Friday night queefs

 
It’s Friday night. I’m invited to see some group called Eiffel 65. My Italian friend described it as a “throwback to the 90’s”. I feel like my 90’s throwback, was different from his 90’s throwback. American 90’s was the real deal. It had soul. It had low rise jeans. It had synchronized dance routines. I cannot confirm Italy’s 90s-era, nor do I want to.

I’m curious, though. So, I give my armpits a rinse and go.

My friend, a former male club dancer, suggested we all meet up before to pre-drink. I’m not sure who uses the term “pre-drink” anymore, hence, this starts my suspicion of how the night will go. We meet at a bar called Biberon. It’s in the center of the entertainment district, we take a table on the patio where there’s no music, I go inside to get a drink.

The bartender’s a tall, Persian guy wearing a plain gray t-shirt that’s exposing his semi- muscular arms. He’s doing those cup throwing tricks which is supposed to make you believe he’s more than just a bartender. I don’t need tricks. I just need a glass of ice which I can anxiously chew on. As I wait in line at the bar, he’s pouring vodka into a glass and staring at me. I continue to stand there, trying to focus on random spaces in the room without doing my series of uncomfortable defensive facial expressions. I make eye contact. He continues to stare at me while taking a slice of lemon and sensually squeezing it into the glass. I’m not sure how to react, so I casually turn my head and stare at the fern that’s sitting on the shelf in the corner. It needs to be watered.

I make it to the front of the bar. I open my mouth to shout my order – it’s too late, the bartender hands me a shot. I accept the shot and say, in Italian, “thank you”. He then looks at me with a mischievous smile and says, “you can eat the shot glass”. I look at the shot glass and poke the glass with my tongue. Tastes like chocolate. I say, “Aha, great”, take the shot, eat the glass, and walk away.

I go sit with my group of party goers. The group is an odd mix of girls who either look like they can or cannot dance. The guys, aside from the former male dancer, look like they just came from watching a rugby game. I decide to investigate about the club we’re going to, so I ask the former male dancer. It was a safe bet.

“What does Eiffel 65 play”

“Well, they have a couple of hits you probably know”

“Which ones”

“You know the song – I’m blue ba da dee ba da dah”

“The music video with the blue frogs?”

“Yeah, they’re great.”

I feel like I’m in a perplexing situation. When that song came out, I was 9 years-old. I wouldn’t call this the peak of my chubbiness, but at that time, I was certainly on a steady rise. When my parents had their date nights, they would leave me with my grandma who had OCD and would spend the whole night trimming our plants with a butterknife. I would spend the night watching MTV. Their music video tormented my adolescent years. The video covered many controversial topics such as extraterrestrials, animation, depression and frosted tips- topics that I could not handle emotionally or mentally at the time. I’m not saying this song is responsible for my emotional eating, however, it didn’t fucking help.

“Right. See, I didn’t really go through that 90’s period. I was heavy into the American backstreet boys scene.”

“Oh come on, it’ll be fun,” The former male dancer says as he gets up from his seat,” Let’s get going.”

We’re walking to the club. With every step, my emotions about seeing this performance are dwindling into a depression.

The line-up to the club is filled with fresh 20 year-olds, mostly guys, who are wearing button-down shirts, matching their slick back hair. It’s tragic. The bouncer looks like he’s about to suffer a major heart attack, however, is preventing so by wearing a neon yellow, puffy jacket.

I’m given a ticket by one of the other bouncers. He’s a bald, stalky Romanian guy. I walk inside the club, look around and then walk back to the entrance.

“Hi, I just came in and I want to leave. So, here’s your ticket.” As I hold the ticket in front of the Romanian bouncer’s chest.

“You must pay 10 euros”

“But I just came one minute ago.”

“Go pay 10 euros”

“I don’t want to, I just came and I want to go home”

“Pay or we call police”

I’m in a fucking 90’s musical prison.

I decide to stay and as a “fuck you” I keep my coat on and refuse to pay for coat check.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing in line for coat check.

The club is packed and I end up in front of the stage. Eiffel 65 comes on. There are many tragic things about this. I’m a head taller than everyone in this club. I look like a fucking ferret popping out of a burrow. The girls on the stage are in booty shorts and crop tops, swaying sadly. One’s squatting in the corner trying to hide her cigarette as she takes a couple quick puffs and stands back up to continue her danc– I mean, standing.

The lead singer comes on stage – he’s about 30 pounds overweight, wearing the same outfit he was sporting in the original music video. The keyboardist has aged surprisingly well, but plays the keyboard in an overly enthusiastic half squat, with his baseball hat flipped backward matched with a head bob.

