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A clubnight in a WW2 bunker

Dalston Party in a WW2 Bunker

On Saturday Jared brought us with him to a night that his workmate was djing at. We thought it’d be some party in a bad bar and had postponed showing up until it was nearly midnight when we were all soft from whiskey. Arriving we walked down the parking lot behind McDonald’s to find that the entrance was two folding doors leading down to a concrete shaft of a forgotten World War II bunker. Taken by surprised we looked at each other, chuckled and warily entered. Within the grimy walls covered in a slimy surface the organisers had decorated with burning candles and fairy lights, shedding just enough light to not cave in to the damp darkness.

The whole place smelled of toxic spray paint. We asked the boy in some funny, obviously “ironic”, beanie selling red stripes behind a make do bar what it came from. He directed us through various empty rooms to a girl going mental, obsessively covering all walls in golden penises. Losing braincells by the second we quickly returned to the main room where the djs were setting up. We queued up to buy those cans from the boy in the beanie again. Next to us two girls had set up a table selling a glitter make-over for a few quid. Everybody do what they can to make a few more coins. Once I had my can in hand I approached them asking about their business when some boy decides to buy me a make over. I felt like a queen.

Sparkled up I joined the rest of my gang a little later, hanging out in another room. Olivia had found what looked like a door in one of the blocks of concrete, so small that only toddlers would be able to stand up straight in them. We went up to it and peaked through, a solid blackness gaping back at us. A little drunk and a lot braver than I usually am, I dared her to climb in there with me.

“No we can’t go in there, who knows what could be in there!” she responded.

“I know, but how bad could it be, right? Somebody must’ve searched through the premises before setting up a club here, no?” Although, this was Dalston so I wasn’t so sure myself.

“Okay. Yeah, alright then. Let’s do it, let’s go inside and have a look!” I was taken aback by her agreeing and almost wished she hadn’t.

“At least people will hear if we scream.” 

She laughed as we turned on the torches on our iphones, crouched down and climbed through into the dark abyss. Squeezing through, trying not to touch the walls that were like frogs’ backs. Once inside the air was stuffy and wet. The sound from the dj booth was more muffled, more distant in here. Echoes from water drops crashing into the wet floor bounced between the walls and then the sound of our footsteps and our breaths. They clung in the air like undisturbed clouds.

“Woah, this is pretty insane. Look at all these things! How long do you reckon this has been here?” 

“I don’t know. I guess since this place was in use last, like during WW2 or something. Crazy.”

I guided the white iphone light around the room, revealing overturned wooden desks and school benches made for another era. It looked like somebody had just left in a hurry, dropped it all, fled. I imagined what it’d be like, being trapped in here with bombs being dropped overhead. Terrified for the ceiling to cave in. Then probably bored, waiting around for the next attack. They must’ve been in here for quite some time if they even held classes in here. It terrified me how the state of the world somehow seem closer to this reality than it has for decades.

No windows or other entrances were to be found, apart from one other tiny opening in the far end of the room. Stepping over rotting benches through the flooded floor our shoes got wet. We climbed through just to discover another room with another little exit. Through several of these openings we advanced, getting more creeped out and more bold with every one, the concrete leaving white marks on our backs when we graced its surface. It was the same story in most of them, decomposing belongings left behind. It felt creepy digging through somebody’s old shit, and we decided that one shouldn’t gamble with fate for too long.

We abandoned our adventure, like the residents of this place did before us, and headed back out to the party. The other rooms had started filling up and people were dancing as the chicks behind the dj booth played tracks from my years in Kenya, all on vinyl. Most had never heard them before, and clearly didn’t know how to move, but still danced in pure joy. We joined in, dancing the bizarre dance of being joyful in a bunker. I dearly hope this isn’t a grotesque version of the calm before the storm.



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A Frightening Farewell / A Smashing Start

Linn in London

It’s almost midnight, the day before I’m moving to London again. My room at my godmother’s house is empty, cleaned out and somehow I managed to fit all my belongings into two suitcases and one carry-on. Although they will by all means get the degrading little stickers screaming out heavy luggage as if to tell me I don’t know how to pack. Luckily I’m a boss lady with arm muscles like a wrestler to carry them. One won’t be able to tell though when I stand at Arlanda Airport crying from leaving my loved ones to enter a future of uncertainty.

