Bold as love

The sky had a hideous mouth with silver fangs vomiting darkness in the horizon. The angels must have had too many tequilla shots at the nearby bar ; guess it was a happy hour. When a shooting star hit the ground ,the earth began to shake like crazy and billions of fists rose and almost touched the sky. They were clenching , moving , hitting, and screaming . Having a star among them was a blasphemy, as their sins were no longer pure. Hatred took Love's hand and toghether they went towards the sunset on a Harley Davidson.

Highway Chile

The highway was lost in dust and the weeds were struggling to get the man's attention . They were nasty , devilish creatures with rusty metal edges that had eaten the ground. On the smoked battelfield you could only see the burnt corpses of small rats and worms . The dry face of the general was filled with victory smile and the good ol'd machine gun was tired . It had had a long life , and the only thing to contemplate now was little time left before it would be thrown in the pile of junk, right next to his master's collection of animal eyes. It was a matter of vanity, of course. The leader of the weeds liked to measure the number of victims , just to keep evidence of such things. Rats were the favourite pray. Big enough to be a challenge to brag with, but easy to kill .Their corpses were like rolling stones when they were thrown in the nearby river. The weeds knew no failure ; they were the highway itself . The weeds were above good and bad , above sins and vices ; they were a embodying the primitive sense of justice ,that was lost when babylon fell. The pile of eyes was evergrowing, and it soon reached the sky . The weeds never tried to climb the Victory montain, because treading on the small , juicy, white globes was seen as impure. Only the general had the right to go up in the bluish skies and chat with God. The creatures knew no law other than : All weeds are equal , but some are more equal than others.

Last 17 year old

1. Mi se zice cel putin o data pe zi ca-s ciudata.
2. Eu nu prea ii ascult pe ceilalti.
3 . Dau sfaturi excelente.
4. Sunt incapabila sa le urmez.
5. Am invatat rusa , pentru ca -mi place de Lenin.
6 . Ma fascineaza Pol Pot.
7. Si Charles Manson.
8. Raspoimaine fac 18 ani.
9. Desenez chiar bine.
10. Weirdly enough, cant si mai bine.
11 . Sunt si voi fi mereu a jerk.
12. Voi muri la 82 de ani , din cauza unei supradoze.
13. Il venerez pe Bob Dylan.
14. Tortul meu de la majorat va fi in forma de Fender.
15.Mai am aproximativ 9 luni de stat in Romania.
16. In viata mea au existat 3 tipi care mi-au modificat existenta radical.
17. Dorinta de ziua mea, aia pt cand suflu in tort.



In curand totul va - face- sens. Sper...

Draga omule,



Ce frumos ti-ai facut tu legea-n lume

Ai imblanzit focul si-ale marii spume

Cum te-ai facut tu soare palid din pamant

Zeu intre viermi si vierme-n toate care sunt!



Cat te multi au fost cei care te-au inventat

Cu barbile lor lungi si scrisul apasat

N-a mostenit lumea asta desueta

O bruma de geniu intr-o eprubeta.



Animal de povara , poleit si chior

Tragi la jugul tau , ciung si fara d-un picior

Si uiti usor anii ce nu se mai intorc

Cand asezi coroana pe capul uni porc.

fade to black

Cea mai comoda senzatie este atunci cand devii invizibil. Frustrarea si esecul iti devin amanti , iar sticla de bere e cea mai buna prietena. Ce te impiedica sa palesti din peisaj, si sa fii doar o umbra? Ma simt aproape ca o fiinta umana atunci cand, in ochii celorlalti nu exist . Beau si fumez , ascult muzica si traiesc. De ce va luati de existenta mea acum , cand nu va deranjez cu nimic , prin fericirea mea slab alcoolizata, si visele mele de doi bani? Si palesc si mi-e bine si metallica e langa mine. Vedeti-va de treaba. Mi-e de ajuns sa supravietuiesc. Nu am nevoie de fanteziile voastre minunate , caci imi traiesc povestea chiar acum. Si tarantula..........

Haze.

Am cunoscut o data un om nemaipomenit. Un om adevarat cu triumfurile si viciile lui. Un om care mi-a schimbat viata. Este ciudat ca omul asta apare in blogul meu abia acum , la aproape doi ani dupa moartea sa si ca nu are un nume.



Prima oara cand l-am auzit vorbind a fost prima oara cand mi-am dat seama ca nu stiu absolut nimic. Teoriile lui erau iesite din comun, nu atat prin continutul lor ( care era , de cele mai multe ori, intr-o permanenta opozitie cu demersul firesc al vietii) , cat prin gesturile ce le insoteau.Erau cuvinte simple si o tigare in coltul gurii, idei pentru care in evul mediu ar fi fost ars pe rug si suvoaie fragile de fum, o explicatie si o descretire de frunte. Si poate lucrul ce m-a atras mereu a fost puterea sa de a ma manipula , pastrandu-mi impresia de autonomie. Langa el visam in dementa , in tonuri de SF. De la el am invatat grandomania , sarcasmul ce frizeaza cinismul dar indulcit de umorul subtil.

Pe acest om nu l-am iubit. Nici nu cred ca l-am cunoscut prea bine. In schimb l-am venerat , l-am lasat sa faca din mine persoana care sunt azi si pentru asta ii voi fi vesnic recunoscatoare. As vrea sa am si eu curajul sa sfidez viata, depententa si grotescul asa cum a facut-o el. Simplu, genial, intr-o aura de fum.

Highway 61 Revisited.

Isi mai aprinse o tigare de foi. Ritualul era acelasi : tragea fumul parfumat in piept , tusea scurt , si apoi se tolanea langa ea, intre cearsafurile taioase ca sticla. Ii facea o deosebita placere, poate singura placere , pe langa fumat, sa o priveasca dormind, cand pieptul ii tresalta , purtand povara respiratiei, cand genele lungi si negre ii mangaiau cearcanele abia perceptibile, cand parul lung ii acoperea gatul si umerii. Pentru un nevrotic ca el, ea era ca o oaza de normalitate , de frumusete inocenta. Lui ii placea singuratatea,si obisnuia sa -si caute fericirea pe fundul sticlelor de bourbon, in tutunul de proasta calitate si in vinilurile uzate. In noptile lungi de toamna , cand nu-si gasea defel somnul, isi ingropa capul in perna si privea o luna rotunda si verzuie prin fereastra inchisa. Se gandea in acel ragaz ba la vreo melodie ce-i suna obsesiv in cap , ba la hartia igienica roz din bodega in care-si irosea serile, dar cateodata se minuna profund de norocul ce daduse peste un ratat ca el , un boschetar,un artist, un boem. Stia ca nu o merita, ba chiar il speria ideea de a-si imparti patul si singuratea cu o fata ca ea. Il batea gandul ca viseaza , dar era suficient sa se intoarca si s-o vada acolo, adormita si visatoare , cu buzele inrosite de saruturile lui.

