The story of how I hit rock bottom

I've loved and lost and as we all know it's better to have loved and lost then to never have loved at all.

 
BUT

Have I ever truly loved?
Couple of days ago I was watching some standup comedians and one of them said something that stayed with me: "we never learned how to love ourselves, so we employ people to do it for us" 

NOW

The day before this, someone popped the question "How much did you spend on a gift for your boyfriend?" And I was ashamed as fuuuuck because I’ve spent a ton of money on my ex. Not only on presents but on him, on his wellbeing on his life, on our life. So, I wrote down the highest number and kept reading the comments and what I saw was that I wasn't the only one who had done that. 

Did I truly love him? Yes, I believe I did!

Did I love him honestly and in a right way? I believe I didn't. 

I've never felt love, growing up, I’ve never been hugged and was never told “I love you” or “well done”. But my mistakes have always been acknowledged and the main subject for having the shit kicked out of me was “WE BUY YOU SHIT SO YOU OWE US YOUR LOVE” and what my wee, child brain registered was that if you buy someone something it means you love them so I bought and I was shocked when he didn't love me back. And I got frustrated and I worked harder, and I bought more, and I got into debt and I bought more, and I couldn't afford to buy a bottle of water at one point because I kept all my money for when we've gone out so that I can buy shit to MAKE him love me. And he didn’t, and I got even more frustrated and I hated me for not making more money and I struggled, and I cried, and I worked and cried while working and I sabotaged my work with depression and frustration. And I loved him even more and I gave everything until there was nothing else to give and I lost my job because of the frustration and the depression and now I truly had NOTHING else to give.

I began being so cheap with myself and my needs that he started to hate me for that. He was annoyed that I wouldn’t buy myself a $10 shirt, he had no clue that those $10 were going to serve me well next week when that movie was coming out. He was ashamed when we went to the movies and I said that we already have 3D glasses (the ones I kept from the movie before). I felt his cringing next to me when I said that, but I kept on pretending that everything it’s okay and that recycling is my nature.

I remember buying a mascara, a $5 mascara and feeling guilty all the way home because those were $5 I could’ve bought him something.

NOW

I don’t want you all to think that I’m holding a candle for this man. I was literally crumbling before him and, when we’ve gone to the seaside with the money that I was supposed to keep for the dark days that were laying ahead of me, had I just been laid off, he said, “I thought you’d be more fun.” and “I’ve worked hard all year, this is my time to relax, please, don’t go being depressed in my vacation”. I had planned a nice trip. I did really want to get out, but I wanted to go away, far away, I wanted to see things I didn’t see, I wanted to be in a train and talk to people but instead he wanted to go to the seaside and “maybe go to my sister later.”

Spoiler alert! He never intended for me to meet his sister, that meant me, actually, having an impact on his life and that wasn’t the case.

Instead we’ve spent 4 luxurious days in Vama Veche, throwing my money at god knows what and listening to him complaining that I didn’t agree he’ll buy an inflatable kayak with 80% of the money we’ve allocated for our vacation.

At this point he was no longer my friend or my boyfriend or an empathic human being, he was a spoiled child, whose privileges were being taken away. Had I still had my job, I would’ve bought him the kayak without a shadow of a doubt.

He cared for me but not enough to put up with my “..or worse” side of “for better or worse.”  

And that was my worst. My depression spiraled me into physically harming myself. I’ve begun cutting, again, I’ve hit myself several times. And when I say hit myself, I mean that I was feeling so guilty and so angry at myself for not being lovable to this man, despite every sacrifice that I was making, that I used to slap my own face. And I’m not joking.  

I’ve threatened suicide, I’ve cried and kicked and begged. I promised to be good, I’ve said “I’m sorry” until I was blue in the face and I was sorry. I was sorry because I was feeling like I was losing the battle, I was sorry because I couldn’t do more. I was sorry for being such a loser, for not being able to sell a kidney to buy him that kayak. Because I was taught that if you buy shit for the people you love, they must love you back and if they don’t it means you haven’t bought enough.

