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Idag är det fyra (!) himla år sedan Daniel frågade om jag kunde vara hans flickvän. Det känns som en evighet för att det är just det, och jag hade inte velat ha det på något annat sätt. Jag skulle kunna fylla det här inlägget med en oändlighet av ord om honom och om oss, men idag känns all för privat. Vad jag kan säga är att jag hoppas på minst 400 år till av vansinne ihop, och så tänker jag låta ett utdrag av mina bästa inlägg om oss här nedanför tala för sig själva.

Today it is four (!) freaking years since Daniel asked me to be his girlfriend. It feels like an eternity because it is, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I could write an endless post about him and us but all words feel to private. What I can say is that I hope we get at least 400 more years of madness together and then I will let this selection beneath of my favourite posts about us speak for themselves.

My favourite posts about us:

The story of how me met
A midnight surprise
A dream of a house
Overexposed memories
Hackney mornings



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Daniel, NYC 2015

Klockan är 02:56 och vi låser dörrarna till baren. Mina armar värker från en hel natt av att servera drinkar till glädjefyllda nattfjärilar. Daniel och vår vän Jared kom förbi för första gången. Vid bardisken stod de med varsin Camden Hells lager i hand och huvudena slängandes i takt till djn som nostalgiskt prisades av de båda. Äntligen hade de hittat en bar som påminde om deras guldkorn hemma i Toronto. Det neonröda dunklet lös konstant upp av blå Shazam-loggor på displayer. Jag kände mig stolt, fast att det bara är ett ställe jag jobbar på.

Vid 01 slutade vi servera fast att ingen slutade beställa. Daniel var på väg hem för att köpa late night food och jag bad honom köpa till mig med. What kind? frågade han. Surprise me, svarade jag.

Klockan är 03.08 när jag så tyst som möjligt låser upp vår ytterdörr. Mina ögon simmar i en cocktail av adrenalin och sömn när jag möts av en helt upplyst hall. I sovrummet står vår säng tom. Jag går vidare till köket, öppnar dörren och där står han, i rufsigt hår och ugnsvantar, omgiven av kastruller och stekpannor. Middagsbordet är dukat, tallrikar och tända ljus och allt, och i ugnen bubblar en stor nachotallrik med kidneybönor och ost.

I wanted to properly surprise you. 

Mitt hjärta faller ur bröstkorgen och spricker till typ elva sköra delar, för jag vet inte hur jag ska hantera så mycket fint. Att någon han stannat uppe två timmar och lagat nachos till mig i väntan på att få surprise me.

Fyra fucking år ihop nu och ändå får han mig ständigt att tappa andan.


läs fler love stories här

It’s 2.56am and we’re locking the doors to the bar. My arms ache from serving countless drinks to joyous souls all night. Daniel and our friend Jared came to the bar for the first time tonight. The two of them stood boping their heads, sipping lagers, nostalgically praising the fact that they finally managed to find a bar reminiscent to their favourite Toronto spots. On several displays around the room the blue Shazam logo illuminates the darkness. It makes me proud, even if it’s just a place I work at.

As Daniel leaves at 1am for some late night food I ask him to pick up some for me too. What kind? he asks. Surprise me! I respond.

At 3.08am my eyes are filled with a cocktail of adrenaline and sleep and I unlock our front door. Inside the flat all the lights are on and our bed is empty. I open the door to the kitchen and there he is in messy hair, surrounded by pots and pans. The table is set, plates and candles and all, and in the oven a large nacho plate with cheesy and kidney beans is bubbling. My heart drops and breaks into eleven warm little brittle pieces. I wanted to properly surprise you. It is too much to master at the break of dawn. How somebody he has stayed up two hours just to cook me nachos after my shift at 3am. Just to surprise me.

Four fucking years we’ve been together, and still he takes my breath away.


read more of my love stories here



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analogue stories | Saga, July 2015

I’ve developed four rolls of film with my new Fuji DL-190. It is so exciting with analogue pictures, but I definitely want to invest in better film. Has anybody got a recommendation of fairly low priced light contrast film?

Some photos I particularly liked from this batch were a few I took of my lil sis Saga, whom I interviewed before about what it is is like being 14. Saga-in-July-2015,-StockholmSaga-14,-Stockholm-2015Saga,-Stockholm-2015

The windows were wide open, a warm summer evening breathing through it. The room was empty apart from her suitcases standing packed along the walls and the lone mattress on the floor. Just weeks before her and my parents would move back to Kenya.

As she got ready to meet her friends we talked about eyebrows and 14 year old boys sending out party invitations through Snapchat by throwing money out their parents windows. Saga tutored me in how to use the make up brushes like they say on youtube but would stop midway through to show me a new R&B track she’d found. She stood in front of the mirror shouting I LOVE MY EYEBROWS following up with a dance routine. I’m telling you, this new generation of girls will reach the stars.

Many of you who follow me on snapchat saw this in real time. If you also want to follow me my username is linn.wiberg



Interview with my 14 year old sister Saga



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A clubnight in a WW2 bunker

On Saturday Jared brought us with him to a night that his workmate was djing at. We thought it’d be some party in a bad bar and had postponed showing up until it was nearly midnight when we were all soft from whiskey. Arriving we walked down the parking lot behind McDonald’s to find that the entrance was two folding doors leading down to a concrete shaft of a forgotten World War II bunker. Taken by surprised we looked at each other, chuckled and warily entered. Within the grimy walls covered in a slimy surface the organisers had decorated with burning candles and fairy lights, shedding just enough light to not cave in to the damp darkness.

