Things to Stop Telling Me, Part One.

As inspired from an annoyed Facebook post, things to stop telling me.  There will be a second part, because I can rant about these things.  Of course MOST people that I have in my life (for any large amount of time) know not to tell me this anyway.  Maybe some of them think these things, and that's fine, but I don't want to listen.  Allow me to talk more about why.

1.  Stop Telling Me To "Be Positive."
This is the worst offender, no doubt, and I think there's two reasons.  One is because uh, I'm not positive.  But two is because being positive is the cultural norm and everyone's "goal."  Society preaches that if you're positive, good things will happen.  Books are written about the magnetism of positivity.  I call bullshit because all around me I see people with shitty situations struggling so hard to be positive and not let any negative thoughts seep in that they pretty much are forcing a heart attack on themselves.  My life has never been better and more enriching, I've never felt more honest and whole than when I embraced the negativity and accepted it as who I am and something not inherently bad just within itself.  Things suck, people suck, life sucks, and that's OKAY! Some people are naturally positive, but even those people get chastised by the other, less positive people who say "oh come on your life can't be that perfect." (Aka every blogger ever.)  So wait, is it supposed to be perfect or isn't it?

The point is, if life were a game or a mathematical problem, it's one that can be solved in many different ways.  Not just one. Being positive is not 'the answer' to everyone's problems and so everyone kindly shut the hell up with your positive radiance.  Negative people don't want to hear it.

2.  Stop telling me to love my beautiful, capable body.  
Bodies are amazing and fantastic.  And in this Tumblrite age, you're basically a misogynistic woman hater if you don't love your own body. Yes, media is bad.  Yes photoshop is bad.  Yes promoting people to starve themselves and whatnot is bad.  This is a given and I shouldn't even have to explain that I don't agree with it, but I will anyway.  But let me tell you something.  Bodies--human bodies especially--are gross and weird.  They have floppy parts, hilarious parts, parts that should have hair and don't, parts that DO have hair and it's ugly and weird, and we haven't even going into bodily FUNCTIONS which are nasty all on their own. 

Maybe some people like poop and pee and snot and blood, but I haven't met any of those people.  And bodies do all those things.  (sidenote, I do like farts, because they're hilarious.  But they're not beautiful or sexy.)  My body swells up and retains water once a month and I feel like the Michelin Man.  I get pus-filled holes in my face that I have to smash with my hands just to have the goo come out.  Bodies are GROSS, okay?  Sometimes I do feel beautiful, sometimes I feel like a real goddess.  And then other times I feel like maybe the best thing would just be to dig a hole and fall in it and stay there until my uterus decides the expelling period (no pun intended) is over.  The blog posts with pictures of armpit hair and bloody vaginas are so not needed.  So not needed.  You can accept that your body is a wonder of science, and accept that science is gross and not pretty, at the same time.  This goes into the earlier comment about positivity.  Not all things are 100 percent positive and beautiful okay? okay.  Glad we got it. 

3.  Stop telling me that my family problems will work out or that my parents "really do love me even if they don't show it." 
One of the things that held me back from true happiness for years was this ridiculous absurd perpetuated myth that all families reunite later on when everyone's beautiful and in their prime of life, like an Oxygen movie.  I heard it from foster parents, therapists, and caseworkers.  That my parents really did love me.  That everything would be okay.  That time would heal everything and we would have a reunion.  As a result I waited (not very patiently, because not having a family is abnormal and nobody likes being THAT person on Christmas) for the reunion, waited for them to come around.  I put all my efforts into maintaining the most unhealthy relationships of my life, and it was all a waste.

