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!!
Sunday 15 January 2012
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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