I imagined myself in their shoes and I thought, oh, it is so cruel when people don’t reply to you, never show you as much courtesy as to just say a plain honest “no”, leaving you hanging indefinitely, clueless about the “why”, hoping for something that might never happen… I hated when people ghosted me, spent many hours imagining how easy it would be if they just told me the truth. They almost never did.

So I replied. I did it with honesty and care. Sometimes people thanked me for being so considerate and giving them sincere feedback: “Wow, you’re so direct, it’s rare“, “Best rejection I’ve ever seen”, “For the first time in my 38 years someone has given me a real answer to that question” (quotes). Of course, sometimes they got angry. And I explained. And, you guessed it, I received a few rants, two or three creepy threats, but most of the time the thing that followed could be described as bargaining. Pitiful, self-deprecating, unbelievably cheesy attempts to lower my standards or get another piece of that juicy, real, sincere human connection they seemingly can’t acquire anywhere else for some reason.

I replied because I thought that, if I keep it respectful, lightweight and detached, people would understand that there’s nothing going on between us and I am merely reacting to their DMs or memes or comments. They would see no initiative on my side and they’d eventually stop texting – that’s how I imagined it because that’s what mentally adequate people do. They want reciprocity and they disengage when they aren’t getting any. But they had a completely different idea about that and they weren’t adequate, and I have seriously miscalculated the amount of socially disabled people in this society.

For a reason unknown to me, there are many, many people who are perfectly satisfied even with lukewarm reactions to their texts and they think this is how normal conversations look like (they don’t). React more than once — and they begin to think that they know you, have some kind of access to you and will probably tell everyone you are one step away from being friends (you aren’t). The bar couldn’t be lower. It’s no wonder some people also consider ChatGPT their friend – after all, it is outstandingly polite and it never ever ghosts.

Long story short, answering every message that comes in didn’t prove to be a viable strategy, because, apparently, in some cases, it makes you a social support channel for people you don’t even like or know that well. They keep reaching out until you keep reacting, even if you aren’t really interested, yes, it is that bad. They fall for any sign of personal attention, positive, negative, anything to make you notice them even for a split second. If reaction is what keeps them hooked, then ghosting should be the thing that sets them free.

Subsequently, I stopped stressing so much on being ghosted myself. I used to think “How dare they disrespect me in such a rude manner!” but now it’s just “Oh, so I misunderstood the nature of our connection, alright, let’s move on then”. And, surprisingly, it almost never happens these days.

So yeah, I am not much better than anyone else now. I won’t become a saint. And I don’t usually ghost, but when I do it’s always someone who doesn’t know the difference between politeness and sympathy.

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How to use: throw at any douchebag who forgets he’s basically a toddler in an adult body.

When to use: next time anyone asks you where did you get that very reliable info from. They wouldn’t dare to doubt the almighty Zeus, would they?

When to use: a sophisticated way of mentioning that some woman built her own success without sugar daddies and rich parents. Like Athena, btw.

When to use: idk sounds romantic.

How to use: help your friend see they’re opening a door to masochism instead of solving their problems.

When to use: each time someone gets into a taxi.

(also, ancient Greeks constantly gifted each other chariots and other transport, consider giving your friend a scooter or a bike)

When to use: when your friend tells you about an unlucky incident. That will surely help them feel better.

When to use: when someone starts a beef about immigrants. Will probably enrage them even more, but who cares.

When to use: when you recognise a very special kind of loser before you, or you just want to get some revenge.

When to use: this is how you should actually start your next LinkedIn post. If you have nothing to lose.

When to use: are you perhaps a hairdresser? Then you get what it means.

When to use: much more intriguing than “fuck you, Antinuous”.

When to use: shock your waiter with this comeback when you give them generous tips.

____________________________________________________________________________

Let me know which ones are your favourite!

Also tell me how it went if you’ve already tried it

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… that liking different things actually WILL make you drift apart from your friends.

What if

… you can’t “just hate their music taste”, but like them as a person.

What if i tell you that it actually IS important if you can’t stand beside someone you used to call your friend and not cringe from their outfit, wishing no one saw you together?

We are expected to accept our friends just the way they are, even if we don’t share their interests and hobbies, when we disagree on movies and aesthetics, when we choose very different lifestyles. And sometimes – especially if you are very good at convincing yourself into things – you might believe you are at peace with the fact that this person is practically alien to you.

You might think “Alright, I don’t understand why they’re so into this genre of books, but I’m accepting that”, or “I think I might vomit from seeing their reels but no one is forcing me, so why not turn a blind eye this time”, but trust me, these situations will repeat often enough, and one day – sooner than you think – you will find yourself in strange circumstances where you just can’t name a single thing you have in common, apart from some superficial stuff like originating from the same city or being of the same gender.

And frankly speaking, that’s not enough to be friends.

Except for some dire situations where every ally counts, and I’ve been in such a state many times, I know what it takes to turn for help and support to someone who’s basically a different species from you. I don’t regret any of those relationships, they were, in their own way, meaningful and warm. And they taught me a lot of things.

They showed me how to respect something I don’t understand. How to withdraw my opinion when it is clearly not wanted. They showed me how to allow something very different from me to exist in a close proximity without hurting it. How to just let things be and mind my own business. And they showed me that I can find help and support everywhere, even in the unlikeliest crowds.

But this kind of friendship also never fully satiates the soul.

In the end, we’re all looking for our pack. Convenience, history and knowing that this person won’t commit a felony against you won’t do the job in this case, it has to run much deeper.

You have to understand subtle clues without communicating it explicitly. Glances, moves, secret handshakes, intuitive premonitions. You have to be looking in the same direction. You have to be able to have some quality time together without fighting for the playlist, for god’s sake.

Whether we realise this or not, things we surround ourselves with (both material and cultural) are extensions of our inner world. I suppose there’s no other person with the exact same taste in things, but it definitely helps when you can actually admire your friend’s choice, without half-truths and compromises.

So yeah, keeping your distance because you seriously disagree with the way someone looks or sounds actually is a viable strategy. If people are books, then there’s nothing random about our covers.

