How iconic is it when the McDonalds receipt you rolled up to snort ketamine has tiny little blood spots ??

A quagmire, a quinkydink | La dolce vita

Mood & Vibes: Angel Olsen - Lark, Lana Del Rey - Happiness is a butterfly

(The narrator is genderless, so every pronoun will be utilised. It's not that difficult, I promise.)

 I’m in a really curious disposition. 

And when I say curious, I mean it’s never been portrayed in the media, at least to my knowledge, and ~Media~ is the thing I base my life on; the expectations of what life could/should be as well as how people react to certain actions or situations. Which, thinking about it now, does sound a bit spectrum-y (I was on Urban Dictionary and this is the ad they suggested:) 😬 And I just cannot.afford.another.diagnosis.

God? Are you there?? I beg.

Growing up I was made to believe the purpose of school is to prepare one for the life ahead, and boy was I disappointed. Could’ve relied on my parents, I guess, but we were so cold and distant and used to sweeping everything under the rug and ignoring the heaping piles of shit beneath it that it took me 20 years to discuss my first same sex relationship with my mother. She didn’t ask about any previous ones as the media suggests mothers always do, and I only started talking to her about it because the relationship was the most impactful I’ve ever had, and the break-up hurt me like never before. And when I say we “discussed it”, I mean she asked what’s new, I replied I’ve broken up with a male man person, and her response was the Boomer version of “sometimes it be like that”.

So I had books. And later movies, and tv shows, and video games. I knew not all of them were real or factual, I knew it didn’t always represent the full magnitude of the human experience, but at least it was something. It was less scary going into the world, wide-eyed and unassuming.

So here's the quagmire, the quinkydink: I think about death every day. 

When it gets really bad, I yearn for an absolute end, a complete stop to everything, one might say (although I, with my gay brain, cannot wrap my head around ceasing to exist. I don't think any human can.) An actual fucking suicide. A handful of pills and a pocketful of stones.

 On better days, I crave a coma. A pause, a break from existence. A coma that feels like floating; there's no rent to pay, no body dysmorphia, and definitely no mental illness.

And I've tried, multiple times, to end it. Unsuccessfully of course; but that's because I am a narcissist. A narcissist who thinks his death would rob the World of the talent that I apparently? potentially? possess. A talent that I have not done anything with, apart from a blog post every three years. A talent that was not proven or attested with a university degree. And I'm pretty fucking sure that this supposed belief, this conviction that I'm good at something, better at something than the average person, was created by the childhood trauma to make me think

There's still hope. There's a light at the end of the tunnel (preferably bisexual lighting lol jk fam). All this; the suffering, the trauma, the abuse, the rape, the cuts, the depression, it's gonna be worth it. 

I'm scared that it won't.

I want to take a walk. Been lying in bed all day to the point where my lower back starts to hurt, which is a sign I’m more than familiar with and used to ignoring. Plus I want sweets; I know it won't help even though the simple act of getting what I want used to. I asked my personal dietitian (bf) permission and he said no, but I still got them; even though I know I will be trying to ride this wave of inspiration instead of stuffing my face. I never learn.

After the shop I just keep on walking; straight, which is so foreign to me. If there was a smell to define this high street, it would be fried chicken. It's full of shop after shop. I tried imagining how much chicken is killed and cooked every day, and got a headache. 

It's frightening, seeing so many closed shops and empty storefronts in every borough; and yet, the high street is pulsating with (masked) life. Queues outside stores, traffic jams and incidents, street works and road closures, and the people..I'm no longer afraid to look them in the eyes, and I do, provocatively, wondering, what's their story.

The only thing high streets aren't lacking in are delivery boys (and occasional girls). Just your average Sam Porter Bridges, waiting outside McDonald's on mopeds or bikes or scooters, shivering in anticipation.

They're dressed in typical British fashion: both winter jackets and shorts; house slippers and fresh white socks. I think I saw a sex worker, but was too afraid to ask for advice.

My mother messages me, and the conversation habitually turns into shifting blame and guilt tripping, and how one "shouldn't give up because there's so much to live for".

I could talk to my friends, you know, but in the last two months both bffs asked me to help them die. We actually made potential plans; my favourite is taking all of our savings and spending it on cocaine, and leaving this plane of existence whilst riding high.

