Weed

Fuck it, I’m going to talk about weed here for a second.

Or a minute. It might take a few, you might want to start skinning up now, because even if you’ve never smoked weed before, by the time I’m finished, , you’ll certainly be considering it. Even you middle of the road square daily mail types. People with cardigans and opinions that they have inherited from their grandparents, I have a few bombshells for you on the way, so polish them specs and keep reading, or listening if i am actually reciting this is at some godawful poetry slam or open mic night that I’ve barged my way into.

 

Cannabis. It’s a pretty amazing plant. I’ve been smoking weed for quite a while now, im sort of a semi professional smoker here. I’ve been hardcore but that’s really not the way to do it any more. I keep it in my life in the same way that most responsible recreational drinkers keep booze in their lives. It’s one of my little vices, because I don’t really drink so I smoke a few joints with friends in the same way that many people share a bottle of wine

I used to smoke a lot I but I was never one of those guys that went around bragging about how much they smoked. The ones who roll massive unsmokeable fifteen sheet half ounce joints. The kind that are far too big to get any decent kind of lug on so they just burn away slowly, with the gigantic torch like ember burning off twenty times more smoke than anyone is getting in their lungs, and then thinking that the whole process was a productive job well done.

I was once asked by an acquaintance, how much do you smoke a day, when I replied,

Well, im not sure. Three, four joints a day maybe.

He replied “not bad…I smoke nine a day”

Like that would impress me. I don’t know where his epic NINE JOINT A DAY frazzled brain was trying to go with that conversation, and I honestly don’t know how he would have liked me to respond. I just nodded and smiled, and he smiled back, somehow using that interaction to become quite smug.

 

 

As with any drugs, overdoses are not a good idea. You come to learn the hard way, that everything in moderation is the best way forward. I mean I know nobody ever died from a weed overdose, but it just makes you look dumb.

Especially if it happens in public. turning white as a sheet, vomiting and passing out

Has a way of making one look really, really dumb, and then theres the paranoia factor that’s amped up by the weed. So you think everyone in the world is looking at you and staring and judging anyway, so passing out in your own vomit has a way of making people actually look and stare and judge you.

 

And the people you are with are no help, because they are all useless stoners. Statistically if you were with five people, two would be off buying sweets and would miss the whole thing, two would be simply too slow to react before joe public gets involved and one would probably just be laughing hysterically.

 

And you do not want to let a member of the public get involved because to the uninitiated, a person greening out can look really, really sick. They are sort of in and out of consciousness for a while, vomiting, deathly pale, bloodshot eyes.

When faced with this, the nicer members of the public, the better humans amongst us would cradle you in their arms and say “OH MY GOD! You look like you are dying, I had better call an ambulance.”

 

And then you, with a vomit smeared face would have to hoarsely and breathily croak out, no ambulance

 

And your laughing friend would stagger around, holding his sides, and laughing like a rudderless, no good drain, and would cackle out, “He’s smoked too much weed! you don’t need an ambulance for him, he’s just smoked to much weed and cant handle it!”

 

And depending on their tolerance or understanding, they would react.

 

Some people would understand, and might even go and get you a curly-wurly, and leave you to your overwhelming feelings of doom and nausea.

Others would be less accepting and would glare deep into your drug crazed , bloodshot eyes and drop you from their rescuers embrace, dropping you back into your own stomach juices, before storming off, disgusted and leaving you to your overwhelming feelings of doom and nausea.

Worst of all some would be even less understanding still, and might even be terrified and confused by this whole notion of drug overdoses! And will remember back to when the policeman came to talk to their class about how every controlled substance will kill you violently and horribly. With these people, there is still a very high chance that an ambulance will be involved, or possibly even two calls to ambulance and police.

No amount of convincing can stop some, quite frankly ignorant people.

Your laughing friend will shout “ No trust me, he’s in a bad way now, but 20 minutes ago he was having a whale of a time. He’ll be fine, he just has to sleep it off”.

 

And the citizen’s mind will go immediately to pulp fiction, and they would think “my god, I wouldn’t trust these idiots with cutting my lawn, let alone injecting adrenaline into a human’s heart, no, I have to get the professionals involved. I have to do the right thing.

