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  1. #21
    Perjashtuar
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    all very intereting...
    but i must have missed something; how did it go from an (seemingly tropical island) to a little village outside of warsaw?

  2. #22
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    O lal (how becoming of me) Polaket s'jane emigrante vetem in the good old US of A. Desha te te thosha before I was distracted by some purrty shiny thing, qe me pelqeu nentitulli yt -- anger is a gift. Right on, dude! ;)

    Fiorke, you have no idea how right you are... :) Since one can't have enough of one good thing, do lumturohesh me lajmin qe lemshet e Humpty Dumpty-t strehojne kush e di sa Leila te vogla qe do rriten pas meje :)
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

  3. #23
    Perjashtuar Maska e Ryder
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    hey baby. nice writing.

  4. #24
    Perjashtuar
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    Citim Postuar mė parė nga Leila
    O lal (how becoming of me) Polaket s'jane emigrante vetem in the good old US of A. Desha te te thosha before I was distracted by some purrty shiny thing, qe me pelqeu nentitulli yt -- anger is a gift. Right on, dude! ;)

    Fiorke, you have no idea how right you are... :) Since one can't have enough of one good thing, do lumturohesh me lajmin qe lemshet e Humpty Dumpty-t strehojne kush e di sa Leila te vogla qe do rriten pas meje :)
    damn me dhe nentitullet e mija, se prap se shpjegove. lol E di e di qe sjane emigrante vetem ne USA, nejse ishalla e shpjegon heres tjeter.

  5. #25
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    I... I... oh...

    At least I tried. Better luck next time.
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

  6. #26
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    Grabbing the wolf by its ears

    “I have a new girlfriend,” He confessed during our long distance call on my trip to Ireland. I froze in restraint not to run out of my hotel room and catch the next flight home to Him, articulating something dull and stupid to the effect of “She’s good to you?” In a strikingly picturesque hotel in the heart of Dublin, my piebald of a room full of clothes inadvertently (in their haphazardly guiltless way) impersonating my scattered sentiments about leaving the island, closed in on me in the most vicious way, overriding all common sense. It was the loneliest trip of my life and I felt trapped there – “Beware of the person who’s been cornered,” I always warned Him to be crueler then. I had been told by an overbearing, arrogant girl (and I almost wrote “friend”) that she intended to marry well into her 30’s because she wanted to travel and see the world first and that no one should make the mistake of doing any different. But what good is a lonely gondola ride, anyway? And who will hold your baggage when you search for your passport or nature calls? A lonely trip seems OK if one’s not fazed by the alternative of perhaps developing urine tract infection because they held it in for hours and hours of traveling.

    “I tell her about you all the time,” He continues. I didn’t want to say something provocative or feign exaggerated disbelief just to force answers from Him because it’s sneaky, and at the same time asking openly was out of the question. He knew the effect He was creating and nevertheless continued with His mind games, rage’s outcome, I suppose, a way to avenge how He felt about my leaving. Aren’t all people this cruel to their loved ones? “She’s seen all the photographs of you sleeping, cooking, reading, driving… what else? She’s seen that videotape of you jumping off the rocks, swimming naked and showering in the wild. I even told her the story of your accident and about the calluses on your hand.”

    “About that. Mrs. O thought I had hurt my wrist and didn’t believe me when I told her that it’s from writing.” Having made it His mission years ago to seep into my every pore, into my psyche, and rearrange everything to His liking, He becomes even more aggressive after my attempt to change the subject. “She knows the shape of your stomach, the way it curves in under your ribs, the concealing round shape of your sex, the way you always have bruises of all colors on your legs, and that you buy shoes much too big for you because you can’t find any your size.”

    “I hope you haven’t told her about my allergies or else you’re giving her ways and ideas how to kill me… so, ummm, yeah… let’s stop necrophilia before it becomes a problem.” I tell Him that one day He’ll have memorized everything about me and who knows… maybe He’ll find Himself in love him with Him and not me. “Maybe being in love with yourself may not be so different than loving a whole other set of genes. Maybe it’s better. It’s like a marriage from birth, an arranged one… who knows by who.”

