Are you ready?

Dear future hubster,

a week ago I started creating a Spotify playlist. I called it Resistance, and now I can't rename it, because apparently, you can't do that with Spotify playlists, you would have to delete the whole thing and start a new one with a new name.

If I could rename it, I would probably call it We're Still Here. 

I think it's fitting for this end-of-the-year season, to say "this is me, and I'm not going anywhere, so deal with it".

This year has not been easy. Not for the world, not for me. It was rewarding, it taught us many things, it got us to places, but easy it was not. Still, we managed to get this far - the last day of the year (unless you're in East Asia or somewhere in the Pacific, in which case, Happy 2019, dear future hubster), and plan to carry on. We're still here, and we are who we are, only a little more experienced than this time last year. 

There is a chance that 2019 won't be much easier. Hell it may be even harder. And there is not much we can do to prevent or influence what the year brings on. But once it's brought it on, it's all ours to tackle it any way we choose. Life is weird, love is hard, traffic is awful and don't even get me started on the weather. But we can choose to be equally weird, love a little softer, don't give too many damns about the traffic, and maybe sometimes proverbially dance in the rain (not in the middle of traffic though). 

So when the ball drops and Auld Lang Syne starts and there will be fireworks around Miss Libby, I'll be ready to say, "Bring it on, 2019. We're still here."

Rules work best in threes

Dear future hubster,
the rules for being my flatmate are quite simple:
1. Coffee in the morning comes before everything and everyone else.
2. Accept it as a fact that I don't have too many shoes.
3. Only put the bottle of alcohol back in the fridge if it still has a visible amount left in it. Otherwise just empty it and get me a new one.

Not perky. Obnoxious.

Dear future hubster, 

when you finally decide to show up, and I convince myself to settle down for a while (don't even ask me to settle down forever, that's way too unnerving, let's just start with a few years at the time), and we can finally have a fully equipped kitchen, please be prepared to have plates that insult you and your guests, weird Danish pinboards and unicorn-shaped cushions, and potentially mugs that promote Trudeau 2020.

I come with an eclectic style, yes. 

Seven smooth socks

Dear future hubster,

Shari showed me an advent calendar of socks. Now considering my widely known soft spot for cool socks (and great hair), it goes without saying that I totally want to get you one. 

Minor issue is that I don't know your shoe (sock) size, and I'd prefer to avoid a one-size-doesn't-always-fit-all fiasco. Therefore, you are hereby kindly requested to identify yourself, or at least the size of your feet. Preferably in European measurements, but I understand weird American sizes too, if necessary. 

It's probably me

Dear future hubster,

in this search, this quest to find each other, you might feel hopeless time and again. In the sense that you think you lost all hope of ever finding me. I know I do. I wonder if you're as bad with directions as I am, and hope that somebody someday will give you a map.

It's not just the map though, it's the crippling uncertainty, that scary thought of "how do I know?". 

I don't know how you know it; I don't know if you or anybody ever really knows. 

But here's an advice I got from a friend: when you meet somebody who makes you feel at ease, in your comfort zone, safe to be yourself, wanting to be a better version of yourself, and who also makes you want to rip their clothes off more often than not, you know what you do? You effing marry them. 

Lucky for you that's what I like

Dear future hubster,

recent, non-representative research found further indicators that increase the likelihood of somebody being categorized as "my type". They also increase the likelihood of me being categorized as superficial, but hey, science requires sacrifices.

It would appear from the findings that those additional attributes of the person of interest are: great hair, and cool socks.

Make it a better place

Dear future hubster,

it is a common advice and life philosophy, based on a true story, to look for the helpers. And it's a good one. They are there.

However. We usually evoke this wisdom and/or hand out this comforting line in times of big troubles. Natural or human-made disasters, large-scale tragedies. The helpers we're looking for are saving lives, point literally. 

We tend to forget that we need helpers in times of smaller troubles. A hard day is hard, a heartbreak sucks, loneliness kills. So does chronic stress. There is no shame in looking for the helpers on a less than tragic day. 

And they are there. The helpers are always there, even when they are not literally saving lives. They bring you a coffee, or maybe they spill their coffee on you, they smile at you on the ferry, they tell you about their incredibly boring weekend so you don't have to talk about yours, they tell you to give exactly zero flying fucks, they send you cat videos. Make no mistake, dear future hubster, none of this is a coincidence. They know just as well as you do that you needed some extra kindness, and that you needed it to be non-explicit, disguised as a discussion over lottery money. 