Here we go again.

Mi-e scarba de blogul asta pentru ca este strict o "creatie" teribilista. Contine numai ganduri mici puse in cuvinte mult prea mari. Acum ca stilul meu de a scrie a devenit ceva mai matur, ma pot autocritica intr-o maniera cat de cat realista. As minti , desigur, daca as zice ca blogul a fost in van, pentru ca a tinut locul unui scrapbook. Totusi, acesta este un post menit sa asigure o bruma de finalitate a unei mici ere. Nu , nu voi sterge blogul si nici nu voi deschide unul nou, pentru ca sunt o fiinta mult prea lenesa. Voi scrie mai putin, si totusi mai mult. Mai simplu si totusi mai complex. Ma voi scrie cum pot eu mai bine . Cheers!

Psychedelia.

Am imbinat tot ce ma omoara , drog alcool si tigara ; sunt vie . Si asa se naruie inca o speranta, speranta ca va veni momentul in care pot aluneca fara regret pe panta psihedelicului pana intr-o depresiune scobita de gazul acela otravitor. Mintea mi-e vraiste, sparta in mii de cioburi de energie ratata , mii de neuroni esuati, mii de iluzii sfaramate. Vreau sa adorm, sa am cel mai revelator vis din viata mea si sa nu se mai sfarseasca. Sa mor visand si sa ma visez murind. Tot ce am vrut erau raspunsurile si acestea nu au sa sarit ca niste broaste sedate in palma mea mica, si n-au inflorit sinuos ca nuferiii puri. M-a dezamagit universul si de aceea il voi ucide . Lama atat de bine ascutita ii va strapunge beregata univerului. Ah, am asteptat prea mult momentul acesta! Momentul in care voi pedepsi soarta cu atata cruzime cu cat m-a tratat si ea. DEgetul meu mijlociu n-a aratat niciodata mai bine. Te urasc din tot sufletul!Mori in pula mea, fir-ai a dracu de tarantula proasta! Nu ma poti atinge!

Despre Kafka si Dali

Mi-ar placea sa sar mereu din spirala in spirala , sa calc pe romburi alb-negre, sa ma inec in culori sau poate ca nu. Sa am o sticluta pe care scrie Kafka si una pe care scrie Dali , sa scurg tot continutul si sa-l inhalez, cu mintea cu ochii cu buzele. Si atunci sa am o panza nuda , perfecta si sa o umplu cu sirurile psihedelice ce mi se perinda in cap. Nu eu imi pierd mintile, ci ceilalti. Raul e in ceilalti, uratul si nu-ul si fascismul social. Eu mi-am facut o bula pe care am umplut-o cu imponderabilitate, o bula aurie ce pulseaza in ritmul respiratiei mele. Acolo am ascuns tot ce este bun sau valoros pentru mine , sus , intangibil si perfectibil, pentru ca nimeni sa nu-mi distruga lumea. Acolo ma pitesc si eu cateodata cand ma spal de rautate, cand imi curat sangele de mizeria umana si creierul de gandirea feminina. Eu si iluziile ce-mi populeaza mintea. Intotdeauna au o vorba buna pentru mine, un zambet sincer si curat, si o gandire sclipitoare ce ma inspira. Ele vorbesc prin mine. Prin ochii mei altcineva vede aceste taste, altcineva le apasa, si transforma muzica in propozitii. Voi credeti ca eu sunt aceea, dar in interiorul meu , multe alte existente isi desfasoara ideile geniale. As vrea sa le ascult mereu ; poate ca le-as semana mai mult. Poate as fi coerenta intr-un mod mai haotic si as scrie literatura si nu mi-as distruge plamanii. Dar eu nu-s facuta sa ascult. Mi-am vandut sufletul muzicii. Iar muzica mi-a dat un spirit. Asta a fost cel mai bun chilipir din viata mea. Daca as mai avea ceva de vandut l-as da pe o gandire masculina. Dar nu mai am, si numai spiritul ramasese in stoc. S-a cascat ceasul si am cazut ca printr-un tunel lung si negru si cand sa m-am oprit la un metru de fundul tare de beton. Si stau. Si nu ma pot misca, nu pot respira. Timpul s-a oprit si oricat mi-ar zabovi privirea pe cadranul de sticla aburita, acele sunt tare incapatanate si nu se misca. Parca am 2 albine ce-mi bazaie in urechi . Dar pot sa cad. Trebuie doar sa-mi doresc suficient de intens si timpul va goni din nou ca un strut pe pastile. Nu vreau sa-mi mai doresc ceva , pentru ca nu mai sunt. Ma sparg in bucati de mine, in cioburi de eu. Ce esti tu, om modern? Nu ma face sa rad! Ai curaj? Pai cum poti sa ai curaj daca numai la vederea proiectiei tale sfaramate iti tremura genunchii? Hai, te provoc sa spargi oglinda pe care o ai in fata ta chiar acum! Nu -ti place, nu? Tu care crezi ca le stii pe toate iti prevezi disparitia de pe acest pamant ....cam neagra perspectiva, nu? Taci din gura...esti doar un om. Ai simturi iar el are geniu. Cum care el? El, Nostradamus verde si galben, ce trage cu pofta dintr-un joint si-ti spune ca o sa mori. Ce mai poti face acum? Da , sparge vinilurile alea, omoara-ti idolii , pedepseste-i ca te-au mintit cu atata nerusinare. Mi-e mila de tine, un inger plat , lipsit de substanta, traind intr-o lume si mai seaca. Solutii? Moartea, pisoias. Doar asa poti sa o iei de la capat cu adevarat . Doar nu consideri moartea ultimul tau camin. Poftim? Cat de naiv esti! Nu stii ca abia atunci cand mori incepi sa traiesti? Tot ce ai facut pe pamant e insasi o transa. Da , de cate ori ai iubit, de cate ori te-ai certat si ai sarit cu gura ta cea mare sa te autoproclami rege ...Totul e o iluzie. Daca te-as minti acum , m-ar trazni un fulger fix in moalele capului. Dumnezeu nu vrea ca tu sa fii fericit , el vrea sa fii. Iar tu esti degeaba. Asa ca n-ai rezolvat nimic. Nu mai face ochii cat cepele si asculta-ma. Acuza-ma ca ti-am spalat creierul . Omoara-ma daca vrei , si tocmai societatea ta de belele perfecte o sa te manance de viu . Ti-ai ridicat un imperiu de carti de joc. Credeai ca o sa reziste ? Nu vezi ca tu cu degetele tale lacome si butucanoase ti-ai distrus castelul? Poate cand o sa vezi asta o sa ma crezi, pentru ca cu fiecare junghi din stomac, cu fiecare respiratie fortata cu fiecare durere de cap, eu iti dau un raspuns, un lucru ce -ti lipseste cu desavarsire din colectia ta de lucruri fade ce sclipesc.

