Beauty always comes with dark thoughts

I was (internally) screaming at my screen just now because there is this actor guy (who shall remain unidentified thank you) and he's just so fucking beautiful that it causes me fucking physical pain when I accidentally see him whilst lurking on the internets. (I'm the one doing the lurking; whether he does so too or not, I can't say)


There's this Agatha Christie novel I read when I was little (I don't remember which one it was, only that it's a Poirot one) and there's this character, a woman, who is stunningly beautiful and someone thinks? says? that beauty like that is bound to cause trouble - it does obviously, it's an Agatha Christie book, c'mon.
The point is that now I understand that sentiment.

And I also get where the whole 'beauty must die', the thought process of a mentally disturbed stalker turned killer/rapist comes from. That there is such a beauty that you can't just let be. You have to react to it. And sure, for me, a random squeaky person on the internet it's just OMG OMG he's so hot uhhhh, but for some it is HOW DARE YOU be so fucking perfect you asshole and then there are the if I can't have you types.

I'm incredibly lucky for not being beautiful. To have that stare back at you every morning? It must be pretty scary. I'm so very fine with being pretty on a good day, and nothing more. My genes, thanks.

Tomorrow is Today

The thing that scares me the most about depression is that when you look at people who lived with it their whole long lives you see that yeah, there are highs and lows and there are mountains and fucking pits so deep  you fall right into the inner-most circle of hell. And they do fall. Even if there's therapy and coping and even if they learn how to be useful members of society, even if - on paper - they have a good life, a strong support system, they still do fall. The lucky ones only once or twice. Be it substance abuse or a sudden attempt at taking their own lives, or even just general apathy, it is hell.

It's really hard to keep going, to keep fighting to get better if the only thing I can possibly gain is to resurface, have a few okay years, maybe a couple of really good moments only to fall right back to where I am now, to where I've been before. It would be so much easier to just let go, to drift away to a safe place and never to come out again. To be numb. 

They say (I say so too) that when you experience trauma (say, rape for instance) the best way to get through it is to let your muscles relax because then it will hurt less, to let your mind escape what your body can't because only then will you be able to get up after and get help. You can't do that when you're a sobbing mess having a panic attack going fetal in a corner of a dark room. 

After experiencing something like that, after realizing that this method works not only in such dire situations but with anything unpleasant whatsoever, it's really hard to be present and deal with things in the moment, as they happen. It's so much easier to just let your mind slip back to a safe place and pretend. 

And then you fight because you still have some will to live, or maybe you just can't stand the look on your loved ones' face anymore, and you work hard and it's such a slow build but finally you breathe freely again and are just fine, really, truly fine, only to have life beat the crap out of you the next week. To be able to resist slipping, all your life, that's not humane. It's really similar to an addiction. You never truly heal.

So it's fucking hard to see why the hell I should go through all of it again and again.

Don't worry, I'm not suicidal, my therapist said so. I just have to get these things out sometimes because if I keep them in it gets too hard and you see the pattern. 

You know the saying about hell and the going. Well, I'm not sure if that going is fueled by that much alcohol it still counts as going and not just crawling, but hey, at least it sounds profound and powerful. 

Hello there, depression

can't say I missed you, go the fuck away.

The little things suddenly make me incredibly mad again, and some of those little things are even worth getting mad about.

Does the saying 'treat others as you'd like to be treated' mean nothing anymore? To anyone? Or maybe I should just take a fucking hint and treat you like shit, walk all over you and care only about what I need in that particular moment? I blame my parents obviously, they taught me to be respectful and considerate and all that shit but what do they know, right?


So everyone can just go and suck themselves. Don't have a penis? Why yes, here's my vibrator, I'll lend it to you, you know, just to be fucking accommodating.

Where earth and sky meet

I only met you once. You were all easy smiles and infectious laughter, you were really there, in the moment, up on the stage, you gave everything and you just loved every second of it.

You represented everything I love about music; the hard work and dedication, the joy, the emotion, the appreciation.

And you genuinely cared. Even months after that show you still remembered all that we talked about, you asked about our projects, our little lives that so briefly intertwined with yours.