It’s my eighth time moving countries, and it’s not making it one bit easier. Inside me there is an ocean of frightening excitement running in my veins. It’s the moment before I leap, before choosing a path to go down and so many things will determine my upcoming years. Next week alone we have three house viewings and I have two job interviews. What the fuck will I say at those? Not a clue. I’m aiming for something smashing, but only time will tell. Suddenly staying here in my godmother’s guest bedroom seems a lot safer than using my one way ticket to the UK. But since when do I chase safety?

This year has been so strange and exhausting and hurtful and magical. I’m not the same me returning to London, but I believe it’s a good thing. I’m less destructive and not as tearful, definitely not cooler but surely more confident and knowledgable. It feels like I won’t break as easily, and god that has been awaited. Having been exposed to feedback about my behaviour, first impression, reactions, presentations, expressions every week at Hyper Island, I’ve gotten to know myself. With all the ugliness and charm. I’ve come to terms with people not always liking me and it doesn’t even bother me. So London you won’t be able to crush me either! But I’m definitely up for a battle.

Tomorrow I will eat my last Swedish breakfast in a while, kiss my dear dear sister farewell whilst performing my ugliest and most grotesque version of sobbing. The streets of Stockholm I will call my home for the last time in god knows how long. Perhaps never more. It’s painful and sad, but at least I’m not all relieved to run away like last time. We’re on good terms, Stockholm and I, and even if I’m not head over heels, you have my respect. Being able to say that no I wouldn’t mind living here again is more than I had ever expected.

Within 19 hours I will stand in Clapton with all my luggage and ring on Daniel’s doorbell. I will hear his footsteps running down the staircase and answering the door to put his arms around me. It’ll be the last time we say hi again after a tearful farewell. The long distance term before our relationship doesn’t exist anymore.

So guys, this is when it starts. I will be a Londoner once more and take you with me on my struggles, adventures, love stories and heart breaks. I have 37 pence on my British bank account but here I come fuckers. I expect to get swept off my feet.



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A Dream of a House

Your chest is rising up and down to the buzzing of a trapped fly, repeatedly crashing into the window above us. I lay still a while, my tangled hair sliding across your arm with each breath, back and forth like waves. The vacuum of our skin make it so sweaty and it’s like we’ve consumed all the oxygen left in the air. Even the fly has noticed and is trying to escape before we all suffocate. I try to endure it, last a little longer and make the summer seconds feel less short. For some reason they still seem to rush away. Perhaps they are just as eager as the rest of us when the snow has vanished. After all we all run through the good parts too quickly.

When I slide off you your skin prickles and it wakes you up. It feels like ages ago when I woke up in your bed the first time, all shy and embarrassed and happy. It was ages ago I guess. Like that day three and a half years ago we have no plans.

– I don’t want to see a single person today, I say.

 Me neither, you respond. You sigh and I can tell that this city is wearing on you faster than ever.

– Shit Linn, why don’t we actually just save up all of our money and buy a tiny cabin? A super small one where we just fit everything we need and nothing more.

This year has been tough on so many levels and I want it to stop, to go away so maybe we should just leave. Live somewhere I haven’t even been because there is no reason to go there. I continue:

– It has to be somewhere by the water then. In a rural area with nothing around it. With big windows so you can watch the storm and read and listen to music and not be stressed by anything. Just us. And I can write and you can… be my slave or house husband or something.

I stop with my lips pursed, trying to keep a straight face and turn to look at you. You pretend to be hurt but your face is amused so I laugh. But the more I think of us living along by the beach I realise that it’s actually not an awful idea. Us in a little house with a bedroom this size, where we could open the window and let that poor fly out and in return hear the ocean brush across the beach.

– We can cook amazing pasta dinners and walk along the shore or drink whiskey in front of tv series and have sex everywhere in every room. And it won’t even cost that much, Daniel, think about it!

– And when we get bored we could just invite all of our friends out for a massive party.

I turn onto my side so I can freely gesture with my right hand about our future as faraway fugitives escaping the city life. You roll your eyes at my more obscene suggestions and I accept the challenge to shock you even more. When I finish I lean my chin in my other hand and look at you for response. We’ve derailed our dream into unattainability, maybe because the thought of it being possible is terrifying.

I stand up on your mattress with the white sheets curled around my ankles and reach high up towards the window. My fingertips grab hold of the handle and I twist and push it open. But the fly heads back into the house and away from my attempt to save it. Once we’re offered what would save us, why is it that we all run the other direction?

