DA BOIS A STRGL EDT

DABOISASTRGLEDT – by Ivaniel “Ivo” Georgiev

DABOIS, it’s time for another dose of chaos – and this one doesn’t come with instructions.

I’ve got something new for you, something different. While you’re reading, put a song on repeat: “Come a Little Closer” by Cage the Elephant is the track for today. Let the riff grind while you read – it might make you stick reflect deeper… or not. It won’t change what follows, but it’ll change how you feel it. (Let me know if it did, seriously.)

---

Before we go further, thank you. (I WON’T STOP SAYING IT!)

Time isn’t redeemable, yet you’re spending some of it here. That already tells me more than words can.

If you’re new: this place isn’t for preaching; it’s for exposure (the rest know the drill).

I’m pointing at the things we swallow, hide, and pretend don’t shape us (even though they rule us). If something here feels uncomfortable, good – discomfort is perhaps the best signal we haven’t fully learned how to anesthetise yet.

• Curiosity lights the match.

• Action keeps the fire alive.

• Effort is what everyone talks about until it’s required.

I hope you stay until the end, but that’s up to you.

Now, drop the needle and let’s unravel.

---

Today’s title isn’t meant to be clever, but that’s the charm of it. It’s layered because life is layered, and confusing because living it rarely makes sense – on every freaking level.

Recently, I was on a date. Soon after, I watched a movie called Punch-Drunk Love. Somehow, those two moments – among all other things – led to this blog.

I’m going to start piecing the puzzle together now, but I’ll save the movie comparison for the end.

So, prepare your popcorn.

But where do we actually start? People love to say, “This is only the beginning,” but is it really? Or is that just an escape hatch? Starting over seems like a “God-given” right, but is it a necessity – or a lie we need to survive?

I don’t know. What I do know is that starting over has begun to feel more essential than breathing – and that worries me. (It should worry all of us.)

That said, this isn’t just one story; it’s too fractured for that.

• It’s about love – and missing it. It’s about life, but mostly about failing to live it. It’s about separation: from others, from ourselves, and from the dreams of what we thought “it” would be.

• It’s about wandering big cities with nowhere to arrive. It’s about forgiveness we ask for too late (or never). It’s about truth, lies, and that blurred space of “it doesn’t matter.” It’s about the blows we’ve taken, the affection we didn’t receive, and the time we keep investing… as if pain will eventually pay interest.

• It’s about youth slipping quietly into memory. It’s about the boundaries we draw to feel safe, only to suffocate inside them. It’s about the people we don’t want to disappoint, the ones we don’t know how to understand, and the ones we could give everything to… but don’t.

And whatever else I’ve forgotten to name. You can add your own – and when you do, please do it consciously.

The Date

The aftermath? I’m interrogating past/future like a detective. I tried. I’m literally doing it now (still no conclusion).

Maybe the next date will show whether I’ve actually thought things through, or whether I’m still the same old fool – just slightly greyer and one step closer to Alzheimer’s. (Or whatever suits me; I’m the master of my destiny… I pick my poison.)

This is my attempt to make sense of things that resist sense.

She and I talked about movies, music, and literally everything… except sex. That used to be my mistake years ago: avoiding it entirely because I didn’t know what to do with it. Then I swung to the opposite extreme and made it the foreground, as if nothing else mattered – which, inconveniently, wasn’t far from the truth.

Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself I’d found balance. Turns out, I got so good at balancing that nothing moved. Call me Philippe Petit – walking a wire so carefully I forgot why I even stepped onto it.

Time was passing by, and all that was left was tension. I’d already imagined (I knew) how the night might unfold – I have a talent for that – and I didn’t bring condoms. Why? Because I have rules. I don’t sleep with women on first dates. But that’s what anyone who could’ve, but didn’t, would say, right? How long “not on the first date” lasts depends on how things go – or how well I lie to myself. (Yes, yes… modern men and their rules. It’s mostly bullshit. But you’ve got to believe in something, don’t you?)