 

And then the ambulance will arrive, by which point you will probably have mostly gotten over it, and will just be really lethargic and embarrassed, but without the energy to really react how an embarrassed person would, by blushing or doing something loud and stupid, or even running the fuck away, so you’ll just have to sit there looking sullen and deflated and get a ticking off by the ambulance people for wasting their time, and if the police come, your friends will leave you there, and then they’ll give you a ticking off for wasting their time and unless your friends had the foresight to go through your pockets before they leave, you’ll get your weed taken off of you and you’ll possibly even get busted, and maybe even arrested taken into a cell for a while, depending on the police officer involved and how sexually frustrated or angry at the world he is at that point – oh yeah, you think they don’t take their aggressions out on minor criminals?

Then you would either have to sleep it all off in a police cell, to be let out the next day groggy and disoriented and humiliated, or it might even turn into a bigger smear on your life and evolved into a court summons or even in some cases, prison sentances. Now, I know you would already have to be on their radar for it to get to that, you don’t get time for a couple of joints unless you are a naughty guy already, but the point is it shouldn’t be illegal at all.

 

And that lady who called the ambulance, and police,

I don’t know why it’s a lady, its become a lady all of a sudden, but she is, and in my mind she has a lavender sweater and a bowling pin frame and short hair.

 

She will go on with her life, misguided and thinking she did some massive good that day, that she had cleaned up the streets maybe, or possibly and completely misguidedly thinking that she had even saved a life, rather than just totally waste everyones time.

 

Her time was wasted by even stopping from her walk, unless she had nothing else to do for the eight hours a day that her family are out working and having lives, in which case I pity her, but still believe she overreacted. She should have just kept walking and that little scenario would have sorted itself out. Someone may well have had to clean up the vomit, but less gross time would have been wasted.

Then there are the police, who’s time was massively wasted, because, instead of going out and catching violent criminals, or destroyers or takers of property, rapists, thugs and general rapscallions and roustabouts, they were on the high street trying to pick up a dizzy groaning sad sack out of his own vomit, and book him, when in ten minutes he would have gotten up of his own accord and shuffled off to bed.

 

Then there is you, the stoner, who’s time, one could argue was already being wasted by the simple fact that they were using that god-given day to do something so productive as smoke weed and eat crisps. But, one could also argue that even that is a far better way to spend your time than sitting in a police cell for and having to go through a raft of paperwork, only to be turned loose on the streets again half a day later, only to go straight to your friends house, and say “duuuuude, you’ll never guess what happened to me” over a nice big fat relaxing spliff. Nothing learned. Or just nothing agreed with.

Its an endless cycle of stress and then smoking to relieve the stress of not being able to smoke.

Funeral: 4

I found Pedro smoking in the garden. He didn’t smoke often, and when he did he only smoked opium, so I could probably stand to be around him, at least until the dragon ran away and the hysterics started again.

He waved slowly in front of a snotty lobotomy grin and I headed over. He was being talked at by a mutual acquaintance who was already far too drunk for polite setting.
He was one of those successful, good looking, well presented rich guys. He holidays in Marbella and attends champagne spraying parties. He is a tool. Everyone hates him. I certainly do.
I could see the eyes dotted around the garden staring at his loud lush exclamations, just waiting for an opportunity to call him a cunt. And who could blame them.
He ignored me and resumed barking, spitting clouds of jack Daniels and Ice chips over everyone within range.
I downed my drink and moved on to the bottle. There was a lot there. If the night runs too long I’ll just stick my fingers down my throat and move on to the whiskey.
He knew I didn’t care. He knew I wasn’t listening, but he steamrolled on anyway.
A barrage of tuts and tsks were bouncing around us from all corners of the garden, directed at the seemingly never-ending river of epithets, borderline jokes, and out and out offensive comments being imparted upon me. Recounted txt one liners about missing children, anecdotes about Mexican donkey shows and a myriad of jokes with punchlines of simply “rape”. It all came to a head when he began discussing the old funeral topic of conversation standard: racial extermination.

“…they did tests on it! they measured skulls! turns out black people actually ARE a different species!…”

unbelievable.

“…Im not saying we HAVE to kill them all, why cant we give them an island where they cant bother us…”

Pedro had fallen asleep standing up, and the social hand grenade lush’s eyes were glassily trying to bore through mine. I needed to escape.

