Dear listeners,
In the light of the recent events surrounding the prank phone call of the two radio DJs to Kate Middleton's nurses, and the subsequent death of the nurse, I have something to say.
Sunday 9 December 2012
Tuesday 27 November 2012
The chickencast: Career as self-realisation
I am proud to present to you... The Pountchline 2.0! Welcome to my first, ever, digitally remastered blog!
Enjoy, share and comment. Here it is:
Podcast: Career as self-realisation
Enjoy, share and comment. Here it is:
Podcast: Career as self-realisation
Friday 21 September 2012
Why did the chicken run across the road? It was chasing its happiness. Yet, the more it chased, the farther away happiness seemed.
Happiness is the most unpredictable thing of all. It's not without reason that people often recite the saying "Be careful what you wish for", and it is not just because sometimes what you wish for comes to you but in a shape and form you never expected. It is even more disappointing when your dreams come true, as you wished them to be, and they disappoint you, it hits you hard because of the discrepancy between how you thought you would feel and how you feel in reality. Even if factually what you wanted and what you got is exactly the same.A flaw in human psychology or perhaps a fundamental misunderstanding of our own psychology is the reason for unhappiness. If given the option, we would wrongly prefer to have more choice, more options, more money, when in fact being limited is the core predicament of happiness. Choice confuses our circuits, it causes doubt, it occupies our brain with endless analysis of all possible outcomes, and an ultimate discontent that we can't have everything. Of course, having everything would lead to more discontent for the same reason. Did you know that a year after the event, a parapalegiac and a lottery winner report the same level of happiness? Absurd, perhaps. But we assume that the intensity and longevity of our emotions, both good and bad ones, will be much higher than they are in reality.
I personally have been happiest when swamped with work, when I had to optimise my time and my efforts. Those were the times I worked hard and played hard, and I believe in some way, the best thing you can do to make yourself happy is to make yourself busy. The reverse leads to apathy. Working hard means that you have to play hard to counteract the work, and you have to work hard to earn the play. On a more superficial level, I was happy because I felt I was being productive, that what I did mattered (even if only a little), it made an impact, it was necessary. The explanation on a more psychological level stems from the setting and achieving of goals. Humans, proven, function very well when they have a day-to-day plan, when there are many but small goals in sight- a course work every week means that my brain is constantly occupied with simple, doable tasks. The reason why 5 year plans worked so well for Russia was because Stalin understood that. It worked so well because Stalin understood that a plan for the development of Russia in the next 50 years would have simply been inconceivable for the average person. Where do you start, even? Thanks to his understanding of this, Russia was able to compete in the Space Race at all in the 50's and 60's, and thanks to him, Russia is a world power even today, when, before his rule the country was absolutely destroyed.
What makes short-term goals such a positive reinforcement is that rewards are visible quickly, it's a Pavlovian scheme of operant conditioning that motivates us to achieve more and better next time... but on a small level. It extracts the best, it motivates and enhances, mostly because we feel that our work is rewarded and appreciated. Even more pivotal to the success of short-term goals is that we feel we have deserved this success. In the army, it is much more difficult to be promoted to a higher rank than it is in the air force. Yet, studies have shown that members of the military are considerably happier with their promotions, albeit much less often because the air force know that they have been promoted because somebody died, not because of their own merits. They don't feel that they have deserved it. They also get habituated to getting promoted and the frequency lowers their enjoyment and appreciation of the event.
I am secular but that does not prevent me from seeing that religion is simply a function of our human psychology. Ultimately, very subconsciously, even our predecessors whose brain was 1/3rd of our mass, understood that we need to be limited in order to prosper, both as individuals and as a collective. That is why they created religions and gods, because we can fear them, we can rely on them, we can pray to them, and finally, they give us a sense of perspective- there are things that gods can do that we are no capable of. Unfortunately, and it hurts me deeply, religion is pivotal to human success and happiness. This is the most developed that any of us have ever been, so much is available to us and we want more because now there are no limits to our dreams, supposedly. Yet we end up wishing for more power and more money, resulting in confusion on what to do with such disproportionate amounts of it; it leads to fear that we will lose our money and power, which in turn leads to aggression and/ or escapism- drugs, alcohol, shopping, entertaining TV shows with yet more competition.
What will happen? The most developed, those who are leading us into this towards the top of the ladder will collapse first. It will be a total annihilation, to the very core- the economy, their belief system, their social system. Has it not happened already with the Economic crisis? This crisis happened also in 1929 for the same reason- a success too rapid is unstable, it was too good to be true. I personally believe that, very much like a Pheonix, we will rise and rebuild our societies and ourselves. Stupidity was defined by Einstein as repeating the same action and expecting different results each time. Unfortunately, the human race is stupid. Fortunately, ignorance is bliss.
Wednesday 5 September 2012
Whether the chicken crossed the road or not, we can no longer tell because the chicken updated its security settings.
“Goodbye, said the fox. And now here is my secret, a very simple secret. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.” Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Privacy often comes up when we discuss the relationships between large corporations, usually Google or Apple, and their customers. Let's call it macro-privacy. What never seems to be addressed, or I have been perpetually missing it, is micro-privacy: what are the boundaries in our daily routine, how easy is it to cross them? What are the repercussions and who do I really hurt if I cross that boundary? Who will know, if I do? Maybe, and that is what really concerns me, how often do we know that we've crossed that boundary?
The questions are too many for this to just be a hypothetical discussion, indeed. A particular incident happened a few days ago and it stuck with me, it is marinating in my mind, my brain has been trying to simultaneously forget it and understand it.
Violence doesn't have to be physical to be tangible. Symbolic violence, though usually a reserved guest to feminist theologians (among others), is a curious concept that can be felt and that can confuse just as much as a slap in the face. If I get slapped in the face, I'd probably at least know where it came from.
An early train ride towards the airport had me leaning on the window. The slow rocking of the train, perhaps reminiscent of a cradle, got me drifting off. I was day dreaming, snoozing, feeling my eye lids heavy and sleeping, and waking up again. I opened my eyes, for no real reason, and I saw a man with a his phone aimed at me, taking a photo. He saw me open my eyes and immediately, quickly, swiftly and soundlessly walked away. That is it. That is all that happened.
Did he think it was funny I was asleep at 5 am on the train and wanted to post it online with a funny tagline underneath? Did he think I was cute while I was sleeping? I've been told that before but I never thought it was worthy of a photo. Maybe it wasn't the sleeping bit... so I looked at my reflection in the window which had, until seconds ago, provided me with a resting place and given space to my dreams; but no, I wasn't wearing any interesting clothes, didn't have any make-up smeared on my face. I still don't know why this stranger felt the need to take a picture of a sleeping person on a train at 5 am.
I get the feeling that there was no purpose to it, though. This is where privacy comes in. He felt it was OK for him to do it, yet not OK enough that he would be arrogant about it: me waking up snapped him out of it and he left, ashamed, perhaps. Where does the boundary come in, when you have a camera phone, when you can upload photos instantly and share them, literally, with the other side of the planet? I think, because technology allows us to do something, it is easy to assume that it grants a moral and social permission too. I ask myself questions too: why was I so taken aback by this? What was the worst that could happen, really, I thought to myself. Some strangers may see me sleeping. I don't even think you could see my face and I wasn't drooling... Yet, it was a very clear violation, it felt as strong as a punch in the chest.
To answer my questions:
1. it is incredibly easy to cross micro-boundaries because they are so subjective. There is a discrepancy, what we can physically accomplish has surpassed our development psychologically on an individual level, let alone the social one.We may be able to do something but that doesn't mean that we should or we are allowed to. Perceptions change slowly. I am not even disputing whether they should change, whether some opinions are better off "un-evolved".
2.usually, if you cross a boundary, in the cases of micro-privacy anyway, it won't be a major problem. Sure, the victim may tell you off or punch you (if you chat up someone's girlfriend in a bar, for example) but there rarely would be great consequences. It mostly tells something about you and your character.
3. the issue is that you may not know you've crossed a boundary. Because we're talking about such small moments that only last a second, sometimes without any witnesses or time for reaction, you may not feel that anything has happened. And if that's the case, returning to Question 2, mostly, it hurts the perpetrator, not the victim.
Ultimately, trust your instincts. And if you hear a silence, then that's more telling than the loudest scream. But just because you can do something, it doesn't mean you should. And frankly, I feel this ending to be a bit false, a bit unstable. This is my attempt at concluding a story which doesn't have a natural ending. This is just my brain, doing what it's made to do- trying to solve a puzzle and have closure.
Sunday 19 August 2012
Which roads does an American chicken with wet dreams cross? Only the ones in the greatest country in the world, of course. (I should be able to come up with a better title)
I'm ill at home, so I've had even more free time, which means more internet and movies. I don't usually engage in movie criticisms- like the Russians cleverly say: на вкуса и цвет, товарищей нет.
I am not a fan of super-hero movies but recently I've been craving them a little. A craving just as bizarre and inexplicable as my other recent one- salads. However, if something is worth doing, it's worth overdoing, so I sat down to watch Avengers, which everybody, fan of the genre or not, has been telling me is great and the best one of them all. OK. I am 42 mins in and my opinion is
This movie is great!
It's so indescribably BAD, that you're guaranteed 2h 17 mins of laughter!
