That awkward moment…

…when your love life resembles a TV series about a serial killer.

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We

We are the only ones who see her. We, the sad and desperate, the drunk and lonely, the short and shy and full of shit, both in thought and in speech. We like to lose ourselves in smoke, in flavours and in music we deny liking when sober. We don’t care and we’re not afraid to make a fool of ourselves – we’re not shameful, we’re just living our lives to the fullest! We use jokes and alcohol to make ourselves smarter and funnier. We are everywhere, at any hour, laughing, howling like rabid wolves in search of a prey. We see it. We approach it. We sniff it and, if lucky, touch it.

If it’s weak, then we might as well taste it, lick it hungrily and snatch it to our secluded sanctuary. There, we can approach it directly. We have no scruples, there is no other form of being rational other than our own vision, our inner law – the one we sketched and perfectioned during years of standing in the dark, doing nothing… absolutely nothing. Lacking courage and self-confidence, we’ve waited and hoped. In vain. And when we realized we are becoming desperate, we stormed out and now we are satisfied with whatever comes easily.

We try to be gallant, soft, sophisticated. We do it all by the book, as they like it. They say we’re just good buddies and fun to be around. Why not more than that? We know “no” means “yes”. We know you like the good stuff at first sight and like to do the dirty business after 2 hours and 4 drinks (that we offer to buy, just for you, sweet prey).

We like the crowd, we like their attention. We feel loved, admired, adored. And then, suddenly… there! In the crowd, we see her. We like her type. We like her. Shy as we usually are, now it’s all gone. We attack. 

Why so shy, darling? Why so stiff and silent? Is the music too loud, can’t hear us? We know you’d love to. Let us come closer to your pretty face and whisper our howls in you ear. We leave our breath’s imprints on you neck that just turned away in the opposite direction. Sweet fool, you’re ours. You’re mine.

Just the perfect specimen: shy, drawn in a corner in her silence. Not too fat, not actually skinny and far from beautiful – acceptably pretty. Her presence has nothing special to say, but in my ears and eyes it sings and it dances. As I watch her, I can almost taste her lips, smell her hair, feel her skin against mine as I trap her between my demanding, sweaty body and a hard place. Her struggling, her screams, her cries wake and arouse the wild spirit inside me.

You can’t run and you have nothing to hide from me. Why run in the first place, no one else wants you, anyway. No one would be mad and blind enough to like that sad face, that pitiful smile that hides your deranged spirit. You’re weak and faulty, your mouth denies what your body shows. You’re lost and alone, and what a sorry presence you are… Loneliness has driven you crazy, you can’t think straight, your childish mind is trapped in a sloppy young woman’s body.

  If you’re broken, then I’ll fix you. Taller, heavier, sober and bleak – you’re perfect to me. A pitiful creature belongs to her kin. I’ll have you now, tonight, tomorrow, forever, because there’s no one else who would want you. For those who you long for, you’re a disease. For me, you’re the prize, the fresh catch that I get to show off with. You call it humiliation, I call it benefaction. It’s all you deserve and you know there’s no escape, not even in your mind. It’s your choice: think elsewhere and go insane, or think of me (and only me), or don’t think at all and let me have you, tear you apart, taste you and consume you.

Playing the therapist

I’m sick and tired of doing this for others. I thought I was the soft-hearted one, the one who always needed counselling and a shoulder to cry on. But I guess I’m not. I’m actually cold blooded comparing to you guys – you airheaded spaced-out psychos!

I’m tired of telling you what to do and how to do things without turning all the situations in a pool of sugary whining and endless “it’s complicated business”. No, it’s not complicated, YOU are complicating it by thinking too much and doing too little. Also, by assuming little to no responsibility. Also, by leaving the others to do what you are supposed to do.

And all I do is watch and repeat myself over what is logical and simple. And you still don’t listen. If only I had what you deny having…

On getting drunk


What are parties without alcohol? This soothing “nectar of the gods” that gives pleasure along with numbness to the senses. For some it is the most important ingredient when going out, for others an addiction, for others just an excuse (a lousy one, i may add).