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I once had a meeting (was it a date?) with a guy who drank 3 cocktails in half an hour, smoked non-stop — and he refused to comprehend when I said that health and good shape definitely aren’t among his values. He replied that he did cocaine with some athletes a few days before that & apparently (in his opinion) bad habits aren’t correlated with fitness. He then proceeded by telling me that everyone in this country hates immigrants and basically half the world is wrong about everything — except him, he’s always right. Going through a divorce while his businesses lay in shambles. I don’t think there was a single little piece of his life that was fine – except for the face.

I mean, his face was one of the few initial reasons to meet him at all on that day. Handsome, approachable. We weren’t friends, barely even acquaintances. I had an amazing life. I thought this was gonna be just a quick catch up with a cup of tea and a few superficial rumors. I really didn’t need that energy and he didn’t warn me this was going to be a one-sided trauma-dump.

I wouldn’t have come to that meeting if I knew what awaited me, but people don’t announce “Hey! So I am total shit right now, wanna meet and talk about life? Like, I need professional help! Also, one of my nails is rotting and I can’t bother to fix a broken tooth!”

The part about nails and teeth isn’t related to that particular interaction, but it’s based on real stories too – and it would’ve been wonderful to know in advance. Sorry but not being a bad person isn’t enough to expect other people to be interested in spending time with you.

What I’m saying is that this happened many times and, at some point, I had to conclude that people whom I don’t know very well (and they don’t know anything about me too) feel safe enough to ask me out when they’re at their lowest. Like, they somehow feel I will tolerate their emotions for at least a short while, and they’re willing to pay. I get free food, they get free ears and a few wise comments.

So basically I’ve been operating as an unlicensed therapist for at least 15 years.

— Sorry, this probably is too much, but I feel like I can tell you anything.

— Yeah, I get that a lot.

I don’t think I’m in any way unique in this role, many people are very familiar with this kind of dynamic. Except they’re mostly doing it for their closest circle – and I can be immediately trusted by nearly anyone. I get it, if I met the second me, I would instantly trust her too. But you know what, at this point, I don’t think a salad and a cup of tea are a fair compensation for this kind of labour.

And also, you know what sucks the most for us, listeners? Our existence is celebrated when everything’s awful, but we aren’t anyone’s first choice when things get good again. We’re trusted with the ugliest secrets, creepy, goosebumps-level shit, but rarely invited to birthday parties. We’re there for you when everyone chickens out, but you forget about us when you can walk without crutches again. Somehow, when things turn out allright, you don’t want to see a reflection of your past behind our eyes. Everyone needs a pathologist, no one pays a visit when the job is done.

Fuck all that.

This is not a friendly interaction, this is energy leeching poorly disguised as “having a quick chat”.

Next time you want to call someone for that, ask yourself if that’s fair.

Next time someone asks me out, pretending it to be a casual meet-up, but showing up in ruins and with a mute cry for help in their eyes – I’m politely rejecting that bloody salad and advising them to call a friend instead. Or a shrink. A priest, for god’s sake. You know, your stories aren’t that interesting, they all sound the same after a few rounds anyway.

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Millennials are the last generation who had a tech-free childhood, which, by modern standards, almost equals shaking hands with Queen Victoria. We remember a world that doesn’t exist anymore, and yet we are still young enough to embrace this new reality, whatever it may be. Some of us are still getting our Bachelor’s and Master’s and surprise people by telling them our real age.

“What? But you look 20!”

By the way, have you ever tried to count how many years it would take for you to save enough money and buy the house of your dreams? 200, perhaps? Nice, almost average lifespan of a textbook vampire. Totally doable.

Kids? Oh well, you can always decide to adopt one somewhere around your 120th birthday, right? 100 years should be enough to find a suitable partner, considering how much we have to work to survive.

The old ways are broken. They are so broken there is no default trajectory in life anymore. You don’t just graduate, marry, reproduce and work until you die. You have to repeat some of these stages over and over, and sometimes they come in an unexpected order. Some of us have to “die” a few times and then return back to work – reborn, as if nothing ever happened, as if we hadn’t seen a global catastrophe in real-time.

From this perspective, becoming a vampire is the only plausible solution that would give us, Millennials, enough time and health to get to the milestones that all adults should achieve — by the old standards, of course.

Superpowers? A very obvious reaction to the feeling of helplessness among severe recession and fruitless job hunt. Is it even possible to get hired without telepathy, superhuman speed and psychic influence? Besides, vampires don’t sleep.

I’m saying the system forced Millennials out of a normal adulting. By the time we’d arrived at the point where we should’ve received the control panel, no one had any intention of letting us drive. Almost none of us are in power these days, making important decisions. Almost none of us are taken seriously. I’m almost sure most of us don’t like being stuck in time, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s giving us some choice. Choosing a sock pattern doesn’t fucking count.

In 2005 everybody thought that youth ends by the time you’re 25. By 30 we all should’ve become astronauts and presidents. Now in 2026 youth is supposed to end somewhere around 35, but it’s still in discussion. When I look at this, all I see is some people in fancy cabinets deciding at what age should adults influence the system and should they even have any influence at all. I remember the time when Millenials were condescendingly called “snowflakes”. I remember the world accusing us of being infantile and just not ready for life. Ask yourself how can a whole generation be underprepared for something like that and whether it is their fault at all. I say it isn’t.

I say the life we were preparing for, guided by completely rational and sensible beliefs, is only achievable in a few hundred years. So yes, we need a dream of being an invincible, beautiful, powerful creature that doesn’t need neither food, sleep or shelter, for that matter. Nature will catch up on us eventually, but it’s not like there are any better alternatives.

We watch these shows because a bunch of pale funny creeps goofing around the town in strange clothes is more relatable than a happy suburban family. Rosalie Hale (a vamp from “Twilight”) had this whole monologue about envying humans, missing kids, possibilities and change, but honestly what kind of possibilities does anyone acquire when they lose their strength, beauty and health?

Sorry Rose, I don’t think you’d really want to spend your days anxiously applying on LinkedIn.

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Having a full-time long-distance high-maintenance job might be a reason why some expats don’t even feel like anything has changed in their lives at all, and they’re probably right, since 70% of their time is consumed by work (aka staring at the screen) and the rest is wasted on keeping their sanity intact. Alright, but what about those who actually do have some spare time left?

