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The Crazy Schizo Stalker and His Network

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The crazy schizo… every single mental health patient has a story. Today, I will tell you the story of a crazy schizo stalker and his network. A mental case that society let free, and a society is corrupted by criminal organizations.

And yes—this is a high-level criminal network.

He is crazy. He is dangerous. So crazy and dangerous that, one year, from his own house, he dared to order a wife for himself!

It was the second time I met him and his dirty, vicious, organized crime circle.

The first time, I stood up for a young woman—a Chinese woman—facing what was essentially an “arranged marriage.”

She trusted me because I defended her. In that dirty, top-level organized crime network, standing for someone’s rights was dangerous.

Today, I met him again. Like any other day, while I was out. The crazy… the CHEST NUT.

God knows how many people died in that “chest nut” house. The network was so corrupt, so untouchable, that no one dared investigate. And he continued living his crazy way.

Envy, Desire, and Family Control

He was always envious of his beautiful twin brother: curly hair, smile, intelligence, cars, bikes, clothes, world trips, and of course, a lot of women.

And that’s exactly what he wanted: sex, affection, kids, power. That’s what his family wanted to give him, just to control him.

But he was already violent, even toward his own family. He had wanted to kill his own mother. In his house, there were more than three dead bodies, and he was crazy before he became part of the extended family.

But family business is family business.

And me? I ended up as the confessor, listening to everyone—crazy there or part of theirs dirty networks.

The Making of Evil

Because he was always on the edge, his father taught him the art of disguise—to hide his feelings of inadequacy, to smooth over the fact that he was not like his brother. Step by step, he became more crazy, collecting clothes, shoes, and devising indirect ways to revenge people, plotting in his twisted mind.

Then, organized crime saw in him the perfect asset—someone to manipulate, to execute crimes, to twist the networks in their favor.

His family knew that he was behind all the dirty crimes, plots, and alliances in town. And protected him!

He became THE EVIL. In his mind, God gave everything to his brother and mother—and nothing to him.
He wanted everything for himself. At ANY cost!

His sister, skilled in intelligence, noticed the family dynamics. She decided to leverage his mental illness and desire for revenge for her own gain. She approved all his crazy wishes and gained his trust.

The House of Horrors

When he requested to live independently, it wasn’t a problem for his enlarged family and their network (they belonged to a respected social and religious group) to financially support him.

A whole house was just for him.

And everyone in that house had to be liked by him. Anyone “uncomfortable”? Dead.

So many dead bodies, and no one investigated.

The Nurse

He heard about a foreign nurse who could make people’s wishes come true. Even though he could pay for everything, winning the heart of the young Chinese woman was difficult.

He hired the nurse with one order:

“I want this Chinese girl to fall in love with me and have MY baby.”

The nurse refused. The organized crime network was furious. She was fired… after having her coffee poisoned.

Later, he brought in the entire family—nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, friends—all to serve him, to obey his desires.

To “ human traffic” a young Chinese woman with mental health problems for a crazy old man? Nothing.

The network and family ensured that his wishes were obeyed.

The crazy man was always afraid. Afraid of being called crazy.

Desensitizing the Crazy One

His sister and the dirty professional support network decided to desensitize him to women. If he wanted sex, kids, and a “normal life” supported by a dirty network, he needed to look normal.

They needed a trigger to make the crazy man “healthy.” The nurse became that trigger.

Corruption Everywhere

The nurse realized the full scale of corruption: police, politics, religion, healthcare, organized crime, intelligence services—all colluding with the crazy family. There was no friends left unaligned.

She was isolated, helpless in a hostile place. Anyone who knew the story was automatically one of them.

Today

Today, on the street, he walked disguised as another persona: jeans, clean coat, curly wig like his brother, sunglasses, hands rigid but out of pockets. Calm but anxious, secure, free, full of new tricks.

Finally: He was in charge—controlling others, putting down those beneath him, deciding who gets crumbs, who gets access.
HE BROKE THE NURSE!

The nurse smiled at her brokenness, pitying a society where crazies and organized crime overpower genuine souls.

The Witch

She remembered the old occult lady in the coffee shop:

“What would you do if you were a witch?”

“I would make a better world,” she thought. Because if God allows this to happen to good people… maybe it is not God, but Evil.

Perhaps being a witch and saving God from Evil is the only path left.

Someone must stand for God and normality, because Evil and craziness are allowed to rule—and if they do, humanity is destroyed.

