The one with the unfuckgiven

I’m such a mess that I can’t find the list of fucks I’m supposed to give. And finding it may be difficult given how short it already was. A man should carefully distinguish between the fucks worth giving and those of no importance. It is true. But it is also true that once you get rid of every trouble worth fuck-giving, you easily get lost. Why, a man needs a cage. And once you break out of your cage, it’s as if you were breaking your own ribs. Or spine. So now you hardly breathe and barely move.

When you’re in that stage, you quickly realize that this is not the kind of liberty you fought for. One should not be too free. And there’s no freedom without boundaries. Soon you find yourself in need of a new cage.  For when you face the excess of possibilities your identity is falling apart. When you can do anything, it seems safer to postpone the choice.

It seems quite easy to give up a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage. And even when you wage your greatest battle, you carry your cage with you. Therefore it is preferable for one to scrupulously and consciously built his own cage to carry. Be your own cageneer. For  after all it’s better for one to have one’s own cage – be it handmade and as heavy and inconvenient as it may get – than to carry the one they chose for you.

So I say to myself go get your cage. Go and must. Go and care. Go and worry. Go and ought to. Go and be supposed to.

Go and give a fuck. And make it a big one.

The one with the Homeland

Memory believes before knowing remembers.

Belonging is an animal thing. Even a beast that lacks discourse of reason has its own corner of solitude, its own emptiness, its dark tranquility. Less than a cage, for inside a cage there’s yet too much shadow, too much night and sorrow for a creature to own it. Thence a living being is to find itself a scrap of the ground where its den lays and even there it is supposed to curl up, clinging to its own body, craving its own warmth, listening to its own murmuring hunger.

Such is the lonely Umwelt of every living thing. We all live in bubbles, each bubble is a sum of particular, individual modes of perception of the external world. And yes, our bubbles sometimes interfere – and such is at once the joy and the tragedy of our kind.


When a Mongolian nomad feels lost and anxious in a modern city of Ulaanbaatar where he is forced to live by the changing structure of society, he is ever longing for the steppe of his kin. For the place of a man is where his folks lay. You don’t need to know it, suffice that the spirits of your long-gone grandparents dwell in those grounds, it is where your heart shall be longing. For when you are alone and astray, depressed, devoid of hope, the spirits of your Heimat will enforce you and fill your heart with strength.


Thus I come back to my homeland. To these lingering streets that run for more than ten years. These parks and lonely alleys, shelters for love, these enchanted altars of our first kisses. It all deserves more than one chant, a novel, one day, for I know that my Combray, my Macondo, my downtown muse can only find a rightful poet in me – a legitimate son, a Bellerophontes to slay the chimeras of retro-hallucination, to forecast the unspelled, to unshadow the past, to preserve the forgotten, sublime and epic.

One day, though not yet, the muse will sing.

The one with the Mediterranean mode

Got fed up with ice creams. Just had one before breakfast. It was way too good to be pleasant. Moreover, the bread I bought is so nice and fresh, that it would be a crime to bake it for bruschetta as I planned. I just cannot resist eating it with butter only. Not as I planned. What’s even worse, the tomatoes I bought are so dreadfully beautiful, round and juicy that I may want to eat them right away. And I cannot decide whether to use some onion on them or just keep it rough. Besides, though I could’ve been drinking beer with lime from the very morning, I’ve somehow chosen a strawberry yoghurt, the force of habit, maybe, I might still be thinking I must eat healthy.

It’s warm outside, but not as warm as it’s gonna get towards midday. Then I might use a drink. Anyway, so much for bruschetta that I’ve been wanting for so long. Imma eat this bread fresh with tomatoes. Damn, it turns out I also have cheese, should I use it?

These are the problems I currently deal with. In fact, I had to think hard of what’s eating me these days. It’s a beautiful July morning and I don’t have to do anything. I can finally relax, I’ve got nothing more to prove, I did all I had to. Now’s the time to sit back and laugh. I can finally eat what I want, drink what I want and fuck what I want. And I call it the “Mediterranean mode”.

