DABOISASTRGLEDT – by Ivaniel “Ivo” Georgiev
DABOIS are here, DABOIS are there—DABOIS are everywhere… struggling like usual.
This blog is a little different. I mean, I’m still going to intellectualise a bit—can’t help myself—, but today I want to reaffirm something: deep down, I’m a bad guy (and when that guy isn’t kept in check, very ugly things follow).
Ugly, because they don’t just put a stain in my own life; they spill out and hurt others too—often without any real reason (but somehow I always found I ways to justify it).
Today, I’m bringing into the story two girls who—for some unknown reason—decided to forgive me. Actually, it’s not that unknown. It’s pretty clear why they did it: Because they are good souls. Good people who wish no harm upon anyone.
They’re also good-looking—which, by itself, sadly invites rude or arrogant behaviour. And no, I don’t say that because good-looking people deserve it—they don’t—but because we live in a world where envy eats its own heart.
If you can’t have it, destroy it. That’s how it’s been since the world began. Envy eats its own heart, and my ugly self was starving—though I had never seen myself as an envious person… but you can’t escape the truth, right?
I don’t even know exactly what I was asking of them in those moments—aside from the obvious: attention. They were kind, but distant. Why? I don’t know. And frankly, right now, I don’t care.
Their names? Erica and Monica (yeah, you know the song: A little bit of Monica in my life, a little bit of Erica by my side…)
Two beautiful souls—almost identical, yet so different. Imagine Sherlock and Watson—one is the protagonist, the other is the sidekick (but they can’t without one another, thus they are equal parts of their own adventure). I see Erica as a furiously happy, adventurous dolphin, and Monica as a quiet owl who likes to do a lot of stuff, but prefers her comfort.
In both of them, I see pieces of myself—and even more pieces I wish I had.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not trying to paint them as perfect. They’re just normal, good-hearted people. I spent only a summer with them; I have no real glimpse into their private lives at home—aside from what our co-living in the summer of ’21 (but we were mostly working). Anyway, all I saw was kindness—and perhaps many words left unspoken.
And honestly? You can’t blame anyone for that. Speaking honestly is rare, hard and varies depending on how comfortable people are with each other. Few people speak when they actually have something real to say—mostly because they fear not being understood (like I used to… perhaps still in some cases). And no, it’s not that we didn’t have serious talks—just none that cut down to the bone of personal histories.
So today, all I can offer is gratitude. Gratitude that they accepted me for all that I am—and all that I showed them. Gratitude even for the fractious, ugly side of me, they had to witness.
The truth is: what happened between us forced new ideas into my mind. It made me think differently about people. About myself. About life.
Redemption’s a reflection, not a gift.
Emmanuel Levinas said we’re defined by the “other”—their face demands our response. Monica and Erica’s grace mirrored my shame, rewiring me. That also reminds me of Huberman’s neuroplasticity explanation—the ability to rewire the brain’s connections (I’m paraphrasing wildly, so forgive me if I’m not explaining it right).
But this much is true: Monica and Erica gave my brain a chance to rewire itself.
If I used to believe that good people didn’t really exist—at least not for me (I mean, I still don’t believe until I see… but you get the point)—well, now I’ve experienced it firsthand. Not just random acts of kindness. But real grace. Real forgiveness.
And it’s made me deeply reflective about my life, my actions, and the kind of person I want to become moving forward.
I’m not perfect, DA BOIS. Are you? I hurt them, thinking it’d boost me. It broke me. And then they revived me.
Mercy’s a paradox: it shows your worst to save your best.
Before we dive deeper:
Welcome back, everyone, to another Thursday at DABOISASTRGLEDT. Thank you for giving a piece of your precious time to join me in these struggles. I hope that in time this will become a true community—a place where there’s more forgiveness, more understanding, and most of all, more effort.
So, BOIS and GALS: don’t worry. You’re not the only ones fighting through it. We’re all in the huddle together.
