Stiff crotches on a Saturday night

I’m sitting on a rusty metal chair on the roof of a theater. The film’s about to start and everyone is lighting their cigarettes, emotionally preparing for the film. The theater, once closed, was taken hostage and squatted in by a group of film students. Now, it plays daily films for $1, one of them being my friend’s new feature film.

I’m planning on out going after the film, so I’m dressed unusually fancy for an event that’s filled with people wearing leather on leather. My cherry red nail polish is sparkling through my peep toe heels and each step is creating overly dramatic clicking sound that no one is paying attention to. In the corner, I see the director, my friend, dressed in a leather jacket and black pants. The main actress, standing beside him is also wearing a black leather jacket and black pants. I wonder if they purposely planned that fashion faux pau. The theater roof is surrounded on three sides by deteriorating apartment buildings and every so often you can hear a part of the building falling off, hitting the pavement. The screen sits in front of the murky Belgrade sky, with cigarette smoke filling the air and my nostrils.

A friend of mine spots me sitting alone and takes a seat beside me, he’s wearing khakis and a navy blue polo shirt. His name’s Milutin. He has soulful eyes and works in the IT sector. On Tuesday nights he takes German classes and on Sundays, he plays the bass in a heavy metal band.

“Check out the turnout,” he says, adjusting himself in his seat.
“Yeah man, the theater’s packed,” I say, looking around.

I wiggle into my seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

“Am I gonna make it through this film?”

“Not in these gypsy seats,” he replies, moving his hips into position.

The outdoor lights turn off and the screen goes dark. The roof filled with people immerses into a deep silence. The film is about a girl who falls in love with her female best friend. It’s black and white. I prefer color.
On screen, the main character is writing a love note to her friend, with her breath being the only thing you can hear. With each breath she takes, a male voice interjects from behind me and Milutin.

“You motherfuckers!”

My friend and I turn around to see an old man with long shaggy hair in a baby blue t-shirt on his balcony yelling at the crowd below.

“Turn that shit off you fucking fucks!” he yells as he shakes his fist to the crowd.

The film continues to play without anyone noticing his requests.

“Shame on you! Shame on you assholes!” he continues to yell. “I’m coming down there to fuck you up!”

His door slams shut.

I choke on my laughter as a tear gently rolls down my face. The main character, Sarah, finishes writing the letter.

“He’s going to come down here and ax us,” my friend says with a whispering chuckle as he nervously playing with his fingers.

I turn around and see a couple behind us.

“It’s okay, the guy behind us and his girlfriend will be the first ones to go,” I say reassuringly.

“Okay, good. As long as we’re not the first ones,” he says as he crosses his arms and stretches his legs out under the seat in front of him.

Sarah hands her friend the letter and tells her not to open it until later that night.

“Where do you want to lick me?” a female voice behind me says.

I stare at the screen while trying to tune out the film so I can hear the conversation.

“Where would you lick me?” the male voice replies charmingly.

They start to giggle. I haven’t turned around yet, but the girl has an annoyingly loud voice and every time she speaks, people in front of me squirm in their seats. I turn around casually after a couple minutes, seeing the couple making out viciously. I can’t see the girls face, but she has black hair and a strong jawline. The guy has a mushroom cut matched with a red plaid shirt. I turn back to face the screen, feeling slight jealousy.

I sit for another ten minutes to find out where they’d lick each other, grab my bag and leave the theater.

In front of the theater, my friend is waiting in her car. I walk quickly to the car and get in.

“Oooh, I’m so excited for tonight,” she says as she drives away.

“It’s time to dance,” I say, turning the volume louder.

We’re driving to our favorite club, Lasta. It’s a floating club on the Danube river and though the crowd is usually full of silicon body parts, but the music is great.

The club’s empty. Three dutch looking guys are sitting and smoking in the corner while all the servers are standing at the bar, texting. We walk in and start dancing on the empty dance floor. Seeing as I’m one of the only women in the club, one of the dutch guys approach me. He’s wearing a purple dress shirt and blue jeans – his hair is combed back.

“Hi,” he says with red drunken eyes and a wobbly smile.

“Hi,” I replied with a smile.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No”

“I can understand why.”

“What?”

“I said, I can understand why you have a boyfriend”

“I do not have a boyfriend”

His eyes start to bulge in amazement.

Oh god.

“Okay, well it was nice to meet you,” I say as I start to dance-walk away.

Minutes later, we leave the club.

As I hobble out with sore feet, I see our friend passing the club on his bicycle.

“Vuk!” we both yell out as we throw our arms in the air.