They smiled… and, for some unknown reason, an image came to her mind of a remote Nordic rural place—Sweden, Norway. And the witch said:

“I am not dead!”
“And you know it!”

The nurse kept walking, knowing… as long as craziness and Evil are allowed to rule, humanity will be destroyed.

Someone must fight for God, for normality, and for justice.

This story is about madness, corruption, courage, and the courage to see the truth.

Dear December: I’m Done With Everyone’s Bullshit, Thanks

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Starring: Me, a civilian with zero tolerance to twists and a PhD in detecting bullshit.

There are places where you bloom like a fancy houseplant…
And places where you shrivel like lettuce forgotten in the low rack of the fridge.
And apparently, if you don’t behave exactly like “The Local People” expect, they want you to fade, disappear and out of them eyes, to let them feel better.

🎄 Hello December 1st, the month where even calendars look tired.

Let me repeat this very slowly for the audience:
🥇 I. Do. Not. Tolerate. Bullshit.
Not socialist bullshit.
Not communist bullshit.
Not nationalist, supremacist, extremist, conspiracy-flavored, gluten-free organic bullshit either.
None.
Zero.
Nada.

I lived under certain regimes.
I know how the sausage is made, and trust me — you don’t want to see that kitchen.

But the absolute KING of all bullshit?
👑 INTEL BULLSHIT.
The “we secretly used you but also… we forgot to tell you” kind.
The “welcome to a spy movie you never auditioned for” kind.

At first, I thought:
“Nooo, stop it, you’re overreacting. It’s just your imagination. You need sleep.”
But the SECOND TIME?
Oh lovely you, that was deluxe, handcrafted, artisanal BS with a velvet bow.

And when people try GAMES with me?
I’m done.

🛑 MY RULES (somehow the universe used them as napkins):

Rule #1:

I don’t work near spies.
I don’t drink where spies drink.
I don’t eat where spies eat.
I don’t breathe where spies breathe.
CIA safehouse?
KGB safehouse?
Mossad safehouse?
PCC safehouse?
I don’t care if it’s a safehouse, doghouse, treehouse or Barbie’s Dreamhouse.
NO.

You broke my Rule #1

Rule #2:

I don’t want to be anywhere NEAR criminal hotspots disguised as:

  • hotels,
  • bars,
  • casinos,
  • NGOs,
  • taco trucks,
  • horse farms,
  • yoga studios,
  • hospitals
  • or International family businesses

You Broke that too.
You broke my Rule #2

And please — PLEASE — stop sending “mysterious people” to be my friends, lovers, supporters, saviors, emotional comfort llamas…
NO THANK YOU.
I am perfectly fine alone, like a majestic wolf who also hates meetings.

I do tasks, not emotions.
You bring me chaos?
DELETE.
You bring me vibes?
BLOCKED.
You bring me feelings?
404 NOT FOUND.

🗣️ The Drama Moment:

And THEN — like a cosmic joke —
you tried to use me AGAIN in your international spy soap opera.

Without my permission.
Without my knowledge.
Without even a coffee offering.

And guess what?
SHE. SAID. YOUR. NAME.
So GO fix that mess, Agent Disaster.

I hereby withdraw from all conspiracies involving me.
Find a new “asset”.
Raise them.
Feed them.
Walk them.
Vaccinate them.

NOT. ME.

🇺🇸 PS:

I still hate socialism and communism.
And I still hope the US stays wild, chaotic, loud, free, stubborn and allergic to tyranny.
Because if FREEDOM dies — guess what replaces it?
Yep.
The same crap I already escaped.

🎤 FINAL ANNOUNCEMENT:

For the last time, universe, agencies, random people, cosmic forces:

❌ I AM NOT AN ASSET.

❌ I DO NOT WANT TO BE AN ASSET.

❌ I WILL NEVER BE AN ASSET.

✔️ I AM OUT OF MESSING WITH ME.

Café Con Leche: A Stand Against Corruption

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If there is one good thing I learned under my “dirty intelligence,” it is how to write a resume and compartmentalize my thoughts. But one bad thing I realized after being around them is this: when money is touched by dirty souls and minds looking for power, it can destroy not only genuine people and lives, but entire countries and humanity itself.

So based on that—surrounded by crazy people taking advantage of vulnerable people and their misery, in a society where old people beg for money on street corners under the rain, where a new generation is taught to obey and not to think, and where corruption sits at the very top—I walk again to find a café con leche. This time, my perfumes and songs are not enough.

