It’s the end of the world as I know it…

My father opened a blog today. My reaction to this statement: 

And now to better news:

My old blog, the first one, is alive again. Sadly, it is in Serbian, which means you maybe can’t read it. I love that blog so much…

It was my first blog (I know I said that already) and I wrote on it together with my boyfriend. It was going so well, until I realized that I was the only one writing. Hell no! Boy, write your own blog from now on.

Just kidding! I didn’t do that. I just wanted to write in English. Now I regret for ever abandoning that blog. It was the best thing that ever happened to me on internet. Interesting is that it was on blogger.

Chronologically speaking, my first blog was this one, but it hasn’t been active for months.

Another good news is I’m finally going to visit my boyfriend! I have a bus in 3:55 AM and I can’t wait. So, my next post will be from Belgrade. Bye!


Calm Before The Storm (aka. the Prologue)

It all started a month ago. I cannot remember exactly when, all I know is that I was working on something very important – an essay for a contest from Goi peace foundation. I was proud on that text and very tired, since I’ve been writing it for hours. Sitting on cool air was doing me good, and I was enjoying my coffee, looking at my biggest writing work I ever did. Suddenly, a tiny voice inside my head said a sentence that I will never forget:

“You can do better than that!”

I tried to silence it, like I did for two years, but this time I was very tired and I gave up shortly after a miserable fight. The Voice continued with venomous enthusiasm:

“Look at you! You are not happy with what you are doing. You do like music, but that is not what you want. You want something different. That’s why you are writing blog, reading books in English language, correct people who make grammar mistakes… You can do so much more, but you are trapped.”

I have to admit, the Voice was right. My conscience is telling me that it is time for decisions, and that I need to make them now. But  it is not easy.

I have to erase two, no, six years of my past, almost like they never existed. I need to start from the beginning, and I was afraid and tired. Also, there was a question hanging in the air – will it be worth it?

Do it now, while you still can. In a day or two, it will be too late to do anything and you will be miserable again. Remember your idea from six months ago. It IS the right thing to do. You crave for knowledge, but not this one. You want to learn about others, their history, culture, language. You are good at that. You were the best in high school and here, too. Everyone except you know that. Don’t waste talent. Do it!”

And I did it. I called my boyfriend, who was in Belgrade at the time, and asked him to go to the Faculty of Philology and ask them what I need to do to be admitted.

The storm is about to begin…

Writing practice no. 1

About 3 or 4 years ago…

Listen, sis”(my best friend/consider him my brother/ future best man/ my neighbor liked always to call me “sis” or “sister” because he never had one, not even a female cousin. Once he said that, if he was supposed to have sister, it is imperative that she is to be like me), there are four types of women, at least the major ones. The differences are obvious. A woman can be physically beautiful, have big charisma, be hideously ugly and, the worst one – have no charisma at all. You do know that a woman can’t have only one of these threats, right? Well, there are possible combinations, but you either have or don’t have charisma, or you are ugly, or beautiful. Nothing between.

The worst type, as I said, is the one type of women who has actually not a single hint of charisma. For me, it is better to buy those “sex dolls” that Japan is so much talking about, than actually be with one of these women. Don’t get me wrong, there are various types of them. You can find a beautiful diamond that shines more than any other in the dark, but reveals to be a fake as soon as it opens its mouth. Beware of these girls. Their words are like a blunt knife – you can see their attempt to crawl bellow your skin, but all they do is make a nice scar that lasts for couple of days. They are only for show, nothing more. You don’t take them to dinner, you don’t talk to them. Hell, I don’t do anything with them. I just watch their pathetic attempts and laugh.

The second type is like that woman in the corner. (We were for a walk in the park and resting on the bench when he was speaking this to me, eating ice cream and watching people pass by) “She is ugly like Hell, even she’d admit it if we asked her. But you don’t know if she is nice, or the proof that ‘dinosaurs still walk the Earth’, in this case, a T-Rex.

I stopped him there for a moment: “You are saying that this woman can be ugly and nice, or ugly and nightmare?”

“Yes”, he said after a moment. “Do you know her? She is a professor in my school. She is the smartest person I ever met, and she always helped students learn and get better grades. How is that for a change? The most beloved grown-up in my school is an ugly woman. This is how I learned what irony is. The next two are obvious. I am not going to bother with explanation.”

Then a thought occurred to me. With curiosity and challenge in my voice, I asked him, no, dared him to answer this question: “Which type am I?”

He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, all the time watching two girls in nothing but shorts and tiny shirts as they passed by. I heard him murmur “Thick as a plank” before he answered my question.

You are an extinct race. I know only 3 women and one of them is you that is this type. First is my mother, you are the second and the third is my girlfriend. Your skin is white, not grossly brown from all the trips to Greece or solarium, you wear decent clothes, always did, you don’t put more make up than you need it. You are neither skinny nor fat. You laugh sincerely, say what you really think and you aren’t even aware of what you are. You are a natural girl. Everything on you is real.”

And then, of course, he burst into laughter. “I am joking, can’t you tell?” We started laughing together, now and I finished our conversation with last question: “And where does this philosophy come from?

“Honestly, I don’t know. Just a hunch.”

“You mean, it’s just some random sh** you thought of to find an excuse for watching that girls but.”

“…And that, of course… But, you’ll see, I think I’m onto something.”

“You’re onto bulls***.”


Walking to my favorite place (it has Wi-Fi and very good coffee, what else do I need) to write this blog, I see a girl, blonde, plastic, kind of reminds me of C3PO when walking (in high heels, trying to lift up her shirt revealing her tattoo… the product is “C3PO movement”) and I remembered this conversation, when I came for the first time to Belgrade and he showed me the “village”. And, like always, I made the day to waitress, with my charismatic smile and words “the usual for me”.

Based on true story and a painful monologue of my Father. Painful to me, my brother and my best friend. I had to apologize later to him for that.



P.S: This is a writing practice. I do it a lot lately. Since I started reading, the words popping in my mind drive me crazy and I have to write them down. I have couple of more writings that I can’t publish on my blog, because they are going to enter some contests. Any critic will be appreciated. Thank you.

…but hate to arrive (pt. 2)

Before you read this, please read the first part called “I like to travel.”

We had lunch and after that we all went for a walk. I felt much better now on cold air. We went into stores, finding much stuff that was fun. Soon, it was time to go visit other cousins. I really enjoyed stories and that people were around me.

Long story short, we spent this day walking from house, to house, talking with my boyfriend’s relatives. They were very nice. But, when we were heading back, my head was pounding again and I felt sick because of driving. I barely managed to pull myself together, at least until we arrived home.

I don’t remember how I walked to the bed and laying down, but I remember my mother giving me glass of water and a pill telling me that all this is because I don’t eat. Now, I’m sitting in my living room, thinking about this day and feeling much better, but so tired, that I don’t know how I am writing this.

One thing I know. This was one of those days you don’t wish to miss, even if you’re sick.