It has become a case of blind leading the blind. 9 out of 10 friends my age have some sort of a mental illness; do you still blame that on computers and the internet, mom!?  Saying "God i want to die" has become ordinary, it doesn't ping off alarm bells like it would in the movies; fresh scars don't impress much because my friends have scars, too. I reread books I read a decade ago; I downloaded games like Angry Birds or Candy Crush because, I think, what we're trying to do here is evoke a memory or a feeling of a time where shit wasn't so difficult. Rent didn't need to be paid because we lived with our parents; depression was just beginning to plant its seeds; living in a small town meant your experience with dating was limited, and therefore hatred for me wasn't as deep as it is now; shops weren't so cosmopolitan so you didn't need to go to Waitrose for the perfect guacamole and just ate what your parents made you. Life was easier, man. And now, a decade later, I'm wondering if those 6 pounds I wasted on sweets will impact my next month's rent.

This is my la dolce vita.

I hallucinated a street sign that said "Shoot-up Hill", so I took a photo so that someone could either corroborate the sign or the fact that I do, indeed, hallucinate things.

Suddenly, the high street is cut off by a bridge, and we enter an area of beautiful high rise estates and no rubbish on the sidewalks. All the buildings have fences and gates, and there’s a fountain in front of the main entrance. Maybe one could hear the quiet rippling of the water in the dead of night. 

Another ambulance siren; maybe a person tried to cross to an area where they don't belong.

Eventually I cross the street and turn back. There’s a couple on the sidewalk in front of me, which always causes some amount of stress in the purposed tranquility of a walk. Will they judge the way I look (they have their backs to me and couldn't care less to turn around to even look at me)? Will our paces synchronise and I'll be forced to either walk the remainder of the route feeling anxious, or will resort to that awkward shuffle where you start walking faster to get ahead of them and then slow down once they're a safe distance away?

I don’t feel it myself do it, but I surpass them; maybe my pace was faster, maybe they slowed down; who cares? Does it even matter?? 

They’re close to the gated estate and I’m next to the street, and for a second I can’t help but think: what if I did it? Would it hurt a lot? More than it already has, at least. 

There’s a truck incoming, that’s a sure-fire way.  If only half of me was hit, would I do an awkward pirouette, like a turnstile? My arms stretched out, with a grocery bag in one hand. Maybe the groceries would do a neat hurl out of the bag and on to the street. Kill Bill style. 

The yogurt would pop, icky white on the tarmac.

6 kilometres and 90 minutes later (avg pace 15min31s/km) the head is clearer, I guess. The only positive tonight was the length of the walk; perfect timing to come back with legs starting to hurt and a desperate need to piss (and have some water).

On my way back, I walked past that fountain and got a closer look. It hasn't been in use for ages; that 'water' I saw was tiny blue fairy lights left over from christmas.

15 easy steps of ordering coffee:

1. When ordering, it would be great if you specified the size. I would go on a limb and assumed you wanted a medium, but if you upgraded to a large, I couldn’t charge you extra, and my head would be on the chopping block.

2. I’m trying to serve two customers at once, so if I’m making direct eye contact and addressing you by your assumed gender (I don’t like it either, but turns out, people only seem to care about this online), then yes, the person in front of you has already been served, and is waiting for either their drink or food, and yes, you can order.

3. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but saying hello doesn’t seem so difficult, really. It’s called manners, and we usually learn them at a young age. But apparently not all of us.

4. The menu is behind me in big, bold letters, and Simple English. Yes, we do have decaf, and we do have non-dairy alternatives.

5. God, why did I say customer service is my passion during my job interview.

6. There are 11 different coffees, and most of them can be made iced. If you order “a coffee”, I’m just gonna assume you want a medium Americano.

7. I work in a kiosk the size of my unfulfilled potential. Every coffee is take away, sir.

8. You can leave all your rubbish, it’s okay, I love cleaning after people.

9. Me as a consumer: thank god this coffee shop is open at midnight!

10. Me as an employee: why the fuck are we open at midnight??

11. Should I go back on my meds?

12. I can’t erase his smile from my head. Truth is, I’m not entirely sure if I want to.

13. It’s my first job where people can leave me tips, so rest assured I’m gonna flirt like heck with you. And I’m sorry about that.

14. The card reader is not ready to accept your payment whenever you decide to whip out your Amex. It needs to be activated. Please tell me you’re paying by card, if you want this to be over with quicker. I know I do (meaning life).

