Welcome to DA BOIS A STRGL EDT, Thursday edition—another slog through life’s shitpile. Sundays, I shred one phrase; Thursdays, I wrestle the whole damn mess.
I was supposed to drop Once Upon a Time in America… Pt. 2 today—those 19 days of chaos (not 22 like we first thought). A blur of fights, pics, videos, and half-dead brain cells I’m still stitching together. If the first one was the Beast from Beauty and the Beast on rhoids, this one’s the bastard child of the Indominus Rex and the Mosasaurus—prepare for one hell of a ride (literally).
Apparently, I’m not done with it, but I will be next week.
Instead, let’s chew on helping—how it guts friendships when done just because, why cash favors draw blood, and why “being of service” is a noble lie that screws you worse than you think.
If you believe lenders make a fortune, you’re almost entirely wrong. A few do, but their piggy banks don’t fatten from casual loans—unless they own a bank. Giving money here and there? You’re likely losing it. If you’re an institution, the law’s got your back. The state will plug the leaks one way or another. But let’s not kid ourselves—we’re not successful lenders or investors, and we sure as hell don’t own banks (we barely keep our own accounts in the green).
Anyway, money’s power—raw, ugly, ruler of all. Got it? Want it? Watch how noses start twitching.
Trap’s this: help out, someone’s still pissed.
Lend a buck, they swear payback—until “Don’t rush” morphs into “You said no hurry,” then ghosted calls and family feuds.
Don’t lend? Cheap prick, selfish stain.
So what kind of snakes do you like? Not all of them are poisonous, but they all bite—pick yours and feel its teeth. No clean play, only consequences.
You’ll either regret giving or regret not giving—so choose wisely.
New here? Like the rant? Dig into last week’s edition: Once Upon a Time in America… Pt. 1
The Stupidity/Power to Help
Helping’s dumb—straight-up, fight me (I won’t back down, but please don’t). People don’t ask right—whine for a fix without knowing why they’re broke. They know what they want and why, but they’re not ready to do what it takes—unless it’s begging and promising.
I’ve done it too—played the “I can’t do it solo” or “It’s gonna be nice to” cards.
Truth? Lazy half the time, entitled the rest.
Returned the love? Probably not—nah, let’s quit the “probably” dance.
Selfless giving’s a fairy tale—saints or suckers, we all want a nod eventually (not that kind of nod, though I wouldn’t mind).
And the receiver? Blindsided—“Thought this was free?” Nope. Strings slink in, silent ‘til they choke—and no, not in a pleasurable way.
Or it’s pity—your own dirt-poor ghosts whispering, pay it forward. Still got hooks. I’m not J.P. Morgan tossing bills and financing whole countries—I earned mine, fair fights or foul plays, no lottery bullshit.
Helping’s 90% unsolicited evil—shoves you both in a ditch.
That 10%? Rare gold glints when you least expect it.
Hit me in the U.S.—dropped cash on strangers, no strings, just ‘cause. Felt right, not forced. Difference matters.
Take Manuel—real name, real guy. Met him hauling apartments in L.A.—moving gigs, sweaty days, decent cash. Older dude, my dad’s age, but sharp, not weathered. I’ve seen plenty of middle-aged guys as greedy as Commodus (regular people who think they’re emperors).
One day, he rings me up—heard some furniture was getting trashed, America’s waste goldmine. Plan: salvage, flip it. Offered pay; I waved it off. Guy’s pure good, and I was killing time—why not be useful instead of self-centered? We lugged everything we could to his house in Burbank—couch, tables, mattress, chairs, splintered dreams.
After, he shoves a $50 bill at me—Ulysses Grant’s smug face staring. I told him, “No, man, we’re cool.” He wouldn’t budge—“Take it or I don’t sleep right.” Persuasive bastard—could’ve sold ice to Eskimos, but too honest for that grind. Took it and felt weirdly whole. But more importantly, he felt whole.
Last gig I saw him—Rancho Cucamonga. Big move, big pay. My car was in the shop—busted ball joint and lower control arm, $700 coffin. Told him, “Pick me up, drop me off, and you’ve got it.” Two extra hours on his clock, L.A. traffic chewing souls—but he’s a humble, hardworking man.
Job’s smooth ‘til weather delays slash the payout. Client’s happy, but no tip (paradox, huh?). Manuel’s the transporter, usually takes the fat cut. This time? He says split it even—sends me $90 extra through Zelle before I blink. Maybe ‘cause he knew about my car situation.
An hour before L.A., we stop for gas.
I try covering it—“You drove, man, let me.” (Playing the I won’t sleep good card.)
He accepts, but lies—“$70 tank, tops”—and buys me coffee and a sandwich at Starbucks.