Non -coeherent times.

Murim . Bem . Ne fumam pielea si ochii si buzele. Ne iubim fara sens. Suntem actorii lalelelor intr-un teatru de provincie . Inhalam prostie si indobitocire. Lamaile si aerul curat ne salveaza de cele mai multe ori. Suntem cam prosti. Nu stim cum sa ne drogam ma ieftin. Cred ca innebunesc. E vorba de precizie. Notez tot ce-mi trece prin cap. Lalele, in pula mea, lalele.Atenuez consecintele. Timpul se dilata. Asta e o chestie desteapta . sau poate ca nu. Mi-a placut petrecerea aia. Bhhhhhaaaaa! Nu , gresesti. Lenin e mai presus de Stalin. Cate voci am in cap. Aurolaci cu cap de peste. Sunt la o seringa distanta de marea mea opera.Chiar o sa postez asta?Miroase a prenandez aici. Sau a limonada San Pellegrino. Nu stiu. Vreau sa pun Light My Fire.Converteste asta in bani. Ce prostie! Oare chiar ma place? Idiosincrazie, baaaaaa!Pupile dilatate.Am avut probleme cu politia.Maxim, coae! Auzi si tu bazaitul? Ce par rosu avea fata aia!Sa adorm cu punga in mana.Da sa-mi pastrez pentru dimineata.De ce e soarele acolo?Iti dai seama cum ar fi pe intuneric...Ce sa fac daca n-am mai multi bani. Cauta in casa ca o sa gasesti.O sa te ascund in imprimanta.Ruptura de diploma.Trebuie sa mai am? O sa-ti para raaaaau! Tarantula nenorocita! Bob dylan. Sun pe sistem . Aud voci. Gata!

On Heroin.

Gesturile ei erau mecanice, precise, ferme. O facuse de atatea ori, incat intreaga procedura ii era incriptata in fiecare circumvolutiune a creierului. Bucata aceea pura, virgina, alba ca prima ninsoare, o aseza cu tandrete in lingura. Urma apa. Si apoi cu bricheta ei rosie , furata de la maica-sa , isi incepu numarul de magie. Aurul acel alb se topea rapid, se contopea cu apa si se transforma intr-un lichid datator de viata. Oricum ea traia doar atunci cand era drogata. Ii placusera acele dintotdeauna; acele obiecte stranii , de un argintiu rece si ravasitor, un obiect care provoca fie teratologicul, fie extazul. Cand acesta ii strapunse pielea alba si stravezie, ea se infiora in asteptarea primului val de dulce ameteala , de moleseala , vibratia intregii sale fiinte. Seringa fu inundata pentru cateva momente de sangele ei rosu, cutezator, in timp ce degetele ei experimentate manuiau cu dexteritate pistonul seringii. In sfarsit era libera. Timpul se oprise. Ea nu avea cum sa greseasca , prizoniera a propriului creier, intre peretii imaginatiei sale ce friza psihedelicul. Doar asa putea sa nu gandeasca si sa nu simta. Heroina o facea invincibila, fata perfecta care sfideaza banalul si cotidianul. Societatea o respinsese, dar asta nici nu mai conta. Dependenta ei , viciul ei, modul ei de viata scotea la iveala tot ce era mai bun din ea ca scriitoare. Arta ei era damnata, dar stia ca dupa ce va muri, la fatidica varsta de 27 de ani, va primi ovatiile pe care le merita. Da, sufera de o megalomanie ce friza paroxismul, indusa fie de idiosincrazie, fie de orgoliu. Singuratatea nu-i displacea defel; era chiar una din conditiile ce-i asigurau o creativitate debordanta, niste metafore ce depaseau realul. Le va arata ea candva, le va arata ca in final, ea era artista. Dar acum, nu trebuia sa demonstreze nimic. Inca o doza. Inca o pagina mazgalita cu scrisul ei ascutit.

Doar nebunia imi tine companie zilele astea. Nebunia dusa la paroxism, abia perceptibila din exterior. Si tot ea ma impinge catre astfel de reprezentari neverosimile ale eului meu, ipostaze imaginate in fel si chip, ca si cum din creierul meu ar tasni pe acest blog sute de individualitati, de micro-eu , fiecare luand o alta cale. Fata pe care n-am reusit s-o insufletesc in acest post nu exista, desi imi seamana la perfectie. Creierul meu este identic cu al ei , fiecare circumvolutiune, fiecare curba sinuoasa a para -Organului. Cu toate astea , ea va muri la 27 de ani de o supradoza, pe cand eu, cea care a scrijelit-o in linii atat de vagi voi trai vesnic. Bratele ei strapunse de atatea ori de acele blestemate vor flutura pentru o ultima data ca o sfidare adusa sortii, iar apoi pleoapele sale se vor inchide peste ochii mari, cu pupile dilatate. Sa nu va para rau dupa ea. Nu e decat un personaj de hartie, una din fanteziile mele, un apogeu al dependentei si al decadentei. Eu am omorat-o intr-o seara calda de septembrie , intre o tigare si un pahar de vin rosu.

Nu am chef azi.

