What is the Cost of Freedom?

Fifty bucks? No? Two hundred? C’mon, we’re talking about freedom here. Twenty-thousand? Face it, you wold give anything to be truly free. But you ain’t got the money. Need I say more?
It has come to my attention that I often use the term “need I say more?“. As if I expected you, the understanding reader, to understand a single fucking thing I write, as if you knew the connotations I am referring to, as if you knew… anything at all. Well, perhaps I just use it suggestively, to sort of force you to understand. Or, who knows, just to make you act as if you understand, to yourself, in your brain. Better than nothing. Do you understand what I am saying? Need I say more? Haha.
But I digress. What is freedom? Are you ever free? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you have those twenty-thousand buckaroos. What are you really buying? You are free. You can do anything now. Real freedom. Not just freedom from pain, from want, from repression… that’s all just props. Real freedom… you wouldn’t even know what to do with it. Real freedom is, if anything, in your head, and that you simply can not buy. But then again, you can not even imagine real freedom; the human mind is not capable of it, and wouldn’t want it if it was. How are you going to buy something you can’t even think? The coast of true freedom is your own humanity.
Brand New Cadillac from The Clash.

What the Psychologist Really Thought About

Goddamn, he’s at it again. Ranting on about something or other… every time he gets started I can tune out for at least ten minutes. Though sometimes it’s pretty funny, actually. He has a dark sense of humor that appeals to me on occasion. What’s he on about now? Honest what? Hypocrites? Ahh, Jesus… what was Margaret planning for dinner tonight? Oh, yes, those little pork-medallions on toast with gorgonzola and spring onions and chilies and… yum, that’s something to think about. I must make sure I get the right kind of gorgonzola on the way home. Dear me, how did he get off on that tangent? The sound of silence? Well, I can chalk up another ten minutes of wasted time. I am well paid for that wasted time. Damned if I care, don’t feel the least bit shabby for it, it’s hardly enough for enduring his incessant bitching. Oh, Salad! I dare not forget the salad. What would be a good salad with those pork-medallions? Radicchio? Oh my God, wine… better make a list. Margaret would kill me if I forgot her wine. Oh, he’s asking something…
„Watcha writing down, crazy as a loon?“
No, no, Mr. Hellstrøm, harmless notes, I assure you. Well, that seems to have satisfied him. He’s a bit awry, I don’t doubt I could convince him that my shopping notes were some sort of shorthand code for notes on his mental health, wouldn’t that be amusing? What would the psychological equivalent of radicchio be? Hehe. It would be a complete violation of the trust implicit in our relationship as patient and psychologist, of course. Ah, well, another time perhaps. The hour is nearing its end, thank God. Amazing how the time flies, when you think of food. What did he just say? A letter to his editor? What? Now he’s going on about lemmings…
Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Hellstrøm, but you lost me there for just a moment, between editors and lemmings, and unfortunately todays session is also at an end. Perhaps we can delve in to the subject again next week?

Lucky You

Here are some sayings I’d like to see when opening a fortune cookie:
– You will die a lucky death on another planet.
– You do not believe in things that are written in fortune cookies.
– Why is the spirit of resistance like an untrained dog?
– You have eaten well, so leave the damned cookie aside.
– What would I tell you, if I could tell you all I can?
– Be happy that you are not a fortune cookie.
– Keep your head up, little wombat.
– Fuck you! You die! (Cookie explodes)
– If I were to break you open, what would I read on the little slip of paper within?


The person you love is far away, and you feel like you just can’t live without them. You’re stuck in limbo, you’re somewhere in between. You’re not alone any more, but that just makes you more alone than ever. If you were truly alone, you’d have no worries… if everything goes wrong, it’s just you, no big deal. Though it would be tough, one could accept it with a certain philosophical detachment, like a gentleman fighting his bitter fate. But now there is someone else, someone who cares, someone who will suffer when you suffer. You just can’t stand the thought of them suffering, so you have to make sure you don’t suffer… you have to take care of yourself.
You have to. You love this person more than anything you can think of. It’s better than religion, better than drugs, it’s the ultimate thing. There is, quite simply, nothing else you really care about.
Certain conflicts arise. You feel lonely, so you want to drink. But drinking is bad for you, you know that, it’s fucking poison when you drink enough to conquer that gap… the problem is, eating a healthy salad does nothing for your state of mind. A big glass of vodka can help, verily, poison though it may be. And old habits die hard.
When my girl is with me, I don’t need a damned thing.
Listening to I Want You (She’s So Heavy) from the Beatles.