  7. #27
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    Not having been able to produce a visa for their translator, a company I had worked with previously in Albania turned to me to attend a 3 day seminar in Dublin. With my erratic job experience and education, it was more of a favor than an offer. In their eyes, I made up for my odd temperament and slipshod expertise in the work place by the comforting thought that I had nothing to gain in spilling the company beans, I had no career ambitions that could make getting bought a temptation, I got the job done without bugging them, and lastly I had absolutely no qualms or reservations about getting around in foreign places or making new friends – keeping them was a different story and entirely unnecessary to them. At least this is what I overheard them complain about when hiring new employees.

    I had been sitting in all morning, attending one commercial after the other, collecting business cards, and in tandem making an effort to console awkward Ludwig, shy as a girl, one of the representatives who had previously been turned down tactlessly by the Italiana with the infamously bizarre Mireille Mathieu haircut, “Honestly, Ludwig…” deep breath, “if I ever saw a real hate crime to one’s self, this is it – wanting to screw a girl with not enough sense to fix that!” I motioned towards my hair with both hands. He straightened up his dainty frame, ran my sentence in his mind a few times to make sure he got it right as he nodded his thin, pale chin, and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day. I spent the next few seconds retracing my every word, wondering if Ludwig knew my nationality and if I just helped form possible stereotypes. I looked at him one more time, almost regretfully but still mainly pissed off. Poor Ludwig; he didn’t know how handsome he was if he stopped being so self-conscious and quit trying to win a girl’s affections by pouting about the previous one.

  8. #28
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    That night, He continued to amuse Himself in disclosing random details about an imaginary woman, such as the way He explained to her how I did my hair, that I’m ambidextrous, that I have a penchant to create words that don’t exist, “… and that you are too disgusted to eat cherries or grape that have already fallen from the stem, and that you sabotage your eyebrows by plucking above them and at both ends to make them look smaller.” Common sense aside, dread was more than enough to think of her like a real person and judging from His history of choices, I was convinced that she would have to be a remarkable permutation of Monica Bellucci slash Catherine Zeta-Jones slash Gene Tierney, a woman that would “fill” his hands, and this disturbed me. If there’s a type of woman that disturbs most women, it would be one that is their complete opposite, that doesn’t confirm or endorse her looks and personality.

    I changed the subject, “Bought some Aubrey Beardsley prints today. I don’t want to be bossy in these matters, but I assure you that you will like him.” Finally, having run out of things to say about Moshe Dayan and Archimedes Death Ray, our only form of gossip, but not wanting to hang up, our speech became more slurred as we became more sincere – a fair balance, considering the routine conversations when alert. I thought I heard Him vow something along the lines that He would steal all tenderness from me before He died, so that I wouldn’t love another. That's not hard to believe. We went to sleep, ignoring the time difference. His Albanian “Goodnight, grape” kept me up 15 seconds longer to come to two conclusions. First, although grape meant something sweet like honey, it aggravated me because I really didn’t like grape and only ate them out of habit. Second, I entertain my nitpicking more than I should; there is no Gene Tierney doppelganger anywhere in the world. It’s impossible, I’m sure.

    * * *

    I woke up in the middle of the night only to find a stranger in my room, bent over to my level and watching me sleep. He was pretty visible in the dark room, pale by nature as he was, staring at me with his pink eyes. I began backing off slowly enough, inch by inch, as to not send him into a panic to try to stop me. It seemed that the only thing I could hear was the sheets rustling, taking different shapes as it adjusted to my moving body, and I missed out on his greeting.

