She is lonely...


And she is sad...



She wants to scream.... But there's no one there to hear her...


There's just an empty wall... And no matter how hard she tries, there's no one there
to listen to her...


Nothing that could stop her pain...


No blue sky...


No sun to shine....


It's just her, out in the dark...


Hopeless and confused....

Waiting to be saved...



By the only one she loves... Forever...

Hate… It’s the feeling haunting every single one of us. I always tried to avoid it and I always said I don’t hate anyone or anything. But I was wrong…

I hate hypocrisy. I hate lies. I hate fake. I hate bad make up. I hate waking up early and sleeping late. I hate honesty and optimism. I also hate realism and pessimism.

I hate my best friend. And I hate my unknown enemies. I hate silence and I hate noise. I hate Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I sometimes even hate Fridays and Saturdays. And I definitely hate Sundays.

I hate my job, I hate accountability. I hate customer service. I hate being nice and I hate being rude. I hate my salary, my meal tickets. I hate the city I live in, I hate the clubs and I hate the coffee-shops and tee-houses.

I hate the system. I hate Malls. I hate supermarkets. I hate Romanian music, Romanian singers and some Romanian actors. Most of all I hate the so called actors around me, people who pretend they’re something they’re not and they will never be. I hate girls in short skirts and high-heeled shoes and I hate guys who look girlie. I hate beauty, I hate ugliness. I even hate normal.

I hate politicians. I hate their houses, their cars, their holiday inns and all the other things bought with money they stole from you, me and every other human being who works 8 or 9 hours a day for a decent living. I hate their wives and their kids. I even hate their house pets. I hate their swimming pools, their playgrounds and all the other things they have and don’t deserve.

I hate TV. I hate news, newspapers, magazines, reporters and journalists. I hate thieves, I hate crime, I hate pedophiles, zoophiles and sado-masochists. I hate car crashes, I hate plane crashes. I hate dead children, suicidal emo kids and jerks who make fun of those who have no money but have brain.

I hate underestimation, self esteem, ass kissing, rules, schedule, tiredness, lack of personality, lack of brain, lack of time, lack of money, lack of fun, lack of alcohol, lack of cigarettes, lack of drugs.

I hate racism, anti-Semitism, anti Muslim, anti gypsies. I hate Italians who hate Romanians. And I hate hate.

So? Who do you hate?

Regret…everybody comes to feel it… It’s that feeling that won’t let you sleep at night… Some feel it more deeply than others… Like those who did something really bad… Or those who never did anything to feel that life’s worth living… Like those who never felt love… And there’s those who think they did something and someone else got punished for their mistakes…

This is about the one I call my best friend… The only one who stood by me, no matter what. She’s that person who shares my secrets, my hopes, fights for my dreams. She’s the only one who truly knows me, without me describing myself…

When you realize how close someone is to you, you also realize she’s the one who gives a meaning to your life. She’s the one you fight with and still forgives anything you’ve done. The one who stands by you on rainy days. She’s the one you don’t appreciate at her true value. But still, when something happens to her you realize you can’t live without her. Than you realize how nobody, ever, will love you like she does. That no one will stand by your side and cheer you up when you are disappointed. And that nobody, absolutely nobody in this world could take her place.

When you are afraid of what could happen to her, you’d give anything to change the things you did, things that once made her sad… If you could turn back time, you’d never miss your classes, cause you know how sad that made her… And you would never come home drunk from a club. You would never again tell her you hate her, just because you’re not allowed to go to a party, because you know she does it cause she wants what’s best for you… And although you don’t hate her, those words break her heart…

Lately I tell her everyday how much I love her. I call her when I make coffee, when I cook something new, when I do something I’m proud of, cause I want her to be proud of me and I don’t want her to miss anything I did. I also tell her the bad things I did, because I know she wants to hear the truth.

And this here is my way to tell her she means the world to me. That no matter what will happen I’m here for her, and I will always be. And that she’s the most important person in my life: my best friend, the best listener, the best teacher and the best mother in the world…

Regret… It makes you open you’re heart… reveal you’re feelings…. It makes you open you’re eyes, realize what good things people can do for you and it makes you feel sorry for every little mistake you once did… And it makes you feel free again…

After a pretty long absence I decided to finally come back. And to write about irony.

I chose irony because it’s something I get to face really often lately. It’s everywhere I go, surrounding everyone and everything.

It’s ironic to do your job well and to get criticized because of how you get dressed. Or to find out you’ll get fired if you come late again, and still do it. Or to find a new great apartment, in which you can really feel good, not to pay to much for it and to have cockroaches…

It’s also ironic to live in a big city and still be bored… to have a well paid job and still not afford to buy not everything you want, but everything you need. It’s ironic to lose a friend for a stupid thing you did, when you actually didn’t mean no harm.