I hate that I only met you once. I hate that we did not talk more often. I hate that I did not get around teaching you all the Hungarian swearwords, that I did not get to see you perform with your own band. I hate that now I never will.

At twenty-nine you have more of a legacy than most people I know will have at eighty-eight.

I will never forget you Simon. Rest in peace. 

Death happens to all those around you

I was trying to figure out what to say, but there are no words really.

Because when someone dies at the age of twenty-fucking-nine there is really not all that much to say.

It was a privilege to meet you, to talk to you, to laugh with you. I'll never ever forget you. 

I hope you find peace Simon. 

Mind=blown

The human mind is the greatest sex toy ever.

Yeah, my night is ruined.

Wait what

If you, dear reader, speak my lovely mother tongue - Hungarian that is - kindly get yo ass over here. My other blog. That from now on I shall continue. And I'll write here too. I'm that awesome and interesting.

Always

I love that after all this time, after having seen all the movies countless times, after crushing on various actors to various degrees in various periods of my life I still see Harry Potter & Co.in my head the way I did when I read the first book for the first time. Whenever I think of them as adults I see the features of the children they used to be, I see the the fingerprints of the joy and sorrow of their lives, the small wrinkles, the little things, the signature movements.

Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home, and that's the most important thing Rowling thought me, not the whole love conquers all evil and the values of friendship and all that.

She showed me that literature, that fantasy will always be there for you to turn to whenever you need it the most, that the stories live on in your head if you want them to, and if you don't like the ending, you can just close your eyes and pretend, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Inappropriate sex joke

What's the difference between light and hard? One can sleep with a light on

Because I just really had to say something that paints me as funny and awesome after all that emotion.

Insert inappropriate fart joke here.

And I'm telling you

Music is life and life is music.

Nothing, nothing makes me as delightfully emotional as music does. It feeds my soul or it poisons my mind, doesn't matter, it makes me feel alive like nothing else ever could.

I used to have a decent voice, a decent range, terrible sense of rhythm and eagerness to learn more, to be able to preform, to be able to pour myself into the notes and die on a stage only to be alive because of it. Yes, dreaming big is important, and yes, with enough time & money it could be done, I could be another average singer with something meaningful to say. It's just that I realized that it's not my part anymore, maybe it never truly was. My part is, in a way, so much important than that.

A few years ago a dear friend of mine said after a gig where every single thing went wrong that he was okay because every time he started to, you know, be not okay, he just looked at me, saw the joy and unconditional love on my face and knew that nothing matters, and everything is going to be just fine as long as I'm there. Now I don't even have to be there, he just thinks of me for a split second, and it's the same effect. I'm his anchor.

It happened again with bands, other musicians and I realized that that's what I am - a reason to play just one more gig, to put up with just one more fight, to take just the next small step. Because I believe in them like children believe their fathers to be superheroes, and even if it's not true, even if they are bound to let me down, they try as hell not to.

So that's what I am, an anchor. I don't have to be me, I don't even have to be there, but that's what I'll always be anyway.

Thank you, all of you lovely people for letting me be a small part of the wonders that you create, and thank you for appreciating it.

And thank You, for reminding me what I love most.

Saturday, wait

I've been rereading Pride and Prejudice for the thousandth time and obviously I had to watch the BBC version and Bridget Jones because. Colin Firth I adore you.

Keira Knightly, I do not adore you. You just rub me the wrong way but don't worry, were we ever to meet you probably would not like me very much either, so I just avoid you and that's that.

However. Today I woke up to the sound of someone yelling in through my window whilst ringing the fucking doorbell continuously even after I shouted out that I'm coming (I'm so angry that this that's what she said does nothing, not even a snicker from me, pffft). She then, without a fucking good morning or - god forbid - sorry for waking you, went on to order me to go down with her immediately because her ceiling is leaking and it must be my fault.

Now, I have had my fair share of broken water pipes and clogged toilets and shitmonsters that I do not even know the name for that my first reaction was to check all our water stuff to see if there's a problem on our side. Everything was fine so down I went to her apartment where there were a few drops of water on the wall (not the ceiling) that, frankly, did not warrant waking me the fuck up at 8 am on a Saturday. I proceeded to very politely tell her to call a professional and if the dude determines that it is somehow my fault then obviously I would pay for everything but there's nothing more I can do at that moment so just stop yelling at me.