They know this because there are days when they are the ones in need. Which then also means that some days you are the helper. Don't worry, you're a natural. We all are. All we need to do is show up. 

I'll dress the part

Dear future hubster,

with my sudden and unexpectedly growing liking of this city, and with the slow and expected arrival of autumn colours, and my steady affection for large bodies of water, and flirty approach towards things I consider pretentiously classy yet fun, it is no surprise that the season to boat up on the Hudson gets me excited. 

I feel a strong need to be around people who have boats. Preferably be around them on their boats. So if you have friends with boats, and you have been hiding them until now, please bring them on. 

Double standards much

Dear future hubster,
I have to admit, as I have just recently realized, that I don't always find it absolutely outrageous and disrespectful to be hit on in public. Some can get away with it without triggering anything remotely close to fury, anger, or discomfort.
And no, this is not based on race or gender.
The only time I don't mind being waved, smiled, winked at, or talked to, is when the delinquent is under the age of 4.
On the contrary, all I want is to ask for more. 

A certain kind of torture

Dear future hubster,

beware of fairy tales and telenovelas and even Shakespeare, and what they tell you about forbidden love.

Newsflash: there is nothing romantic or heroic about it. It's like your Sunday morning run with the Manhattan skyline backdrop, and Marine One flying by: it looks like you're straight out of a movie, the sky is blue and the jet skies make waves on the river. But none of that changes the fact that you're out of shape, it's 26 degrees and 75% humidity, and you just want to give up.

Forbidden love, if anything, is outrageous and/or irritating.

Outrageous when it comes down to religion, race, culture, tradition, money. Anybody who is forced to choose between belonging to where they always have, and belonging with somebody they choose, probably doesn't see any beauty in that struggle, and just wants to have a way that allows keeping both. 

And then when it's more about convenience, when what really is in our way are the decisions we don't want to make, because they would shake up life as we know it, because they involve other countries or other jobs or other apartments or other tiny people, then the "can't" in "We can't be together" just means that we could but we can't find it in ourselves to make the effort. 

Either way, it's heartbreaking. That's why it's a favourite topic of all kinds of art. For art, dear future hubster, often is inspired by pain that finds no other outlet.

Cinderella don't you go to sleep

Dear future hubster,

Have you ever felt like you have this wonderful pair of shoes, but somehow you don't quite fit in them even if they are your size?

I know I have plenty of good things to be happy for, but there will be days where the only thing I would like to do is sit on the sofa and wear flip-flops instead.

If it will ever happen to you, I will not judge you.  So please, sit with me on the sofa and tell my feet are wonderful no matter which shoes I am wearing.

Simona, we're getting older

Dear future hubster,
it happened. I don't know how to say, so here: I voluntarily put on James Blunt. I'm not trying to find excuses. People change, I guess. 

Express track love affairs

Dear future hubster, 

I used to think that there is a great love story waiting to be written about the Q and F trains; how they can't be together and only meet at Lex&63 and look at each other yearningly but then have to go their separate ways.

But then I started thinking that they are not equally committed to this relationship.

I think the Q is all devoted and available and welcoming, all "hey honey F I miss you, why don't you spend a few days chez moi" and the F goes "a'right baybe, I'm gon' be runnin' on ya tracks all weekend" (I don't know why I picture the F having this fake movie redneck way of talking). And they do, and they let entire Manhattan know that they'll be playing house Friday to Monday so please adjust your travel plans accordingly.

But then the F turns out to be rather flaky. It says it would arrive in 7 minutes, but it never shows up and just updates its status to "expected in 25 minutes", if you're lucky. Rarely gives a reason why, and even when it does, you know it's nonsense.

And then the worse is when sometimes this flaky F tells everyone "I ain't goin' anywhere all weekend", and the next thing you know the E is suddenly showing up at a bunch of the F stops. What a coincidence. 

A little potato can go a long way

Dear future hubster,

if it ever happens that you think you need to win my heart, or to win it back, or there is something you need to make up for, or just want to make it a better day, or hell I don't know, you want to express not only your undying love for me, but also implicitly the very traditional, occasionally sexist, but certainly well-intended responsibility of taking care of your girl (me), please consider hash browns.

Hash browns at any time of the day are a universal solution, but hash browns for breakfast? You can't begin to imagine what's in store for you that day.

I might attempt coherent conversation before 9 am! If I don't choke up from all the emotions you and the hash browns triggered. Otherwise, please take my "mhhhrhrmmmm" as "This is amazing and I love you so much".

