Failure junkie

There was a time when I had learned the hard way that one has to enjoy every day they get to live and breathe. I had conceded that one has to appreciate every experience, be it positive or negative, to the fullest, and always get something [the most] out of it. It sounds like extreme motivational crap, but at the time I had reasons to think it was true. After taking in and spitting out all the anger and frustration, I had reasons to think for a while that I was the luckiest. I had dodged a bullet, so I needed not trip on the trivia, be unhappy or dissatisfied for the most insignificant reasons. Because then the significant stuff span in a completely superior sphere.

But of course that any experience, no matter how significantly good or bad, fades away with time. Did I hear someone say time heals everything? They were right. So I started to forget. And to calibrate the significance of all happenings to my current status. And now being confident that there is a tomorrow, of course I can make a huge deal about my nail polish chipping. Or a genuine drama because French does not stick to me once and for all.

Thus I went back to being an addict for failure.It's like running around in circles and always finding reasons to be malcontent, of course making everyone well aware of it and if possible also spreading a sense of guilt all over. It works like this. You think you want something, work for it, scream and shout. It eventually happens, but maybe not exactly when you wanted it or with some minor adjustments. Then you don't want it anymore, set your mind to having failed, just because, well, you can.It doesn't even matter if some things work out for the best, there's always something that does not happen just perfectly. And you, being addicted to dissatisfaction, will choose to cling to that instead.

That I complain a lot, well, it's common fact. People around me always try to remind me that there's some things that are not even worth complaining about. That I am selfish and should think about those who are really having a hard time before going all bitchy about some meaningless shit. I am aware of my selfishness, and I can even be sympathetic to other persons' misfortunes. But on one hand I cannot do anything to change that, and on the other I had my own share of big misfortunes. Now I just face my own small unhappinesses tailored to my small existence. Which are by no means less significant, which trouble me more than necessary, it is true, and into which I dive fullheartedly, like the failure junkie that I am.

Ça va? Hell no.

I grew older and fancier all of the sudden. I left behind the old famous pair question-answer "-How are you?-Fine" for the classier "-Ça va?-Oui." However, a trivial question is the same no matter the language. And lying, even if in French, is still lying.

The overcrowded trains that are always late and smelling funky, Ça ne va pas. Neither do the complicated subway hallways, forever scenting like piss.

The lilliputian apartments with see-through bathroom doors, Ça ne va pas.

People reaching a whole new level of inefficiency and rudeness, Ça, for sure, ne va pas. Likewise putting on hold the idea of making local friends.

Having to clench your teeth and force yourself to get out of the bed in the morning, not looking forward to anything, Ça, for sure, must be wrong. Always having the impression you are wasting people's time, but mostly yours, again, awkward.

Being sucked in by a completely messed up system, which drains away your positive energy and motivation, I must say, Ça ne va pas. Suddenly finding Africa to be an appealing option, what about that?

Despite of all the tasty pain au chocolat and sparkling tours, my honeymoon period is done. And I just learned the hard way that you cannot force any kind of love on people, and I am for sure not in love with this. So, just like I always answered "Fine" with a huge smile on my face or a nervous laugh, I keep saying "Ça va bien", even if it most definitely doesn't.

Apologies, for Losing my Cooling

Making excuses can become a vicious hobby. If you are preoccupied with developing your career, it may in time even turn into a full time job. Should you want to go and surf a little bit the scholar side, you might as well get your PhD in the art of being apologetic. And you reckon it's okay, like with all your other nasty habits, you think that if all the others do it, more or less, it is for sure acceptable and why not somewhat normal. But what happens when making excuses becomes a way of life, the only one you acknowledge? When you're so far off in this soothing routine that you start making excuses even to your own self? Say you reach that awkward moment when you are so caught up into finding an excuse for the frustration, or the unhappiness, or all the things happening (or not) in your world that it soaks up all your stamina. Say I reached it.

I personally make excuses, I'd even say I mastered an expert level. You'd imagine, since I so like to excel in everything I embark upon, with a slight preference for the destructive. I feed them excuses back and forward. Sometimes because I am lazy, sometimes cause I am introverted or weak or afraid. Other times because I am a too naive, and despite all odds still a believer. I make excuses equally for and to myself, unbiasedly for and  to the people around me. But so much conciliatory feedback and forth has got me fed up.

I know it should be as simple as this. If you suck at doing your job, it is probably because for some sort of twisted reason it is not the right one for you. If one does not make you equally peaceful and thrilled, it is simply probably because they are not the right one for you. If someone doesn't write or call or <insert random action> you back, it's because they don't want to. If people are constantly cold or mean, it is not because they are damaged or twisted and they secretly need you to fix them, it is just because they don't care enough to make an effort. So they probably don't deserve any effort back, not even the one to make an excuse for them.  If you are not happy with something, it is probably because you are doing it wrong, and not because all the planets aligned in order for you to be miserable. And yes, I cannot only imagine, but also know, that most of the time, making an excuse is easier than standing up to any kind of discomfort. But also I, the ultimate excuse junkie, can vouch that (more often than just) sometimes this string of easiest choices and this tray of appealing apologetic cupcakes ends up in a huge pile of debris. Okay, maybe this was a bit too figuratively put. Or too culinary?

For what is worth, as I conceded before, life is too short to remove usb safely. Or to keep making excuses when it gets down to your own hapiness. Eeerm, apologies, but can we try for a little while no alarms and no surprises, and no more excuses, please?

Unless they are the really good kind.

Everything is Changing and I Don't Feel the Same

So I say I wander my own land. I've chosen, more or less, to wander here, stating  not to fear the distance, the loneliness, the novelty or the change. And it's true, distance gives me perspective, loneliness (although extremely rare and momentary) gives me time (though not so much as I expected and needed) to introspect and quietness (if I ignore my neighbors moving furniture all the time) to think about my own self, novelty is amazing by its own nature, change however gives me mixed feelings.

See, unlike some people who have a huge list of golden rules and principles (and good for them!), I don't have too many stable lifelong beliefs (and yes, I know saying that is redundant, we already set in stone my bipolarity). But on the tip of my tongue these days happens to be one of them, which is of course the trigger for this odyssey (or more like soap opera) episode.

I often say (and also strongly believe it) that people cannot change fundamentally, of course, without completely excluding that one exception that confirms the rule, which to my defense, I did not yet have the chance to encounter. I agree, people might be influenced by their fellows (sometimes friends, more often than normal enemies [drumroll.... inception, parentheses within parentheses, just to briefly touch on our dysfunctional habit of putting in more effort to impress people we don't like than people we like, doing and trying things we wouldn't normally do] to try another type of music, to adopt a funkier styling or to smoke a cigarette. This range of different endeavors, scaled according to their importance, say 1 for tasting a spicy pork roll when you don't really like pork and 10 for moving in with your friend's friend, who you happen not to stand (not sure if I got the grading accurately but you see my point), can depict some fleeting behavioural adaptation, but, who are we kidding, not a veritable change of character. So, bad news to all the dreamy girls out there who are dating jerks and still hope they will change in time. Mmmnope, they most definitely won't, so if a nice guy is what you want, just find one that is already nice.