They explore surroundings. They notice things. And they form opinions. Opinions that, as it turns out, do not necessarily reflect reality and mostly describe… something else. I’ve seen people with relatively similar backgrounds look at the same countries and say “this is just like our homeland!” and “dude, where? Everything is SO DIFFERENT!”

I’ve thought about that a lot, and now, when I have an opportunity to compare words and actions of those people in question, I get to the conclusion that people who see bits of their country everywhere they go subconsciously miss home to a painful extent, even if they complain, even if they say these bits drive them nuts and they hate them. Hate is a very strong feeling, after all.

I am saying people who can’t get rid of that ghost in their heads haven’t really immigrated anywhere. Their bodies might be in a new country, but their minds are still stuck in a familiar pattern. The most important immigration is the one happening in your head. Those who can’t complete that process either fall into depression or return back where they started.

Of course we all bare some bits of our old life with us — to stabilise our identity. We all have some roots and attachments. But there’s a huge difference between keeping a small shrine of your core memories and trying to convince yourself that you can freeze life in a bubble of nostalgia. You can’t. You won’t.

And even if there’s a lot of you and you form a diaspora, at some point life will demand integration and change. Nothing will ever be the same either way. I guess I’m just staggered by seeing people resist change, especially when change is the exact cure they need to survive.

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But this essay isn’t about him or my relationships, or rather, it’s about the relationship I have with my inner world — which is, in my opinion, the most important partnership a human can have.

I used to be that person who changed their desktop picture every month or so, yes, but that time is over. Something happened in 2021. I bought a brand-new MacBook Air (using the money my boss gave me), reported this fact to HR with a bunch of silliest photos ever seen, set a nice and calm picture of water as a background pic and felt an instant sensation of safety.

It’s been five years. Why underwater? Why then? I’ve done a great deal of pondering and I still don’t quite know the answer. Maybe I wanted to hide. Maybe I needed a safe space. Maybe I felt like being underwater meant existing under all radars, moving in silence with stealthy effectiveness. Maybe I wanted the whole world to go silent. Whatever it was, it worked perfectly.

Pictures on my phone screen didn’t settle that day though. Oh, they had been quite dynamic, they moved with me and spoke the thoughts that lingered somewhere on the edge of my subconscious. They were my tokens, my talismans, subtle reminders of the things I needed to remember, no matter where I was at. Signs only I could decipher. I honestly thought they would continue changing forever, until… water happened again.

This time, after I made up my mind about leaving my job. I had spent months absorbing gallons of foreign stress spread by anxious directors like radiation, until one day I just felt that it was enough. It was more than enough, I got totally, completely, absolutely fed up with all this nonsense. Water flooded my emotional halls and corridors, wiping out every bit of that ridiculous hustling inferno. But this time, I was above the surface. Calm and glittery, barely even troubled by a soft breeze. It’s been 1,5 years, my life has turned upside down, I haven’t felt an urge to change that picture, not even once.

See? No plot whatsoever.

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Once upon a time there was a magical orange. It was round and cute and it smelled so good no one could walk past it without at least complimenting its appearance.

“Hey Orange, come with us!” people called it. And the orange almost followed, but then it heard those people were in the middle of cooking a fruit salad, and it went the other way.

“Dear Orange, you’re wonderful, but you’re going to be so much more if you join us, this is a great opportunity for you!” said some other folks, and the orange almost believed them, but then it came to its attention that those people were baking orange pies, so it refused the offer.

“Oh Orange, I want to help you, let me make your skin even shinier!” said another person, and the orange saw no danger in this proposal. But when they smeared some sauce over the skin and tried to put it in an oven, the orange rushed itself bowling towards the exit, away from these incredible opportunities, fast as possible.

Far did the orange roll, so far. Eventually, it stopped on a sunny meadow in the midst of gorgeous plants and mighty trees. They smiled at the orange and kept growing high, basking in warm rays of sunlight. The orange felt very calm and safe around them. No one promised it anything, no one rushed it and no one tried to change anything about it. So did the orange stay on that meadow, and time did its work, and the magic orange grew into a tall and beautiful orange tree.

The end.

a tale about a snake and her diamonds

Once upon a time there was a snake, and she lived in a cave that was full of diamonds. All the walls and even the floor of this cave were strewn with precious gems. She liked them very much. In fact, she liked them so much she wanted those gems to be with her forever, to embellish her sleek coat, but she couldn’t find a way to carry them. Desperate, determined snake tried to eat the diamonds, but they scratched her belly rather unpleasantly and treacherously went out of the other side. The snake had wept at her misfortune and left that cave forever.

Days and months passed, and the snake lived her snakish life. She hunted mice and little birds, one mundane thing happened after another and it all looked, to say frankly, very ordinary.

But once in between those hunts, when the snake was crawling by a spring, she saw her reflection in its waters. To her surprise, she saw sunbeams reflecting off her scales, dancing on the surface with every movement, throwing off a thousand little rainbows.

“How lovely” thought the snake — and crawled further on to continue her beautiful days.

The end.

a tale about a feeble chick

There was a chick and she was, well, slender. She looked so feeble compared to the other chickens. She had no plump thighs, no breasts to boast about. Even her feathers were bleak and colourless. It was so bad other chickens started to tease her.

Many times someone tried to feed her, many hours of mockery she had endured, but the chick continued to live her feeble life, modest and content. She came to terms with the thought that she will never become an exemplary chicken, because, well, she couldn’t really do anything about this, even if she tried.

So lived the chickens, laughing at the weak one, until one day a farmer came and started picking up chickens one after another, sending them to slaughter.

First went the plumpest, then he took the average ones. It was far too late to cluck and rush about, they all ended up in the soup. All those chicks happened to be too fat to fly over the fence and their wings were too weak.

Only the slender chick somehow managed to escape.

The end.

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Out of sight — out of mind.

Of course I’ve heard that it’s best to separate your private and professional relationships completely, the cynical approach is quite common, especially in big companies. And yet somehow, against all my life experience and, sometimes, better judgement, I kept opening up to people, kept letting them in, kept trusting — in hopes to catch at least some gold in the process. I just LOVE friendship, can you believe that.