She called me a “walking green flag.” I’d never heard that phrase before – I’ve heard “gay”… which seems more suitable. I also hadn’t smoked weed since Amsterdam, which didn’t help. Not an excuse, though it sounds like one… (Why pretend otherwise?)

What caught me was that it didn’t feel like a standard Tinder date. Those are interchangeable. Disposable. This wasn’t. Maybe it was the cultural difference. Or the night full of surprises. Anyone who thinks they’re intelligent would say something like that, wouldn’t they? (And I’m not, so…)

Nevertheless, I’m drawn to people outside my demographic. There’s always something to learn… or feel… or taste. (That night, I missed at least two of those – especially the third.)

I knew I had to make my intentions clear. That’s what men do… apparently. And I believe I’m a man. But what kind of man hesitates when clarity is required? I had one job that night. And I did it – if we’re looking from the “gay” perspective. If we aren’t? “Weak Rakia” is the phrase we use where I’m from, a.k.a. Weak Sauce.

The details don’t matter. What matters is that miscommunication piled up, and smoking weed turned into a culinary crime against humanity. I learned certain people use way too much tobacco in a spliff – something like a pasta aglio e olio where the tobacco is the spaghetti and the weed is just a garnish. (If you’re confused, Google the recipe; you’ll understand the analogy.)

Eventually, instead of sharing my bed, I gave it up like a gentleman or an idiot – surely both. I somehow forced her (without forcing her) to leave in the middle of the night. I said nothing I meant to say, and I knew it wasn’t right. That’s the problem: very often, my virtue is just paralysis.

I woke from a nightmare later, disappointed it wasn’t real. That’s how empty I felt. I couldn’t go back to sleep because – well, I don’t have to explain myself. I hate exaggerations, so let’s be precise: nothing dramatic happened. No suicide thoughts; it didn’t even cross my mind! I’m a man, after all. I just sat with the realisation that I’d said almost everything except the thing that mattered – and I’m still not sure what that thing was.

Regret? Yeah. But bigger: I got so good at rules, I forgot why I made them. (So, yes. I’m certainly a man!)

But what are the roots of my manhood? The testosterone is high, sure. But who thinks about humanity instead of desire? Who thinks about expression only after silence has already done its damage? (Someone crazy, perhaps – truly crazy, not asylum-crazy.)

Luckily, she turned out to be understanding. Rare. Almost suspiciously so – I think she might be a cyborg. But if she isn’t, then she’s a reminder that clarity delayed is still clarity denied.

In hindsight, it ended pretty well – which is absurd. A well-ended failure. It was a solid date… somewhat. (To me, at least.)

But it would be a joke to someone else. Or a once-in-a-lifetime moment to another.

Then again, what the fuck do I know about anything?

The Dates

I don’t know how many dates I’ve been on – that sounds like bragging, which is funny, because there’s nothing impressive about it.

But who actually remembers? I think the more interesting question is how many ended in bed. If I said I didn’t remember that either, I’d be lying.

I remember all of them – not just as numbers (though I have those, too). The 1st, 2nd, 5th… the 97th – that surely is a lie, but the truth lies… within. But what remains as a vivid image are the impressions – or the way they echo. I remember the many moments where something almost happened, and then quietly retreated.

Truth is usually simple. Saying it isn’t. And accepting the consequences of saying it is even harder. But the hardest part is acting on it – because truth doesn’t exist to protect from confusion… it creates confusion, and then it leaves you alone to deal with it.

So why dates? Why keep going? Why not become a priest? Why not believe in something and just do it once and for all? (Ask me – I will definitely find an escape door… even though I don’t look for one.)

Lately, I’ve felt emotionally cold – reptilian, if we’re being dramatic. No one’s called me that (the reptilian part, I mean). The irony is that I don’t think I lack feeling; I think I lack access. But what do I know, apart from being obviously stupid?

I don’t feel the way other people seem to: “Life is so hard; I beg someone to help me.” (I don’t say that, but it feels nice to pretend I could.) Or maybe I do, and I just don’t know how to recognise it. Or maybe I know, and I’m just a careless, sick fuck.