They start the show with some euro-trash dance song, where the phrase, “put your hands up” is inserted after every line. I choose to keep my hands down. My choice to keep my hands down also arises from the fact that I’m trying to contain my flatulence. I had hummus for dinner, which I knew was a mistake but I figured that the gas would have passed by the time I had to be in a room, sandwiched between a bunch of semi-legal Italians. The lead singer comes to my side of the stage, looks at me and winks suggestively. I contemplate very quickly about that wink and wonder if I follow up on it, would I be able to get my 10 euros back.

My thought is cut short as my hand is grabbed by some moist looking Turkish guy. His chest hair is a giant jerry curl, poking through his white shirt and I can see his hair gel melting down his forehead. I politely smile, release my hand from his grasp and pull the it’s-so-hot-in-here-I-have-to-go-to-the-washroom-goodbye-forever routine. I let out a fart as a repercussion for his actions.

Eiffel 65 finally finishes their poor sound quality show and the club DJ starts playing some contemporary house music. Now, I’m dancing on a table. The former male dancer also gets on a table and starts his fucking perfected dance routine. I feel outshined but I continue on with my repetitive dance moves in hope that he gets off of the table.

It’s now 5 am. The club closes. The others have gone chasing the mythical pussy and that’s left is me and my Spaniard, Natalia.

Natalia is a Spanish girl who likes to loudly express her opinions of people who are standing right beside us. She also likes to wear platform shoes to give her extra height.

We get on the tram. We make it to the border, a crack den, which marks the entrance into the ghetto. We get off the tram, she walks home and I get on another bus which takes me to the heart of the forgotten civilization. My bus arrives at its stop. I have eight blocks to walk before I reach my apartment. I pass a round-a-bout, a couple appears to be either arguing or practicing the waltz. The woman is pressed up against the fence, her aggressive moves slow down into a sensual grind, she starts to take off her pants. I keep walking. I turn the corner and pass two men playing football in the middle of the street. In front of the church by my apartment, a hooker is waiting for her bus home. This whole time, Eiffel 65’s song, Blue, is playing in my head.

 

 

 

 

Death and nipples

It was my classmate’s birthday a couple weeks ago. She invited the whole class. It was very cordial of her, as I probably wouldn’t have done that. I prefer not to mix social groups. When I was thirteen, I was the first one to have a birthday party during the first year of high school. Which means everyone was all pimply, entering puberty and no one knew each other. Everyone avoided eye-contact, we watched Scary movie 2 on DVD and ate ketchup potato chips. We played a game of hide-and-go-seek, and a sad attempt at spin-the-bottle. A year later everyone from my birthday joined band class, became best friends and I cut my hair short and wore t-shirts that said “high school drop-out” while never skipping a class. It was since that tragic event, I refrained from hosting parties and introducing people to each other ever since.

So, the night of my classmates 30th birthday, I wasn’t feeling very well.

That was a lie.

I was lazy and didn’t feel like leaving my bed. This always happens to me right before I have to be at a social engagement I committed myself to. This is why I’m a flake. Also, I see my classmates all day, every day, so the motivation to see them again was quite low because I would see them again in 8 hours.

After receiving a couple phone calls, I was on a 45-minute bus ride to the birthday dinner.

The birthday girl has a name. It’s Francesca. She’s a short Italian girl with bangs, grandmotherly hands, and extremely readable eyes. She also says that the secret to her ass is swimming. Every morning, she walks into class and greets me with a warm hug and kiss on the cheek. She’s also a hand-talker with many of her sentences end with the phrase, “it’s impossible”. For example, Francesca was supposed to come to a dinner with my class. She said that it was impossible for her to come because she already had plans. Two hours later, she shows up.

So, I arrived at the birthday dinner. Of course, my whole class was there because they’re good people and they also like food. I came an hour late, without a gift and wore an ill-fitted bra.

Sitting across from me was Yolande, from Cameroon, to my left was Margherita, from Italy and on my right was Julia, from Poland.

My girl, Yolande, doesn’t speak English well but every so often she’ll impress me with a couple strong sentences. Like when she told me I had a mental illness in front of our guest lecturer who was one of the most internationally well-known forensic psychologists. Or, when we were on the way to prison, she also told me that I should date a black man. She’s also always 45 minutes late to everything.