As usual, when it comes to birthdays, I went out with my “freshly older” friend and ordered something to drink. My idea of drinking is just sipping a little at a time while focusing on the actual conversation with the other people sitting at the table with me. But this time, because of the sweetness in the drink – damn my sweet tooth -, I just drank half of the slightly tall glass in a very short time. Soon after, it hit me. Kinda’ hard. And after those were finished came a round of strong shots. By the third round, I had to say ‘stop’.

Lesson learned, principles confirmed. I still don’t understand why a lot of people enjoy drinking. That is, drinking until they can’t remember what they’re doing and can’t control what they’re saying. How the bloody hell can someone like the feeling of not being able to control their body, stand up straight, keep balance or walk? Not to mention the forced cheerfulness.

You guys may find it cool, I find it pitiful. If you can’t have fun without drinking, then you must be a very sad individual. I’m not suggesting the return of the Prohibition, one or two glasses of something is fine, but if it’s cheap that doesn’t mean you have to swallow it all until you burst and forget how to put a foot in front of the other, maybe throw up on the way from ”straight up’ to ‘spread across the pavement, face down’. It’s just sick and I feel sorry for all of you who are doing it. Mostly men, and especially women.

Seeing a man drunk is lame and pitiful. Seeing a woman drunk is the grossest, most embarrassing and grotesque picture out there. Double the feeling if she is dressed up elegantly and wears high heels.

Also, alcohol doesn’t give you courage. The chemical reactions just make you more impulsive to do what you already wanted to do, but didn’t have the proper excuse why you are doing it. It’s true when they say that a drunk man’s words are a sober man’t thoughts. And sometimes the drunk man thinks by himself, although, logically speaking, the process is not actually “thinking” but making connections between totally opposite, unrelated ideas. Also, what’s the point of drinking for fun if you don’t even remember how exactly you had fun in the first place?

So, next time someone gets wasted, I wish him/her a happy, painful, dizzy, unbearable sobering. I’ll stick with apple juice. I like walking straight, knowing what I’m saying and doing and having control of myself and things around me. I’d rather be drunk on feelings than drunk on beer and smell of bakery than fermented weeds.

Old passions revived

I never realized when I stopped doing two simple things that I actually enjoyed doing. Maybe it was because of my routine changing since I’ve started University and moved from one place to another, having a crazy program an becoming too lazy to take care of myself.

But since I moved – recently – I noticed the absence of these two things that made me happy: cooking and singing. Yes, yes… it sounds very housewife-ish. I guess it’s in the woman nature to cook and sing. Maybe that is all they did back when women lived in caves along with their hunter-gatherer caveman husbands. And I feel that it’s my job to carry on with the tradition.

Singing. I did it almost all the time until I finished highschool: at home, in the school choir, whenever I got out with my friends. When I sang, I felt whole, I felt myself. It was the best form of therapy whenever I felt sad, or happy, or lonely, or joyful. I liked to test my limits and experiment with tonalities, inflections and styles. The reason why I listened to music on high volume was not because ‘I like it loud’ (so to say ;)) but because I like hearing clearly all the instruments, all the sounds that together make the melody – I treated the song as a puzzle.

Cooking. Anything at hand, anything good and tasty, especially anything that leaves place for personal touches and additions. Singing was a therapy for myself, but cooking is a therapy for both myself and the others (if I get it done right…).

When did I actually lost the enthusiasm for singing and cooking? I have no idea. Maybe I stopped singing in public because of the shyness and stopped cooking because of laziness. Yet recently, the need of creating (yes, art, both are arts) came to me slowly but steadily. More the need of cooking than the one of singing (I still feel sorry for my neighbors), but I think I’m on the right track.

On the singing part, thank you MG for dragging me to the creepy cellar/club and persuading me into singing karaoke. I’m aware that my voice would have scared all the cats in the alley, but… the feeling! ❤ From now on, I’ll feel less sorry for my neighbors – no matter what, I’m getting my voice back.

Next step would be cooking for someone. Do I have any volunteers?