A baby elephant was abandoned by its mother.  The mother gave birth and then stomped on the baby.  They gave the baby back, and she stomped on it again.  They eventually decided to hell with this mother and consoled the poor little guy, who cried for five hours.  I keep telling people this and I keep getting flack for it but here goes again: nature is cruel and mean and nasty and doesn't give a blue fuck about your perceived "family." Family is a nice tribal illusion we've had over the thousands of year's we've evolved, to stay in packs with and to thus exponentially increase our survival rate.  Family is fantastic when it's a healthy family--like the healthy family bond between Henri and his mother that I am fascinated to watch and have never seen anything like.  They get along and love and support each other and I am just in awe at how wonderful they are.  But I also understand that I will never have that bond.  I am wasting my time, my emotions, and the good parts of my life if I focus on fixing something that can't be fixed.  Yet somehow I'm the bad guy for choosing my own happiness, and turning my back on the family who treated me the equivalent of the stomped baby elephant. 

Shut up.  When you tell people from broken homes that things will get better or that their parents "really do love them" even if their parent tried to stick a knife down their throat, you're only damaging the person more+.  Just shut the hell up about your positive-minded paint the world pretty colors bullshit, and tell them something like, "Damn, your parent/s/ really do suck.  What shitheads.  Well, good thing you can be happy without them.  I'm here if you need me."  <<DO THIS AND SEE HOW THE EFFECTIVENESS RATES SKYROCKET.

4.  Stop telling me you'll pray for me.
If you understand the way an atheist's mind works you'll totally understand that praying is hilarious and childish to us.  When someone says "I spent the morning praying" they might as well say "I spent the morning playing toy cars and a dinosaur came and broke my tow truck."  It's just absurd and ridiculous.  But hey if that's what you want to do in your free time (and only in your closet, please, as the Bible states) then go for it.  I like farts so I can't call anybody immature.

But do not in your cotton-picking everloving son of a biscuit eating life tell me that you'll pray for me.  I will translate it into something equally as stupid, and I will probably never speak to you again at the very, very least.  Here's a sample translation:

"I don't believe in god."
"I'll pray for you to see the light and come to our Savior Jesus Christ."

"I don't like toast."

"I will talk to myself and beg my imaginary friend Dave to change your own perspective on this thing you don't like which I do like, because people who believe in toast are obviously the correct group."

See how awful that sounds? It's just gross.  And praying in general irritates me, because people want to let me know on Facebook, they're sending prayers.  Oh god please come on.  Come on.  You really sat down and earnestly asked God to help this random Facebook person?  And they say it like it's some kind of Harry Potter spell zipping through the air and will soon hit the person and give them whatever it is they need.  "Sending prayers your way!"  "Wingardium Leviosa!" It's insulting to my humanity that you say something so completely ridiculous.

It's just passive-aggressive way for Christians to say they'll be in heaven and I won't, but if they were so concerned for real I would ask them to you know...pray where it's needed.  Or actually go out and volunteer at a soup kitchen and DO something.

I'll just leave a quote from Hitchens here...I've been on a Hitchens kick lately so you're welcome. 

"Now, let’s take a case of someone who’s been dealt a bad hand: what about Fraulein Friesel in Austria whose father kept her in a dungeon where she didn’t see daylight for twenty-four years and came down most nights to rape and to sodomize her, often in front of the children.  I want you just to take a moment to—since you’re so interested in the downtrodden and the helpless—imagine how she must have begged [God]. Imagine how she must have pleaded. Imagine for how long. Imagine how she must of prayed everyday, how she must have beseeched Heaven. Imagine, for twenty-four years. And no. No answer at all. Nothing! No-thing! NOTHING! Imagine how those children must have felt."


Does Success Matter When You're Depressed?

You want my thoughts on seasonal depression? FUCK YOU SEASONAL DEPRESSION.  There, how's that?

no but seriously. sorry, no pretty pics, but hang in there and I'll throw in a Till gif.

I've been a sufferer from this for most of my life, actually.  It probably had something to do with the fact that my parents both suffered intense mood changes right when the clocks go back an hour, and for five months I basically lived with two adult werewolves.  They were brutal and down in the winter, so I learned to be, as well.  Plus, living without electricity and running water kind of dampens the mood, and having food shortages and animals to take care of out in the freezing rain and snow doesn't exactly make anyone scream from cheerfulness.