And hey—if you missed last week’s edition: Imagine Craving Absolutely Nothing From The World… Go check it out. It was another freedom banger straight from the heart.
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Summer 2021: Expect The Unexpected
I should probably write an entire blog titled SUMMER 2021, because it was my first summer in the States and an unforgettable one—soaking up the culture and all the shocking situations that came with it.
I didn’t actually live in the same house as Erica and Monica—at least not until the very end of July. Things happened in my then-house that overflowed the glass, and I wasn’t going to stay there anymore. I contacted the landlord, and after a few days, he offered me a place in West Ocean City.
Honestly, it wasn’t much better there—not from a realistic standpoint. The big plus was that I had a bathroom inside the room and only three roommates to share it with. I’d seen Erica and Monica a few times before. They had come to our house with a guy who worked for the landlord and collected the rent money.
However, I don’t remember ever talking to them before I moved into the house they lived in. I generally rarely talk to strangers—because I don’t feel the need to bother them with my crap as mentioned before—and when I do make contact, I often end up learning more about them than they do about me. And, in almost all cases, people’s lives seem pretty boring to me.
That’s not their fault—I don’t mean to accuse anyone of being boring. I just mean I don’t find many people’s lives interesting—or at least the way they present them.
So, it was them who took the first step and struck up a conversation with me. As boring as some girls might seem, they’re still girls—and pretty ones at that. Monica and Erica, if you’re reading these musings of mine, don’t think I’m labelling you boring—that’s just how I tend to perceive things emanating around me. I could absolutely be wrong. Regardless, you are my people for the rest of my life, and I’m here for you whenever you need me.
Throughout the summer, we may have gone to the bar together a few times—especially after what happened, and more specifically around my birthday when our relationship was in the process of resurrecting itself. We promised to go here and there during the summer—beach, walks, shopping, etc.—but as you know, when people are working, their time schedules rarely align.
On the other hand, people also promise a lot of things that they very often don’t deliver—one way or another. In particular, I’m mostly addressing the female audience here—more on Erica and Monica later. Come to think of it, men aren’t much better either—perhaps their broken promises are the same if not more—especially when I look at myself and how often I’ve disappointed myself or others.
However, I’m thinking specifically of women here. Why? Because they are the fairer sex, and it seems they get away with everything a little easier—whatever it may be. I remember very well a night in Sofia when I was with Rene. I’m not sure if it was a red light or a stop sign, but she drove through without stopping. The moment the cops saw her, they stopped us and just made a remark—while complimenting her— and let us go—as if they hadn’t seen anything (imagine if it had been me).
Excuse me, I drifted away for a moment.
Every night in front of the house, we’d gather for a laugh—talking about whose day was what and who made how much money—I hated that last one the most. I’ve lied more than a few times, just to see the look on my housemates’ faces—their pettiness all but visible.
Of the Bulgarians, there was a group of four who knew the landlord, the guy who worked for him. Then there was my roomate, a big Bulgarian guy—not a fat one, but one who looked like his diet includes human flesh. Last but not least, me—the new retard and easy target for laughter (I’m saying this because of the lisp of the majority behind me, and my not-so- fearsome appearance compared to my roommate fearsome).
What Happened To Erica and Monica
I’m a bad guy, and summer ’21 proved it—though not the bad guy that females like.
Monica and Erica were the ones who gathered outside with us—of course, others came by from time to time, but we were the prime suspects. My roommate was pretty mean to them—but he was upfront with it (not like the writer of this blog); He basically wanted what all men want, and after not getting it one way or another, he tried to turn the others against Erica and Monica.
To a certain extent, he had succeeded up to that point, but in his absence, the situation seemed different. Both girls are from Romania, and for that reason it was necessary to communicate in English—just by itself that could make either them (or us) look like having bad manners and not caring for the others as much, which wasn’t the most cultured thing to do (but then again, that’s common during summer work and travel programs in the U.S.).