    "A person's entire belief system, my dear, can only be shattered 7 times before they go mad," he said as if he had been talking for some time now and was continuing his speech. I hate hearing “my dear” being used seriously; it’s so pretentious. I stared at him and understood at once what he meant as if I had been listening all along -- beliefs are the foundation of one's sanity. His being there tested my sanity because logically and naturally, I believed that there was no paper-white man with white hair -- Little Albert's real-life nightmare, and white suit and tie. In fact, it was ridiculous that the next color I would associate him with would be pink, a pretty innocuous, gentle and feminine color, a symbol of love and happiness. His face was still too close for comfort and I put a pillow between us. It was an instinct, although I couldn’t for the life of me understand my obstinate desire to hold on to my sanity; it wasn’t like I would miss it once it was gone. “It matters not what exactly shatters their beliefs; they can all be broken in hundreds of different ways,” he continued advancing towards me while I frantically attempted to figure out how many chances I had left, hoping I’d die before my 7th time, but the chronology of my life came back to me a stupefying mass of green grass slithering and sliding under my bare feet. I closed my eyes tightly, a futile struggle to try to remember something about my life and all I could remember was walking on grass.

    How many ways can you shatter belief? How many ways…? Think! How many… belief in God, death of a loved one, change of lifestyle… none of which I had experienced. What else? Belief in God, death of a loved one… I said those already. How many did I count? Five? Six? Think!

    He lunged at me to get a hold of me fast as I fell backwards and screamed.

  9. #29
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    oh ho ho ho... i'm tickled... stop, stop, stop, OOOHHHH HAHHAHAH STOOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPP

    Shenim per veten qe mos harroj te shkruaj per diten e sotshme.
    Desh mbyta nje burre me shallin tim dhe jam e sigurte se do me lejonte ta ndiqja deri ne fund aktin tim. I fala jeten. Kjo s'do te thote qe atij tashme i perket te vdesi nga dora ime? S'jap borxhe, as koleksionoj te tilla... Me sakrifica nuk ngaterrohem, kurrsesi. Megjithate, dicka duhet ti bej nqs e shoh serish. Ti fal shallin?

  10. #30
    ................
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    Dhuratė tunduese nga ekzekutuesja, por nė mė pyet mua... mė tunduese akoma do ishin 5-hėnėshi yt.
    Jo??
    Ka vend per ankese??

  11. #31
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    Po, tek une.

  12. #32
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    I had doubted myself that night. The notion of dreams being nothing more than one’s monologue was tested by the spontaneous sensation of touch. The impact of his grip imprinted on my shoulders and collar bone ached for the rest of the day. I kept the lamps on every night for a week after that, although the ghost in The Gift appeared in a well-lit bathroom and The Langoliers was filmed during the daytime.

    The next morning after returning to the island, Zytka showed me my torn bed sheets. “All we… us… thought you left… for always.” I kept waiting for her to tell me more, that there had been someone else sleeping in our bed while I was gone. “Agneta” meaning Mrs. O, “hears noise in night when you were there. He yells in night. I come in mornings, everything is everywhere.” Naming all the parts of the bed, pillows and bed sheets by the appropriate name in the islander’s language, Zytka explained that they were all scattered around the room and on the floor every morning while I was away. I never asked Him why but I found out months later that He, too, had fears of His own.

    O Mythos

    The sun bride had finally awoken from the chaos surrounding them. By then, the mob had multiplied themselves. It didn’t matter how many He killed; the sons would come to the dying father’s aid. While waiting for their turn to die, the crowds in the outer layers of the throng f’ucked one another hysterically; mothers, sisters, daughters, neighbors – whatever would produce descendants to keep the eternal sinister cycle of debauchery stirring. Gaping cunts dripping of despondency awaited conception so they could cultivate monstrous savages in their Stygian tarry caves. Throughout the mayhem all around the world, her voice roamed over their heads screaming and calling His name. At times she would writhe herself from their grip, break free from the crowd, leap into His arms and hold Him until they would pry and drag her away. Whenever she pressed herself to Him she brought a whole world with her, sewed onto her like wings on her shoulders, and His eyes wandered behind her back to see it for the first time. Beauty was the backdrop of hate and suffering. They were surrounded by a scenery of a viridescent landscape, the clearest gurgling waters, and animals staring at the crowd with a questioning air about the inhumanity of a culture of brutes. He was stunned to see glimpses of splendor in the midst of horrors, as if someone had put these two together to play on the irony.