But here I am living a first world life where my current biggest problem is that I left my very expensive bag and very expensive makeup inside the bag inside a train and haven't heard back from the train company and am fearing my makeup gone forever and have had to go around makeup-free for a full week and it's not my thing right now.  Pretty big leap from the days of not having food, and yet I still have seasonal depression.  I can feel it coming on, and it's not easier here in Sweden where the sun goes away at 3pm.

So we all know I dedicated the year to bettering my self esteem...well, all it takes is a little poke of depression to undo all that hard work, and I have been nothing but a miserable sleepy lump for the past two weeks.  I keep thinking to myself, "snap out of Alex, things are going well and you have shit to do"  which includes:

  • buying and wrapping everyone's Christmas presents
  • sending Christmas cards
  • Thanksgiving party
  • Star Trek party
  • Glögg party 
  • Christmas Eve with the Family
  • Christmas with Henri's Mom
  • New Year's in the Arctic Circle
  • Moving my shit out of the au pair house and preparing to go back to Utah

But unbelievably, my depression doesn't listen to me when I tell it to fuck off.  It hangs on me like a bad smell and I immediately start thinking of all the worst things ever.  Now, before this year, the big difference was that I hated myself and thought I was useless and so on.  After MoodGym and some serious self-love work, I no longer believe those things to be true.

I like myself pretty okay, most days.

I think I'm a success, not a failure.

The thing is I thought that my more realistic and positive view of myself would be like a shield, a barricade against depression when it showed up again.  I thought that nothing could change my forward-moving life and that I had won.  When you get rid of warped mind perspectives and don't feel like jumping off a bridge, you feel like a winner.  Having a good life, like the one I have, also helps.

Well, not for the first time in my life, I was wrong.  Depression is a part of me I think, and I think it always will be in my life no matter how rich and famous and sexy I become.  And that's hard to accept sometimes the way I guess any disease is hard to accept, especially because this specific disease isn't something you monitor with equipment or check blood levels for.  It just comes and goes and who knows when you'll feel like what.  I realized today, sadly, that my success doesn't matter.

Depression doesn't care who you are and what you've done.  I could have rescued 200 orphans from the volcano of doom and given them all a puppy and a home for Christmas and I would still feel like walking in front of a train.  I'm not trying to be morbid (it just happens) but when you're sitting there feeling like Syd Barrett in his hotel room, staring off into space and being a big nothing, your whole life and achievements don't matter.

I guess in a way this is humbling, but it's also troubling.  I like to feel that I don't matter. I like to feel that no one matters and that the universe is random and we mean absolutely nothing and are less worth than the dirt on the bottom of our shoes.  That's just how I am as a person---horrible, I guess, and don't worry because I have varying degrees of belief in our importance as well--but I think everyone should feel small and insignificant.  Not like in the way that you feel small and insignificant because your husband beats you, but the small and insignificant that you feel when you look at a full night sky full of stars or a sunset in the desert.

But feeling like your achievements mean nothing is scary when you have depression.  You can sink off into nothingness and that feared suicidal mindset faster than a fish leaving an oily deck.  There are only a few threads hanging me into reality when I'm depressed, and I don't even know what they really are.  I think a few of them are the people in my life who want me to stay alive, but they're not the only part.  I don't know what the rest of it is.  I've been called a fighter, and someone who doesn't give up, so it's possible those other strings are just the parts of me that want to live for some selfish and programmed biological reasons.  Maybe it's the Almighty Universe, saving me for some grand purpose (yes I'm being sarcastic you dumbasses, I don't believe in that shit) and maybe it's the willpower of the great One And Only Till Lindemann. 