On the sick fuck note: you can practice kissing; you can practice technique; you can even stick your tongue in places no one ever has – it’s too late to delete that sentence now. But feelings don’t work like tongues. Sure, they both slip into places they shouldn’t, but feelings leave consequences behind and demand explanations. (To be fair, so do certain tongue actions.)

Too much witty bullshit, I know – but you chose to stay… You knew who you were dealing with from the start.

Well, there’s so much more to feelings. Since we’re riding the humorous wave, I honestly believe they’re like penis size: never quite right, always discussed awkwardly (sometimes you laugh… or cry), and somehow always the “wrong amount” for the setting. I’m impressed I came up with that – but not really. (Fools always say foolish things, even when they’re trying to be smart.)

So, I pretend. I pretend I didn’t want to say something – or that I didn’t notice what was happening. That creates a private civil war – not between two people, but between two versions of myself. And I’m playing all three roles in this threesome simultaneously – I tried not to imagine it, but it’s hard… or I’m hard… I’ve lost it.

Enough bullshit. What I’m trying to say is: no one gets you out of that; not advice; not dates; not intelligence.

Because when you’re looking for something you don’t deserve yet, you keep finding exactly what you’re avoiding – capiche?

But I haven’t given up. I still go. I still meet people. I tell myself I’m trying – and maybe I am (but am I?). I want to understand them. Truly. But that takes effort. Patience. Attention. Three things I have inconsistently – four, if we count erectile function (my bullshit is never enough).

Meeting people is exciting… at first. In the beginning, I still have enthusiasm. I listen. I adjust. I try not to repeat myself – even though I always do. But eventually, people bore me… and then I have to bore them.

I’m not pointing fingers. I imagine what it’s like to sit beside me. We’re all drowning in our own lives and calling it depth.

I understand them. I even feel sorry for them. What they think of me matters – it really does – until it doesn’t, because their judgment is usually partially true.

It takes time to see the full picture. (But I know that “partially true” is still important.)

Perhaps they want to help, just like I do. Still, ten minutes in, I want to leave. But I’ve changed – now I stay for half an hour (it’s progress). I talk. I less over-explain. And still, I leave impressions – rarely the ones I intended… but very likely the ones I should‘ve

“Come closer,” I say (or something like it). But I don’t fully believe it.

And I don’t bite – unless things get complicated (don’t ask… imagine). And I don’t even know what “complicated” means anymore; I’m too big a victim of pop culture to trust my gut.

That said, we all swim in the same pond. The culture is banal, and it has poisoned every goddamn demographic. Yet, it’s strange how it affects us differently. We’re so, so, so similar… until honesty appears. (Then everything fractures.)

Honesty and dating don’t mix – at least in the beginning (but what’s the point then?). Anyone who says otherwise is lying. Honesty is like death: everyone claims they’re not afraid of it, until they’re alone and can’t stop imagining the consequences.

How are we doing, BOIS and GALS? Too much? Or just enough to sting where the sun doesn’t shine? (I don’t know why I said that.)

The Dater

Every day I fall in love. And every day, the feeling disappears into the surrounding noise before it can form a sentence. Maybe that’s a stupid cliché. Maybe it’s accurate. (It’s definitely one of the two!)

People don’t understand someone who dates without a clear goal. I don’t either – yet I do it. There’s always supposed to be a point: Marriage. Sex. Validation. Proof of normalcy. Mine strays from the script; I just like seeing bare feet and talking about the important things in life with them.

And while millions of people are lonely: I beg to differ; I’m not one of them. Pretending “not worth it”, but craving “more.” Alone often, lonely rarely. Or mind refuses difference? Beliefs harden to protect us? (All of that is nonsense, isn’t it?)

But that doesn’t excuse how I move through people’s lives. I can explain myself endlessly, and I have. I became very good at apologies, and very bad at showing up after making them. So, here’s the question: Is offering an apology anything more than self-preservation?

You’ll call this cynicism. Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s a refusal to close my eyes when that’s what is expected. (I wish it were easy to explain – and while it is, I refuse to do it.)