The reality I had to face along the way was that none of those people minded me out in the open, defenceless and sincere, they could use that quite conveniently, and they understood that this openness will only keep happening if they play along (at least, until it serves them). The ugly part is, often enough, people are willing to fake the level of emotional closeness that should be irreversible if done genuinely. In their case, it dissolves the minute you stop being useful. They recognise the value you provide and they are willing to do what it takes to get those benefits.

The higher the competitiveness, the higher the risk of getting such a “bff”.

My personal opinion? Faking close friendship should be considered a punishable crime.

Interestingly enough, there is one side effect I should mention. Every time I quit a company that had more than 5 employees, I got a new friend from that team, but each and every time it was someone I wasn’t even close with while working. We would meet casually and then continue having fun together for years — effortlessly and chill, wondering why haven’t we tried that while we were coworkers. Eventually, they would leave that company too, but our friendship (real, this time) would go on for many months and years more.

It’s almost as if work was the thing that freezed all potential for real connections, even when it’s literally sitting there. As if we were so occupied with our professional roles we couldn’t even meet properly.

I consider myself incredibly lucky for staying in touch with the last team I’ve built, somehow this small community of ours survived lay-offs, turbulence, thousands of kilometers between us and god-knows-what-else. And, yes, I distanced myself from them while we were still colleagues, I had to. Bosses can’t be fully open with their subordinates, that’s management 101. But without these roles, without the walls between us we became something more than just a team. A friendgroup chat that is always ready to warm us up a bit and provide some real help, no matter what.

So, technically, you can make new friends at work. But these friendships will only bloom after everyone’s dropped their masks and left — at least this is what I gather from my personal experience.

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But truthfully people were never identical. Sure, there were some ages when most of them couldn’t spend much time exploring their identity, or maybe they were even prohibited to do so, but lack of chance doesn’t mean lack of potential. And the potential has always been there.

It’s no surprise that old societies, too concerned with survival to do anything else, couldn’t possibly provide enough comfort (and education) to let large numbers of people openly discuss such abstract individualistic matters as… personal identity. But aristocrats and royals had plenty of chances and did pretty much everything they wished to. They just never needed the vocabulary to defend that right.

But common people obviously do, so, when they finally got free and safe enough, the term “gender” got involved in a fight for the desire to… lead a lifestyle that wasn't part of a perscribed package deal.

It’s not “people with blue hair, special pronouns and quirky outfits” versus traditional families, it’s a battle of self-expression versus social mobilisation. Doing what you feel is right versus doing what you were told was correct.

I seriously think most gender identity problems would become obsolete if we just allowed people to be themselves without pushing them into one of the two boxes. We wouldn’t need the word “nonbinary” if this society stopped narrowing its gender norms so tightly. If there were no obligatory attributes attached to being male or female. Biological sex would become a mere formality, nobody outside sports and medical facilities would actually care. There would be no “queers”, cause everyone would be just people. Still female or male, but free from labels and ridicule.

I mean it’s more of a spectrum, isn’t it. I had zero clue I was somewhat unusual until people told me I had “masculine energy”. The thing is, back where I’m from that’s not masculine, that’s human. So what. I’m not gonna change just because someone isn’t used to seeing people like me. But yes, it sometimes resulted in unnecessary tension and created more than one problem for me in the past.

The question isn’t whether a man can wear mascara. It never was. The question is are all people allowed to express their identity — or not. Can we, as a society, actually afford investing in our uniqueness? Can we afford non-conformity? Can we appreciate the beauty of our differences or are we too afraid to notice?

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Many Eastern Europeans (particularly slavs) were raised in a deliberately pessimistic culture that manifests in a myriad of jokes about life being made of shit and pain. From a very young age, they were told to endure suffering and, moreover, to perceive it with an almost religious devotion. Suffering builds character, they’re told, it makes your soul purer, deeper and more sophisticated (aka traumatised beyond repair lol). Every good thing should be achieved with blood and tears, there is no way around it. And at the bedrock of it, the boss of all gloom, this thought: “Happiness doesn’t exist. It’s but a bleak moment between two dark pages of your useless life. No one is happy. No one is healthy. Everybody is sick and miserable all over the world, so stop complaining and do what you must.”

And this is not some pretentious phrase from an artsy movie, this is the brutally mundane reality of what these people experience every single day. Frankly speaking, the most pessimistic shit ever invented, twisted and built into a society like a supporting structure. Of course, none of that concerns the elite — they live for pleasure. But, in this case, they should be considered a separate entity inside a nation.

This is precisely why Russian literature is so dark, hopeless and complex. Or any slavic literature, by the looks of it (my personal impression, but this probably needs a thorough investigation). 99% of post-USSR creatives I’ve met think that pain and inspiration are basically twins (which is only partially true, but this should be a separate essay) and they sometimes dive into misery on purpose, just to get that flame going. If you, by any chance, are in your Dostoyevsky phase right now, my deepest condolences. I recommend talking to a specialist after you’ve finished reading, this stuff cracks your emotional balance like a nut.

This is where all of the slavic aesthetic comes from, all the brutality, the “stare”, the harshness… these people are taught that “only fools smile for no reason” and “we’ve never lived good… we’d better not even start“. No one has even urged them to care about themselves, to follow their own interests, to focus on their well-being instead of some standards imposed upon them long before they could understand what’s happening. Most of them never had the luxury of being safe.

For most people, opting out simply does not exist in this scheme. And this narrative is echoed everywhere they go, in media, in art, in their songs, in people around them. “Life is hard and there is no escape, just swallow the pill.” Unfortunately, most of them have to.

Now to the formal frame. It happens that this ideas go hand in hand with the following trio: authoritarianism, patriarchy and orthodox christianity, which is already described in such works as:

• Lancour Laferriere, “The Slave Soul of Russia: Moral Masochism and the Cult of Suffering” (1995)

• Tatjana Aleksić, “The Sacrificed Body” (2013)

This might be a great theme for a deeper critical research, but clearly, combined with the “field experience”, there is little to nothing accidental about this combination — they form a very tight cage in which there is not much you can actually do. There’s just too much evidence at hand. The moment you succumb to the cult of suffering you give up your chance to be happy on a conceptual level. You can’t succeed if you don’t even consider it possible.

