I took the stars from my eyes and then I made a map
  And knew that somehow I could find my way back 
 Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too 
 So I stayed in the darkness with you

Can I catch your eye, sir
Can I be what you like, yeah
I could be the right girl
Tell me if you like your lady in my-my color
Can I be your type, yeah
I could set you right, whoa
How are you tonight, sir
I'm living my life, ooh
Hope you feel alright, yeah!

Baby you need to leave
'cause I'm getting drunk on your noble deeds
It doesn't matter that they don't get done
When I feel this cold they're like the fucking sun.

The Rat’s First Letter

            (Postmarked December 21st, One Year Ago)

            So how’s everything?

            Seems like an awful long time since I saw you last. How many years is it now? What year was it?

            I think I’ve gradually lost my sense of time. It’s like there’s this impossible flat blackbird flapping about over my head and I can’t count above three. You’ll have to excuse me, but why don’t you do the counting?

            I skipped town without telling anybody and maybe you had your share of troubles because of it. Or maybe you were upset at me for leaving without a word to you. You know, I meant to set things straight with you any number of times, but I just couldn’t. I wrote a lot of letters and tore them all up. It should’ve been obvious, but there was no way I could explain to others what I couldn’t even explain to myself.

            I guess.

            I’ve never been good at writing letters. Everything comes out backwards. I use exactly the wrong words. If that isn’t bad enough, writing letters makes me more confused. And because I have no sense of humor, I get all discouraged with myself.

            Generally, people who are good at writing letters have no need to write letters. They’ve got plenty of life to lead inside their own context. This, of course, is only my opinion. Maybe it’s impossible to live out a life in context.

            It’s terribly cold now and my hands are numb. It’s like they aren’t my own hands. My brains, they aren’t like my own brains either. Right now it’s snowing. Snow like flakes of someone else’s brains. And it’ll pile up deeper and deeper like someone else’s brains too. (What is this bullshit all about anyway?)

            Other than the cold, though, I’m doing fine. How about you? I won’t tell you my address, but don’t take it personally. It’s not like I’m trying to hide anything from you. I want you to know that. This is, you see, a delicate question for me. It’s just this feeling I’ve got that, if I told you my address, in that instant something inside me would change. I can’t put it very well.

            It seems to me, though, that you always understand very well what I can’t say very well. Trouble is I end up being even worse at saying things well. It’s got to be an inborn fault.

            Naturally everyone’s got faults.

            My biggest fault is that the faults I was born with grow bigger each year. It’s like I was raising chickens inside me. The chickens lay eggs and the eggs hatch into other chickens, which then lay eggs. Is this any way to live a life? What with all these faults I’ve got going, I have to wonder. Sure, I get by. But in the end, that’s not the question, is it?

            In any case, I’ve decided I’m not giving you my address. I’m sure things’ll be better that way. For me and for you.

            Probably we’d have been better off born in nineteenth-century Russia. I’d have been Prince So-and-so and you Count Such-and-such. We’d go hunting together, fight, be rivals in love, have our metaphysical complaints, drink beer watching the sunset from the shores of the Black Sea. In our later years, the two of us would be implicated in the Something-or-other Rebellion and exiled to Siberia, where we’d die. Brilliant, don’t you think? Me, if I’d been born in the nineteenth century, I’m sure I could have written better novels. Maybe not your Dostoyevsky, but a known second-rate novelist. And what would you have been doing? Maybe you’d only have been Count Such-and-such straight through. That wouldn’t be so bad, just being Count Such-and-such. That’d be nice and nineteenth century.

            But well, enough of this. To return to the twentieth century.

            Let me tell you about the towns I’ve seen.

            Not the town where I was born, but different other towns.

            There really are a lot of different other towns in the world. Each with its own specific features, incomprehensible things that attract me. Which is why I’ve passed through my share of towns these past few years.