15. I don’t know which train goes to Lincolnshire. I don’t even remember which bus I took today. I work at a coffee shop, not the train station.

16. Why am I like this?? The customers are probably used to being asked if it’s eat in or take away, and are trying to make it easier for me.

17. This morning, I weighed all the pros and cons, I counted every small child and baby, and I still wanted this bus to crash.

??. Now your scent on my pillow’s faded, at least you left me with something.

十八. I don’t know why a bottle of water costs so much, madam. I don’t determine the prices. I don’t think I ever met the people who do. This is London, Zone 2 (pre-Brexit).

19. I’m supposed to make every customer leave with a smile, so consider this: at least you’re not me!

Thank you, enjoy!

Meditation on motherhood, as inspired by Marlene Nourbese Philip

Mother
Mother Earth
Mother figure
Double mother
Am I a mother
Without a cervix or a womb
My children out of paper

mother
mommy
mommy dearest
where did it go wrong

mummy
sorry
i’m sorry
i’m dying
i’m withering
it’s worse than before
never been this bad

mama
mamyte
aš nebežinau
ar sugebėsiu
aš bandau

maman
je tire du sang
ça n'aide pas

mommy
mamma
mutter
moder?
are you there

January Trends

I've decided to become a lifestyle guru.
What inspired me?
Procrastination. I have 8 hours to write an essay.
Lifestyle guru has always been my career goal. Along with other useless occupations, like YouTuber, blogger, stylist, socialite, motivational speaker, etc.
So i'm rebranding myself. Everything is gonna be very pastel. I'll dye my hair an unnatural colour. I'll be even more pretentious. I'll pretend that anyone cares. Are you ready?

Aprox. 13 minutes ago I got an idea about a tangerine clove necklace. I don't know whatcha call it in English, but it's like a tangerine clove made out of glass or maybe ceramics, on a chain. After a few seconds of searching on Pinterest and other internets I couldn't find one, so I guess I'm a business genius and will make one soon (unless England doesn't have 'modelling material').

So one of my trends for January is fruit jewellery. After looking on Etsy I realised that most fruit in general as jewellery looks cool, and we shouldn't judge fruit because all fruit are beautiful.

Avocado necklace, hand-made by local artisans, £18,08 on Etsy

Lemon pin, hand-made by local artisans, £21,69 on Etsy

Watermelon necklace (bronze), £18,08 on Etsy

There's dozens of amazing fruit jewellery items that'll get you ready for January, even ones made out of real fruit!

My second trend of the month is capes (also known as ponchos or Harry Potter cloaks). Capes are amazing. They're literally a blanket that you can throw over your pyjamas and just go to class. They're perfect for every occasion: weddings, house arrest, one night stands, lectures, funerals, Mary-Kate and Ashley costume for Halloween and so on. I bought these two capes from Topman and they're amazing.

Black Check Texture Cape, £15 on Topman

Charcoal/Black Double Cape, £15 on Topman

Burgundy Black Double Face Cape, £15 on Topman

Black Hooded Cape, £15 on Topman

I'm OBSESSED with this hand-crafted painting shopper tote bag by local artisan Van Gogh. With my capes and this bag I almost completed my transition into a metaphorical woman. It's perfect for occasions like: carrying, capacity, cigarettes keys and wallet and so on.

Cfanny Women's Van Gogh Painting Shopper Tote, £10,99 on Amazon

My book of the month is Crush by Richard Siken. Poetry is very in right now, and Siken just fucks you up whilst talking about relationships, men and gay stuff. It's very deep and poetic yet not pretentious. In 2004 it won the Yale Younger Poets prize.

Richard Siken, "Crush", £10.99 on Amazon

My app of the month is "Neko Atsume", an Asian-inspired kitty collector where one collects cats. Scientists say it's good for developing memory, logic, parapsychology and marine biology skills, so I will definitely be buying it for my childrens!

You can download Neko Atsume for the very low price of Free on iTunes

Song of the month is "Gentleman Who Fell" by Milla Jovovich. Mostly known as a folk singer with a debut album "The Divine Comedy" released in 1994, she came to prominence after I posted a video of her on my facebook fan page. It's fun, it's hip, it's happening.