At one point, he was telling me a story about a friend of his, whose wife bought him an apartment in Paris and one week, I remember, for an entire week, I’ve looked up properties in Paris. I didn’t know how I was going to do this, but it had to be done. I know how much he loved Paris and how much he wanted to just have a way to stay in Paris for longer than a city-break and I wanted to buy a house anyway… Instead of Bucharest I’ll just choose Paris.

It is clear at this point that he was never going to love me. He recognized the affection and cared for me, maybe, he understood the comfort that I provided and was not willing to give that up, definitely, but he never did love me. 

I broke contact soon after the seaside trip when I realized that this situation of me breaking my back for a love, I’ll never be able to gain, was, in fact, going to kill me. I’ve had help in this endeavor and I’ll forever remember the words of my psychiatrist “Why do you keep insisting? Can’t you see that you’re not being let in? You’re trying for three years.”

Not a week later I really needed him. I felt more desperate than I’ve ever felt, an interview was laying ahead of me and felt stressed the fuck out. This was my way out; this interview was the end of all my problems and I wanted to get it so bad. It was moving me to another country, thus giving him space and the opportunity to miss me, it was giving me a ton of money thus giving me the chance to actually buy that fucking apartment in Paris and a little perk for myself, I was going to see a lot of the world, if not all of it.

So, I called him and told him I needed him, and he couldn’t be bothered. At that point, he was already seeing someone else. But he really wanted us to be friends, I was his best friend, according to him. I called this so-called best friend of mine and I said I need you, I need you now, I feel like I’m crumbling, I’m not mentally stable and I need to go out and have a beer and talk to you to bring myself down to earth, to see my goals again. But he was too busy spending time with someone he’d met a month ago. She wasn’t depressed, she wasn’t needy, she didn’t slap her own face.

So, I texted one more person; my therapist:

 “I’m going to kill myself, I can’t do this anymore.”

And I got up on the rooftop of my building and just as I was ready to make the leap my phone rang. It was my therapist. She told me that I had existed before this man and I will continue to do so after he’s gone. She convinced me to go to the interview and after that to take a BlaBlaCar and join my parents to the seaside.

I did. I went back inside, and I called my mother and I cried and asked her why and cried some more. I got maybe two hours of sleep that night and black eyed and all I went to the interview. I didn’t pass, of course but I did go to the seaside afterwards and I existed without him and sometimes I still do. I remember the love a bared for him and I exist for a solid moment there, I exist without him.

I’ve started writing this because I’ve wanted to say that love cannot be bought, and the moral should’ve been that I’m not saying do not buy shit for the people you love, all I’m saying is: what do you want to achieve by buying that?

But I ended up telling you the story of how I hit rock bottom and how I’m starting to climb back up.

Whatever you’re going through there’s someone else who had already been there. Whatever you’re going through there’s someone else who had it worse.

WHATEVER YOU’RE GOING THOUGH YOU HAVE TO KNOW THAT YOU ARE NOT ALONE!

My parents are insane - The Chronicles Chapter VII

PASSION

A great pop culture character, Angel, once said: “Passion is the source of our finest moment, the joy of love, the clarity of hatred and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace but we would be hollow. Without passion we’d be truly dead.”

I might have had a revelation today. Ok, I admit, I’m always having revelations but this one is a good one.

I always thought that my mother not being permissive enough had me develop only bad traits and for the majority is true. I have a bad temper because of her, I don’t really like mushy stuff because of her, I don’t really know how to say I love you and not feel fucking awkward. And by the by, the fact that I AM in fact telling some people that I love them is a huge fucking deal and I, most of the time, hold back from puking afterwards, so yes, be proud, you’ve earned it.

I was wrong about my mother; I actually have a lot to thank her for.

Let me tell you why.