If I understood things properly, I wouldn’t be writing this. I’d be on a beach, drinking something exotic, saying the right nonsense to get the right panties off and unlock doors I don’t even want to walk through. But that isn’t me. That’s a utopia where I’d start nodding off within the first twenty-four hours.

Another life? Who knows. Maladapted? Different blood type? Whatever…

Solitude ≠ strength. Let people neglect me – inconsistently. Unhealthy impulse: give away, fatally. Or maybe that’s just another way to romanticise my dysfunctions. People believe in things like aliens… why not this?

What would I lose if I stripped everything away? Friends? A girlfriend? Status? Image? Things I cherish, but somehow without ever claiming their true value? It’s easy to renounce what you never truly held. I don’t understand much – but I keep talking anyway.

I could blame roots. Geography. History. Family. I respect all of them – even when they don’t respect themselves. If this offends you, add it to the pile. Life is full of problems; it’s my treat… put it on the tab.

Living in the US taught me something brutal: people carry unbearable weight and smile anyway. I know why. Everyone does. People just don’t say it out loud. They can take your house. Your health. Your stability.

They can’t take your character – and that’s terrifying.

Debt works the same way – emotional debt, I mean. It’s the accumulating lies and half-truths that compound over time. Thus, you can always sink deeper. The danger isn’t the sinking; it’s not noticing, or not caring. (Which is the same thing, isn’t it?)

In the Middle of Nowhere

Honestly, I’ve changed too many times in twenty-five years.

Even more often, I’ve failed to resist the changes that happened without asking. My mentor should be a figure like Optimus Prime – not because I believe in heroes (especially not Autobots), but because I have an unhealthy impulse to give myself away. Completely. Even fatally. Hopefully, it won’t come to that. Or hopefully, it will. They’ll remember me badly anyway.

Truth is, I deserve that – because everyone who does something, intentionally or not, just does.

But how long does atonement take, hm? What if I was worse before – in another life, another version of myself? What if this isn’t even my worst iteration yet? Where are we going? What are we actually striving for?

I want to love. I want to be loved. I want nothing to stop me, yet everything stops me – of course, mostly me. I answered that question a long time ago… I just didn’t like the answer. I still don’t. But you live with what you don’t like, and if you’re man enough, you change it. (But what kind of man do I seem like so far, hm?)

In hindsight, I’m both the train and the conductor. I’ve learned to operate most of the controls with my eyes closed – which is exactly why I don’t understand what I’m doing while it’s happening. Insight only arrives once I get off the train. And once I’m off, I’m off… so don’t mind me.

Then I enter the city. I walk its meaningless streets.

It’s just thrash, noise, perfected smiles for survival, and the predictability of every corner.

Yet, there’s authenticity; not everyone is the same, but everyone brings something to the table. , Supposedly, there is rhetoric and everything else that could be wrapped around it – that the free spirit desires. But none of that belongs to the streets. At least not in its current volume. It belongs between the people. (If that makes sense, good. If not, welcome aboard.)

And then, I forgive myself. Again. And again. Others, too – but with less patience. They’re like the corners: predictable. And so am I. I don’t see why I should invest years just to arrive at what I already knew, except now it hurts more. Not that I’d admit to pain – I’m a man… and what kind of man explains himself like this, anyway?

Nonetheless, sometimes people surprise you – rarely, but they do. However, I’m the kind of person who loses interest in a movie during the first quarter. I fell asleep and still want my money back. Instead of a refund, I waste more time than the movie’s actual length listening to whoever is in front of me reading the rules instead – and the dating scene is much like most of the movies nowadays. (I’m happily waiting for the one that will always be remembered, but is it possible that event already happened?)

Blows fly everywhere. From me. From them. Between us. Desired, undesired – what’s the difference once you’re bruised?

And yet, occasionally, someone cracks the ceiling and shows you sky beyond sky. Yes, another cliché from Ivaniel’s sleeve (deal with it).

These games we play aren’t random. Look at poker: it isn’t about money; it’s about ego pretending nonchalantness. People act because they feel. Sometimes you feel with them, but mostly, you regret it later. Then eventually, the regret fades… and that’s the most unsettling part of all.