I think it perfectly describes the way one should live when not fighting for survival. There is wartime and there is this: a peaceful relief, satisfaction, contentment, chill out, pleasure. For one cannot wage wars forever. Otherwise, what would there be to fight for anyway?

The only courage you need is in the name of that Spanish town with a bat in the coats of arms, a town where you have but your arms stretched on the coast, and you don’t mind them sloppy puns for the sky is clear and you can have a Corona with lime by that calm Mediterranean C.

The one with the way it should be

So she wakes you up by going down on you. Hardly any picture can be as beautiful as that of a hot girl giving you a head, curiously focused, with an almost scientific attention to the details, licking and sucking, sometimes clumsy, it’s true, but dedicated too.
You just can’t get enough of watching. The physical pleasure yelds to that deeper meaning of her devotion. And then you let her ride you so that she controls the pace to make sure that she gets what she needs. And when you’re both nice and done you light the remains of yesterday’s weed, you sip your beer, you listen to some cool old tunes, you make her some scrumbled eggs, the way only you do that, with spinach and some garlic, then you play the guitar and watch some good old boxing bouts and explain to her the secrets of footwork and techniques.
The night before you talked about the history of European novel, you had some Kafka and Proust, so you could finally share with someone that burning passion of yours that hardly anyone cares about. She listened to you and you listened to her.
You need not to play, to pretend, to say what you’re expected. You’re being the best version of yourself, the one that needs no strategy, no metaphors for getting laid, for saying what you want to say. You can finally speak your mind without minding your speech. And no one gets offended.
But you both play it cool. You don’t love her. She’s great to talk to, to spend time with, and you go along quite well in bed. That is all. These few summer nights prove to you that it can all work out, provided that you both keep it simple and there’s enough booze.
Knowing that this kind of relation is real, perfectly possible, will make you laugh at all those serious girls with their strict rules and adult expectations who act like you’re supposed to promise them the moon. Bitch please, just chill things out and smoke the fucking pot with me. Be who you want, say what you want, always be sincere. Talk trash with me, talk dirty to me, watch boxing with me and enjoy the 69. That’s all we both need, ain’t it? Some of them just stuff their heads with bullshit, naive images, irrational fears. I hope you all get the lives you dream of, that of a thoughtless sheep in the grassland, and you all gently rot in an everlasting kingdom of boredom.

The one with waiting

Time is a tricky thing when it comes to waiting. And waiting for a fight is a tricky kind of waiting. Sleep does not come because you’re thinking of how things will go down there in the ring and so you don’t sleep because you know you should, you just know it too well. Sometimes a man should know less in order to sleep more.
You might wanna try meditation sometime, it’ll reveal to you this other side of time, the one that’s measured with breath. Nine minutes, three times three, that’s how long the fight lasts in Olympic boxing. Sometimes it’s less. But when you’re meditating for nine minutes, one breath feels like an hour, and when you’re fighting against a tough opponent, one round feels like a lifetime.
So you think about your punches and reactions, you master your game plan, you visualize your victory. Then again there come the dark thoughts about how tall he is, what’s his experience, in what shape he is. It’s dangerously easy to suddenly start imagining getting destroyed… You feel like your chest is burning, you already feel tired, can’t catch your breath, can’t respond to his attacks… Man, mind is a deadly weapon.
But in the end it all comes down to a man against man business. In few hours it’ll all be clear. And no matter what happens, after all you will just sit back and laugh.

The one with Martial Arts

Basically the idea of practicing something is to stop sucking at it. Sometimes it’s merely about sucking less. Why, anyone can suck at anything, you just have to figure out for yourself what it is you don’t wanna suck at and simply do it. If finding it doesn’t make you do it, means you just don’t care enough about not sucking at it. So you keep sucking.

When it comes to fighting, there are multiple reasons not to suck at it.