 I promise my next post will be more uplifting.  I want to share some Christmas memories as well as talk about our plans for the holiday season and New Year so please stick with me!  Depression is not fun to write or read about, but it's cathartic and I think it helps me, and maybe someone somewhere out there can relate.  Despite what bloggers want you to believe, life is not sunshine and flowers and happiness and cute outfit posts.  


A Year Without Video Games.

Did you guys know I decided to go a year without video games?  Actually, did you guys know I even like video games?  I am sure my nerdiness has come across this blog a time or two but I realize I keep it a pretty nerd-free zone.  That needs to change.  For god's sake all I ever did in America was game game game.  My tattoos are video-game based and I'm due for a few more.  So let's talk about the fact that I, someone who gamed her life away in 2011-2012 didn't touch a console game all year.  Until last weekend.

It wasn't like some big life-changing decision.  My thought process went, "Eh, I guess I could not do video games.  I mean, I'll be living in someone else's house.  Where I'm supposed to work and stuff.  Also there's small children and maybe stabbing zombies isn't the best thing I can do around 'em."   Then I had this afterthought that maybe just maybe a whole new world would open up to me and I would see this thing called 'life' that people seem to think gamers miss out on.  I would smell the roses more clearly and have a million adventures out there while being unplugged.  

I adore video games, and find them an extremely worthy hobby.  One of my absolute pet peeves is people (aka girlfriends) who complain that games are for kids and adults shouldn't partake and that they waste creative time.  When I was gaming, I used to pump out artwork at a mad hatter's pace.  I wrote over 300 chapters and short stories and got up to 13 chapters on my original novel that I'm still working on.  I was ready to open a jewelry shop and had a ton of ideas for items to sell.  Everything halted when the video games halted.  Video games are my main creative outlet.  Not books, not art gallery strolls.  Video games.  And they're wonderful and sublime and meaningful and have fantastic soundtracks and beautiful storytelling and imagery.  This year has been the most boring, uncreative year of my life and I know the lack of gaming has a lot to do with that. 

Case in point, here are some of my works that are totally based from video games:

 So the point of the story: I haven't picked up a video game since god knows when.  Until genius Henri alerted me last weekend that he has my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE GAME OF ALL TIME on his PS3.  And I could have been playing the motherfucker this whole entire year.  I literally did the smack on the forehead and then run down the face.  What the hell.  I don't even.  I picked up the controller.  I made a new character.  I was on my way to New Vegas yet again. 

It must have been how Jimmy Page felt when he dropped acid the first time while holding a guitar, or how Picasso felt the first time he also dropped acid while playing guitar.  I felt like myself, in a familiar place, with familiar stories and old friends and that satisfying ability to shoot people in the face and watch their heads explode.  How on EARTH does anyone else survive without playing games?  

So in 2014 there will not only be me talking about video games, sharing some of my favorite moments and quests and characters and soundtracks and other nerdy things, but there will also be me opening a shop based on video games! I'll go into more detail well....when I start putting shit together.  I still have Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, and getting back to America to cry on my cat for eleven hours to think about before I can organize all that.  

Any of my readers game? Please tell me yes.  Please tell me it's okay for me to spam you with nerdiness.  BECAUSE I'M GONNA 


I Was Batman and Sweden Didn't Care.

Since my Nazi story went over so well I'm back again with another story that slipped through getting written down until now.  Blame my weird October depression.  And enjoy the story. 

Oh, Swedes.  I think I have you and your culture down pat, but the truth is in some ways I am still one hundred percent, genuinely, unabashedly, almost clownishly American.  Like that time I thought whipped cream was something you bought from the frozen food section and was wow'd when the cream I was whipping actually turned into whipped cream.   Or the whole finding out that zero coffee shops have raspberry mochas (don't even think about knocking this, go try it you judgmental jerks) by asking for one and getting disgusted looks.  I thought I knew how to tiptoe around politically correct, uptight, mile-high-personal-walls.

Then my boss's bike gets stolen and I make a fool of myself.

