Wear an art- the power of DYI

 Many people would disagree but I dare to say that the first pieces of art people wore were tattoos. Everyone who knows at least a tiny bit knows that I am not a fan of them and I would never get one for myself. But I do understand people who do. I used to live with a girl who was a tattoo artist. Her whole body reminded me of Sisine Chapel. Usually I see two types of tattoos: ones with a deeper meaning (which I fully understand and which always makes my tears pour before finding out what's the actual reason for them) and ones quite random, just because their owners perceived the certain symbol as a pretty decoration. But hers were something beyond it: they were like a step to the higher, cosmic kind of magic. Personally I can recall only one tattoo pattern I liked in my whole life: it was an ornamental key on the upper backbone of one of my friend. I never had a dareness to apply for a Sistine Chapel role. 

 Probably that is why I am so excited by a new trend called DYI. I am excited in advance since I am too lazy to try creating anything like that, but I absolutely adore beautiful crafts sneaking into fashion. The special thing about this trend is that it also turns back an abbreviation trend: I had to google it twice to get what does it mean. 

 Unlike me, Frank is not able to see any sense in decorations. He's unrespectfully glued to the usefullness. Maybe that's why he's such a boring company until the second glass of wine.

 My mother has definitely nothing to do with Frank. To be honest I always had a feeling she was rather reluctant to him, still she never said she disagreed about me needing a psychotherapy. Surprisingly she didn't react when she learned that my chosen cousellor is imaginary like it was common amongst the sociey of modern elite. My mother like drinking tea and she likes DYI. What started as a passion, soon became a job as the trend turned massively global, as if something can be spread more largely than global, then massive global could be the right expression. Precisely, she's into felting. Felting is nothing more but an alternative manner for knitting which is, I'm sorry, Stephanie, now highly old fashioned. (But Stephanie, while felting you don't need to keep your arms in a continental way.)

27 resolution- Why do I write

 As you can probably see, writing is something which is happening for me beside. Beyond my biography, on the side of my own history called life. It is somehow true, that writing as far doesn't get in my life the place it deserves. And some of you may want to ask me: why do I write? What do I need it for? Let me explain it to you by recalling a story of a great man. His name was Eric Blair. But most of you might most probably know him as George Orwell.

 Eric could afford doing something I never could. Reject all the opportunities he had in his life. Just because since he was six he knew that all he wanted was to write. Therefore, his idea was to dedicate himself to two things: to read and to experience.

WHY READ

 Because every writer his own flow. Eric was aware of something unfortunately most of contemporary authors seem to be missing: without a good literary preparation you remain a child in a fog. Only reading can give you the right tool to use the language entirely, to express and to reflect these expression on your readers. You cannot create a real dialogue with your reader without being once a reader yourself.

WHY EXPERIENCE

 Due to a simple true that it's always easier to write about something you know. One old quotation I learned during my literary studies said: If you really don't have what to write about, write about yourself. Sadly in reality there are only few authors who can write about a world they only imagine (as a brilliant example we can mention, of course, sir Terry Pratchett himself). Most of work nowadays crated in a total dettachment from a real experience is somehow naive. (I am trying not to be judgemental.) That was indeed the idea of Blair, born in a well-situated family and spending his youth on a respected playground of Eton, not really having a clue of how the life can be. Fueled by his desire to discover the truth (mind my sarcasm) he moved to Paris where he was meant to experience a real working class poverty in order to finally publish a book about this experience. I do not recommend anyone to do that, but if you feel pushed to the extreme, actually why not. For example Paolo O. Martin, known also as Paul Portier, is now roaming around the streets of Thailand before he tries a modest life in a monastry- that's speaking about extremes.

10 ways to tell a person you like them (and most probably lose them forever)

As the Valentine's day is approaching (wait a minute, it's actually already here...) I have been spending some little time to figure out the best ways to tell the other person how much you like them. Yes, there was a person whom I like to tell so, but (as The Guy I Was- Not That Recently Anymore- Dating used to point out) communication is not my strongest side. Frank is still sleeping hung overed after a Happy Monday so I had to take this challenge myslef- what is the best way to tell the other person you like them and not to fool yourself, be understood and open a fair and respectful conversation. The answer is: there is no such a way.

 Although my contemplation was interrupted by Miss Evie Babylion who told me an absolutely compelling story. There used to be a guy who liked her so much, but she didn't share this attraction. One day he left her a message seeming to be a voicemail one, starting with (...) and followed by a suggestion that they both should spend more time with each other. She told me there was something about this message which made her reciprocate the interest and she actually wrote- yes, let's meet... Unfortunately the reality has come across and the story didn't get its' deserved happy ending. 

- We never had a time to meet- sought Miss Evie Babylion- he's actually married by now. And he's an alcoholic. 

 I actually had a talk recently with my dear friend Anees when I insisted I have no problems with self expression. And I owe him an apology because there is one big problem I have found: I do everything my way.

 So here are my ways figured out and written down over this night:

1. Hey, man, I actually like you. I mean, you know how this shit works, right?

Needs definitely no further comment.