The whole place smelled of toxic spray paint. We asked the boy in some funny, obviously ”ironic”, beanie selling red stripes behind a make do bar what it came from. He directed us through various empty rooms to a girl going mental, obsessively covering all walls in golden penises. Losing braincells by the second we quickly returned to the main room where the djs were setting up. We queued up to buy those cans from the boy in the beanie again. Next to us two girls had set up a table selling a glitter make-over for a few quid. Everybody do what they can to make a few more coins. Once I had my can in hand I approached them asking about their business when some boy decides to buy me a make over. I felt like a queen.

Sparkled up I joined the rest of my gang a little later, hanging out in another room. Olivia had found what looked like a door in one of the blocks of concrete, so small that only toddlers would be able to stand up straight in them. We went up to it and peaked through, a solid blackness gaping back at us. A little drunk and a lot braver than I usually am, I dared her to climb in there with me.

Dalston Party in a WW2 Bunker

”No we can’t go in there, who knows what could be in there!” she responded.

”I know, but how bad could it be, right? Somebody must’ve searched through the premises before setting up a club here, no?” Although, this was Dalston so I wasn’t so sure myself.

”Okay. Yeah, alright then. Let’s do it, let’s go inside and have a look!” I was taken aback by her agreeing and almost wished she hadn’t.

”At least people will hear if we scream.” 

She laughed as we turned on the torches on our iphones, crouched down and climbed through into the dark abyss. Squeezing through, trying not to touch the walls that were like frogs’ backs. Once inside the air was stuffy and wet. The sound from the dj booth was more muffled, more distant in here. Echoes from water drops crashing into the wet floor bounced between the walls and then the sound of our footsteps and our breaths. They clung in the air like undisturbed clouds.

”Woah, this is pretty insane. Look at all these things! How long do you reckon this has been here?” 

”I don’t know. I guess since this place was in use last, like during WW2 or something. Crazy.”

I guided the white iphone light around the room, revealing overturned wooden desks and school benches made for another era. It looked like somebody had just left in a hurry, dropped it all, fled. I imagined what it’d be like, being trapped in here with bombs being dropped overhead. Terrified for the ceiling to cave in. Then probably bored, waiting around for the next attack. They must’ve been in here for quite some time if they even held classes in here. It terrified me how the state of the world somehow seem closer to this reality than it has for decades.

No windows or other entrances were to be found, apart from one other tiny opening in the far end of the room. Stepping over rotting benches through the flooded floor our shoes got wet. We climbed through just to discover another room with another little exit. Through several of these openings we advanced, getting more creeped out and more bold with every one, the concrete leaving white marks on our backs when we graced its surface. It was the same story in most of them, decomposing belongings left behind. It felt creepy digging through somebody’s old shit, and we decided that one shouldn’t gamble with fate for too long.

We abandoned our adventure, like the residents of this place did before us, and headed back out to the party. The other rooms had started filling up and people were dancing as the chicks behind the dj booth played tracks from my years in Kenya, all on vinyl. Most had never heard them before, and clearly didn’t know how to move, but still danced in pure joy. We joined in, dancing the bizarre dance of being joyful in a bunker. I dearly hope this isn’t a grotesque version of the calm before the storm.



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A Frightening Farewell / A Smashing Start

Linn in London

It’s almost midnight, the day before I’m moving to London again. My room at my godmother’s house is empty, cleaned out and somehow I managed to fit all my belongings into two suitcases and one carry-on. Although they will by all means get the degrading little stickers screaming out heavy luggage as if to tell me I don’t know how to pack. Luckily I’m a boss lady with arm muscles like a wrestler to carry them. One won’t be able to tell though when I stand at Arlanda Airport crying from leaving my loved ones to enter a future of uncertainty.

It’s my eighth time moving countries, and it’s not making it one bit easier. Inside me there is an ocean of frightening excitement running in my veins. It’s the moment before I leap, before choosing a path to go down and so many things will determine my upcoming years. Next week alone we have three house viewings and I have two job interviews. What the fuck will I say at those? Not a clue. I’m aiming for something smashing, but only time will tell. Suddenly staying here in my godmother’s guest bedroom seems a lot safer than using my one way ticket to the UK. But since when do I chase safety?

This year has been so strange and exhausting and hurtful and magical. I’m not the same me returning to London, but I believe it’s a good thing. I’m less destructive and not as tearful, definitely not cooler but surely more confident and knowledgable. It feels like I won’t break as easily, and god that has been awaited. Having been exposed to feedback about my behaviour, first impression, reactions, presentations, expressions every week at Hyper Island, I’ve gotten to know myself. With all the ugliness and charm. I’ve come to terms with people not always liking me and it doesn’t even bother me. So London you won’t be able to crush me either! But I’m definitely up for a battle.

Tomorrow I will eat my last Swedish breakfast in a while, kiss my dear dear sister farewell whilst performing my ugliest and most grotesque version of sobbing. The streets of Stockholm I will call my home for the last time in god knows how long. Perhaps never more. It’s painful and sad, but at least I’m not all relieved to run away like last time. We’re on good terms, Stockholm and I, and even if I’m not head over heels, you have my respect. Being able to say that no I wouldn’t mind living here again is more than I had ever expected.

Within 19 hours I will stand in Clapton with all my luggage and ring on Daniel’s doorbell. I will hear his footsteps running down the staircase and answering the door to put his arms around me. It’ll be the last time we say hi again after a tearful farewell. The long distance term before our relationship doesn’t exist anymore.

So guys, this is when it starts. I will be a Londoner once more and take you with me on my struggles, adventures, love stories and heart breaks. I have 37 pence on my British bank account but here I come fuckers. I expect to get swept off my feet.



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