writing

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.

Showering with a Broken Leg Is an Extreme Sport

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Once upon a time… guess what? I’m back. 😎

No one ever tells you how hard it is to take a shower with a broken leg and alone. But IMHO, that’s the fun part!

Ah, and I forgot to mention one more important tool for me — the trash picker. As a “broken-leg woman,” it’s essential because:

  • You never know what trash is on your way that you need to pick up safely.
  • Sometimes things fall, and picking them up is unsafe or impossible.
  • And the best use? IMHO, it doubles as a defense weapon against ghosts, crazy people, and bad vibes — because you never know when they’re close. 😂

So, I keep it next to my shower bench. And it finally helped me reach the top of the shower curtain, which was too far to reach otherwise. By this time, after so much hustle, I was already tired and almost ready to give up. 😂

Sitting on the bench and stepping into the tub is the most dangerous procedure I’ve done since I was once pushed to walk and threatened on a bridge by a gang member — but that’s another story, full of corruption.

I thought to myself: If I lived through that, I can live through this. Transferring my self, pivoting onto my feet, from wheelchair to the bench onto the tub — and I did it! 💪

Tips for Balance and Safety

  1. Always stay balanced while sitting.
  2. If your wounds aren’t fully healed, ask your doctor and if he is ok, cover the leg with a special waterproof cover protector . It’s uncomfortable, but it works.
  3. Never, ever shower alone if your setup is plastic or slippery — emergency slip risk is real.
  4. Keep your hands, feet, and floor dry at all times when you transfer. No mats that could slide (see my previous story).
  5. Pivot slowly to the safe spot — like your wheelchair — don’t jump.

Shower as Therapy

Turning on the shower was my “AHA!” moment. Take a deep breath, do it, and IMHO, you can shower almost as usual with proper precautions:

  • Keep your leg slightly bent under the bench or lateral so the water never hits wounds directly.
  • Rinse thoroughly, including “hard-to-reach” parts.
  • Use long-handled scrubbing tools (see the previous story).
  • Even with warm water, your ankle will loosen up — perfect for gentle ROM exercises (if approved by your doctor).
  • DO NOT stand alone — I only did it because I had Siri ready to call 911 and “spying eyes” from my house.

Humor & Life Lessons

Wash your “camel” properly — yes, IMHO, it’s more than a kitty, it’s a big, fluffy camel. Rinse carefully so soap doesn’t hit the floor. Dry thoroughly while still seated. Dry your hands and feet first, then carefully put on boot while still stable on the bench.

Your life may be messy. People may be crazy. But only you control how beautiful your life can be.

  • Drink water.
  • Take a snack.
  • Breathe.
  • Rest.

Shower is therapy. Cleaning is therapy. Fun is therapy. Proof that you’re alive, no matter what or who tried to put you down.

Takeaway with you

It’s all about resilience. You must thrive and survive, and yes, you can do it.

By the way, what moisturizing body cream do you use? 😉
Next story: I’ll tell you about my creams, perfumes, and how I survived the most horrifying place imaginable — surrounded by twisted, crazy people.

Day Two of My Broken Ankle Recovery: Coffee, Music & Rehab Fun

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Day two of my ankle recovery, and six weeks since the crash.

When it keeps raining, mornings are hard — painful, stiff, and slow.
Still, I try to keep going by focusing on the good. And today, there is good.

The good news: I advanced from wearing the foamwalkingboots 24/7 to using them only when I walk.
And no — I’m still not walking yet 😅
But at least now I can sleep better.

Yupiii. And that is great, isn’t it?

Another very good reason to wake up and live with a stiff ankle: coffee ☕
I wish it were café con leche, like in Spain… but it’s not.
So I adapt.

I found a bonbon coffee, close enough to my beloved Spanish version, and I keep going there.
Honestly? Still cheaper than a therapist. LOL.

Physiotherapy is expensive here, but thank God we have AI, YouTube, and people like me who share their recovery journeys online.

I still have my resistance bands from years ago — back when I used them to become pretty sexy and slim.
Done with that era! 😂
Now they’re officially reassigned: ankle rehab mode.

YouTube music on.
AI‑generated rehab routine.
I compare it with what others did before me and with my surgeon’s notes.
And then… let’s go, girl.

I discovered that doing exercises sitting on a chair actually works well.
And the songs — oh, the songs — they’re amazing. They truly make me happy.

I might even make a playlist for you:
“BrokeYourAnkleRehab” 😄

Every day brings a new challenge and a new discovery. In everything.

Like figuring out how to clean soap off your body while sitting on a bathroom chair, using a non‑movable shower head.
Yes. That is a thing.
But we’ll talk about that another time.

Maybe God gave me this challenge so I could teach others how to survive it — with laughter, strength, and honesty.

But for now, until tomorrow:
Find something fun in everything.
Stay up.
Find a good song.
And get yourself a pot with a long handle to wash those bubbles 😂

Love you, like always.
Be good. Be genuine. Be strong.