It saddens me to see suffering romanticised and idolised by many people today, the same people who still have a chance to avoid that lifestyle. There is nothing noble in being poor (yes, I’m quoting Brian Kinney) and there is nothing noble in being miserable. Please take that into consideration next time you decide to become a struggling, half-suicidal poet with such a long list of mental issues you can’t even name them all by heart.

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It’s May 2026 now and one of the most popular notes on Substack loudly proclaims “books have no f*cking ads in them!”. Preach. You have no idea how deeply I feel this passion. And, as much as I share the excitement, I also realise — it is only true because analog reading is not mainstream enough these days. Or any kind of thoughtful reading, to be honest.

Where your attention goes, ads follow. It works especially well in places where people feel safe enough to lower their guard, loose defences. All in all, ads do their best when you don’t expect to see them. And books used to contain ads back in the days, you know, it started with medieval monks leaving their “spam” messages here and there and went all the way to vulgar full-page cigarettes commercials. Unfortunately, there is nothing groundbreaking about this idea. History loves to repeat itself.

The marketing we know now is a very special kind of freak. Modern ads stalk you everywhere like those fugly creeps near women-only fitness studios. They infiltrate every major community and every previously safe space you’ve had until ads are everything and everything is an ad. But you reap what you sow, and shitty ads attract shitty customers.

I believe there is no hope for modern advertising unless it learns to change its relationship with the audience. Stalking cheapens effort. Respecting boundaries amplifies it. Marketing is already consuming so much money with such a disappointing effect it often doesn’t even make any sense.

The sexiest thing modern marketers can do is fight for BANNING outdated forms of ads, switching to those that people WANT to see, when and where it is appropriate.

What’s that whisper over there, you’re saying there is no such thing as an ad that is both effective and non-intrusive? Beg to differ.

Take the oldschool ads you can see in those special pamphlets on a plane — they are usually just as naive and nice as it gets, and they don’t piss people off (probably because no one is forcing it upon them, huh). Pre-rolls in cinemas? Those 5 minutes of professional, cinematic commercials can be delightful enough to make people attend niche ad festivals! Your audience WANTS to see great ads, it just doesn’t want them to be shoved in their faces along with a pile of shit they don’t even need.

As an ex-creative who’s worked in marketing for many years, I can say — yes, we have a problem. You guys seem to have forgotten that good marketing is a form of art. You lost all respect for yourself, your craft and your audience altogether, and now you’re surprised to see that nothing even works anymore. Well, boo-fucking-hoo.

Grow some dignity, for a change.

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I used to be a deeply idealistic teen with extraordinarily romantic dreams and I wasn’t harbouring these ideas somewhere at the back of my head — pretty much everyone had a chance to hear it all about the adventures I wanted to embark on. I guess this is exactly what people mean when they call someone “delusional” these days.

My plans needed supporters, so I adopted a consistent inspirational campaign as a main communication strategy. It didn’t take long for me to notice: the very same words and actions hit different people differently, to the point where some of them would eagerly swear to follow me to the edge of the Earth, and others just ignored my existence altogether. I asked those people, how did they come to this opinion, and received a set of polarized responses.

“true leader”, “star”, “lion”, ”wise”, “great sense of humour”, “walking creativity”, “genius”, “great taste”, “cool style”, “spark of revolution”, “mentor”, “sincere”, “magnetic”, “a ray of light”, “great friend”, “tornado”, “attractive”, “the most balanced person I know”

vs

“grey mouse”, “prey”, “unoriginal”, “boring”, “closed off and quiet”, “cold”, “too emotional”, “manipulative”, “nutcase”, “too harsh”, “not firm enough”, “strange”, “lazy”, “toxic”, “looks tired all the time”, “I didn’t even notice“

Of course, my first thought on this was “wait, this can’t be right, how can two opposite opinions about the same person be correct at the same time?” How can anyone be both funny and boring? Bright and unnoticeable? Sincere and manipulative? Energetic and passive?

Turns out, they can — but in a purely subjective sense.

Remember that time when you couldn’t find your phone while you were holding it in your hand all along? Or you just couldn’t see the ring lying on the table right before your eyes, desperately searching for it in every pocket?

Look around you, every single person you know lives in their own world, constructed by their very own brain for their needs and desires precisely. Sounds too abstract? Okay, well, in reality it means that if someone isn’t ready to see you as their friend, or leader, or a source of inspiration — they won’t, no matter how convincing you are. And, respectively, if you somehow fit the frame they have in their head, that special empty space you closely resemble by form, they will hold onto you no matter how you treat them.

The older I got, the more examples of this duality I’ve encountered. And I think that the most horrible mistake anyone can make is outsourcing their self-esteem to the audience, believing what other people say about them, instead of supporting that core from the inside.

Because we aren’t what our haters say we are. We aren’t some shining demigods either.

You might improve your life significantly by choosing those who support you, just as you might end up in a terrible delusion if nothing ever breaks this peace.

It would be easy to advise “just trust those who say the good stuff”.

No. Some of them are true of course, but it never hurts to filter out the flattery and go through a small “reality check” once in a while. And no one will tell you who you really are, it’s your job to figure that out.

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Correct me if I’m wrong, but influencing these days just isn’t compatible with any kind of mental wellbeing. The sheer extent of emotional exhibitionism implies reporting every single thought you’ve had like federal news — and every trauma turns sugar-coated and glazed with humour, as if it could make the tragedy any lighter. It can’t, but it supports the illusion of success.

Everything that used to be private became public currency a long time ago, and I can’t help but feel sad about it. Being a center of attention is only admirable when there’s some brilliance to showcase, nakedness and vulnerability isn’t a rare thing on its own. Just as I would prefer to not see most of the people I know naked (ever), I would like them to keep their private lives private.

Basically, most of the influencer scene today can be described as perfect style versus trashy drama. Sexy vs goofy. Every fancy picture you post evokes envy and every sad story you share makes you an emo-porn actress. Women hate men. Men hate women. Everybody hates AI and, somehow, 80% of content is still made by it. Choose your fighter.