The dialogue is clumsy, predictable, self-entitled and taking itself seriously, uses every cliché in the book, and it's an insult to the intelligence of anyone above the age of 12. When Samuel Jackson drops voice and "super"-seriously says "As of right now, we are at war!", I did actually laugh out loud, despite the fact that every movement I make causes much pain to my whole body. It was still worth it. Second favourite moment so far was the alien sequence with Loki about 29 mins in, the set is as bad as what I've seen from Star Wars and Indiana Jones...the old ones. To be fair, that is just called sticking to a genre. Ah, of course, the bad guy is English. [EDIT: I have removed my rant about Loki- I don't find him neither charismatic, no handsome, and a bad guy should be at least one but I've been told he is. I suppose he grows on you by the end]
This article was inspired by the movie but the movie is not the pivotal point in it. [NOTE: This paragraph has been edited in order to clarify that, as comments showed me that there was confusion] I am sure that those who like it have their reasons but I want to address a particular kind of audience: those who feed on such films to support their deluded fantasies of greatness. There's plenty good that has come from the US, and a silly little Bulgarian would need a lot more arrogance than I could ever muster to deny that. I don't hate Americans either, some of the best people I know are from there. The problem comes from the ones with very little knowledge of the world around them, who, however, are aggressive with their ignorance.
I do hate their indescribable ignorance, which inevitably goes hand in hand with their arrogance and self-praising. Of course you love it when Samuel Jackson so passionately delivers his line "We are at war", you fuckin' loved it 10 or so years ago, when this joke of a person told you "Either you're with us or against us". You cried that your soldiers were getting killed but you fucking loved it because you were playing the victim and the hero. And you love to see "Captain America" go fix it all, whether somebody asked you to or not. Cast an English bloke to play the bad guy, make a pitiful impression of Russia where the letters don't spell out anything but are random characters from the Cyrillic alphabet (which, btw, is not Russian, it's created by two Bulgarian brothers who studied in Thessaloniki). The you show all the main characters in random impoverished countries, where the location doesn't serve the plot, it serves to make the movie "exotic" in your twisted fantasies, where a few good US guys abroad speak a couple of phrases in this foreign language, you look up to them because you think they are all that. I can see your pants drip. Unlike most, I think there's nothing wrong with being arrogant, there's just one catch though: you must be able to pull it off. So many are under the impression that "America is the greatest country in the world". Now, there's no such thing as best country in the world, first. Second, Aaron Sorkin, via Will McAvoy, explains:
"Hey you, sorority girl. Just in case you ever walk into a voting booth, there's some things you need to know and one of them is there's absolutely no evidence to support the statement that America is the greatest country in the world. We're 7th in literacy, 27 in maths, 22 in science, 49 in infant expectancy, 178th in infant mortality [...] We lead the world in only three categories: number of incarcerated citizens per capita, adults who believe angels are real and defense spending, where we spend more than the next 26 countries, combined. Now, none of this is the fault of a 20 year old college student but you are, without a doubt, a member of the worst.generation.ever. So when you ask what makes us the greatest country in the world... I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!"
Maybe a little over the top, Sorkin style, but makes the excellent point. There is nothing wrong with being stupid. What gets me to fly off the handle is being unapologetic about it and aggressively stupid. If you don't know that Europe is not a country or that France is, that's sad, but you can learn. But don't expect me to find you ignorance fucking cute and endearing.
How can you think you are the greatest country in the world, when the vast majority (between 75%-93%, depending on different statistics) don't even hold a passport, thus haven't been to any other country? It's a vicious cycle- you assume you're the greatest country in the world because you'll eat up anything the media feeds you, and I won't even make an obesity reference here, only hint at one. Then you decide not to travel. Then you have even less information at your disposal to make such decision, reinforcing your idea that you are, indeed, the greatest country in the world.
OK, I'll go finish that movie now, maybe now that I've gotten my fristrations out, I can find something enjoyable in it. In the mean time, go play with yourself, I see you've got an erection.
I am not a fan of super-hero movies but recently I've been craving them a little. A craving just as bizarre and inexplicable as my other recent one- salads. However, if something is worth doing, it's worth overdoing, so I sat down to watch Avengers, which everybody, fan of the genre or not, has been telling me is great and the best one of them all. OK. I am 42 mins in and my opinion is
This movie is great!
It's so indescribably BAD, that you're guaranteed 2h 17 mins of laughter!
The dialogue is clumsy, predictable, self-entitled and taking itself seriously, uses every cliché in the book, and it's an insult to the intelligence of anyone above the age of 12. When Samuel Jackson drops voice and "super"-seriously says "As of right now, we are at war!", I did actually laugh out loud, despite the fact that every movement I make causes much pain to my whole body. It was still worth it. Second favourite moment so far was the alien sequence with Loki about 29 mins in, the set is as bad as what I've seen from Star Wars and Indiana Jones...the old ones. To be fair, that is just called sticking to a genre. Ah, of course, the bad guy is English. [EDIT: I have removed my rant about Loki- I don't find him neither charismatic, no handsome, and a bad guy should be at least one but I've been told he is. I suppose he grows on you by the end]
This article was inspired by the movie but the movie is not the pivotal point in it. [NOTE: This paragraph has been edited in order to clarify that, as comments showed me that there was confusion] I am sure that those who like it have their reasons but I want to address a particular kind of audience: those who feed on such films to support their deluded fantasies of greatness. There's plenty good that has come from the US, and a silly little Bulgarian would need a lot more arrogance than I could ever muster to deny that. I don't hate Americans either, some of the best people I know are from there. The problem comes from the ones with very little knowledge of the world around them, who, however, are aggressive with their ignorance.
I do hate their indescribable ignorance, which inevitably goes hand in hand with their arrogance and self-praising. Of course you love it when Samuel Jackson so passionately delivers his line "We are at war", you fuckin' loved it 10 or so years ago, when this joke of a person told you "Either you're with us or against us". You cried that your soldiers were getting killed but you fucking loved it because you were playing the victim and the hero. And you love to see "Captain America" go fix it all, whether somebody asked you to or not. Cast an English bloke to play the bad guy, make a pitiful impression of Russia where the letters don't spell out anything but are random characters from the Cyrillic alphabet (which, btw, is not Russian, it's created by two Bulgarian brothers who studied in Thessaloniki). The you show all the main characters in random impoverished countries, where the location doesn't serve the plot, it serves to make the movie "exotic" in your twisted fantasies, where a few good US guys abroad speak a couple of phrases in this foreign language, you look up to them because you think they are all that. I can see your pants drip. Unlike most, I think there's nothing wrong with being arrogant, there's just one catch though: you must be able to pull it off. So many are under the impression that "America is the greatest country in the world". Now, there's no such thing as best country in the world, first. Second, Aaron Sorkin, via Will McAvoy, explains:
"Hey you, sorority girl. Just in case you ever walk into a voting booth, there's some things you need to know and one of them is there's absolutely no evidence to support the statement that America is the greatest country in the world. We're 7th in literacy, 27 in maths, 22 in science, 49 in infant expectancy, 178th in infant mortality [...] We lead the world in only three categories: number of incarcerated citizens per capita, adults who believe angels are real and defense spending, where we spend more than the next 26 countries, combined. Now, none of this is the fault of a 20 year old college student but you are, without a doubt, a member of the worst.generation.ever. So when you ask what makes us the greatest country in the world... I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!"
Maybe a little over the top, Sorkin style, but makes the excellent point. There is nothing wrong with being stupid. What gets me to fly off the handle is being unapologetic about it and aggressively stupid. If you don't know that Europe is not a country or that France is, that's sad, but you can learn. But don't expect me to find you ignorance fucking cute and endearing.
How can you think you are the greatest country in the world, when the vast majority (between 75%-93%, depending on different statistics) don't even hold a passport, thus haven't been to any other country? It's a vicious cycle- you assume you're the greatest country in the world because you'll eat up anything the media feeds you, and I won't even make an obesity reference here, only hint at one. Then you decide not to travel. Then you have even less information at your disposal to make such decision, reinforcing your idea that you are, indeed, the greatest country in the world.
OK, I'll go finish that movie now, maybe now that I've gotten my fristrations out, I can find something enjoyable in it. In the mean time, go play with yourself, I see you've got an erection.
Sunday 12 August 2012
Which road did the chicken cross? It doesn't matter- they all lead to Rome...where Rome stands for change.
Sometimes simple intensity can bring you to tears, where the reason for them is irrelevant. Things are changing so fast- every day is a day of surprises, news, change, goodbyes and hello's, I am left with an intense emotion but deciphering it would be near impossible.
Let's recap.
Two of the best people I know are moving. M&L have been together for over 4 years now, and just looking at them can simultaneously teach you so much, yet make you question everything you thought you knew about relationships. They will grow old together. They are the couple, in my life, who is my example couple- you look up to them, when you start a new relationship, and you measure your relationship against theirs, in the hope to resemble them and to be as happy as they are. They are moving to a country far away, and probably for good. I've just come back home after attending their good-bye party: they "sold" so much of their clothes, bags, shoes, books, all the way down to the plates and mugs, all for the symbolic price of 1 Lev (a.k.a. 0.5 Euro). They are really going and I couldn't be happier for them. I believe even fate has their back- they may be leaving in just 10 days and so much is yet to be figured out, including where they'll live, but every day they have news (tomorrow, I believe, they're selling the car) and it will all work out. I saw their life, both as a couple and as the lovely individuals that they are, disappear in 4 hours, everything they've built in this city, I saw it going to people who felt happy to be included in their story. I feel proud to be able to wear a couple of shirts, the sentiment behind which will warm me up while they are beginning their new life. I do wish them all the best but it's confusing to think I may not see them for a long long time....and that's good- if you love someone, you wish them what is best for them, right?