“I thought you guys were going to be here, I was going to go into the club but it’s not my crowd,” he says as he rides around in a giant circle.

Vuk’s wearing a white baseball cap, a lime green polo, and biking shoes.

“Let’s go to your house Vuk,” my friend says.

We put his bike into the car and drive to his place.

The three of us are laying on his new bed as he’s showing us his new body pillow.

“Look, you can just,” he grabs the pillow and puts it between his legs “do this. It’s like hugging someone.”

We stare at him in silence. Seconds pass as he falls asleep hugging the body pillow.

We put our shoes on and sneak out of his apartment. As we leave the building, we hear a loud fart coming from his window.

I throw my head back in laughter, my friend falls to the ground, grabbing her crotch. As I watch her trying not to pee, I grab my crotch in a panic.

My friend turns on her car to drive me home. I get into the car, unsticking my pee-stained pants from my skin. We drive the rest of the way to my house in silence. We arrive at my front door. I sit there for a second before opening the car door and stiffly getting out of the car.
I close the car door and bend down, looking through the window at her pee stained crotch.

“Well,” I pat the car door, “another good 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

What I saw this Monday

There are two things I witnessed today,

1. While they were waiting for the bus, a guy and his girlfriend were embracing each other, showing dear affection to one another. Her eyes closed, her long hair wrapped around his shoulders. You could tell he wasn’t a big fan of that gesture, as he was continuously spitting her hair out from his mouth. She continued her embrace and nuzzled her head deeper into his neck. Though he was enjoying the moment, the true joy has passed and now he was simply waiting for her to release him from her tender grasp. While he was waiting for the release, he sensually rubbed her back, his hands were making their way lower and lower, reaching the suspected destination – the ass. And it was then, at that moment, that he decided to play the drums on her ass. Usually, this act wouldn’t bother me, but he wasn’t genuinely wanting to play the drums which made him go off beat. You could almost say… his drum playing skills were extremely poor. I continued walking, and passed a man with a severely inflamed testicular sac and a dead pigeon, in which that furthered my state of sadness.
2. My parents are doing some “minor” renovations on our apartment. I’ve discovered my parents indecisiveness when given more than two options and the importance of picking a toilet. My father is very passionate about this area of the house and said that, he enjoys reading newspapers, therefore, must have a sturdy and soft seat. I could not agree more since I routinely re-read the 2008 May edition of Cosmopolitan magazine. It was a strong season for patterns. I also noticed my mother’s strong urge for snacking.

The butchers want my heart

There is always a type of person that is always attracted to you. In some cases, this person could be the right one for you. Right now, you may be hunting for some guy who rides a motorcycle and spits on the sidewalk, however, instead, you may only be getting the attention of some guy who likes writing Algebra textbooks and playing Skyrim – In French – he likes the challenge. And the latter, may be the guy you need, but you’re not ready for that. And if you’re not ready right now, that’s ok. You’ll learn. Eventually.

I, however, mainly attract Butchers. I can actually remember the first butcher who grew interest in me. I was in Montenegro during the summer and would go to the butcher’s to buy BBQ meat. After a couple consistent days of going there and ordering my sizzling hot hamburgers, sausages and chicken files, the butchers get to know your face and small talk starts to develop. Eventually, we knew each other by name and it was a very casual meat-inspired relationship. At the time I was in a relationship, so I knew this friendship must only stay on both sides of the meat counter.

So, the day was unlike any other. I went to the butchers and ordered the regular.

Holding my packaged chicken leg hostage, he said, “You want go to the beach?”

And with that question, I was off to find another butcher.

It was from then, that I cannot commit to a butchers shop for longer than three months.I have changed butchers at least five or six times. I think it’s because I’m a physically strong girl. I’m not fat, not even thick, but I’m definitely built to chop wood. That, combined with my love of animal flesh is probably what excites the butchers.

However, I will remain a hypocrite and will continue to fight against this path of destiny.

My Serbian experience with the Syrian crisis

I’m usually not one to volunteer. In fact, while other people in high school were busy helping handing out sandwiches to the homeless, I was working.The notion of volunteering, meaning, not getting paid, was a hard one for me to conform to. Let’s get something straight, I wasn’t a complete asshole. I would donate food, clothes and toys where it was needed in both Canada and Serbia, I just didn’t want to invest my time in helping. Ok, nevermind. I’m an asshole. However, two days ago my mother strongly hinted that I should perhaps go attend a meeting about the Syrian refugees. I had seen the thousands of refugees sleeping in the local parks, waiting for the next bus to come so they can head to their new homes, but I had adapted to seeing that and it had minimal effect on me. So, I sluggishly put on my pants and sneakers and went to the meeting that I was somewhat emotionally flat about.