I have a LOT of passions. I love music more than I loved any human being EVER, I love to hear the emotions that some other person felt when writing down some lyrics, or just playing around with their guitar. A freaking iconic song (which slips my mind at the moment ) was written when the guitarist of that band was playing around in the studio, it’s just fucking amazing how something so huge can come out of just jerking off in the coffee break. Freaking NIRVANA wrote the song that consecrated them based on a joke, when a chick said that Cobain “smelled like teen spirit”(which was a ladies perfume). That’s either brilliance or it’s faith and out of the two, I don’t know what I’d pick.

I LOVE drawing, I’d spend hours just doodling away. I don’t even care what it is, it could be potatoes with arms, it could be the next Starry Night as long as something comes out of my hands, I’m a happy camper. It’s true, I don’t do that anymore….now I play Candy Crush. I guess you can call that “creating something”, I’m creating a void in my head so I won’t think about the fact that I actually stopped creating shit.

I LOVE to read. For a “hater” like me reading is the best thing that could ever happen. It gets you out of this universe and then anything is possible. You get to go inside of another person’s mind without using black magic or science, you flip the page and there you are, reading their thoughts, feeling their moves, speaking their language, living their lives. You can even talk for two or three people at a time and sometimes the only one who can experience their grief, it’s you and that gives you a sense of power, you’re absolute. In slang terms you’re just too fucking awesome.

When I was little my mom was always smacking me for not writing the lesson down in class, I would, instead, just draw. I was listening to what the teachers were saying but all my notebooks would read the date, the title, a couple of lines and then just flowers and dresses and hands and attempts at portraits. So every time I would come home from school with such a page she’d just smack me around a little. “How can you do this? Look, your classmate, Georgica is writing everything down.” Despite the fact that he was writing everything down, Georgica was left behind a year so that wasn’t the best policy for passing your classes. HA! Take that, mum. Of course I had a little anarchy in me since I can remember so, naturally I was inclined to not even write the date anymore instead just draw some more.

 I had a pair of jeans that were ripped, at one point, I’ve just discovered punk and loved it because it was nothing like britney spears or n’sync (and yes, I’m just gonna write the names without capital letters because they don’t deserve it). I would wear them every day for about a year, summer, winter, -20 degrees; my knees would be just hanging out, breathing fresh air. So she gets mad at one point and throws away my noise making army boots, my leather jacket AND cuts my pants in half. I was so mad I wouldn’t come out of my room for a week that summer. She eventually smashed my mixed tape; that got me out of the house because I had to make a new one and of course listen even louder.

I was in eighth grade and just gotten my hands on Shakespeare, it was so intricate that I had to read Hamlet three times so I could truly understand what was going on. The fact is that Hamlet was not in the curriculum and I had to prepare for the last exam. Instead I was sitting in the middle of the bed, at 7 in the morning reading Shakespeare and my mother comes in, very upset saying things like “you should be getting dressed, you have to be at school in half an hour and you’re sitting here reading crap.” Crap, yes, she called Shakespeare “crap”.

I was never the child she wanted me to be. I was never perfect and I never did anything on time. I also never did, or said, or dressed like the norms of society dictates us and that killed her.  Maybe she just didn’t want me to suffer if I would be seen as an outcast or maybe she was jealous at my free spirited nature.  But by her denying me all those things I think she drove me to developing passions for amazingly beautiful thing and now they’re in there and there’s nothing she can do about.

I was talking too my workmate today and after I had a huge rant about a song I asked her “what passion drives you anyway?” and she answered “none.” And then I’ve waited, maybe it was something there, something buried deep, something that would make her want to cry or giggle at the thought of, but there was nothing and I felt so sad for her because she might never know what it means to go through and emotional rollercoaster every time you hear your favorite song or watch your favorite movie. She might never now the anger when you can’t draw the other eye or the joy when everything is perfect. She might never understand the itch in your fingers when you want to write something or draw something and you don’t have a pen nearby.

I asked her if anything was ever denied to her by her parents and she answered with “nothing.”

So in spite of mein mutter actually being mein furer she might have actually created in me the best trait that a human being can posses: PASSION. And for that, I thank you, mom.

Also there’s no point in this post and you’ve spent the last 10 minutes reading a crazy lady’s rant. I’ll just go buy some cats now.