So one night, it was just me and “Mr. Bad“—that’s how I will call my roommate. Honestly, I don’t know what I saw in him as a person to spend time with—other than the fact that we smoked weed together. He projected a narcissistic image and acted like he was above everyone. Accordingly, there were a lot of problems he was covering up—I hope he managed to solve them.
And so, that same night, I decided to drink more than I ever had before. Already over the top and at a point where I was all giddy, the girls came outside. But since it was just the two of us there, and I was playing on his whistle—here, I’m looking for absolutely no excuse for my actions—I mean, I’ve always tried to fit in with everyone, and especially with the loud-mouthed ones (because they’re often accepted but not understood, and I don’t want to show off… but I understand everyone).
The girls went out back for a moment, but Monica left her wine glass in front of the house. My roommate started talking about how they were just pretending to be nice and thinking they were such a big deal, and I jumped right in, saying, “Watch what I’m going to do now.” I grabbed the mosquito spray and squirted a satisfying amount into Monica’s glass.
Time passed, and Monica came back to pick up her drink. We could barely contain our laughter, waiting for the moment when they would notice. I was expecting this to be just kind of funny—a stupid prank we would all laugh off. Alas, it wasn’t.
I was already quite drunk, and I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I think they both came over and said something like, “It’s not funny. Who did it?” I don’t know if I answered or if we just tried to stifle our laughter, but I think I mumbled something like, “Ha ha, it was just a joke”—how silly. The next morning, I couldn’t believe what I had done. (But just wait.)
The situation escalated. From a simple joke, it turned into a life-and-death battle—not literally, but you get the idea (and out of sheer stupidity). If I’m not mistaken, Monica threw the wine at me—otherwise, I can’t think why I did the next thing. Angry now—without thinking that I had started it all—I went and, while they were out or asleep, emptied an entire bottle of oil onto the floor of their room.
Then I went around bragging to everyone, trying to show what a “big shot” I was, that no one could mess with me—especially not some girls. In other words, I had moved out of one problem house only to bring the problems with me into the next—put me on that cross.
I thought I did something cool, but the morning mirror showed a coward.
I don’t remember exactly what happened after that, except that I went to bed. At some point, I woke up from screaming. Someone was pulling me out of bed—I have no clear memory of who exactly. I didn’t know what was happening—I was still drunk. The other Bulgarians were trying to restrain Erica and Monica while my roommate was ready to knock them out for disturbing his sleep—at the same time encouraging me, saying, “Well done, cousin, that’s the way to do it. Those whores deserved it.” I was trying to explain myself, but I doubt I said anything meaningful—it made no sense after the mess I had created.
I remember climbing out of the bathroom window and onto the roof, trying to escape and get some sleep there—without realising the damage I’d done, and without particularly caring. I remember Monica taking pictures and repeatedly asking, “Why, Ivaniel?” I don’t remember much else from that night.
Next morning I woke up with a chafing wound just above my waist—shame’s a bruise, mercy the salve. I owed Monica and Erica apologies, owed myself the truth. However, I didn’t know how to approach them. I didn’t know what to say—I knew I should say something, but there was something stuck in my throat. I spoke it over with “Mr. Bad“, and he said, “Fuck ’em, they don’t deserve any apology. If you ask me, they deserve even more.”—I’m not sure if those were his exact words, but that’s certainly close to the truth.
My mouth was wide shut the moment I saw them, with thoughts running inside my head. So I went to work, and for the entire shift, I thought about what had happened—and how I was capable of doing such a stupid thing. I came to the conclusion that I’m genuinely a bad person by birth—and alcohol only brings the worst out of me. It had happened before—though not quite in this way (and not on this scale).
Shame isn’t strength; it’s weakness. You do something… better own it and feel its consequences.