Stateam de-ampulea pe net cu Man in the Long Black Coat (my friend, mr. Dylan) pe replay si observ ca am ajuns la 99 de posturi pe blog. 99 de cacaturi , de miserupisme fiecare mai pointless decat alta. Ce s-a schimbat? Injur mai mult, beau mai mult, fumez si mai mult. Cred ca scrisul este singura chestie caruia pot sa-i fiu loiala. Relatiile vin si trec , lista de nume creste pe zice trece ( not that this makes me proud:))), sticlele se golesc. Ma gandesc acum, cand stau degeaba si beau pepsi light din sticla d-aia la 2 litri ca imi irosesc cea de-a 100-a postare pentru niste aberatii fara sens. Nu am coerenta in seara asta nici in scris , nici in gandire, nu ca as fi baut mult sau mi-as fi afumat creierii in vama, dar pur si simplu sunt all over the place. Stiu ca e aiurea sa stau toata ziua intr-o crasma ce duhneste a fum si a vodka, sa ascult muzica unor oameni care au crapat inainte de vreme pentru ca erau drogati, sa dau cu pumnul in masa ca sa ma fac auzita in harmalaia de nedescris, si sa mai si vorbesc de comunisti morti sau de criminali in serie pe masura ce se termina berea. Nu e normal, rational si vorba aceea, responsabil din partea mea. Nu ca mi-ar pasa prea mult. La o adica, dupa ce te confrunti prima oara cu politia parca-ti vine un chef d-ala nesimtit sa faci circ si panarama, fara sa te mai gandesti la cine te asculta. Poimaine incep a 12-a. Joy! BAC .Joy! Cat de onorabil am frecat menta vacanta asta si ce noi culmi ale boschetarismului am atins. Parca dezmatul asta de vara a fost o leneveala continua , intrerupta doar de meditatiile criminale la rusa. Noroc ca mai stiu cum sa tin creionul in mana, ca parca vad cum incepeam sa apas niste taste invizibile pe banca. Nu vreau scoala! Vreau sa golesc sticle si pachete in vama, sa-l ascult pe bob dylan, sa stau pe plaja ca soparlele fara sa fac ceva. M-a apucat zilele astea o melancolie profunda , pe care nici berea nu poate s-o stinga asa cum o stingea la inceputul vacantei. Parca si tigarile intrau mai bine, si aberatiile lui Jesus, si ciocolata comunista cu rom. E ceva in aer, care ne-a futut starea aia de spirit nesimtita , tupeul si cheful. Ceva naspa. Marele Cacat. Scoala pulii. Bite me!

Vara si vama.

E vara . Am terminat cu BAC-ul. Note mediocre , dar suficient de mari ca sa smulga priviri admirative din partea vecinilor, si acordul parintilor mei pentru marea aventura. Eu stau intr-un mic oras si pentru prima oara voi merge simti pe pielea mea briza dulce a marii biciuindu-mi chipul ars de soare, voi bea bere pe vreun colt uitat de plaja cu o balada rock ca muzica de fundal. Abia astept sa ma urc in tren si sa pornesc catre oaza aceea a vesnicii petreceri , ca un microunivers al distractiei, Vama Veche. Am auzit multe despre Vama , atat de multe incat aproape pot sa o vad , sa calc in nisipul fierbinte , sa inot in apa calduta. Abia astept sa urc in tren , si sa lupt pentru un loc. Sa ma cert cu Nasu si sa cad la invoiala pentru o sticla de palinca pe care am furat-o inainte de plecare din rezerva parintilor. Sa nimeresc in compartiment cu un grup vesel care sa bea si sa imparta lichide cu multe grade fara sa se strambe. Sa-mi cante Tudor despre vara , despre, vise, si despre varsta de 18 ani. Sa ajung chiar inainte rasarit, sa-mi azvarl hainele pe plaja adormita si sa alerg in apa, sa ma arunc din tot sufletul, sa simt apa marii si sa mi se para cea mai frumoasa zi a vietii mele. Sa adorm pe plaja pana ce incepe Iris sa cante. Sa fumez tigare de la tigare sub fierbinteala soarelui de iulie. Sa se duca bidon dupa bidon printre riffuri de chitara. Sa primesc acea prima iubire, care sa ma faca sa zbor. Sa-mi cante pe-nserat Angie. Sa-i vad pe legendarii betivi, mai morti decat Lazar. Sa merg la Pirati. Sa ma trag in poza cu un grup de metalisti de treaba. Sa fiu fericita. Si sa ma-ntorc cu un zambet tamp pe fata , un chip imbujorat de iubire, de amintiri si de soarele de vara.

Mania vs Dementia

Visez mult.Visez aiurea. Visez in dementa. Cateodata , cand dorm seva ce-mi iriga spiritul se cristalizeaza in elemente banale, dar care prin asociere devin extraordinare. Am vise complexe , care de care mai psihologice sau obscure. Daca m-ai putea reduce la ceea ce visez , as fi cea mai inteleapta persoana de pe pamant. Subiectele in jurul carora se contureaza aventurile mele mentale nocturne variaza de la cladiri masive de gheata invadate de fluturi la catacombe, orase subterane bantuite de umbre. Cu toate astea , visele pe care mi le aduc aminte cu cea mai mare precizie , dar si cele care au reusit sa-mi clinteasca neuronii pentru o perioada indelungata sunt cele in care port discutii cu oameni care au decedat. Cumva aceste vise ma dau peste cap, ma inspira , si de fiecare data imi cladesc un nou sistem de credinte.
Eram intr-o gradina insorita, cu flori pe care nu le puteam identifica, dispuse in aranjamente luxuriante, ca o enclava in mijlocul unei ierni geroase . Eram eu si cu gradina intr-o sfera de cristal si afara era zapada iar oameni murdari, zdrentarosi si saraci isi lipeau nasurile inghetate de cristalul ce-mi proteja fantezia. Ei nu puteau nici macar sa vada minunea pe care mi-a fost ingaduit sa o vad, caci tot ceea ce ochii lor, ca niste fante inguste si rautacioase puteau zari era lumina, energie luminoasa si flacara exceptionalului. Si atunci apare el; iar eu raman blocata pentru doar o secunda, caci desi nu aveam constiinta mortii sale, in mintea mea era incriptata durerea , si disperarea, si dorinta de a-l revedea. Si ne apucam sa vorbim despre lume , despre locul acela , ce tasnise din creierul meu ca dintr-un vulcan . Stiam ca este mult prea frumos ca sa pot ramane asa pentru totdeauna, caci anticipam hibrysul , tentatia care m-ar fi aruncat din nou in iaran vesnica, in mijlocul mizeriei, dincolo de zidul curbat usor de sticla. Intrebarea ma chinuia; desi banuiam ca raspunusl m-ar fi costat chiar sederea mea in acel loc paradisiac, nu m-am putut impotrivi omului din mine , care se napustii ca un leu furios asupra prazii. In momentul in care am rostit acele cuvinte atat de simple : "Cum este atunci cand mori?" parca atemporalitatea ma apasa atat de tare incat ma strivea . Am avut impresia ca trecusera universuri intregi pana ce am primit raspunsul: "E ca si cum cazi in gol" , dar fix in momentul in care urechile mele au perceput aceste sapte cuvinte , totul se precipita si am simtit o durere incrdibila de parca mi-ar fi despicat fiecare celula nervoasa. O fractiune de secunda un urias spargea sfera creata de mintea mea ca pe un balon de sapun . Iar eu cadeam in gol. Muream cu incetinitorul.
Decorul se topeste si se reaseaza ca niste caramizi multicolore. Sunt intr-o camera cilindrica si atat de inalta incat nu-i puteam vedea tavanul , de un gri prafuit, acoperit de sute de rafturi usor curbate de greutate. Cufere ornate sau simple, carti vechi si nedeschise de secole, haine vechi si murdare, diverse, obiecte stricate sau amortite dupa multi ani de nefolosinta, toate stateau intr-o perfecta dezordine , eliberate de rolul pentru care fusesera concepute . Trecutul era doar decor , iar timpul se dilata tot mai mult pana cand se opri de tot. Era ca si cand toate acele lucruri adunate de prin lume , dovezi ale istoriei, cuprindeau trecutul umanitatii, si se oprisera in acel cilindru urias din miscarea lor browniana ca niste molecule lenese inghetate de atemporalitate. Privelistea ma fascina intr-atat incat nu am observat ca in centrul camerei era un sifonier mare , nelacuit, cateva scanduri grosolane prinse-n cuie ruginite , care contrasta atat de puternic cu vechiturile ce-l inconjurau. Dulapul acela mare si banal, parea nou , pastrand mirosul acela al lemnului o data virgin , din care fusese zamislit. Ca si cum nu era de ajuns sa percep olfactivul de-a dreptul ostentativ, o raza de lumina pica drept pe acel corp de mobila primitiv ,facandu-l sa palpaie balama cu balama. Eram pe o scena , iar eu eram o actrita de mana a treia pedepsita prin obscuritate, in timp ce acel obiect de recuzita primise rolul existentei sale, primind toate onorurile teatrului. Dulapul acela voia sa-mi zica ceva; era destinatia mea, motivul pentru care ma aflam acolo, ba mai mult decat atat, era un alt eu , mai destept, mai bun si mai frumos. Ma obseda atat de tare ideea de a-l deschide ; am intins o mana tematoare catre clanta ruginita.Si deodata, tuna acea voce taraganata pe care o stiam atat de bine, amplificata sonor de zeci de ori, si -mi spuse :"Tot ce ai pierdut se va gasi. Tot ce ai stiut inainte de a te naste. Vei afla o modalitate nostima, ciudata, minunata de a le regasi." Sifonierul se deschise cu o miscare lenta , si un scartait asurzitor si ma absorbi , particula cu particula, in tenebrosul sau continut. Cadeam in gol. Muream.
Apoi m-am trezit.