Margherita is one of my favorite Italians. She was a former bellydancer who decided to study psychology. Every time she laughs she says, “I’m dying”. She has yet to actually die from laughing. She also can never remember where she parks her car, so she invests, at least, ten minutes a day trying to find it.

Then we have Julia, the vegetarian Pole who loves Gianduja flavored ice cream. Julia likes to make fun of the fact that I’m constantly eating. Last time I went out with her, she got drunk at the club and started to do traditional polish dancing. She almost peed her pants once when I told our teacher to stop wearing sweater vests.

As the night progressed, the conversation got more personal. Margherita had told me that the following day she had a funeral to attend. I asked politely who had died, she said it was her best friend’s grandmother. I usually stop the conversation there, because I never know what to say about people I don’t know who died. But Margherita continued, so I listened.

“Yes, I am so sad because she was the grandmother of my best friend and when I was little I would go to her house for lunch and she would make me a plate of nipples”.

I nodded sincerely and said, “that’s so sad”.

“Oh god. Don’t fucking laugh, don’t you fucking laugh Natasha,” I aggressively thought to myself while maintaining a concerned face.

I cleared my throat. I thought that perhaps I misheard since there was some tragic Italian music playing in the background. Margherita’s face was far so sad to make a joke.

“What did she make you?”

“Nipples”

“You mean,” as I took an extended breath “meatballs?”

“Nipples, you know, they’re like –”

“I think you mean meatballs.”

“Nipples, like a plate of nipples”

I paused momentarily, while maintaining my concerned look and envisioned an old Italian woman with a scarf around her head, mumbling Italian to herself while carrying a plate of nipples to a table of hungry children.

“I really think you mean meatballs.”

“Ah, okay, then yes, meatballs.” She said, with her head tilted slightly down and her facial expression remaining genuinely sad.

It was too late. My eyes were flowing with water and I tried to put my fingers over my mouth to make it look like I was in deep thought about death.

I spent the next ten minutes laughing beside Margherita.

I then retold the story to half of the table, while laughing. Only the Julia, the Polak laughed with me.

Party like it’s 1937: Dinner with Dina

The only things I truly feel anxious about are group projects, speaking to distant relatives on the phone and watching the last piece of anything delicious not getting eaten. However, I discovered a new fear, one that is so pure, not many would be able to comprehend. I recently had dinner with my roommate and her friends. For those who haven’t been following, my roommate is a 75-year-old Italian woman who doesn’t speak English. Her friends are no different.

I was heading into the kitchen in the afternoon when she asked what I was doing for dinner. She gestured a fork going into a bowl motion and said, “you eat dinner, solo?” I nodded, “Si”. She then made a face which was a mix of shock and horror, then shook her head and said, “No”, she pointed to the ground, “come my friends, 8 hours” made fork going into bowl motion, “dinner” she said as she put her air-fork down, “you come”.

I had just been invited to dinner by Dina. I asked her if she needed help but I was hoping she would say no because I now had to rearrange my schedule. I grabbed an apple from the fridge and went into my bedroom. “It’s 6 o’clock”, I said to myself, “she said 8 hours, okay, I have two hours.”

In a panic, I got changed and started to work out. I punched the air, I lifted my legs high and squatted almost Nicki Minaj low, like at least a full 50%. I didn’t really sweat but I figured I should shower out of respect for the elderly. Then 8 o’clock came around. I wore my peach woven sweater which I bought for one euro from some old woman on a street corner and my Lululemon lounging pants which are deteriorating in the crotch region. No socks – there was no time.

I went and sat on my desk chair and stared at my black computer screen. The doorbell rang. Dina opened the door and I heard three distinctive Italian voices barge into the apartment. They probably didn’t barge, but the volume indicated overexcitement. Well, one probably barged in, she was a little more plump than the other two.

At this point, I wasn’t sure if I should go greet them, or just appear when the food comes. I heard one lady ask Dina, why are there five seats. Dina then called my name. I rose from my seat and headed to the kitchen. I turned the corner and revealed a large smile to the three unidentified ladies that were already seated at the kitchen table. They said something to me incomprehensible, I smiled and said my name a couple times. I took a seat at the table.

There were two women sitting across from me. On the left, was the plump one who had large bags under her eyes that are covered by her pink prescription lenses. On the right, was a woman who didn’t have any specific physical quality, however, she was definitely a hand talker. Dina was on my right, squatting on a stool that was slightly higher than everyone else’s chair. The one on my left was wearing a brown turtleneck and had a smile you would want to see if your dog just died. They seemed sincere, however, in their eyes, I saw calculations. I quickly discovered that all three ladies were psychologists. I pointed to my head and asked, “are you psychologists?” all three smiled and said, “Si”.