I went. I listened. They suggested we volunteer 4 hours a day, which I cringed at. Four hours, hmmm, that seems like a lot.  At the end of the meeting, they showed us the facility where they were providing food, water, clothes, shoes and cell phone chargers. I was slightly intrigued but not enough to start working that very minute. My emotional status was of no need to the coordinators, and they placed me on the food line within the following minutes.

I put my gloves on, grabbed a cart of canned fish. And then the people came.

It wasn’t just two or three refugees meandering around checking the local architecture. There were groups of them. Men, teenagers, women, children, babies. These aren’t just Syrian refugees. I’ve met many from Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan and the list goes on. Though I had seen them in the parks, I was never in verbal contact or close enough to even really see them. They’re exhausted. They’re hungry. They’re homeless. I asked how long it takes them to come here, they say, over one month. Coming from Canada, I have never seen anything like this in my entire life.

It’s been two days of volunteering and I am trying to figure out what my volunteer group can do to become a more efficient for the refugees. Though I am helping them, I’m truly humbled and grateful to be involved. My volunteer group started with two women who just wanted to help. We now have over 20 volunteers and rely on private donations from individuals. Not one act of violence has been carried out the refugees in Serbia, which makes me extremely proud to say.

Today, I learned how to say the words  car, apple and water in Arabic. I helped a baby stop crying and gave juice to some little kids. And this makes me happy.

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.

It has been confirmed, rejection comes in 3’s

But does it count if it’s done by the same person?

I wouldn’t even consider this a rejection, I would call it a verbal stabbing.

I was tipsy, with my best male friend, and alas we end up wrestling and making-out. However, that was interrupted with a sudden jolt as he jumped back and said “that we cannot go further”. Which I get, it’s fine. HOWEVER. The conversation then continued with him, again, stating that he’s never had a connection with a female like he’s had one with me. GREAT. Which then continued by saying,

“you know, I don’t want to categorize people, but there are some girls that when I look at, I need to have them. It’s like something in my brain is saying I have to have them. And when I first met you (last year), I thought yeah, I could bang her, but there wasn’t that click, ya know? I mean, if a girl is really attractive but is missing something in her personality, I can work with it, but yeah.”

Which, as you can imagine, being told you are not attractive enough for them, is just the biggest ego boost.

Which I find stupid. You will make “compromises” for girls with less personality but with more physical appearance, however, if she has an amazing personality but perhaps is not a model, there cannot be a compromise.

I’m good enough to introduce to your parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, I’m good enough to hang out with every single fucking god damn day, I’m good enough to make-out with when you’re tipsy, but I’m not good enough to be with.

I find this mental block interesting because it makes no sense to me.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND

Hungary and the shits

While waiting to cross the border into Hungary, I needed to urinate. Which under normal circumstances, wouldn’t be a difficult procedure. But at the Hungarian border it was, oh it was.  I walked a kilometer from my car to the “WC” building. A small tanned building with thirty Hungarian men casually displaced around the building, created a friendly atmosphere which kindly whispered “come my child, pee here“.  I slither my way through the crowd, cigarette smoke blowing in my face,  perhaps a sexually frustrated man glanced, who knows, I was not there to find a mate. Alas, I arrive to the bathroom door and behold a sign on the door – “one euro“.

I made my way back to the car to retrieve a euro. I obtained a euro from my loving father, who then abide me safe journeys back to the bathroom.

I arrived safely, however  I was slightly pained in the bladder region. There was a plump balding Hungarian lady at the front door of the bathroom whom was in-charge of collecting the urinary fees and returning you a receipt. She yelled aggressively at me, I handed her the euro and took the receipt.

I continued my way to the back of the line. The line was separated into two groups: men and women. The men’s line had a fluid stream of males entering and exiting their bathroom. While the woman’s line.. was static. I looked ahead to casually investigate the delay of urinary movement. The women in the front of the line had their clothes wrapped around their nose and mouths as they moaned in discomfort. I decided not to ruin the surprise by asking what the problem was. As my spot in line slowly increased to the front, the odor became stronger and stronger. Odor is a polite term for the smell that was lingering in the bathroom. Stench. Yes, lets go with that. The stench was mortifying yet reminded me of porter potties at campsites, which left me in this nostalgic feeling of the past. So while everyone else was covered up, I stood proudly,absorbing the stench as a single tear streamed down my cheek.

A tear of shit and lost memories.