“…not even just the blacks, all of them! The pakis, the Jews, those slopes from the other side of the world. Put them on an island and let them all fight over a bone, like the good old days. Its their heritage…”

He just continued, talking and spewing, and I couldn’t actually bring myself to walk away. It was fascinating. A journey into a truly scrambled mind. It created very surreal counterpoint to the rest of the mourners forced discussions about the weather, and as they got louder and louder trying to zone out these incredible statements, he got louder and louder, trying to tell me in no uncertain terms, exactly what was wrong with the world, and what the easiest option would be to sort it all out.

“…although, if Hitler hadn’t gotten lazy because of that Braun bitch, he might have had that all sorted out for us, and we wouldn’t even be in this mess…”

“…excuse me,”

A small voice had sidled up next to me. a sweet old lady was staring deep towards the ethanol soaked antagonist and with burning anger through polite facade said

“…but I find what you are saying to be extremely offensive.”

He was incredulous. Drunkenly indignant. my muscles wanted to move but my eyes and brain wouldn’t let them.

“OH MY GOD! in this day and age, a man cant even express an opinion without some overly PC old wench getting offended! who’s the real fascist here? The Nazis or you?”

She did exceptionally well at staying cool in the face of overwhelming obnoxiousness. she continued;

“true you are entitled to your opinion, but its just that my father was shot by the Nazis during the war. He was unarmed and they….

He cut in across her like a swaying, swivelling eyed reflex.

“Well, maybe he should have armed himself then…”

There were a few seconds of silence as the old lady just stared in shock, completely reeling from such a comment. Her eyes narrowed and the silence was broken by an almighty slap across the face of the useless lush.
He contorted to a carbon copy of the initial shocked expression, as smugness wiped the appalled look from her face, and after a few more seconds of silence, he lunged in with a headbutt right to the bridge of her nose.
Blood flicked across the crowd of deathly quiet onlookers. The lady let out a quick wail and slumped to the floor, sobbing.
More silence. Nobody knew quite how to react. I wanted to laugh. the attacker stood upright, wobbled for a second and grinned like a shiteater as burgundy streaks ran down his forehead, looking around for nods of approval, and lauds of “yeah, you sure showed that bitch”
Still more silence.
Two hulking beasts of grandsons appeared from nowhere and flanked us while a third cracked knuckles and stared daggers through sneers and wells of water on his eyelids. a middle aged woman tended screaming to the fallen crusader for social justice. Reality sobered up the tool like a sea breeze, and his knees started shaking from the adrenaline. He tried to speak but they didn’t want to hear it. They grabbed him and dragged him through a side gate, out front. Out onto the cobbles. Out into the street. Out into the wilderness, where animals destroy each other for minor infractions, and the savage is king.
I used the opportunity to detach myself completely from this argument. I wasn’t getting too involved. I was already too involved. I had to escape the immediate vicinity. I didn’t want to get too involved.

******

I went into the front room to view the ensuing carnage, safely through a window.
Two of the burlies were holding his arms behind his back, while a third took alternating shots through streams of tears at face, then gut, then solar plexus.
Truly amazing people.
Sharp suited gorillas that occupy the middle ground between human scum and salt of the earth. Such intense violence can be justified by the fact that they are defending an elderly relative’s honour.
They have no words or logic. They have hands that could crush a mans skull like a grape, and the same hands that are now gathering small brooks and rivers of coagulating blood in the grooves on their knuckles, also smell like chlorophyll from the bunch of posies they clutched all the way to grandmas house for morning tea, so swinging them wildly with intent to cave in eye sockets and detach jaws is perfectly rational behaviour at this point.
It wasn’t long before a cricket bat had been tossed into the arena by a braying crowd of local schoolchildren, who had gathered and were all screaming for human blood.
Team retribution let their prey slide to the floor like he had no bones, and one of them grabbed the bat.
High overhead arcs of wood came smashing down on the breaking, bluing bundle of rags, and his wails of “No, I’m sorry, I’ve had enough, Please!” became more and more muffled as his ribs folded inwards, his gums shed shattered teeth and his mouth filled with claret jack Daniels bile.
I missed the rest.
I had to step away from the buffet. The smell of the egg mayonnaise sandwiches was making me feel sick.