For many people it’s simply about feeling safe and knowing how to defend oneself and those who can’t against some aggressive jerks out there. Fair enough. Most people don’t even know how to throw a punch so if you practice your defense for few months you’re already quite a few steps ahead. Just don’t get too excited, you don’t turn badass after a few self-defense classes, nor do you learn to fight only from watching YouTube.

There surely are plenty other reasons.

As for you, you just need to struggle, you need to keep learning, keep your mind busy, clear your spirit, sweat away all the bad shit that happens to you, because, believe it or not, the person you fear the most and whom you have to defend yourself against is your very self. That’s right, you are your dearest enemy. So how could you mind if someone tried to beat the shit out of you? Aren’t you the one who pours gallons of beer and whiskey in this ugly mouth of yours? What actual opponent you may think of would push all those disgusting cigarettes down your throat? What ruthless barbarian would stuff your stomach with junk food? What enemy would waste your time the way you do it yourself? Against what fighter would you have your mind messed up the way you do it to yourself with drugs, porn, cheap entertainment and toxic relationships?

That’s right, you’re the monster here.

Your buddies at the gym try to beat you all the time and you’re thankful to them for that, and you do your best to repay them in the same manner for you know that they expect the same from you as you do from them.

So be it any sort of ass-kicking philosophy: from the ancient Greco-Roman wrestling to the modern Brazilian jiu-jitsu; from the elegant Japanese arts of karate or judo to French savate and Russian sambo; from deadly beautiful Korean taekwondo to tough American kickboxing, from the sweet science of the Western boxing to the violent Thai art of eight limbs.

It is all worth bleeding for.

But beware, my friend, of obscure mysticism and all the Jedi bullshit. There ain’t no kung fu grandpa waiting for you in some ancient dojo on the top of a mountain, willing to make you a warrior in some secret ways of forgotten art. Yet there are frauds and impostors out there who want to benefit on your will to improve, selling you some badass mambo-jumbo for the very few and initiated. Don’t trust those guys. If any of their complicated moves worked in real life, you would see people use them in MMA. And don’t you buy the crap they say about not using it for such low incentives like cockfighting. Why, if you got some killer technics it’s not for your dancing classes, right? You wanna be able to actually perform them in a real fight.

Tell you what. The only shit that’s real is where you work your ass out and there’s blood, sweat and tears. And you know it’s real because people get hurt and you don’t get to fake bleeding. Pain is quite a real thing. That’s pretty much it: shit is real when it hurts.

So when you choose, choose wisely. Find out what fascinates you, what makes you curious, what drives you crazy. For anything you train makes you better, stronger, healthier. Once you start it’s no more a set of UFC highlights, no more keyboard fighting.

You become obsessed. You cannot sleep because you think about it and when you sleep you dream about it and when you don’t dream about it you cannot sleep and when you cannot sleep you start again to think about it.

I want you to think of your techniques before you get to sleep, whatever it is, I want you to kick, punch and roll when you sleep, damn it, I want you to sleep on the mat, and when you roll in your relentless nightmares your teammates from the gym will come and choke you so that you wake up and start training for them not to come again to choke you in your dreams.

Why, I shamelessly admit to do my shadowboxing everywhere I can. I slip punches in front of my bathroom mirror while shaving, I practice my head movement in the elevator, I train my kicks in my office. It is all about repetitive drills and precise motions, you want them to become automatic, you want to perform them without thinking, make them instinctive.

Once it becomes a part of you, a day without it feels way more painful than the actual fight can be. Once you train on a regular basis, it brings you down when you don’t, you get depressed from not doing it. But it ain’t obvious, it’s all about discipline. The fight begins the very moment you’re awake and struggle to get up from bed. Your body hurts already, your mind hurts, you don’t want to move. And even when you do, it’s terribly easy to lose your shit during the day. And the worse day you’re having, the more convincing a beer and peanuts look. You tell yourself that you can skip this one, you’re justified. Just remember that your own hell is paved with your excuses.

