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 only think I live alone

So the giant mosquitos are still a problem. I’ve tried everything, but nothing seems to work (Raid is useless!!! but I’ve succeeded in killing one with hairspray). My arms are all covered with mosquito bites and right now I’m just thankfull they don’t like my face.

Since I live alone, I had to devise a way to deal with this. So, my brilliant mind has come up with the most genius of plans. I TRAP the mosquito under a bowl. Preferably clear glass. Hopefully tossing with aim accurate enough from four feet away to land right on top of it. And then, I just wait until it starves to death. I’ll leave that bowl there for weeks if I have to. I don’t care.

Now I say clear glass because there have been times when I’ve trapped insects under something opaque, and when, three weeks later I went to remove the bowl, I found nothing NOTHING underneath. Oh. My. God. That just means it’s waiting somewhere in a dark recess of my apartment to do the crawl up my nose, eggs, dinner party thing.

I know it sounds cruel to starve an insect to death, especially an insect big enough to pay me rent, but then, it’s also cruel to stab it with a random magazine. And really, why get mosquito insides on my pretty fashion magazines? So now, I have a pet. A pet on death row. I think I’ll name him Boris.

Hi, my name is Mosquito Magnet

Apparently I represent irresistible, delicious, mosquito bait. Otherwise I can’t explain why my room is now full of creepy, unwanted, blood-sucking insects, awaiting their feast. And they’re not like….little, baby-mosquitos, that you could confuse with a needle until they start to move. No. Not like that. More like some mosquitos that survived Chernobyl. They might as well have been smoking cigarettes and flipping channels from my bed when I walked in.

Now, I’m not afraid of bats, or mice, or lizards or anything of that type. But I am deathly afraid of insects, especially of those whose size requires them travel with a valid passport. And, I don’t kill mosquitos. First, because I’m afraid to get close enough to do the killing. Who knows, it might jump onto my face, crawl up my nose, and embed itself in my brain, laying eggs and having dinner parties. Second, because I try to avoid the mess they make on my wall when I kill them. Third, because I’m not a fan of the carnage-clean-up. Mosquito body parts could go everywhere, legs, antennae, a wing or something equally ridiculous could end up inside one of my shoes. Just the IDEA of that makes my head hurt. Oh, and fourth, I have this freakin idea that if you kill one, they all start to attack you.

Now I’m a little worried. I wear a combination of scents, soaps, deodorants and fabric softeners that for some reason mosquitoes find irresistible. I can already see myself tortured in my sleep by these bastards, waked up several times at night by their buzzing, injured while trying to swatt them and bleeding to death due to excessive biting.

And as if going through mosquito hell wouldn’t be enough reason to hate them, now there is something new to worry about: chikungunya. That’s pronounced CHIK-un-gunya, with the accent on the first syllable. Or just chik, for short. The symptoms include a sudden severe headache, high fever, rash, nausea, vomiting and severe, disabling joint pain. There is no vaccine and no cure available, other than relief of the symptoms with analgesics and anticonvulsants. Most people recover within about a week, but the joint pain may continue for up to six months. In the past, chik has always been assumed to be non-fatal, but lately, deaths are being reported. Fortunately, the specie that carries this disease only lives in India, but there’s no end to my paranoia when I’m near mosquitos.

Play it again, Sam

Azi am dat restanta. Da, cea in care am intrat cu 1 din partial. De fapt am dat doua restante, una la partial si cealalta la examen. Dimineata. La o ora la care nu pot lua o decizie nici macar cu privire la pantofii care se asorteaza cu restul tinutei. Iti poti da seama deci, cate decizii gresite am luat la examen. Suficiente ca sa ma intreb daca iau 5.

So play it again, Sam. And don’t give me the “Gee, I can’t remember it, Miss Ilsa” crap, I’ll even hum it for you. C’mon, make it shitty again for me, Sam.

I sleep, my sheep

Draga Subconstientule,

Nu inteleg de ce ti se pare absolut necesar sa ma trezesti la anumite intervale in timpul noptii, fie prin cosmaruri oribile despre cum vine Potopul si singura mea salvare este sa ma catar pe un zgarie-nori (cand toata lumea stie ca pentru o persoana careia ii este frica de inaltime asta e cea mai proasta solutie), fie prin vise implicand orice alt fel de apa, ceea ce ma forteaza sa ma ridic din pat si sa alerg spre bucatarie pentru a-mi potoli setea, fie pur si simplu fara niciun motiv, altul decat placerea de a ma trezi.

A, si de asemenea, te rog sa nu ma mai fortezi sa visez anumiti tipi pe care nu-i pot avea. Sau tipi cu care am iesit. Really, nu e deloc necesar. Nu simt nevoia sa-mi intalnesc niciun Ex in Lumea Viselor. In niciun fel de situatie. Serios. Si de asemenea nu vreau sa-mi intalnesc foste prietene, cu care nu mai sunt prietena pentru ca am avut o cearta ca intre prietene. Lumea Viselor este un loc periculos, nu ma mai obliga sa dau peste oameni pe care nu vreau sa-i vad. De ce nu ma obligi sa ma intalnesc cu Jensen Ackles? Sau ce-ai zice de Jared Padalecki, si el doarme, si el viseaza, de ce nu ma pot intalni cu el?

Serios vorbind, Subconstientule, in ultima vreme cam intinzi coarda. Desi trebuie sa-ti multumesc pentru plaja aia insorita de aseara si pentru bronzul superb. Cel mai bun bronz pe care l-am obtinut pana acum. Macar vacantele mele se imbunatatesc in Lumea Viselor. Dar somnul nu mi se imbunatateste. Uitatul pe pereti de azi-noapte de la ora 4 pana la 6 a facut dureroasa citirea cursurilor de azi.

Nu ma obliga sa recurg la somnifere, nu o sa-ti placa. Sper ca aceasta scrisoare sa ne apropie mai mult, facandu-ne sa ne intelegem nevoile. I need to sleep and you need to stop fucking with that.

Toate cele bune,

Me, the one you torture.