Seeing them, however, only makes me realise how far I am from where I want to be. The fact that they are 6 years ahead of me only gives me some comfort. The fact of the matter is, they are incredibly lucky but have worked so hard to get here and, even more than sadness I feel inspiration to keep going. Some do get a fairy tale ending, or so it seems. When you know the story, you know that they have built their happiness. Bon voyage!
Also in the news today, a close relative, I was informed today by the "Grandma international" news agency, is expecting her first child. Early days but at this point I can only wish her a great deal of health, patience and love. It's crazy- I've known her since we were kids, and she's having a baby?
A buddy of mine just got married, apparently, after only knowing his girl for about 8-9 months. Congrats, but I do wish you luck. Confusing.
A friend of mine just gave birth to their second child, she's a year older than me... no need for luck there, when you know her, you know it makes sense for them.
I've been having an existential crisis in the past months, which may be at its peak now, and it's a daily struggle. Some hours are great, happy, fulfilled, enjoyed, and others slither by so slowly. Yesterday started off shit- in depression and questioning, apathy and guilt. It ended at 4am, in McDonald's after a fantastic night out, with people who make me feel good. What is it about pool parties that makes me think "Daaaamn, I've still got it!!" Excellent feeling. It is this excellent feeling and that dormant thirst for life, which is hiding oh-so-well under a thick, reminiscent-of-winter-coat, layer of denial and apathy, that has pushed me to a point of "Yes". I have made the active decision to say "YES" to practically any suggestion that one may have (anything short of "Jump off the building"). Ever wanted to make me do something? Now is your time, go ahead. Test me, see if I mind. I may go camping at the seaside.
I have lost some friendships, I've questioned a few and found others in a strange place.
I am finishing my Master's degree in a couple of weeks, and I've never felt so intensely. I feel intensely: I experience events an a way which leaves a mark. I Need to find a job, I need to find a country to live in. But for all the questions that I have, I have a few answers too: I have realised that I really do have something unique about me, I respect myself in many ways; I know that as soon as I get a stable job, a few pay checks later I will get a dog, a Cocker Spaniel. I know I want to help people, so working for an NGO is now very much a possibility. I know that, after this growth period, about a year from now, I will be the person I want to be, and roughly where I want to be. I feel it like I feel the craving for coffee when i've been caffeine-abstinent for weeks: it's undeniable. About that: some battles you fight, some you let go. I am accepting caffeine as my only real vice and source of self-destruction, for, if you deny yourself the little pleasures of self-destruction, you destruct in much worse ways.
A year from now, I will be happy. I also do have some doubts that finally, as far as my sexuality, I may have arrived where I wanted to be, although this matter is at the same stage as my relative's baby- too early to tell what the sex is. I'll keep you posted. And....hey! If you hear of a job I may be able to do, in practically any country, give me a shout!
R.
Let's recap.
Two of the best people I know are moving. M&L have been together for over 4 years now, and just looking at them can simultaneously teach you so much, yet make you question everything you thought you knew about relationships. They will grow old together. They are the couple, in my life, who is my example couple- you look up to them, when you start a new relationship, and you measure your relationship against theirs, in the hope to resemble them and to be as happy as they are. They are moving to a country far away, and probably for good. I've just come back home after attending their good-bye party: they "sold" so much of their clothes, bags, shoes, books, all the way down to the plates and mugs, all for the symbolic price of 1 Lev (a.k.a. 0.5 Euro). They are really going and I couldn't be happier for them. I believe even fate has their back- they may be leaving in just 10 days and so much is yet to be figured out, including where they'll live, but every day they have news (tomorrow, I believe, they're selling the car) and it will all work out. I saw their life, both as a couple and as the lovely individuals that they are, disappear in 4 hours, everything they've built in this city, I saw it going to people who felt happy to be included in their story. I feel proud to be able to wear a couple of shirts, the sentiment behind which will warm me up while they are beginning their new life. I do wish them all the best but it's confusing to think I may not see them for a long long time....and that's good- if you love someone, you wish them what is best for them, right?
Seeing them, however, only makes me realise how far I am from where I want to be. The fact that they are 6 years ahead of me only gives me some comfort. The fact of the matter is, they are incredibly lucky but have worked so hard to get here and, even more than sadness I feel inspiration to keep going. Some do get a fairy tale ending, or so it seems. When you know the story, you know that they have built their happiness. Bon voyage!
Also in the news today, a close relative, I was informed today by the "Grandma international" news agency, is expecting her first child. Early days but at this point I can only wish her a great deal of health, patience and love. It's crazy- I've known her since we were kids, and she's having a baby?
A buddy of mine just got married, apparently, after only knowing his girl for about 8-9 months. Congrats, but I do wish you luck. Confusing.
A friend of mine just gave birth to their second child, she's a year older than me... no need for luck there, when you know her, you know it makes sense for them.
I've been having an existential crisis in the past months, which may be at its peak now, and it's a daily struggle. Some hours are great, happy, fulfilled, enjoyed, and others slither by so slowly. Yesterday started off shit- in depression and questioning, apathy and guilt. It ended at 4am, in McDonald's after a fantastic night out, with people who make me feel good. What is it about pool parties that makes me think "Daaaamn, I've still got it!!" Excellent feeling. It is this excellent feeling and that dormant thirst for life, which is hiding oh-so-well under a thick, reminiscent-of-winter-coat, layer of denial and apathy, that has pushed me to a point of "Yes". I have made the active decision to say "YES" to practically any suggestion that one may have (anything short of "Jump off the building"). Ever wanted to make me do something? Now is your time, go ahead. Test me, see if I mind. I may go camping at the seaside.
I have lost some friendships, I've questioned a few and found others in a strange place.
I am finishing my Master's degree in a couple of weeks, and I've never felt so intensely. I feel intensely: I experience events an a way which leaves a mark. I Need to find a job, I need to find a country to live in. But for all the questions that I have, I have a few answers too: I have realised that I really do have something unique about me, I respect myself in many ways; I know that as soon as I get a stable job, a few pay checks later I will get a dog, a Cocker Spaniel. I know I want to help people, so working for an NGO is now very much a possibility. I know that, after this growth period, about a year from now, I will be the person I want to be, and roughly where I want to be. I feel it like I feel the craving for coffee when i've been caffeine-abstinent for weeks: it's undeniable. About that: some battles you fight, some you let go. I am accepting caffeine as my only real vice and source of self-destruction, for, if you deny yourself the little pleasures of self-destruction, you destruct in much worse ways.
A year from now, I will be happy. I also do have some doubts that finally, as far as my sexuality, I may have arrived where I wanted to be, although this matter is at the same stage as my relative's baby- too early to tell what the sex is. I'll keep you posted. And....hey! If you hear of a job I may be able to do, in practically any country, give me a shout!
R.
Monday 14 May 2012
Why did the chicken move to the other side of the road? It was appalled to hear of the disastrous violation of poultry rights on his native side of the road.
I first left Bulgaria with my family and moved to Ukraine at the age of 15. I then graduated from high-school and relocated to the UK, to do my university degree there. I've always said that moving is temporary, that I love my country and that I will always love Sophia, my home city. To this day, this is the case, when I go back there, it is home. But I no longer see the people there as any group of people I want to identify with. Never mind the "chalga", never mind that education has gone down the drain and people my age can't write a single grammatically correct sentence. Never mind that they don't care about ecology, smoke like chimneys next to their infants, that their priorities in life are the same as the priorities of hip-hop artists: golden chains around their neck, the bitches around their cock and money to show off their status.
There seem to be а handful of people who understand the meaning of human rights. We're notoriously bad at understanding that just because someone is different, it doesn't mean they are worse than us.
This is clearly proven to be the case this time every year, when the talk of LGBT (gay) pride happens. The media enjoy the sensationalism and the average Bulgarian seems to enjoy the idea of beating up a fag or two. We know that most of 'em are just attention-seekers, and the real queers are mentally ill. A real man would never take it in the ass. What else is new?
Is only gets more disturbing when we talk about people with disabilities or mental health issues. While fags are annoying, we at least see them. Disabilities and mental illnesses equal social death, it seems to be. No. In fact, having a mental disability equals real death. [the article is in Bulgarian but I think it's worth passing it through Google Translate] A 15 year old girl was in a foster home, started throwing up, lost weight and by the time anyone bothered to call a doctor, it was too late, she died. The doctors, hell, God himself couldn't have saved her: in the month before her death she had swallowed about 5 kg of garbage. In her stomach doctors found 25 insoles, 8 rags, 3 foam sponges, 6 socks, 3 pieces of paper and 3 stones (3-4 cm in diameter). The first problem is that this isn't the first time where monstrous things have happened to children in foster homes. The second problem is that the child was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Highly likely, given what the attitude seems to be towards the disabled, that doctors would have been called much earlier if it wasn't considered that having a mental illness means that you're lower quality person.
There are bad people everywhere. Here we're talking about something else- a culture which reinforces the belief that if you're not a rich, white man who has traded any chance for intellect for a Mercedes, then you're a second class citizen. No, you're a woman. Then if you're not that, then you are, in decreasing order of importance, a gypsy, a muslim, a negro, a fag, a tranny. I don't think you're even on the hate-radar if you have a mental disability. The girl died 6 years ago, it has been decided by court that it was nobody's fault. A friend of mine put it succinctly: "today the Bulgarian Helsinki Committee is suing Bulgaria. And I hope they win."
There seem to be а handful of people who understand the meaning of human rights. We're notoriously bad at understanding that just because someone is different, it doesn't mean they are worse than us.