Moreover, you know there’s people out there that are gonna be judging you. Dear, oh dear. Can’t express how sorry I am and how I feel for you. So what you’re trying to tell me is that it bothers you that someone you don’t even know, you don’t even care about, is watching you and probably laughing inside while he should be minding his own business. Is that what scares you?

Tell you what. If you’re a real badass fighter you’d have to be a real jerk as well to be laughing at some beginners. And if you’re a beginner yourself, to laugh at others would mean for you the achievement of an extreme level of pitiful douchebaggery. And yes, of course, jerks and douchebags are always there. But with some time and patience you’ll learn to deal with them. However, most of them are the projections of your own fear and anxiety. Those creeps and goblins are all in your head while the actual reality doesn’t give a shit about you.

Which doesn’t mean reality ain’t there. Indeed, you will get to know the objective reality as soon as it punches you in the face or kicks you in the rib. Many times you will get hurt without being able to strike back for your opponent will turn out to be on another level. Many times you will get schooled like a kid by an opponent younger or even smaller than you. Maybe you’ll get outsmarted by a girl. You’ll get outsmarted by people less educated and less comprehensive. You will get punished, you will bleed from your nose for three days in a row, you will have your guts smashed by those nasty body shots, you’ll have the shit choked out of your neck, you will have your arm twisted by some violent takedowns, you will have your ribs devastated by those huge middle kicks, and many times you will feel helpless and frustrated. As everyone does at some point. This is where you find that there ain’t no quitting, you’re not allowed to quit. And that’s how you stop sucking. And then it gets harder.

The one with Tinder

This is where modernity meets mediocrity. You’ve been given the easiest, the smartest, the most efficient tool that enables you to peek out of your solitude, talk to people, get laid. What could possibly go wrong? Are we humans too intelligent to express ourselves in such a manner? Don’t fool yourself. It’s just that we have never been modern, at least not since the ancient Greece. Why, we use the internet but we don’t use our brains. There are people out there who would try to connect via Facebook with the spirits of their dead folks, they use it to tweet the devil, they upload the videos of them tables turning, ain’t they?

That’s right, modern people are made in caves. And it ain’t Platonic.

So don’t blame the application, you dummy.

Just imagine. Living your life in a fast-developing, constantly changing world of diversity, where everyone is chasing their own chimeras, where no-one has time to be oneself, far too busy being someone else, chronically preoccupied doing things they don’t like, doing what they’re told is worth doing, unable to do what they find worth doing, believing that what others believe is believable enough to be believed, alone and incapable of binding stable relationships, alone among others, collectively outsiders, alone in your own company, too alone to quit being alone, with your back against the wall, with fear of rejection, with irrational anxiety, uncomfortable with being uncomfortable, yet too comfortable in your dark comfort zone of painful resentment, facebookly exposed, instalated from the real life and netflixed in solitary fiction, just imagine there are people out there.

You pass them by, you watch them from a good safe distance, you try to guess what they’re like, you admire their beauty, you imagine what it would be to get to know them. You dream of sweet togetherness. But you go to different schools, you take different buses, you cross different streets, you watch different movies, you listen to different music. Our minds are framed in the way that does not allow us to just initiate a conversation, say “hello” spontaneously, introduce ourselves without fear of being judged and rejected or simply suspected of some evil intentions. That’s how it works.

But maybe, on the other side of the river, in a different part of the city lives a person like you, a person who also feels the same needs, shares your views, has similar tastes in music and films, likes the same ice creams. By the way, let’s not forget that this person is quite cute.

Most likely, though you both seem to be made for each other, you will never meet.

And there comes the greatest, the most fabulous invention of our time: Tinder.

The idea seems quite simple: you upload some photos of yours and write a few words about yourself. Then you either like or dislike people and wait for people to either like or dislike you. If it’s a match, you start talking and when you’re done talking and you feel like it, you go out and see each other.

