You didn't want him when he wanted you...

Why it's so hard to lead completely separate life when it comes to an end? Like possessed sleuthes you rummage anything pertaining to the ex and rejoice in it though just a while ago it seemed to be completely beneath your dignity. I can't get why it is happening to me? I've never been this acquisitive kind of girl who would interrogate the partner by the light of a green lamp on the brass-and-oak bureau amid the sound of the briskly confident tapping by two pretty and blond typists. While typing this senseless grotesque simile, I realized that it's all about the idea preconsciously embedded by all the great novelists who bring some minor character into the story without an end, as they can't let him go. Therefore, the feel of despondency floods through me as I comprehend that I should take leave of my character but not the story.

What's the point in being beautiful? I mean it's not far from being an extremely sweet raspberry cream-tart. Everybody wants you, of course, of course, they want you, but apparently there are two types of human-being in front of some delicious dainty. There is this kind of men, ordinary reasonable men, who will staring at you with lust but never try, because it's meaningless, foolish, childish to gorge on sweeties before your first course, second course and stewed fruit. That's why they choose boisterous, blunt, direct, tenacious women like their mothers, that nurtured that sense of shame, to feel nostalgic while your partner is beating you with a soup ladle.
Nevertheless, they are just afraid of the vision of such a beauty that will kill them instantly with ten plus pounds to the body they've been working out for so long with a bottle or a case of beer every day. You know, it's all about this idea of being married. The ring occurs on your finger, the next - you're fat gross moron with six children around you crying and asking for something stupid and inscrutable, while this everlasting little baby inside you, that every man has, cries out with them.
- No, I want mango ice-cream! I want mango-mango-mango...
- WHAT? What does it actually mean? In my childhood we licked icicles in wintertime and the resin of the pines in other times!
After a while both of them fall on the ground in hysterics. Slow curtain. The end.
Thus, you find yourself sitting on a silver platter and looking extremely bored, probably with the glass of somewhat and something melancholic in the air - I prefer Chopin for that case - and that's the moment fruit flies come in, rubbing their scaly hands, and merry-go-round begins. The last conversation with them ended up with the cream-tart vomiting all the cream out. What a shame. But I do apologise, sir, for your shiny shoes.

Это одна из моих главных проблем: если я знаю, что я буду делать, знаю, что должно произойти, то это точно не произойдет. Словно какое-то проклятие что ли. Так и буду биться об лед как большая рыбина, заглотившая наживку. Но биться, буду биться, пока вся чешуя не слезет. Без этой шелухи, в которую закована моя сущность, мне будет легче лавировать в потоках грязных вод, пока меня не выловят снова, покусившись на легкую добычу.

“Я за принудительный каннибализм: раз уж убил - съешь!
Если заставить поедать всех, кого ты убил, то не стало бы войн”
Эбби Хоффман

У всякого есть свое виртуальное индейское кладбище из живых людей -- тех, кого вы больше не впустите в жизнь. Кажется, мне пора копать новую могилу. Но все же лучшие отношения у меня складываются исключительно с незнакомыми людьми. Перекиньтесь одним словом, взглядом -- и уже есть, за что ненавидеть.

I would love to prolong some detestable instants. I won't let myself be piqued by anything eftsoon as I couldn't endure another agony. These idle philanderings are devouring what's left of who I am leaving me without any pillar or safety net to cushion my imminent fall.

Actually, I'm not a cynic yet, but I'm petrified how easily everything can be ruined. Ideas are substituted, concepts are perverted, and principles are rejected. Who are these spiritsuckers merely vis-a-vis me? The deuce only knows anyway.
It's not terrifying to remain alone, no, but I'm seized by the fear that I appear to have only one thing to do: to judge. If only within my head. So, the next time when you see me laughing check that there is no the slightest sign of cruelty or cynical mockery in the line of my mouth.

Faugh! Heavens! Even being injurious to my health the internal body purification of all my alimentary organs is just what I need. Because with every reminiscence of their schmoopy manners or their sleek cooing in my ear I begin having projectile-vomiting fits. Oh, Lord, will no one rid me of these pestilential laddies so densely populating the first capital city? Apparently, now I should switch myself over to drinking something stronger to kill the germs after such intercourses.