I moved back to the lounge. When I arrived the congregation had moved on from badly played piano, to drums skinned with pig bladders and had daubed themselves in warpaint. They were still passing the corpse around, slower now, and his head was bobbing and lolling rhythmically to the sub throb of the drums. A combination of spring heat and worthless pickled onion embalming techniques meant that Edgars nose was flaking off his face, there was an eyeball in an ashtray, and the place stunk of vinegar and something unimaginable, but still he was being sent round the room like a Mexican wave.
It wouldn’t be long before they began feasting on the flesh. I heard someone mention earlier how they do things in New Guinea. The seeds had already been planted. I could see in their eyes just from glancing around the room that they were about three drinks and just a few mushy old anecdotes from cracking his cranium like a boiled egg and sucking his brains and devouring any remnants of his soul.
Anyone here could argue that its their prerogative. They are grieving. Would you like to try to stop them?

I decided at that point that it was time to leave. No made excuses, no embraces, No goodbyes or well wishes, i just had to fucking leave. Valium can only do so much, i didn’t want to ruin my whole week.
I turned away from the carnage and headed for the door, thankfully still emotionally numb and buzzing from the drinks.
I had wasted the last few hours of my life amongst people I didn’t know or care for, and stolen their drinks, and had made only two minor reflections on mortality:
Firstly; that life itself isn’t all wine and blowjobs, and if you make it far enough you will just end up a burden to anyone who loved or cared for you, and if you don’t make it far enough you will be ever remembered (however unintentionally) as a bitter disappointment to everyone who wanted five more minutes of your presence.
and secondly, that after a whole life of events, doing speaking, being, you could have a million mourners, been revered deity like in life by many and even have God or the Devil come down to personally escort you by hand to the afterlife, but there will always be someone who walks away from your final send off scornfully squinting at the people you’ve left behind, or derisively laughing at whatever you’ve achieved.
or worse still and as evidenced by myself, they could walk away and resume their life just not giving a shit

Funeral: 3

 Psycho Jr was waiting at the door when i arrived back at the house, sheparding in well wishers. I dove in to get the small talk out of the way.

“How went the great descent?”

“Oh, just terrible, it was nothing but snags from the moment one of the bearers tripped on his shoelaces. If you are planning on dying, for the love of god, don’t go budget with the undertakers. First the antique coffin nearly didn’t arrive and when it did it was filthy, and now the church have cocked up royally!
Awful times. They told us to keep hold of him and put him on ice until they can evict the old tenants…”

He waved to some people getting out of a car who looked like they had to escape from a facility to be there.

“Go on inside, get a drink…”

No mention of the cash. I was in the clear. I headed in.

They already had him out of the casket by the time i got there. They were swinging him around like a well dressed Sunday best rag doll, swaying, waltzing, dancing to a soundtrack of raucous Irish drinking songs screamed by hysterical aunts and blubbing third cousins.
They were pouring neat gin from the bottle into his rock solid slackened jaw.
Somebody had stolen the pennies from his eyes.
A piano was being played badly.
Everyone was plastered.
I needed a drink.

I beelined towards of the sound of clinking glasses and found a row of liquor bottles in the kitchen. An obligatory Australian girl handed me a lethal rum and coke. I grabbed the remainder in the optical and i turned only to be sucked into the conversational orbit of three mad old flowery crones and an emasculated Rod Stewart looking drip of a man.

“Beautiful service…”
“…wonderful send off…”
“…shall we spare a thought for the others involved in the incident?”
“…I’m just glad the legal proceedings ended before today. Would have left a dark cloud over the event…”
“…cant argue with 12 men good and true…”
“…the less said about the other poor souls the better, its his day and he was acquitted fairly. Diminished responsibility, that’s all there is to it”
“…thank the lord for dementia…”
“…the logic was so bizarre, I would have probably assumed God was talking to me too..”
“…did you read the note? Riveting stuff…”
“…but those poor children…”
“…I’m surprised the toll wasn’t higher to be honest. The whole bus was vaporised. You should have seen the fireball…”
“…but where did he find the C4?”
“…I heard it was the Arabs…”

I had to break away. I didn’t want details. I was happy with just rum.

Funeral: 2

2

Everyone was being ushered into the church as we arrived. A combination of big sunglasses and painfully fashionable lateness meant I could ditch Pedro to mingle, slip inside, nip and grab a seat at the front and avoid all eye contact.
I don’t want to be shot a look of comfort. I don’t need a pat on the back. I don’t have anything to mournfully reminisce upon. I’m just here to push the numbers up and bask worry free in everyone’s pain and force a favourite sibling to stand at the back due to lack of chairs.