A bien tot! 

The world deserves to burn

I have these friends. They try to look like intellectuals so they are debating incidents around the world, political or otherwise. I can see I become a little shorter in their eyes every time I refuse to say something about these things but I don’t refuse because I’m unopinionated or because I don’t care it’s because I think the world deserves to go out in a fiery mess.

The criminally insane political leaders rose to power by the will of the people, the terrorists exist and thrive thru people, rapist and murderers are people, they live, are accepted and fascinate society. And then there’s the other class of criminals, those who shrug their shoulders in the face of all of this and say “Them’s the rules”. And what saddens me most is the fact that that’s how most of us think. We comply with the rules we helped bring to power.

They can’t build enough prisons to contain every soldier who would refuse to go to war, they can’t execute every person in a country who would stand up against execution, against totalitarianism, against mass murders.

Gandhi said “Be the change you want to see in the world.” But the world complies so it fully deserves the handmade apocalypse that’s embarking upon. 

My parents are insane. The chronicles Chapter VI

Dear friend,

I’m really tired talking to a machine all day long so I am going to start writing to you and pretend I have to go down to the post office and mail a letter every once in a while.

I’ve decided to talk to you about my parents who are completely mental.

I sometimes fantasize I leave to work in the morning, something really amazing happens and I just don’t come back home, ever.

Today is the 27^th of December, I had to stay home for the holydays which drove me completely insane. We stayed in because my mother decided to be mad, for no reason at all. She was mad at us, she barely spoke to me or my dad and sat in bed all day long watching TV.

I’ve gotten so used to keeping myself busy over the last three months that I came to a point of not being able to just lie in bed and watch movies and eat junk food like I used to. Which, incidentally makes me feel a lot happier than I used to be. These two days were the death of me. I was so bored I wanted to blow my brains out only so that I could scrape them off the wall and have something to do.

I made the insane mistake to remark as such in a loud voice, in the vicinity of my mother’s ears.

What came next, left me completely perplexed for at least an hour.

My mother started screaming at me “If you would’ve taken us to the mountains you wouldn’t be bored now.”

I said “Mom, why didn’t you say you wanted to go out?”  Especially since the day before I asked her if she wanted to go to the country and she refused with a barely mumbled “No.” that got me figured she was in one of her moods and just wanted to stay in.

As a response I got more yelling “Because you’re you and you would’ve said you don’t want to, or that you have stuff to do. You’re the one how should’ve said something.”

I really feel like I need to mention the fact that I’m not a mind reader. Of course if I had said something she wouldn’t have wanted to go because nothing was planned out from a day before.

So let’s see what we have until now, shall we? My mom wants everything to be perfectly planned out without her actually saying anything and when she does open her mouth is just so she can reproach to you that you didn’t do something you didn’t even know about.

Now what am I supposed to do with that new discovery except for actually blowing my brains out?

Love always,

Laura 

WAKE UP

Yeah, I tried my best to come up with a title for this post and this is all I could find mostly because I’m baffled by what’s happening to Romanian women, and women all over the world, no doubt.

I have a thirst for traveling and I feel like crying that I can walk thru the streets of New York, see the fabulous  French cafés, or experience the colors of India only on Google street view … for now anyway.

And no, I haven’t been to other countries to see if this crazy phenomenon that’s happening on my homeland, it’s happening anywhere else as well, but I am writing this for every woman out there who thinks she needs to sell herself in any way for material stuff.

I came over a post, today, that gave me chills. I realized how many powerful women fought for us in their own – at that time – insignificant way and how many of us do not exploit the legacy that they have left us.

And here’s the post http://news.distractify.com/people/powerful-photos-of-women/?v=1

The only thing a woman wanted was to run in the Boston Marathon and she had the strength to do so. Maybe we should take a minute and wonder if it wasn’t for her, would we have women athletes at all?

This post started out of my own anger an outrage but while I’m typing I’m thinking it’s not only about that, It’s about our future, it’s about our dignity, it’s about having something to be proud of.