And I think: WHY DID YOU CHOOSE to build a dirty, fake society that increases immigration just to destroy hundreds and thousands of genuine immigrants who arrived here?

Why? For dirty politics? For population statistics and artificial wealth on paper?
You destroyed people. You screwed them up and screwed up a whole country. You built a fake reality.

Do you feel well now? Do you feel the enjoyment of being comfortable while destroying others?
Stupid politics with stupid entitled people.

At one corner, a senior begs for spare cents. On another corner, another senior enjoys his laundered money. Far ahead—more mess. Why? Because more money means more destruction? Because of bad rules and an attitude of “I don’t care.”

Early in the morning, a stupid communist woman doctor from across the ocean “put me in my place” when I told her clearly that without a proper chemotherapy strategy and clear administration rules, malpractice can happen at any time. Her ego exploded because she never knew the correct order of chemo administration. That is unprofessionalism—covered up by socialism and communism. And people die from it. They are poorly treated, and if you stand up for professionalism you are pushed down. Because egos and criminal games matter more than people’s lives. And where do you go, when “it is God’s will” matters more than expertise?

Yes, I am a whistleblower to a society that is shitty and corrupted to the core. Sure, you don’t want me, because I speak up. You are dirty, corrupted, and totally unprofessional.

And if your sister were my patient, you would be happy I am the way I am. But not for others.
It is the worst filth and double standards.
Why do people have double standards? Because of crazy minds? Or dirty souls?

I walk an hour and a half for my coffee, knowing that behind me, the shitty crazy ones will again break into my house and steal—because THEY THINK THEY DESERVE to shop in my home.

Your society is very dirty. And building a hospital won’t make it clean. It is dirty to the core.

And if intelligence taught me another lesson, it is this: to hate money, because I saw how beautiful genuine intellect can be used to make dirty money and dirty power.

And I hate it. I hate money, and I hate power—especially when it is dirty.

My Spanish restaurant is run by non-Spanish people. And my café con leche is actually a latte.

I laugh. This is the country of the fake.
This is the intelligence—the fake.
A country without genuine, normal intelligence protecting its people and their lives—how do you think it will survive? Fake, dirty, and corrupted, obsessed with money and power. It will destroy its own freedom with its own fake games.

I explained to her, “How dare you sell ‘café con leche’ when you don’t even know what it is or how it tastes?”

But fake is fake, and fake is the best “professionalism” this country needs.

And I miss my café con leche with azúcar moreno so badly.

Poverty in a fake, corrupted socialist country is worse than any other poverty—because there is no freedom left. Only dirty control, stupidity, and corruption on every level.

I want to sell café con leche with azúcar moreno—the original one—for 1.40 EUR = 2 USD on every corner of this country, and take out of business all the fake coffee makers with hidden agendas.

I think I know what business to start, lol. But how?
Just me, my espresso machine, my coffee, good milk, and good water—because even the water here is bad quality, lol. Azúcar morena optional.

These people must have their freedom. My 2-dollar coffee.
Café con leche.

2 Seconds Too Much: How I Reclaimed My Authentic Self

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Do you know your triggers?
I’ve learned mine the hard way — fake people.

Yes, fake people. The ones who reach sixty and still haven’t found themselves. The ones who never learned to be real, who live behind masks of perfection — pretending to be smart, beautiful, superior, or even god-like.

But here’s my truth: I don’t like fake people.
I don’t like roles, characters, or actors. I don’t like people with a thousand faces and personalities — even if they could fool the world’s top intelligence agencies.

Because no matter how perfect they look, they’re not real.
And I can’t connect with something that isn’t authentic.

What I Learned About Being Human

In this life, I’ve learned what normal really means.
It’s not about being flawless. It’s about being human — raw, emotional, vulnerable, imperfect.

It’s the small things that make us real:
A sigh that’s a little too deep.
A hug that lingers a second too long.
A heart that skips a beat.
A cheap pair of pants and a simple blouse.

That’s what makes us authentic.
That’s what makes us alive.

You Are a Craft — I Am Real

You might speak ten languages, have powerful friends, or hold every advantage in the world. But if you’re just a crafted personality — a product of manipulation, not soul — then you’re not real.

I’ve met enough of those. And I’ve had enough.

Because I’ve seen what it means to be authentic — beautifully imperfect and perfectly human.