This is my boss.  He's a politican.  He's passionate about being Green and naturally had a great vintage bike that I sort of took over for most of this year and rode around wherever.  I was just as outraged as he was when one day it just...wasn't there.  Maybe naively, I kept it outside, a whopping six feet from the front door, and when it was gone I kind of mentally freaked out that someone would just walk up to our yard and take it.

My boss was really upset.  This was not the first bike he's had stolen, and he loves to bicycle so he set about going to all the town's bike shops, filing a police report, et cetera.  Nothing.  We gave up hope and he bought a "new" (vintage) bike, but I was still bummed because nothing could replace Old Red.

Then one rainy morning I was on my way home from dropping the children off at dagis, and what do you think I saw?  IN A NEIGHBOR'S YARD????  Propped up almost gallantly, looking fresh and glistening thanks to the rain bath...it was the bicycle.  I remember feeling a rush of emotion: happiness that I found the bike, then anger at the people who took it, and indignation that they would so blatantly put it on display in their yard.  IT WASN'T EVEN LOCKED.  What.

So, I did what any amazing, awesome, loyal bike enthusiast and owner would do.  I opened the gate, took the bike, and rode it home.  Then, I lugged it into the garage and called my boss at work.  Since he's a part of the EU Parliament, he works in Brussels.  AKA he was a world away.  I was so excited to share the good news.  He was passionate about this bike too!! He would be so happy!!

Me:  Guess what IIIIIIIIIIIII foooooooundddddddd?!?!
Him: (very annoyed) ....what? What are you---
Me: IT'S THE BIKE! (I can almost hear him thanking me profusely!!!)
Him:  ....The what?
Him: You...what? Are you sure? Where is it?  (now he perked up, definitely interested)
Me: It's in the garage! (My chest was puffing outward now out of sheer pride.)
Him: It's where?!?!?!?!
Me: (now confused, slightly deflated) In...our...garage?
Me: Uhhhhh
Him: Oh god I have to call the police now.  Just...lock the garage and don't take the bike out.

So I got off the phone and felt another surge of emotions.  Why had I just been shamed?  What did I do?  Was it actually the right bike? I opened the garage just to double check, thinking I must be crazy.  My confusion turned into anger.  How dare he!  I WAS BASICALLY BATMAN.  I BROUGHT JUSTICE TO THIS FAMILY.  I DESERVE RESPECT.  GOTHAM ISN'T SAFE WITHOUT ME.  (This was also the day I learned I'd make a bad superhero.)

As it turns out, in Sweden, you don't just vigilante a stolen bike back.  You have to call the police and tell them where the bike is, so that they can go confirm it's yours via serial number or whatever.  This is stupid and wasteful, am I right?!?! If some asshat has MY bicycle parked on his back lawn like some war trophy I'm getting the damn thing back MYSELF.  But unfortunately in Sweden, that meant that I was now a bike thief.  

My boss had to call the police on me.  I was entirely stupefied.  And enraged.  And decided right there I would fight this one to the death and tell everyone how idiotic they were being.  This was the bike I have had adventures on for almost a year.  This bike and I have a relationship.  What I did was right.  As it turns out my boss also informed the police that I was American and we have 'different' ideas of justice.  But just because fuck my life, the police were coming to the house that night to check the bike and talk to me.

This had to be the stupidest day ever.  That's right folks, not only was I called a Nazi by a Christian Swede, but I also had to talk to the police because I stole my own bike.  The police came (two policewomen actually) and they were really nice and slightly amused.  They checked the serial number, they took my passpord ID number, laughed a little, and left.  Of course all the neighbors were drawn to the situation of a police car parked outside the house and the American (collective neighborhood groan) talking to two cops about who knows what.

So that's my story of how I was illegal in Sweden.
How American Justice was so wrong and so right.

Because I'm the Hero Linköping deserves, but not the one it needs right now.
So they'll hunt me.
Because I can take it. 
Because I'm not their Hero.
I'm a silent guardian.
A watchful protector

a dark knight 


The Swedish Stuff You Adjust To.