Now that I clarified the 'never-changing paradigm', of course there's a corollary, actually the topic I wanted to develop to begin with. Despite their characters which are bound not to change, people are experiencing  ever-changing circumstances, feelings, relationships. And this is what worries me, the dynamics of all these elements that I cannot control, which even if not fundamentally changing me or my significant others, do have a huge say on how our course of events develops.

I guess there is no unique approach and probably no generally accepted good way to act upon change hitting us. Some people shut up about it, choosing to disappear in the tenebrousness of the change that was imposed on them, to ignore the mess and to run away from taking responsibility (a neverending run if you ask me). Some book a ticket last minute and they go back in time, to indulge in what used to be before the change (a momentary run if you ask me). Some others slap the change in her face with some more change, giving up on any trace of balance (reckless behaviour if you ask me, the one I personally embrace most, resulting in blonde hair for example).

See, I don't know if  anyone gets my point, these guys don't . The essence is there if we change the song name though. Everything is changing. And I don't feel the same.

You Own Me, Lucky You.

One quarter down from the first third of my very own life changing experience, one of the first slightly sour evenings, thus a sudden urge to write down the things I've learned and/or experienced so far.

Firstly about Paris, France and the French. No stereotype setting intended, but simply a biased subjective summary of the stuff I had the fortune/misfortune to go through. The first impressions, expressed here, obviously remain valid.

The almighty cornerstone, which unfortunately sets the pace and mood for each and every of my days here: the language. While pleasant for the ear, it's painful to be learnt. And how naive should an expat be to even hope of fast becoming articulate and having a dreamy accent accompanying an incredibly fast-paced discourse?  So yes, here, they speak a lot, and fast, and loud, both to the point and beating around the bush. And no, having studied French for a decade and a half does not help much, it all resets when speaking to a native. And no, if they have the French option open, they will not speak to you in another language.

The food. Is still great, and I say this after having tried several traditional dishes and also international food cooked their way. Sweets are unbelievable, probably a reasonable explanation for the tons of weight I've put on. But then again, how could one give up on their 'macaron', 'croissant', 'eclair' or 'pain au chocolat'? Then again, after my other expat experience in Norway (more details right here), no wonder the French food is a miracle. Their cheese, their wine, their quiches, goddam'em.

The people. Are really nice in general, but considerably kinder if you make the effort to address them in their own language (yes, again the language paradigm, I might have a slight obsession). The guys are pretty shy, and, as previously noted, pretty...pretty, probably way too pretty. And they're really big on Eastpack backpacks, literally each Parisian guy has one. The women are outspoken and straightforward, and not as stereotypically ladylike and fashionable as I would have expected. Oh and really big on tights and blonde highlights. I mean really, really enthusiastic. Overall they're quite pleasant people, having managed to shake out  my preconception about the rude typical French. All peachy peachy, but have I mentioned the 'no English language' policy?

Places to visit, things to do. The abundance is overwhelming, and I'm still baffled by my cheesy girly nature and by how a quick glimpse to a tacky sparkling Tour Eiffel can turn my day around. Seriously speaking though, Paris has so much to offer,  that planning a trip here should be on anyone's shortlist. I'm not going to start enumerating a list of landmarks to be more convincing, you can find a 'top 10' or a 'top 50' anywhere. Just know it from me as well that when it comes to travelling, Paris, it is worth it!

Miscellaneous. A few more random facts before the length of the opinion-sharing becomes unbearable. Really tiny, overpriced, cozy apartments, a weirdly inefficient and slow work rhythm, great transportation system, strangely high prices for cosmetics, many benefits for youth under 26, a fair range of shopping opportunities, very moody weather.

Secondly, about me in Paris. Basically, the equation is simple, Crina+Paris=Love. But then again, on one hand anyone+Paris=Love, on the other Crina+anything can equal love if the circumstances are right, this being an (obvious) hint to my being prone to getting overly attached to people, places, objects, especially on grounds of novelty and loneliness. Fact is that even though I am terribly missing some elements from back home and I have it rough sometimes, for the time being I am (overall) happier here than anywhere else I've been before. Fact is that after seas and oceans of Bucharest tears, the first shy wave of Parisian ones is apparently yet to arrive, so something must be right. Fact is that I am my worst critic, and this is crippling my joy and taking away some of this great experience, also keeping myself from bringing my A game. Fact is that I am happy, but not happy enough, I am doing good, but not good enough.

So Paris, you own me, lucky you. Why won't you own me already?

To Wish Impossible Things

I kept wishing my life to be at least slightly less complicated.I would clench my teeth every time things would go weird and be stressed through the roof at the slightest sign of derail from the planned trajectory. Every time something would not go as my (mild) inner control freak would imagine, I would summon the Gods and have that awkward conversation about what I keep doing wrong to deserve such intricacies. Then I would remind them that I already had my fair share of convoluted, so some monotony would be good for a change. 

Of course, derailments and delays would occur as frequently as in our beloved national railway system. And what else remained there than to stir up the drama, to pump up the blood pressure, murder some afore-happy neurons, complain tons, get on people's nerves a lot and come out as a needy brat, cry some supposedly legit tears and curse a little more whoever was making everything so complicated. Whatever this complicated meant, and measured relative to...whatever. 

Random or deep equally, everything would get to me. See, I wished I were less sensitive, both teeth wise and emotions wise, for example. I wished I would love without a 2000+ km lag, but I guess even if people and circumstances change significantly, that doesn't seem to get better. I wished I did not feel the strange need to prove I was worth it all the time. I wished I found the perfect shampoo and I wouldn't hate conditioner so much, that would have made things easier for my hair, whom I worship even if not worshiped back, despite of the literal twists and turns and breaks. I wished I were not so sickish and fearful. I wished I could get to that point when I would concede I have enough stuff and voluntarily decide to stop recurring to shopping therapy, thus putting an end to literally buying something (no matter how insignificant) every single day. I wished for more honest conversations and screamed out loud affection. I hoped I would stop eating out of boredom and get over my newly acquired weight self-consciousness. I wished I figured out where I wanted to go professionally. I wished I spoke perfect French and I didn't choose to be shy and introvert in the outmost inappropriate circumstances. I wished I lost my stupid nervous guffaw I bursted into every time I didn't know how to handle a situation. 