Would I tell a completely different story if I succeeded back then, putting together the first wacky reels where I expressed my frustration about some relationship dynamics? (instead of losing a friend who immediately recognized herself in my examples and took the offence personally)

Would I have a different perspective if I had the right temperament to become an entertainer?

I don’t know.

But I’m glad I’ve never recorded a dossier and never posted it for every vulture to ravish. I’m glad that people who aren’t close to me have no clue what’s going on in my life. Glad that none of the events that defined my future became a bedazzled spectacle. Glad that most of my happy moments happened behind closed doors and with no audience to comment on this.

And I’m glad that writers on this platform have enough self-respect to avoid that kind of ultimate exposure, at least, this is my impression by far.

The massive “trauma porn festival” happening pretty much everywhere right now is going to subside one day. Fashion changes. We just have to wait.

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Here we go.

I want to start with something soft. This one’s rather sweet and harmless, albeit peculiar. I was a guest at a local film festival, an unimportant one, a friend of a friend of a friend who just happened to be around. After we had watched a documentary, there was a Q&A section with the movie’s director. The venue had two floors, and I was on the second one, playing chess with some acquaintances of mine, whose names ran away from my memory many years ago. At some point, I got bored and decided to come downstairs, to the main floor where the discussion was happening.

As soon as I arrived at the bottom of the stairs, I noticed that half the crowd turned their heads towards me. Now, it should be mentioned, I am not that kind of person who’s looks stop street traffic on a random day, I looked average, or at least I thought I did, and I remember wearing some super humble clothing that didn’t do me any favours — nonetheless, the people kept staring. The director approached me in awe, raising his phone to take a few snaps. I had no idea why, and he didn’t speak English, so we parted ways without any explanation.

Later on, a producer called me and said that “they all saw a glowing aura surrounding me, and they couldn’t turn their eyes away, and that the director wondered if I was available for his next movie.” I was extremely flattered and befuddled at the same time… I mean, what was that, mass hallucination? If it were only one person exploiting the narrative of “supernatural glow”, I would’ve thought they were just playing mystical, but dozens of people? Strange.

The producer in question promised she’d return with further details, but she never did.

This one is about a guy who clearly needed very serious professional help. I don’t even remember how we met, but I was 23 and I just started taking commissions for small artworks. Oil paint, watercolour, graphic — driven by survival, I took almost any orders I could get.

And then came this dude who asked me to paint a watercolour icon of a religious figure, christian orthodox style. This was… quite unusual, but still fair, so I completed the order and received the money.

This little side-hustle didn’t provide enough income to support me, so I also had a job, which implied a commute by bus or train, from a coastal town to the city. One of these days, I suddenly saw the guy waiting for me at the bus station. This alone was creepy enough, yet I had no other choice but to get out and go to the place I worked at. He followed me for a bit, then caught up with me and asked: “Are you by any chance a witch? The picture you gave me… it came alive last night”

He didn’t look or sound flirty (he was unattractive and way too old for me anyway), his darkened, crazy eyes were searching for answers that were never there.

I refused to engage and just walked away, leaving him alone with his delusions.

Once upon a time in 2012 I was walking down the street when one of the other pedestrians nearby saw me and rushed to her knees right in front of me. She started praying intensively, throwing blessings one after another in a state of spiritual frenzy, as if I personally saved half of her family from horrible death or something. There were no churches in the area, so she couldn’t be a beggar, and she wasn’t asking anything from me. To this day, I have no idea what it was. This frenzy continued for about 30 seconds, then she finished, stood up, said goodbye and went her way, as if nothing ever happened.

This is a story about a sweet couple who tried to convince me I’m an alien and iPhones are being dug up at a UFO crash site or something like that. Their theory was based on a series of super vague claims, something about my height and body proportions seemed off to them, and they couldn’t find any other explanations except calling me extraterrestrial. I could see they weren’t joking. And yes, they believed that modern tech couldn’t possibly be invented by humans, it had to be extracted from alien ships. In case you wonder, these people had normal jobs, higher education, and lived economically and socially ordinary lives.

This “alien” status amused me for a bit, I didn’t mind all the princess treatment that came along, but at some point all of this became way too strange to continue.

There’s so many of them, I stopped counting a long time ago.

Like that guy from Moscow that I met on a bus, he was going somewhere with his kid. We had a lightweight smalltalk, by the end of which I had invited him to my exhibition, we exchanged numbers and never saw each other again. A year after that, he just randomly texted me that he loves me like crazy and can’t stop thinking about me. Of course I replied that he can’t possibly love me since he doesn’t even know me, we literally met once and it was a very, very brief acquaintance. He continued texting obsessively, and I blocked him.

Or that guy from work who started talking about our future kids before we even met in person. We worked in different departments and didn’t really talk that much, the only reason I agreed to meet him was me being new in town. I disliked his sense of humour (which was rather toxic) and told him about it in a very polite and careful way, he deleted the whole conversation and sent an sms “I love you” from an anonymous number.

Or that man on a bus who literally begged to hold my hand for a few seconds. Then he proceeded to tell me some story about his son living in Italy and tried to get my phone number, but I refrained.

I am obviously no Princess Diana, so, none of this makes any sense. Just like the stories in the next section.

Now, this is unpleasant, but it’s true. Me too, girls, me too.

Sometimes it was random men, like that one in a cafeteria who invited me to sit at his table while I waited for my takeaway order (other seats were already taken). I could’ve waited by the counter, but I thought “a smalltalk couldn’t hurt, right?“. He started off friendly and harmless, then quickly turned to “I can be very generous” in a very specific context. (Da f*ck?)

Or that guy who marched into a restaurant, drunk as a pig, and, seeing me, started bragging about him being a famous scientist, researching giant squids on the Southern Pole and such. I just wanted to quietly finish my noodles, but he demanded my attention rather aggressively. When compliments didn’t work, he started telling me a story about a woman who broke his heart (at the time, just recently). Although I really didn’t want to know that many details, he told me exactly for how long they’d fucked before she left him and chose to marry another man. Then there was something about him hiring prostitutes to make them watch his scientific documentaries and express their opinion. And then there was THE argument again. “Come visit me and bring your boyfriend… what… no boyfriend… I can be very generous, you know”. I refused the invitation, but he gave me his contacts anyway. I still have that small crumpled note somewhere in a pile of souvenirs from that era, in case one day I need a proof… or a reminder.