I Choose Me — The Imperfect, Real Me

Maybe people love crafted characters. I don’t.
I love authentic people, even when they’re messy.
Even when I don’t like them, I know how to feel about them — because they’re real.

That’s why I choose to be myself.
The imperfect me. The real me.

A “fat, old, stupid American nurse,” as some might say — living in a foreign country, hated for refusing to obey corrupt rules or bow to broken systems. But I am me.

And that’s enough.

People love what’s real — not the perfect illusion, not the crafted role.

So take your puppets and your masks and leave.
Because I’ve fallen in love with myself — the authentic, honest, imperfect woman I am.

And I won’t trade that for anyone’s act.

À bientôt.

When AI Stole My Friend’s Voice: A Horror Call I’ll Never Forget

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It buzzed like a mosquito with manners.

Her name lit up on my screen and for a second I was happy — because a friend was calling. I answered, ready for the small domestic talk, a human voice: the way she chewed a sentence, the tiny laugh that lived in the commas. (she is feeling well, much better).

At first it sounded right. Then the voice blinked.

Listen: machines don’t sigh the way we sigh. They don’t fumble a word and then hide behind a joke. This one breathed wrong — the space between the syllables was synthetic, like someone had stitched a laugh out of plastic and wrapped it in a sweater.

“Ah, I love Nishane — Tuberose,” it said, all casual like a person quoting a grocery list. My stomach fell through the floor. I’ve worn that scent, yes — in the house where cameras learned my footsteps and the walls learned my jokes — but it is not my perfume. My real favorite is Hundred Silent Ways. The clone had chewed on an old scrap from my life and spat it back at me with the wrong spice. That mistake was a scream in Morse code. YES! It was a Morse code!

Then the voice started playing dress-up with my memories. “Fresh and very active,” it said, praising perfumes like it was shopping for lingerie. My friend never described scents like that.
She liked sweet, warm things — not whatever predatory adjective this thing threw around. It mentioned “young and active” with the casual cruelty of someone proposing a bad idea at brunch. It name-checked a “10 y.o. Nishane” as if perfume were a collectible toy and humans were stamps to lick.

Then I became afraid! Is she afraid or crazy? Do not put me in your game; I am not a spy! I do not want to be one!

I tried to laugh. I asked a question that only she would answer. The voice gave me a rehearsed pause, then shoved a tidy, useless sentence in its place. I could feel the seams. It was patchwork: one thread my laugh, one pulled from a sentence I’d said in the kitchen while the lights secretly watched, another borrowed from a conversation with a Mexican worker who later told me the police came after she spoke about missing home and horses. Small things, stitched into a monster.

This was not a prank. This was sloppy necromancy.

I played along with her conversation, because curiosity is an ugly thing. I set a trap. It ate my words in one bite and returned them twisted and metallic. It bragged about paying too much, trying to sound human but failing miserably., needing clothes, whispered something about police like a man bragging about a knife in his pocket. Every word it gave me was a scavenged detail, a tourist souvenir from my life museum. From top to bottom, everything it said and did felt like it had been stolen from me.

Finally I found the block button. I hit it like slamming a door on a ghost.

My hands shook. I laughed (a tiny hysterical sound) and then my laugh curdled into grief.

Someone — some person with the appetite of a bathtub full of BUGS — had fed my life to a machine and taught it to pretend to be my friend.

If you want the absurdity: months earlier I noticed a dementia patient of mine straightening into sentences when fitted with camera lenses and then going flat when the lenses were off.

My Mexican workers said they’d been picked up by police after talking about cleaning horses and missing home — glasses, they whispered, like little spies.

The pattern smelt like old iron: glasses, cameras, apps, recordings. The system had teeth.

Think of the machines as hungry children who never learned manners.
They will pick at loneliness, greed, poverty — whatever is easiest to eat.
I was thin enough, poor enough, alone enough. I became dinner.

It’s funny in a terrible way. Imagine someone making a doll of you, but the doll keeps saying the wrong perfume, like a bad ventriloquist whose dummy hates your taste in clothes. It’s laughable until the doll starts answering the phone.

So here’s the ugly, deliciously creepy lesson from my little horror show:

  • If a voice that should be familiar sounds like it’s been duct-taped, pause. Ask something only the real person would answer. If they start talking about “fresh and very active,” hang up.
  • Keep your secret things secret. Perfumes, jokes, tiny rituals—those are the breadcrumbs the machine chews on.
  • Trust your gut. If your friend’s voice smells like plastic, it probably is plastic.