We are the most magnificent creatures on thin planet. We have the power to bring life into the world and we let ourselves be manipulated by the idea of fame and money.

We stare at the TV every goddamn day and they tell us we’re not good enough, we’re not pretty enough, we don’t have enough money to be our own person so we sell ourselves, we starve ourselves, we dye our hair and paint our nails, we buy shit we don’t need for the prospect of being a better us, a perfect us. To achieve an idyllic perfection that nobody can achieve and we lose ourselves in this whole conundrum, we get deviated from doing great things.

I wanted to write something especially for the women in my country. For the past five years, or so, there has been a Muslim migration and a lot of women have been seduced by whatever those men have to offer them and now every day. Every fucking day I see Romanian women, white women, subject themselves to that whole hijab thing, covering their faces, not being able to do ANYTHING but raise the children, not being able to leave the house except with the children, not being able to peruse a dream or a passion because the religion of the man you chose to marry, forbids it. I’d like to think that these types of marriages took place out of love as well, maybe they had a calling, maybe these women were born to be mothers and nothing more. But that’s too optimistic so I won’t get my hopes up.

Most likely these marriages took place because of a desperate need for liberation and freedom. And yes I know that doesn’t sound logical when you say it out loud. But the way I came to this conclusion is the following: many people think freedom is money, happiness is money, things that give you any kind of satisfaction are things that you need money for and these men can provide only one thing: MONEY and the only thing that money does in this case is lock you up, clip your wings and wipe the smile from your face. And I’m not writing this because my run around with religion or because I’m a racist.

WAKE UP, YOU ARE SELLING YOURSELF so you can buy a pair of shoes that I can’t afford and I can guarantee you that I’m happier with my 35 lei pair of sneakers that you are in your 400 euros pair of Jimmy Choo’s that nobody is able to see anyway.

I’m not saying having fancy things is wrong. There’s a saying in my country “the fox that can’t reach the grapes, says they’re bitter” and this is not the case. FIGHT! Earn your own money, buy the things you want and feel proud walking down the street, be happy, be yourself, BE FREE! Because right now you’re nothing but a housekeeper who’s paid in fancy stuff and I’m sure the goal behind marrying into a religion that ostracizes women was exactly the fear of not becoming a housekeeper.

And if this doesn’t convince you, than think about this: there are women in Muslim countries that are fighting tooth and nail against this, women who are fighting for your freedom, women who are beaten and raped and eventually killed only so that YOU can have your free will.

Ladies, stop subjecting yourselves to torturous changes only so that you can be what society thinks you have to be.

 YOU ARE THE SOCIETY! You can set the impossible standards or you can cut them loose. You and only you can let you be yourselves!

Next, I’ll post some pictures of powerful and beautiful women from the article I told you about.

The pressure of the ticking clock

There are these stages in a normal girl’s life when she concentrates on certain things.

Of course the one thing her life revolves around is always going to be the opposite sex, no doubt about it. From 10 to 14 you want to be around guys so you’ll be the cool kid who’s playing football and learning how to spit. From 14 to 18 you can’t really thing about anything but guys because that’s what your hormones say. From 18 to 23 you’re having boyfriends because that’s the normal thing to do and after that RELATIONSHIPS, big scary word with a lot of intricate knots.

But what about the individual? The girl, the person?

I say 30 is the limit. The age you draw the line for drunken parties, the carefree lifestyle, the summer in Vama Veche, the art classes, the girls nights out. After that you’re just a lame old hag who wants to relive her golden days.

This is why I’ll make my friends promise they’ll never drag me to one of these shindigs after I turn 30 no matter how much I love the sea.

After 30 you climb up the social and professional ladder and start making something of yourself.

That’s how I see a modern woman.

I hate seeing twenty something girls dragging crying toddlers after them in the park when I’m there reading my book on the freshly cut grass and smoking my Lucky Strike’s blue. And I’m not saying “hate” in the sense that I pity them, but I hate their nagging glances, their judging glances or from time to time their “where did I go wrong” glances.