            Wherever I end up, I just get off at, and there’s a small rotary where a map of the town is posted and a street of shops. That much is the same everywhere. Even the dogs look the same. First thing I do is a quick once-around the place before heading to a real estate agent to see about cheap room and board. Sure I’m an outsider and nobody in a small town will trust me right off, but as you know I can be decent enough if I put half a mind to it. Give me fifteen minutes, and I can generally get on good terms with most people. That much accomplished, I’ve found out where I can fit in and all sorts of information about the town.

            Next, I look for work. This also begins with getting on good terms with a lot of different people. I’m sure this’d be a comedown for someone like you (and believe me, I’ve seen enough comedowns to last me) because you know you’re only going to stick around for four months anyway. But there’s nothing hard about getting on good terms with people. You find the local watering hole where all the kids hang out (every town has one—it’s like the town navel), you become a regular customer, meet people, get an introduction for some work. Of course, you come up with some likely name and life story. So that by now I’ve got a string of names and identities like you wouldn’t believe. At times I forget what I was like originally.

            In the work department, I’ve done all kinds of jobs. Most have been boring, but still I enjoy the work. Most often it’s been at a gasoline station. Next is tending some rinky-dink bar. I’ve minded shop at bookstores, even worked at a radio station. I’ve hired out as a day laborer. Been a cosmetics salesman. I had quite a reputation as a salesman, let me tell you. And I’ve slept with my share of women. Sleeping with women each time with a different name and identity isn’t half bad.

            You get the picture, in all its variations.

            So now I’m twenty-nine, turning thirty in another nine months.

            I still don’t know whether I’m cut out for this kind of life or not. I don’t know if there’s something universal about wanting to be a drifter. But as somebody once wrote somewhere, you need one of three things for a long life of wandering—a religious temperament, or an artistic temperament, or a psychic temperament. If you have one but only on the short side, an extended drifter’s existence is out of the question. In my case, I can’t see myself with any of them. In a pinch, I might say … no, better not.

            Otherwise, I might end up opening the wrong door some day, only to find I can’t back out. Whatever, if the door’s been opened, I better make a go of it. I mean I can’t keep buying my kicks for the rest of my life, can I?

            That’s about the size of it.

            Like I said at the beginning (or did I?), when I think of you, I get a little uneasy. Because you remind me of when I was a comparatively regular guy.

            Your friend,
The Rat

            P.S.: I enclose a novel I wrote. It doesn’t mean anything to me anymore, so do whatever you want with it. I’m sending this special delivery to make sure it reaches you by December 24. Hope it gets there on time.

            Anyway, Happy Birthday.

            And by the way, Merry Christmas.

N-am mai scris pe limba mea de ceva vreme , dar noroc cu Irina ca mi-a amintit de unde vin si probabil unde o sa ma intorc- asa ca postare tip jurnal.