Anyway, I don’t remember if I sent messages, but I think I did—apologising to both of them. But as Bulgarians say: After rain, a hood, which in English is “Too little, too late.” I had the following question for days: What’s the point of apologising once the damage’s already done —isn’t that pure hypocrisy?
Life After That
Maybe a few days before my birthday—again, one night after a few drinks, but this time miraculously in moderation—Erica came and sat next to me. She asked why I had done such a crazy thing. I didn’t have an exact answer. Monica, at that moment, had not forgiven me—I think. She stood across from us and, if I remember correctly, didn’t say a word—only responding in Romanian when Erica asked her something.
My guess is that it was after that night that Erica somehow tried to explain to Monica that I didn’t represent what I had done—despite the shockingly slimy and hard to miss evidence. I have no idea if that’s true; it’s just a guess.
The truth is, after that night and the long conversation between us, things not only got better but exceeded any expectation I could have had—it was literally like a thunderbolt in the middle of a clear day.
Their forgiveness wasn’t a pass; it was a reflection, and I’m still squinting at it. You carry your shame wherever you go, but mercy can clear the glass—if you’re brave enough to look.
Then, for my birthday, I invited everyone in the house. My wish was simple: that we could all go out and treat ourselves to a weird, not-so-good but not-so-bad summer—depending on who you ask.
My roommate said he couldn’t come to my birthday party, given that I had invited the girls too. At the time, I still had some positive feelings toward him because he spoke meaningfully now and then—but I couldn’t sacrifice them for anything at that moment (no way… not after what they did).
They’re not part of my family, but we’ve kept in touch, and I feel close enough to them to take their stance—we’ve discovered America, as Bulgarians say; translated in English, “Breaking news: water is wet.”
The question is why such an ugly event had to happen in the first place… but as others say, all evil for good.
If they had not suffered my actions, someone else might have taken the hit later. What’s more interesting is that I doubt many would have acted the way they did—accepting it with such simplicity and turning a blind eye to the mess. I really don’t know many people like that.
Keep being like that, I want to tell them. If you ever do something that bad to someone and they forgive you—apologise for life in whatever way you can find (not because you’re sorry, but because you realise what an irreplaceable gift you’ve received).
And well, you can joke about it from time to time and rewind the tape—what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
I’m asking you, DABOIS, what’s the ugliest self you’ve seen? And is there someone who’s reflecting your flaws—for real?
To This Day
The three of us met again in Las Vegas a few weeks later. At that point, I still didn’t know how to act or what to say. I believed I didn’t deserve their kindness—I wouldn’t be lying if I said I half-expected them to teach me a lesson somehow (apologies for those thoughts).
In the spring of ’22, I tried hitchhiking to Romania. First, I was going to friends I had met during the summer of ’21 in Bucharest, then Monica and Erica in their hometown, Cluj-Napoca. I left my home village carrying two backpacks—one on my back, one in front, and two more bags in each hand.
My dad joked that was why no one picked me up—which perhaps is true. I ended up walking for about four hours toward Romania, lugging around my overstuffed bags. Honestly, I don’t know where my mind was to set off with that much luggage—but now that I think about it, it’s far from the stupidest thing I’ve done. Long story short, I came back home super tired from the long walk.
I haven’t seen them since Las Vegas, and two years later, they texted me saying they would be in San Francisco for Christmas. I was off for the holidays and thrilled at the idea of spending them with them.
Just to paint you a picture: I had 383 miles (616 km) to drive from Los Angeles to the Golden Gate City, and my car was in no condition for such a journey. I don’t understand cars, but I genuinely don’t know how I’m still alive—the car shook so violently on the road that the seats didn’t just wobble, they turned into air dancers placed in fron of a retail store.
Somehow, I arrived in San Francisco and waited a while since they had some things to finish—I didn’t ask, I was just happy that I would see them. Eventually, we met up and wandered through the not-so-scary, but definitely intimidating, City by the Bay at night. We didn’t go to a bar or anything—after about two hours of walking and talking, they decided they were too tired and went to their hotel.