Cali gas in ‘23? $4 a gallon, 30-gallon truck—I do the math. Tank’s $120 easy.
Kept my $20 bonus—got drenched and fed.
What more do you need to experience joy in life?
Where I’m from, modesty’s a sign of good manners—refuse gifts, play humble. Bulgaria drilled that in: don’t take, don’t owe. Not just a Bulgarian thing, but middle-class family values.
But over time, I learned—it’s the opposite, of course, when there are no backthoughts.
I rejected good manners plenty, just because I was told to. With Manuel, I flipped it—rejecting his will would’ve been like spitting in his face. Took the coffee, the sandwich—but what’s the lesson?
Joy’s in the simplicity—two people just helping each other. Not trying to impress.
He’s the 1-in-10. The rest? 9-out-10 bullshit.
I wanted to show how helping is both powerful and foolish. If the cynical intro didn’t convince you, I hope this story does. True generosity is rare—and hard to recognize before it’s gone.
(But wait—I’ve got one more cynical example to close this section.)
Manuel and I saw each other only at work. Not an everyday thing, but enough for things to go wrong. Maybe if we were closer, we’d have taken advantage of each other. Maybe one of us would’ve had the upper hand.
That’s something I’ll explore in the next section.
Rewind to ‘20—Sofia, broke as hell.
Housemate’s short on rent, desperate for 300 BGN ($165ish). I lend it. Never got it back.
We split soon after. I tried reaching out—one phone call, a couple of texts, promises to “clear it out.”
Months later? Nada. Excuses pile up, then silence, then ghosted. (Dating is no different.)
Friendship? Torched—if it was ever real in the first place.
Me? Idiot for giving, bigger idiot for expecting.
Twice the fool—lesson carved in bone.
Giver’s twice guilty—sets the snare, eats the trap.
If that last sentence confused you, read it again. And again if you have to.
Make of it what you will—interpret it in a way that fits your reality.
Friendship and Money
Mix ‘em, it’s 9-out-10 poison—10-out-10 if I’m real (but there’s always one time to prove you wrong… wait for it). These two rarely walk hand in hand. Money glues fake bonds; no cash, no crew. Lend to “friends”—acquaintances, let’s not throw friend around too easily—and you’ll find yourself waiting, either for payback or a pat on the back. They saw a mark—a guy with a few bucks, thirsty for fake claps.
Traded cash for vampires’ attention—prostitutes of company, fangs in my neck. Me? No saint—strings tied tight, smirked or silent. Never got it back—not ‘cause they couldn’t, but ‘cause they knew I’d choke before taking real action to get it back (I’m no gangsta). Small town, big city—same hustle. Word spreads, you’re the soft touch.
Whenever I didn’t get back what I had given—mostly money—I turned to methods I didn’t want to resort to. Contacted their relatives, parents—even their dogs. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. That was back in the day. We’re not kids anymore—so I gotta think with my head straight, not play dumb with hungry bears.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Another one up my sleeve—Ocean City, ‘22. Lent $50 to a guy from the kitchen crew. He was sleeping in his car, barely scraping by. I wasn’t even gonna ask for it back, but he swore he’d pay me—promised up and down like it was a damn oath. I let go, forgot. A couple months later, he hits me up on Snapchat, asking for more money.
C’mon, man.
I reminded him of his promise. He ghosted. It always ends the same.
Old days—kid stuff. Now I think straight. No hugging hungry bears. “Apple don’t fall far from the tree,” as they say. But again, the knife cuts both ways—blame’s mine too, twice over, for letting it slide.
Spring 2023, Ocean City—I wanted to ditch my car, a $200-a-month insurance shank. Roy’s in driver’s ed, needs wheels for deliveries, and side cash. Perfect match—I’m out, he’s in. $6,000, installments, no clock.
I could’ve given it to him for $5K. I should’ve—would’ve never gotten the full amount anyway. But I was so good friend that I said yes on the spot, thinking about the money. No haggling—solved my headache, figured he’d pay someday.
Blind as hell—dumped a yoke on him. He worked nonstop, scraping together whatever he could to clear the debt—no time to have a night off and party with me. $500 here, $300 there. I was profiting off my best U.S. mate—despicable.
He defended it—“Better you than a dealer”—almost half-paid, then crashed it.
Checking his phone, lost focus—bam, totaled. Jobless, savings dust, soul gnawed.
I kept telling him—“Roy, find a job, man”—but he dodged bosses, hated having someone over his head. Irony? I was his boss at the end of the day (bad joke, I know).
Thought he’d bolt—I’d burned too many bridges before. He didn’t. He actually stayed. We fought now and then, sometimes shed a couple tears—smoked enough weed to fill an XXL trash bag.
