Either I am crazy or this city is making me crazy. I have just witnessed this, where a male taxi driver, in his late thirties stopped in the middle of the boulevard causing a commotion and a scene at a woman driver in the car behind who allegedly had done something wrong. He walked to her screaming, and threatening to beat and kill her.
To which I reported the incident to his boss. And I feel better.
Mojik-country.
Remove the balls, and you will have a pretty accurate picture of my life.
When Romer!can tells you it’s awesome rock opera, you remember it’s been one of your first tapes. (It’s the wow look on his face that does it, when he stresses “It’s Operation Mindcrime I AND II performed in their entirety!”)
When you ask the Rock Chick how much are the tickets, she decides to buy you one “for your birthday”, sort of long past. So you end at the concert.
It starts late, but it’s the perfect opportunity to notice the load of ethilic looks lurking at Arenele Romane and the living dead revamped rockers. When it starts, the lead still has a voice, and band is good, but the whole thing just is not you anymore.
A nation of handicapped constructors, installers, and owners have conspired so that the innocent passer-by, already crushed under the heat from the sun and the pavement, can be refreshed with water from the air conditioning machines.
And that is happening in the streets of Bucharest, as we speak.
This time I have accidentally place the mug on the edge of the tray, which subsequently led to my mobile being drowned in a pool of coffee, milk, and honey.
I won’t possibly be able to change my phone, for financial and mood reasons. Better won’t be sticky. And better all my contacts still work.
I enjoy breaks far more than work. But then again, who doesn’t?
Are you trying to kill me?! I always manage to get the little buggers all over my body. And that’s annoying even for that short while.
I swear taking the subway is very revealing. Apparently the season is open all over again for socks in your sandals, flip-flops and the like.
Plus, if you are a true lady and have kept your purse, the fancy one! with big metal handles, in the rain, OIL IT! Otherwise it’s going to sound like you are carrying a big rusty door with you at every step you take, and I am going to crack up with laughter.
One of the somehow most expected birthday presents this year was the expiration of my identity card. Now, call me an enthusiast, but I am looking forward to the thick paper trail laying ahead and to the amount of actual physical effort needed so that the state authorities invest me with a new functional convention: my brand new, perfectly identical document, proving my identity based on domicile (say what? domicile!).
By order of consequence, I am saying, at least for a while, goodbye to my debit/credit existence. Hello cash, again.
That’s because one of the banks, let’s call it the evil one, is freezing my account starting the 31st day after the expiry and until the moment I manage to provide a valid photo ID that includes the residence address. Evil and stupid. We’ll see if banks are at least as stupid when it comes to me paying them back money I owe them. My guess is yes. Cause the last time I did this they asked for my identity card. And that was, of course! at the dull bank
Between these two there is little left, but wait! A third contestant: the we’d-love-to-but-we’re-sorry bank! They first offered me a free of charge card, even sent me the PIN, but now are withholding the activation until said identity card is, you guessed it! issued.
All these while I have not ceased to exist AND I still have other valid photo identity documents, such as the passport and the drivers license.
Welcome to redtape country. Let me show you to your form!
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