I plunge back down into the depth of the bed. The noise from fast fixie bikes and shouting bus drivers flood in through the window. Some kids walking down the road are half screaming half laughing as they tease one another and the pub next door is already filling up. I guess it’s not really the ocean, but it’ll do.



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D  London is vibrant and hot and wonderful. I ended up having a big dip when we first got back here though. Deeper than at those times when it was worst back last autumn. It paralysed me. Being here when all my friends are working leaves me alone with my mind, which is the most toxic monster I can imagine. Going through therapy this spring has stirred up a lot of fears and a lot of poisonous habits rooted so far back. But luckily it got better after less than a week. Thank god for that.

I’m working so hard to wash it away, the hatred and shame, but there is no doing so. Instead I’m trying to share a space with them. And maybe it’s going alright, a few exceptions aside. After all it’s okay to feel shit and not be all jolly and pleasant. At least Daniel tells me so haha. So the days when it isn’t too bad I wear miniskirts and play loud music and feel shit about finally having time to write and not doing so. I hope I’ll be completely back to normal soon, and do all the things I’ve longed for.

Thanks for being here reading all of you. It’s great that you’ve been commenting a lot lately. It means the world.


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Today it’s been three years since we laid in his bed the night of Friday 13 and he asked me to be his girlfriend. How insanely long is that?! We are celebrating with drinking whiskey at the cinema tonight and having take out in bed.

Some of you might remember when my 19 year old self met this mysterious Canadian but I figured it’s time to properly tell the story of how we met: Linn+Daniel

foto Frida Vega Salomonsson

It all begins one late night in June 2011. Outside it was vibrating hot and we were out at night in only mini skirts and a tan. Olivia and I were still new to London and spent every second exploring it. This night we had a pre-party at our house, drinking K cider and playing messy summer music on the balcony with our neighbour James. As so many times before, we took the double decker 8 down to Shoreditch and went to our regular bar Catch. That was back when the crowd was still cool and the magazines fought over taking people’s portraits there. The queue was overwhelmingly long but we skipped to the front, kissed the bouncers on the cheeks and snuck in. In the midst of east londoners wearing dirty shoes and naked skin we danced like nothing could prevent us from ever being anything but 19 and ignorant.

Sometime during the night we bought beer by the bar to cool down. A young man tapped me on the shoulder and asked what my name was, what music I like, and everything else people ask when they don’t know each other yet. He was tall and handsome with dark hair and the iciest blue eyes I had ever seen. We got 7min of conversation before Olivia pulled me away as we were late meeting our friends in Dalston. I turned to the handsome young man telling him that I had to leave.

– Can I at least get your number? he asked.

I thought that it was pointless, I knew I didn’t want a boyfriend until I was done with London and by then I’ll be at least 35. But I also thought about how painfully pretty he was. For once I decided to compromise, wrote my name on a note from the bar and told him to find me on facebook. It said Linn and nothing else, leaving it up to destiny and his research skills to find me. I left and returned to doing dumb things with Olivia, completely forgetting about this encounter.

Two months later, I was visiting my family in Stockholm when I received a Facebook message from a tall and handsome man with dark hair and icy blue eyes. Apparently not that many people are named Linn in London after all. The message read something like this:


I sat in my parents garden with a flattered heartbeat and brief panic. I never thought he’d find me. I wrote back saying of course I remember but I’m out of town but who knows perhaps when I get back. He told me to get in touch once I was in London again and I thought that that will never happen, I’m too shy and too happy being single.

Another six months went by when suddenly another message popped up in my inbox. It was him again. He had found this note once more, the one with my name on it, and he knew it was even more weird and more awkward this time but would I be up for actually meet up for a drink?

I read it on my flickering pc screen and felt that this must be the bravest guy in this world. He’s asking me out again after having been pretty much turned down twice. I’m such a sucker for brave hearts (and pretty eyes) so this felt irresistible.

Our first date was at the pub the Royal Oak. In my nervousness I had accidentally showed up 20min early and was now hiding in an alley around the corner, high on nicotine from chain smoking five cigarettes in a row. I told myself that now you have to get your fucking shit together and then I went inside. For 15minutes I was standing alone in the packed bar, thinking that I had been stood up, before he arrived, late. What an asshole, I thought but he quickly made me change my mind because he turned out to be pretty lovely. My plan had all along been to have drink or two and then go meet up with Olivia, because how fun can dates be anyways? Instead I was having hell of a time as the hours flew by. When the bar closed we continued from one bar to the next. At 3am we had ended up at Catch where we had first met that one sweltering night in June. To the pulsating beat of hiphop he pushed me against a wall and kissed me.