It’s like irony is a part of everyone’s life. We meet it every day, we’ve learned to live with it, we got used to it. We actually kind of depend on it. That’s why I wonder: If it’s a part of each and every one of us, why does it hurt? Why is it a bad thing? Why do we accept everything that happens starting with the moment irony comes in our lives? Are we really masochists? And if we are, than why?

I usually find an answer to my questions, but this time I can’t. Maybe because in my case, irony is overwhelming and I simply can’t deal with it. I refuse to accept that it has to be a part of my life and I do all I can to keep it away. Still it’s here, destroying everything I’m trying to build, every hope I have, every dream I fight for.

Maybe that’s me. Maybe I enjoy living in my world, where everything is like I want it to be. I feel better not letting irony open my eyes and see how things really are. Maybe I’m an ignorant. Or maybe I’m not. I’m just to stubborn to accept my own reality…

my life is a movie...

If I could combine movies to create my whole life, I know exactly what I would choose.

I choose cartoons for my childhood and I chose them because I think most of the movies are too dramatic and unable to describe a happy childhood. And I was a happy kid. I did a lot of wrong things and I made them worse by trying to repair them. That until I learned that fixing mistakes is not important. You have to learn from them, cause it’s the only way to avoid doing them. Making a mistake is a mystery, learning from it is the way you solve it.



For my adolescence I’d chose “Robin Hood”. It’s about freedom, war, friendship, love… It’s everything that describes how I felt that time. I was misunderstood, my own ideas of life were in a continuous fight, friendship was the most important thing for me. I could say my adolescence was pretty long…. Actually it lasted until I was old enough to find a job and until I really fell in love… And, most importantly, I was free.



Now I met him and I’m happy. So I pick a movie with a happy ending: “50 first dates”. I choose it not for the drama of reliving one day for the rest of your life, but for the sacrifices one can make for being with that one person he loves.



Now you kind of know me… Cause that’s how my life sort of looks until now…

Today I read the blog entry of an Afro-American woman, talking about the American dream. She wrote about how full of hope she was when she moved from Kenya to America, how she thought she could make a better life there. Explained her goals, how she struggled in trying to achieve them… She wrote about everything she went trough.

As she got there, she was optimistic. America was the land of opportunity. She was expecting everything, instead she got nothing. First of all, it took her a lot to find a job. People didn’t want to hire her, because she was different. Finally she got a job in a market. She could clean the place after everybody was gone. She wasn’t allowed to show herself, but at least she had a job.

Finally she realized: Her life in Kenya wasn’t worse, but it also wasn’t better. The American dream is for those who afford to live it. An ordinary person couldn’t benefit such thing. But she didn’t leave America. She stayed there, hopping she’ll once have a better chance.

Reading her story made me think about her as a brave girl. It takes guts to go trough something like that and still keep your head high. It takes a lot of courage and strength to fall down and still be able to rise. But her story also made me wonder: Why do we try to leave our homes, hoping a better future awaits in a bigger city? What could actually make us feel like home?

I also find myself in a big city and I hate it. I would leave anytime. And one day I will. But it was my choice to be here. I wanted something more than I could get in the city where I grew up. I wanted a better job than I could find there, a better paid one. I wanted not to miss the parties I got used to. I spent 4 years here; it would be kind of hard for me to leave it. And still I can’t call it home.

Comparing her story to mine made me ask myself another question: If I don’t fell home in the city I grew up or in the one I’ve spent more then 4 years, where would I feel home? Is everybody in my situation or am I the only freak who doesn’t find her place? Will I ever be able to be happy, by being a “homeless”? And than I realized:

There are things that make me happy: having a chat with my friends, asking my mom for an advice, hearing my dad’s jokes…taking a walk in the park, seeing a movie, going to the theatre…learning to cook, cleaning my room, taking care of my flower… And most importantly: Hearing HIS voice and being in HIS arms…. And it made me realize there was my home…

This is for you…

I kind of hesitated to show you my page. I hesitated cause I thought you might not like it. And I thought you might think it’s a waste of time. It took me a while to let you see what I like to do, because I want you to be proud of me. And that means you have to like it.

This is to let you know how important you are to me. It’s maybe the most easiest way to make you realize you mean the world to me.

It’s been a while since you’re a part of my life and my heart is still beating faster every time I hear your voice. I know I love you, cause I can’t go to sleep without hearing your voice and I can’t wake up without knowing you’ll be there.

Thanks for making me smile, for listening to my problems. Thank you for calling me, for saying you love me, for making me happy.

This is for you….The love of my life…