And sometimes it was people who promised to help me in my creative endeavours. Like a super old grandpa, all covered in wrinkles and wearing huge glasses, who introduced me to some influential people in our city, presenting this like an act of goodwill, paying for my meals here and there, saying a lot of right words about helping talented youth. Unfortunately, this situation slowly escalated to him asking to hold my hand and telling me he has a chateau in the Alps which he hopes to visit soon. I honestly thought he was unwell and this was some anxious compulsion in hopes to get any authentic human contact while he was still alive, until he asked me if I could kiss him already. Of course, I said no. He was extremely disappointed and stopped communicating with me after this. So much for supporting young artists. And this guy was a respectable professor at a local university.

Sadly, it also happened with women sometimes. I recall at least one who tried to bribe me into a sexual (or romantic) relationship, but it didn’t work.

I also could’ve mentioned married men “accidentally” sending me explicit content while drunk, then apologising and deleting chat history. I wonder if they realise how unoriginal they are in this behaviour.

That’s all, for now. I didn’t include any names and precise dates (on purpose), but I can tell this stuff keeps happening through the years. I intend to keep the log.

You can share your weird stories in the comments section, I’d love to hear them.

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I used to think we were all just too busy to wander around, casually spending time with the people we like, but no, even when these adults have time and opportunity to meet someone, they often reduce all communication to materialistic reconnaissance.

Do you work? How much money do you make? Are you single? Do you perhaps have some inheritance or famous relatives? Any health issues?

Excuse me, since when does any of that matter in friendship?

With an approach like this, I can’t help but feel like a high-pedigree horse at a market fair. None of the questions people usually ask you these days have anything to do with your personality, they probe your social status instead, your origins and, basically, the benefits you can provide for them in case they decide to spend time on you. Yes, not “with you” — ON you.

Kids and teens become friends because life feels more fun together, adults? Please. Most of them don’t even remember there was a time when time WASN’T money. They measure you up to an imaginary standard, trying to figure, will this connection elevate them in the eyes of society? Will it solve their problems? Will it give them new opportunities they didn’t have before? Is this person worth their time?

The world is full of interesting people, but they’re pretty easy to miss if you’re focused on formal attributes. You know, friendship is supposed to be unconditional. Alright, almost — the only possible condition I can recall is reciprocity. Up until your interest, whatever it may be, works both ways, it is valid.

But friends aren’t your partners, employees, lovers, groupies, saviours or servants. I don’t remember who said that, friends are like kings of different kingdoms, meeting on a neutral ground, while being completely independent from each other. It is not supposed to serve any practical purpose, except being there to listen and tell stories. Becoming a consious and respectful witness of someone else’s personal universe.

Making new friends for real equals spending a lot of time on pointless activities that aren’t getting you anywhere, but mean the world at the end of the day. It takes some serious balls to be continuously useless for that long, expecting nothing in return — and that is exactly how the bond is made.

So, are you really struggling to make new friends? Or have you just forgotten how it’s done? Cause, if you haven’t, the world is full of people to spend time with.

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As opposed to… what exactly? Are you implying I’ve copied this from somewhere? Someone else secretly directed my hand? Or do you think there’s a bunch of people in a basement who paint for me and I just put my signature on it?

The sheer number of people who’ve asked me this is so ridiculously high I have to suggest there must be at least some reason behind it. At first, I thought they were asking because I didn’t have any portfolio, so I painted more. Then they said I must be getting these ideas from somewhere, cause why are they so different, and I don’t even have any relevant education. Some of my paintings from that period were bluntly stolen (physically), others were given away.

I thought maybe time and experience will stop this, cause, you know, you don’t ask such questions to someone whose works hang in museums and art platforms. It worked fine for the people who already knew me, but those who saw me for the first time still asked… “Did you draw that yourself?” While flipping pages of my sketchbook. Scrolling through my insta page.

YES I FUCKING DID THAT MYSELF HOW ELSE DO YOU THINK ART IS CREATED

SRSLY THAT IS SO ANNOYING

buy me a cuppa tea so I'd calm down

You think you’re being curious, but what you’re actually doing is exposing your ignorance and tactlessness. Do you have any idea what it does to the artist’s self-esteem? Do you understand that, asking such questions, you’re basically saying “Hm, I don’t believe it’s really yours“?

Unfortunately, people’s expectations of how artists should and shouldn’t look heavily influence their perception of the art itself. It is no secret that statistically speaking putting a female name on a painting instantly lowers its price. People are very, very accustomed to criticizing and devaluing female artists. But that’s no news as well, happens to all of us, artistic and not.

And that — all that — was pre-AI, of course. Imagine the scrutiny of this very same argument today 😅 Imagine how I feel now when people who literally can’t draw or conjure any independent images in their minds without a reference — claim to be artists too.

I was writing a fiery line about “opening a dictionary and memorising the meaning of that word”, but actually, art can be understood in a broader sense. I mean even politicians can be artists. Every skill becomes art as soon as it transcends a certain level. Theoretically, masterful usage of AI can at some point become a form of art itself.

But every professionally creative person knows deep in their heart: most people aren’t creative. Most people are just looking for the safest route in most things they do, something that is familiar. Saving the energy. Creativity is the thing they practice on weekends to remember what it’s like to be alive — and that is on the other side of the globe from being an artist. It’s almost like comparing professional athletes to the people jogging in the streets to keep shape. That’s the uncomfortable truth.

AI gave people an easy way to visualise a lot of exceptionally mediocre ideas. Most of creatives say AI is often more of a curse than a blessing, because it labels every unique and bold thing as too risky, wrong and uncomfortable, softens the edges, makes everything… dreadfully similar. And when the point of creating is doing something unique, it makes no sense to adhere to an instrument that is doomed to spit out soulless mediocrity, unless you want to see an example of what you shouldn’t do.

Art is a thing where the “how“ is sometimes much more important than “what“.