So the first thing you see are them photos. I don’t know about boys, but girls like it cute and well retouched. Girls that are naturally cute can simply show any photo of theirs and just wait for guys to admire them. But some girls find they have to mess up with reality, they tend to correct nature, to hide their little flaws, to pose in a position that would make Adele look like Ariana Grande. Listen, girl, one will find out anyway. So why don’t you just accept yourself the way you are. You can also work your ass out at the gym and hope it gets tight, but please, do not try to fool anybody, it is not polite. Why, do I pretend to have some wrecking balls like the one Miley Cyrus swings on? Do I pretend to have chest like Rambo? Do I pretend that I speak five languages? No, I just do.

But let’s pretend I like your photos. I find you’re quite attractive and I’d like to talk to you. Now, how do I start? Oh, wait, there must be something to start with in what you say about yourself!

Now some say there’s not enough space for them to write about themselves. However, many of them have never written anything longer than a tweet. Furthermore, some girls tend to waste that space to write about how tall they are or how they don’t like writing about themselves. Some say they’re crazy. But if you say you’re crazy, most likely you’re not. Some say they are sarcastic. But you don’t say you’re sarcastic – that’s what sarcasm is about, isn’t it?

Same for being ironic: it is such a clever thing to do, as to reveal to the world the utter truth about you being ironic, thank you.

Some say they’re attracted to intelligence. Great, please, be my judge, it doesn’t matter what you bring to the table, you can surely estimate how smart or stupid I am. Once a girl asked me suspiciously what was the last book I’d read. I gave her a few French titles of some publications in literary theory, semiology and epistemic critic, and she never answered back.

So it turns out most girls are sapiosexual. And ironic.

Why is that? It is rude and unfair to expect from anyone to be intelligent.

Am I intelligent? I hope not. Are you? I don’t care.

Some girls love travels and to eat, and yes, they ignore syntax.

They say that if you can’t stand them at their worse, you don’t deserve them at their best. What kind of rhetorical fascism is that? I say if you’re not there for me at my worse, I don’t need you at my best.

Some say: no ONS. Now, for the ignorant and uncultivated, this acronym stands for “one night stand”, meaning that you hook up and have sex and forget about each other the next day. Well, as cool as it sounds, hardly anyone wants to keep it that simple. For if it’s good, why not do that again sometime? Why does it have to be one night, when we can fuck on a daily basis? Where’s the logic? Then again, if the night is not good, no wonder it’s no more than “one”, right?

Why, you cannot expect from a man or a woman to fuck for charity. It’s unhuman and it’s against the idea of equality. For if one actually fucked for charity, he should fuck everyone.

But let’s be honest, girls have their point here: they don’t like boys to be cavemen. So you boys should at least pretend not to be instantly horny and waiting to get laid. Go talk about some stuff, say something smart, tell her about books you like or movies you watch and don’t get too excited, don’t push it, play it cool. Don’t act like a jerk, you already are one. Everybody knows what men are like, it just doesn’t have to be made more obvious.

But it turns out that even the talking part ain’t that easy. To start with, girls expect you to be the master of the opening lines. They are so serious about it that they use the space they have to write about themselves to manifest their reluctance towards guys who start with “hello”. Apparently they find it ain’t smart enough. You have to be a damn wizard of small talk to develop some brilliant welcome, like a copywriter for a great company that’s all about “Connecting people” or “I’m lovin’ it”.

And then, once you start chatting, it’s either an instant chemistry or just “yes” and “no” kind of answers. Just like in real life.

So you end up with five hundred pairs, you start several dozen conversations, you try to keep track of who you talk to and who you sleep with. Sometimes it turns into something more serious, most of the times it doesn’t. It’s easier to forget that on the other side there’s an actual human being, when you think of it as a bunch of photos from a dating app. Sometimes it’s simply a disillusion. And sometimes you both just need to get laid and you get what you want only to agreeably forget about it. That is all.

