irregular blogger. Although, I still like to write complete gibberish and utter nonsense on this site every now and then, and I don’t mind sharing the inevitable head-scratching observations a 20-something Swedish man living in Southeast Asia is bound to experience. And I’m still trying to maintain an anonymous identity, living under the impression that anyone would really give a shit.

Anyway, I don’t really have a general goal, aim, direction or ambition with my blog other than that it’s fun to write, to interact with other bloggers in the blogosphere, and to read other bloggers’ stuff. That being said, I still have some topics I would really like to explore in the future; for instance, some science-related posts, faith-related posts, posts about religion and the meaning of life, about human relationships and our oftentimes questionable and ridiculous behaviour. But since those topics are kinda serious and take a lot of time to write, let alone to research beforehand, I’ve been pushing them further and further into the future since I don’t wanna ruin them. Also, I kinda want future-me to worry about those posts and leave present-me free to resort to other, pointless activities. The posts I’ve written so far, I’ve written kinda spontaneously without really thinking. So, until I decide to start to write like an adult about important things, you’ll have to deal with my braindead topics and ho-hum posts.

Today’s one is a new low. Here we go.


So there’s a store called Pink Pvssy

Just before I started to write this post, I had made some scaldingly hot, massively boiling tea. I poured it into a cup, put it next to my bed, got into my writer’s position, placed the laptop in my lap, and reached for the cup.

As soon as my finger surrounded the ear on the cup like a snake with an epic chokehold, I, for some reason, regretted my decision and immediately pushed the glass away from me. Then, while letting go of the cup, I regretted that decision, and unintelligently decided that, yes, I wanted the tea after all. Obviously, I made a wonderful mess, stained the new, white bed sheets, sighed in defeat while life was laughing at me, and briefly pondered what I really had accomplished so far in my life.


I’ve mentioned that I’ve lived in Thailand for some time now – one year and six weeks to be precise – and I’ve kind of hinted that it could be a pretty strange and freaky place if you’re not born and/or raised here.

You want an example? I thought so.

While following my girlfriend around like a dog on one of her insane shopping sprees, we found ourselves inside an accessories store disturbingly and unexplainably called Pink Pvssy.

Yup, this is it.

Not only is the name absolutely ridiculous, the store was also in possession of some really, really weird merchandise. In no particular order, here are nine:

Continue reading “My Visit to a Store Called Pink Pvssy”

Cowspiracy: The Eye-Opener

Last weekend, me and my girlfriend watched this movie documentary called Cowspiracy; a documentary about the food industry in general, but the meat industry in particular, and its effects on the environment. The movie was truly interesting and kind of eye-opening, and have famous environmentalists such as Leonardo DiCaprio serving as producers in one of the new cuts.

Surprisingly, if you’re not very much into that stuff already, the effects from the meat industry worldwide is pretty much the bad guy when it comes to global warming, not CO2 emissions. Like a very old, senile man, I’ve forgotten the exact figures, but I’d guesstimate that the movie made clear that the meat industry is a 60-something-percent contributor to global warming, as opposed to 14-something-percent represented by various gas emissions. In other words, if we, as a human species, really want to save our planet from global warming and its inevitable consequences, we need to stop supporting the meat industry and really don’t give the reduction of greenhouse gases any priority.

It isn’t particularly surprising that I – and I’m certain most of you as well – didn’t know about this, since we’re constantly bombarded with the “emissions of greenhouse gases are the only villains in this horror movie and we need to reduce those emissions, like yesterday, or all our cities will become Atlantis before we know it” propaganda from the media.

Also, even though I’m pretty sure most of us don’t really know how and what negatively affects our environment the most, I’m at the same time damn sure that most of us, in the back of our heads, know that there are some freaky shit going on when we grow our livestock, and how badly the animals are often treated – even though the label states “ecological”, “sustainable”, or something with the very trendy word “green”. 

For instance, I’ve always kind of known, deep down, that the meat I’m ordering in Burger King, McDonald’s, or even in the local restaurant around the corner, is probably filled to the brim with various conservatives, additives and antibiotics – but I’m still ordering it, looking the other way, and ignoring this horrible fact. For instance, did you know that it takes over two-thousand litres (over 500 gallons) of water just to produce one hamburger? Insane. And here I was thinking that cutting down on shower-time would help. Continue reading “Cowspiracy: The Eye-Opener”

A Scary Realization: This is how Much Time You’ll Waste in a Lifetime by Doing Completely Normal Things

Last Saturday, I was going to a friend’s house for dinner. A dinner that I was supposed to prepare because of a bet that I had lost to him. The bet was that my friend––let’s call him Norway––was gonna bench press 80kgs in one rep. Since Norway has the physique similar to a small tree branch, I, along with all my co-workers, were overwhelmingly confident that he couldn’t pull off this relatively incredible feat. Much to our surprise, he managed to do so––not only once, but four times. Norway wins.

He decided that I should cook a meal for him.

I casually mentioned this bet to another friend––let’s call him the UK––and he immediately became wide-eyed and excited, and wanted in on the whole cooking part of the dinner. The UK apparently loves to cook, and knew about this gargantuan meat market and decided to go there, buy a shit-load of food, and then prepare it on Saturday, starting from 1pm. In other words, the UK wanted to go all in and cook a world-class meal for not only me and Norway, but also for ten other people, a process that the UK thought would take seven hours to prepare. The bet had now gone over my head, and I was smirking joyously when I superbly delegated it to the UK. Considering my debt to Norway being paid, with a little international help, I was happy. Norway should certainly feel pleased that he got a whole three-course meal prepared for him––I reckoned––instead of whatever I would’ve come up with (I hear McDonald’s have excellent take-out). You might argue that I got off the hook too easily, but I consider myself the broker of this awesome dinner feast. If the host is Norway and the chef is the UK, let’s call me the Puppet Master.

Anyway, back to the point of this post.

So I was on my way to Norway’s house last Saturday evening, and chose taxi as my mode of transportation. Brilliant idea––especially when this is oftentimes the case when I decide to use public transport:

Only all the time. I’d be the tall, goofy-looking guy, otherwise known as Kramer. (Source)

Continue reading “A Scary Realization: This is how Much Time You’ll Waste in a Lifetime by Doing Completely Normal Things”

The “I Want No Spray” Comeback Post

It has been a pretty hectic time for me since my last post. I went back to Sweden for a few weeks, visiting family and friends, which was really nice. I was delighted to see that my brother had stocked up on Sriracha, which I deliciously poured down my throat. Then I came back to Bangkok in the beginning of August, where work has taken up a huge chunk of my time––even more so than before––leaving me with barely no time at all to continue to write these insanely inspiring and intelligent posts for you, my loyal readers. I know you have missed me, and I have missed you too. But now, to everybody’s happiness, I am back with another glorious episode that happened recently.

Let’s go.

My Norwegian colleague, and sadly also friend, felt quite under the weather the other day. His nose was running, his throat was soar, and he just felt kind of shitty. I’m still not sure if this is an effect of simply being Norwegian or if he had caught a cold, but one thing was certain – he wasn’t feeling like a million dollars.

Impulsively, he rushed to the drug store in order to buy some goodies. He came back up to the office and looked disappointed and confused as hell, with any goodies being painfully absent, thus causing his rather sad puppy-looking facial expression. With a breaking voice and one single, manly, Norwegian tear starting to pour down his cheek, he explained that the staff at the drug store didn’t understand what he meant when he desperately said that he wanted some “nose spray”. Continue reading “The “I Want No Spray” Comeback Post”