Slowly drifting

Dear future hubster,

I grew up in a landlocked country and didn't even see the Mediterranean Sea until I was 15; the Atlantic Ocean in my twenties.

I admire the ocean, I could sit and stare at it for hours on end, listening to the murmur and the roar.

I don't know what to do with the waves though.

I'd love to dance with them; I see people who know the moves getting on and not under; I feel the force and I want to be part of it as much as I want to stay away.

Might be some underlying control issues, the fear of uncertainty, being scared of just giving myself to the waves, not knowing what will happen next. 

For that, I hope you are a seasoned water person, and will take my hand, teach me how to be friends with the ocean, how to handle push and pull, how to trust the elements and myself.

Wave after wave.

An Empire State of love

Dear future hubster, 

have you ever thought that some love stories with some lovers are very much like a city, a very particular scenery?

Like a Vienna lover is reserved, quietly majestic and definitely not ever in a rush; a Paris love is so Truly Madly Deeply but also somewhat arrogant and too charming to be taken seriously; Berlin is very hip, probably unshaved, has a few radical views and some residual teenage angst. 

And a New York love? Very much like the city itself - not as much in that he doesn't sleep, but that he makes you want to be top of the heap. 

And in so many other ways. Overwhelming and addictive. Sudden and unexpected at first, but cozy and comforting as you rush through the noise and find a sweet, undisturbed corner. Exciting, with something shiny and new every day, and intimidating, as nothing ever is looked at for a second time. Makes you feel glow; makes you feel replaceable. Makes you believe while remaining completely unbelievable. You feel like you're in a movie, any movie, showing the Brooklyn Bridge during opening credits, like it's everybody's everyday love story, except it yours and it's anything but ordinary. That's why it's so unreal. 

A New York love, dear future hubster, is just like the city itself. It showers you with all the glitter and spark, until you're exhausted but you think you've glimpsed the idea. Then it throws some more of everything at you, until you're dizzy but you think you're starting to understand. Then the glass doors slam on you. A New York love, just like the city itself, doesn't let you in easily. Maybe one day; maybe never. It's friendly and approachable and almost vulnerably open, letting a snowstorm swipe through its street on an April Tuesday; then when you're off guard, it closes on you. You're stuck outside and feel helpless, as if no subway, tram, or ferry could get you any closer. You just stand there watching the skyline disappear in the clouds. 

And then when you think you're ready to pack and go, the wind turns, the sun is back, the skyline shines back at you, the magic and the marvels are all around. You wonder why you ever wondered, when all is full of wonder. 

Beware, dear future hubster. The city may have decided to give itself to you. Or maybe it have not. It may just be having a confident day, believing in itself, believing in you, believing in the two of you. It may change with the wind tomorrow. 

It's up to you to spend your time, your efforts, your love, trying to make it there. Or, one day, take a deep breath, wipe off those tears, and make a brand new start of it. 

To tell you that I landed somewhere

Dear future hubster,

there will be times when I will want you to call me, no matter how late or early it is, no matter how many time zones or blocks away we are. I will want you to call even though we will both know that I have absolutely nothing of importance to say, that all I will be able to convey is a couple of baaaaaaaahs and other inarticulate grunts, and then move on to descriptions of my inner feelings: that is, my tummy being shaky and my head cloudy. 

You are allowed to laugh at me, and to treat me like a whiny little puppy, which I am, because the important thing is that you called, to say without saying that you care. 

I would be a world champion, clearly

Dear future hubster,
I think dragging suitcases through countries should be a legit workout. Potentially an established sport.

And get cheap bubbly on the way

Dear future hubster,

if I am still in New York when you decide to pop the question, I think I can make some concessions about the location. 

The High Line falls within the acceptable category, so does the Brooklyn Bridge (direction Manhattan preferred), and frankly, most waterfront spots could qualify in the right lighting conditions.

If you have a slight feeling that this may be a tad bit cliché, you are not wrong, my dear future hubster. It is going to be cliché, a clumsy commonplace. Except that it will be happening to you and me, and we are totally unique snowflakes, and so will be our clumsy commonplace proposal.

We can still proceed to the shoe store after. 

If you see the wonder

Dear future hubster,

you know (or you will know with time), how I react to people thinking - and especially telling me - how amazing my life is. It's pretty much a fairy tale, right? With all the travels and living in this gigantic, envied-by-all city of blinding lights, working in buildings with several elevators, city and river views, having friends and flatmates from countries most people never think of. It has to be amazing, and I should be overwhelmed with joy every waking minute.