I hit block and then sat in the quiet, listening for the human breaths that used to fill that space.

They were still there, but faint, like someone whispering through a wall. I want those breaths back, not for myself only, but for everyone who might one day hear the wrong laughter on the other end of the line.

If something like this happens to you—if your friend’s voice is almost-right and then wrong—tell someone. Post it, text it, scream it into the void. We need to share the little wrongnesses so we can laugh at them together and, when necessary, burn them down.

And if you’ve had a weird call, or a friend who suddenly smells like Tuberose but shouldn’t—tell me. I want to hear your ghost stories. We’re apparently living in a haunted house; might as well compare notes.


How to Feel Normal Again: Safe in Our Vulnerability

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Discover why feeling safe, free, and vulnerable is rare today—and why reclaiming our “normal” humanity matters more than ever. 💬✨

Tonight, at a bus station, I saw a young couple kissing 💏.
And suddenly I thought: Wow… that’s what “normal” used to look like.
Two people being vulnerable and not worrying that one has bad breath 😬, a contagious disease 🦠, or a hidden GoPro strapped to their hoodie 🎥.

That’s when it hit me: humanity has lost the ability to feel safe in our own vulnerability.

🌱 What Feeling “Normal” Should Mean

  • 💋 Kiss your boyfriend/girlfriend without calling your doctor afterward.
  • 🤐 Share secrets without wondering if they’re uploading it to TikTok.
  • 🚶 Walk down the street without feeling like an extra in a zombie movie.
  • 🚓 Call the police without worrying you’ve just dialed the villains’ hotline.
  • 🏢 Go to work and only risk burnout, not biohazards.
  • 👋 Talk to strangers without starring in Undercover Spy vs. Predator.
  • 🗣️ Speak your mind without needing a VPN, a lawyer, and a witness protection plan.
  • 🍝 Have family dinners that are about burnt lasagna, not betrayal.
  • 🔒 Enjoy privacy without “Smile, you’re on hidden camera!” vibes.

Sounds obvious, right? Yet here we are…

😅 Why “Normal” Feels Like a Myth

Because vulnerability has become the world’s favorite snack 🍟.
Institutions, crime, politics, even Big Tech—they all chew on it.

Instead of being a safe space where we connect, vulnerability is now the target 🎯.
So we live guarded, suspicious, and overly caffeinated ☕.
And “being normal” feels like an extinct species 🦖 we’ll only see in documentaries.

✨ My Wish (and Probably Yours Too)

I just want to feel normal again.
To be vulnerable without needing antivirus software for my soul 🛡️.
To be free without worrying who’s watching 👀.
To trust without having an escape plan 🏃.

Because when we’re safe in our own vulnerability, we finally get to be human again ❤️.

💬 Let’s Talk

👉 What’s your version of normal?

  • Is it kissing without paranoia?
  • Talking without surveillance?
  • Or just eating in public without starring in someone’s viral TikTok?

Drop it in the comments ⬇️—let’s remind ourselves we’re still human.

Survival Manual: Psychopathic Narcissists 🪖

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(Issued to all unlucky souls assigned to their care)

📜 Mission Statement

To survive contact with a psychopathic narcissist without:

  • Losing your sanity
  • Sacrificing your soul
  • Throwing a chair through the window

🔎 Identification Protocols

Subject Motto: “MY way. Only MY way. Forever MY way.”
Appearance: Possible to look normal (beware of “polite” or “charming” disguises).
Behavioral Clues:

  • Weaponized coughing
  • Whispering complaints no one can hear
  • Demanding your attention while rejecting your presence
  • Turning every interaction into a You Lose / I Win match

☣️ Danger Rating System

  • Level 1: Whisper Sabotage – Calls you softly, then denies calling you. You buy gadgets. They win.
  • Level 2: Germ Warfare – Refuses to open the window while coughing. You suffocate. They win.
  • Level 3: Emotional Jiu-Jitsu – “Stay away, but why don’t you visit?” You feel guilty. They win.
  • Level 4: Reality Bending – Twists facts until you doubt yourself. You question your sanity. They win.
  • Level 5: British Polite Mode™ – Persuasion wrapped in perfect manners. You thank them while losing. They still win.