The date lasted over 24 hours. Probably a record for first dates. I woke up in his bed the morning after and he took me for brunch up in Hackney and coffee at Broadway Market. It felt impossible to have this much fun with a hot stranger and then leave it. So I asked if he wanted to meet again. And he sure did.

Turns out that London was even better with him.



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The past week at school was perhaps the worst I have experienced in my life. We had a project where we worked intensely on personal development and reflection on one’s persona. I had tasks where I had to expose my deepest of secrets to people I don’t want to dislike me. Already at lunch I panicked and wanted to leave. My program managers and my project partner had long talks with me convincing me not to. I sat down in front of my classmates with my body shaking violently, hysterically, trying to find words but instead I choked and teared up. The task was reading out my weaknesses and see how we could turn them into opportunities. I couldn’t. Instead my head was flooded with self hatred and doubts so reading it aloud slashed up all infected old wounds and shames for all to evaluate. The following two days I wept nonstop, thinking that this, this is when I die.

For the first time, probably ever, I had to ask for help regarding my personal issues. And it took more than courage – it took fucking vulnerability. I was sure they’d hate me but nobody even frowned or found me disgusting when my whole body shook from fear and sobs. Instead they grew from being able to help. And their help was invaluable. I keep on thinking I know myself and have my shit together, but I don’t at all actually, which is fine too. Nobody fucking has, but we all go around pretending, feeling lost alone.

During these nights Daniel stayed up with me on Skype, trying to comfort me for hours and hours, and on Saturday he arrived in Stockholm.

We stayed in bed and I read out loud all the things I had written down during the week that I feared that people would find out about me. I told him about my eating disorder as a teenager and my loneliness in not being open with my parents. I told him about how I’m scared to talk about my feelings because I’ve never leaned on anybody and that’s why I write so much because then nothing of it seems real. I told him about everything that hurt. But also everything I am proud of and the tools I was given on what to do to not ache as much anymore. He just listened. Patiently, attentively.

– I will help you get through this, Linn. I promise. And it will take time, but that is fine. We will do it in your pace.

I didn’t have any tears left, just hollowness and relief. So I hugged his chest as he held me, listening to his lungs and his silent worries. Then we laid in bed, eating cheese doodles and sweets naked, binge-watching House of Cards and talking laughing breathing. I think he felt relieved too. I texted my project partner I did it.

He’s my rockstar Daniel, but this is my battle and I’m going to get through this only by pushing myself to open up. It will take a long time, but I will. I am just so grateful to go to a school that works so much with mental health.



This is the hardest text I’ve written because it reveals so much of what I doubt about myself. But the stigma around self hatred, especially for females, has to stop. And it’s important to seek help from professionals! Maybe we can help each other by sharing?


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It’s New Years Eve and the ground lay bare without snow in Toronto. I dress up even though you and your friends don’t believe in New Years Eve. In the afternoon we’re at your French relatives house, eating canapés that are impossible to identify. They’ve pickled herring for me and in front of a whole french audience I eat the fish I didn’t want to touch. One cannot possible let this many relatives down if I want to ever come back. The clock strikes 6pm and there is champagne and kisses and a thousand French words for everybody, because it’s now 2015 in France. In Stockholm too, I try to convince them and they play Abba for me in response. My lungs ache with approaching fever and my head spin slightly from the beers, but it feels lovely, especially as the family’s large fat cat spreads out in my lap.

With bags full of clinking bottles we enter the tube a few hours later. It’s spewing out drunk Torontonians in sequins and hopes of getting laid. Your friend’s flat fills up pretty quickly and your sister make me bloody marys because I’ve told her it’s my favourite hangover cure. I swirl around leaving traces of my perfume hanging in the air and barely know a single song we play. I’m slightly sick but happy as fuck for finally ending this stupid weird year of 2014. If I can manage the turbulence of the past 12 months, I must be tougher than I thought.