Except, I'm not. I'm whiny and I complain a lot, and, by the way, cities of blinding lights and buildings with elevators and river views don't come for free. Nor do travels, not even flatmates and friends. There are days when your sassy future wife is more sad than sassy, and she feels lost and helpless. Probably also guilty, for not being overwhelmed with joy, for not feeling the fairy tale.

But then, sometimes, magic does happen. Days when yours truly feels sorry for herself, when she doesn't know how she ended up where she is, and, more importantly, how would she get out of it if only she ever managed to make up her mind to do so, and she's cranky and jealous and feels abandoned and not loved and, generally, just not quite amazing. 

And then comes the running into people who are almost strangers but not quite, the running into people who are definitely not strangers, the visit of friends, the homeless man who says "I love you" when no man with permanent accommodation had sad that in years, a heartfelt message from a friend who says "you helped me pull through" when pulling through seems so impossibly hard.

And then comes the sun and the morning breeze, the commute on the upper deck of the ferry, the ridiculously photogenic views of the city, the adorable toddler waving, that handsome man and his coy smile. Hidden, secret, sweet elements embedded in the noise of life. They resurface time and again, just to prove that the fairy tale is there. 

Or maybe they are just off sick

Dear future hubster,

should it ever occur to you that your future wife may be wearing skirts and dresses that arguably fall in the category of short, on occasions borderline tiny, consider that there may be a very strategic reason behind said length of said clothing items.

In times of torrential rains, dear future hubster, tights and skirts dry oh so much faster than trousers. Short skirts even faster.

Insert worried emoji here

Dear  future hubster,

I had to realize that I'm the kind of person who would casually say in an everyday conversation things like "The semantic field is rather narrow" and "It's Danton and Robespierre all over again".

It remains to be determined whether that kind of person is called a showoff or a smartass.

Yoohoo to the shoe

Dear future hubster, 

you have probably figured it out already, but I just realized now: if you will be the one proposing, it should totally happen in a shoe store. I don't necessarily expect you to get down on your knees and all that jazz, but if you feel the moment is right, and/or you have found the shoe that is right, I would be delighted to hear you say: "I think you should marry me wearing these". 

As for recognizing the right shoe, don't worry. As they say, when you see it, you will know. 

So I'm gonna love you now

Dear future hubster,

as a person who admittedly has issues in the relevant department, I understand that there are a number of things about commitment that are really, really scary.

Most people think that commitments are made once and for all. That, I'm afraid, is a misconception. Two misconceptions, actually.

"Once" being the first one. Commitments are not made one sunny day and stay that way. They are not a result of one big effort, like platform diving, one big deep breath, and one brave big jump. The trick with any commitment is that you have to keep making it, otherwise it is but an empty promise you made one sunny day. You may think it's daunting; I think it's liberating. For the important things in my life, I want to make the decision consciously and actively as often as I can. The things and the people I believe in, I stand by, I choose. Continuously.

The other misunderstanding is that a commitment is "for all". Of course it's scary to think that your promise is forever. And it's mostly and primarily unsettling because deep down you know that it's not in your control to keep that promise, for forever tends to be, well, unclear. We don't even know what that means!

Dear future hubster, you can't promise forever. I can't either. Nobody can. It may be sad, because we all want that comfort of a promise made, that everything is going to be all right, that we will love and live happily ever after, but it also takes a bit of weight off our shoulders. Because we can't promise forever, we don't have to.

Because we don't know how much time we have, and have very little say in what happens in that time, we can commit to making the 'now' count.

We can promise today. And maybe tomorrow. We can't promise that everything will be all right, but we can promise we'll do our best to do, keep, make things right. We can't promise we will love and live happily ever after, but we can promise that we will try. 

Little by little, one day at the time. Not quite once and for all. 

Just remember till you're home again

Dear future hubster,

when you feel like you'll always be an outsider, an intriguing stranger, a passer-by, the person who comes and goes, remember this.

Belonging, although it does take time, doesn't depend on time only. It can, and very often it does happen when you least expect it - just like many other great things in life.

The sense of belonging comes to you unexpectedly, and in unusual yet ordinary ways. It's not a flag, it's not a title, it's not a passport. It may be a monthly metro card though. Or a barista who remembers that you're the one who drinks almond latte. The yoga teacher who says "I haven't seen you in a while". The fellow runner who finally smiles back at you on a windy Sunday morning. That first time when you greet "your" subway with a relief, because it will take you home.