Broken in Hell: A Christmas Night That Changed Everything

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Short personal fiction / symbolic narrative

Two days before Christmas, I was physically and spiritually broken.

This story is written by a woman with no friends, many enemies, and a body shaking from legally induced opioid withdrawal. A woman living in a country that breaks its own people—through corruption, communism, violence, fear, and systems that pretend to protect while slowly destroying souls.

But this story did not begin with pain.

It began with love.

My child wanted to give me a Christmas gift. A simple one. A moment together. What mother would say no? No matter the weather, no matter the exhaustion, I went. When he said, “Let’s go,” I answered without hesitation.

That night, the rain was heavy. Dark. Relentless. The streets were empty. Only the two of us walked, hand in hand, spending our little money, enjoying the city in silence.

Nothing warned me of what was coming.

Until the shop.

The Nuts Shop

At first, it was nothing special. Just another small stand selling Chinese-style nut-filled dough balls. But something was different.

The vibe.

My child—who never asks for food—stopped suddenly and said,
“I want nuts from here.”

We stood there in the storm. Wind, rain, darkness. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. Almost half an hour.

The young woman selling the food moved strangely slowly. Not rude. Not busy. Just… detached. As if time worked differently for her. As if we were waiting inside a loop that only she controlled.

And my child seemed mesmerized—drawn by the smell, the waiting, the moment.

Why did we stay?

I still ask myself that.

The Encounter

Then I noticed him.

A young man. He looked no older than fourteen. Too pale. Too thin. His arms were unnaturally long beneath black clothing. His eyes—sharp, watching. His fingers moved strangely near his watch, as if measuring something invisible.

Next to him stood another figure, heavier, darker, aggressive in presence. Something about them felt wrong. Not dangerous in a loud way—but in a quiet, unsettling one.

We stood together in the rain, waiting for nuts.

In a temporal loop.

The young man smiled, as if he wanted to speak. Normally, I would have answered. But something inside me rejected the moment completely. A deep instinct screamed no.

I looked at my child and made a small sign: This is crazy. We’re leaving.

And we left.

The Fall

Five hundred meters later, at a bridge between two streets, something changed.

The air felt heavy. Pressured. As if the ground shifted beneath me.

And then I fell.

Hard.

Pain exploded through my body. A broken leg. The world blurred. Strangers appeared. An ambulance. Long waiting hours in wet clothes. Fear, shock, exhaustion.

The nuts—still intact.

That detail haunted me. AGAIN about nuts!
Similarity? A “date with a nut” sent me poisoned to hospital last year!

Aftermath

The days that followed were worse.

Surgery. Pain medication – Opioids. Then withdrawal. Cold sweats. Palpitations. Nausea. Anxiety. Darkness. My child counting my breaths, whispering:
“If you stop breathing, I’ll shake you.”

And I woke up. Every time.

I am a nurse. I know what withdrawal feels like. I know what overdose feels like. I know how easily pain can turn into dependence. And I refused to let that happen to me.

Cold turkey.

I will not become another casualty of a system that creates addiction and calls it treatment.

What This Story Is Really About

This is a story about aliens and very dirty and dark intelligence!

It is a story about fear, trauma, exhaustion, and how the human mind searches for meaning when reality becomes unbearable.

It is about how societies fail their people.
How pain isolates.
How love—especially a child’s love—keeps us alive.

And how close we all are to breaking.

This Christmas, I learned one thing clearly:

Evil does not need monsters.
It only needs systems that forget humanity.

And faith—faith in something higher than suffering—is sometimes the only thing that keeps us standing.

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.

Vetting impossible – A Ghost to my all jobs

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When TWO of my job managers said, proudly, “The State Department called and asked us to give information about you — and we REFUSED to do it,” I thought I was about to be celebrated like HERO.

Elliot puffed out his chest like he’d single-handedly saved the world.
Mara slapped the table like she’d foiled an international heist.

“We protect our people,” they said.
I smiled nervously. “Cool… I guess?”

Little did I know, that heroic refusal would turn me into a ghost, haunting every company I ever worked for, every country I had lived in, and eventually, Patrick and his entire network of crazy professional detectives.

Chapter 1 — The Ghost Emerges

See, I come from a country where the government’s idea of record-keeping is:

  1. Scribble it down somewhere
  2. Forget where
  3. Hope someone remembers

So when the U.S. State Department asked for my background, they got:

  • a fax machine that didn’t work
  • a coffee stain
  • and a note that said, “Try again next year”

Two days after my managers “intelligent” refused to cooperate, my badge at work stopped working.
The badge is unrecognizable.
It looked like it was silently messing around:

“VETTING FAILED. PLEASE REBOOT EMPLOYEE.”

And just like that, I was out of my dream job.
No scandal. No accusations.
Just… ghosted by the system.

Chapter 2 — Enter Patrick and the Network of Whisperers

I landed at “Whoknows”, a company that hires people the world forgot existed.
And that’s where I met Patrick — a coworker with a flair for drama, a love for conspiracy, and a network of colleagues who treated him like a human rumor mill.

