What makes Zambia worth while:

I have come to love this weird shabby place, it is fantastick at night :=)

it is possible to have fun in Africa, it is possible to have and good life and party all night at shabby clubs that just, somehow, are marvolously amazing and at least as good, (if not somehow better) as anything European.
justification/personalization:
the night between thursday and friday i slept 2 houres... it was fantastic. waw, i feel like im the only person who understands the full point of nocturnal-ness. staying up late is purely and simply incredible.
after eating my self-prepared sushi friday afternoon, and again attempting to start Romeo and Juliette, i went to sleep, and only woke up in time to quickly strap on my heels and pack my bag before leaving the house, late late,late as always...
next thing, i was eating weird spicy, minty things at an indian resturant (there was no time to get away the breath of the garlic i stuffed in my sushi - i hoped this could do the trick)
to save money for drinks and shots we didnt eat at the resturant, we went outside and lay on the grass along the half sement, half dirt road in the middle of nowhere in Zambia's capital, lusaka. we hoped that nobody in the cars driving by recognised us, the international population of lusaka is so scarce, so everybody knows everybody here, and usually, parents dont exactly appriciate their angelic children wondering around the dark scinister streets of africa, besides, our sneeking-out plan would only work if our parents actually didnt know where we were at.
finally, we became tired of shivering and decided it was late enough to procede...just as we got up for a taxi, we heard the well known honk of a bypassing car, indicating our wishes had been answered...
we should have waited longer by the resturant, arriving at a club at 9, as almost the only people there, is not cool.. by 10.30, people finally started dancing, which we had been impatiently awating since our first drink-round.
the cool thing about the international population being so scarce is that when you arrive at clubs like these, you know about 80% of the people there, and get to know about 7% more as the night commences. and its not lame at all, for some reason, your school-mates become these incredibly great people when you go party with them.
as the new group of girls there (people usually start going out in grade 10 - which is us - , so we are basically towards the younger end of the age group) one cant help but getting attention... this mostly just gets you the reputation of being slutty, yet i never saw the crime in dancing... and free drinks never hurt anyone. it is great to get to know everybody at the place, and they really, really are so nice people...
we over slept the next morning, my dear friend didnt hear her alarm. at 6.35 we panicked, hurried out of bed, restored the guest hut we had crashed (to avoid the issue of a curfew) to its old self, smsed our friend goodbye who was sleeping inside the main house, his main house, and sneeked out without getting seen by the parents.
it is incredible feeling to walk along an african road in the early morning hours. it felt superb. if you have ever watched the music vidio to full moon (the black ghosts) this was what it was like... after a good walk, we arrived at the local shopping center and drank tea for the remainer of our money.
since my friends parents believed their kids had been sleeping over at my house for a girls night, they came home with me, so they could be picked up from there and the aliby could hold...
3 girls lying by the pool, cahtting lazily about the nights events, still sleepy after the few houres of rest, eating clocklate for breacfast...
after they left, i downloaded music and ate guacomole with my fingers.
waw... :D:D:D
this is the good part f my life; now it becomes less exciting. the rest of my weekend shall as always pass with me going homework that i end up not finnishing, for monday, not mush else... there is so much... !

i am scared of being deep, and terrifying of not being.

i just rented "romeo and juliette" from our school library. i really, really want to read it... but as i sat down in the sun, with the book between my hands, i could not concentrate, i had no interest. i so badly want to stop reading pointless novels and enter into this world of inlightnment and boks with oppinions, i really want to be deep. deep deep deep. i want oppinions on things, i want to understand the world better, and i want to weave clever phrases in between my words, be somone with something to say.
as i read my latest issue of elle, i fell over an interveiw with some designer (i couldnt care less about the designer, but his/her witty answers were rather intriuging) here, i asked myself one of the questions demanded of the designer: what do you find hardest to forgive?
after a while, the answer came to me: unscencerity. when people dont mean what they do, and their actions don't matter to themselves. i think i will respect any action as long as people really meant it. as i explained to my english table: i, in theory, wouldnt be mad if somebody hurt me, as long as they really meant to hurt me, and were sure this was what they wanted.
the thing is: i dont know what i want, i am scared that i am not scenciere enough in what i do, for that is what i admire the most.
so i will return to my "romeo and juliette" and books on poetry, and do my homework, maybe.

what if rain drops didn't like falling?
and what if my hands would fly forever? and never look back,,, would i fly too?
and so what if i didn't fly although the wind was pushing me and my mind needed spaciousness?,, and my heart was turning very red?

contents of a mind at exacty one minute till midnight.

my mind is a very content blur of the muse, words i read to myself of my previous blog and the scilence of night.
i swing my head around a bit and am reminded of last time i heard the song... i was also swinging my head around then... just my sight was a bit blurry and i was dizzy but in great company that only improved as the night took over,,, god i miss dk

ive begun to stare obsessively at every male that passes me's shoes. im especially a big fan of those black brown boring buisness shoes. they are nice as hell. im incredubly envious...

i forgot the meaning of this post

why i love history...

i forgot school was about learning. i split my math class between the hope of a new watch as christmas loomed, and vaugely attempting to call my thoughts back to the classroom, and the board in front of me. i became happy as the sceene changed to history. here i could think to myself with out my better half reminding myself that i would miss something, there was very simply nothing to mis. with out thinking, i took out a paper and began writing. if only i could do as such forever, my soul is content when writing, there is always something to say, however relevant or not.

by the way, im joyful to not have to face the teacher's ramps of yet another year. if i look at the bright side, this really is my last year, although thats all i know for sure about my future. in theory i should really stop caring, i should use it to my advantage and know that i would leave soon, so i could do exactly as i pleased and then leave. however, zambia has the one thing in common with death that when your body leaves, your memory remains. and how people remember you for some reason matters to me.

i scan my suroundings to ensure that as last year, my theory of not missing anything during history holds. I am, as the only person, not listening to tales of my teachers life and recent experiences during the summer am for some reason praised for being studious, sitting there with my pen and paper, writing this blog. this is why i love history.

okay, although i am missing nothing, i should stop now... clever is sexy,, definatly. and i dont like people thinking im not clever, because i am, an therefore i shall stop writing blogs in class.

observation: teacher, loking more like a happy-faced, well-fed baby than a person who got through university and beyond (honestly, i respect that, university is tough), swinging his arms and laughing with a wide set mouth saying: "every single day we will have homework". fuck...

apparently, our homework over the summer was to aquire the skill of comprehanding incomprihensiple styles of cursive handwritings.... why the fuck cant our so talented teachers not bother to aquire the simple skill of a normal hand writing. ?.. oh well, actually i dont really care...

the rest of the lesson than passed with me forgetting where india was, (that actually is quite rare for me...) wondering why people keep wearing ugly shoes, and the teacher recomending indian resturants... i think i just found a new favorite subject. =D