This is clearly proven to be the case this time every year, when the talk of LGBT (gay) pride happens. The media enjoy the sensationalism and the average Bulgarian seems to enjoy the idea of beating up a fag or two. We know that most of 'em are just attention-seekers, and the real queers are mentally ill. A real man would never take it in the ass. What else is new?
Is only gets more disturbing when we talk about people with disabilities or mental health issues. While fags are annoying, we at least see them. Disabilities and mental illnesses equal social death, it seems to be. No. In fact, having a mental disability equals real death. [the article is in Bulgarian but I think it's worth passing it through Google Translate] A 15 year old girl was in a foster home, started throwing up, lost weight and by the time anyone bothered to call a doctor, it was too late, she died. The doctors, hell, God himself couldn't have saved her: in the month before her death she had swallowed about 5 kg of garbage. In her stomach doctors found 25 insoles, 8 rags, 3 foam sponges, 6 socks, 3 pieces of paper and 3 stones (3-4 cm in diameter). The first problem is that this isn't the first time where monstrous things have happened to children in foster homes. The second problem is that the child was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Highly likely, given what the attitude seems to be towards the disabled, that doctors would have been called much earlier if it wasn't considered that having a mental illness means that you're lower quality person.
There are bad people everywhere. Here we're talking about something else- a culture which reinforces the belief that if you're not a rich, white man who has traded any chance for intellect for a Mercedes, then you're a second class citizen. No, you're a woman. Then if you're not that, then you are, in decreasing order of importance, a gypsy, a muslim, a negro, a fag, a tranny. I don't think you're even on the hate-radar if you have a mental disability. The girl died 6 years ago, it has been decided by court that it was nobody's fault. A friend of mine put it succinctly: "today the Bulgarian Helsinki Committee is suing Bulgaria. And I hope they win."
Saturday 12 May 2012
Why did the polygamous hen cross the road? She wanted to have her cock and eat it too...
Love and relationships are a territory where you should make up your own rules. I personally support anyone's right to choose their lifestyle- be it straight or gay, man, woman, transgender, monogamous, polygamous, poly-amorous, swinger. If you're happy with your partner, then that is all that is important.
I myself have danced all over the spectrum of possibilities. I wanted to be monogamous, get married and have children, when I was with my first boyfriend. My second partner and I had a different relationship, at which point I found enjoyment and respect for the more open lifestyle. Third relationship, and my most serious one to this point, we explored different options, but when we broke up, he wanted children and marriage, and I wanted no children and just a commitment ceremony. Not even why we broke up. But I remember one night, a few months into that relationship, we were talking and I was ranting about my desire for freedom- while I loved him, to me there was no relation between what you feel for one person and whether or not you sleep with others as well. He wanted us to not see other people and I was generally OK with that, but wouldn't it be nice if opportunity presented itself and we were able to take it? Yet, I am suddenly in tears and I think only someone who has been of the polygamous mindset can understand the paradoxical beauty of monogamy. Here he is, a man who can choose to have sex with other women and still have the woman he comes home to, have his cake and eat it too, but all he wants is that one person, me. And I was playing the part of the reluctant bitch.
It was a moment of realisation, certainly. The biggest commitment has nothing to do with rings and promises. It comes with this strong desire within you to just see one person, even though you have a world out there, just waiting for you. To have the option and to choose to, rather than be forced to, decline it.
Perhaps I was genuinely converted that night. I've only just started a new relationship and about 10 days in, it is a record in my book, we randomly picked up the topic. What are we doing, where are we going, what do we call this? We had the conversation. My first reaction was to postpone it, to delay monogamy, to keep my options open, even though all I wanted was this one boy. But he called me up on it, and I got butterflies in my stomach when he suggested we were exclusive. The gorgeous man had a choice, yet he chose me.
I myself have danced all over the spectrum of possibilities. I wanted to be monogamous, get married and have children, when I was with my first boyfriend. My second partner and I had a different relationship, at which point I found enjoyment and respect for the more open lifestyle. Third relationship, and my most serious one to this point, we explored different options, but when we broke up, he wanted children and marriage, and I wanted no children and just a commitment ceremony. Not even why we broke up. But I remember one night, a few months into that relationship, we were talking and I was ranting about my desire for freedom- while I loved him, to me there was no relation between what you feel for one person and whether or not you sleep with others as well. He wanted us to not see other people and I was generally OK with that, but wouldn't it be nice if opportunity presented itself and we were able to take it? Yet, I am suddenly in tears and I think only someone who has been of the polygamous mindset can understand the paradoxical beauty of monogamy. Here he is, a man who can choose to have sex with other women and still have the woman he comes home to, have his cake and eat it too, but all he wants is that one person, me. And I was playing the part of the reluctant bitch.
It was a moment of realisation, certainly. The biggest commitment has nothing to do with rings and promises. It comes with this strong desire within you to just see one person, even though you have a world out there, just waiting for you. To have the option and to choose to, rather than be forced to, decline it.
Perhaps I was genuinely converted that night. I've only just started a new relationship and about 10 days in, it is a record in my book, we randomly picked up the topic. What are we doing, where are we going, what do we call this? We had the conversation. My first reaction was to postpone it, to delay monogamy, to keep my options open, even though all I wanted was this one boy. But he called me up on it, and I got butterflies in my stomach when he suggested we were exclusive. The gorgeous man had a choice, yet he chose me.
Friday 27 April 2012
Why are the two chicken friends crossing the road? No-one remembers, the point is that they are crossing it together.
A very simple idea has been jumping around my head, reaching all tiny corners, playing around with my thoughts, and the more I've entertained it, the more it made sense. It's hardly revolutionary but I'll share it with you anyway.
Friends. Why, yes, it is that simple. I personally think of it in terms of physics, because this is how it makes sense to me. Imagine a see-saw. One one side we have the things in our life which are a given, and on the other side, to balance out, are those things which we choose to introduce to our life. At least roughly, they have an equal weight. Seen as we only choose our friends, because our family, our relatives, our school are chosen for us, the only thing that we choose must have an equal effect on who we become as a person, to the effect of other few things combined. Of course, in the early stages of development, the environment and the parents will have more of an impact but after we go to school, we make our own life.
It sometimes scares me that it is such a random, arbitrary choice. Not only are friends and contacts based on location, they are based on something as silly as who you sat next to that first day of school. Not always, but very often. The first day of high-school, the group of 20-odd people that would from then on be my class was asked to split into two groups-boys and girls- and then arrange according to height. Thus, two by two, we ended up sitting next to each other, and the boy I sat next to is one of my best friends. We share a lot, despite having different interests, different views on religion, different views on family. Now that I think about it, and, scarily, this is the first time I do think about it in such depth, we have no obvious reason to be as good friends as we are. Yet... it is 9 years, 7 months and 11 days later (the lovely soul read this and corrected my maths!) and I still consider him one of my best friends. Charming, how much chance shapes our life.
When I sat down to write this, it wasn't chance that I wanted to talk about but somehow I ended up here, the topic took me by surprise. I guess occasionally, writing will do that to you, it will take you somewhere you didn't know you wanted to go.
What I wanted to say, and I will only say it briefly now, is that who you choose as your friends may be the most important choice you'll ever make. It's not who you marry. Friends will be there before you meet your partner, when you expect your child, when you get divorced and when your parents pass away. If you choose them wisely. Friends are your real partners for life. They can support you but they can also drag you down- so often you see "good" people in "bad"situations, and you wonder how they ended up there. Likely, because of a friend they are close to but who is a bad influence. Just as much, a friend can rehabilitate you when you've lost your way. Some friends will try to put you down so they can shine, and like a Eurhythmics song, some will use you, others will be used by you. You may be in a situation where you find that you're tempted to compare yourself to your best buddy and think "well, at least I am better than him", and I am not sure who that is worse for. Friendships, [feminist joke alert!] much like women, will come in all shapes and sizes, and you can probably learn more from the bad friendships.
No discovery of the wheel today, I'm sorry. Just a thought that needed to be said out loud, and a quiet thank you to my partner in life, the friend who has shaped me as a person.
Friends. Why, yes, it is that simple. I personally think of it in terms of physics, because this is how it makes sense to me. Imagine a see-saw. One one side we have the things in our life which are a given, and on the other side, to balance out, are those things which we choose to introduce to our life. At least roughly, they have an equal weight. Seen as we only choose our friends, because our family, our relatives, our school are chosen for us, the only thing that we choose must have an equal effect on who we become as a person, to the effect of other few things combined. Of course, in the early stages of development, the environment and the parents will have more of an impact but after we go to school, we make our own life.
It sometimes scares me that it is such a random, arbitrary choice. Not only are friends and contacts based on location, they are based on something as silly as who you sat next to that first day of school. Not always, but very often. The first day of high-school, the group of 20-odd people that would from then on be my class was asked to split into two groups-boys and girls- and then arrange according to height. Thus, two by two, we ended up sitting next to each other, and the boy I sat next to is one of my best friends. We share a lot, despite having different interests, different views on religion, different views on family. Now that I think about it, and, scarily, this is the first time I do think about it in such depth, we have no obvious reason to be as good friends as we are. Yet... it is 9 years, 7 months and 11 days later (the lovely soul read this and corrected my maths!) and I still consider him one of my best friends. Charming, how much chance shapes our life.
When I sat down to write this, it wasn't chance that I wanted to talk about but somehow I ended up here, the topic took me by surprise. I guess occasionally, writing will do that to you, it will take you somewhere you didn't know you wanted to go.