My heart long for something jolly as recently I'm permanently in good spirits and it's not uncommon to see moi purring cheerful sweet roundelays from Brigitte Bardot repertoire. What a funny thing that I endeavoured to divert my thoughts from all internal reflection formerly, and now... there is something effervescent, baroque in the air which apparently I was striked with.
Certainly, I owe my wild spirits and a bit carnal mind to my reading as it seems that I absorbed myself too deeply in reading to find a refuge in the lucid seventeenthcentury France. How jolly it all used to be! In the books of some memories it was the best time that ever sloshed over the world - the old time, the gay time, sweet and simple, as though time were young and hard, courteous and barbarous as the manners of troubadours cherished under ardent sun of Gascony and of Languedoc! Even though I may be somewhat grieved by this thought, the spirit of the splendid era agitates my soul that myself is perfectly at ease.

Well, all my efforts worth at least a frothed and foamed bath.. Chaque jour que Dieu fait I feel physical need in taking bath as a rite sacramentel as a moral purification sans doute! You wash away all the filth of the day and lighten up appearing léger comme une plume ou une bulle d'air. Puis j'enveloppe dans un drap de lit et sommeille légèrement. Voila néanmoins I revert to my duties and make a tragedy out of my life smoking sigarettes. C'est triste, mais c'est comme ça. I wish I were one of Eliot's mermaids, or just to sink in pleine mer and drown to be one of them. Quel conte de fées romanesque qui jamais ne se réalisera!

Definitely it must be admitted that I am firmly convinced Art lover. I adore every manifestation of it as the supreme human mind in its glory in general. And it grieves me to learn that some ignoramus can't be bothered to take an interest in some poetry or concerto. Well, I am vey gracious to all besides those who are as stubborn as a mule. I prefere left them behind.

According to Robert Frost, 'we may choose something like a star to stay our minds on and be stayed' and I find it a gospel truth. Well, I will admit, apparently, there is always a tremendious amount of thoughts and opinions, but sometimes it is essential to open your eyes wider and look above. Definitely, the star talks to us by its glare and asking us for that, since we are all lacking of height at present. And it is not a matter of decency or honour, that is quite a different issue. These thoughts were aroused actually from the essay "On grief and reason' by Joseph Brodsky. It is strong and striking writing about beauty of life striking us with awe of death.
Wherefore art thou aloof and younder then, mine heart?

Apparently, through all of the devilish things we do courteousely we are all embers from the same fire as far as there is only equanimity that remained. Nevertheless, while I absorbs into thought Pandemonium breaks out in my mind as the facts and the figures overwhelm and stifle and I can't cease any moment slipping away. Only a mutual love of scheming which we bonded over brings me round as well as the intricacies of our war games, escapades and vixen tricks which are too complex for a prole to fathom but good enough to amuse me.

While watching Casablanca, All about Eve, Belle de jour I was observing my personal drama unfolding between the devil and the deep sea. Smoking cigarettes one by one I try to quell my thirst for his kisses stolen from me tenderly. It simply seems that I really long for him. It's like exclusive secret society you desire to be in and that makes you tingle. Well, it must be admitted that I... Can't help falling in love with such a darling man, indeed.

On my way home after my little devastating tornado, which I actually brought down on their wretched heads, I dropped into a pub, and got some... erm, beverage. So, I was sitting in front of a counter while waiting for my friend and looking for somebody who felt the same thing as I did. But it was too crammed with drunken voices of dolts who claster together to run away from their responsibility as being husband and doing your job or.. whocarewhatelse, therefore I decided that I had been too much preoccupied with my plans that I simply could have a quarterlife crisis. Sounds not great, yeah. Well, that's why I spent the whole night boozing up, flirting and enjoying the whole acting immensely what actually makes me laugh now.

ça va péter des flammes.. Because I realized that while we can't tear out a single page of our life we can throw the whole book in the fire. George Sand. She understands me.
And what better place to go up in smoke than in front of the crème de la crème?
Well, dark revolutionary red lipstick will be the wise choice for the meeting to discover pack of brazen lies.
And I believe that they will be dead and buried with no chance for a resurrection after my little welcoming speech.
Now I covet to screw it all up because I'm exhausted as it can't be simply figured out.

I'm feeling myself now comme un citron pressé as I've drunk the bitterest cup of humiliation. I loathe intensely my work and abhor the malevolent existences i.e. envious persons who are always willing to stab you in the back and are often found your loved one. Well, it is a great pity that I have cephalalgia and actually nothing can heip.