You can buy Gentleman Who Fell on YouTube

Also, this month I'm really into vegetarianism. Food is, frankly speaking, boring, abundant and low-value. I recommend the "Writer's diet", which consists of coffee and cigarettes. Alas, one cannot only survive on coffee and cigarettes alone, so I suggest buying things like apples and tangerines and bananas, also greek yoghurt. Quinoa, red lentils, beluga lentils and couscous is also a good alternative. And for dessert peanut butter is an amazing and delicious option.

A still from Coffee and Cigarettes

10.23 3:34

I think about how disgusting my body looks with all its scars and stretch marks, I think about how ever since childhood I thought about it as a shell that doesn't really belong to me, which will later fall off and I'll emerge as a beautiful person; then later I'll go to therapy and take some pills and maybe have shock therapy to rewire the power lines in my brain and become a good person, a beautiful person both inside and out. Maybe then I'll stop hating people who like me and abuse won't be the only thing that excites me sexually. Maybe the elusive feeling of wanting to play my arms with sharp objects like a violin will pass; opening holes for the sadness to go away, so to speak. Maybe I'll learn how to manage a relationship that doesn't end up with me on the floor, with a nice guy and everything, and I won't ask him to understand; I just need him to listen. He'll leave me alone when I have spikes growing out on my pores, and in return I will love him. I will love him. I will love him.
I'll stop breaking apart the minute things won't seem perfect, I will no longer feel the need to break into tears every now and then, I'll stop over-analysing and blowing things out of proportion and tapping my fingers on surfaces in a twitchy manner when I get nervous.

The heirloom every fresher received, a bracelet with a heart, has a really sharp end.

I haven't done this in a while.

Kai buvai duše, bet vistiek nesijauti švarus

"Ką daro normalūs žmonės, kai būna taip liūdna? Jie kalbasi su savo šeima ar draugais. Ar bent jau man taip atrodo.
Šiuo metu tai nėra įmanoma." - Mr. Robot, "eps1.0_hellofriend.mov"

Ar po kokių penkiolikos, dvidešimt metų mes visi susėsim "kaip šeima" ir be teisimo galėsim pakalbėti apie visas klaidas ir sprendimus mano gyvenime? Ar mes kalbėsim apie mano randus, suvartotą alkoholio kiekį ar išbandytus narkotikus su šypsena? Ar galėsim aptarti mano (galbūt) būsimus kūrinius kaip kūrinius, o ne hobį, trukdantį man susirasti "tikrą" darbą? Ar būti "prie meno" tebebus savotiškas įžeidimas? Ar aš galėsiu atvykti į tėvų namus su savo "draugu", ir pristatyti jį kaip savo vyrą? Ar apie tėvų namus kada nors galvosiu kaip apie saugią vietą, kur gali būti savimi? Ar dings pastovus noras vemti ir verkti kai nuotaika pablogėja?
Ar nustosiu remtis į alkoholį, kai būna liūdna?

~

Šiandien mano draugas yra įspūdingas "Kagor" butelys, 750 ml tūrio, su spindinčiais vitražais ant etiketės. Reikėjo rinktis tarp jo ir degtinės, kurią skiesčiau nebent su vandeniu.
Nežinau kodėl pabėgti nuo žmonių į sodą ir likti vienam su savo mintimis pasirodė gera idėja.

~

Man atrodo, kad pagaliau atėjo laikas viską išsipasakoti. Nebeslėpti žmonių po slapyvardžiais ar sutrumpinimais, bandyti sudėlioti mintis kiek įmanoma rišliau, su glianciniu žodynu ir angliška sakinio struktūra.
Galbūt tai išeis į naudą bent vienam iš mūsų. Galbūt aš sužinosiu kažką naujo.
Galbūt tai paaiškins kodėl su savimi visada nešiojuosi peilį, ar kodėl tamsiausiuose kampuose visada tikiuosi to, ko bijau labiausiai (kas keisčiausia, aš vistiek einu į tuos tamsius kampus; nežinau ar tai yra drąsu, ar sadomazochistiška).

Tiesa ta, kad aš bijau vyrų.
Tradicinis vyriškumas man visada asociavosi su agresija ir smurtu; jeigu žvelgtume į tai iš psichologinės pusės, šaknys slepiasi vaikystėje (o kaip kitaip?) - ryškiausias prisiminimas apie senelį yra tai, kaip jisai mane erzina su metalo pjūklu. Būdamas mažas fiziškai negalėjau pakęsti aparatų, skleidžiančių didelį garsą, todėl tyčinis pjūklo junginėjimas ir kišimas arčiau mano veido privertė mane apsiverkti ir bėgti kuo toliau nuo garso šaltinio. Turbūt nieko teigiamo nepridėjo mano asocialus tėvas ir jo diržas, "profilaktiškai" naudotas 'edukaciniais', o gal netgi 'charakterio grūdinimo' tikslais.
Galiausiai viską vainikuoja mano santykiai su Elvinu, mano [praktiškai] pirmu (ir paskutiniu) vaikinu.

