Professional loser

Dear Fuck-Wads that live one floor above my apartment,

I just wanted to write to let you know that I really did not appreciate you waking me up this morning (and the last 364 mornings, including saturday mornings, since I’ve been living in this apartment). Altough I understand your claim that your apartment needs capital repairs, it might have been wiser to do the hammer-drilling stuff somewhere AFTER 12:00 PM. Oh, and I would have appreciated if it didn’t take ALL DAMN YEAR, working from 8:00 AM to 9:00 AM every fucking morning!

Your “golly fucking gee, Ma’am, it won’t take longer than a couple of days” response does not account for the fact that I never actually got to sleep for the past couple of MONTHS!

Your hammer-drill perforating my ceiling has not only caused me hours of sleeplessnes, but also headaches in ways that may cause a permanent tick. Your “Ma’am, the new professional plumber I hired told me his work will be done by the end of this week and I cannot explain what’s taking so long” is a load of horse shit that you should be forced to eat. And “plumber” is not a profession, it barely qualifies as a hobby. Your “As a courtesy Ma’am, we would be willing to do the renovations only after 12 o’clock in the morning” is really NOT A COURTESY WHEN YOU CAUSED THIS MESS TO BEGIN WITH. I have an idea, why don’t you torture us 8 hours a day, working from 8:00 to 16:00, like NORMAL people work, and end this hell on earth thing once and for all? Umm…just a suggestion, you total and utter DIPSHITS.

I wish a pestilence on you and your families so that you are effectively driven out of the gene pool.

Sincerely,

Your much too tolerant flatmate.

I’m being stalked by Dr. Fucking Freud

Update. The little pathological anonymous nerd who was getting on my nerves until yesterday, is no longer anonymous.

He was so sweet, trying to prove me that he knows what I’m doing at all times and when he doesn’t know, he’s trying to find out…and that he’s dangerous and I should get a restraining order…But as the Ice Queen I obviously am, I didn’t take the poor bastard too serious.

Having no life whatsover and willing to do anything to get a reaction, he finally revealed his pathetic, insignificant, loser identity: he is just this…boy [I think he's like...12]…I once had a conversation with, on messenger. The conversation was so boring, I don’t even remember what was it about. I do remember telling him my name, so that answers my “how the hell was he able to find out my name, when he only knew the few information I posted on this blog?” question.

Disappointed with the fact that the only people who are checking out his blog are his friends from “The Associated Stalking Weirdos”, he finally deleted the post where he “revealed my secret identity”   [ L-fucking-OL, you little psycho!!!] and he posted a profound, psychological diagnosis, based on the tabs he kept [anyone who's AYONE in Stalker World, must be a tab-keeper], while observing my behaviour. He’s so cute, he says I’m “a lost scared child” and that only he knows this hiden side of me, and other shit like this.

Awww…poor baby….I wonder if he’s on medication… ‘Cause if he isn’t, he should be, I’m sure he knows that. He should tell his parents to take him to a doctor.

Men are such Al Bundys

Dragi spargatori de seminte din fata blocului meu,

In cazul fericit in care pana la cei 25 de ani pe care ii aveti, ati invatat sa cititi, va rog sa cititi urmatorul ghid de supravieturie pentru bisnitari analfabeti pe care vi-l propun mai jos. Are doar 3 reguli simple, ca sa nu va ia o vesnicie sa-l cititi.

1. “Buna papushe, ce faci?” este ULTIMA REPLICA pe care as vrea sa o aud de la un spargator de seminte, atunci cand ies din scara blocului.
2. “I’m horny as hell” nu este un salut potrivit in nicio situatie.
3. Raspunsul la intrebarea “domnishoare, nu ti-e frica sa iesi singura in oras?” va fi INTOTDEAUNA: “I’m not afraid, but apparently YOU ARE, since you only go out in herd.”

Daca in ghid am folosit litere din alfabet la care inca nu ati ajuns, stiti scara in care stau (aia in fata careia stati toata noaptea tipand bancuri porcoase). Apartamentul e la parter, prima usa pe dreapta. Va astept pentru explicatii suplimentare de luni pana vineri, dupa ora 10.

Toate cele bune,

Vecina de la 6.