“We are gathered here today…
…To mourn the passing…
…Of our dear friend…”

the priest tried to appear as though he was speaking slowly, solemnly, respectfully, but it was obvious that he was just wracking his brains trying to remember what little information he had garnished from the wallet he pilfered from the corpse.

“…Edgar…”

“…An avid user of public transport…and collector of number 86 bus tickets…”

“…Unlike so many, he had staunch faith in the movie rental industry, and much like his youthful exuberance, he retained his blockbuster card to the very end…”

The dog collared whackonteur was clearly just practicing his public speaking to some human ears and shiny eyeballs.

“…And though many of us never understood his love for garden gnomes…”

A piteous chuckle moved through the room then vanished like a spark of electricity. Everyone breaking from their grief for a second, then falling hard back into it when they realised that hacky warmed over sentiment from a total stranger does very little to ease any pain.
The room was silent, but the consensus rang loud and clear and hovered in the atmosphere;

“Who is this obvious sex offender? And why was he given the floor and allowed in on our in jokes for the day?”

I’ve never understood why funerals and send offs are left to be compered by any random who has spent a few years of his life a million miles away from society in a seminary, secretly wanking and then crying about it.
These people know nothing of their own lives, let alone enough to comment on other peoples.
Its pretty clear that god has stopped watching us by that point, why do we need his middle man there sitting smug and fudging our final proceedings like a late and condescending hallmark card.
Just get whoever is crying least at the time to stand up and shout “EVERYONE, GRAB A LIMB OR SOME MATCHES, WE’RE BLAZING THIS VESSEL AND SENDING IT BURNING DOWN THE RIVER”

“Please stand for the hymn…”

A tune nobody knew piped up from an elevator Casio Hammond preset and the priest bellowed over unsure dirge from the rest of the room, resisting the urge to click his fingers on the downbeat, like a true honky. Christians love a good sing song.
The rest of the service went well, with not so much incident. More lame poorly timed jokes. More irrelevant points that neither summed up nor championed a human life. Uneventful.

One person did run to the front screaming “NO, I WONT LET YOU GO”, then straddled hysterically and tried to climb inside the casket, but she was quickly and summarily dispatched by security wielding air rifles and horse tranqs.

Then a red light flashed at the back of the room and the pall bearers came on stage to wrap things up.
Quick service, but they had a Bar mitzvah double booked and needed to get rid of us sharpish.
I could see another priest in the back room ditching his choker and fashioning a yarmulke from a coffee filter, whilst holding the hand of a small child.
Unscrupulous bastards.
Tomorrow, its Muslim prayer morning followed by the gay Rastafarian movement’s book club meeting.

We stepped out into the beautiful spring air, amidst echoing lies of “what a beautiful service…”
Pedro quivered and burst into tears. Small whimpers escalating through moans, yelps and blubs, finally to full scale pudgy red faced wails.
There was still a fair way to walk to the grave site. I didn’t want to be seen in public with this emotional wreck. I wanted to slap him with a glass of water and scream “Pull yourself together man! Cant you see you are embarrassing me?”
But I’ve never been good at consolation, so i patted him on the back and said
“I fancy a McDonalds breakfast…See you at the wake, yeah?”
Then went and sat in my car alone for an hour or so.

Funeral: part 1

IF there’s one good thing about funerals, its that everyone looks good in black.
Vast expansive sunglasses can shield streaming red eyes, and as long as you can retain a modicum of composure and keep your posture, you can look like a movie star.
Most importantly though, draping yourself in black means that none of the light of a sunny interior can bleed through. You wouldn’t want that. Not at a funeral. That sort of thing is frowned upon.
I didn’t know him. I had met his son a few times. Batshit mental. I owed him 20 quid from a drunken braggadocio bet. Something about cheese graters and Tabasco sauce, all very messy but the swine upheld his side of the bargain. He went inside shortly after for glassing a lollipop lady in the face, and i never got around to paying him. “Hopefully time and buggery have affected his memory. Everyone’s walking through fog when they are mourning anyway. I just won’t mention it…”

