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Most nights I dream of her. I am in a strange city and I see her sitting in a café, drinking coffee and writing in a notebook. She is frail beyond anything I could have imagined, barely able to pick up her cup with two hands, but she's happy to see me. I run to her, kiss her, and she pulls herself up in my arms to sit in my lap and curl against me like a little bird.

"I thought you were dead," I say, joyful because there she is, still alive, still mine. I wrap my arms around her, her forehead pressing into the curve of my neck. "Everyone think that you're dead."

"I had to try to get better one more time," she says, her voice tired. "I just didn't want to put everyone through it again, me trying to pull myself together, me failing." She tells me she is in a very secret rehab. It is only for people who everyone thinks are already dead. There is only a fifty-fifty chance of her making it, but if she got through the program she would be clean and well forever. "I figure this way if I die no one will know it, no one will have to go through all that sadness again, and if I live I'll be absolutely better and then everyone will be so happy to see me."

"We'd be happy to see you no matter how you are."

"Trust me," she says, touching my wrist.

In the dark bar, which might have been Café Drummond in Aberdeen, she is on my lap and I am tearing up tiny bites of croissants filled with almond paste and feeding them to her, when I suddenly remember something. "Oh my God, Lucy, I'm writing a book about you being dead." I feel embarrassed somehow, as if this proves I had lost faith in her ability to still be alive. "I'm so sorry. I'll throw it away."

Lucy shakes her head. I could feel her in my arms, just the weight of her bones, the brush of her head against my cheek. "Go ahead and write it," she says. "I'll probably die. Even if I don't die now, I'll die sooner or later, right?"

You weren't big on dusting, were you? I keep seeing that broken soap-holder in your bathroom. Strange how these things burn into the memory.

I know I must have misunderstood something, but if you won't talk to me I probably won't ever be able to understand what it is. Maybe you misunderstood something too? It really hurts me when you keep lashing out at me, and it scares me. I don't understand why you would want to hurt me. I don't know what I did that hurt you so much. I don't want to hurt you.

Heard these song lyrics today:

You can throw me to the wolves,
Tomorrow I will come back,
Leader of the whole pack.

And I thought, "Holy f**k, I've been through some s**t."
And I just keep surviving.
I'm stronger than you.
How did that happen?

Dear Mr. President of Russia, Vladimir Putin

I know you are a fighter pilot. That's why you are so short. Big guys drive other things, your fate is to fly a Sukhoi. I am exactly 200 cm tall, I would not fit into a MiG. You still have these helicopters, MI-8, in stock? I'd like to buy one, especially one with the red star on it.

Vaya con Dios, Jon Stewart....

Quiero irme, tú quieres que me vaya; lo sabes, lo sé.

¿Por qué es tan difícil? ¿Por qué sólo lo digo aquí, con mi ortografía retrógrada y a escondidas lingüísticas del mundo, en este planeta ajeno?

Ajeno, ajeno como el heno del heleno.
Mal genio, galeno torvo al seno del guerrero.

I hope you are still alive.

I drank your vodka cruiser.

I kinda know the feeling. Sigh.

Nothing's wrong with being obese, unless you consider being ugly, unhealthy, sweaty and stinky, people laughing about it, being a nuisance in crowded places and getting tired easily when physically active wrong. Also nothing's wrong with your pig-like face or with your ugly nasal voice that sounds fat. Finally, nothing's wrong with your bad, bitchy, negative and evil personality, as long as you stay away from good people. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with you."

I'm not going to let myself think of you anymore. I think you know why.

Hey $!
I'm not going to let myself think of you anymore. I don't think you know why.

I live a relaxed and simple life.

(Subtweet-ish post alert)

My life may be different for most of you and you may not like the way I live but let me make it clear to you:

I DO NOT want a job and I just don't want it.
It may be a bad reason but I don't care, I'll get a job eventually but not now.
Stop bugging me with unecessarry questions about it, I don't want a job and no one can make me. I just don't see a job right now that I want to do, working at a supermarket is an instant no and I haven't had any money problems.
I'll make money eventually someday from hopefully something I like to do and not something that makes me want to jump into a pile of cactuses like working at a supermarket.
I don't have the standard life.

Now this isn't just about getting a job, I just don't get why it can be so hurtful towards others when I'm calm and absolutely not worried about anything.
When you ask a question about the way I live my life, don't continue asking questions about it. There's nothing wrong asking questions but keep in mind that asking me the same question over and over again can get on my nerves.


This post is super angry, I know. Those are just thoughts that I wanted to get off my chest and I don't want to say them in person because I don't want to hear the responses I get.

Please, please, PLEASE stop being ambiguous. Just tell me what is happening. While I cannot read facial expressions well, I can see you glancing at me during class. A lot.