The judging glances come from their utter “proudness” of being a mother. Yes, kids are great. I plan of having a house full myself and I love the children at the kindergarten like they’re my own and I pain every time I skip a session cause I admire how their brains work, how creative they can be, how fear free. But gully gee, I can’t take care of myself at this age, how the hell could I take care of a kid?

Plus I’m afraid that at this stage I’d name my kids Sid and Nancy and put blue dye in their hair which would immediately end up with them in the foster system.

But is my thinking throwing me back or propelling me forward?

Every time I start up a conversation with one of my girls we end up talking about our jobs. We’re not making enough money, we’re not buying pretty things or go to cool places because we’re not making enough money, we’re not happy because we’re not buying pretty things and we turn up thinking of seeing shrinks because we’re not happy.

Shit! If I knew from the womb that the world and my own happiness will revolve around money I would’ve dropped hints to my mother to get me an Ivy fucking League education since I was 2 months old. I would’ve become a bad ass lawyer or a bank manager and all my dreams would come true.

And while we’re in the Mary-go-round our lives fly past us like they were never there.

Am I the only person in this whole God forsaken world who thinks money is not that important?

Put me in the Art Museum one day a week and I’m happy as a clam. 32. 32 fucking lei a month to be happy. Is that so hard to accomplish?

Sure, I enjoy the occasional movie, but that can be done with 0 money at home. Plus the 2 lei on the huge bag of popcorn from Kaufland that nobody can ever finish. And at home you have the advantage of talking and also not hearing the asshole next to you talking on his phone.

When did these people who think they need money to be happy just put on some Velvet Underground, lay on the floor and smoked a cigarette like is 1984?

I’m happy in the park. My God, I’m happy in the park. I like to roll down the hill in freshly cut grass or snow any time of the year.

The point is: we’re so preoccupied with living our lives in style that we forget to live our lives period.

I forget that sometimes as well and I’m sad. And I feel like I’m being rejected by society because I don’t have a grown up job, like advertising or economics, instead I play around in watercolors with kids and go to work in my ripped up jeans and my leather jacket and a book stuffed down my back pocket.

Let me tell you something about my book in my back pocket: I made a plan, with a friend who’s so obsessed with her work she sentb me home after waiting for her in the center for half a day. As I was walking back thru the park with my book and my jacket, so mad, that I have forgotten to put on my head phones, there were two kids behind me, “whispering” so loud the entire alley could hear them.

“Look at the boots, those are cool boots.” The boy said. “I like her hair.” Whispered the girl. “No you fool that’s how is in fashion these days. It’s her phone or her tablet.” Said the boy. And I understood that they were talking about the book in my back pocket. As I arrived to my favorite reading spot in the park I pulled out the item. “Awwww it’s a book, that’s cool.” The little girl exclaimed. After I sat down they passed in front of me so the boy said, as loud as he could “But she’s so beautiful.”

Yup.  That was a beautiful moment.

 And maybe I, in my own way, let my life fly past me for not getting an upstanding job or looking to get hitched but to me the little things are important and I have plenty of those. 

Do I feel pressured by the ticking clock? Yes I do, because society norms dictate that I should. Am I going to start freaking out? No I won't. 

My insomnia in too many words

I hate my brain! My brain is insane and doesn't let me sleep. I plant my head on the pillow and my arm starts itching, then my neck because I was too lazy to braid my hair so I get up and braid my fucking hair I flop around like a fish out of the water when suddenly my pillow gets too hard and bumpy. I fluff my pillow and turn around, when I turn I land on a fold in the blanket. I pull the blanket from under me and pull it on top of me but the blanket is too short and my feet are cold which means the fucking blanket is with the long part on the sides so I push it up with my legs and after a couple of minutes of tossing and turning I manage to make it right but from all that flopping around my hair gets loose and my pillow gets a case of the bumpies AGAIN!