The sense of belonging is a promise. That it's possible. That you, the outsider, can also be included. 

It's an expectation too. The moment you have been included, you are required to maintain your status. You need to show up for coffee and for yoga class, do the runs and chat with marinated mushroom guy on the market.

Belonging, apparently, only works if you do.

At least somebody is a morning person

Dear future hubster,

it seems that of my many personalities, the linguist is the first one to be awake and (somewhat) functioning in the morning. 

I may bump into furniture and can't make decisions and stare at my wardrobe for long minutes and have difficulties remembering what day of the week it is, but I can roll out double negatives spiced up with unmarked subjunctive like it's no big deal.

Birds flyin' high, sun in the sky

Dear future hubster,

although we both know how I feel about dating in general (hint: queasy at best), if I had to pick a favourite, it would be breakfast dates (with skating rinks, amusement parks, rollercoaster rides and bumper cars being in strong competition).

I think breakfast dates are beneficial for all involved. I look my best in the morning, my make up is still mostly intact, my hair isn't a whole mess yet, and my pre-coffee brain performs somersaults even I can't follow, thus providing the entertainment of not exactly coherent, but certainly unfiltered thoughts popping up in a somewhat dizzying blur. On the other hand, my just-post-coffee self often acts like a combination of a kid with ADD and a penguin high on bubbly. Glasses may be knocked over, yes.

Besides, breakfast dates mean that the day is just starting, and it has equal chances of becoming something gray and boring and miserable, or something uplifting, filled with grace, happy. Or something blissfully ordinary, an uneventful day of going on about our lives, one that nonetheless started great - with food and coffee and time dedicated to each other. Mornings are the time of possibilities.

And hash browns. Cheese!

Here we are now.

Dear future hubster,

 sometimes I wonder how I/we will be in few years. You are supposed to be in the picture. Maybe kids too? Will we be doing the same things as today, listening to the same music, hanging around with friends, drinking wine and maybe smoking few cigarettes if we feel like? 

Or will our Sundays start at dawn, kids screaming in our ears, lots of outdoor activities to get them entertained and tired, and little time for us to chill on the sofa?

I guess these two scenarios do not exclude each other, but I wonder if I will still feel free to pour myself an extra glass of wine, if listening to my teenage years' music will still make sense or if it would suddenly feel awkward? Will I be able to explain to our kids that I spent hours trying to guess Losing my religion lyrics? Will I be willing to tell them that sometimes my dark side still runs up that hill with the Placebo? And you, my dear hubster, would you roll up your cigarette in hiding?

I wonder if there is a recipe to grow up without regrets, to be able to take care of tiny little humans without fear of messing up their lives forever.

No need to give me answers now my dear, I am sure we will have plenty of Sundays to figure them out. And though I think Nirvana’s songs may not sound the same to me anymore, wine will definitely taste better the older and wiser I get.

#FutureNotFlowers

Dear future hubster,

Valentine's day is really not part of my culture, and although I love looking at flowers, most plants die under my watch. And the flowers we call "fresh" are anything but. Roses are dead, and violets are not really blue, unless you speak ancient Greek, which doesn't have a separate term for blue and hence calls the sea wine-coloured. Violets are, you know, violet. And are better left in their natural environment to grow and blossom and thrive and give that magic smell that makes you believe angels are around. Let them be.

For the money we don't spend on flowers I would kill and chocolate that would make me fat, maybe we can, if not send a girl to school, but give her a book at least? Any girl, almost any book (I'll supervise the choice of course). So that they can have one more chance to learn, and a better chance to make their own choices.

I'll still love you all 360-odd days of the year, edible underwear or not.

A shower thought of some sort

Dear future hubster,

in those moments of desperation, when you feel like nobody wants you, and you fear that nobody ever will, think about all those mosquitos taking serious risks to be close to you. You may think it's nothing, you may think they are just hungry, that they don't actually think or have specific desires, and you may be right about all of that.

But that doesn't change the fact that they are willing to die just to bite you. If that's not attraction, I don't know what is. 

Reality versus fiction

Dear future hubster,

I am looking forward to hear you talking about your passions. I want you to tell me about what drives you, what makes you think, what puts you into that mighty state of mind called flow. I will be all ears and I promise, I will also tell you about my passions. You will hear me talking about theatre, literature, and the unclear boundaries between reality and fiction. I will tell you why I think that what we perceive as reality is just a narrative we make up in our quest to make sense of the world with plots, characters, heroes and villains in it.