What I wanted to say, and I will only say it briefly now, is that who you choose as your friends may be the most important choice you'll ever make. It's not who you marry. Friends will be there before you meet your partner, when you expect your child, when you get divorced and when your parents pass away. If you choose them wisely. Friends are your real partners for life. They can support you but they can also drag you down- so often you see "good" people in "bad"situations, and you wonder how they ended up there. Likely, because of a friend they are close to but who is a bad influence. Just as much, a friend can rehabilitate you when you've lost your way. Some friends will try to put you down so they can shine, and like a Eurhythmics song, some will use you, others will be used by you. You may be in a situation where you find that you're tempted to compare yourself to your best buddy and think "well, at least I am better than him", and I am not sure who that is worse for. Friendships, [feminist joke alert!] much like women, will come in all shapes and sizes, and you can probably learn more from the bad friendships.
No discovery of the wheel today, I'm sorry. Just a thought that needed to be said out loud, and a quiet thank you to my partner in life, the friend who has shaped me as a person.
Thursday 22 March 2012
The more the chicken crossed the road, the less he liked it, but the more he needed it.
You know that warm fuzzy feeling inside you, the one that makes your heart leap with joy, expectation makes your palms sweaty, you cannot help but smile, you can't wait any longer... Oh dear, you thought I was talking about love, didn't you?! The braver or more vulgar amongst you are probably proudly thinking "nope, you snide woman. We were thinking sex." Nope. I am talking about addiction.
Whether it's cocaine or, like in my case, caffeine, addiction leaves no loose ends, imagination is scrapped for what is a story so predictable that every word of it has been written before it has even begun. In fact, I'll give you that, it is very much like a love story.The initial thrill and enjoyment are quickly replaced by habituation, and then a need for it. It will never feel as good as it did the first time but we try it anyway. Quantity does not substitute quality.
There is no such thing as an ex addict. Addiction, you cannot undo. The body will be physiologically altered but it's the mindfuck that will keep you going. What I love about addiction is the warm fuzzy feeling of belonging. It is like meeting an ex: maybe you haven't seen each other for years, and then, as soon as you meet up, it's like you were never apart. There are weeks, months even without a single drop of caffeine, not in tea, not in Coke, not in energy drinks. And then, a smell... out of nowhere, an echo from your past reminds you of how good it used to feel, to have coffee. Your experience and your instincts battle. It's not that you can't have just one, it's that you won't. The pattern, the self-destruction and the unconditional, albeit residual, love from the object of your addiction, make it so easy to have just one more. One more.
I know for a fact that I have an addictive personality, so believe it or not, I do actually handle things fairly well. Thought, here it is- I think another common thing between addicts (to anything) is control: addicts possess a specific type of weak character, perhaps rooted in a challenging childhood, a character attracted to power and control. Because addiction, control and the lack of it are a match made in Hell, a destructive threesome: the illusion of control, the self-torturing game of losing control and gaining it back again, the arrogance when we accept the challenge that "it's just one more time, just this once". So, even though I know have an addictive personality, despite my knowledge of psychology, anatomy, and that painful feeling in my kidneys I got last year, I keep going back to drinking energy drinks and coffee, every few months. I handle it by having long periods of time, when I don't do it, and in the times when I do "binge" on caffeine, I still try to it in moderation. Or what for me is moderation. Only 3 cans today, watered down with tea.
Yet, for all my efforts, I know I will spend the rest of my life having nights of caffeine and self-destruction, despite my better judgment, because... it feels good. It feels welcoming, it feels a bit mischievous, it feels complete, and, for a second, that first sip makes all the rest of the world disappear, while my body is filled with bliss and taurine. It is a forbidden love affair. The object of your desire doesn't judge you for relapsing, it doesn't even judge you for not coming back sooner, it loves you because you love it. I won't quit caffeine not because I can't, because I don't want to. Sad, perhaps, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
Whether it's cocaine or, like in my case, caffeine, addiction leaves no loose ends, imagination is scrapped for what is a story so predictable that every word of it has been written before it has even begun. In fact, I'll give you that, it is very much like a love story.The initial thrill and enjoyment are quickly replaced by habituation, and then a need for it. It will never feel as good as it did the first time but we try it anyway. Quantity does not substitute quality.
There is no such thing as an ex addict. Addiction, you cannot undo. The body will be physiologically altered but it's the mindfuck that will keep you going. What I love about addiction is the warm fuzzy feeling of belonging. It is like meeting an ex: maybe you haven't seen each other for years, and then, as soon as you meet up, it's like you were never apart. There are weeks, months even without a single drop of caffeine, not in tea, not in Coke, not in energy drinks. And then, a smell... out of nowhere, an echo from your past reminds you of how good it used to feel, to have coffee. Your experience and your instincts battle. It's not that you can't have just one, it's that you won't. The pattern, the self-destruction and the unconditional, albeit residual, love from the object of your addiction, make it so easy to have just one more. One more.
I know for a fact that I have an addictive personality, so believe it or not, I do actually handle things fairly well. Thought, here it is- I think another common thing between addicts (to anything) is control: addicts possess a specific type of weak character, perhaps rooted in a challenging childhood, a character attracted to power and control. Because addiction, control and the lack of it are a match made in Hell, a destructive threesome: the illusion of control, the self-torturing game of losing control and gaining it back again, the arrogance when we accept the challenge that "it's just one more time, just this once". So, even though I know have an addictive personality, despite my knowledge of psychology, anatomy, and that painful feeling in my kidneys I got last year, I keep going back to drinking energy drinks and coffee, every few months. I handle it by having long periods of time, when I don't do it, and in the times when I do "binge" on caffeine, I still try to it in moderation. Or what for me is moderation. Only 3 cans today, watered down with tea.
Yet, for all my efforts, I know I will spend the rest of my life having nights of caffeine and self-destruction, despite my better judgment, because... it feels good. It feels welcoming, it feels a bit mischievous, it feels complete, and, for a second, that first sip makes all the rest of the world disappear, while my body is filled with bliss and taurine. It is a forbidden love affair. The object of your desire doesn't judge you for relapsing, it doesn't even judge you for not coming back sooner, it loves you because you love it. I won't quit caffeine not because I can't, because I don't want to. Sad, perhaps, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
Wednesday 14 March 2012
Why did the four ducks cross the road? I have no idea, but they gave me hope
As my housemate's pictures of 4 ducks crossing a road are getting uploaded, let me tell you a story.
I've been feeling very badly in the last week or so. It was an end of an era coming, and that will get a whole other blog, it's a story worth telling. But I also realised that I have friends and I have family, I am strong and I know what I want from life, I will not compromise, and that's definitely something worth keeping.
Tonight was an ordinary tuesday night. I went to the new BED, and for the first time, it felt like it should do. I met some random guys, made a bet with them - should I fulfil their challenge, I get a beer from each one of them. The bet was that I wouldn't dare dance on top of the bar. Of course, what they didn't know was that this would hardly be my first time doing it. I shared the plan with F, he lifted me up on the bar. I got another innocent-looking girl to dance with me up there, and I could feel the energy of the crowd going up. I then got my beers from the random boys. I partied, said goodbye to my peeps and left. Already, it was a better night in the new BED that I could have hoped for.
And here it is where the story gets magical.
On my way home, I literally saw four ducks crossing a road. Never mind the chicken. FOUR....DUCKS....CROSSING....A....ROAD...IN...THE.....CITY.....CENTRE...OF.....ROTTERDAM....indeed.
I've been needing direction in my life. I've felt lost, I've felt like all the important parts of my life are disappearing, I've felt like I have no direction. It's still true: I'm still dealing with a break-up, I'm dealing with living in this country where I don't speak the language and I am learning it, I'm writing a Master Thesis, I am applying for jobs all over, I'm figuring out all about who I am, I am dealing with other stuff as well.........and all of a sudden I see FOUR DUCKS crossing a road. It was a bit like wink, a quirky (or quacky!) reminder that life has a tendency to sort itself out. I don't believe in god, I don't believe in fate, but I sure as hell believe in the four ducks that crossed my street.
Thank you, four ducks. By far, this is the oddest and quackiest thing I've ever seen.
R.
I've been feeling very badly in the last week or so. It was an end of an era coming, and that will get a whole other blog, it's a story worth telling. But I also realised that I have friends and I have family, I am strong and I know what I want from life, I will not compromise, and that's definitely something worth keeping.
Tonight was an ordinary tuesday night. I went to the new BED, and for the first time, it felt like it should do. I met some random guys, made a bet with them - should I fulfil their challenge, I get a beer from each one of them. The bet was that I wouldn't dare dance on top of the bar. Of course, what they didn't know was that this would hardly be my first time doing it. I shared the plan with F, he lifted me up on the bar. I got another innocent-looking girl to dance with me up there, and I could feel the energy of the crowd going up. I then got my beers from the random boys. I partied, said goodbye to my peeps and left. Already, it was a better night in the new BED that I could have hoped for.
And here it is where the story gets magical.
On my way home, I literally saw four ducks crossing a road. Never mind the chicken. FOUR....DUCKS....CROSSING....A....ROAD...IN...THE.....CITY.....CENTRE...OF.....ROTTERDAM....indeed.
 |
| The four ducks...just after we'd caught them crossing the road. Next to a shop. At 3 something am. |
I've been needing direction in my life. I've felt lost, I've felt like all the important parts of my life are disappearing, I've felt like I have no direction. It's still true: I'm still dealing with a break-up, I'm dealing with living in this country where I don't speak the language and I am learning it, I'm writing a Master Thesis, I am applying for jobs all over, I'm figuring out all about who I am, I am dealing with other stuff as well.........and all of a sudden I see FOUR DUCKS crossing a road. It was a bit like wink, a quirky (or quacky!) reminder that life has a tendency to sort itself out. I don't believe in god, I don't believe in fate, but I sure as hell believe in the four ducks that crossed my street.