Disclaimer.

Everything written on this blog is a work of pure fiction and should be regarded as so. You may not use anything I wrote without express permission from me. Everything belongs to me minus the quotes, which I credited.

The Self-declared Outkast

The beach was sunk in darkness and the only source of light was a perfectly round , icy moon which made the sea seem a sparkling pool of melt silver. Oh, if only I could describe that rich dark ink-blue of the summer sky, or the subtile line contured by the water in the grey sand. I was thinking that such a predictable, mainstream association of elements could not raise any kind of emotion in me, but I was so wrong, so wrong that shock hit me like a way too direct bullet. It was a perfect night for running away, for making love or for killing yourself. Sadly , I only did the first thing. I had been cordially invited to a fancy-trendy-glamshit party in one of the most pointlessly expensive nightclubs, but at one point I couldn't take it anymore, adn grabbed a bottle of vodka and one of my best friends and ran away on the beach. I was too sick and too tired of all those people, that over-the top sexuality, the music that made my head fall apart, but the thing that disgusted me the most was fucking glitter: on the walls, on clothes , on lips, inside brains. It was like after inhaling so much glitter I could finally get a breath of the fresh, salty marine air and feel alive. That is why I ran away: my presence on that beach was way more worthy than in any other place. Just the 2 of us, two souls connected by headphones, two huge and impeccable spirits puffing from their funky ciggarettes, two pairs of lips in desperate need of touching each other. See, it's not that hard to make me happy.

Playlist.

Another season, another list of songs. Enjoy!

Bob Dylan-Desolation Row
Bob Dylan - Things Have Changed
Bob Dylan- All Along the Watchover
Bob Dylan- Man in the long black coat
Motley Crue- Rock n Roll Junkie
Motley Crue- Dr. Feelgood
Deep Purple -Sweet Child in Time
The Doors- Riders on the Storm
The Doors- Soul Kitchen
the Doors -The Crystal Ship
White Lies-To lose my life
The Script -Rusty Halo
Pasarea Colibri- Boxerul
Lynyrd Skynyrd-Sweet Home Alabama
Roxette -She's Got the Look
Led Zeppelin-Dazed and Confused
Pink Floyd-Mudmen
Pink Floyd -Shine on You Crazy Diamond
Pink Floyd-Echoes
Pink Floyd- See Emily Play
Pink Floyd-Summer '68
Pink Floyd-Fat Old Sun

You are just like me.

You said I was insane. You said I was a brilliant and you also mentioned that I was the epithomy of decadence. You, world , rejected me because I was different and I scared you. You couldn't bear seeing how I could care so much about somebody that it hurt me, how I was flirting with genius and desaster, how I pointed my finger at you and I started laughing. At due time you embraced me again because you thought my awkwardness beyond reasoning was going to cut it in the trash can you call society. Then, I fought with faith because I was a devil between angels and you saw my true colors. Tell me do you find this ping pong game amusing? I did too because it trained well my idiosyncrasy and my mute hatred on so many different levels.
I want people to stop caring about me, about my brain or my soul. I don't need pity or applauses. My spirit is impeccable and unbreakable and that is more than enough to keep me from pointing a gun at my head. Leave me alone. I am vicious, I think too much, I'm an addict, I am too passionate, too rebellious, too ready to provoke anger or intrigue. I am an outkast with a bitter sarcasm. I am a better class of freak. Just hate me and let me hate you back.

I hate Bloody Mary.

She's like a heavy machine gun ,but I learned how to make her shut up, how catch her tricky bullets and and throw them back to her. And I stand for everything she hates but she holds on to me like poisonous ivy and she follows me like fucking plague even in the caverns where I like to hide. Shut up Mary! You killed too many of my dreams and stole too many of my perfect moments. Shut up now and I won't shoot you in the head and I won't enjoy feeling your tiny brain blowing up in my hand. I've come up with so many ways to kill you that Charles Manson would be proud of me . I hate you, Bloody Mary, because you are like a poisonous drug that runs through my veins . Firstly I love the way you make me fall in flamboyant trips and then you kill me slowly. I'm awake now, and I can shout out loud: Fuck you , Bloody Mary!

Things have changed.

"Standing on the gallows with my head in a noose/Any minute now I'm expecting all hell to break loose." (Bob Dylan)
Yesterday I got the closure of an era. Today I got the beggining of an other. I still haven't found my happiness on the bottom of any bottle or in a random pair of arms ,but I got a direction , some dreams and a bad hangover. I am as clueless as Sid Vicious onstage, because I dont really know what plans have been made for me. Looking back, I can finally depict memories of happiness , adrenaline, desolation, passion and inertia, beetween millions of pointlessly wasted moments. It feels good to be mature enough to distort the bitterness of life with self - sarcasm and immature enough to live spontaneously. So , please mr. Dylan sing for me , sing my life, sing my good times and my bad moments, sing me as I am, a clueless soul lead by a spotless mind.