  13. #33
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    Some nights they would lock her in a dingy iron cage, her new cocoon, where He could see her covered in blood struggling to tear off the bars. Other nights they would imprison her behind the walls of a soaring tower where she couldn’t be seen. She spat, kicked, scratched and found ways to appear before Him for a split second, begging Him for help, before they dragged her back. Before long, He realized that for the rest of their lives He could only fight for the next moment when she would jump into His arms. The power of the mob did not depend on their strength; their main purpose for living was to serve as barriers for anyone who wanted something different than to serve as barriers. Neither could their power be attributed to their shrewdness since they had none; they were ignorant when it came to war tactics or reasoning. Their true strength came from numbers. That’s all it takes for the world to topple over. And He would age one day, His arms would give out and He would die somehow, leaving behind stolen moments that were meant to belong to Him in the first place. With a hateful roar that stifled her cries, He cursed beauty, the taunting image that ravished the astonished reflection of his lifeless eyes.

  14. #34
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    “I am not Simone Choule!”

    I tried to throw away the torn bed sheets that increasingly resembled home-made gauze for our nightly renewed wounds but Mrs. O tried to stop me. She wanted to perform some kind of ritual on them to shun the evil eye, and when she finally gave up arguing with me on superstition she muttered under her breath as she turned to leave, “You American girls… think so untouchable. But you are not, nobody is! Other girl was as you but she got evil eye then.” I hurried back to the apartment. It was going to get dark soon.

    The curtains’ choreography propelled by the cool midnight air kept me transfixed on my side of the bed for so long that by the time I came out of the daze, the bed felt like a pile of hot coals. I turned to my left and pulled my body closer to the colder part of the bed, the middle. He carefully placed His cheek on top of mine as my face sunk into the pillow, and then it was dark. I opened my eyes and found His right eye staring into mine. I wondered if it was a good time to tell Him about Aeon Flux comics, how genius was the concept of the fly trapped inside the eyelashes, that they were going to make it into a movie soon. He beat me to it and asked about happiness. He thinks about my happiness like all happinesses are achieved: through some sort of a mathematical equation. I, on the other hand, don't really think of His happiness. I just assume everyone is the happiest they'll ever be; that their lives are derivatives of their desires, and are not by accident but because they've worked each day to slowly morph it by degrees exactly how they want it… save for some unfortunate events of pure probability which really are the best thing that can happen to someone considering its non-discriminatory nature. But having a distinct passion for invading the pillars of others' temperaments, He was not satisfied and pressed on provocatively, “Will you be happy when…” He subtracted pomegranate layers, added fiction squared by watermelon seeds, multiplied goose bumps with L over Y, divided wrinkles by apple leaves, found square roots in the fluttering of eyelashes, formed a parabola with pollen of mimosas, and then finally asked again because now that He’d solved the equation I owed it to Him to tell Him whether the answer was correct.
    Ndryshuar pėr herė tė fundit nga Leila : 13-01-2006 mė 05:21 Arsyeja: Capajeva ka frike te shkoje ne banjo se kujton Simone Choule se si zhvishte fashot ne dritaren e banjos.
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