Less drama, more balance, more intimacy, less awkwardness, more genuine laughter, less shutting in, plane tickets bought in the right direction, nails not breaking, the right person/place/time mix, cheesiness in cheese cake only, longer and warmer days, a sense of security and a pointer to what is right,  ratless picnics on the shore of Seine, these are merely a percentile of what I would have liked to see change.

I kept wishing my life to be at least slightly less complicated, so I would cry my heart out longing for some straightforward happenings. Four weeks of wonderfully estranged being, and I dry cheekedly say that I might as well have learnt something the hard way, while fullheartedly diving into the complicated. To stop wishing for impossible things. 

She's Yes, Then She's No

At the end of the day, both literally and figuratively, it all comes down to my softcore bipolarity.

It's what people would notice most, so right after their thinking either that I am overly chatty and annoying, or quite the opposite, rather funny and cute (and I chose these particular idiosyncrasies because they are apparent at the very first sight, one just needs to make their choice), It pops. Forget about discovering after a while that there's more to me than just being hilarious or irritating, bipolarity is there to linger. Just like a very unpleasant red wine stain on your favorite white shirt. Or on your favorite girl.

It goes like this with my momentary states of mind. Just give me two seconds, and I will for sure display two completely different ones, confusing the poor spectator, disheartening the active participant to the moody soap opera. Fortunately, if the state is not well rooted in my heart brain, it could easily take just a blink to forget about the rage, frustration, pessimism, discomfort and go back to the jolliness. Unfortunately, jolliness is as precarious as all the above monsters. Unfortunately too, love can also be classified as a state of mind, so it is also quite prone to precariousness.

It goes exactly the same when I attempt to write. While my trigger for writing is pretty clear (i.e. uncomfortable circumstances, tonight more precisely the pouring Parisian rain) it's never easy picking the subject, the plot, the punch line. Allow me to exemplify. I was torn between making this post about how horribly frustrating it feels when you're facing language barriers and cannot fully speak your mind, then I remembered that my boss wears green glasses and teddy bear socks, so everything must be okay. Then I was getting ready to unravel my only good piece of advice when it comes to love, but I remembered a sad love story and put the romanticism on hold, just to giggle the moment after when thinking randomly about a certain him. I ended up writing about, well, a little bit of this and little bit of that, some sort of corny, some sort of frisky, scarily accordingly to my own way of being.

And while, despite the evidence, at macro level I have it almost all figured out, my day-to-day is still trivially composed of an endless string of little nothings about which, ultimately, I cannot decide how I feel.

I hate...being bipolar...is so good.

I Will Run until My Feet No Longer Run No More

I used to think running is foolish. What would it take to change my mind?

Tell me it clears my head.
Tell me it makes me look better.
Tell me the road is mine only and mine to keep.
Sprinkle my way with surprising people that make it hard not to run away from all the bad.
Take away all the balance I knew and relied upon.
Take me away.
Make me take decisions.
Challenge me and my jolliness.
Acknowledge me, that makes it all real and intimidating.

I started running and I am for sure running away. But at least I am moving forward, until my feet no longer run no more.

The First Day (of the Rest of my Life)

At this point I reckon I've been pretty outspoken about it, so there's probably no one not aware that as of this Friday I'm living in Paris for the following half a year.

Obviously, some fresh thoughts after my weekend spent here.

CDG airport is really pretty and well organized. I literally had my luggage running on the belt in around 10 minutes, which would never happen in Bucharest. Or in Amsterdam. Or wherever. Might have been just a fluke but it doesn't matter. Afterwards, the way to the bus/metro/taxis was quite comprehensive, so some more extra points for this unexpected French effectiveness. Even more extras for the taxi service, safe and fast and not at all dubious, with a really pleasant chauffeur. A little expensive, but totally worth the money.

Then the hotel for the first night. It was supposed to be a 3-star but was far from it. Kudos to the friendliness of the staff, who despite their limited English tried their best to cater to my needs.

Vive Google maps, who allowed me to get myself around in a really efficient manner. Vive the (only) nice girl from HR who took care to book a hotel at a walking distance from the studio they rented out for me.

The apartment. Is really cozy, equipped wonderfully with everything from teaspoons to pillows and to a washing machine. Even if it is rather small and built in a strange old building with a twisted wooden staircase, it is perfectly chic, modern, and suited to my needs. Extra points for the white furniture and for the surpise bed under my double bed. More extra points for the quiet and safe neighbourhood, and for the proximity to the city center. A small minus for being rather far from the office in the suburbs, but I guess this is the trade-off, ultimately the most advantegeous one.

The food. Just the one from the supermarket I've tried, priced moderately, somewhere between Bucharest and Oslo. The range of products is good, I'll not suffer from scarcity. Oh and I discovered they have Marks and Spencer food stores, so a big hurray!

The people. Look calm, polished and beautiful, and they speak this amazing language I shamefully cannot produce properly.

I this first weekend I walked over 15 km, discovered some Starbuckses and a huge Haagen-Dazs store,  bought groceries and office pants (not from the same place),wandered the entire Champs-Elysees, saw the Triumph Arch, got lost, was asked for directions, spoke a bit of French, was visited by a neighbour, unpacked my bags, and plenty more. 

What I did not do, despite the evidence, is be sad or homesick. So this can only mean these are the first days of the rest of my life, living my honeymoon stage with Paris. 

I Got It From My Momma

My sense of humor, that weird one, plus the irony, which is fully understood by 10% of the people, causing the rest of 90% to think that I am completely insane. Or weird, or stupid, it depends. The lexicon jokes and the affinity for puns, that make me laugh the hardest, and also work charms for my sister.

My passion for cooking and baking, the fact that I can actually make edible dishes and my hating to follow recipes and go instead for a twist or an extra teaspoon of sugar or spice.

My inclination towards all kind of arts, my being able to sing without punishing my fellows (either that or all my friends are masochist or plainly deaf), to dance, to draw respectably, to paint on all kind of surfaces, to write (I hope) acceptably, to cut and crop and sew.

My long-shaped nails, brown eyes and weird eyebrows that grow all over my eye lids except the right place. Also my thin lips that would supposedly make me look like a mean person at times.

My analytic thinking and attention to detail, my preference for calculus and exact sciences, and what I like to think is a sharp mind.

Always keeping an optimistic appearance and a positive smile in front of the worst.

My being, wishfully thinking at least, a person with enough common sense and character.

But also my paranoid strikes and my tendency to be (more than) slightly gossipy and judgmental.

My overdramatic and oversensitive character, my unfortunately worrying for anything one can possibly worry about.

The bad habit of often comparing myself to other people and shadowing whatever satisfaction instead of just being content.

My growing overly attached or dependent to the utmost wrong persons.