I have been in Sweden almost a year! Whaaaaaaaaaat? Since my mind is totally fried lately I thought I might write about some things I balked at when I arrived on the cold, fertile Viking soil and now have completely adapted to and will find myself not-okay-with-unadapting-to when I get back to Utah in January.

  • Eating everything with a fork and a knife.   I don't think it was just me because I remember EVERYONE in Utah and Tennessee just shoveling food in with a fork unless it was fancy steak or something.  In Sweden you eat EVERYTHING with a knife and a fork, even things like pizza (some lunatics do it with burgers too but that is just too much.  Hands I say!) 
  • Swedish pancakes.   I don't even know what I would do with an American pancake anymore.  Just look at it in horror, I imagine.  
  • No threats of being sued everywhere.  I remember first arriving and seeing ice all over the roads and sidewalk and wondering how the whole country wasn't bankrupt from getting sued.  I found out that sueing is a pretty American thing and now when I hear about someone threatening to sue over falling or getting hurt or the airbag not deploying I roll my eyes.  
  • No corn syrup.  Most of the additives and horse shit that flows with abundance through American food is banned here.  I have gradually tapered off reading every single label because something marked juice is actually juice, something marked meat is actually meat, and so on.  Of course there are exceptions, but the food/shiteating culture is so completely different it blows my mind.  
  • More equality.   I still have to deal with Swedish feminism which is the worst kind of feminism, but if I wasn't dealing with that it'd be the Mormons...so I can't win either way I go.  But Sweden is more equal in general; I see things like dads pushing strollers, gay couples holding hands, etc and nobody bats an eye.  
  • More atheism!! In Utah if you say you're an atheist there's almost always an awkward pause while the person processes the fact that you probably eat babies.  In Sweden, I've been made fun of and teased and called a Christian as an insult.  That's right, they use the word Christian which murricans so proudly flaunt like a badge of honor, as something humiliating.   A lot of older people  (40+) still maintain some loose association with the Swedish church, which is by far the quietest and nicest church ever, but people my age are 99 percent atheist.  They would be insulted if you even suggested there was another way to be.  It's great. 
  • Nobody talks to each other in public.   When in Utah, using the public transit system you could bet someone would talk to me.  Sometimes it was a wayfaring traveler just getting out of jail, sometimes it was a lonely old lady, and sometimes it was a granola Mormon mom on her way to pilates class.  I never thought I minded, but being on the trains in Sweden and never having to placate strangers for smalltalk has been one of my favorite things about this country.  Swedes, and especially Stockholmers, want nothing to do with idly chatting to strangers.  They kind of blow past people with tunnel vision most of the time, and nobody thinks it's rude.  I like it. 
  • Meats have sauces.  All meat.  A million sauces.  Sometimes I miss Worcestershire sauce.  But usually not.  
  • Taking shoes off inside.  I wonder, will I keep this adopted cleanly habit when I move? The answer is probably yes.  But I hate being barefoot, so we will see. 
  • Everything costing a million dollars.  Swedish things are expensive.  Everything from food to clothes is at least three times what you'd pay inside a WalMart.  That's scary.  I guess when I get to America I will go on a thrift store shopping spree just to be amazed at all the things I will get! 
  • In summer, there's no dark.  In winter, there's no light.   Right now the sun sets about 1630, but by December it will be setting an hour earlier.  That's right, by the time it's 4pm and before most people are off work, it's black as pitch outside.  It's really strange.  Strange as going to a Rammstein concert and getting home at 3am and watching the sunrise.  WHAT IS THAT ABOUT THE SUN DIDN'T GO DOWN TIL LIKE MIDNIGHT.   I actually don't like the lengthy day or the lengthy night but I will adapt.  
I'm sure more, TONS more could be added to this list, but I will leave it here so as to not overwhelm! 