I then ran to get cash from an atm because these things are expensive, especially so if you are a woman (they ALWAYS cheat you, no matter what you say or do, fuckwits) and waited around smelling like a sick person usually does after a feverish night (and no, no doing the nasty this time, I am genuinely ill).

At this point I knew it was going to be a fucked up day and there was zero chance of it getting better, so decided to do something I've been putting off for seven years: watch the movie version of Pride and Prejudice.

It's bad. So very bad. Still, there are some small things I do like about it, plus it passed the time and gave me something to work out my frustrations on.

After flushing the toilet at least fifty times as per the request of the handyman guy (who did not try to bang me, what has this world come to, I don't get it) it turned out that the shouting witch-lady effed something up and I had nothing to do with the whole thing whatsoever, so I did not go broke. Needless to say she did not apologize for all the yelling and you know, ruining my Saturday, making me run around with a fever. Nah-ah, she did not even utter a polite goodbye, she just turned around and walked the fuck away.

But really, the whole point is that I am obviously in love with Mr. Darcy (both the William and the Fitzwilliam edition) and I adore Colin Firth and that the Keira Knightly version is so bad.

Always look on the...fuck

Pretty much all my life I've always known that nothing that's amazing and good and fanfuckingtastic can last or at least can always be perfect. When you're in love first you get the constant and amazing sex-marathons and the not being able to go on a whole minute without thinking about the other and whatnot, and then, in time you have mediocre bouncy-bouncy whilst thinking of having to shave your legs soon and deciding against it because meh. And yeah, I'm going with that metaphor.

Therefore I'm surprised that I was surprised when things were not as perfect as before and even though I know that it will be back to being amazing next time if I can help it the problem is it's really not me this time and I can't even understand what the fuck is going on.

In somewhat related news I got older (obviously, so have you, and you are getting older now because time and shit) and altough the whole birthday-thing went way better then in the last few years (with some of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received, be it slips of paper or words and hugs, they made me melt like the emotional bitch that I am), it was... well. There's always next year.

And no, this is not a hint to plan me a surprise party or anything related to that, I despise surprises anyway and let's just forget about the unpleasant stuff because I just don't want to talk about any of it anymore.

It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live

I'm sitting in a coffeehouse (I refuse to call it coffeeshop, that's a different thing entirely and waaay more fun) writing shit and I feel like friggin JK, what with the only being able to afford one cup and whatnot. I'm also secretly charging my various electronic devices under the table because I'm that desperate.

As to how I'm coping with being deprived of technology of any kind all week, well, I've been reading a lot. I think I read everything that's compulsory for two of my classes in one week. Reading in candle light is surprisingly fun, though generations before me had to do it, so I have no right to whine (not that it ever stopped me before).

As to my shiny happy new self, it's still here, which is surprising. This week was probably one of the worst I have ever had, so many things just blowing up in my face (not in a nice, that's what she said way), and still being unable to ask for help, much less accept it when it's offered. One of my new, wonderful and might I mention über-cute (winkwink) friends helped me realize how far I've come just by being there and pointing shit out - shit that comes naturally to most people but we, the lovely fucked up snowflakes that we are, simply cannot cope with. And then we can. Okay, it took years and years of therapy, but still, it's there and it's progress and I'm so fucking proud of myself for not crawling back to my head the second the shit hit the fan. (I always picture that and it cracks me the fuck up. Every. Single. Time.).

I do realize I turned from awesomely cracktastic to a deeply disturbed whiny bitch, but hey, at least now you don't have to harass me to give a fucking sign that I have not topped myself.

The truth is rarely pure and never simple

I look like I have a major hangover even though I'm only sleep deprived partly because there was a karaoke event last night in the pub-thingy across from my apartment (and it's not nearly as much fun when you're not one of the happy masses but rather a sleepy boring fuck in a residential area) and partly because I stayed up till dawn reading and rereading The Importance of Being Earnest. I would like to point out that were Oscar Wild alive today, he would make an excellent addition to our little circle of brilliant misfits. I bet he would not be a spoilsport and would even sing Sodomy with me. Ahem.