~

Prieš daugiau nei metus, kovo keturioliktą, aš gėriau tavo alų kurdamas pirtį ir laukiau kol atvažiuosi (o gal ateisi pėsčiom per mišką, iki jo pavežtas mikriuku, nes pavėlavai į paskutinį autobusą). Tą naktį, antrą valandą, aš paėmiau tavo nekaltybę, o tu manąją. Po visko pradėjai nekontroliuojamai juoktis, žvengti daugiau nei pusę minutės, kol aš žiūrėjau į tavo nuogą kūną ir bandžiau suprasti, ką padariau blogai.

Rugpjūtis. Mano džinsai ir apatiniai nusmaukti iki pačios apačios, jisai keistai palinkęs virš pirties gulto šalia dėžių su senais laikraščiais ir žurnalų stirtų. Bandžiau naudoti sušąlusį kokosų aliejų lubrikacijai ir baigiau gėdindai greitai, vėliau šlykštėdamasis visu aktu ir bandydamas gėdą nuplauti  tėčio skardine alaus ("Gintarinis" šviesusis alus, 1 Pinta"). Viskas baigėsi ten, kur ir prasidėjo; mano pirmas ir mano (turbūt) paskutinis, prieš išvažiuojant, prieš paliekant visus ir visas ir su savimi pasiimant tik knygas ir lūkesčius.

~

Jo vardas buvo Elvinas Jonėnas, ir jisai mane eilinį kartą paliko kelios dienos po mano 18-to gimtadienio. Po to buvo kažkelintas pasikalbėjimas apie santykius, "be proto pisimo". Aš sutikdavau susitikti ir pasikalbėti pirmus keturis kartus, nes maniau kad duosiu žmogui 'dvasios ramybės' ir jis pagaliau paliks mane ramybėj.

Per naujus metus jis spjovė man į veidą, nes "prideramai su juo neatsisveikinau".

Vėliau buvo daugiau bandymų 'pasikalbėti', kuriuos aš ignoravau, nes galvojau kad keturi kartai yra pakankama, ir dar vienas bus tiesiog bevaisis, nes aš negaliu būti tuo, kuo jis nori kad aš būčiau.

Velykas šventėme pas Deividą. Visi gyrė mano mamos tuno tortą, ir galiausiai manęs buvo paklausta, ar nieko prieš jei prisijungs Elvinas. Klaidingai maniau, kad esam suaugę, psichologiškai stabilūs žmonės.
Todėl kad mums dviese likus rūkomąjame man bandant išeiti jis mane pargriovė ir laikė prispaudęs prie žemės. Bandžiau spardytis, trankytis, pešti jam plaukus ir draskyti nagais, bet jis paprasčiausiai buvo per stiprus. Netgi bandžiau jį bučiuoti, tikėdamasis kad atitrauksiu jo dėmesį ar kad jis bent trumpam atleis savo pirštus ant mano riešų ir galėsiu bent šiek tiek išsilaisvinti. Galiausiai maldavau kad jis mane nužudytų; žinau kad tai skamba labai dramatiškai, bet argi ne aš visada troškau mirties? Būtų labai poetiškas būdas išeiti.
Nebandžiau rėkti. Iki to momento gyvenime nesupratau kaip žmonės būna išprievartaujami, nes visą laiką būdavau pakankamai stiprus kad galėčiau pasipriešinti (kai su klasiokais žaisdavom imtynes ar panašiai). Iki to momento, kai pasijaučiau visiškai bejėgis. Iki šiol nesuprantu, kodėl Rugilė paliko mus dviese vienam kambary, pasirodo kad ne aš vienas naiviai galvojau, kad įmanoma suaugėliškai pasikalbėti.