That weird combination of always being displeased with my own self but still remain borderline arrogant.

If there's thanks to be thanked or blames to be blamed for most of what's fundamental(ly good or bad) about me and defining without my choice, they should go to my dear mom.

Smugness and insecurities altogether, it's clear as light and easy to outsource, I got'em from my momma.

Tons of Luggage with Baggage

It seems like it's a recurring theme these days, people are leaving a lot. Doesn't matter if they run from something really bad or towards something good indeed, there's some sort of escaping mood floating in the surrounding air, my surrounding air at least. I've started of course my own string of goodbyes, which despite my best of effort is turning out to be a hot mess. These days I'm doing the part I need to do at home, as in my hometown. Take one only, it needed to be fulfilled since it happens (as previously observed) that my departure somehow interstects some other farewells.One one side, bummer, it means that I do not get all the attention. On the other side though, this is far from the point of tonight's words of wisdom.

So today I hugged goodbye one of my most favorite kids in the world, who's leaving across the ocean tomorrow. While her motivation for leaving is still unclear to me and rather dubious, what else to do than keeping fingers crossed. Still far away from the point, but worth mentioning. Right to the point, in a couple hours I'll be sharing a tougher farewell, this time with my most favorite kid in the world, who's incidentally going in a two week's trip, to return only after my departure.

Since I'm known to have an affinity for packing and I'm rather talented to organizing many things in a limited luggage, I helped her pack. We do have in the end a perfectly put together trolley, despite of my rattled nerves. I could not help thinking though that I'll be preparing my own luggage in two weeks, and while I know exactly how that will work out, and I have it almost sorted out in my mind what stuff I'm gonna bring, and I'm prepared for the imminent frustrations, I still have no idea what I'm gonna do about my stupid hearty baggage. My tons of luggage with baggage.

I'm positive everyone has it, their kryptonite, their skeletons in the closet, those thoughts they cannot share with their closest, the fears or loathings. But this is just me with my own, which in such circumstances of extreme change cannot be ignored. Which I'm going to have to decide if I'm leaving behind pending and unsolved or carry with me around, in a courageous attempt to loosen the bulk. These tons of bitterness I cannot spit out, that keep me from moving forward despite the apparent progress. The strings attached that impair me from fullheartedly reaching out for something better. What about that? Will it fit in the stuffed 20 kilos carry-on I'm allowed to take, or in the entire plane, or my flat in Paris, or the entire world?

Some lack of coherence? That's right, goodbyes make me crazy.  

Addicted to a Certain Kind of Sadness

I'm in a strange love/hate relationship with Bucharest. Even though I conceded that I had a bad year, which was mainly because I forcedly returned here, I still love it and in a twisted way it has become my home. And now that I'm leaving for good in two weeks and I have just a few days to actually spend here, leaving my own and only notion of home behind, I feel a bit of bitterness and sorrow for abandoning my little cozy piece of sad heaven. I do realize though that it is for the better, that I am up to plenty of good ahead, I swear I'm excited through the roof, but still addicted to this special kind of sadness.

To make it easier, I keep in mind the (oh so many!) things I hate here, which make it impossible to turn Bucharest into a place worth loving. With no particular affinity on what I hate most, I loathe the stray dogs, the all-arounding needy homeless people, the people lacking common sense which are not at all rare, the overpriced, overrated and overcrowded pubs, the long dusty streets that lack garbage bins, the weird ratio of 3 cars per owner and all the attached discomfort, the scarce parking lots, the uncomfortable mosquitoes, the frustration of searching for a job in such a limited range of opportunities, the sometimes unbreathable air, the fact that I fear walking alone the streets at night, the sweaty cluster in all public transportation means, the way too hot summer days and way too snowy winter nights, the lack of logic and the abundance of kitsch at so many levels.

But there's some pretty great stuff, that makes it difficult to leave Bucharest, this time perhaps forever. I'm gonna miss the walks on streets with old houses, the gorgeous teashops with homemade cheese cakes, the late evenings with frappucinos at Starbucks, my friends that came from quieter and faraway places and brought cleaner and happier air with them making Bucharest worth loving, the occasional attention seeking cats around the block, our seriously flawed apartment which felt like home, the cheap books I would buy from Carturesti, the greatly talented doctors you'd still find in a messed up medical system, the quite fair number of malls and shopping facilities, the way we chose to live near parks and seldom stroll their holed alleys, the Turkish kebab places with kebabs better than in Turkey, the best Chinese restaurant I ever tried, the endless possibilities for nightlife, the cheap taxis and rents, the wonderfully bohemian people you'd still see on the streets. 

I'm leaving the Small Paris for its greater version. And while it pains me, I've learned and try to keep in mind that the mistreatings should not go unpunished, and though my love and my home, this dear city has also done a great job at steadily disappointing me. So there's gonna be some French rehab, and then whatever else comes next, to heal my addiction for all certain kinds of sadness. Bucharest, let you just be the first sick tenderness I'm crossing off my list for reasons of unworthiness. 

Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

I keep lingering over the gaudiest and most controversial sayings, in a strange way rooting for them, because I steadily proved to be a lab rat for the cliché sayings, that are searching to be impersonated, so I believe them to be true. It's usually the worst thing, when your experiences seem to perfectly fit the cheesiest phrases. But once in a while, the string of misfortunate apothegms plants a happy one. Fortunately now, after this string of smaller or bigger misfortunes, a happy cliché phrase is what's happening to me.

I had a bad year. I used to think it's just bad days, that it is not so awful after all, but now that all's about to change I realize I had a bad year. A little more than a year ago, I was telling a story about my experience in Oslo, I was resigned at the thought of returning home, but I kept telling myself that everything happens for a reason (booyah, another cliché phrase that pops my way).  I lived these 15 months with a constant feeling of frustration, not fully realizing that this was just a bad year and not actually knowing what I wanted to do about my unhappiness. As always, when people who give the slightest damn see you losing it, they try their best to drag you out of your misery. And guess what my dearests did, besides from the encouraging hugs and sweets and guilty glasses of wine (each with their own method and resources). They slowly bombed me with stereotype advice. Among which there was, 'don't worry, hun, good things come to those who wait'.

I found that preposterous, I laughed to myself and to their face, reckoning that obviously that was so stupid. Only now, after having beaten up the bad year, do I realize that if drifting away from the strict sense of this saying, it does gain some sense after all. I kept thinking that waiting refers to merely laying around, waiting for God or whoever to throw some magnificent happenings your way. My mind could only grasp the passive alternative of waiting, and I could not imagine how in any universe anyone with a trace of brain would think that is a solution. But then, or better said recently, I learned that there's also an active side to waiting, commonly known as patience. Thus I realized that good things do happen to those who wait, but not in vain and not for a miracle, but have the equanimity to rip the benefits of their own actions at the right time.