I was there with my friend Pedro. He is some sort of family friend. He mentioned a Worthers original memory in the car about artery damming blunt weapon cheese sandwiches and games of Pong on a Binatone. Its amazing how the human brain can fashion something so mundane as outdated computers and unusually thick slices of cheddar into nostalgia.
I was there as stoical moral support. The emotionally unattached shoulder to cry on.
A lack of emotional attachment meant i could maintain my million dollar look all night. No dry sobs to ruin my perfect gait. Shoulders back, a pillar of strength in this awful time. Ego boost. Some good must come of today at least. It’s all so morbid…
******

People are Hilariously Lonely

People crave love and attention, some more than others. I however seem to exist as a contrast to all those hopeless romantics out there. I’m not celibate. That’s just crazy. I see celibacy as being a very bizarre thing. I’ve never said I’m above those baser human instincts like sweaty rutting, in fact the painful realisation that I’m so very far away from being above this simple need is probably one of the reasons that im so angry all the time. What better way to blow off some steam by finding a willing woman that I can choke a little bit, while my penis is inside her. Many women don’t want you to do this sort of thing to them, and they’ll slap your hands away and cock an eyebrow in disappointment or disgust, then you’ll have to finish up quickly. All the spark is gone, and what started as a fun and freaky romp through all the different avenues of human sexuality and titillation ends up as being about as exciting as jizzing into a stern looking washcloth The very fact that she is willing to let me do this to her means that as soon as I have shot my grimy little load I have to get up and flee and get as far away from this crazy bitch as fast as is humanly possible. It’s one of those catch 22 situations: I don’t want to be with any woman that would entertain these weird little kinks, and allow, or even encourage my weird and scary little idiosyncrasies. I don’t want any woman who would want me. It’s something I’ve come to terms with over the years. I’m actually happy and content with the realisation that Im going to die alone, surrounded by empty cigarette boxes and probably garbage and vermin. Some people however just cannot accept this. And plus, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced loneliness. I’ve been alone, just never really lonely. Isolated, yes. Distant, very much so, but never so lonely that I’ve gone out, running around with a frazzled viewpoint and latched on to the first I’ve always differentiated quite well between actual loneliness, and the desire for a pair of lips and a tongue, gently caressing my balls. Take ultimate comfort in the fact that there is always going to be someone out there even lonelier and more pathetic than you are, and they will be actively putting themselves out there. I suppose I always have the internet to fall back on.

Finland Harroway

At some point during the early 1980s, I was born. I kicked my way screaming into this cold and unforgiving world. I was probably screaming about the poor decision I had just made to leave the warmth and safety of the womb. I was smacked by the doctor, and thrown into the wobbly arms of a deliriously loopy mother, with needle holes up and down her spine. Thus began a lifelong process of making rash and regrettable decisions, getting slapped around by people who are far more qualified and successful than I am, and then running to the open arms of strange new medicated women who aren’t even quite 100% sure of my name. For a number of reasons, my parents decided to give me the ridiculous title of Fin. Finland. Finland Harroway. I was named quite quickly as a misguided and ignorant tribute to what at that point, in my mother’s opinion, was the greatest musical collaboration in the history of civilisation: Abba. Bjorn was far too complex and exotic for the staff at the hospital to write down. Benny was apparently a name for “little kids”. The other two were girls. And so I was named Finland. It wasn’t until some years later that someone told my Mother that Abba are actually from Sweden. It cost £40 to change a name by deed poll, so I was stuck with Finland. If you ask her, she’ll outright deny the Abba story. She’ll claim that she just “always loved the country, Finland”, which is bollocks, really. I know this to be true because I was taken to my namesake country as an unwanted present for my sixth birthday. I got a trip to a cold, empty, eternally dark wasteland that smelled like Herring. It was rubbish. It was uneventful to say the least but I’ve never been allowed to forget about how I “ruined everyone’s holiday that year, being selfish, demanding to go to that boring shit hole”. At that point in my life, I was only vaguely aware that there was even a country with the same name as me. We didn’t know what the northern lights were, and I wasn’t even told that Santa might be knocking about up north somewhere, so I honestly cant imagine I would have ever been so adamant on going there that I couldn’t have been distracted away from the idea. I probably would have been utterly contented with nothing more than a transformer or some Lego. But no. I got an expensive and unappreciated trip to a country I didn’t want to go to, and inadvertently made my own mother look stupid for sticking to her “I’ve always loved Finland…” story. Through no fault of my own, my name became synonymous with disappointment and getting things horribly wrong within half a decade of being on the planet.