Toy dogs stealin' our women!

I’m worried.

Now, if only I was a black Jewish communist lesbian…

Out of the blue comes a flapping. Like a large pile of paper being swept away sheet by sheet. My brother, who was in my room at that point for some reason, probably something to do with Super Paper Mario coming out later than expected, or maybe about why .Mac sucks or something like that. It’s always pretty much the same.

Usually when a gust of wind moves the blinds, the flapping sound is not as loud. Not even remotely as this. My brother just told me to ignore it, “must be the neighbors.”

“The neighbors doing what?”

He didn’t know. Of course, even if they were rubbing aluminum foil on the door, it wouldn’t be as loud as this, and besides it didn’t sound as if it came from outside at all.

I searched the living room. No metal blinds there. I looked at the dining table, and there it was, on the window sill. A pigeon.

The window consists of three main parts, three panes, the middle being about the size of the two other panes put together. The panes were split into a tiny window on the top and a significantly larger bottom section – altogether six parts each individually re-sealable. This style is extremely common in Denmark.

The bottom right window was open, and the hook was anchored to prevent the wind from closing it. The breeze was pleasant and somewhat cold. It must have flown in through the open window, and since it doesn’t understand the concept of glass, it didn’t realize that the other panes were, sadly, closed – sealed even.

Poor thing, flew in, and bumped against the window. The flapping noises as I soon realized, came from its futile attempts at flying out the sealed window. It’s not going to figure out how to get out any time soon.

My first reaction to this rare sight was of course, running back to my room to get all the cameras I could find. That is, my camera phone and my Canon SLR film camera, which was fortunately already loaded with about 17 frames of good black & white Kodak film.

In the meantime, it kept on trying to fly out the window.

“Come here, you have to see this!” I yelled to my brother, who stayed in my room.

“What is it?”

“A bird.”

At that point I heard the door slide and shut with a loud thud. Unlike me, he wasn’t very happy, and decided that as a precaution, he better lock himself in my room. At least I had my camera with me.

At that point I declared that bird as officially, “cute.” Under its new status, it was protected against cruelty and had to be photographed.

The poor thing had to go though, I just had to do something. Not only because my brother locked himself up in my room in panic insisting I get the damn thing out.

At some point I stopped throwing bread-crumbs at the bird, and decided to take the broom from the kitchen and show it the way out.

Not that I specifically wanted it out, I didn’t mind it being there, not at all. But then again, it saves me a lot of dealing with my brother, who refused to get out and started screaming at the top of his lungs for me to get it out.

After some wrestling with the bird, it was standing outside the window with its back to me. I reached out for my film camera on the table, and took the last few shots of the pigeon. Portraits, I was practically half a meter away from the pigeon, taking photographs.

I was out of film, and so I reached out for my phone, but by the time I turned to look at the table, I heard again, the flapping noise, and the bird was gone.

It so appears that our dear old tyrant back in Iran is very willing to press the big red button at any moment. Mutually assured destruction my ass, he’s gonna do it if he feels like, he’s a little insane.

Does he really have nukes? Is he going to anytime soon? I sure do hope he doesn’t.

I submitted it to icanhascheezburger.com, and the next day, there it is.

In other words, I’d really hate to be a tax-paying citizen knowing that there’s a few people who live on my tax money and are not retards, crippled nor disabled. In other words, don’t deserve it.

If I could point out anything in general I don’t like about Denmark, I would definitely say, “those damn royalists.” Denmark’s great, sure, but with the exception of one tiny little problem.

It occurred to me that I could just steal a photo of Mary online and add a funny little caption to show my disgust, etc.

They have no political power at least, which I’m happy about.

For instance, one time the answering machine picked up some message, quite sad as a matter of fact, of some girl almost breaking into tears telling the answering machine about something, which sounded as if she got stood up or something by some guy (grammar gave it away.) didn’t move me really, she wasn’t all that coherent, but the “acting” was good, certainly.

And then there’s this one time somebody called to find out the prices of different types of blocks, “combining blocks” or whatever he called them. So we had a conversation about blocks all the while I pretended to be this company in the block-business. Fun. I learned a lot about different types and colors of blocks, helpful stuff.

Oh, at some point somebody (whom I did not know at all) managed to find my answering machine’s password (must have left it on the default?) and recorded the same message, only in their own voice. Retarded if you ask me. So I had to signal them that I knew this was happening all the time, and so I said something like “and fuck the asshole who changes this message.” At that day, my aunt called and failed to pick up the phone. We never spoke about that incident later.

And then there’s those “wrong number calls” (or messages) that put some sort of hope in you. And so it happened that at around 2:00 am last Saturday, just as I was brushing my teeth, I felt the vibration of the phone in my pocket. On-off-on, on-off-on, seems like a message.

I took the phone out of my pocket, with the hand that wasn’t busy with the toothbrush, and looked at the message. Curious text: “Love you…”

I checked the number, +46, a Swedish number. The number ended in 19. So I sat down and made a list of people I know with Swedish numbers, crossed out the ones that didn’t have my number, or where not likely to ask for it, or that didn’t have who to ask it from and stayed with just one person. I will use a pseudonym to hide that person’s identity. Kizuki.

It made no sense, for one, Kizuki was male. That is not to say that I would find it problematic, no, it was the fact that he was straight that stuck me peculiar. And then also there was the fact that he in Japan for the holiday as far as I knew. He could have gotten my number, had he wanted it. No, it wasn’t him, that wasn’t his number.

It could have been Moruku, but he doesn’t actually know my number, I don’t recall giving it to him at least. No, not him either.

I could have left it at that, but seriously, would I? Of course not!
So I turned the nearest computer on, and started sniffing around Eniro.se. Apparently reverse lookups were not a problem in Sweden, but since I wasn’t familiar with the Swedish phone system, it took me a while to realize that 57 was in fact 057.

It all boiled down to some Swedish dude named Kai. I didn’t know anyone by that name, nor did I know anyone who lived in the outskirts of Sweden really, not in that remote a location anyway.

So then I decided, he just got the wrong number. Such a shame.