Saturday.

IPO and LSE and everything else abbreviated gives me nightmares. Oh wait, no nightmares as I don’t sleep as I am at work 24/7!!!! I wish I were an investment banker. I would be able to cope brilliantly.

Facebook. Story 1.

It bothers you when somebody you thought was your friend suddenly deletes you on facebook, withour explanation. It bothers you when somebody blocks you. The fact that Ric blocked me bothers me to no end. I really thought we got along well, especially after he confirmed it: “I don’t like her [my friend Poppie], but you are good.” And then, nearly three weeks after my trip to Portugal, I am blocked from his 400+ friend list. Quite obviously, he had some sort of revelation.
I feel bothered not only because of that, but also because I tried to contact him a couple of times. He never spoke to me after that time on the suburban station stop in Portugal. People amaze me. In a bad way.

Reassessment.

Recently, I have read about the so called mid-twenties crisis in Grazia. I thought it was just another pop-psychology, but then yesterday happened…
I went to my favourite club, Heaven as a +1 of my friend Susie, a Pilates instructor (one of her clients is no other than the manager of The Wombats). We did not enjoy the gig. The Wombats are too simple, in my opinion, and my ears, trained on Radiohead and the Foals, did not quite appreciate their Liverpudlian chants. The afterparty was held in Mahiki and as we were on all and every possible guestlist that night, we thought we’d give it a chance. Besides, I like Mahiki. Sam was not there, but I should not have worried as drinks were free and music as pathetic as always. But hey, you don’t go to Mahiki to dance to DeadMau5 now, do you? Another barman, thankfully, remembered me from the past summer and I was served Diet Cokes instead of rum-filled cocktails. Here you go, I did not want to drink. Mid-twenties crisis, anyone?
I was not enjoying myself. I felt tense and bothered and weary and a little bit tired. There I was, in the middle of a party of a successful band, after the sold-out show, rubbing shoulders with their Norwegian bass player… And I did not want any of that. Mid-twenties crisis, anyone?

I got up and went home. Is this the infamous autumn depression? Is this really a mid-twenties crisis? Is this because of lack of surfing, anti-clubbing moods I’ve been in, suddenly ageing a few years, the newly ignited passion for America and still burning passion for Portugal? Am I in the process of reassessing my values? Is my youth going?

Man, how I don’t want to grow old and bored!!!

E-mails that are never sent.

Darling, I so wanted to speak to you last night. I was in a hotel being an assistant photographer in a photo-shoot, taking photos of a photographer taking photos of two unemployed models, playing with a kiss scene – the kiss that never happens, but everybody is excited just looking at the love scene opening up before their eyes. And it suddenly hit me what this whole scene reminded me of. It was like a dream I had sometime last July, the dream where you and I were in a hotel (I know, right?) and it was all great fun and then we went to the balcony and we were about to kiss and I woke up. I just could not take the tension the unemployed models deal with so gracefully every time a photographer tells them to perform a near-kiss.

I delete the whole message. Instead I type: Darling, time difference is a bitch. Will you not shave so next time I can see you with a beard? And a hairy chest?

Up, up and away.

All day wasted on taking photos of photographer taking photos of two unemployed models (well, they are employed, but the nature of their employment has nothing to do with so desired modelling world) in Marriott, Marble Arch. It was a sad affair… But I was doing it strictly for my CV.

The sky was beautiful. And mind-blowing from the 11th floor of Marriott. It made me think, all my life I have been inhibiting 1st floors – and have been missing so much! Therefore I decided that the next apartment I am going to buy will be a top floor apartment – with breath-taking views. This is my next step up the property ladder. In all senses.

On this high note (what an allegory! I feel quite poetic today), I am finishing this post.

LIfe after God.

Kurt Cobain is getting married. And I am not the bride.

My friend Dan says she is probably some crack whore anyway, but I know she is not. She is a French girl who does not wear make-up and who rolls her own cigarettes and then smokes them, without a filter.

I was prepared to travel across the world for him. She was French and had Paris, the city which he declared to be his favourite. He took his ex-girlfriend to Paris, I saw the pictures taken on the Eurostar. I haven't been to Paris. Should I say yet?
I was enjoying lengthy conversations with him, about God, and death, and absence of religion, and the way sometimes we both felt Holy spirit descending upon us and how amazing the world felt when this happened, and how you would feel your eyes swell with tears of happiness because suddenly you would feel alive, and able, and full of potential. Because God believed in you and chose you.

She was French and chose not to believe in God. And he, who I loved, chose her. I chose not to love him, tough choice. And I was wondering if I'd be able to stick to it. But do I have a choice?

I remember he told me she claimed to be scared to let God in her life. Scared to believe. I guess she finally got enough courage. Or he finally chose life without God.
Today, it's nearly full moon.

Golden Gate Bridge.

The question I came across today was the following: If you were to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, would you do it facing the city or facing the ocean? I had an answer to this question straight away, waiting to be thought of consciously. Of course I would not care. I do not care. I would just jump to my death. And then the psychology of human being gave me its answer: "true suicides" don't care which side of the bridge they jump from. If one gets up there and starts considering the benefits of looking at muggy views of the city versus eternal calamity of the Pacific, then it is quite obvious that the suicide attempt is not a hundred percent genuine. Somebody is a fake.

But what about me? Long gone are the days when I was thinking of going to San Francisco especially to contemplate the possibilities offered by the Suicide Bridge of this planet. I no longer think about this. But the decision is forever imprinted on my psyche. I am true to something I refuse to acknowledge.

Neurons.

I read today that the human brain produces around 10 million new brain cells every single day. But for the lack of utilisation, they die sometime later. Some estimate, that we lose 70 million neurons a year, neurons that are gone, disappeared completely replaced by the new cells that are clean and fresh and contain no data, ready to be utilised, to be filled with new information, experiences, memories. But what happens to the neurons containing the memories that could never be restored once uncontrollable power of our own body decides that the cell is no longer needed (and the memories locked in it are forever gone).
There is no Undeleter programme to restore the memories from the dead neurons. Once they are gone, they are gone. With them gone are the memories that you will never grieve about. Because since there is nothing you remember, maybe there was nothing to remember, maybe there was nothing.

The Social Network.

David Fincher does not disappoint. Neither does Jesse Eisenberg. I want both of them to be my friends. Or more preferably, I want Jessy to be my lover, and Mr Fincher to be my friend. Or, even more preferably, I want Jessy to be my boyfriend, and Mr Fincher my dad. Okay, since David Fincher cannot be my dad and I would like this all to be real, I would be fine with Mr Fincher being my step-dad.
Such a weird feeling. Day after day at work I see their names (Napster, Facebook, diluted shares etc.) and it feels real, because it is real. And then I am sitting in the cinema watching a film about these people. Are they no longer real? When did it happen?

The soundtrack is good. I have to finally burn the CD (the OST has been sitting inside my work computer for more than a week now).

My first attempt in baking cupcakes today. Okay, it was not from the scratch (I bought a mix), but really, I mixed the mix with eggs and water and oil. And I prepared the icing (again, from a mix). A mix, a mix, a mix...

Quite tasty.



(Hard to type as I have bitten my nails. A little bit more than a half is left on my right thumb.)

Pills that make me better.

I don’t know how is it possible to go to bed healthy and wake up completely ruined. My throat is swollen and hurts like hell and there is nothing more I want right now then to be in bed, with hot water bottle. But the day is just beginning. And it’s Taxation tutorial at Uni today. God help me.



Today not only it's the birthday of a former president of Russian Federation, but Thom Yorke, my beloved, is turning 42. I remember when Bono was turning 40.