We had our arguments-til-dawn moments, but he’s an angel in a Karakalpak shell—and as far away as I stay from religion, he’s God-sent.
Mom, Dad, it’s not what it looks like—I’m not in love with the guy (I just love him).
He changed me—saw my flaws, took ‘em anyway, never thought of running. Or if he did, he held his ground. I could’ve met someone else to walk that road—maybe later, maybe never. Maybe I’d be jailbait with bail denied, or worm food.
I’m fucking grateful (sorry for the language) he stuck—90% of my spine’s Roy The Man.
Yeah, technically, I’m the worst person in the world—but so is everyone else who doesn’t admit it. (At least I try to clear it.)
Backtrack to ’21—another “friend” in Sofia. Clubbing. Table minimum. A couple of girls at our table, ordering like their dads owned the bar. Bill? 500 BGN (~$300).
He had about $60. I had roughly the same, but enough on my card to cover the tab. Roommates back then. He promised to pay me back.
I ended up with a thumb in my ass.
(I wish I really did—at least the money would’ve been worth it. I’m not gay, I just have broken humor.)
He was a decent guy, and I never had the diligence to track down his relatives. Just hoped he’d come out clean—but he got stuck in the closet, so…
Money’s Pandora—crack it, crave it, curse it.
Seneca nailed it: “Not the man with too little, but the man who craves more, is poor.”
I quit working at the end of ‘24—been retired since then, living off scraps. Birdsongs over bills.
Inflation can kiss my ass—peace beats chasing.
Life’s a reggae song, and I’m a soul trapped in a prison—body.
Everything else? Irrelevant.
Money is important—but only as long as it’s enough to survive. Friendship is important—but not at any cost. Because many talk about loyalty, but few live it.
The Harm/Benefit of Servicing Others
Helping hurts the giver—real help doesn’t bleed, fake does. I dished favors with a smirk, lurking like a debt collector too sly to own it. Worse than sharks—they’re upfront.
Receivers want more—“Give a finger, lose a hand,” Bulgarian gospel.
You ain’t infinite—time, cash, soul drain fast. Shield ‘em, then turn like a king—nobody bows (at least not because they want), history’s littered with toppled crowns.
Good ones bend—system’s old as dirt, just louder. ‘21, gave money to a housemate buying cleaning supplies for the summer. Gave him $15 as he had asked everyone. This piece of shit saw where I took the money from and later snatched a $100 from my stash. I counted them every night—it was my first summer in the US, no bank account yet.
Unusual detail—I had a picture of my bills with serial numbers (one of Dad’s great ideas—I’d never think of that). Came in handy. Asked him to show me his cash—boom, found my $100. He couldn’t even imagine where I pulled that rabbit from.
Tried to be respectful—he insisted he didn’t touch my stuff. Then came his excuse—we swapped bills, I was high, I forgot. C’mon, man. Admit defeat when it’s obvious—you ain’t Donald Trump.
Twice guilty—wasn’t cautious while trying to help. Gave, tried to work it out—luckily, didn’t get burned (whew).
Hypothetical—picture a boat, five max. It sinks. You’re gulping sea, misfits clawing, no shore. Even five’s a gamble.
Life’s no map—destination’s mush (if it exists). Ferry ‘em, holes rip—your fault, not theirs. Patch one, another gapes—some prick’s baggage, some yours, ‘til you’re drowning, clueless who drilled first. Could end fine—rarely does. Let ‘em paddle solo. Don’t play captain under delusions.
Sofia ‘20—day COVID was announced. Dad was coming to be interviewed on TV. I just popped 3 ecstasies at ElRow, slept two hours. 9 AM, heavy rain, he’s downstairs—I look like a bulldog, jaw loose, ugly (more than usual). Glasses on, bring him up. Didn’t even tell my housemates.
He was hyped—I was just there, grumpy, dead-eyed. Could’ve really helped, but didn’t. Almost sank his boat—or mine (too out of it to tell).
Benefit’s rare—Roy, Manuel types. Flawed, suffered, no leeches. Rest? Puppets pulling strings—eight billion now, meanness spreads like piss in a pool.
The system swallows you. Good turns gray. Think clear!
Everything and Nothing
To help is to make someone better—more whole than they were.
To help is not to use, not to demand.
Power—heals or wrecks.
Double-edged—gives, curses.
Everything. Nothing.
Don’t help unless it’s real—cash or clout ain’t it.
Call the one who lifted you—forgotten or not—don’t wait ‘til they’re dust.
Seek change, and if you do—show it.
Thanks for slogging through,
Ivaniel Georgiev
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