The Time I Got Called A Nazi.

I have forgotten how nice it is to tell random funny stories on my blog as well as the deep dark heavy stuff.  Well, you're in luck today, because I keep thinking I need to write this one down.  It's such a doozy.  I know it's something I'll laugh about for a long time, despite being TOTALLY blindsided and shocked when it happened. 

Backstory: We have a neighbor who comes from an abusive past.  She's a bit older than me (has two kids and a husband etc) but we hit it off and she invited me to art class. It's important to note that the art classes took place in a church.  Everyone here knows I'm an atheist so, no big deal, right?  We started going in the spring, took a break for summer, and summer was the time when I was coming off antidepressants and deactivated my Facebook for awhile.  Summer came and went and I was looking forward to going back to art class and was even scheduled to teach a few of the classes.

She started acting weird.  I had literally no idea what I'd done wrong.  I often think that I misread social interactions, which is probably incorrect as I'm really emotionally intelligent, but still, I doubted myself.  Was she acting weird? Was I imagining things? Had she seen me naked through the bedroom window accidentally? You know how it is when you see someone naked by accident and you act all avoidy.  I couldn't figure it out.  I felt like I was being pushed away so I went with that and didn't talk to her.

Then one morning, I saw her in the grocery store and thought to myself, "Enough is fucking enough."  I boldly went up to her and said hello, and she rather awkwardly and meekly offered me a ride home in her car.  It was on this innocent car ride that she made her move.

Neighbor:  I feel betrayed by you, from one abused child to another.
Me:  ...errrr.....??? (did she see me naked???)
Neighbor:  You do know you deleted me from Facebook?

At this point we're standing outside our houses and I can't stop myself from laughing.  That's it? Facebook deletion? 

Me:  I think you're taking Facebook a little too personally.  I deactivated---
Her:  No, you need to listen to me.  You attacked me on Facebook.
Me:  I...what????
Her:  It was with your anti-religious posts.  You were speaking specifically to me!
Me:  Ohhhh no.  nononono.  I go on anti-religious rants sometimes (kind of like I do on this blog) but they are NEVER directed at any one person and rather the religious ideals themselves.  Definitely not you.  (I was still kind of laughing at this point, but I tried to sober up.

Me:  I'm sorry if you ever felt that I was attacking you but I can assure you that wasn't my intention.  I think you need to take Facebook a little less seriously.
Her:  No! You attacked me!  You don't know my life! You don't know what struggle I've had to have my faith!
Me: oh boy
Her:  You made me feel WORTHLESS!! You made me feel PERSECUTED!!!


Me:  .............



(is she serious?! Is she seriously going to call me this? My brain was making time slow down.  I swear I only remember this happening in slow motion) 


(she's serious oh god here it comes)


(she's really going to say it!)


Cue the most dumbfounded, flabbergasted, completely blank slate reaction ever from me.  I wasn't even mad.  How could I be mad?! A SWEDE had just called me a Nazi! In plain daylight! OVER A GODDAMN FACEBOOK POST SHE ASSUMED WAS MEANT FOR HER!!! I just kind of blinked hazily while she whined for a few more minutes.  Was that even legal?  Swedes don't even look at each other in public much less call each other name MUCH LESS SAY THE N WORD.  This is Europe! Who does that?!?!!?
At some point when the fog lifted and she was still sputtering out how mean I was (I think she realized she'd overstepped a huge boundary at this point, she'd lost her fire) I just shook my head and walked inside the house.  Her last words were, "Yes, you go and have a think!"  and I was like, "You too, the next time you call someone a Nazi."  We haven't spoken since.

Like I said, I was pretty horrified and shaken up at the time, because WHO DOES THAT REALLY, but afterward it was pretty funny and now it's a family joke that I'm the resident atheist Nazi.  It was a little awkward when we rang her doorbell for Halloween and I'd dressed Cornelius up as the Devil, but that's what us atheist Nazis do.