With the blink of an eye

It is the last summer day. It is also the day when rock n roll saved my life by pulling me out of a sort of dense, slimy mass of crap thet you commonly call society. If die right now my last words will be : I'm on drugs and the narcotic that I can't seem to get enough of is music. I would literally die for music, because of music and probably thanks to music. Rock n roll is the only religion I believe in because it was the only one that revealed me to myself and it has the only gods that do not punish me for not obeying. Who said this music is dead is a fucking bastard who is too intoxicated with the bag of shit that we call mass media. No, rock n roll doesn't mean selling idols on vinyl , it is a feeling and more, the dementia of a nihilistic generation and its legacy will live forever through the people who don't just listen to the music, but actually manage to hear it. These musicians made our culture come to life and gave proof of genius. They were drunks , druggies and trashy but at least they had class. And a brain inside their heads who gave birth to symbols and concepts covered with the dust of time and foolish arrogance. Rock n roll is alive and it still inspires and motivates in a world of sorrow and fake beliefs.

random.

I feel the need to post, but I don't really have many original thoughts these days so I'll just add a list of my favourite songs at the moment.
Guns n Roses- Paradise City
Guns n Roses- Civil War
Alexandrina Hristov-Nimic nu e ca tine
Cradle of Filth- Nymphetamine Fix
Creed -One Last Breath
Crystal Castles-Magic Spells
Digitalism- Apollo-Gize
The Doors- Break on Through
The Doors- Love Me Two Times
The Doors-People are Strange
Karsh Kale-Distance
Metallica-Fade to Black
Metallica - One
Michael Jackson- Dirty Diana
Modeselektor-Silikon
Muse -Supermassive Black Hole
The National-Slow Show
Nickelback-How to Remind Me
Poets of the Fall- Illusion & dream
Thieves Like Us-Drugs in My Body
The Windupdeads-Reverse of Shade

Join me in darkness.

She was a dark angel , unable to control her evil thoughts and her inevitable thirst. He was the one who would always remind her who she really was. She still had her fingers crossed when he kissed her and his lips brought her to life. Once again , he had defeated her demons , without even knowing it.For him , she was the one person whose mind he couldn't understand, like a dark creature with huge mood swings. He loved her as she was: scary, beautiful, dark and innocent.

one last breath.

I could be surrounded by a sea of people and still feel all alone. People who pretend to be older , younger, smarter, nicer, sexier, better...I 've seen them all in just one night. What brought me down was not them not accepting me as a part of their elitist group , but the mere act of pretending. Never in my life have I seen such a lack of common sense and authenticity . Tonight I decided once more that I hate the others. Still , I hate being alone as well. This is the paradox that broke my heart : I can't live without the people that I can't stand, because they do not understand who I really am and how much love I have to offer. Hatred.

Reverse of the Shade.

Nu trebuie decat sa te intorci intr-un loc pe care l-ai mai vazut ca sa iti dai seama cat de mult te-ai schimbat. Schimbarea cea din urma m-a lovit in moalele capului ,mi-a patruns ca o doza mult prea puternica in sange si s-a raspandit ca si ciuma din epicentrul miocardic pana in extremitatile corpului. Imi pare rau , domnule Oscar Wilde , dar simturile nu mi-au vindecat spiritul , si nici spiritul nu mi-a vindecat simturile; paradoxal, atat simturile , cat si spiritul meu s-au mutilat reciproc. Se pare ca fiecare idee pune in pericol viata pe care mi-o doresc, iar fiecare hotarare luata o anuleaza.
Incapabila sa ma mai definesc, lupt contra a tot ceea ce iubesc, arunc tot ceea ce la un moment dat a avut un sens . Am vrut sa ma distrug ca sa ma pot cobori la un nivel pe care nu il explorasem, dar acolo totul era un gol neintrerupt , o prapastie ce ma despartea de viata ce mi-as fi dorit-o. Am calcat atea in picioare: senzatii,pasiuni, cuvinte pe care le iubeam, note muzicale si amintiri, totul pentru o viata care nu merita.

The Art of Playing Solitaire

There is fullfilment even in sorrow , there is lust even in absurd desire. This kind of art is grossly underrated, being thrown in the „lame” bucket by the people that do not know the pleasure of a single’s moment solitude.Yes , I've been single ,but not lonely and I enjoyed every minute of it. I love that special place where I 'm always right , where my demons become my drinking partners, where I can be whoever I want to be. No, I'm not pledging for lonliness , but for introspection , that divine state of mind . I know all about it, the tricks and the traps it includes ,because I tried at one point in my life, to explore more than just my feelings , or my brain , or my spirit. I tried to understand the connection between these. And that ,my friends , defines the art of playing Solitaire.

Who's Lady Alien?

The lady part is quite obvious...so I'm not going to emphasize the reason why I chose that ego. I am the most abnormal , outerspace and awkward person that I can think of. I decided that weird can be quite constructive and original enough to be turned into a self-branding tool. I am not good at promoting myself, but my awkwardness seems to be so intriguing lately that it almost took over who I am and made me an alien. Who am I?
Fucked up politics freak. Jewish. Insane yet reasonable. Aware of the rules that I'm constantly breaking. An old school villain, but not a bitch. Against the natural development of life. Sinner through blasphemy. Weird. Like an alien. Frankly, I don't give a damn ( as Clark Gable put it) about the negative reactions that the others might have towards me. I know who I am and I am more than you'd expect.
1. I secretly wish i were a boy.
2. I would choose politics over fashion anytime.
3. My aunt was a socialite in Paris in the 70's
4.I have never fallen in love
5. I cannot be deliberately mean.
6. I am a weirdoo caught in a group of high class assholes and whores.
7. I can be sarcastic and use my sense of humor elegantly
8. I am arrogant
9. I am proud to be Jewish
10. But then again, there 's so much more about me yet to be discovered.
5.

Zero.

By the end of this post I shall know why i want to start over. I don't think it is running away from my problems (not anymore), but facing them.
My main reason is knowing my flaws and my limitations . I don't want to find an excuse anymore for them . This is who i am: I lied, i always pretended to be something I'm not, I let others tread on me because I was weak, I was blinded by arrogance and fake self confidence. No'actually in their eyes I 'm nothing worthy enough to take into account and I am fully responsible for that .
Now, I have absolutely no friends , no relationships or credibility and the only thing I can do is to start over. A new life without the ones that i hurt and the ones that hurt me is the most real thing I have. The only thing that will keep me company. Every single relationshp will end now . This is my new life . Alone , walking barefoot on broken glass I will be happy.