My pillow gets a case.....case, pillow...pillow case...get it? Ha ha ha. Yeah it's 3:00 am, let me see you write a fucking coherent blog after 5 hours of not managing to go to sleep.
I fix the bloody pillow and the fucking hair. Finally...everything is in order but ooooh look the moon is soooo shiny I can see it through my drapes.
The moon...
It's not a full moon.
I love the full moon, is so mystical.
Mysticism...yeah, the best spells are performed under a full moon.
I tried to do a sell once, who the fuck didn't. It wasn't like in the movies, that much I can tell you.
Movie, movie, movie. The movie I've seen tonight was STU-PID! I love Sylvester Stallone but MY GOD he should really find another job. Jesus fucking Christ each and every one of his movies are alike.
Actually all the movies these days are alike.
The TV shows too. I mean I was watching Bones and realized Goddamn it's just like The Mentalist...and Castle, even the actresses look alike. I can never tell the difference between these girls, who the fuck is who?
I tell you I haven't seen an original episode since Regan was president.
Even Supernatural betrayed me and stole a concept from Doctor Who AND YOU THOUGHT WE WOULDN'T NOTICE! HA!
It was from the Matt Smith Doctor who.....Damn I miss David Tennant. They should make the Doctor find a way to regenerate with David's face.
Speaking of TV shows. Remember that episode from Supernatural when Sam wasn't able to sleep cause Lucifer was singing Ramble On in his head. God I wish I had Mark Pelegrino singing Ramble on, maybe I could get some sleep.
OOOOhhhh man how about the episode before that where Satan kept on talking to Sam but he wouldn't reply until he got clocked on the head. AY CARAMBA MI CABEZA! Now that was funny.
Speaking of witch: What the fuck happened to my Spanish. I distinctly remember I had a good grasp of the Mexican kind of Spanish when I was younger. Where did that go? Is there like a secret door with a super secret combination behind which you lock up all the stuff you learned and never used again?
Like in that test at that interview when I had to do math...let's just say I couldn't do math to save my life and I was pretty good in high school.
OH MY GOD! Do I remember the baggie pants I use to wear in high school? Jesus! What the fuck was I thinking? I thought I was cool...I wasn't. I was a huge giant nerd. If I were a geek in an american high school I would kick my own ass and take my lunch money.
And speaking of comic books which super power is better? Flying or invisibility? Giving the fact That I want to see the world flying seems better, but then again with the invisibility I could sneak on planes and go wherever the hell I want ON PLANES, I love planes.
I saw that documentary about my dad's uncle Paul Mitu what do you think those people thought when the plane was going down. Man I have a real life hero in my family and I never met him. That's a bummer.
Speaking of names Max Medina. Where do I know that name from and why did it pop into my head.
It's from a TV show but what TV show. Think Laura THINK!
I think it was Pretty Little Liars. Why the hell did I even watch that show.
WAIT ! NO! This Max character was a professor and the professor in Pretty Little Liars was called ...something else...that's not important. What's important right now is to sleep. UH OH! Max Medina was from Gilmore Girls.
Gilmore Girls is Dana's favorite show. What's Dana doing now? I miss her. On the other hand Sisi gets to stay in Romania so that's a good thing. Yeah, I'm happy about that.

And this goes on and on and on and on and on and ooooon and.....
until I kick the blanket off, go to the kitchen, smoke ten thousand and twenty one cigarettes, drink a bowl of coffee and start writing this blog.

My parents are insane - The Chronicles

Chapter V

I take the risk of repeating myself over and over again and say this – my family is crazy, man!

Three days ago I got sick.

But I should start this with the beginning. About two months ago, after the weather started getting colder and slowly slipping into winter my dad got a cold. He pranced around for two days like a big hero saying he doesn’t need any medication cause he’ll be fine. After two days he succumbed to the annoying feeling when you get a cold, that annoying feeling that you’re not in fact fine and you would do any fucking thing to get better and he chose the perfect moment to realize he would in fact like some medication. That moment was a Sunday evening at 9 p.m.! That’s right folks my dad wanted drugs at the one moment in a whole week when you can’t find a store, let alone a pharmacy opened for miles. So I got dressed, I ran all over the neighborhood trying to find one opened pharmacy and when I didn’t, I got in the car and drove to the nearest 24/7 drugstore I could find on my nifty little machine with buttons. But I did it none the less, because he’s my dad and because he was feeling sick and because I wanted him to feel better because I CARE!