I worked at a psychologist clinic, I knew how this shit works. I smiled and say, “Va bene”, as I jabbed my fork into my warm spinach ravioli. The only way to prevent a panic attack is to avert my attention to the food.

Lemme tell ya, we had a true Italian meal going on. The ravioli was stuffed with cheese and spinach, the bread and goat cheese were spread out in front of my plate and the meatballs didn’t even leave me thinking about miniature testicles – that’s how good. Once I secured a plate of food, I decided to look up from my plate and attempt some sort of socialization.

The minute my head raised, the questions came firing at me. Where are you from? Do you have any brothers? What school do you go to? Why don’t you go out at night? Do you like living with Dina? I get it. If I wanted in the Golden Girls, I’d have to pass initiation. After I mimed all my answers, we went into the real nit and grit of conversation topics.

“You are a flower”, said the plump, eye bag lady. “Ragazzo?”

Oh, plump lady, let’s not talk about boys.

For the next twenty minutes, we mimed about boys.

We then went into the topic of tomatoes and the how though certain foods should not be mixed, you should mix them because they taste delicious. It was less of a debate and more of a nodding contest.

This conversation brought us to the topic of cats. They were curious about my level of animal devotion. I told them I have a cat. They asked for a photograph. I provided them with a picture. They were pleased. They asked what the name of my cat was. I then spent the next ten minutes trying to act out a squid. This would have been easier if I did not name my animal after another animal.

I then asked them if they had any animals. All of them had multiple cats, except for the plump one, she wasn’t an animal lover. We then went around the table, as they all told me all the names of their cats.

I didn’t really know where to take the conversation after we reached the final cat name. So, Dina brought out her laptop and we watched Italian youtube clips. They would reenact the lines from the clip as they all ate oranges, the one on my left in the turtleneck opted for a pear. I found a quick escape to my bedroom during a comedy clip about the Catholic church.

I felt shortly after to find a store that sold chocolate. When I returned, everyone had left and Dina was tucked into bed.

I think I’m the fifth Golden Girl. Bitches

The meat market at the St. Valentine’s gym

All I know about this mythical day is that the day after is where I binge buy the 50% off chocolates. Why are they on sale? WHO CARES MOM, GRAB ‘EM BEFORE BARB FILLS UP HER CART.

Long story short: Valentine’s Day is bullshit.

Though, I feel like it will be filled with even more bullshit this year because I’ll be Italy for it. Yes, I know, we’ve been through this before, you’re thinking, but Natasha, Italy is the land of romance and heated sweaty passionate Italian succulent kisses.

Let me clarify- it’s the land of cheese, smoked pig flesh, wine, and hair gel. All which if ingested will slowly turn your body into a cottage cheese ball of sadness. Hence, why I am now dairy-free (I lied, it’s not by choice- dairy makes me gassy).

Traditionally, I spent my Valentine’s Day going to the gym. This tradition started not from my need to pull some sort of American success story where I worked out, suddenly grew a pair of tits where I then propelled my career as a motivational speaking and model, representing previously non-titted girls, where I vomit the phrase, “love yourself” onto my prepubescent audience.

I was an hormonally unbalanced teenager. I went to scope out the single testosterone filled mongoloids who stared at themselves in the mirror.

I believe this was where I originally started my career in scientific research.

See, I had discovered the trick was to go after 7:30 – 7:45 pm. If you went any earlier, many guys were squeezing in a workout before they ran to their local Safeway to buy the last overpriced dying bouquet of yellow roses because the red ones were already sold out. Yellow roses, symbolize friendship, don’t buy those unless you’re confirming a solid friend-zone relationship to a non-potential loved one.

So, by 8:00 pm, the only ones that were hanging out by the dumbells were the singles, my kinda people. My theory was genius. It was indestructible. But, there were two issues. The single chicks that were also at the gym had fat asses. I jump on that gravy train a little later in life – I started squatting yesterday. Also, my theory was only able to point out who was single. That was it. I just gained the knowledge of their martial status and held it close to my heart at night, just felt the warmth of knowing. I did attempt to apply this theory to real life and attempted to talk to one of my targets. I decided that the best option was to either look injured or drop a weight on the ground, forcing him to assist me.

I dropped the weight. He stared at me and walked by. But, he looked at me, so that was enough motivation to keep me going.

And every year since then, I went to the gym.

The end.

No, it doesn’t end there. There’s a non-climatic plot twist for this upcoming Valentine’s Day.