Why is the thrill so momentary? Why does wisdom only arrive after the loss? Why do we need a total collapse just to recalibrate?

I’m talking nonsense again. I’m almost done… almost.

Time is the real killer – more efficient than any weapon. But what’s time got to do with it?

Well, no matter how thoroughly you destroy yourself, time finishes the job. It ends every endeavour, including the last one. If everything is predetermined, time is the executioner. If not, time is just the excuse.

Either way, you never get what you want the way you want it – you never do.

It will get to a point when you’ll hate the thing you dreamed of once (the opposite applies too). And anyone who says otherwise is lying or selling something – and people like that should be kicked in the balls… or the ovaries (I don’t encourage violence, but still; what I’m encouraging is doing… anything that doesn’t feel right.)

Everyone hoards things they can’t speak about. A few manage to inspire crowds – though that depends on the crowd and the motives. (That doesn’t make anyone’s truth simpler; just more peculiar.)

Sadness might be the most profitable investment we make, once we realise how badly we’ve invested everywhere else. (And who cares about sadness… I guess only sad people.)

But hear me out: losing money is obvious; losing your life isn’t – and with the latter, there is no second chance. We give everything we can’t afford to those who don’t need it. We save ourselves for people who don’t need saving – that was a joke, mhm.

Conductors, trains, cities, streets, art, patience, surprises, games, thrill, wisdom, sadness, losing – what the fuck am I even trying to explain?

I’m probably wrong – indeed, I am. When have I ever been right? (Maybe once, when I guessed the hourly rate of a stripper.)

Here’s today’s poem.

---

Waiting

I’m waiting for a friend,
this afternoon – to grab a coffee.
Waiting for my parents,
to buy me the apartment cosy.

I’m waiting for the fate itself;
finally, to introduce me to a woman.
Waiting even for the woman, yes,
to say: “Come on you, you have my dad’s approval.”

Waiting to wake up from nightmares –
Oh, why I went to bed at six a.m?
Waiting for a sign, for a love-lightyear –
waiting he is, Mr. bachelor… so blank.

I wait… to come up with something;
to finally… take my dear life in hand.
I wait, I wait: here comes the nothing –
I keep my quiet, I’ve learned that well.

I wait my whole life… to prove myself;
and every next time… I shall disappoint.
While waiting, I’m repeating to myself:
“I’ll try harder,” and harder I do choke.

But I can’t stay inside my home forever:
I explore the park, I find a bench with view.
I see a mother with her smiling children,
I think: I want it… but a father fails too.

I got sick of sitting still… of dying waiting;
And then a bulb… to brighten up this hollow day.
I stood up, walked off, even cried my failing;
then I stopped, in front of a theatre’s display.

I lined up – waited in the longest queue;
to buy a movie ticket, to ease my cheeky pain.
I forgot the title, the initial… the enthuse –  
time to go back home, for my movie isn’t over yet.

Waiting for the sunrise, waiting for the sunset –
they look alike, but I can’t pick a favourite.
At noon I’m waiting, at midnight I’m upset –
waiting for a life… unreachable and hastening.

I wait for the muse, finally to strike me;
I’ve gone grey waiting – like a cloudy sky.
So many people, a stew of gossip cheap;
and my own brain… boiling with the spice.

On my way home, while waiting, I remember: 
I should stop, by my neighbour’s friendly store.
I go in, I shop, I look left, I reckon –
at the register, a woman, greeting me with warmth.

I wait for her to tell me when to pay,
and head out towards my quiet, lovely cave.
But as I think she asks: “Card or cash?”
And I’m pondering: dress, or without dress…

Behind me someone else was waiting,
he looked pretty darn disturbed.
“Have patience, sir,” I said while paying –
the woman smiled, I smiled in return;

Just as I was about to ask her to a dinner,
another stupidity came like a bullet out my mouth:
“I’m getting surgery tomorrow, I’m smitten…
do you know a pill for headaches?” (…what a clown)

So, I want my gravestone to be engraved,
with something smart, perhaps mysterious…
Not that I waited my whole life and bailed;
not that I spent my life chewing on hysteria

---

Something Like an End

I wanted to talk about dating in general, and I don’t think I did – but I didn’t need to.