In general, we mostly misunderstand and therefore misuse the potential that technology offers us and instead of improving the quality of our lives, we go digging deeper and deeper into our lonely depressive holes. Modernity offers us connection, but we bring our ridiculous fears and prejudices to it. Our hasty and unjustified judgments estrange us from people we barely know. Our anxiety, overthinking and chaotic reflection drive us away from real creatures that await us out there, willing to talk, craving for intimacy, just like we do. But alas! They are also driven by fear, anxiety and overthinking, just like we are.

The one with Writing

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a writer. The ancient alchemy of words has been a major influence on all that I am today. I remember that before I was even able to write down my own name, the very first letter I could scribble, at the age of four, was “Z”. So it all started from the end, just like the great Homeric poem.

My mother used to read to me the Odyssey. Thus the journey of Ulysses became to me the very essence of humanity. There were many other stories I cannot recall. Yet somehow the epic struggle of the king on exile, betrayed and forlorn by gods, longing for home, torn between doubt and hope, alone and astray, thrown towards the unknown by the hand of destiny, will forever remain engraved in my heart as the most precisely defined notion of human condition.

I might have possibly started writing – or at least telling stories – long before being capable of reading. Which would make perfect sense for the humanity is supposed to have traversed the same road. Soon there came the very first attempts to create my own tales. As a child who has not yet experienced what life is, I could only adapt and merge the existing matter without knowing that this was exactly the procedure performed by Homer and all who came after him.

Writing became a challenge, a question demanding answers, a riddle to be solved, a Rubik’s cube of infinite choices, a pursuit of most audacious dreams, or a naive second-guess.

With words came phrases, with phrases came periods and with periods – chapters. From doubts and disdains emerged the irony, and the joy of merging words with childish admiration for the surrounding world gave birth to metaphors. One does quickly learn that things are for us to be named – without which we could not but indicate them with our fingers. And there comes the understanding that things are to be compared. Hence, speaking of a long and risky journey, one speaks in fact of life in its very essence; speaking of heroes and gods, one speaks of our deepest desires; speaking of a lion, one speaks of courage; speaking of Ariadne, one speaks of finding hope in the dark, but at the same time – of a trustful and admiring beauty abandoned by her lover.

At some point the question of style appeared to be the clue. Yet, though the thread of Ariadne would fain show the way, there is still obscurity among the endless combinations of the maze. I found out very soon that I am capable of imitating any writer I like. I am a chameleon, a doppelganger, I can be what I please. I started to copy the ones whom I admired, like a painter who creates indistinguishable replicas of his masters’ works. I could make Nietzsche sound like a copy next to my fake epigrams I wrote on the faith of his unique style. I intend no boasting – this ridiculous ability was not chosen by me. Besides, I soon understood, that the search of my own voice is yet to be undertaken. For one cannot be but oneself – and being someone else defies being.

For a long time have I struggled in search of a subject matter. I came to a conclusion that everything had already been written long before I was born. It is true, in fact, but one should not worry much about it. Every artist who achieved something original had to face the same fact. Creating beautiful things is not about making them emerge from nothingness – that would be God’s preoccupation. Whereas the artist creates beautiful things out of existing matter that is given to him by anything he perceives: from the most admirable works of his predecessors to their most repulsive deeds, from the most tender kiss of a lover to the most violent hatred that one can experience from others, from the sweetest ecstasy of love to the bitterest deception of life.

Writing is a lonely craft. You don’t learn it at your regular classes. You don’t ask for advice from your beloved masters, who, by the way, are supposed to be dead by the time you enter your literary path, provided that you have any taste at all. Writing grows in you, it feeds on you, it devours you, it hollows its way out of your bewildered soul to spread around the world in a generous rain of golden words.

It is not that it leaves you any choice: a parasite more than a gift.