You play my favourite track as the countdown begins and the room fills with cheers and screams. It’s silly that a second is suppose to matter this much. When it’s over and done the song doesn’t stop until another minute. That’s when you suddenly stand in front of me, worryingly putting my face in your hands. I forgot to kiss you at midnight! You switch between my eyes to try and find something to confirm your fear. When you don’t you continue. Are we the worst couple in history? It makes me laugh, maybe because I’m a bit drunk, or maybe because I think all couple cliches are ridiculous. Sometimes we really do suck, I tell you, but at least we are great at making up for it. You smile and gently press me against the living room wall with all your friends around. Your fingers are in my hair and these seconds are longer than any damn countdown in the world. I do get kissed. So who gives a fuck.

Around us all the Canadians play music I haven’t heard of and they get so into it that it’s impossible to dislike any of it even though it’d never be allowed into my itunes. Nobody wants to leave the flat because it’s at that point in the night where all those brilliant tracks just suddenly comes to mind and there are too many too queue and not nearly enough time. We finish the whiskey but not the discussions but somehow manage to spill out on the street. Outside it’s icy but we barely notice. We jump some tram and enter some bars where your friends have been waiting. They are almost empty and we could not care less but order drinks and fall into walls that drop their paintings.

Hours later we somehow end up at a diner because according to me it’s impossible not to when celebrating NYE in North America. In a corner booth we squeeze in all twelve of us. It’s loud and busy and hot, with cutlery slamming against floors and girls laughing louder than explosives. Somebody drops my camera and my new expensive lens cracks and I don’t even get upset because we’ve ordered deep fried mac’n’cheese balls and strawberry milkshakes. And I feel light and not heavy. When the taxi arrives at home the snow flies furiously around and I can feel my body fainting from exhaustion and fever. I shiver the whole night but you wrap your arms around me and it almost stops. Time stops. Perhaps it’ll always be January 1 2015.

The remaining two days of the trip I’m almost unconscious from fever. I hate this stupid thing of being apart from you and having spent two weeks getting used to being together again, I ache. The flight home takes 18 hours and I don’t get well until we’re in my bed in Stockholm. My family isn’t home and the house is cold but I pass out instantly next to you eating takeaway McDonald’s.

Jet lag holds us victims and I wake up at 4.30am and whisper quietly to see if you’re awake too. You are. With two duvets and all of my pillows we go downstairs and crawl into the sofa. It’s pitch black for another four hours and I shriek because it is so nice to lie here on your chest and watch shitty tv all alone in an empty house. Just us, and a new better, kinder year.




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I can’t remember the last time it was like this. At least five months ago, because that’s how many months we have lived split lives. But I’d say it has been even longer, perhaps before you went on your motorcycle trip down in Cali last summer.

It was that weekend when the summer sky was boiling hot and even more evil, whipping our house with its anger. The streetlights flickered and at the end of our road several rubbish bins fell and empty cans slammed the asphalt time after time. The rain flooded the windowpane and let the light dance in the projected streams across your skin. London lay quiet and we were probably short of money as usual or just in love because leaving the house was not an option.

I only wore pants once during those days. It was when we ran the 150m in the pouring rain to the tiny off license to buy tortellini, canned soup and ice cream. Back inside we were drenched down to our bone and didn’t hesitate to strip as no flatmates would be home for days. The wooden floor wasn’t even cold against my skin.

The rest of the time we spent in our bed discussing or streaming series whilst building mountains of empty wrappers and cans. Several times we had to turn up the volume when the thunder made our door shudder.

We must’ve watched something scary because I had to wake you up in the middle of the night so that you could check so that nobody had broken in. Afterwards we laughed at my being so scared of the dark and I fell back asleep on your chest. Downstairs our wet shoes didn’t dry for another four days. I don’t think that I for once those days remembered that there were other people in this world.

Now, perhaps seven months later we finally got to do nothing but stay in the house again. This time here in Stockholm. No friends to see, no city to explore, no money to spend. Just us. And I got to properly remember how that stormy weekend smelled, because it smelled like you.



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Hackney Mornings

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I wake up from a ray of sun sizzling a sliver of my cheek and right eyelid. For the first time in weeks I feel well rested. Perhaps because I helplessly fell asleep in the taxi on our way home from that photography studio turned club in Shadwell last night.

Daniel Clapton -14

For hours I had struggled to keep the buzz up, to socialise among hundreds of Londoners dressed up as Dia de los Muertos, Mario Brothers and various creepy characters. Finally I was in this city again, so I couldn’t just go home and sleep and miss out on all the things I miss so intensely back in Stockholm. Once in the taxi though, I was beyond rescue and instantly fell into hard slumber, only waking from you gently shaking me with a laugh.