This being said, self-confidence boosted through the roof,  in less than a month I'm departing to Paris, to practice my French, to eat macaroons, to see the Eiffel Tower, to wear red lipstick in a French fashion, to test all the clichés, to live my dream and to try my limits. This time in a good way, doing what I like, learning a lot, hopefully for half of a good year. 

One can never be too happy though, full happiness is only for the weak. While on one side I'm joyfully learning that good things come to those who wait, on the other I'm learning the hard way that if you wait too long, it might be too late.

Image source

Irrelephant.

If you want trainings on how to successfully be irrelevant, I'm your man. I don't know how I do it, but apparently among my numberless 'talents' there's also this weird one. Of being easygoing after my two minutes of adaptability request have been granted, of being in the center of attention although sometimes attention whorish, and being adorable nonetheless, however not having my name or myself per se remembered or seriously accounted for.

It would not be such a momentous issue, were it to be limited exclusively to my will to be endlessly likeable to them all boys and girls, to be listened and contemplated by wide believing eyes and ears and have my brains fedback out. This level of frivolous significance I did achieve, but mostly from people who unfortunately are themselves irrelevant to me. I'm not generalizing and by no means I mean this as a gratuitous iniquity, them people cannot be all equally important, but I be damned if I'm not a masochist and choose to heartily prioritize those who will not give a damn.

What's becoming more and more stringent and obvious is that I fail to shine exactly where I mostly should. And it is frustrating as hell, and exemplifiable in all freakin major areas . Because I can do a great job, an outstanding one if I may brag a bit, but I fail to show it. And my being a silent achiever, why, no thanks. Because opportunities keep flying around making my head spin, but I cannot grasp them at their entirety and I have people asking me if I'm showing the real me and if I'm exploiting myself at full capacity. And my forcedly waltzing forever with the wrong job, again, no thank you. Because I try to express my frustrations, or at least start somewhere, and my wish to have a healthy discussion is waved in another's non-wish to polemicise. And my settling for sterile half-relationships, no more, no thank you.

Heartbreaking is that I do realize my irrelevance, the big elephant in the room, and I do try to push for a change. But if people and circumstances have already decided on one's level of significance, it's rather tough to change that. Meanwhile, quoting, I'm just gonna go and stand outside, and if anyone asks, I'm Outstanding.

Miss Little Jeans

It was inevitable that, momentarily for the least, this sweet little nest of complaints and raised voices would turn into a fashion temple as well. Just like its outrageously unstable patroness, it allows itself sporadic glitches. So what if it has been proclaimed as a place where only feelings and foods grow? Crina also appreciates fashion, and has thus chosen to put forward one of the plainest outfits ever.  Which however made her little black heart jump with joy in a Saturday afternoon. And as this third person talking is getting awfully awkward, please allow me to introduce myself, Miss Little Jeans, in a June mood and appearance.

Wearing: BIK BOK Baby Blue Jeans Shorts and Studded Leather Bracelet, H&M Light Pink Loose Top, Greige Flats, Red Bracelets and Round Sunglasses, RIVER ISLAND Robot Necklace, SWATCH Multicolored Wristwatch, ZARA Squared Bag,  Beaded Vest courtesy of my Mom.


And of course, 'hundreds of inspiration' from Miss Little Jeans musical better half:

Goodnight.Goodnight?

I've set yet another countdown for a ticking bomb, a deadline for cutting down the compromise, the unhappiness, the disappointment. I know,it's not always rainbows and butterflies, but too much compromise fails at moving  me along, yet pushes me back into the bitterness. Which, despite all odds, I know is too damn highly amounted when proportioned to my still young being, to my Lilliputian worries, that feed bigger monsters.
Meanwhile, I'm smelling baked corn, unwillingly live listening to the Uefa final, weirldy reminiscing about an odd  highschool compulsory novel about a girl called Nora who dreamed about washing her lover's socks, being particularly irritated and dismayed.

That Awkward Morning

That awkard moment. When you wake up one random morning after sleeping for very few hours, after your nerves have been forced like a chewing gum spread until exhaustion, after you have done favours on top of favours with no pleasure whatsoever. One morning when you have to be in two or more places at once, you cannot put anything in your system besides an ice coffee prepared with hot water, because you're running out of milk. That specific morning when you've already done so much and don't know how you did it, but there's still so much ahead. When your appearance brings about cleaning facilities, eyebrows mops, hair broom. But you have to fix it and move on. That one time when despite all odds you have to shine and be simply great. That awkward awful morning before the amazing one.

Later edit: I got through today. I just gained back an idol. Aaand Grey's Anatomy has freaking good music. Since ever, forever and ever.

Dog Days Are Over

Here came the sun, and we went back to our old ways of walking in the nearest park, this time all themed up for Easter, with sparkly eggs and pedophile looking bunnies. I am still sticking to my 28 day improvement plan, I'm well entrenched in it, but due to my notorious lazy strike I've decided that it becomes rather mundane to speak of my schedule on a daily basis, as my notable achievements may turn out to be signs of mere benevolence for the rest of mankind. So I conveniently set my mind on a wrap up story, with just status reports once in a while. As for now, the German lessons [courtesy of my dear snake] are "sehr gut", I play new games, go to new places and try new foods every day, I pay compliments from the bottom of my little black heart, I speak my mind and show my frustration more than usual. On Sundays, I dress up a little too much and go to parks where I give the evil eye to the not so cute or the cute couples, irrespectively, I drink mixed fruit smoothies and I take in the green and the sun, trying not to turn into a sad cat lady.

Day 1

The first day of my self imposed improvement programme, which makes complete sense to me while totally perplexing the others, granting me the "crazy eyes" sneer from them, went rather great. One would expect that my enthusiasm should decrease as we count down [or up] the days, but in this concern I am quite atypical. And by this I mean that at the beginning of anything I tend to be rather reluctant, not completely disinterested yet sort of detached. But if I don't start by being the most enthusiastic, in time I'm prone to become fonder and more committed, up to the point of overinvolvement. So if I conformed myself to my cause from Day 1, our attachment will for sure reach the top of convolution as the days go by.

After the intricate introduction, a little bit of measurable success. Cause after all, it is not so much about the process, but totally about the success.

By category.

Try out something new: I discovered a brand new singer, Clare Maguire, liked it a little bit. Took a different route home. Drank an entire can of Dr. Pepper, found it a bit overrated.

Find out something interesting about someone dear: learned my boyfriend's favorite foods and my roomie's teenagehood wishes, thank you dears for bearing with me, but there's more to come as there aren't so many truly dears for me.