Fucking Wonderland

Nu mai pot cu oamenii care se baga in fata la cozi! Romanul inca nu pricepe ca nu poate sari asa pur si simplu peste coada. Nu e corect, nu e frumos si daca trece in fata mea, nu este SAFE.

Era coada la farmacie. COADA. Asta inseamna ca femeia din fata mea era prima, apoi eram eu, apoi toti ceilalti. Se pare insa ca maimutoiul care s-a bagat in fata a sarit peste gradinita, unde ar fi trebuit sa invete principalele reguli sociale: spune “multumesc”, “te rog” si “cu placere”, imparte cu colegul si WAIT YOUR FUCKING TURN!

Martini Night- Shaken, not stirred

Urasc situatiile in care una din prietenele mele se implica intr-o relatie si devine atat de entuziasmata de “viata de cuplu” (expresie cumplit de stereotipica, stiu) incat simte ca este datoare sa ne faca si pe noi fericite, facandu-ne cunostinta cu prietenii iubitului ei. Nu-mi place in principiu ideea de “lipeala”, dar cel mai mult ma deranjeaza modul in care ma simt obligata sa-i multumesc prietenei mele ca m-a obligat sa ies in oras cu cei mai plictisitori/nepoliticosi/inculti/uneori chiar minori/aroganti oameni.

Noaptea trecuta ar fi trebuit sa fie “sambata in oras cu fetele”. Una din fete insa trece prin perioada aia in care ii transpira palmele ridicol de mult si simte insecte in stomac. Prin urmare, se simtea confuza total, incercand sa afle raspunsul la intrebarea “sambata in oras cu fetele, sau sambata God knows where cu iubitul”. Solutia, (evident, in defavoarea noastra, a fetelor singure, desi Simona era ferm convinsa ca ne face o favoare), a fost combinarea celor doua perspective. Useless to say ca iubitul Simonei nu avea de gand sa vina singur, ci cu inca trei prieteni.

So am decis, recunosc, in unul din momentele mele de idiotenie, sa accept o ultima incercare de a ma intelege bine cu prietenii iubitului prietenei mele (stiu ca ai inteles ce am vrut sa spun), chiar daca asta insemna ruinarea iesirii in oras CU FETELE.

1. girl’s night out

A planned event, usually held at a cheesy Irish pub or dance club, where groups of females dress provocatively, flirt insessantly, dance badly, and accept free drinks from desparate single men. The event usually ends when one female passes out in her own vomit or when one of their boyfriends shows up.

(am simtit nevoia unei definitii din urban dictionary, ca sa inteleaga toata lumea de ce sexul tare nu este binevenit).

Baietii (toti 4) au venit pe jumatate beti la “intalnire”, iar dupa ce au mai baut doua pahare de vin au inceput sa ne explice ca de fapt ei au prietene. “Stiu ca …uuuuh….ummm….Fetelor! stiu ca sunteti dezamagite acuma, da….asta e, viata de student implica sacrificii. NOI BAIETII….cred….ca s-a produs o confuzie, confuzie, da.Ce voiam eu sa va spun…” Fraza a continuat aproximativ 20 de minute, fara a capata in cele din urma vreun sens. Dar, ca sa rezum, baiatul a vrut sa spuna “stiu ca suntem REALLY HOT si ca va tineti cu greu mainile departe de noi, stiu ca ne vreti, dar va rog sa va abtineti, pentru ca noi am venit cu Tudor numai ca sa nu-l lasam singur cu 4 fete, dintre care 3 sunt niste afurisite care o vor pe Simona numai pentru ele si o sa-i puna tot felul de piedici.“

By the way, dupa ce s-au asezat la masa, baietii au cerut doua sticle de vin si patru pahare….Da, patru, as in ….4 pahare pentru patru baieti. Prin urmare fetele au baut Fanta. Mental note to self: data viitoare cand baietii de la masa se arata ATAT de politicosi si adorabili, sa ma ridic dracu de pe scaun, sa sun un prieten, sa cumpar o sticla de vin, sa merg cu el inapoi acasa si sa-l implor sa ma ajute sa golesc sticla, astfel incat sa nu arat LIKE THE OBVIOUS LOSER I AM.

I’ll remember that for the next time I try to meet narcissistic losers, which will be the third Friday of NEVER.