I don’t have a gym membership.

Natasha and the phone call

Most people can competently answer a phone. But not she, especially in between the hours of 9-5. Natasha was not given this gift of fluidness unless it has to do with excessive sweating. So, when in an uncomfortable situation, she usually says the wrong thing. Okay, the phrases she uses aren’t necessarily wrong but are definitely not used in the right scenarios.

When Natasha was 19, she worked at a counseling clinic which was in charge of providing counselling services to health care workers. You had to be trained to answer the phones because on occasion they would receive a suicide call. Fair enough. But, she had been working there for over a year and developed some street cred in the office as someone who may be able to answer a phone.

This was the situation:

Administrative meeting.

Everyone had to attend.

But someone had to answer the phones.

It was then that Natasha was knighted this task.

Everyone left for the meeting.

The office was empty.

She opened her Facebook.

The phone rang.

By this time, she was given a couple tester phone calls, what to say and when to pass the call on to the next level of assistance – which is usually right after she picked up the phone.

”Hello, __________ how can I help you?”

”Hi, I would like to make an appointment for my daughter”

”Okay, and may I ask what the reason is?”

”My preteen daughter is cutting herself”

Yes, she knows, it’s sad.

Note: In her early years, she developed a coping method when put through uncomfortable situations she nervously laughs.

Knowing this, she immediately thought to herself, Natasha, god dammit if you fucking laugh. 

Natasha didn’t laugh.

”Ok”

Good answer, Natasha. Very neutral.

She looked down at her hands and they were glistening sweat – she had a history of clammy hands. Her leg shook like she was doing the stanky leg and she was fumbling her speech, trying to grasp onto any sentence she could spit out.

Now, this would have been a good time to put her on hold as Natasha went to get some assistance. But she couldn’t, she was in mid stutter.

”Well, <pauses> that’s life”

She covered her mouth with her hand, a released a soft, high pitch ”fuck”.

She spent the rest of the day in silence, in shock. Some may say, this was the most silence Natasha has ever produced in one continuous period of time. On the bus home, Natasha invested that time talking to herself out loud.

”You fucking idiot” she murmured.

During dinner, she decided to tell her parents what she said, which we all know, she could have done without that.

”So, then I said, that’s life.”

She went to bed at early that night.

A village experience

I spent my Sunday with my family, at the Serbian village of Arapovac. My brother was playing a football game there, and we decided it was time for us to show our support and for me to check out the other players on his team. On the way there, my dad realized that he had no idea where this village was. Rightfully so, since when asking for directions, the gas station attendant said that we need to turn left at the next light, cross the railroad tracks and the bridge, then pass the nuclear power plant, where we then need to drive 3 more kilometers, pass a couple goats and the field would be on our right.

After turning left, passing the railroad tracks, bridge, and goats – we arrived at the field.

A couple things happened to me while on this Serbian adventure.

Interestingly enough, there was a flock of chickens on the field. I had expected village, but I was unaware that football also included farm animals. I was told that they were used to maintain and fertilize the luscious grass. I was impressed.

Secondly, village boys are very attractive. I discovered this after spending less than three minutes inspecting the field which was healthily flourished with sweaty men. Until halftime, I tried to envision myself living in the village of Arapovac, I partially sold myself on the idea. Think: shirtless wood choppers. 

Thirdly, and most importantly, I am now a cat owner. This happened during the second half of the game when my mother witnessed a group of boys throwing around a kitten. I feel like she thinks of me as a pit bull, so, she simply called my name, I arose, ripped off my choker, took the cat and told them to fuck off. The cat looked at me, started purring and it was then that I knew I was fucked. So I took it home.

I failed to mention that I’m allergic to cats (didn’t think that through) and this kitten has not left my side.

Here is an example of what I looked like writing this post

Tips on letting go

I’m not a good one to ask, I really don’t know, I’m still hanging onto my grade nine menstrual underwear.

Labial Connection? A story of possible friendship.

Literally during my routine gynecologist exam, my doctor, while digging around, suggests that I should befriend her daughter. I lay there staring at the ceiling, agreeing with her plan, with not much choice in the matter. The exam finishes and I proceed to put my pants on while my doctor is scribbling her daughters name on a prescription pad. She gives me the piece of paper, I read the name out loud, smile and tuck it into my jacket pocket.
On the way home, I evaluate my feelings towards this interaction — should I be flattered? Should I be suspicious? What kind of friendship is she suggesting?