We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers,
who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly,
all at once, before a word has been spoken.
Fyodor Dostoevsky

It’s pretty up here and I simply want for him to remember it was all in his head. Furthermore, it was foolish to strike up an acquaintance with me in the pub with the glass of cider and eternally prosing about the weather and blinding my couldn't-care-less attitude towards this obscure specimen.
Well, you can never pretend, don’t try to defend it, it was all in your head and I just wanted to know - in the city people act like strangers and I never get to see you anymore even with my telephone number as I have call filter on my blackberry. Obviously, I could appear aggrieved at the insult from some another jerk but I am not that kind of girl.. as some milksop. Nobody can frustrate my plans for evening cause I have fellas and co-conspirators who are always wanting to be in on the act, speaking naturally - toujour et encore prist.

"I suppose it is out of laziness that the world is the same day after day.
Today it seemed to want to change.
And then anything, anything could happen."
— Jean-Paul Sartre (Nausea)

Well, one more circle is drawn. Pop champagne and feel sheer delight.
And then, have no delusion of metamorphosis with inevitable nausea.

Actually, I have to find some pecularities of images in "Les Bonnes" by Jean Genet instead of watching Mulberry's lookbook. Mais.. c'est si seduisant, c'en est trop pour moi! The further I get the harder the going.

While there are few things I consider sacred, my personal liberty is one of them. I appreciate the concern, but I should always be free to leave. Sitôt dit, sitôt fait, as we both know that I'll never be completely trustworthy. And I admit it's not my strong suit either. But it's part of what keeps things interesting between us. However, now it's my time to gloat. I can't be bribed either and certainly I can easily discern pseudo-intellectual heinous malcontents in others as I am a person of quite another sphere and know these certain cachets. I suppose there could be some excruciating pleasure in that. Pop the champagne.

We're not the same, dear, as we used to be as the seasons have changed and so have we. There was little we could say and even less that we could do to stop the ice from getting thinner under me and you. We buried our love in the wintery grave,
a lump in the snow was all that remained, but we stayed by its side, as the days turned to weeks and the ice kept getting thinner with every word we'd speak. When the spring arrived, we were taken by surprise when the flows under our feet bled into the sea and nothing was left for you and me..

These lines are constantly running through my head as it gave me a clear insight into my current frame of mind about our affaire de cœur. It was very wrong of him to make such a request. It was like shooting fish in a barrel! I followed him to the edge and fell off. Et à quoi bon? Voilà tout à coup I fervently desired to hit the bottom and escape.. je voudrais disparaître sans laisser de traces. I can't seem to stop craving for escape.

Yay! I have no french studies tomorrow which means that I may spend my time in a coffee-bar and scrutinize closely all periodicals I've overlooked, go Christmas shopping or even take a stroll. These days seemed to me to be arduous and everything was hazardous. I just feel that every trifle will be the coup de grace to me if I won't find the time for some relaxation since smoking in bathtube and gorging on tarts, brownies, macaroons, cream puffs.. oh, is not effective anymore.

I am sorely in need of my favourite macaroons in order that I should avoid meeting him. As I am totally afraid of seeing his eyes blazing with frenzied passion I would rather gulp back tons of sweeties of every sort and kind. Oh, Almighty, safeguard me against that reckless sexoholic. I'll endeavour to remain calm and if it won't be effective, like every great general, I have contingency plans. Luckily I have Marie-Antoinette's life history to amuse myself throughout the night. What a tight-knit plan! Or, let's be honest, I am totally don't need to go through this sex rehab.

'My smoking might be bothering you, but it's killing me'.
- Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette

One shortcoming of our modern culture is the universal lack of adequate relaxation. Many not only do not know how to relax, but do not take time to learn. Smoking helps to relax because, like music, it is rhythmic. Smoking gives a legitimate excuse to linger a little longer after meals, to stop work for a few minutes, to sit at home without doing anything that requires effort. Also, obviously, the powerful erotic sensitivity of the oral zone is the reason for that pleasure derived from smoking.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered our names.

(Emily Dickinson)

As I've come down with a fever I started to vent my frustration in poetry while I was sitting in my favourite coffee-bar and waiting for my darling minion. Obviously, my lighter turned out to be used up, so I kept clicking it, simultaneously thinking about the veritable reason why I am still with him in my mind. It is hard to discern anything in our affair, nevertheless I was like statue-statuesque with 'this person' - sized cloud above my head looking the waiter lasking to light my cigarette. Well, it doesn't matter so far as we all know that signs and visions are for the religious the superstitious and the lower class. I believe that we're alive but I should give up all reminiscences about us
'until the moss had reached our lips
and covered our names'.