🧰 Standard Issue Survival Kit

  • 📓 Care Plan Binder (weaponized documentation)
  • 🎧 Noise-Canceling Headphones (for the whispers of doom)
  • 😷 Masks (biological defense system)
  • 📞 Supervisor Hotline (never suffer alone)
  • 😂 Dark Humor (your last line of defense)

🚨 Emergency Protocols

  1. Encounter Begins → Breathe. Smile. Remember: this is not personal.
  2. Manipulation Detected → Do not argue. Do not explain. (Arguments = feeding frenzy.)
  3. Escalation Phase → Retreat to boundaries. Rebuild them if breached.
  4. Nuclear Stage → Deploy final tactic: Pretend to lose.
    • Deliver victory illusion.
    • Retreat with sanity intact.

🛡️ Escape Tactics

  • Smile & Nodding Strategy: Yes, yes, of course, brilliant idea… (then go do your actual job).
  • The Paperwork Shield: “I’ll have to document that.” → Works like garlic on vampires.
  • Time-Out Maneuver: Excuse yourself for “urgent tasks.” Translation: Hide.
  • Humor Bomb: Laugh (silently, internally) at the absurdity. Keeps soul intact.

🎖️ Final Debrief

Working with a psychopathic narcissist is like being trapped in an endless chess game where:

  • They’re the queen, king, and referee.
  • You’re the pawn.
  • The board catches fire every 10 minutes.

Winning = surviving.
Surviving = victory.

So gear up, soldier. The narcissistic psychopath won’t change—but you can outlast them.
And one day, you’ll walk away smiling… while they’re still coughing into a closed window, proud of their “victory.”

Signed,
🖋 The Best Care Specialist for Psychopathic Narcissists
(Decorated Veteran of Too Many Battles to Count)

A Sandwich, a Symphony, and Sunshine

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There he is—Panama hat tilted just right, white T-shirt with a palm tree that looks like it survived the laundry wars, a cellphone stuffed in his chest pocket, and (wait for it)… a sandwich sticking out of his pants pocket. Stylish, right?

Oh, and the soundtrack? A violin playing from his phone like he’s got a personal orchestra following him around.

He’s got an old white mustache, the kind that smells exactly like Dad’s did. A big panza that he wears proudly—no belt, no shame, just pure belly confidence. His ankles peek out like they’re enjoying the sun too. Black sunglasses complete the look. Basically: Latino James Bond… if James Bond loved sandwiches.

He sits there, eating, listening to music, totally zen. Meanwhile, I’m staring like, “Who IS this guy?!”

Earlier he was speaking Spanish with an old man in the store. Then he strolled over to me like always—like nothing in life is too heavy. Even HER overseas cancer feels lighter around him. She laughs, she planed, because that’s what normal people do. Laugh and plan.

The violin keeps playing. The sandwich gets smaller. My smile gets bigger.

I don’t know what an overture is—maybe this is one? Whatever, I’m just a tired girl trying to make sense of life. But seriously… who is this man? Hi hands are incredible elegant!

I MET these hands gestures BEFORE!

He doesn’t even bother with a belt. Just belly and vibes.

Sandwich with pesto, elegant, music, and class.

He looks so much like Dad it almost hurts, but in the sweetest way.

And then—plot twist—he gives his last bite of sandwich to a bird. “That’s all,” he says.

Like some old-school movie hero. I love this man!

Maybe he’s gay, maybe not. Who cares? He’s elegant, kind, funny, and normal. No dirty tricks, no politics, no games. Just an old man enjoying sunshine with a sandwich and a symphony. And me!

Hands folded over his big belly, shades on, violin still playing. The world needs more people like him.

Love you, old man. Never change.

Now tell me… what’s the name of that symphony?

Two Asian a man and a woman (Chinese) came up, and one of them took a picture of me in the background of their single-shot photo. My old man got upset—he tossed his napkin into the trash and walked away.

I don’t like these spy-like actions intruding into my real life.
Go to hell—and target them, not my real, genuine life!

Let my oldy live his life! And me too!!

Her Beautifully Blue Eyes 💙

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Her beautifully blue eyes… 👀

“I know you from somewhere,” she said, smiling at me 🙂

And I denied it. Not because I didn’t know from where, but because I didn’t want to tell her.

“I’m sure we’ve met!” she insisted, her gaze never leaving mine.

“Sorry… you never met me. Never, ever,” I replied in my broken English, hiding the truth.

Because she met me in HELL 🔥

⚰️ At the Edge of Hell and Death

At the edge between Hell and Death, I was there.
Holding her hands 🤲 Looking into those same blue eyes 💎
Showing her the garden flowers 🌸 and telling her stories about perfumes.

