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.
I sleep in a large male pyjama.
I got it from my dad. He didn't want it as he said it was too grandpa-style. For me it's perfect, huge and warm. I also add a pair of special sleeping socks, the frotte ones with an awesome warming up ability. I believe this point doesn't need any further explanation.
These chips were absolutely delicious. If you ever go to the Cornerbross or Cornergross or Cornervegas you just have to ask for chips. Plus we were lucky enough to eat them before the first performance. Because just ater fifteen minutes we saw a tall ginger guy with a guitar. He had a black homeless-style hat and big, round eyes making an undeniable favour to his face expression. If you speak Polish think about a word wypłosz and you'll get it. If you don't there is an emoticon on skype with big, kind of scared eyes and reminding of an 'S' letter. He played several meaningless tunes and focused on consuming a huge pepperoni pizza. I looked up at the wall painting next to me. It was not a very good painting and it showed a group of gentlemen drinking wine. Despite its' cheesy appearance there was one character which quickly drew my attention. It was a man standing a little bit behind the others and looking at them with the corners on his eyes only. It made him look like a conspirator or at least somebody planning something important and wicked. The character was dark and seemed like a shadow amongst the other gentlemen who cheerfully raised their glasses. There was a spy in the group. And they didn't even know it.
I talk to myself, sing in a shower and after 10pm I forget my English.
And several other things which made the last guy who moved with me escaping to Malaysia after several months. I understand his choice with my whole heart, I just don't get it why did he need to take my favourite pot for pasta.
The bar was half-empty but it didn't stop the second performer. An older, chubby guy with a little pony tail of the rest of his hair. He welcomed everyone in Spanish and started singing, also in Spanish ignoring the fact that at least eighty percent of audience had no clue what he was about. By this time I was already laughing- there is nothing more entertaining for me than people who continue talking in their language not giving a damn whether somebody listens or not. At the meantime another friend had joined us and I sneaked out for a cigarette. I stopped near the exit only to be stopped by a pedestrian who ask me or a lighter, using a word I had never ever heard before to describe it. After we finally understood each other I took a look through the window and realized that there was a change of performers. Now the same guitar was held by a tiny men with an old fashioned mustache and a jersey jacket. He reminded me of an old, German movie from nineties about drug addicts sleeping at the train station and listening to David Bowie. One of my ex boyfriends used to love David Bowie.
I got shaken out o my contemplation by a feeling of being watched. I looked around and I noticed the Spanish singer sitting nearby and rolling a cigarette. He wore a geeky style glasses and looked at me with a wondering gaze. I finished smoking and rushed back inside. At the meantime the singer changed again which was easy to understand as the previous one was already sleeping with his head on a table. The new guy was tall and seemed to have unnaturely long legs and arms. He held exactly the same guitar. The cigarette in his mouth had already lost it's light but still he tried not to lose it while singing.
-Lontra namera, give me a lontra namera- he whispered through his barely open lips and teeth protecting his cigarette from falling.
-I am an experienced chef- all of a sudden said something behind me. I turned back and I saw the Spanish singer who had just come back inside. The words he was saying were addressed to no one and nowhere and were surprisingly in English.- My mom was from Toledo.
-Where are you from?- he asked a girl who happened to be sitting next to him.
-Saudi Arabia- grumbled the girl whom I heard just some minutes ago speaking a perfect castilian Spanish.
The long performer was still going 'lontra namera, give me a lontra namera' and I felt sleepy of a dimness inside the bar. I decided to take a break from here and I directed my steps to the ladies room.
I have an imaginary counsellor.
This probably needs no further description.
*The idea of composing both my own thoughts and a real situation around in such a ridiculous manner is not fully mine. It was borrowed from a book I remember from my teenage time written by some random rock musician and treating about his way to religion. Once my father found that book, read one chapter only and threw it away through the first window.
When I got out of the bathroom, happy about my conclusions formed all in my own head, I realized there is a change in a music. What I heard were actually nice tunes of a guitar and a soft but strong voice singing a well-known song.
-You can't always get what you want...- the voice was singing and the audience in a bar has apparently become alive. They surrounded the singer dancing and singing with him, enjoying the truly pleasant and joyful song. Then I came closer and I realized that I know the performer very well...
-Frank! How did that happen that you can sing?
The singer smiled at me and replied: -I am imaginary my dear, I can be whoever I want!
-But it's me who invented you! You cannot be seen or heard, you are my imaginary counsellor, come back to my head! Frank!
The bar was still full of the song and the voices were going up to the ceil, bringing around the hope and many new beginnings. The weather behind the window seemed to be warm ad chilling and even the character on the wall looked cheered up and kind.
I sad down with an empty mind and the only conclusion I could make up that night has sneaked out through my shut mouth:
-I created a monster.