Do something nurturing for my mind: learned more then 10 words in German, got a positive escalation at work.

Do something happy for my body: Took a 40 minute walk, will put on a face mask by the end of the day. And will do the 8 minute abs.

Acknowledge something I don't like and talk about it: This is a tricky one, at a trivial level, I scolded a colleague for inattentively dropping bread crumbs in the pizza box. At a deeper level, I owned what a horrible listener I am.

Pay an honest compliment: I kept praising a colleague's dog, which is honestly the cutest pet in the world. Besides my own cat. Ok, cutest dog in the world.

Scored 6 out of 6, I'll drink to that. 

Healer's List

Since I have recently decomposed all the "constructive criticism" I received from well intended ladies or gents, there still remain the flaws I do a great job discovering by myself. Reading me one would swear that, at least at a theoretical level, I am striving to overcome my defects, training to become an utopian being. But here's what I have to cope with. I've been recently struggling with a underdog feeling. No matter what I do, I sense that I am underachieving in every and all areas possible. Which gives me a constant feeling of discontent, and an adjacent outward dissatisfied state, which further throws me into a vicious circle. Dissatisfied me is more or less [most likely more] bitchy, demotivated, bitter, indecisive, moods that translate into my giving less than I could actually give and my taking in far less than I would deserve,  which by all means cause more discontent and draw wider circles on what used to be calm water. Dismayed me is far less interesting, way more nagging, always bearing ludicrous questions or dismal topics.

My weird life policy, which consisted of my hating my own guts but strangely still considering myself above the rest of nearby mankind, started to reveal more and more loopholes. All this odd thinking does no good, but turns against me in the most nefarious way. So since I recently learned about myself that I am getting better at meeting deadlines, and since there's huge intrinsic pressure to add some value to my 25th anniversary, which is supposed to be a life-changing moment [when I should miraculously wake up wiser and thoroughly mature, like on every somewhat round birthday], I give myself exactly 4 weeks to improve. Despite of what may  seem comprehensive evidence, I am a pragmatic rather than a dreamer, so I am not expecting some motivational crap [this time molded in the form of  "to do list"]  to fundamentally change me in such a short time span, as I keep trusting that people stay more or less the same, what changes are just the circumstances they act upon. What I do expect though is to become more accustomed to what I am and have and cope better with my reality, in order to find a way to rise still being true to whatever that reality is. 

Among the daily action items on my healer draft, I listed whatever may drag me a step further from my self instated fear and loathing, i.e. paying an honest compliment, finding out something new about a person I say I love, doing something nurturing for my brain, doing something happy for my body, acknowledging a disturbing fact and talking about it, trying out something unfamiliar. Putting it trivially, I cannot keep claiming the supremacy on myself if I don't learn being the one I appreciate most, and I cannot preach my love for the others if I keep failing them. So let the countdown begin. Motivational much? Motivational music also, be it.

I am, whatever you say I am.

I am really awful when it comes to accepting critiques. In an ingrate kind of way, I keep criticizing everything that moves or breathes, but I have this abominable habit of failing to take in the "constructive commentaries". In an even more ingrate kind of way, and sort of weird at some level, I stir up people to point out my flaws, only to afterwards indulge in the nasty things I hear about myself. Then I somehow twist them around in my twisted head, cover them up in sugarcoating, until they actually have a chance of appearing in a positive light. There's this standard question in all the pre-interviews, where one should point out their strengths and weaknesses. What's even more common than the question itself is the fact that everyone's aware that one ought to find a defect that can be, in some manner, turned around so that it turns into a quality. 

I'd hate to be misunderstood, and in my defensive fashion of presenting facts, I'm gonna start from the premise that I am by no means infallible, on the contrary, I keep discovering imperfections every day. It's just that the people who think of themselves as fit to bring up my flaws, are simply that kind of people that provide me with pre-interview convertible weaknesses.

I've been recently told that I am difficult. That was because I had the guts to get into an argument with a guy who proclaims himself as "a smart guy that reads a lot", and the recklessness to contradict his 1 inch broad vision. I decided to conclude that by "difficult" he meant "complex", which after all is not bad at all, is it?

I've been scolded for being pretentious and snobby. Yes, I care about the place I buy my underwear and coffee from, and I fancy going on holidays abroad instead of my homeland. But it's only because I have a strong practical sense long term wise and when feasible I don't cut down on quality.

So, they say I am also arrogant and unnecessarily sarcastic, especially when meeting new people. I reckon a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and on the top of my list is filtering as conveniently as possible the persons I surround myself with. If I can still go for sarcasm and arrogance instead of an axe, so be it!

You would never guess, I am also precious. Not in a nice sense, I don't believe I've unlocked that achievement, of being truly precious for anyone else except my mother. I apparently am a sylphid brat. Just because I have the nerve sometimes to be a bit protective of my own (precious) self.

After all these bluntly stated opinions, what else is there? I'd guess nothing but bitterness and a proper music background. Whatever,  whatever,  whatever.

You're amazing, but...

When I stop being completely drowned in my own drama and egotism for even one minute I begin descrying that my friends are pretty insightful. It's because I chose them so, of course. [Or who knows, karma] No, actually, I've selected this immediate explanation in order to prove a point, namely that I am no good at paying compliments to people. Fact that was recently brought to my attention by one of my insightful friends, whom, of course, I chose so.

I was analyzing my socially autistic heart recently, and I guess this extremely circumscribed affinity to uttering my inside stormy weather has an army of siblings, which come as a full package and reunite like a numerous family around a dinner table, during some random occasion. Where they do not share anything but food and awkward silence, but they are forced to comply to a socially natural behaviour. Strange i should go for this allegory, but this must be it, my being incapacitated to say nice things to people and to praise them accordingly to their merits, the young moody teenage sister of my autistic heart.

So take this, I cannot go the extra cutesy mile and pay a beautiful compliment. And it's not even the fact that I never say nice things to people, maybe that'd be better, sometimes silence is the true philosopher's stone. It's my twisted way of pouring a bucket of irony or bitterness right on the top of my recently spoken honest compliment. Or the way I make it all about myself in the blink of an eye, without giving the poor commendation the slightest break to breathe or to be. It's the way I seldom choose to say "That's great" instead of "That's not bad".

Who knows where this handicap finds its roots. Might be in my endless insecurities, or in the way I was brought up, silently advised that showing people how valuable they're to you puts you in a vulnerable position. Might be just a tint of arrogance, of course pairing flawlessly with the aforementioned insecurities, which enables me to think that anything one can do I can do better, or at least I can top them with some other compensatory quality, however unrelated that might appear. And obviously, if I am worthy of all those compliments myself, why bother praise the others.