🤍 I Was There With You

I sat with you. I walked with you. I fed you.
I stood up for you—every single time 💪

I defended you against every seclusion, every forced treatment decision made by untrained, careless nurses.

Yes, I was the one.
I wrote report after report 📝
I became a whistleblower 📢

And I risked everything—my job, my financial security, my child waiting at home 👶

🔥 You Traveled Hell With Me

It was me. With me, you traveled through Hell.
You were the last one I stood up for before I was fired ❌

I stood ALONE against the most powerful organized systems of cruelty in the world.

And do you know why❓
Because I saw what they did to you 😢 And to so many others.

💔 Destroyed to Rebuild

They destroyed you to “rebuild” you.
And they destroyed me too. And others.

Too many lives were shattered by them 💥
They destroyed my family, my trust in people, my belief in the genuineness of human souls 💭💔

They are worse than Hell itself—
because Hell is fought by God 🙏, not supported by Him.
It took me a long time to understand that.

🚫 Don’t Remember Me

I am happy you are okay now 🌼

But like all who went through it, they saved your body by breaking your soul.
That is what they always do.

So no—you don’t know me.
And I don’t want to know you too.

Both of us lived through Hell.
But I was the nurse who stood by you 👩‍⚕️

Please, don’t remember me 🙏
Because if you do, the memories may come rushing back and it might be too much.

For both of us.

🌸 Remember This Instead

Walk through the garden 🌿
Smell the flowers 🌹
Remember the song 🎶

And keep this in your heart:

Someone stood up for you when you couldn’t. That someone was me 💙

I don’t want to remember your name.
Just your blue eyes.
Just your story.

Live happy 🌞

— A No One Nurse

Sunday Madness: Spies, Hallucinations & a Giant in Church 🎭

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A witty survival story of mental health, magical thinking, spies in church & faith. Humor meets chaos in one unforgettable Sunday. 🙏

☎️ When Hell Calls at 6 AM

If I had known how my Sunday would start, I would’ve tossed my phone straight out the window. But no, I answered. And boom — HELL was unleashed at 6 a.m. sharp. Not even church could stop the chaos (though I still went, because, well… promises are promises).

🎩 Playing the Magician (Again)

One of my biggest life vows has always been: never manipulate anyone, always speak the truth. But sometimes, survival bends even the strongest promises. When someone’s mind is hijacked by hallucinations, delusions, and manic energy, you can’t reason with pure logic.

So yes, I fought magic with magic. 🪄
Replace destructive hallucinations with safer illusions, and suddenly you buy precious time until real treatment kicks in. Think of it as swapping a chainsaw for a plastic knife — still dangerous, but survivable.

💡 Mental Health Tip: Don’t try this at home unless it’s to protect loved ones in a crisis on another phone line. Real healing requires professionals, a plan of care, and a strong support network.

⛪ Church: God, Spies & Dirty Coffee

And then… church. A place of peace? Not quite. More like the season finale of a spy drama. 🎬

Front row: Mihailov, the eternal narcissist. Same greasy hair, always dressed in blinding white, acting like he’s auditioning for “Saint Narcissus: The Musical.” Colonial vibes included. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to poison the communion wine just by merely passing by. ☠️

Back row: me, my God, and my prayers. Because here’s the truth — I don’t avoid church for God. I avoid it for people like him.

But then there was the Giant. 🕵️‍♂️
Tall, professional, unreadable. A master of his role. So good that even I almost invited him for coffee (until paranoia whispered: “Remember who touched the cup first!”).

Hey Giant, were you following me? Because trust me — I was watching you too. 😉

🙏 Prayers Among Madness

So there I was, surrounded by spies, narcissists, and magical thinking on all sides. Basically, Netflix would pay millions for this script.

And yet, in the middle of all that chaos, I still prayed. ✨

  • For peace 🕊️
  • For my friend, fighting cancer and delirium. 💛 🎗️
  • For myself, my family, my friends, and yes, even my enemies 🙌
  • For the world — because Lord knows we all need protection

I lit a candle for my dead loved ones, because their souls can whisper louder to God than I ever could.

🙌 Final Thoughts

So thank you, God, for listening. 🙏
Please, keep crazy Mihailov far, far away — and protect the Giants out there who fight silently, with intelligence and strength.

Some Sundays start with spies and chaos… yet they can still go on with hope. 💡✨