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.
I sleep in a large male pyjama.
I got it from my dad. He didn't want it as he said it was too grandpa-style. For me it's perfect, huge and warm. I also add a pair of special sleeping socks, the frotte ones with an awesome warming up ability. I believe this point doesn't need any further explanation.
These chips were absolutely delicious. If you ever go to the Cornerbross or Cornergross or Cornervegas you just have to ask for chips. Plus we were lucky enough to eat them before the first performance. Because just ater fifteen minutes we saw a tall ginger guy with a guitar. He had a black homeless-style hat and big, round eyes making an undeniable favour to his face expression. If you speak Polish think about a word wypłosz and you'll get it. If you don't there is an emoticon on skype with big, kind of scared eyes and reminding of an 'S' letter. He played several meaningless tunes and focused on consuming a huge pepperoni pizza. I looked up at the wall painting next to me. It was not a very good painting and it showed a group of gentlemen drinking wine. Despite its' cheesy appearance there was one character which quickly drew my attention. It was a man standing a little bit behind the others and looking at them with the corners on his eyes only. It made him look like a conspirator or at least somebody planning something important and wicked. The character was dark and seemed like a shadow amongst the other gentlemen who cheerfully raised their glasses. There was a spy in the group. And they didn't even know it.
I talk to myself, sing in a shower and after 10pm I forget my English.
And several other things which made the last guy who moved with me escaping to Malaysia after several months. I understand his choice with my whole heart, I just don't get it why did he need to take my favourite pot for pasta.
The bar was half-empty but it didn't stop the second performer. An older, chubby guy with a little pony tail of the rest of his hair. He welcomed everyone in Spanish and started singing, also in Spanish ignoring the fact that at least eighty percent of audience had no clue what he was about. By this time I was already laughing- there is nothing more entertaining for me than people who continue talking in their language not giving a damn whether somebody listens or not. At the meantime another friend had joined us and I sneaked out for a cigarette. I stopped near the exit only to be stopped by a pedestrian who ask me or a lighter, using a word I had never ever heard before to describe it. After we finally understood each other I took a look through the window and realized that there was a change of performers. Now the same guitar was held by a tiny men with an old fashioned mustache and a jersey jacket. He reminded me of an old, German movie from nineties about drug addicts sleeping at the train station and listening to David Bowie. One of my ex boyfriends used to love David Bowie.
I got shaken out o my contemplation by a feeling of being watched. I looked around and I noticed the Spanish singer sitting nearby and rolling a cigarette. He wore a geeky style glasses and looked at me with a wondering gaze. I finished smoking and rushed back inside. At the meantime the singer changed again which was easy to understand as the previous one was already sleeping with his head on a table. The new guy was tall and seemed to have unnaturely long legs and arms. He held exactly the same guitar. The cigarette in his mouth had already lost it's light but still he tried not to lose it while singing.
-Lontra namera, give me a lontra namera- he whispered through his barely open lips and teeth protecting his cigarette from falling.
-I am an experienced chef- all of a sudden said something behind me. I turned back and I saw the Spanish singer who had just come back inside. The words he was saying were addressed to no one and nowhere and were surprisingly in English.- My mom was from Toledo.
-Where are you from?- he asked a girl who happened to be sitting next to him.
-Saudi Arabia- grumbled the girl whom I heard just some minutes ago speaking a perfect castilian Spanish.
The long performer was still going 'lontra namera, give me a lontra namera' and I felt sleepy of a dimness inside the bar. I decided to take a break from here and I directed my steps to the ladies room.
I have an imaginary counsellor.
This probably needs no further description.
*The idea of composing both my own thoughts and a real situation around in such a ridiculous manner is not fully mine. It was borrowed from a book I remember from my teenage time written by some random rock musician and treating about his way to religion. Once my father found that book, read one chapter only and threw it away through the first window.
When I got out of the bathroom, happy about my conclusions formed all in my own head, I realized there is a change in a music. What I heard were actually nice tunes of a guitar and a soft but strong voice singing a well-known song.
-You can't always get what you want...- the voice was singing and the audience in a bar has apparently become alive. They surrounded the singer dancing and singing with him, enjoying the truly pleasant and joyful song. Then I came closer and I realized that I know the performer very well...
-Frank! How did that happen that you can sing?
The singer smiled at me and replied: -I am imaginary my dear, I can be whoever I want!
-But it's me who invented you! You cannot be seen or heard, you are my imaginary counsellor, come back to my head! Frank!
The bar was still full of the song and the voices were going up to the ceil, bringing around the hope and many new beginnings. The weather behind the window seemed to be warm ad chilling and even the character on the wall looked cheered up and kind.
I sad down with an empty mind and the only conclusion I could make up that night has sneaked out through my shut mouth:
-I created a monster.
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