Besides, one has no thoughts that come from oneself. What you speak, what you write, is always a result of what language imposed you: the syntax usually defines the trajectory of your reasoning, the existing collocations influence the picture you display, the synonyms leave you a restraint choice of terms to apply, the convention designs the way you paint. Your task is to make a perfect use of this imperfect material. To stay free in the confines of necessity. There are rare moments of conscious reflection in which you consider what you are doing. These moments are almost always vain and unproductive, but they are inevitable. Then there are those in which you simply cannot help but write and when you do that, submissive to the inner voice that speaks on your behalf, you find that these very binds that compel you, are to you the most sublime pledge of your liberty.

The one with some dark thoughts

Dear darkness, I need a drink. I need a cigarette. These nasty little guys that kill you slowly every single day are the reason for some of us to cancel the most recent suicide plans. Heaven knows, drugs would be of no use, was it not that the ever-blood-lusting dude upstairs had not fixed his cannon against self-slaughter.

I’m not a psycho person myself, I’m not even a psychologist, and I don’t know shit about addictions, I’m just a humble practitioner. But what I do know, is that these artificial paradises we get high on are not the problem itself. The real reason we do that is that we cannot keep our shit together, we cannot look at the face in the mirror, our dearest enemy, we cannot stay together, I mean, collectively, we cannot communicate honestly, we cannot love openly, we cannot have sex like normal animals, we cannot even fight anymore.

Our interpersonal relations are just like bouncing bubbles. In each and every one of them there is a universe locked within. But the walls we’ve built over years are too solid to be torn down with words. There is a real communication breakdown. What we’ve got here is failure to communicate. We’re fucked.

Camus got it right: we live in a permanent plague situation here.

The one with the new beginnings

You moved on, stepped in so far that, should you wade no more, returning is as tedious as go o’er. You bet, you Macbeth. You’ve been through some real shit, man, you’ve seen shit, you’ve done shit, you’ve lost your shit, but somehow you’ve managed to keep your shit together and now you know some shit about shit. You just needed some time, some warmth and some pussy.

It turns out that pussy is the greatest painkiller for all of your hard aches. Pussy heals it all, pussy knows, pussy listens, pussy understands, pussy will lead you through the darkest valleys of your most desperate times. Have faith in pussy.

It seems you’re cured – not that you’re totally fine and stuff, but you’re obliviously not a crybaby bitching about how hard it is. And then, a few weeks away from moving out from your glory hole town to start a new life, you helplessly fall in what seems to be love. Love again.

She’s the kind of girl that gives you a vague notion of the Unattainable. She’s your teenage fantasy from the poster. She’s the incarnation of the sluttiest innocence, of the sublime vulgarity, of the modest provocativeness, of the kindest bitchyness. She’d make you proud, she’d make you feel alive. But you know she’s totally out of your league.

Funny thing is, she feels exactly the same about you.

Yes, life has its own genuine sense of irony. It knows when to pour down some big load of shit on your head, and when you least expect it, it gives you a hug, a candy or a blowjob.

So you’re sitting there on the patio of the most popular club in town, hanging out with your best mate, having a beer or something, and she’s sitting there, right in front of you, just a few steps, accompanied by what appears to be her boyfriend. You’re watching her discretely because you like everything about her.

But she’s not so discrete – in fact, she’s not discrete at all.

And there goes the most important, the most becoming, the most exciting thing about men and women, the very essence of our sexuality – the eye contact. It’s uncompromising, it knows no retreat, it’s dense, it’s intense, it’s present and it’s tense. You two just take it to another level.

You know it’s something, your best mate knows it’s something, but the presence of the other guy makes you all confused. Everyone’s dying to see how this one ends.

Your friend proposes you a bet: he wants you to go there and just flirt the shit out of this situation. You may have some guts but you’re not mad, you can’t take such a bet, you don’t want any Faust pas.

Then you and your friend both decide to go out, have a walk, visit some other place. Then after a while you both come back again and she’s still there. But now she’s the one who’s leaving. Things just come and go, fortune’s a bitch, once you’re a king, once you’re a beggar.