Thank you, four ducks. By far, this is the oddest and quackiest thing I've ever seen.
R.
Wednesday 15 February 2012
Why did the chicken kiss the road?
Do I start this article with the immediate clarification that I do not celebrate St. Valentine's day? Or do I perhaps use a more mellow approach, talking about how magical it can be to see true romance and love? Sure enough, to me, St. Valentine's day and love are two entirely separate entitites.
In fact, there is very little to be said about St. Valentine's day. To me, it means nothing, it is an arbitrary day, and I don't celebrate it not because I hate love or because I am single and bitter. I simply think that true love, for our partner, friends and family, happens every day and it happens in the difficult times. Getting a card and a muffin is easy. True love is not.
In fact, there is very little to be said about St. Valentine's day. To me, it means nothing, it is an arbitrary day, and I don't celebrate it not because I hate love or because I am single and bitter. I simply think that true love, for our partner, friends and family, happens every day and it happens in the difficult times. Getting a card and a muffin is easy. True love is not.
I am sure some of you know this already but this year I became aware of ASDA's offer of a 7p Valentine's Day card. It screams some comment about our society, or at least the British society and I'm not even sure what that comment is. Is this an example of the decline of traditional values in exchange for savage, wild, untamed capitalism, where Tesco and ASDA compete for the most popular value-card? Is it simply helping out those who cannot afford the more luxury cards? Is it a remark that everyone should celebrate, and you may be more tempted if it was that cheap to buy a card? Is it simply a smart marketing trick to get people talking about the company and go to see that so-talked-about card for themselves, and then perhaps be lured into buying some bread and some cheese from the shop anyway? Perhaps I am over-thinking it but, in any case, this is what I am talking about.
What I don't like about it is not the price, I am not a snob and I'd buy the card, were I someone who gets V-day cards. I can appreciate that there really are people who want to make their partner happy, who want to celebrate their relationship and their love but cannot afford to splurge and buy expensive gifts. I am one who very much believes in gestures, not money. If you have a good intention, it will come through, even for only 7p. But why is it that the price element, "Be smart" is so obvious? Or maybe I am thick- maybe what they meant was "The only way to be smart is to be my Valentine". Possibly. Talk about double meaning and marketing/advertisement strategies....
I believe that romance is, by definition, intimate. Of course, I hear you say. No, what I mean is that a gesture that is made by the vast majority of men during the same day of the year, for example getting chocolates, cannot be romantic. Because romance, to me, must be unique. I thought it was romantic to use the beer bottle cap, which I had kept as memorabilia from the first time I met a former partner, and make it into a necklace. Romance is born from your relationship with your partner, it comes with the in-jokes you make, the places that you've visited together, sometimes even the fights that you've had. It comes from knowing each other, the best and the worst, and from the decision that you've both made to stay together despite seeing the other person in the morning, messy, or sometimes sick. Thus, counter-intuitively, romance comes from sometimes the grossest things. A former partner and I giggled a lot when one of us farted and had a running joke about it. Stick their head under the covers and yell "Embrace it!!!!" That is romance. Because it is personal and because it is spontaneous, so it is genuine.
I believe that romance is, by definition, intimate. Of course, I hear you say. No, what I mean is that a gesture that is made by the vast majority of men during the same day of the year, for example getting chocolates, cannot be romantic. Because romance, to me, must be unique. I thought it was romantic to use the beer bottle cap, which I had kept as memorabilia from the first time I met a former partner, and make it into a necklace. Romance is born from your relationship with your partner, it comes with the in-jokes you make, the places that you've visited together, sometimes even the fights that you've had. It comes from knowing each other, the best and the worst, and from the decision that you've both made to stay together despite seeing the other person in the morning, messy, or sometimes sick. Thus, counter-intuitively, romance comes from sometimes the grossest things. A former partner and I giggled a lot when one of us farted and had a running joke about it. Stick their head under the covers and yell "Embrace it!!!!" That is romance. Because it is personal and because it is spontaneous, so it is genuine.
 |
| "There is always hope", Banksy, London |
Sunday 15 January 2012
On its way to BED, the chicken crossed the road every single week!! This week was the last time.
I am pleaaaased. Pat on the back. WE SENT OFF BED!!
To those of you who know anything about me, since I've moved to Rotterdam, you know this magic word- BED. Bed is a bar near my house, I've gone there every week since I moved, and it is by far the best bar in the world, as far as I am concerned.
Tonight was the last night of the old Bed, Bed as we know it. Starting from next week, it'll be a new place, and from what I've heard, it'll be great.
But to me, this Bed was THE Bed. To me, it's the end of a small era. Since many of you don't know what I am talking about, imagine a bar where you feel like home. A bar where the bouncers high-five you every time they see you, cos they've seen you a hundred times. A bar where you know for sure that these bouncers have your back, no matter what. A bar, where the staff greets you. Where you know their names, and when fights broke off, you screamed out their names and they fixed it and protected you. A bar where you've not only got many drinks "on the house" but you've had drinks for free cos you were simply hanging out with the staff. A bar where you danced on the top of the bars, probably more times than you can even count. And yes, a bar you've been hit on, every time you were there, and let's face it, you felt good about it. Yes, a bar where they play music you can dance to. A bar where, as soon as you walk in, it changes your mood. And a few more things, but that's between me and Bed. For my first... 4 months in Rotterdam, Bed was my home. I've been there at least once, every week.
And tonight was the last night, at this particular location. Of course I was there.
Nevermind the free drinks, never have I felt more like home! Free drinks is not what makes you special, pretty girls get them all the time. But being treated almost as equal, being shown some secrets that no-one sees, being told plans about the future, feeling like you belong to a select few who are so intrinsically connected........that is the sort of stuff that get you to sit down at 05.36am and write.
The last night, we sent off BED with a BANG! Lots of dancing, we set the bar on fire, I got up and danced on the bar and then everyone followed, some Russian girl actually stripped down to her bra and thong, we danced with the staff, got splashed with soda from the tap, got covered with napkins, were blasted with oxygen from a small pressurised tank, most of the staff danced topless, they poured drinks from the bottles in the mouths of thirsty customers, and the rest got small bottled shots. That is not all, but it's enough for you....my dear reader.
I am sober, but this experience is something that makes you question your reality.
And yes, I got an awesome memorabilia from the bar, I cannot share what it is but when I asked "would that be OK with the owners?" and getting a response. "I don't know, but it's OK with me...", it made me smile. If I mean 1/10 to Bed of what Bed means to me, then I will smile.
BED is dead. Long live BED!!
To those of you who know anything about me, since I've moved to Rotterdam, you know this magic word- BED. Bed is a bar near my house, I've gone there every week since I moved, and it is by far the best bar in the world, as far as I am concerned.
Tonight was the last night of the old Bed, Bed as we know it. Starting from next week, it'll be a new place, and from what I've heard, it'll be great.
But to me, this Bed was THE Bed. To me, it's the end of a small era. Since many of you don't know what I am talking about, imagine a bar where you feel like home. A bar where the bouncers high-five you every time they see you, cos they've seen you a hundred times. A bar where you know for sure that these bouncers have your back, no matter what. A bar, where the staff greets you. Where you know their names, and when fights broke off, you screamed out their names and they fixed it and protected you. A bar where you've not only got many drinks "on the house" but you've had drinks for free cos you were simply hanging out with the staff. A bar where you danced on the top of the bars, probably more times than you can even count. And yes, a bar you've been hit on, every time you were there, and let's face it, you felt good about it. Yes, a bar where they play music you can dance to. A bar where, as soon as you walk in, it changes your mood. And a few more things, but that's between me and Bed. For my first... 4 months in Rotterdam, Bed was my home. I've been there at least once, every week.
And tonight was the last night, at this particular location. Of course I was there.
Nevermind the free drinks, never have I felt more like home! Free drinks is not what makes you special, pretty girls get them all the time. But being treated almost as equal, being shown some secrets that no-one sees, being told plans about the future, feeling like you belong to a select few who are so intrinsically connected........that is the sort of stuff that get you to sit down at 05.36am and write.
The last night, we sent off BED with a BANG! Lots of dancing, we set the bar on fire, I got up and danced on the bar and then everyone followed, some Russian girl actually stripped down to her bra and thong, we danced with the staff, got splashed with soda from the tap, got covered with napkins, were blasted with oxygen from a small pressurised tank, most of the staff danced topless, they poured drinks from the bottles in the mouths of thirsty customers, and the rest got small bottled shots. That is not all, but it's enough for you....my dear reader.
I am sober, but this experience is something that makes you question your reality.
And yes, I got an awesome memorabilia from the bar, I cannot share what it is but when I asked "would that be OK with the owners?" and getting a response. "I don't know, but it's OK with me...", it made me smile. If I mean 1/10 to Bed of what Bed means to me, then I will smile.
BED is dead. Long live BED!!
Monday 9 January 2012
While crossing the road, the chicken got lost, in translation:
Many people around me use the excuse that they have been living outside of their native country to write and even speak inserting foregin (usually English) words in the middle of a sentence in Bulgarian. Frankly, I find it a repulsive butchering of both languages, and it is often a pose which covers up their insecurities and complexes, for coming from a country as small and insignificant as Bulgaria.