"-Kodėl tu mane ignoruoji?"*

Kodėl aš nerėkiau? Jie buvo visai čia pat, koridoriaus gale. Ar aš galvojau, kad to nusipelniau?
Neprisimenu, ką jisai sakė. Kažkuriuo momentu, gal po dešimt, trisdešimt ar šešiasdešimties minučių į rūkomąjį įėjo Rugilė, ir aš jos maldavau iškviesti policiją, tada pagriebiau savo paltą ir kuprinę ir bėgau link artimiausio baro, ten kur būna žmonių, ten kur būtų liudininkų, kur kas nors (tikriausiai) jį sustabdytų jei jis bandytų dar kažką man padaryt.
Jis mane pasivijo Rotušės aikštėj kai bandžiau prisidegt cigaretę.
"-Kodėl tu nuo manęs bėgi?"

Tą naktį bijojau užmigti.

~

Kitą naktį verkiau iš skausmo ir galėjau užmigt išsirietęs keistoj pozoj, turbūt dėl to kad tiek laiko praleidau prispaustas ant šaltų grindų.
Galvojau, kad tai, ką jis padarė, nebuvo labai legalu, ir galvojau apie tą teisinį dalyką, kai žmonės negali prisiartinti prie tavęs per kelis metrus ar kažkas tokio. Bet bijojau. Iki to momento nesupratau moterų, kurios tyli apie smurtą šeimoje, arba kaltina save. Iki to momento.
Kelis metus priklausiau Gyvajai Bibliotekai, ir per 2014 VDU Pavasarį nusprendžiau pasikviesti Elviną, kadangi jis norėjo daugiau bendros veiklos. Po viso švelniai tariant Velykų "fiasko" Gyvoji turėjo vykti Vilniaus Knygų Mugėje, vėliau kitose vietose, ir galiausiai VDU Pavasario festivalyje Kaune, ir aš parašiau mūsų vadovei Indrei paaiškindamas visą situaciją, su viltim kad jis bus išmestas iš mūsų organizacijos, nes naiviai tikėjausi jog smurtas (kad ir koks jis bebūtų) prieš kitus narius yra netoleruotinas.
Naivumas yra bruožas, iš kurio dar neišaugau. Man buvo pasakyta, kad nieko negalima padaryti.
Vėliau rašiau savo draugei Indrei, kuri administravo Gyvosios puslapį veidaknygėj. Ir vėl nieko nebuvo galima padaryti.
Mane labiausiai nustebino žmonių reakcija, ypač po to, kai paviešinau jo laišką man, kviečiantį "į dvarą" "išsiaiškinti dalykus" ir "pasikalbėti".

"dude.
aš tavęs neteisiu
bet viešinti asmenines žinutes? rimtai?"

Tik vėliau, po kažkiek laiko geriant pigų vyną su K. kažkur ant suoliuko ji man pasakė, kad tai yra atvirkštinis seksizmas - jeigu aš būčiau moteris, ir man būtų padarę tai ką jisai padarė, visi apsišiktų vietoj, bet kadangi kalba eina apie du vaikinus, čia nieko tokio; būk vyras, užsiaugink kiaušus, mes nieko negalim padaryt.

"Rimtai? Tu postini mano laišką savo bloge kai aš bandau gražiai elgtis ir atsiprašyt?"

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Pasiilgau senų laikų, kai žmonės persekiodavo tave irl su ilgais ploščiais ir akiniais nuo saulės. Internetinis anonimiškumas suteikia galimybę prailginti mano nemigos valandas subtiliais komentarais; bandymai užblokuoti žmogų iš savo gyvenimo irgi turi ribas, tau tenka verbuoti savo geriausią draugą kad parašytų man prašydamas su tavim pasikalbėti.

Kelis asmenybę formuojančius metus praleidau draugų būryje, kur kalbėjimas apie jausmus vykdavo daugiausia kartą per mėnesį, labai prisigėrus, kai laikyti viską savyje nebebūdavo vietos. Mes nekentėm savęs ir neturėjom pasitikėjimo savimi, ir kad žmonės mus mėgtų, išmokom apsimesti kad pasitikėjimo turim daugiau nei 110%, todėl tokie menkniekiai kaip "emocijos" buvo nereikšmingi. Manau, kad panašų požiūrį perėmė likusi visuomenė. Niekam nerūpi, kad tau blogai, nes "kitiem būna dar blogiau". Dėl to šitas tekstas atrodys kaip dėmesio reikalavimas, o aš pasirodysiu kaip auka.
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2015 08 28