Vorbeam cu 'baietii' despre viata de liceu. Intr-o lume in care chiulitul e o infractiune, se studiaza maxim 5 materii pe an si fiecare e cu pizda masii e destul de greu sa explici conceptul de diriginte. e incredibil de greu sa te faci crezut in momentul in care povestesti despre cum te duceai la sus-mentionatul si spuneai: dirigu, e ora 12 am plecat la o cafea!
Nu are niciun sens conceptul de profesor care te iubeste suficient incat sa-ti cumpere cafea si sa-ti ierte greseli. Nici macar iesitul la tabla nu are sens intr-o lume in care notele si progresul intelectual sunt absolut confidentiale.
Asa ca 'baietii mei' ma priveau perplecsi in timp ce incercam sa-mi amintesc cum am chiulit atunci de la fizica in Ilusion la cafea, cum m-a sunat el Nea Nelu si mi-a spus ca el nu ajunge la ora si ca sefa clasei sa am grija sa nu iasa nimeni la bataie cu zapada. 'Da Nenea Nelu!' e dureros de intraductibil. in aceeasi masura e dureros de greu sa explici ca ai primit telefoane ora aia de la colegii tai care erau in clasa, ca totul a fost o farsa de-a profesorului tau de fizica si ca te-ai ales cu un 3. Nici daca explici ca e din 10 si ca iti trebuie macar 5 ca sa treci nu are nicio relevanta nota 3. Inspectoarea de fizica pe judet-iarasi nu spune nimanui nimic intr-o limba straina, asa ca nu prea are importanta ca doua saptamani mai incolo ai fost prezentata sus-numitei de catre acelasi intraductibil Nea Nelu drept 'cea mai buna eleva a mea...dar e o lepra'.
Cum sa explici ca ieseai la beri cu profesorii, ca dupa ce ai terminat cei mai frumosi 4 ani din viata ta ati jucat fotbal si ati organizat meciuri ca fiind a doispea ati organizat si un bal al bobocilor si ca acolo, unicii 2 baieti din clasa s-au travestit pe Single Ladies.
Intr-o lume in care a fi dat afara de la ora e o tragedie, nu poti sa explici cand i-ai spus profei de franceza ca daca nu te lasa sa-ti bei cafeaua la ora 8 dimineata n-are decat sa-ti puna absenta si tu te duci linistita si o bei in Illusion, peste drum , in fum de tigare.
Cum sa explici ca profu' se sport te-a trecut pentru o vadra de tuica?! Sau ca jucai bridge in loc sa programezi in c++?! Ce dracu e ala bac?! Ce insemana 3.75 cu 3 din oficiu la o lucrare la mate?! Nici macar'ba' nu se poate traduce?! Cum poti sa descrii ca proful tau de chimie era omul pe care-l iubeai si-l respectai ca pe un parinte?! omul care iti dadea cafea, se facea ca nu vede si oprea un intreg autocar pe Valea Oltului ca sa fumezi tu o tigare?!
Si multe zambete in lumea asta sunt dureros de intraductibile ...si multe amintiri as vrea sa le fi pastrat mai bine, mai intacte, mai vii.
M-am oprit la un moment dat incercand sa-mi dau seama ce s-a intamplat cu poza aia facuta intr-o fosta sala de sport cu o tigare aprinsa, un picior de masa de tenis rupt si o trupa de teatru.

-Domsoara' Bunaiasu! pana si asta e dureros de intraductibil.......

***multumiri speciale don'soarei Ana Irina :))

I guess being religious on Wednesdays pays off!

Guess who's got a pregnancy test scheduled in 3 weeks due to very bad medical history  and not wanting to pay 30 pounds for something that was most probably useless and only costed me a track down of my medical history and a scheduled pregnancy test?! Overall, I decided to get my revenge for all that and made Nurse Debbie give me pills for lots and lots and stuff I don't really suffer from  .
Nurse Debbie also decided the sensible thing to do when an eastern European comes in asking for a morning after pill is to force prescribe 3 MONTHS WORTH of anticonceptionals . I couldn't say no to that! you know how susceptible I am towards someone who's only doing the sensible thing!
Nurse Debbie  also asked some of the most uncomfortable and private questions that literally to me are of no medical relevance, but that is not the point. I didn't know what to tell her. I was either too tired, either I was so out of it I just lost my ability to shortly bullshit my way out of these things, I was thinking I'm hearing the voice of my own subconscious- I don't know- but I found myself thinking of what she just asked me and not knowing what the fuck to say . Nurse Debbie bless her! assumed I was trying to bullshit her instead of just saying I got drunk and shagged a guy who's name I can't remember - only sensible to give me 3 MONTHS WORTH of pills! truth is, I really didn't know what to answer her and all that hesitation and actual thinking made it a hilarious scene  . Debbie must have loved it!
The pharmacist was very nice - probably a pedo himself - told me in the most natural way : I probably shouldn't tell you this AND LET YOU PAY THE PRICE OF YOUR MISTAKE but you can get this for free!
My jaw dropped! I wanted to add he was gay as fuck and taking it up the ass is most likely the only reason he's so high and mighty, but I knew he was about to point me to the NEAREST medical centre so I let him finish and said thank you. judged by a fag- who would have thought?!
overall- a funny experience I'm not looking forward to living anytime soon. at least till the pregnancy test I'm surely gonna attend just to set Debbie at ease.