To that, I say, firstly, no amount of pretending and word-inserting will do the trick. You come from Bulgaria (and of course, this applies to people from any other country) and you will always be Bulgarian. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. Most people will not judge you on the basis of your nationality or your language, they will judge you on your personality, your abilities, your grades from university, your behaviour and your interests. Those who judge you for being Bulgarian are few and those were probably people who weren't worth spending much time with. Yes, we have gypsies, we're poor, we speak languages usually with a distinct Eastern-European accent and we may smell of garlic, but we also come from a country which has the Bulgarian Rose(and I bet many of you know why this is so special), we have unique in the world yoghurt, our country has been around for longer than most others, officially for about 1300 years, we kept our religion and traditions throughout 500 horrible years under the Ottoman empire's oppression, we created the Cyrillic script, we contributed to the invention of computers. We have delicious food, good wine and beautiful women. Yes, we also have chalga.
Secondly, when you insert English or other foregin words in the middle of a sentence for no good reason, in me, it provokes the question "Why?". The answer, in my head, is always the same. Either, you want everyone to know that you speak (or appear to speak) this foreign language or you lack the vocabulary in Bulgarian. In either case, it's not a situation that puts you in a good light. Oh, but it's easier that way, you say, the English word just comes to mind faster. Let's say I believe you, let's say you're not a poser. You still need to be able to speak your mother tongue well before you can speak any other language well.
The clever amongst you will notice I myself write in English. Indeed. It's not because I don't speak Bulgarian. It is not because I want to show off that I speak English, either. In my experience, those who are truly good at something are never the ones who try to flaunt it. The reason why I blog in English is because, 1) most of my friends are non-Bulgarian speakers, which would limit the amount of readers I get, and let's face it, there are not that many of them anyway. 2) It has served me well in the past to be able to show my blog to a university, because it is a sample of my writing. In the future, this could also be the case with employers.
Of course, this article will resonate with a number of my friends, otherwise I wouldn't have had a post to write in the first place. I just wish they could embrace their country and their language. It doesn't make them better than others but it doesn't make them worse either.
To that, I say, firstly, no amount of pretending and word-inserting will do the trick. You come from Bulgaria (and of course, this applies to people from any other country) and you will always be Bulgarian. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. Most people will not judge you on the basis of your nationality or your language, they will judge you on your personality, your abilities, your grades from university, your behaviour and your interests. Those who judge you for being Bulgarian are few and those were probably people who weren't worth spending much time with. Yes, we have gypsies, we're poor, we speak languages usually with a distinct Eastern-European accent and we may smell of garlic, but we also come from a country which has the Bulgarian Rose(and I bet many of you know why this is so special), we have unique in the world yoghurt, our country has been around for longer than most others, officially for about 1300 years, we kept our religion and traditions throughout 500 horrible years under the Ottoman empire's oppression, we created the Cyrillic script, we contributed to the invention of computers. We have delicious food, good wine and beautiful women. Yes, we also have chalga.
 |
| Gypsies sometimes will parade a dancing bear around the town. |
 |
| Delicious Bulgarian yoghurt |
The clever amongst you will notice I myself write in English. Indeed. It's not because I don't speak Bulgarian. It is not because I want to show off that I speak English, either. In my experience, those who are truly good at something are never the ones who try to flaunt it. The reason why I blog in English is because, 1) most of my friends are non-Bulgarian speakers, which would limit the amount of readers I get, and let's face it, there are not that many of them anyway. 2) It has served me well in the past to be able to show my blog to a university, because it is a sample of my writing. In the future, this could also be the case with employers.
 |
| Rose-pickers in traditional folklore dress in the Rose Valley, Kazanluk, |
Sunday 8 January 2012
The chicken is pissed off.
No witty title, no jokes. The chicken is in a very mysanthropic mood, and I am afraid you will have to bear with me.
I've long been ranting about clubs. ....And I am not the only one. Tonight, though, was the tipping point.
I am as sober as I can be, perhaps this is my main problem. In my sobriety, I figured out the point of alcohol: of course, it serves the purpose of social cohesion, no doubt. It helps people get laid, beer goggles are as factual as gravity. Yet, its primary function, by far, must be tolerance. People get drunk in order to be able to tolerate other drunk people. No alcohol, no problem. Alcohol is self-serving and paradoxical, since you only drink it to help you deal with a problem that you wouldn't have in the first place, had there not been alcohol. A few cute guys in that club, granted, but as soon as you see them shake back and forth, as they try to figure out whether you're cute enough so they could approach you, spit on you and spill cheap beer over you in their attempt to mate, any cuteness and attraction is bound to evaporate.
I've learned never to leave my jacket or coat at the wardrobe. We spent no less than 30 mins, taking miniscule steps down a staircase, being pushed, pinched, spit at, joked with, giggled at by random morons, who, as the previous point suggests, had no idea how to handle their drink. Lesson learned: never leave your coat at the wardrobe.
Clubs will show you the essence of humanity. It will show you everything. It will show you the petty attempts of girls to hold up to the standards of beauty, covering their faces with make up, pushing up whatever little breasts they have and emphasising them with a belt under their breasts which will also detract attention from their tummies. It will show you the fat friends of the pretty girls, trying so hard to be pretty, to fit in, to be liked. And when someone does hit on them, they will take petty pride in shooting them down, because it will make them feel superior and as pretty as their attractive friends, even if just for a second. It will show you pretense, fakeness and ugliness, metaphorical more so than physical, like no other place. It will show you the silly little childish emotions of humans, who just try too fucking hard. To be cool, to be liked, to have sex. Stop looking for approval from others before you even like yourself, stop disrespecting yourself like you disrespect others, grow a spine, keep some dignity and for the love of God, stop pushing me! Hundreds and thousands of people pushing to go to this club and not the other, because it's "hip". Had there been a fire there tonight, there'd be nothing for you to read, I'd have been dead. It was so crowded, literally you couldn't drop a needle on the floor. Being asked to pay the ridiculous 7 euros (and of course, often enough prices are higher) just to get in. Based on what? Because it's saturday. I don't fucking care what day it is. No, there was no band, it was just their ordinary DJ, who, by the way, had he worked a normal job, would be fired for his incompetence. To ask people to pay just to get into a club is proposterous, never have I understood it or endorsed it, and this was the final nail in the coffin. Out of sheer principle I am never paying to get into a club of any description, without a damn good reason.
Clubs will also show you men at their lowest, trying to get laid, not with their charm, intelligence, or even looks. No, he gets smashed, assuming that the degree to which he is soaked somehow translates into the degree to which a girl's pants should be soaked for him. Then they push you in what is a stupifying resemblance with the emotional intelligence of a 3rd grader. Well done. You reckon that pretending to barf next to a girl will get her attention, get you laid and you'll be a man in front of your friends again? Yes, indeed, that is what Shakespeare, Wilde and Austen meant, that is what all grand stories in literature are based on.
Clubs will bring out people's insecurities, they bring out the worst in them- getting drunk, getting violent, superiority and ego. Never mind the unreasonably high prices, the slow service, the pushing and crowds, the bad music, the sweat and drunk morons who stumble on you. I am willing to eat my own words; when we talk about Heaven and Hell, as far as I am concerned, we're not talking about some chimerical notions that happen to you when you die. They are now right here, and nothing is worse than the Hell you make for yourself.
I've long been ranting about clubs. ....And I am not the only one. Tonight, though, was the tipping point.
I am as sober as I can be, perhaps this is my main problem. In my sobriety, I figured out the point of alcohol: of course, it serves the purpose of social cohesion, no doubt. It helps people get laid, beer goggles are as factual as gravity. Yet, its primary function, by far, must be tolerance. People get drunk in order to be able to tolerate other drunk people. No alcohol, no problem. Alcohol is self-serving and paradoxical, since you only drink it to help you deal with a problem that you wouldn't have in the first place, had there not been alcohol. A few cute guys in that club, granted, but as soon as you see them shake back and forth, as they try to figure out whether you're cute enough so they could approach you, spit on you and spill cheap beer over you in their attempt to mate, any cuteness and attraction is bound to evaporate.
I've learned never to leave my jacket or coat at the wardrobe. We spent no less than 30 mins, taking miniscule steps down a staircase, being pushed, pinched, spit at, joked with, giggled at by random morons, who, as the previous point suggests, had no idea how to handle their drink. Lesson learned: never leave your coat at the wardrobe.
Clubs will show you the essence of humanity. It will show you everything. It will show you the petty attempts of girls to hold up to the standards of beauty, covering their faces with make up, pushing up whatever little breasts they have and emphasising them with a belt under their breasts which will also detract attention from their tummies. It will show you the fat friends of the pretty girls, trying so hard to be pretty, to fit in, to be liked. And when someone does hit on them, they will take petty pride in shooting them down, because it will make them feel superior and as pretty as their attractive friends, even if just for a second. It will show you pretense, fakeness and ugliness, metaphorical more so than physical, like no other place. It will show you the silly little childish emotions of humans, who just try too fucking hard. To be cool, to be liked, to have sex. Stop looking for approval from others before you even like yourself, stop disrespecting yourself like you disrespect others, grow a spine, keep some dignity and for the love of God, stop pushing me! Hundreds and thousands of people pushing to go to this club and not the other, because it's "hip". Had there been a fire there tonight, there'd be nothing for you to read, I'd have been dead. It was so crowded, literally you couldn't drop a needle on the floor. Being asked to pay the ridiculous 7 euros (and of course, often enough prices are higher) just to get in. Based on what? Because it's saturday. I don't fucking care what day it is. No, there was no band, it was just their ordinary DJ, who, by the way, had he worked a normal job, would be fired for his incompetence. To ask people to pay just to get into a club is proposterous, never have I understood it or endorsed it, and this was the final nail in the coffin. Out of sheer principle I am never paying to get into a club of any description, without a damn good reason.
