I know it's over...

...and it never really began, but in my heart it was so real...

Oh god, here we go with The Smiths again. I'm afraid it won't be for the last time either. Because, you know, moping. I'm back in Finland, and everything is wrong, wrong, WRONG. Where are the naked men running about? Why will there be no more drinking in the kitchen? Where are all the goddamned people? Have I wandered into some post-apocalyptic nightmare? And what's up with the bed? It's all soft, and softness is for the WEAK. And WEAK people start...start sniffling...

Excuse me for a bit, there's some dust in my eye...

Oh bollocks to this. I'm will try to distract the terrible sadness demons on my shoulders by commencing the first part of operation Don't Be A Horrible Fat Bastard, You Fat, Horrible Bastard (more on this later, unless it's an utter failure from the start) and try again later. With pictures! Of semi-naked men!

Unless of course looking at pictures kicks up so much dust in my eyes that I can't see to write.