How Mr Frank came to like Mondays and how I found out why I don't have a boyfriend

Despite the fact that most of my friends would never ever believe it, today it was hard as never to keep loving Monday. No, it's not because of the rain. You see, the rain and I are actually quite a good combination or at least that is what I want to believe after all these years in London. I do accept the rain as an inevitable part of my life and somewhat a fatal destiny, which is meant to come sooner or later during a day. Unlike Frank, who curses the rain everytime he's about to cross the staircase and sneezes with his whole lungs while opening his umbrella to let the weather know that it is indeed responsible for his bronchitis. Frank always tends to blame the weather for all the world's disasters and it amazes me how can an imaginary person present such a bizarre flaw. But for me what weather cannot do, beaurocracy gets in a minute. That is why today morning, overwhelmed by calculations and forms I was really reluctant to like Monday or even any other day and to be honest actually the whole week.

 Speaking about overwhelming maybe it's the whole day spent in the office which is the opposition of productivity and my strange mind which always classifies everything non-creative as a waste of time. To top up all this random flow of disaster, an 'F' letter on my keyboard eventually stopped working apparently to remind me of something I try not to think about. So instead of following this thought, I decided to talk to my imaginary counsellor about something else: why I actually don't have a boyfriend. This discussion developed all of a sudden on my friend's Facebook wall and I was amazed by how many women ask themselves this question on a daily basis. Since I don't really have a lifestyle for a relationship, I don't really share such dilemmas. But I found it quite funny to prepare such an analysis for myself and as I have my own private counsellor (as private as possible since he lives in my head), why not to use an opportunity!
 Frank absolutely loved the idea at the beginning but soon turned rather reluctant to it, suggesting that we rather go out. 'I am a counsellor, not your bff''- muttered he and put his coat on and I wondered is it normal that people you invent yourself sabotage your own ideas. Still I didn't say it loud and we left, using a chance of a short time without the rain. While walking, I tried to figure out an answer for my question alone, soon finding it quite boring and feeling like everything I would like to write is surreal, insane and doesn't have any actual point. Monkey Seduction lent me a hand then, reminding me that I never said I am normal and I never tried to be. So here is my first conclusion:

I love my vacuum too much. 
I often say how bound I am to Susan and all my friends know it and respect it. Though I heard that people who for example keep dogs find it hard to get closer to a person. Also, I had never though before that any guy might feel envious about my relation with Susan. It was surely a brilliant guess. 

 Usually my friends and I are quite picky in terms of a perfect place for Monday but this time Frank just opened the very first door that appear on our way. It was partly my fault as I kept complaining that I want to go to any place that sells chips. I am a good cook but chips for me require some magical and mysterious recipe I can never understand neither use correctly. And this is how we got to the Cornershop in Shoredtich, or maybe it was Cornerbar or Corneraddiction or a Cornerfiction, doesn't really matter as in London most of the bars located on a corner are called Cornersomething. What was unfortunate about this choice was that this one actually offered an open mic night. Yay.

Dear Bobby

 First of all, Happy Birthday! I hope you are having a good one there, in heaven. I imagine you smoking a joint and laughing at human race from above. I imagine God sitting next to you, cutting a pineapple and going 'Play something for us, Bobby'. 
 You and I never had a chance to meet. And you don't even know that you are one of my longest lasting friendship, my most faithful companion.

 My dear Bobby, you don't even know in what kind of world I am celebrating your Birthday! It's a cold London, paralized by a tube strike and several othe things you would laugh about if you were here. We had a bautiful new moon just some nights ago, the one you can sing for and live for at the time when you feel low. But better let me start from the beginning.

What is Sexy?

Although this title might be confusing, no, I don't mean to talk about any new trends or what do guys (or girls) like nowadays. I actually want to ask all of you a question: What does it mean?

 I remember few years back when I accidentally watched an interview with somewhat famous model. While talking about cosmetics from time to time she was using a line 'very sexy'. I was watching her face trying to understand what does 'sexy' mean regarding cosmetics and what does she like so much about them. Are they just hot or trendy? But the model herself seemed confused and I found her feeling quite uncomfortable saying loud such a phrase. Then I realized that 'very sexy' was a name of a brand she was supposed to promote... And then both of us, me and the model, felt apparently awkward. 

 Back then I had no clue that one day 'sexy' would become one of the most present words in my reality. I hear this word approximately three times per day (and I don't watch TV), constantly failing to understand a phenomenon of it.

 My personal challenge with a word 'sexy' is its' such a close relation with visual aspects. Recently I was passing Sainsbury's in Kilburn, going to a brunch at my friends' place when some guy smiled at me and all of a sudden screamed: 'Hey girl, smile, it's a beautiful day and you're sexy'. I perceived it as quite nice just as nice can be receiving a compliment from a stranger. But then a strange shadow of thought has passed through my mind: 'What did he actually mean?' He probably found me attractive. But he didn't shout 'you're attractive' (and I rarely hear that word at all). He didn't say 'you're pretty' wich could be actually more appropriate to be said to a stranger. Since that the word 'sexy' has been buzzing in my head- and I felt the same awkwardness that I had felt back then, watching the interview with a model. Something wasn't quite right about it.

 For over the past three years I can barely remind any other compliment I received than 'sexy'. And that is from people including my boss and even my mather.