Clubs will also show you men at their lowest, trying to get laid, not with their charm, intelligence, or even looks. No, he gets smashed, assuming that the degree to which he is soaked somehow translates into the degree to which a girl's pants should be soaked for him. Then they push you in what is a stupifying resemblance with the emotional intelligence of a 3rd grader. Well done. You reckon that pretending to barf next to a girl will get her attention, get you laid and you'll be a man in front of your friends again? Yes, indeed, that is what Shakespeare, Wilde and Austen meant, that is what all grand stories in literature are based on.
Clubs will bring out people's insecurities, they bring out the worst in them- getting drunk, getting violent, superiority and ego. Never mind the unreasonably high prices, the slow service, the pushing and crowds, the bad music, the sweat and drunk morons who stumble on you. I am willing to eat my own words; when we talk about Heaven and Hell, as far as I am concerned, we're not talking about some chimerical notions that happen to you when you die. They are now right here, and nothing is worse than the Hell you make for yourself.
Friday 6 January 2012
It gives great happiness to the chicken to cross the road on a daily basis.
I am the happiest I have ever been in my life. I feel as stable as a rock, centered, content with what I have and with what I am doing in my life. I feel like I am headed in the right direction, the people around me contribute to my well-being as much I I contribute to theirs. I feel much calmer, less irritable, even less arrogant. I smile more, I definitely read more. I feel prettier, sexier and smarter.
The first change came with clothes. Now, I've spent a lifetime of hating shopping. It was never for me, fitting rooms are small, sweaty and altogether they put me off. Maybe it's a 1st world problem...in fact, scrap that. It's DEFINITELY a first world problem, but whenever I needed clothes, shopping was a chore. Yet, after 22 years of moaning in stores, I found my style, I figured out what to wear, how to wear it, what looks good, where to shop. It shouldn't have taken me as much as it did, but now I feel fairly comfortable, and I know what to look for. I think I did things backwards: I've always been comfortable with my personality, which most people seem to achieve at a later age. Now, I am comfortable in my skin too, literally. I reckon, one way to a better life on a daily basis is to ensure that your mornings are good. Me, I wake up, dress in clothes that fit my body and character, emphasise my gorgeous breasts and hide the small lack of abs, I make some freshly squeezed orange juice, and I am ready.
The second change came with reading. Since early age, my grandmother put in a lot of effort into turning me into a cultured, well-read being. Being forced to read every day for 2 hours at least, while others are watching TV or playing outside, I bet it will give anyone an aversion to reading. Doing IB and then university didn't exactly help. Frankly, I don't know what it was that suddenly gave me this thirst for reading, but it's here. For a few months now, I've been reading for pleasure, almost daily. Reading is a bit like itching. Sometimes, you need to scratch your skin, and only then do you get an itch. I started reading, and almost out of nowhere, all these interests surfaced. Interests that I knew I had, somewhere on the back of my mind, but interests that I hadn't explicitly told myself that I had. For Christmas, D. asked me what I wanted and my response was, to his surprise perhaps, books. Simply books. What kind of books? Here is the list I sent him:
-psychology
-forensics and criminology
-synaesthesia
-Aleister Crowley, the Wickedest man in the world
-Nikola Tesla
-technology
-media, i.e. journalism, TV specifically.
-archaeology
-science, especially astronomy and physics
-history
-bartending
-coffee
-left-handedness
-design, interior design in particular
-languages
-photography, to an extent
The list is practically without changes. To say that these interests make my day, would be a gross understatement. I suppose, it is no surprise that one feels smarter and more well-rounded for reading more. I got about 10 books for Christmas, and they are lovely.
At 8 o'clock on January 1st, my mind suddenly emptied out and then got filled with a single, clear thought. If I have had 3 serious relationships and they have all ended with me and my partners being on very good terms, speaking to each other and being able to contribute positive energy to each other's lives, then there's no reason that I can't do the same with my ex-girlfriend. Our sexual relationship wasn't as serious as the others, but our friendship and our specialness has been exceptional. It would be nothing short of petty for me to deny that or throw away 9 years of mine and her life. So, I messaged her and on the 2nd of January, we were already speaking like a year and a half had not passed. The reason why this is different is because I want nothing from her. I don't want to get in her pants (and that is regardless of her still being attractive), I don't want to have drama or relationship with her. I don't think I ever will, and perhaps that was my mistake last time. We have a special connection which is undeniable, and there is simply nothing more to it.
Resolving my relationship with her was an excellent decision, I feel. I think my ego has left the building, and contacting her was for all the right reasons. I have, in the past year or so, gotten rid of anyone in my environment who makes me unhappy or harms me in any way. I like myself and I like those around me. I have put in the effort to keep those who are good for me, and who I feel I am good for, because it works both ways. You can't receive without giving, and I hope my former friend N. will learn it someday soon, if he hasn't already. Friendships are a two-way process. Life is a two-way process, at least. I don't know where the rest came from. But never have I felt so at equilibrium with my environment. I have always been very honest with myself and those around me, with life even, about where I am at and what I want. But now, I think there's a whole new level of honesty somehow.
Maybe that's the lesson, if there's a lesson here at all. Be very very honest with yourself and those around you, honestly can't hurt, lies can. Be honest about what you can give, what you expect and you will, more often than not, receive what you ask for. Of course, you have to be ready to receive it and be ready for any consequences, sometimes it may come in a shape that feels unfamiliar to you, you may not recognise it at first. But you will get what you wish for.
The first change came with clothes. Now, I've spent a lifetime of hating shopping. It was never for me, fitting rooms are small, sweaty and altogether they put me off. Maybe it's a 1st world problem...in fact, scrap that. It's DEFINITELY a first world problem, but whenever I needed clothes, shopping was a chore. Yet, after 22 years of moaning in stores, I found my style, I figured out what to wear, how to wear it, what looks good, where to shop. It shouldn't have taken me as much as it did, but now I feel fairly comfortable, and I know what to look for. I think I did things backwards: I've always been comfortable with my personality, which most people seem to achieve at a later age. Now, I am comfortable in my skin too, literally. I reckon, one way to a better life on a daily basis is to ensure that your mornings are good. Me, I wake up, dress in clothes that fit my body and character, emphasise my gorgeous breasts and hide the small lack of abs, I make some freshly squeezed orange juice, and I am ready.
The second change came with reading. Since early age, my grandmother put in a lot of effort into turning me into a cultured, well-read being. Being forced to read every day for 2 hours at least, while others are watching TV or playing outside, I bet it will give anyone an aversion to reading. Doing IB and then university didn't exactly help. Frankly, I don't know what it was that suddenly gave me this thirst for reading, but it's here. For a few months now, I've been reading for pleasure, almost daily. Reading is a bit like itching. Sometimes, you need to scratch your skin, and only then do you get an itch. I started reading, and almost out of nowhere, all these interests surfaced. Interests that I knew I had, somewhere on the back of my mind, but interests that I hadn't explicitly told myself that I had. For Christmas, D. asked me what I wanted and my response was, to his surprise perhaps, books. Simply books. What kind of books? Here is the list I sent him:
-psychology
-forensics and criminology
-synaesthesia
-Aleister Crowley, the Wickedest man in the world
-Nikola Tesla
-technology
-media, i.e. journalism, TV specifically.
-archaeology
-science, especially astronomy and physics
-history
-bartending
-coffee
-left-handedness
-design, interior design in particular
-languages
-photography, to an extent
The list is practically without changes. To say that these interests make my day, would be a gross understatement. I suppose, it is no surprise that one feels smarter and more well-rounded for reading more. I got about 10 books for Christmas, and they are lovely.
At 8 o'clock on January 1st, my mind suddenly emptied out and then got filled with a single, clear thought. If I have had 3 serious relationships and they have all ended with me and my partners being on very good terms, speaking to each other and being able to contribute positive energy to each other's lives, then there's no reason that I can't do the same with my ex-girlfriend. Our sexual relationship wasn't as serious as the others, but our friendship and our specialness has been exceptional. It would be nothing short of petty for me to deny that or throw away 9 years of mine and her life. So, I messaged her and on the 2nd of January, we were already speaking like a year and a half had not passed. The reason why this is different is because I want nothing from her. I don't want to get in her pants (and that is regardless of her still being attractive), I don't want to have drama or relationship with her. I don't think I ever will, and perhaps that was my mistake last time. We have a special connection which is undeniable, and there is simply nothing more to it.
Resolving my relationship with her was an excellent decision, I feel. I think my ego has left the building, and contacting her was for all the right reasons. I have, in the past year or so, gotten rid of anyone in my environment who makes me unhappy or harms me in any way. I like myself and I like those around me. I have put in the effort to keep those who are good for me, and who I feel I am good for, because it works both ways. You can't receive without giving, and I hope my former friend N. will learn it someday soon, if he hasn't already. Friendships are a two-way process. Life is a two-way process, at least. I don't know where the rest came from. But never have I felt so at equilibrium with my environment. I have always been very honest with myself and those around me, with life even, about where I am at and what I want. But now, I think there's a whole new level of honesty somehow.
Maybe that's the lesson, if there's a lesson here at all. Be very very honest with yourself and those around you, honestly can't hurt, lies can. Be honest about what you can give, what you expect and you will, more often than not, receive what you ask for. Of course, you have to be ready to receive it and be ready for any consequences, sometimes it may come in a shape that feels unfamiliar to you, you may not recognise it at first. But you will get what you wish for.
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