Anyway, I'm no literary snob, or at least I try not to be one, but I do tend to make fun of, how shall I put it delicately, literature of the easily digestible kind, and it is just a hoot and a half when other like-minded people take part in this badass activity. Therefore it gives me great pleasure and self-satisfaction every time I read this part:

"Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldn't. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn't read." 

Yeah, I did just put a  quote there. It seems I'm that kind of a person and I really am okay with that.

And I wonder

I missed my fun side. I missed liking myself, missed wanting to be my friend, missed the whole I'm having fun so I don't give a fuck what you think attitude. It's so different from my apathetic not giving a fuck - this is so good.

So yeah, I can't sing, still, I really hope this Wednesday karaoke shit is going to be a regular thing - with these people, with me giggling into the microphone while holding on to my friends for dear life. Hell, I'll even have a hangover every week if that's what it takes.

So yeah, I love you all and now I'll do something devilish lest you all think I've gone all soft and cuddly (why is it that with you I actually go all soft and cuddly and touchy-feely?)

Fuckin' A

At one period of my life I was going by A. I don't even remember the crowd I was running with or why the stupid nickname, my guess is there were foreigners and I got fed up with hearing my name mispronounced (it's one of those names almost every nation has so I really don't get it).

Now, every time someone says 'fuckin' A' for a split second I think that they either want to fuck me or have done so regularly in the past. 

Ugh, reflections of the ugly kind

“The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.” 

Dante, Inferno

Next time I tell myself no, I'm not going to attend the protest for whatever noble cause/gay pride/hey government, this is fucked up thingy because I'm scared and it's self preservation to stay at home, shut up and swallow, well, kick my ass please. 

Though the fact that my conscience suddenly awakened is a huge sign of my depression and general apathy giving room to feelings and shit and this is amazing. It's overwhelming almost to the point of resulting in yet another round of paralyses, but it's only almost and not quite. 

The end of all hope

Dante is my hero for being the proof that popular culture references are actually worth something.

If you wanna be bad you gotta be good

I would just like to point out that Bryan Adams is perfection and Keith Scott is made of awesome. That is all.

Told you I'm not a nice person

It's amazing that when I go all fangirlish and start researching the shit out of some completely random fandom (teehee) stuff and I find youtube channels and tumblrs and whatnot that make me go 'whoa dude I think you need help' and I'm sure that there are people who feel the same way when I open up about these things but there has to be a fucking line somewhere and maybe making glittery collage videos of an actor and uploading new ones every week or so for seven fucking years is just a touch over that line.*

Of course who am I to judge (a judgmental bitch, that's who, don't look at me like that, you do it too).

*Note that if it involves truly creative work then I won't even bat an eyelash, though glittery collages of actors may be art and I just suck at life.

Also it has come to my attention that English - while a magnificent language what with being lingua franca and all that - does not allow me to swear ar eloquently as I know I can in my mother tongue. Hence the repeating  fraks.

Don't look now

I love L.A. & Coffee, black = my new OTP

On the bright side

Being hit on by the cute cashier whilst buying tampons is a major win.
..or deeply disturbing, but I prefer to look on the bright side.


In other news, some guys are just too damn hot to be accidentally gazed at, you know, the ones that have a faces I'd like to see between my legs.

Road to Nowhere

That moment when you finally leave your room and there are people there, outside, in the world, and not all of them are fuckwits. That moment when you meet new people and they are actually interesting and fun to be around.

That moment when you talk about something mundane and you connect and hope for the love of all that's holy that you won't fuck it up this time, because you really could use someone who just gets it.

Free

It's so weird, seeing the name of my illness on an official paper. I've always known something was wrong with me, people in my life acknowledged it even, supported my every move to fight it and comforted me when I couldn't, and still. It did not feel real somehow, probably because depression is not something that is socially accepted as an illness - not yet anyway.

So having it there, on a paper, official and whatnot, it's suddenly so real and in a way amazingly freeing.