I could be more direct, but I’m no politician – if I was to be, I indeed had to be direct. But as someone who isn’t forced to be anything – because forcing means adopt a rhetoric that suits your image – I have the full freedom of saying direct things indirectly. Everything I meant to say is where it always is: between the lines. Patterns are translatable and I built a path like Hansel ans Gretel’s one in this blog – and oer usual. Of course, it’s not grom breadcrumbs, and not the easiest to distinct at times, but I would say this who don’t get at least a piece of this, aren’t and/or will never be the audience anyway.

I know I said I’m almost done, but that’s not entirely true. I’ve said enough for today, but not enough for a lifetime (a couple more minutes, please).

A few days after the date I mentioned at the start, I watched Punch-Drunk Love.

Accidentally… ir not, that explains the title and the impulse behind this text, but it’s still just one piece of the picture.

I promised to talk about important things. I’ve hidden behind wit long enough.

So, let’s be clear.

Barry Egan and I are not the same person. But he is recognisable. Not just to me – to any man raised in a world that pressures him to become someone without telling him who or why (a.k.a. Western values). Barry is someone who believes in what he’s doing with absolute conviction, even when he knows he’s wrong – especially then.

He falls in love with the first woman who is genuinely kind to him. It doesn’t matter if she’s the first or the last; everyone knows that moment. What matters is this: he lies, he panics, he cheats – and yet, he still chooses the truth when the cost becomes real. He acts. Blindly. Without a map. With nothing but intention.

That’s what struck me.

Adulthood doesn’t happen all at once. Some of us do it without thr necessary instruction guide, especially when navigating the paths of truth and love. (But then again, who has that and is willing to teach others?)

For a long time, “cheating the system” felt like proof that I was different – special. It only taught me how similar I am to everyone else – just sneakier.

I realised that small lies don’t stay small. They shape the mouth that tells them.

Eventually, even the truth hesitates when it passes through a liar’s lips. That hesitation ruins everything – especially with women. I spent years oscillating between the physical and the emotional, pretending each extreme was wisdom. I tried to maintain that image, but I couldn’t succeed with a conscience this loud.

Then came the “balance” I mentioned. But balance requires consent, timing, courage, and responsibility – things no one teaches you when you need them most. I didn’t want women to feel used, and I didn’t want to be used myself. But I did the opposite, because things get complicated when you don’t know your own foundation. (And somehow balance turns into a cliché.)

Therefore, deception must stop somewhere. Democracy, freedom, choice – they give us endless ways to cheat. In the end, only character limits us. The wrong choice is always closer, and always sweeter.

I confused solitude with strength. My aggression was passive: dishonesty, avoidance, hypocrisy. I let people neglect me – sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. I was a child when it started and didn’t know how to see through the emotion. Now, there’s no excuse – though I have a stack of them hidden in my sleeve, but here I’m exposing it… so that’s got to mean something.

I’ve met women like Lena. Or at least, I recognised their patterns enough to know I wouldn’t survive them long-term. I saw what they hid. I underestimated what I hid – and that stalled everything… more than anything else.

Now, I’m stable. Or so I tell myself to stay functional. Maybe I’m walking consciously now. Or maybe this is just another sentence designed to keep my bullshit intact.

Punch-drunk love? That’s life – second-guess, swing wild, wake bruised. I’m Ivo – oscillating fool, seeking thrill. (There is no grand finale yet… only continuation until the last bell.)

Thanks for riding with me.

See you next year.

---

If you missed the last post, catch up @ It’s Not About the Secret, But Why It Is a Secret…

And you’re more than welcome to subscribe to my newsletter – sharp, thought-provoking, and high in fibre (plus a guide I swear by).

---

Until the next swing,
Ivaniel ““Living a Life No One Could“” Georgiev