  15. #35
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    I must have stood there at the edge of the rocks with my goggles on for about 5 minutes, visually measuring the cliff that Mrs. O had confirmed as most definitely safe to jump from. After having rationalized that the first jump is the most frightening and remembering how addictive the rush is after the first time, the only argument that finally made me do it was the thought that no amount of reasons to be afraid would change the outcome because sooner or later I was going to jump anyway. It was only a matter of time. At last I plunged in headfirst regretting it the moment I built enough inertia to run off the cliff, but tried my hardest to keep my spine stick straight. I once smacked my ribcage on the hard surface viciously when I regretted jumping into the water and curved my back backwards. As I was plummeting in my face was smashed a million times onto some imaginary rocks hiding half a meter beneath the surface. Would I know if that happened or would death come before I knew it? Instead, it was a fairly smooth jump and as the unbelievably cold water swallowed me up inside its monstrous belly, I stretched my arms out in disbelief. No rocks. I hadn’t even hit that humongous fish I always thought I would. I finally opened my eyes. No icebergs either, no whale tail, the bottom of a ship passing by or anything else that’s terrifying about the sea. Swimming pools didn’t have the slightly grotesque, one-with-nature sentiments of awe that I could do without, an authenticity that I never figured out whether that made them better or worse. They were sterile, colorless and ultimately had become nothing more than a big bathtub. The color of the water reminded me of a painting of the naiads meeting the beautiful Hylas and drowning him. Resurfacing slowly, I removed my goggles and tied them to my bikini taking my time with the backstrokes. Any good swimmer knows that the worst thing they can do once they dive in is to start swimming furiously. The adrenaline rush warmed me up quickly enough as I made towards the pile of rocks of Last Breath.
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

  16. #36
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    Halfway there I was out of breath and slowed down my strides before finally resorting to floating on my back, eyes closed and feverish from the hot sun and fatigue. Now I really couldn’t turn back. There had been a miscalculation in the distance and by the time it became obvious to me, it was too late. Being out of shape, I was exhausted and gasping for air with every movement. A man who tried to swim to another country became so tired halfway through, that he swam back to his country. And so it should be that a sense of humor, not hope, perishes last. I looked up to see the little black mound over the surface of the water. It looked like a gargantuan volcano tip. The water surrounding it was darker, a reminder that there is earth beneath it all, that swimming is the closest one can get to feeling like flying on their own, sans help from technology. I made my way back to the shore where the world with all its hot sand rose from the ground and burnt my forearm that I had put up on time to protect my eyes. Time, a fleeting cloud, a rather apathetic and self-centered cloud, passed on its own accord, wholly unmoved by my misfortune of being buried alive gradually. The sand was opening up and I was slowly sinking below the sand-raining cloud. It was a cruel cloud, then.

    Just as the little tourist girl was about to pour more sand over my knees, I woke up and she stopped only to blurt out, “You’re like--” deep breath “Chineeese girl,” dragging words out like children do. I drew a circle on the sand and stuck her plastic toy shovel in the center. According to the sun clock, it was noon and I would miss lunch if I didn’t hurry.
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

  17. #37
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    Ironia eshte se emri i vajzes eshte/ishte Simone. Life works that way.

    (Drago qe pi lote vajzash! ... edhe te asaj qe -- fatkeqesisht per te -- loves you to death... maybe hers.)
    Ndryshuar pėr herė tė fundit nga Leila : 22-02-2006 mė 14:32
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

  18. #38
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    Devijim:

    Nje cift ishin shume te trishtuar sepse kishin vite qe u mungonte nje femije. Nje nate vjen nje dervish qe kalon naten ne shtepine e tyre dhe i pyet pse jane kaq te trishte. Ata i shpjegojne hallin dhe dervishi qesh duke u lene nje molle dhe nje porosi: molla te qerohet dhe ta ndajne te 2 midis nj-tj dhe lekuren t'ia ushqenin peles. 9 muaj me vone behen me nje vajze, pela me nje mez. Dhe keshtu e mbyll vajzen e cmuar ne nje dhome qelqi, nena shterpe ne bark e shkretetire ne gji. Nje mengjes dimri vajza u zgjua dhe pa pertej xhamit boren qe kishte mbuluar vendin, dhe mbi bore 2 pika gjaku harabeli. "Ka gje me te bukur se gjaku mbi bore?" uleret vajza e mrekulluar. "Po, ka," i pergjigjen sherbyeset, "eshte dragoi ne maje te malit." Pa degjuar prinderit, vajza mori kalin, nje pale kepuce hekuri dhe u nis ne maje te malit. Dragoi i mori ere: ere bananesh, trendafilash dhe CK1. E ndjeu vajzen para se ti trokiste ne dere, e mori brenda me te mira dhe pastaj e urdheroi te qante mbi nje kazan qe kur te ktheheshe nga gjahu te mund te shuante etjen. Perndryshe do e hante (dhe per ta frikesuar -- por jo shume, i tregoi vetem 1/3 e grave te vdekura dhe te varura ne mur). Vajza mbushi kazanin me uje dhe kripe, dhe pavaresisht se dragoi mbet' i kenaqur, ai nuk e mbajti anen e vet te premtimit :) Detyra e dyte qe i vuri ishte te hante mish njeriu. Vajza ia dha kalit ta hante. Vjen dragoi ne shtepi dhe bertet, "Mish, mish ku jeeeeee?" dhe mishi ia kthen, "Jam ketuuuu ne barkun e ngrohte." Se fundi, dragoi dorezohet dhe i kerkon ta martoje vajzen, e cila i pergjigjet se do e martoje pasi te kete qepur 66 fustane nuserie me fije mendafshi. Naten e marteses, nusja hyn ne dhomen e dhenderrit i cili e urdheron te heqi fustanin e te futet ne shtrat, por kjo ia kthen se per secilin petk qe ajo do heqi nga trupi i saj, ai duhet te zhveshi nje lekure. "Interesante! Askush s'ma ka kerkuar kete me pare," thote dragoi dhe shkul lekuren e tij te pare nderkohe qe nusja ka hequr njerin fustan. Dhe keshtu vazhdojne deri ne mengjes, nje shtrese pas tjetres, dragoi flak tutje lekuren e tij te fundit dhe perpara nuses lakuriqe shfaqet dhenderri i pashem, pakez i frikesuar nga surpriza e kendshme. Me kete rast, 66 grate e varura ne mur u ringjallen dhe u liruan, te veshura me fustanet e nuserise. Atehere vajza qe akoma sodiste dhenderrin psheretin, "A ka gje me te bukur se kjo?" Dhe ai i sjell 2 kokrra shege nga bahcja e tij te cilat...
    Ndryshuar pėr herė tė fundit nga Leila : 23-02-2006 mė 02:14 Arsyeja: missing an R
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

  19. #39
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    (Drago qe pi lote vajzash! ... edhe te asaj qe -- fatkeqesisht per te -- loves you to death... maybe hers.)
    MERIMANGĖ ME HELM TĖ ĖMBĖL...vdeksha qė merr gjithė atė vrull dhe qėllon si pambuk. mwahhh :)
    Ndryshuar pėr herė tė fundit nga Leila : 23-02-2006 mė 03:12
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

  20. #40
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    2,556
    “Would you like to order anything or would you rather keep munching on her?” Those were the waitress’ first words to us as I later came to understand. “Men like women with meat,” she later commented in English on my unfinished plate egging Him on to agree. When she wasn’t paying attention, I hissed in His ear, “You chubby chaser!” He explained to her that I was raised differently – not like them – and never lacked my favorite foods. Their parents would eat their leftovers just so they wouldn’t throw food away. In fact she still ate whatever her sons left on their plates, no matter how full she was. A dialogue ensued full of numerous “this generation doesn’t understand” and different methods of cooking with cheap and limited ingredients. They laughed at the ridiculousness of it all and its painful truths. I finished my plate out of my imposed languor.

    There is bitterness in the older generation. They look on to the newer generation with a sense of superiority and bitterness for having been pushed back from the scene and having become the audience instead of the actors they once were. Their bitterness comes out of comments such as, "In my day..." followed by an overly exaggerated good memory, comparisons with the newer and awful generation. In comparison to themselves back in the day the newer generation doesn't know anything, according to them. They become overly sentimental, sickly sentimental, holding themselves to a high esteem and moral, claiming that they respect their eldest and cherish their mother and father. Disturbingly enough, these are not sentiments one has but a description of a role – the one of “the better man.” It is one way of claiming potency. With age we become bitter and falsify our noetic growth as we slip into it like a robe for decency’s sake. God forbid one experiences loneliness, this disease from which ego feeds on.
    Ndryshuar pėr herė tė fundit nga Leila : 24-02-2006 mė 14:51
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

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