I’m reading the autobiography by Carolina Gynning called Ego Girl.
The first time I heard about her was when she won the swedish Big Brother 2004.  I believe that my first impression of her was “stupid bimbo”. But somehow she made me curious to read her book, and so far it’s really good and I have to say that it has made me change my thoughts about her. She seems crazy, but in a good way. “Go Girl!”
The book is about Carolinas life, where she tell us about her childhood and how she at the age of 17 started her career as a model and then got lost in a world of sex & drogs before she sort her life out.
If you get a chance read it! When I finish this one I would like to read her 2nd book called Ego Woman.

Buona Notte!
Baci /Sofie

Åsikterna om Carolina Gynning är många, så har det varit ända sen hon var med i Big Brother och så är det fortfarande. Oavsett om man tycker att hon är en riktigt skön person eller om man tycker att hon är störig så kan det vara värt att läsa boken Ego Girl där hon berättar om sitt liv och sin karriär. Just nu 63:- inkl porto.

Ugh!  In typing this, it’s official: I’m cutting him off.

I’m so frustrated with myself for going back and forth about this situation so much, but I’ve finally been pushed over the edge. This is over. Er, not that this every really was anything-I didn’t allow it to be anything. I’m just tired. I think this is stupid. I think he’s stupid. It’s really a relief to say that.

I like where I am right now. I’ve got possibly the best friend in the world, I’m doing well in my notoriously difficult classes, I’m staying organized, I’m not killing myself with stress (though I am losing sleep-I can deal with that, all things considered), and I’m actually sort of happy… without, ugh, him.

I want to focus on me. Vain? I don’t really mind it. This is my senior year. I just want to make sure I do everything right and have the experiences I’ve hoped for. I want to enjoy this year. I can’t put things off as much as I have in the past because next year I won’t be here, in this place, with these people. In fact, I won’t be in this place with these people ever again. Sure, we’ll visit each other, but it won’t be the same, and everyone won’t be here. High school is something easily overlooked in the future, I’m sure, but right now it’s all I’ve got to bide my time on until next year, so I’m going to let it soak in. I’ve got to do what I want, and dealing with… him definitely isn’t something I want to do, I’ve decided.

So, screw it.

Summer “vacation” finds me busier than ever. I’m frantic. I’m making longs lists, then going out and purchasing everything on these lists, then realizing I’ve forgotten something vitally important, then making more lists, then purchasing more things… and so on. Perhaps I should’ve made one really meticulous and thorough list in the first place? That probably would’ve saved me quite a lot of worry. Ah well, lesson learned, I suppose.Why am I making these frequent, frantic lists and purchases, you ask? Because Sunday morning, I will wake up, get dressed, grab a month’s worth of luggage, and go to college. I’m still in high school, but I was accepted into a fairly selective program that gives me two college courses for free this summer. The bad thing is, though, that for a month, I’m pretty much stapled to the campus. I’m going to miss lots of people. I’m not used to being away from everyone! Hm, maybe this will be good for me? It will definitely be good to get away from all of my people-related drama.

About that…

I feel bad. My friends will want to hang out with me on some day, but I’ll be genuinely busy that day. I apologize, but they get frustrated with me, saying I never make time for them anymore, and they refuse to reschedule with me.

I really am trying!

Guy and I hang out, and I feel like a jerk, like I’m leading him on. I do like him, honestly. I’m just so busy… and something’s missing from our… encounters. I don’t know what it is. He clearly likes me, and it hurts him that I never let him see me.

I really am trying!

I’ve just got to sort my stuff out right now. I want to say goodbye to my friends, and I want them to be happy for me. Is that selfish? I’m proud of myself. I want to work this out with “guy,” but I’m scared to start something with him, then leave for a month. That doesn’t seem fair to him, does it? I don’t want him to feel chained to me for a month, without seeing me at all.

Agghh. You see, I think through these stressful things, then I realize I don’t have TIME to think. I’ve got to do more laundry, buy more paperclips, scream more muffled swear words into my pillow…

I want to confide in them, in him, but I can’t very well rant about them TO them. So, internet, I’m venting my frustrations to you.

I apologize for my lack of creativity in this post. Now you’re mad at me too, right?

120 feels good.

One hundred twenty miles per hour makes you breathe more deeply.

Your anxiety fuels you to push the gas pedal to the floor.  The convertible purrs with satisfaction — this is what it was made for, after all.  It’s pleased that you’re finally using it for its intended purpose, and it makes that clear as it propels itself (and you) forward.  The force of it overwhelms you for a moment.  You adjust to it.  It shows its supremacy over the road and you as it groans contentedly and forces you back with its increase in speed.  It would smirk if it could.  Your angry music in the stereo (with the volume to the maximum, of course) begins to be overpowered by the sound of the wind the car creates.  Consequentially, your frustration is overpowered, as well. 

This is power. 

All contents of the vehicle weighing less than a pound begin to dance in the air — never flying out, though — strangely obediently.  You feel like it might come off the ground.  You are in control of everything for a few moments.  You have it all.  Unfortunately, you know you’ll run out of road eventually, and you’ll have to stop.  If only you did come off the ground…  If only you could compel the wind to take you with it… 

Perhaps you will someday.  Maybe 140 will take you there.

You’ll try that next week.

For now, though, 120 feels good.

My body is amazing. It is unlike any other.

I’m big–not fat, by any means, but long. Everything about me is. I love it. Long, slender arms… longer, stronger legs… tall torso (from my mother’s side, thank you)… My size makes me impressive, I think. I’m statuesque. I’m quite tan, too (maybe even bronze), which only gives further proof that I may very well be a statue.

My legs are awesome. They’ve been destroyed–muscles stripped down, weak, sore, tortured, dead. They’ve grown from my self destruction. They’ve grown used to (possibly fond of) the pain now. They’ve been trained. They are my runner’s legs. They’ve biked until my body held more sweat than skin. They’ve hiked until they were numb. They run for the high.

My skin really gives me away. It tells just how adventurous, how absolutely fearless, I once was. I’ve never been seriously injured (thank something), but I’ve been cut, scraped, bruised, stabbed, burned, and suffered countless other minor afflictions, many leaving nice little scars. These wounds were the prices of childhood exploration–climbing to the top of the tree, jumping off anything and everything, racing, wrekcing bikes on purpose just to look tough, and fighting through too many thornbushes to get through the wilderness.

I grew up (I say that like I’m finished; I’m certainly not) with older brothers, so scars were always seen to me as marks of valor. To be scarred is to have experienced something. That scar is your proof. That scar is your memory. That scar tells everyone who sees it that you know pain and know how to handle it.

I love my scars because each one has a story behind it, as lame as that sounds. Each scar takes me back to being younger–a tiny, wreckless little girl with perpetually scraped palms and gravel in her knees.

Our bodies are works of art. They should be treated as such! I get caught up in thinking, being a solely sedentary and entirely mental person, at times, and I forget that my body is not some kind of cage. It should not limit me. I should embrace it. I should test it.

Our bodies are really fascinating, honestly. I want to master my body. I want to train it. I want to see what all I can make it. There are really unlimited possibilities. The body can take on so many forms–we see that every day. No one looks really identical. It’s amazing that we all start out with the same general shape (most of us), but we change to suit our individual personalities and our own lifestyles.

Our bodies represent us. Our bodies speak for us, whether we like that idea or not. It’s true. When we meet someone new, we automatically judge them to some extent based on their physical appearance. Always.

I want to experiment with my shape. I want to see how far I can push my body in different directions. I don’t want to look the same forever. I’ve just got to find what shape suits me, personally, the best.