Yes it is measured by the volume of authenticity you pour into it too — the less you mimic or delegate, the more truthfully yours it becomes. And yes, then and only then you will have a right to say “I did it myself“. Otherwise, well… you were just standing there watching someone else do the work.

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The general consensus has become that having a strong personal identity (aka “BRAND”) is everybody’s greatest mission. What happened next is that, as soon as people without taste discovered they can just copy someone else’s blueprints, the scene was flooded with copycats chasing after anything that’s trendy. We invented the word “normie”, but honestly when was the last time you’ve seen a “normal person”? Somehow, being fake is considered less shameful than the lack of a real personality. And, you know, it is one of those things that grows in silence.

Nonetheless, this domestic everyday exhibitionism we see all around us wasn’t the norm until somewhere around 2015, I think. People did it in hopes to lure some audience towards them by such unexpected (at the time) exposure. And some of them became undeniably successful, which makes it even more tempting for others to do the same. Can’t blame them, it really does sound good to be popular by merely existing.

And yet there is this barely distinguishable whisper behind the scene, the one that says “but we weren’t supposed to know this much about everyone and everything.” It really wouldn’t hurt to have some secrets (and corners of the Earth left to explore). Private life wasn’t supposed to be a thing to gamble with, but it is precisely what’s happening. If only I got a nickel for every “top-10 hidden gems“ post I’ve seen… And yes, if we talk about travels and leisure, some places really do get spoiled by commercialisation… Some cafes only make sense when they only have 2 tables and no menu, so you have to ask the waitress, who is inventing your options on the go.

I miss the days when blogging meant long clumsy reads with one or two photos attached. Probably that is one of the reasons why I started on Substack to begin with. The days when we put so much value into our experiences and emotions we were actually afraid someone might read our diary. Now? Please, it’s like everyone is walking naked.

Then, we invented the term “oversharing”. Somehow our collective mind did realise, albeit hesitantly, someone has to hit the brakes — there must be some reasonable limit to this transactional openness. So, where is this line where gatekeeping stops being a horseman of apocalypse and starts to sound like a great idea?

We’ll see. But right now, writing this, I am sure — some things must be private to stay fantastic.

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But it wasn’t always like this.

I vividly recall the days (2000-early 2010s) when the movies we watched were promoting a picture of a “good guy”. We all rooted for classic protagonists with obviously white morale and translucently noble motivation, and we wanted to be those knights in shining armour. Most popular trope? Plain and unassuming nobody who all of a sudden turns out to be “the chosen one” and saves the world. Damn.

But then, somewhere around 2015 (if my estimations are correct) things got much darker. Our typical hero isn’t just a guy or a girl anymore, they are literally or metaphorically bleeding and suffering from all sorts of calamities and their psyche is broken in so many places we can’t even be sure which one of those traumas created the monster to begin with, and if that wasn’t enough, they are showered with even more shit on top of what they’ve already encountered.

… isn’t it a very accurate representation of the modern collective subconscious though?

Given that the majority of its target audience is going through particularly difficult times these days, it is only logical to assume — the cinema doesn’t really introduce new standards, it mainly mirrors something that was already there. Mono-dimentional characters are replaced by complex personas, evoking compassion and allowing for an emotional release through the good-old “hey, that’s literally me!”

The ex-villains don’t even have to heal or get their redemption, their whole existence says that they are but a product of a broken world that crushes and crumples everything that doesn’t fit the mold. Isn’t it tempting — to blame everyone else instead of doing some real inner work…

Surprisingly, they do change a little bit, once in a while, which, as expected, gives us hope and winks at the other idea, the one hanging on the other side of this bridge — if you can’t heal, you’re supposed to adapt at least, but many viewers ignore that part and focus on the broken side of the story. ”Depression hair”, ugly fashion, memes, it’s all here, you can see it with your own eyes. Our society is so obviously disappointed in the old standards and ideals it practically rebells against them with messy attitude and “slavic face”.

Romanticising trauma might be a coping mechanism but, all things considered, it really doesn’t look like the world wants to be healthy. What does it want then?

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One of the first things I heard when I started at FLAS was a warning: it’s gonna be hard for you, cause you are not a kid anymore, your ego will be your greatest enemy. “Okay, we’ll see” was my initial thought. “How dare you doubt my adaptiveness!” echoed the second one. Anyways, I met the rest of the students. They were about 18-20, talented, bright, untamed. We talked. Some of them couldn’t recognise my age, they thought I was in my early twenties. Then the studies started. I didn’t feel any real differences between us in terms of performance, and to this day, I am not really sure if I should take this as a compliment.

I mean, it looks like I’ve worked on myself for 15 years only to catch up with someone who’s just left school. A creative and broadly developed millennial is… an average zoomer (minus the balloon pants). Wow. All that time, all that effort, basically spent to stay mentally agile and physically healthy. And I am perceptive enough to understand that agility isn’t the only advantage someone can possess. Many people my age have strong social networks, careers that speak for themselves, families, kids and apartments. Me? I succeeded in stopping time for a decade and gathering enough resources to give myself a second chance at life. Oh, and I found some really great friends + developed a distinctive taste. But pretty much nothing is guaranteed further on.

Got to admit, it is very refreshing to be surrounded by 20 year olds for a change. Because they still have some hopes for the future, they dream, they are ambitious, curious, proud, supportive, funny — and it’s contagious! —while most (if not all) of my millennial pals are unironically “dead inside”, pay more visits to the hospitals than cinemas and spend time complaining about getting too old for anything cool.

I have already said this in one of my essays, in my opinion, our 30s were never supposed to be this sad. You can’t imagine how many times have I tried to shake these people out of their delusional pessimistic trance. It never helps. It’s like someone has entered their souls before me, turned the lights off and left.

And when I looked around and figured I have not reached my peak yet, I had no other choice but to join the ranks of the younger generation. And they accepted me with compliments, hugs and giggles — something genY fellas have very unfortunately unlearned to do.

Don’t get me wrong, nobody has any illusions regarding the actual differences in age and experience, and it is pretty visible in all situations that require emotional maturity, but on a larger scale these “kids“ understand me better than most of the millennials I know.

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