Revelations of the unpleasant kind

So two things are suddenly clear to me:
1.) With all the accidental flashing I do I actually am the Ugly Naked Gal of my building
2.) Even though I make fun of my boyfriend's internet giggle I actually have a much louder and much, much more annoying one

I honestly don't know how I feel about these things.

I'm just saying

I'm so not a nice person.

Of intellectual literary metal bands

I decided that my new goal in life shall be the forming of the literary-intellectual-metal band called The Restless Tadpoles and the title of our first album will be Lo, the flat hills of my Homeland. The fact that I cannot sing or play any musical instrument will not stop me. My stage name will be either Pandora or Stick Insect, the jury is still out on that one, though I find that I'm slightly leaning towards the latter, I don't know why.

The one with the reminiscing

Around 2006, when myspace was still a thing I wrote a message to Keith Scott after a Budapest show. In case you don't know, he plays lead-guitar for Bryan Adams, and frankly half of the ladies in love with BA have the hots for him too. My message was short, polite, contained a few typos and basically thanked him for the show and that was that. I almost pissed my pants when he answered. We exchanged a few messages, discussed the beauties of Budapest and other nonsense. That was the time when I decided that loving the music is only one half of the experience, getting to have a glimpse of the people making it is the other - and if they are nice and human and polite, well, then I'll love them forever.

True that

I don't make sense today.

Of brainfarts and powerpop

The very interesting and somewhat unwanted side effect of my therapy is that now I experience actual anxiety and nerves and whatnot, and lulling myself to a calm, sheer awesome state is painfully hard and near-impossible. While it is progress, it also came at the worst possible time - the lovely and ever-so-joyful exam period. So far I my nerves managed to shock me into muteness at an oral exam and I fainted at another one (okay, that was too much caffeine + hellish heat +  freakishly low blood pressure + a malnourished body, but still, after I recovered I could have talked myself back into the exam if not for the nerves and muteness and shit - shit as a metaphor mind you, not actual shit, that would have been unpleasant).

In six hours I have a really important exam that I can't fail, therefore I decided to take the hit me with your best shot, sucker! approach, learned everything there is to know and now I'm just concentrating on breathing. Well that, and typing, but that does not count.

To love a silly little piece of music

I remember when I first saw the movie Almost Famous - it was the extended cut. The scene where Penny Lane dances to the The Wind by Cat Stevens invoke something, and I felt I never wanted anything more than to be that girl, to be part of something, to support and aid some amazing, conflicted, broken, talented people like those in that movie. I then proceeded to forget all about it, life went on, I grew up (or at least I got older - I sometimes think I was born an adult and I progress towards childhood and not the other way around as you're supposed to).

I pretty much spent my teenage years locked up in my room, reading, doing homework, playing computer games, not because I was antisocial or anything, I just wanted to be a good kid.

And then, at 19 I had a very bad day and I let a then-friend drag me to a metal concert and something broke in me and I knew I belonged, there, with those people on the stage in whatever capacity they'd have me.

Though I was not working consciously toward my goal or anything, from then on it seemed as though the musicians I met liked me, they rarely treated me as 'just a fan', more like something between a buddy, a psychologist and a mom. Never a groupie wanting a roll with a semi-famous person.

And so when a few years later I found myself in a foreign country setting up a merchandise table, waiting for the doors to open I suddenly remembered that scene from that movie and I realized I somehow managed to become exactly what I wanted to be without really trying.

And then I missed a plane and found myself in Belgium and hallucinated after not sleeping for 38 hours and it was an emotional roller-coaster and rock stars today don't really drink backstage but play angry birds on their stupid phones and I just sat there watching them and smiling to myself trying not to look too creepy.

Special Hell

There are these people who write comments to ongoing stories in a way that you can just tell they talk at the theater.

Of potential and disappointment

Whenever I read something that starts out good and original and exciting and then turns into oh-god-no-why and it had so much potential, I can't help but wonder if that is what my teachers feel about me.

The lovely tidbits of time and sex

It's kinda cute that the world's oldest profession is prostitution and the tale as old as time is love.