The story ended up with my dad cursing and gagging over a Coldrex which in his opinion is “just disgusting”. Which brings up to the present day.

Three days ago I got sick. I was feeling week and my muscles were sore and my nose runny. The difference was that it was a Friday morning. So I started dropping hints all over the house maybe someone would pick up on that, go to the pharmacy and get me my druuuuuuuugs. But my dad it’s just a little bit too thick to interpret hints so I just spelled it out in big shy letters “I WANT SOME DRUGS!”

And then my dad opened up his mouth and I dropped mine on the floor. “Neah, it’s too crowded and it’s a little bit too cold, I don’t wanna go.”

So in the end I was the one to drag myself to the drug store and pick up my meds with a fever of 38.8 degrees Celsius, sores all over my body and snot coming out of my nose like I was the Niagara falls.

My mother on the other hand….

I don’t know if I told you this about my mother but somehow, because she stares at that TV all fucking day log, somehow she mastered medicine, psychology and neuroscience all at once.

….my mother on the other hand said that I induced myself into a cold. I somehow wished to get a cold, conjured up the powers that be and made myself sick just to annoy the holly fuck out of her.

Well if that’s the truth, mother, I hopped I made you fucking bonkers this past three days cause I on the other hand, had a blast with the shivers and the hot waves and not being able to sleep thinking I could actually die from not being able to breathe.

You’re gonna say “What’s done it’s done, the past is past, move on.”

OH! I’m moving, believe you me, I’m moving to my next story.

TODAY!

My dad thinks that, because I’m a girl, I’m some kind of moron.

My dad is kind of racist and sexist and a little bit of a supremacist…not the hard core “faster pussycat kill kill” sort of way but just enough to drive me up the walls cause I’m more inclined to be on Gandy’s  side rather than on Hitler’s (just to throw and example at you).

The point being is that my dad and I are like two peas in two different pots.

In the summer my car battery died, we opened the doors one too many times, flicked the lights on and off as we pleased and I almost got stuck in a yard in Vama Veche with no means to get home.

After a guy gave me a jump (God bless his soul) the car ran like new but I did call my dad to tell me if I can play music while the car is rolling.

We got home safe and sound and since the battery got filled up enough on the road it just didn’t die anymore after that.

Because the battery didn’t die after I got home, my dad practically called me either a liar or a moron and he kept up this opinion until three or four days ago when he wanted to take it out and couldn’t cause the battery wasn’t working …AGAIN.

On my birthday my grandma called me, she cried cause she’ll never see me married and she’s dyeing and she wants to see her grand-grand children which, of course, are nowhere to be found because …well you know how it works: No sperm – no kids. Then she said she’ll send my some money for my birthday. Today these money came.

My mom never even wanted to mention them or to fork them over but my dad was running around like a chicken with its head cut off saying he wants to get a new battery for MY CAR! (first of all it’s my fucking car, shouldn’t I be informed if something goes wrong, if it needs a new fucking spark plug, shouldn’t I be the one to decide if I have the means to buy that fucking spark plug or to be a pedestrian for another month? …any who)

So he made my mom give him my money to buy a new battery for my car and my mom would never have told me about the money if my dad would have never took them except that she’s a selfish bitch who saw an opportunity to ignite a scandal just because she could keep the money to buy her own selfish ass some more whoreish clothes.

I’m in fucking hell!

You know, when you hit rock bottom you just hit rock bottom, you know you’re on the bottom and everything can only go uphill from there? With me it’s like : it’s rock bottom, lower are 50 feet of crap and then me.

In these situations, I want to admit, without being jugged, that I understand those people who murder their entire family by bashing their head in with the meat cleaver.

Over and out!