And all of a sudden, after your eyes have already met for the last adieu to optically kiss the space that separates you, she approaches you carelessly and hands you over this wrinkly piece of paper that appears to be a chewing gum wrapping. You both say nothing, she leaves. At that moment you still consider it a joke, she must be having a good laugh now, for what you’re about to discover is most likely a wet chewing gum she’s just put out of her pretty mouth. But instead, inside the paper wrapping, you find her phone number.

You type the number down on your cell phone under the name that says it all: Unknown beauty. Of course you call her. You’re not as dumb as you look. So you start dating. Turns out that the guy she was with  the other night is her gay friend. Totally trustworthy. She’s got some cool friends by the way. And she’s gracious and she’s damn smart. She’s that kind of smart that you find hot as hell. She reads things and she likes your writing. And loving your writing is the sweetest love a girl can make to you.

She recommends you this novel that will change your way of thinking about literature forever. It is Nabokov’s finest and most achieved work, full of juicy passages and incredibly eloquent puns: Ada or Ardor. From the very first lines you adore Ada’s pandoric orientation towards nature and you sense the odor of her brilliant idiolect, dressed in the splendor of ardent metaphors that open the door to most devious ardor one can think of, devoutly to be punished, erotically speaking, adultery adored and devoured. You notice that Nabokov is relentlessly fucking with the reader and you start to love this game that only the one with the pen, the one with the pun, the pantheist demiurge of the fictional world, can ever win.

Thank you, my adorable Ada, ardor of my dolor.

You and your new girlfriend go along surprisingly well. She takes you quite seriously – such an honor you did not expect. So you take her seriously too. That cannot end up well, can it?

You have your big time, there are moments of a violent passion. When she first kisses you, you already end up scratched and bitten but you do not complain, you appreciate her pretty cruelty. You even like the fact that every damn time you leave her for a tiny moment alone in a bar, someone tries to pick her up. And though she’s kind to everyone, you’re the only person she gives a fuck about, so you both make fools of other guys pretending to be siblings, just like in the novel.

Such is the Summer of your loving. No wonder when she tells you she’s got to leave to Manchester for a couple of weeks, you decide to follow her without hesitation. There will you spend some of the most incredible days of your life, most of the time shifting gently from a passionate lovemaking to a deep conversation. You keep talking while falling asleep, and you wake up talking, and all of a sudden, you realize you’re making out again. Fucking and talking – this is what couples do.

What could possibly go wrong? She even forgave you when your ex ended up again in your bed, she appreciated the fact that you told her, that you’d resisted the almost uncontrollable temptation of the body you knew so well and loved so much. She forgave you this. And she forgave you, God, she really did, this one time when you told her in the bed that she’s not this other one, she’s not your ex. Such a brilliant ontological statement. And you told her that, you bitch. This one thing no-one should ever hear from a lover: “You’re not her”, “You’re not him”. One day you will hear that too. In fact, you will hear that many times. Take it as your redemption. Far too many times you were him to the others and you didn’t give a damn.

Anyway, when you’re involved, shit goes wrong incredibly well.

You’ve been accepted to the studies you’ve been dreaming of. You’re about to move to some real city and enter the path that will enable you to read the French novels for a living. How cool is that? You’re going to learn some shit too. Oh, you can’t even imagine the things you’re about to learn.

Now you leave, she stays. But you both don’t worry much. For the first few weeks you visit each other regularly and you keep talking and making sweet love all the way au bout de souffle. It’s just that at some point, and heaven knows why, you stop caring. Maybe it’s because you too sure of her being yours, or maybe you’re too excited with the new city thing. Either way, you fuck it up once again. All the missed calls, all the long, sensitive and pretty brilliant letters she sends – you leave it all without much of a response. She’s damn right to dump you, she’s too much of a woman for you.

Now you’re all alone with your novels. In a city that doesn’t give a fuck about you.
Watch out for the shit is yet to come.