I spent the evening in my car, with the arrangement to pick them up the next morning at 10 AM.
Yeah, but no. They weren’t up yet—and then they had their girl stuff (tell me more…). So I drove around San Francisco, crossed the drawbridge, wandered… and around noon, my boss called unexpectedly. One of the guys was sick, and they needed someone urgently. It was the day after Christmas, but I couldn’t say no—I had already declined too many times and had a few black marks against my name.
I asked Erica and Monica to come downstairs, and I gave them the presents I had prepared for them—now that I think about it, I still don’t know if they ever used them (I should check with them). I also asked if they could take a few gifts back home for my family. They tried to politely refuse.
So I applied a little trick—not because I’m a trickster (at least not in a bad way). I gave them the gifts first and only afterwards mentioned the idea. Eventually, they agreed to take the shoes I had bought for my sister—those meant the most to me—and for that, I truly thank them (even though they left me hanging almost for nothing after a 12-hour drive).
I say “for nothing” because—whatever you really want, you truly get. Not what you crave, not what you fantasise about. Your daily life predisposes your future. Words mean nothing unless backed up by actions—everything else is just the usual “waste of oxygen.” This isn’t an insult to them, but rather advice—to them, to everyone else, and even to myself.
Another example: Last year, they came to work in Ocean City for the summer. We saw each other a few times and had fun. They wanted to travel somewhere. I suggested Myrtle Beach—I’d seen a zoo where you could actually interact with the animals. They liked the idea. It was expensive, but they said we would probably go. We never did.
Later, I suggested New York for my birthday. I knew they would because they both love NYC. We postpone confirming the trip until maybe 3 weeks before my birthday. I had already bought three tickets to a show I was dying to see. I left it to them to book a place to stay. They found some, but later they said everything was too expensive. I found a few decent places myself, but then I got a long message from Monica—full of jealousy and apologies—that they couldn’t keep their promise.
So it didn’t happen, and on top I lost almost 200$ worth of tickets—I tried to offer them for free to the community of the show, but no one reached out to me.
Honestly, I was disappointed. But it passed quickly. It wasn’t the first time someone let me down, and it won’t be the last. That’s what I meant earlier: I’m not angry. I’ll probably never be angry at them. Not after what they did for me, because I see it as life-saving.
Still, I’ll try to encourage more transparency in any relationship. If they had just told me earlier they couldn’t afford the trip, it would’ve saved time, emotion, and misunderstanding—rather than keeping it quiet and then bailing suddenly.
If they don’t remember, maybe they’ll read this blog and see things from another angle.
Or maybe—as always—I’m missing something, and I’m not as pragmatic as I think I am.
The poem tradition. Here it is:
The Sinner Is Not Always Wrong
He preaches virtue, yet walks in shame,
longing for others to bask in grace.
He speaks of light he cannot claim,
in a never-ending, restless chase.
He craves attention, seeks depth profound,
a silent assassin, a charmer so sly.
He offers nothing but echo-fored vows,
while every ally he calms with a lie.
He traps his soul, aware though he denies,
a saintly lamb with a voice turned ill.
He is “blind,” yet all the blind he despises,
a real-false sage whose mien chills.
If fortune grants him some vision at last,
perhaps one may reveal the curse he feeds.
May one draw him out of shadows cast,
and offer what his broken soul needs.
Yet to glimpse it, he alone must break free,
for truth lingers in threads often unseen.
To embrace himself—the self he feared to see;
the antidote is mercy, in other arms indeed.
You’re not your shame or your cracks. You’re the mercy you reflect now.
I hurt, bragged, broke—but I’m rewiring. Face your mirror, see your soul.
Nowadays I’m still the same broken man, but less broken and much freer as time passes.
Anyway, what do you think about that DABOIS community?
Thanks for the understanding—or trying to understand!
Sincerely yours,
Ivaniel ‘The Sinner’ Georgiev
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