Party.

I was wrong about me many times, but the most crucial mistake I made concerning my own self is not wanting to face the fact that I cannot be nice and sweet.I am a wild child and I am not gonna hold mysel back ever again. Parties bring out the very best of me/ the very worst of me and I make the very most of them. So why wold I let some fake Politeness outshine my personal best? I am exactly the girl that dances on tables , drinks and smokes, the one you sometimes hate. I am not perfect , nor do I wish to be so. I am just who I am, with my flaws and my passion for life. I wasted so much time as a cold blooded ice princess. Forget abot that girl ! She's dead and burried. Now I'm gonna leave you, cause the party is waiting for me and I 'm gonna make the most of it. Btw, I wish you were here and see the world through my eyes.

Flirting with distruction.

People gossip.Bút people from highschool gossip beyond reason and just make up stuff. Never in my life have i thought that i could be involved in a scandal as a main character. I can't just go in highschool with a disclaimer sign written on my forhead stating :EVERYTHING THAT DICKHEAD SAID IS FALSE! I am mad because the real story is probably my only regret and it has degenerated so badly and was so twisted by ill-minded charcters that now it sounds like a pathetic tabloid article. I wish I could find within the people that matter their faith in me. I don't really know what to do, as this is not a question of my means of persuasion, but only a lame attempt of a guy to fit in. Gossip, gossip ,guys, gossip till you drop or till your lungs explode, cause you can't touch me anymore. Fresh , juicy and bombastic, right up!

On beginnings.

My little innocent vendetta is getting expansive and mean , so I want to put an end to it. I want to start over, but am I really willing to put everything behind , to erase so many lyrics , either sad or joyful? Do I really want give up both that made me cry and the ones that made me laugh?
How much can we forget anyway? Maybe all the fear and the disgust that shattered our being is not to be put away, but to be dealt with. I need something to motivate me. I need a reason to change and to improve. I need you, whoever you are.

I am not going to cry. Or maybe I will. That doesn't even matter now. I've been acting foolishly and invested foolish hope in worthless potential relationships. I can't express in words how bad this makes me feel or how much my vanity was hurt.I just know I have to leave all that behind . This time, though, I will face all my demons and I won't just run away. There are a few things that still matter to me; one of them is the respect I owe to myself. I cannot avoid seeing my whole scenarios shattering or pretend that everything is ok. Because it's not ok; I am not ok.
This failure is not just mine; when my hope broke the entire universe was guilty for making me embrace wonderful illusions. That is all about a virtual developent of the facts , parallel with reality.
Listen, I got your point and I'll try to listen this time .We are not made for each other even if the whole world is trying to prove the opposite. I am just so tired of this , tired of making things happen.I wish I could lay back and let life bring joy and love . Both to you and to me.

To my imaginary reader.

I know that I started this blog a year ago .I don't have many readers , there are no inside jokes between me and other bloggers. I know who I am and I am loyal to myself, so I haven't used propaganda in order to earn views. To be frank, I don't really care if anyone reads my blog and I won't sell my thoughts. I put too much of myself in these lines and I do not intend to become commercial.
Today , I went from bad to worse:I was furious , I was weak, I was sad. Why the fuck do I care so much? Why do I invest so much in people who do not deserve it? Then I wanted to experiment something different: you take away my fashionable clothes, my makeup ; dressed down and potentially vulnerable. Is there something left? Am I worth less now?
This experiment turned out to be very positive . It inspired me to change.
Everything you knew before you were born is in you. At due time, you will find a weird,playful, wonderful way to find that.

The mind issue

I feel like I'm loosing my mind. Literally. People say I think too much , I listen to way too much music, I read too much . But I've come to a point where , having all my regular excesses cut down, I have to use my mind in at least one noble way. I think about how many phases I've been through, how wrong I was, how many people I've hurt. I've also managed to develop this cinical , introspective , oscar wilde-like self... which is killing the good, positive , sunny part of me. It's the type of personality that I have always been craving, but now I'm not very proud of myself.
Today I lost my bible.
You may use your own concepts as a guideline.
But giving name to your concepts means starting a religion.
Don't dare to do so.

De ce, Tolea, de ce?

O sa ma abtin de la scrisul in limba engleza si de la edulcorarea limbajului pe care il voi folosi. De ce dracu va credeti cu totii cei mai buni? Nu sunteti. Am spus-o de o mie de ori si o s-o mai zic inca o data : ma pis pe aroganta voastra, pe anii pe care ii aveti in plus, pe petrecerile voastre rave , pe iarba pe care o fumati. Cu ce sunteti mai buni? Sau cu ce suntem noi mai prejos? Comentati mereu despre politica , despre incultura si despre prostie; eu va intreb, aveti vreun drept? Sau la ce bun sa comentati, din moment ce nici macar nu incercati sa faceti ceva?
Sigur e mai mult decat suficient sa fi boem , sa dai deampulea din falci despre ce nu e bine si sa zici screw the world . E mult mai simplu . Un joint pentru regatul meu, Romania!

On genius part 2

No man should be regarded as a genius, because no man deserves being regarded as a genius.Who are we? Did anyone manage to overcome his/her condition throughout history?Aren't we just creatures , just tools in the hands of a higher power? The Creator of this world (either real or imaginary-offtopic note) is the only genius , whatever shape He/She desires to embrace. Eyebrows might rise, and examples could be given to oppose my idea; but let me go on with a few arguments.
Einstein is probably the first name that our society connects to the status of genius. I'll admit his scientific theories are genius, the fact that he used a higher percentage of his brain is genius, and even his quotes are genius.
Freddie Mercury is another "genius" of our conscience , widely regarded as the best musician of all times. His voice is genius, his lyrics are genius, the fact that he performed just in his underwear is genius.
Another "musical" example is Jim Morisson. His theories on freedom, his drugs , his alcohol, his music, his lyrics -genius.
This list could go on and on .These people did genius things because they were given this purpose, but do their deeds really label them as genius? Or is this just an ingenious plot of our Creator?
No matter how much we fight, we suffer, we believe we will always remain puppets , and we shall carry our burden forever. That burden is our will power , that tiny voice that dictates us to bring out the best (or the worst in us) .To me this is the price we have to pay for the Originary Sin: this irony is genius, isn't it? The thing that makes us different from the animals is actually our punishment , the mere consequence of our deeds.
In life there is one choice to be made between pursuing the goal that was set for you or the one that you set for yourself. Either way the destination is disater, but the path that leads you there makes a difference. Even in everyday life there are random words , sentences, deeds or just coincidences, that are genius.However you should always remember who you are and the limitations of your condition , therefore not judging these moments as your own creation, but rather as miracles from above. No matter how good you are at something , there will always be someone who is better , and above all that there is the "man" that is the best, the Creator. We've imitated his thoughts , his creations, his ideas rather unsucccessfully and because of a foolish courage that we are being punished for. History consists of mistakes and it repeats itself in a spiral . History was the only creation of mankind . It seems to me that all we are capable of is a series of vulgar flaws chronologically arranged; in the end all we have is a bestseller and too much misery in our souls to look into His eyes.