Wherever this comes from, my compliment aversion can be summed up perfectly using the worst break up line ever. It's not you, it's me. You are all amazing. But...

Later edit: here's some musical background also, don't exactly know what it has to do, but since I've been talking about my farfetched momentarily superiority...it's 'cause I feel like I'm the worst that I always act like I'm the best.

Sundays I go crazy, this one too

It's like a hungry revolting monster eats me up every Sunday morning. I wake up wanting to act normal, well, at least the normal I used myself to, but I somehow slip into the crazy Sunday mood. Not quite sure what influences me to embrace this socially unacceptable conduct, it's not like every Saturday night I get stepped over and soul-absorbed by a thousand people trying to attend an overrated event or, oppositely, I feel randomly ignored. It was a mere happening that those should happen this Saturday, so it might explain today's partial Sunday fail, but what do we do about the rest? Because trust me, I am to be reckoned with in this holy day of the week, I wish I found a way I were not.

Somewhat helpful for the Sunday social monster was tonight's outing. We went to see Shorts Up via London in a newly opened location, some sort of an industrial space, overestimated, from my humble perspective. The course of events was rather acceptable, starting with a concert of Moonlight Breakfast, a fresh young band, whose lead singer seemed quite stoned to me. Their music is bearable though, I most definitely recommend it for steamy circumstances, for those who experience them, more or less. 

What followed was a number of short British movies, 5 to 15 minutes, which carried my mind and feelings through a rollercoaster. The journey started literally up with a "lift story", which I guess wanted to have a profound strike, but I had not achieved the right cultural status yet, so what I perceived was a bunch of people going in and out of an elevator and interacting at a superficial level. Meh, it worked though, superficial can be my thing. What followed was a rather disturbing tale from a sperm bank, which beyond the trivial and somewhat kinky cover up, I suppose was a pointer to how selfish and crazy can loneliness make human beings. But then again, who is not crazy and selfish may throw the first stone. Then an amusing alter ego story, about how can one take in one's dark side and learn to live with the horrible feelings and cravings that eat one's inside up. Rather appropriate story for my Sunday mood swings. Then Nolan's short up about a bug, from what I concluded a cinematographic interpretation of Kafka's metamorphosis, which I unfortunately missed while trying out the eco restrooms. Last but not least there was Stanley Pickle's story, which ruined everything I had been striving to build up with British muffins, Grolsch and enjoyable trivial little movies. The maximum level of sadness wrapped up in a toy story, with piglet sweaters, green fields and purple ribbons. Which brought me back exactly to the state I started the morning with, outmost heartly autism. We left before the bald lady sang, otherwise who knows what would have become of us. And who else to attend to the more earthly tasks Sunday evening brings about. All in all, I survived another week end without stewing someone, be it myself, which is great. And there's even more silver lining to the current situation. Tomorrow's Monday, so, good news, it cannot possibly get worse. 

Meanwhile, chop chop with your eyes wide open the delicious butter cream muffins, and forgive my crazy Sundays.

Later edit: A-ye, I shook out my stone age and discovered how to add videos, so here's also a sample of the Moonlight breakfast, a song so true it hurts.

To you,courtesy of my autistic heart

Every long road or emotional rollercoaster begs for a corny wrap up. Even if measured in miles or years, smiles or fears, and by no means is this a Shakespearean endeavor, every now and then during such a journey there's no harm in peeking on the agenda of our first world tormented hearts. And today, while loving windmills and being weird ‘cause I hate goodbyes, what harm in x-raying the intricate curricula of my own little black autistic heart. I'm naming it so, and by no means shall I apologize, not after what it's making me go through. While I'm a strong believer in the supremacy mind over heart, and I'm seriously striving to force my feet on the ground so as to not become a complete model of silliness, there's times when the wise brain girl falls short, suppressed by the stupid heart girl. Those times, despite of my easiness to speak my mind, which is apparent, my heart is just a dreamy version of a stammered dork, which refuses to be spoken out. By now I've learnt exactly how this goes, I know what moodiness to expect and just how long it takes my brain to turn on its self defense facilities and kick the little bitch's arse. But those of you who both matter and are around to witness the transitory frustrations, superficiality, coarseness, bipolarity or obnoxious silence, would you be so kind  as to grant me the temporary insanity clause, based on my brazen heart's starlet appearance. Like, those times when I choose to have one too many or one too little emotions, to be oversensitive or insensitive right at the wrong moment. Or, when I refuse to talk about important stuff but pour instead a huge pile of trivia in what I  find to be an empty conversation slot. Or when I get too upset and decide to run and hide, I swear it is just to come back lighter and giving more. How about when I say too much of the things you don't feel comfortable hearing, just for my own twisted momentary amusement. Or when it's impossible for me to bluntly say "I'm sorry" or "I love you", when I emote those a little bit too much even for my brain to cope. So bear with me, if I go crazy for a slight moment, get bitter on your watch, or give you the salad or nail polish talk. It doesn't mean I love you less; it's just my being uneasy with my autistic heart.

 Image source

Chocolate for breakfast

In one's childhood years, one cannot hold back the desire to grow up as fast as possible. One imagines that together with adulthood there comes freedom, independence, will of choice, mature thinking, unconstrained but wise decision making and so much fun related to all of the above. 

One tries momma's heels, even if at one's early age they don't fit, neither straightforwardly, nor metaphorically. One puts on an outrageous amount of make-up, resulting in a clownish caricature of a grown up. Which makes the little one feel simultaneously so classy and yet so confused and enraged at the big ones' laughter. One begs grandma to pour a teaspoon of coffee in the morning milk, then one sips full of importance the barely brownish hot beverage. Another one lusts at father's tobacco pack or glass of brandy, or maybe this was in the 1920's. Better said, another one craves father's pack of Kent 8 and the glass of gin tonic, while merely indulging in passive smoking and wondering if that day will come when smoking and drinking will not be so out of reach. One, if that one a girl, or nowadays not necessarily, dreams of a puffy white dress and grotesque matching tiara. One awaits having their own children and exert responsibility on them "better than one's parents" did. If one is not a blue eyed curly blonde, one dreams of dying and curling their hair and wearing contacts to fix that. The same applies for one who is a blue eyed curly blonde but fantasizes about being a straight haired hazel eyed brunette. One swears that when fully grown up will go to sleep at 3 AM, no one bugging them to get some early rest. One vows to eat sweets for all meals and forget about the existence of broccoli and spinach. 