I arrive home, place the piece of paper on my kitchen table. I glance at it every time I walk by it, unsure of what to do. What if I don’t add her? Will my doctor be upset? Will I have to go to a new gynecologist? Will she half-ass my next exam out of spite?
I grab the piece of paper, sit in front of the computer and login to Facebook. I search up her name, her profile pops up and I quickly hit message button.

“Hi there, uh, well, this is probably really weird, but your mom is my gynecologist and she gave me your name and told me to send you a message to possibly hang out. She told me that she would tell you about me. Haha, oh god, this is horrible. I’m sorry.”

I send it and stare blankly at the computer screen. My inbox lights up and a reply is sitting there, waiting to be read.

“I do not know you.”

The squat-n-pee coffee dine and dash

I was sweating on a non-air conditioned bus to a village when I drove past a store that specialized in pig food. The store was nestled in a crumbling concrete building with a giant poster of a pig tapped to the front door. The door, pig like in nature, was wide open and I failed to successfully peek inside.

The sweat had made its way down my leg and with a luggage back on my lap, I rubbed my leg anxiously against the seat, hoping it clung onto the sweat. Among the throbbing ass,  sweaty thighs and pig stores, I thought about the recent encounters with the male species.

I went for coffee with a friend of mine. We drank the coffee. We sat. We talked. The traditional coffee date, from start to finish. So, we’re getting to the point of departing the busy coffee shop and  I alert him of my need to flush the urinal canal. He looks at me and continues sitting in his seat, which I can only assume means, “ok”.

I come back from my quick squat-n-pee, and he is gone.

Gone. Vanished. No longer sitting in his seat.

A group of girls swoosh their heads in my direction and place an awkward, yet pitiful look on their faces. I stood there for a moment, took a breath and acted like this was all intentional. Aka. I went, sat down and stared at my phone. I waited a couple minutes to assure myself and the fellow coffee drinkers that, “don’t worry, you were not ditched, he’s coming back.. I don’t have the whole my-daddy-left-me issue, but he will come back.. right… I’ll just.. wait.. here.. for a… minute.. he’s not coming back..is he..”

So as I’m sitting there, completely flabbergasted, when the light from the sky hits the glass cup he was drinking out of. And behold, I see the shimmer of 30 cents tucked under a cup. No..  no he did not.. aha, but, he did. I took the money in both hands and held it to the sky in disbelief. He really did leave me 30 cents to over his side of the bill.  Which, may I add, was not 30 cents. I tucked the thirty cents back under the cup and paid the bill.  I then went into my own mental hole, where I spent the walk home in a half-laugh, half-conversation with myself.

“I can’t believe this. Did he really do that?”

“Yes, yes he did. We’re never going to coffee with him again, right?”

“Right, you’re so right. This can’t be happening or tolerated”

Upon my own internal (and external) self conversation, he texts me, saying “Told ya. I need to go”.

Well, you sure showed me! Oh boy, oh boy!  Thank you for this valuable life lesson, without this I would have spent a minute more peeing in coffee shop bathrooms. From now on, I will hold my urine inside until the pain of it pushes me to the edge of aggressively attacking you and squatting on your face.

take note, save yourself

It’s been a little over two weeks since I wrote and sent him that letter.

Here is an overview of my activities that I’ve been actively doing the past two weeks:

1. Cried.

2. Developed a sinus infection.

3. Obsessively filled my days with things to occupy myself, this includes grocery shopping 4 times a day.

4. When there was an open time slot, I would sit and repeat every conversation, every facial  expression, every touch in my mind.

5. I then discovered that this empty time can be used to scrub every surface in my house.

6. At night, I watched an unnecessary large amount of dramas and romantic comedies by myself – Pride and Prejudice, and almost all Drew Barrymore films.

6. I proceeded to  repeat 1 – 5 all over again.

(note: I have eased off the obsessive grocery shopping since I heard his 70’s porno ringtone in the store and started to gag on the spot.)

I have never experienced these emotions before and I have to say, I have no idea how to handle them.

For example, I was recently at a bar with a couple of friends. The topic came up after they asked how I am. At that very moment, I was anxiously ripping apart a napkin that was being used as my coaster. I say that I’m doing better, with each rip becoming more intense and emotional. Momir, takes his hand and places it on mine. It’s silent. He keeps his hand on mine and looks at me with a soft smile. In my other hand, I’m holding the napkin and rubbing it aggressively. Oh, and then a tear appears. While surrounded by the clinking and “cheers-ing” of beer glasses, the tears gently drop one after another.

When do you become okay?

S.O.S.