On genius.

Be careful with the one you call a genius
For his shadow is not shining with good light
His brain is a mask of the spirit that lays inside
You'll lose yourself in the depths of this fight
This is the war no man should ever start
The curse of every human is enough
Your thirs of knowledge will kill you
Because the answers you are seeking now
Are worth more than just a broken life
Beware of the man who is a genius
For he has the answers
And in his fists he keeps humanity.

The meaning of life is death.Every breath you take brings you closer to your final destination. But the genius thoughts are the ones that bring you closer to your path.to your answers.to you.

Healing.

These spring-sunny-bubbly days were very refreshing for my state of mind, enabling me to settle free a new and improved persona; i am thankful for that. However this post doesn't celebrate the present, but the past. Exactly a year ago, I was hurt by someone that I cared about. Yes, I do know that these things happen, but I realize now that it took me a year of self pity , before I could stand up and actually forget.
But, now I found happiness in all the aspects of my life; I am thankful for that too.
WONDERWALL

Everything.

I went out today with some friends and I had a sudden awkening while listening to them: good things , as in the real McCoy, come to the ones who deserve them. I'll admit, it was foolish of me to pose as a victim and to give up my chances of achieving Happiness. In life, you receive the mere consequences of your deeds, the result of any action . Therefore , it's not about destiny ( expecting things that are meant to happen) , but about making things happen. It is our choices that shape our life. A wrong decision may or may not affect one very much, but it certainly changes the trajectory of his days. Life is all about learning from your mistakes and fighting for the things you want.... fight for them until you deserve them. I believe they call it the Law of Attraction. I'd call it courage.

There are things that should never be written , because they would lose their authenticity. My 17 years took me to a quite predictable conclusion: my drug is happiness. Not love, not success....But happiness. To be consumed at all times. No shaking or freezing is needed. My happiness comes in an absolute way, and it is able to drive you crazy . When I'm in love, when I am loved, when I win, when I am myself. When the universe wants me to be happy.Truly. Madly. Deeply.

The french revolution

I'm home in France at last.It"s almost bizarre the way this small town, Chateauroux , unfolds its flat existence in a slow almost heaven-like motion. I like it , but I cannot bear the absence of vices, of sputtering and fuming and realistic life. However this journey benefits my life because I had a lot on my mind, a lot to overcome and to get over. Now I can open up to love , happiness and originality; because life is a series of dynamic revolutions.

Bisosus, mes chers amis. Pour une vie en rose . Tuer un sablier n'arette pas le temp.

Leapsa.

Am primit leapsa de la Chris. Sa vedem , cum ar fi sa....

… sa fie o rosie pe fiecare scaun pe care te asezi?
O gluma din partea unui Jackson Pollock care a baut prea multa vodka.

… sa vezi un concert Bob Dylan?
Genial.

… sa ai mereu ochii lui aproape?
Ca o supradoza de chill.Ciudat .Al dracu de ciudat.

… sa ai mereu tutun si niciodata foite?
Nasol moment. Substitui foitele .

… sa n-ai restante?
Normal.


… sa bei pâna mori?
O chestie destul de desteapta daca te cheama Jim Morisson.

… sa faci plaja în Siberia?
Realitatea ce depaseste imaginatia.( dupa cum spunea domnul Fulea.)


… sa detii o alpaca? (o lama, animalul ala din Anzi) ?
I-as pune muzica de Bach.

… sa fii mexican?
As sabota SUA. Dar si nachos suna bine. Poate chiar in acelasi timp.

… sa cânti la vioara?
M-ar chema Svetlana si as fi blonda naturala.

… sa te cânte el?
Imposibil . Sau al dracu de usor.

The guess who.

I am happy. Truly , madly , deeply. Beyond and without reason.

'Nd I love......

Randomize.

I guess it takes to be the wrong persons at the right time , in order to overcome inner frontiers. I love the fact that I have friends that always help me....With them I'm a looser, very uncool and very profound ..... I still like playing, goofing around, settling free every childish emotion that I feel.
Striving to be perfect is tiring and deeply boring, and it doesn't make one a better person. I was very confused by the people I looked up to the most and deceived by the very world I had leaned on: a world where drugs , high fashion clothes, limos and expensive boozing was on the daily menu. That didn't make me either happy or unique , it just gave me a bitter taste of a surrealistic existence .

Andy Warhol: I wonder if people are going to remember us?
Edie Sedgwick: What, when we're dead?
Andy Warhol: Yeah.
Edie Sedgwick: Well I think people will talk about how you changed the world.
Andy Warhol: I wonder what they'll say about you... in your obituary. I like that word.
Edie Sedgwick: Nothing nice, I don't think.
Andy Warhol: No no, come on. They'd say, "Edith Minturn Sedgwick: beautiful artist and actress...
Edie Sedgwick: ...and all around loon.
Andy Warhol: ...Remembered for setting the world on fire...
Edie Sedgwick: ...and escaping the clutches of her terrifying family...
Andy Warhol: ...Made friends with eeeeverybody, and anybody...
Edie Sedgwick: ...creating chaos and uproar wherever she went. Divorced as many times as she married, she leaves only good wishes behind.


That's nice, isn't it?

Is it you I'm looking for?

I'm still here , still standing, still ready to be blessed from above with a twist of luck. I know better than anyone that shit happens, but when shit occurs 5 days in a row , I should ring my inner alarm. I found only one plausible explanation : I look for happiness in the things I do not have access to or the ones that I do not afford. My dreams have grown to such a grotesque extent that I cannot meet my expectations anymore. Is it possible for a person to dream too much?
They say one is never given a dream without the power of achieving it; if so, where's that emotional strength that I need?
I put an end to my bad luck right now. Because I can.

The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet.
Andy Warhol

And we're a year older...

... but not necessarily wiser. I promised myself to stop partying , boozing, smoking, and those other activities that will most certainly bring me a one-way ticket to hell. I guess I am not as virtuous as i thought I was , but , hey, can't a girl have her fair share of fun? In fact, i love champagne, cigarettes, whiskey, just-for-funs and stuff like that but I do it my way. Our way. And one thing's for sure, we get wild like rockstars, we break rules and hearts, but we do it behind closed doors. That is class. And common sense. The worthiest replacement for wisdom.