            Let me tell you a story. The other day I lent a friend North Morgan’s ’Love Notes To Men Who Don’t Read’. My friend started to read the book, and he told me that he and the writer are now following each other on Instagram. We joked and laughed about it. Then I put pen to paper and jotted down a paragraph tricking my friend into believing that it is an excerpt from Morgan’s next book, and he will be in it. Books and our lives, reality and fiction – they are all entangled, don’t you think dear future hubster?

------------------

Three rounds of twelve reps, both arms. I keep looking at the bulging biceps of my left arm each time I lift the dumbbell. I keep counting down - eleven, ten, nine. What the fuck am I doing here, yet again on a Sunday afternoon still hungover from last night, with the taste of Tim’s cock still in my mouth, I wonder. Eight, seven, six. What a great body he has, a picture-perfect six-pack, and oh my god, that pair of blue eyes. Five, four, three. I wanted him to stay over, just to cuddle a bit after sex, fall asleep together, that pathetic romantic side of me gaining the upper hand again. He could not, he said. He did not feel comfortable spending a night in a stranger’s bed, though I do not understand why he would refer to me as a stranger. We knew each other’s first names, exchanged compliments about our bodies on Grindr, and had already talked at least three times in the gym. True, our main topics of conversation were training programmes, proteins and the upcoming concert of Lady Gaga, but we talked, and we were bonding. I could feel it. Two, one, dumbbell drops on the floor.

            My phone blinks – a notification. It must be horrible to be my phone with no moment of respite, witnessing an endless row of messages, photos and texts coming and going. I reach to it, I swipe to unlock the screen. A new follower on Instagram. I love Instagram – a picture is worth a thousand words, especially if it is about a naked torso and especially if the sender is not a man of words.

This time it is not a torso, but a handsome face – robxl. I check him out, he has a beard, a sparkling look and a great body. I follow back, it can do no harm, especially on a day like this. He sends a message, says that he likes my book. I feel flattered. If only he knew how fucked up I was, still am, and how taking up writing was actually part of my therapy. Thank you, I reply back. I check out more of his photos. Swipe, swipe, swipe. He has been to Asia recently, a globetrotter he must be. I ask where he is from. Albania, he says. I first think that he has made a typo and that he is from Albany, New York. Then I am not sure, so I look again and search on Google maps. He is European, and European reminds me of my roots. I almost become emotional. Stop it.

I put down my phone, take a sip of water. Dumbbell in the right hand, twelve reps to go. I do not even notice that I have forgotten about Tim, at least for two minutes.

That is a Disney quote then

Dear future hubster,

do you know those very motivational and supposedly deep quotes saying "If you find that special someone, don't let them go", or something equally patronizing?

Next time you see one, or somebody shoves one in your face, feel free to call their bluff. Because what they're saying is utter bullshit. 

Newsflash, dear future hubster: you don't get to choose who gets away. You don't get to choose who sticks around. There's no such thing as not letting go. If they want to go, they will, and you may get to choose the amount of grace you handle it with, or the amount of disgrace you want to throw at them, but you have no say in the 'what', just the 'how'. 

Best you can do is to keep being that cool and warm and bright and somber and simple and complex and serious and ridiculous person they chose to be with in the first place, and hope that they keep choosing to do so.

Remember who you are, I guess.  

He's got soul but he's not a soldier

Dear future hubster,

when you find me in a state of despair, when I feel like I'm alone in and against the world, when I feel that nothing is going right and I have no control over anything, please, please send me to a concert.

And by "send" I mean, don't even come with me. Juts let me go, let the music wash over me, let me be alone in and with the crowd. Let me relate, let me relax, let me reassess.

I'll come home tired because public transport, probably mildly annoyed at people who didn't behave as I think people at a concert should behave, but I'll have a different mindset.

(Obviously, not all performances fit this purpose. A recent non-representative survey found that the lead singer wearing psychedelic Hawaii shirt and lots of fake gold, or sporting a full golden Elvis costume increases the healing powers.)

Whispering words of wisdom

Dear future hubster,

when I find myself in times of trouble, please remind me that I'm not alone. That technology, years, cheesecakes, luck and fairy dust somehow gave me a safety net that is always there to catch me if I fall. People who would not only hold my hair back when I puke, but also hold me when I cry. Virtually if they have to, but readily not matter what.