Daniel, Clapton -14

Now it’s you who’s sleeping. I’m lying here pretending we don’t exist outside this room as it all would be so much more simple then. I try not to wake you up even though I really want to. I watch the sun sweep over the worn concrete wall, over your well tailored jackets, a hat I’ve only seen you wear once and over the wooden beams we climb over to get into your bed. I wonder how the fuck it feels when you wake up here alone.

When I left in August and cried and you cried, my heart didn’t survive anymore but had never made me so aware of its existence. Our standard joke in midst of the misery then was that at least now, you will get to sleep in because I won’t be there to wake you up.

Daniel in the attic

But that’s then, when I’m in a different city, a different country even, and it feels like an elastic band stretched out to the max is pulling my heart back to London. Where I used to live with you, but I don’t anymore. If I would just forget and let go for a split second my heart would catapult straight back here. But it’d get ripped away from the rest of me and I’d return to being a shell.

You can sleep when I’m gone, not now. So I wake you up by kissing you slightly too violently, and telling you exactly that sad joke of ours. You smile a sleepy smile and say you don’t even mind.

Daniel climbing out his window

Once we’re awake I never want to leave the bed but after a while you get impatient and we get up. I put on my shortest skirt because I know you like it and I feel like a queen in it. Also it’s the only garment I packed which is suitable for the 25degrees outside.The rest of my bag is made up by faux fur, artsy turtlenecks and leather dresses. Gorgeous clothing but I wish all November days would feel like summer and I’d throw them out in a second.

– OMG Daniel, we have to climb up on your roof! I shout out of nowhere, which I tend to do when something brilliant suddenly hits me.

– What – now? What about brunch? I’m starving! you reply, borderline hangry (hunger + anger you know).

Well, I’m going up on your roof, you can stay here. (me behaving like a teenager)

Daniel, Hackney, nov -14

And with a skirt too short and a window too small I climb out with everything apart from grace, looking more like a GIRLS episode then an American Apparel ad. Once up though London pierces my soul probably eleven times. This city! I shove my head down the window and shout down to you:


I know you think I’m completely mental but hilarious (which I am more than happy to live with) and you cave in and climb up to me.

Linn on Daniel's rooftop, London

We hang out on the roof tiles, and I want to scream because I don’t feel an ounce of sadness. Up there with the bus 55 thundering past us below it feels like that time after just a few dates when we climbed out your window onto the roof of Spitalfield’s market with breakfast and steaming coffees. Your music blasting out of the speakers and my being so impressed about the fact that you who adore music more than anything still had a favourite song. Sun showers passed over us and fucking hell I was dizzy from being around you.

We laugh at that now because how weird isn’t it that there was a time when we were strangers still.

Daniel on his rooftop The sun is burning away all the autumn gloom in our skin and veins so that we can pretend it’s spring approaching and not a deadly winter. The woman on the fourth floor in the neighbouring house smiles and waves at us with her cigarette. She seems to sit in her window smoking in her maroon coloured kimono every single time I look. She must be a writer of some kind or maybe she’s just a freelancing(unemployed possibly post grad) student with a sassy wardrobe like the rest of London. At least she’s not depressed, yet. Something that is sure in this life is that depressed people don’t wave, so good for her.

– Should we head down? I ask.

Yeah, I’m fucking dying, let’s go for brunch.

I love you being a drama queen, just like me.




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I hate aching but it is almost worst not to

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Daniel, Södermalm Daniel was visiting again here in Stockholm a few weeks ago. He’s a star, spending his money flying over to a colder and more expensive country just for me. I must be fabulous. I hate that I’m getting used to living away from Daniel. I don’t want to. I hate aching but it is almost worst not to. To instead finding it normal not to live with my boyfriend, to not share a home and a life. And I’m constantly terrified of letting our life slip just slightly too far that I get so used to us being apart that being together would feel even more odd. Therefore I force myself not to settle down too much but to constantly be ready to fly back. So I shed every little thing that would tie me down just a little more. Phone contracts, gym cards, doing up my room so that I like it, owning a bike or even making too many new friends. I refuse to become one in the long line of couples who fall apart when they are apart. And when he comes and it’s worth it all, I mean I die inside in the happiest possible way. But it’s confusing, and heart breaking.   How do you deal with long distance relationships?   Linn