This switch child to adult does happen, when you suddenly become a grown up and you get to make all the decisions for yourself. From there, the most natural reaction is..oh, crap! You cannot go back to being an irresponsible child, it's like this switch completely brainwashes you and you are keen on being fully accountable for your own existence. Parents and older grown-ups will keep being parents and older grown-ups, but if their advice was non-disputable and by all means acceptable until the switch, and you would trust without protests their sanity, after you have become a "responsible adult" yourself, any attempt to set things straight from their part becomes irritating and far-fetched. Even if you'd die for someone to take Those Decisions for you, and fix That Pile of Problems over there, and teach That Very Person a lesson, the sudden adulthood does not let you sleep well at night if you don't do that yourself. The range of issues you're confronted with is outrageously varied.

From a mere amount of carrots in the meatballs or the selfie to post on Facebook, till the number of coffees tolerable a day, the perfect shampoo against hair loss, amount of mistakes or flaws acceptable per friend, ending with the pillars, like place to live, career, person to share one's life with. 

While I care deeply for my somewhat recently acquired adult status, and I am pleased I can wear 15 cm heels, drink frappes or vodka orange, sleep by choice from 2 to 6, there are moments when I curse adulthood and its strings attached from the bottom of my heart. Like this morning, after snoozing my phone for 3 times in no mood of turning on my work laptop, while fighting chickenpox by my own self, when I was trying to pull myself together to cook some healthy breakfast, but grabbed a Belgian chocolate instead. Then's when the gorgeous heels hurt your feet, coffee makes you anxious, you wish you could go out of the house without the make-up you were so much yearning for when younger, but you cannot because of the dark circles caused by going to sleep at 3 AM (by choice) and you’d kill for a broccoli home-cooked meal. Just saying, there are times when being an adult sucks, it's simple logic, when we grow up our dramas grow with us as well. 

There are times when not even high heeled shoes, caffeine or sex make do. I kid you not, not even chocolate for breakfast.

20(years of awkwardness)1(+)1(equals 2.0), or numerically correct a briefing of 2011

It is only politically fair to the year of 2011 to make a societal, sentimental, introspective, retrospective balance sheet of the past 12 months. Not only because I read some really inspirational posts on the subject, that fueled the green monster of envy and its brotherly peer, the writing muse. Not even because, according to some apocalyptic thinking (equally nonsensical and overrated if you ask me), this might be the last chance to use New Year's as an excuse for resolutions, reminiscing, wishing. But because one way or the other we do constantly create some sort of scales on our course of action and living. And this clearly reaches the peak of drama under the pretext of overpriced Champagne, pet disturbing fireworks and flipping the last page in one's cat printed calendar. And, at the end of the day, be it the 31st of December, what's more fashionable than some heart poured right in the reader's face, some happiness and bitterness prone to be reason for concerns or gloating.
My 2011 started quite typically, away from home (if sticking to the classical definition for "home"), with elaborated plans for New Year's that turned into an elaborated disaster, similar in effect to some last minute planning. With some drunken birds and onions, plenty of booze to drunken up the birds and humans, an indoor picnic, some hours of street wandering, a whole bunch of awkwardness but some sort of cozy end, or better said beginning. One may say that someone put a spell on us(me), which brings every New Year's Eve to a whole new level of weirdness year after year. Me, I just find it appalling that all the stress of creating something beautiful turns into a hot mess. So, resolution for 2012, if Mother Earth is still kind enough to have us for another year, the New Year's plans will be bloody light and spontaneous.

This round and puffy year continued with some months even further away from home(and now we must not necessarily stick to the classical definition of home, cause after all home is where your heart is and mine was miles away) in beautiful but freezing cold Norway. There's where I learned plenty of things (with the risk of being repetitive) about the world, about the others, but mostly about me. But my version of the Oslo tale was already told earlier in this written history.

Starting sometime in May I experienced one of the nastiest things that ever occurred, when my hair started to leave me deciding there's too much drama in my head and that's not a safe environment to live. It still hangs on to that decision, but has loosened up a little. It probably figured I've learned my lesson. And it's somewhat true. It indeed made me remember how much I used to complain that my hair was not pretty, thick or long enough. Now I want that back as I figured it was not bad at all. It's taught me the rough way that sometimes I can be too picky, so, extrapolating, another resolution for 2012 is to be slightly more thankful for what I have, and try to think less of what could've been better if I have no plans of changing it. And if my hair will be able to handle being turned into blonde during this year, it'll mean that I'm ready for so much more changes for the better in my life.

Sometime in June I came back to Bucharest. It ached more than I let see, as I felt it like a huge defeat. I am not sure what I was aching for, as I am not ever quite sure of anything. Well actually there are few things I am sure of, after working hard for becoming so, and this conducts to another huge resolution for this year, to leave this country without looking back.
Then came July, and together with it my first real job. Unfortunately for me and those who know me, probably better than they wished, I am not the most patient of beings, so timeliness was crucial when deciding what company to embrace. So here I am, 6 months later, having learned responsibility, not loving it, but being grateful for plenty of things, among which the fact that from a million jobs available in this world, I have ticked one I do not want to do. So basically I am closer to figuring out what I want to do with my career, whose thorough planning seems just a little less acceptable than planning a shelter scheme in case of a zombies' apocalypse. But in my twenty fifth year of existence, to embrace the roundness of a quarter century, I target reasonability and wisdom, so, "grown up" resolution, figure out what the heck amma gonna do about this sensitive point called career.

In August I started doubting a lot, firstly myself and then anything else around me that could be doubted. And my doubt was fueled by all the other doubters out there.

It seems like September has been the month of changes and heart furnishing. It was then when I decided to change my parasite status and to literally move in with the best flat mates ever, who are temporarily and successfully filling the empty slots in my inner and outer being, who are putting up with my bipolarity and who are willing to try my cooking and for whom I'd bake all the muffins in the world (where of course muffins are a foodie euphemism for love). While I pulled two people really close to my soul, unfortunately September was also the month when I started to be a socially awkward penguin, and at a more or less conscious level I decided to push other people away, reason for which I was anything but approachable for the last quarter of 2011. Which I am trying to fix starting as of...well, the day before yesterday.

I guess many more important events happened during these past 12 months, my cat was sick but recovered, I visited 7 countries, I baked dozens of cakes, I bought tons of underware, I played Guitar Hero on Expert, I've published this blog, I gained some people and lost some people, I wrote a thesis, I graduated my Master,I ate a lot of shrimps, I grew up a little, I disappointed a little, I got a lot on people's nerves, I was loved a little more, bla, plenty of trivia on the tip of my tongue right now.
Like in a round and vicious dream, the end of the year found me on foreign land again, this time in a literally feverish atmosphere, testing for the millionth time my inexistent patience and challenging my limits. But fortunately, my heart is so oxymoronic (if not bluntly moronic) that my limits have become limitless (without any magic transparent pills) and while I doubt loving the love of my life, I start loving him even more. Related to this, there can be no resolution, it's just my truth and I am fully living it, be it 2012 or whenever.