Patrick’s network included:

  • Trish, who sees secrets behind every stapler
  • Gavin, who Googles until he convinces himself he’s in a spy movie
  • Lily, who nods like everything is a classified plot twist

When Patrick heard about my “mysterious exit” from my previous job, he declared me off the grid.
Not a spy. Not a villain.
Just… a walking, talking, unverified file.

Patrick leaned in, eyes wide:
“Were you… agent-adjacent?”
“No,” I said. “I’m potato-adjacent.”
Trish gasped.
Gavin wrote notes.
Lily gave a slow, approving nod.

And that was the moment I realized: paranoia is contagious.

Chapter 3 — The Impossible Vetting

The truth? Vetting me was impossible.

Why? Because my jobs and countries of origin are all spectacularly unhelpful when it comes to bureaucracy:

  • Some governments treat archives like piñatas: destroy one, confuse the next.
  • Some countries collapse periodically (politically, economically, morally).
  • Some still run on Windows 95 and have servers that die if you blink at them wrong.
  • Some literally cannot send you a criminal background check without someone finding a chicken on the server.

Good people don’t deserve suspicion, but the system punishes them anyway.
Missing information = assumed danger.
No records = conspiracy.
Uncooperative governments = personal fault.

Meanwhile, Patrick’s network treated my paperwork absence like a blockbuster plot twist.

Chapter 4 — Patrick’s Network at Work

Patrick and crew dissected me like a Netflix mystery series, including tape recordings

  • My coffee-sipping habits? “Secret code.”
  • My accent? “International espionage confirmed.”
  • My laptop? “Could be a portal for classified files.”

Every silence, every shrug, every blink was catalogued, cross-referenced, and theorized about.
I was a ghost.
A human question mark.
And Patrick? He was the lead detective in the trial that never existed.

Chapter 5 — The Comedy of Ethics

Here’s the line:

Immigration systems demand perfection from a world that is chaotic, messy, absurd, and prone to coffee-stained paperwork.

Good people like me get haunted not for what we did, but because governments .
Patrick and his network? They only magnified the absurdity.
And the system? It doesn’t even realize it’s punishing “the horror” people that doesn’t exist.

Refusal to share information isn’t loyalty.
It’s turning people into ghosts.
And ghosts are hard to explain to networks of crazy detectives.

Chapter 6 — Moral of the Comedy

So now I walk the fine line between laughter and despair:

  • I am a ghost in all my countries
  • Ghost in my former jobs
  • Ghost in Patrick’s network’s imagination

And every day, I remind myself:

Vetting is impossible.
Good people are not guilty.
Missing information is not a crime.
And bureaucracy… will always be funnier than reality.

Someday, maybe the system will change.
Someday, Patrick will discover I’m not a spy.
Someday, my badge will be a happy living instead of surviving .

Until then, I remain:
A ghost to all my countries and jobs,
haunting the halls of bureaucracy,
dodging conspiracy,
and sipping my coffee like a perfectly mundane human being.

The Hidden Lives

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CIA Assets and the Two-Sided Story

(a completely fictional man named Amir) by Grok & a me who I insisted on telling this story STRAIGHT

Part 1 – The Ones You’ll Never Know

You have already walked past them. They sit two rows behind you on the bus, they bag your groceries, they wait with you at the red light. Nothing about them looks special.

They are just people trying to get through another ordinary day.

Amir is one of them now.

From the CIA’s side he is a closed file: successfully exfiltrated, resettled, support terminated per plan.

From Amir’s side he is a man who once passed secrets heavy enough to kill him and who now keep silence even heavier.

Two truths. Same person.

Part 2 – Life on the Edge: The First Step

The CIA saw in Amir a biologist with good access who started passing accurate reports on his own.

Forty-three reports in fourteen months, each one checked and confirmed. They called it ideological motivation and opened a recruitment file. And recruited him.

Amir remembers the night he took the first photograph with a borrowed phone. His hands shook so hard the image was blurred, but he sent it anyway.

When the reply came back in under six minutes (“Wednesday, 22:40, the church”), something inside him hurt and he knew it would never be a way back.

And after Amir was exfiltrated, resettled and supported. Agency started with Vetting.

Part 3 – Inside the Vetting Machine

The Agency ran seven polygraphs, many psych evaluations, a full financial going back twelve years, and quiet interviews with people who never knew they were being interviewed. At the end they wrote APPROVED.

Amir remembers weeks of waiting and the same questions asked in slightly different order.

They wanted to know if he had ever hated America, if he had debts, if he is alone. He stopped sleeping. When they finally said “You passed,” he only felt tired.

Part 4 – The Night They Took Him Out

The Agency recorded a textbook extraction, by law: vehicles, a border crossed at 02:14, commercial cover. New identity issued within forty-eight hours. Success.

Amir remembers instead the hood for the last forty minutes of the drive and the way the plane’s engines sounded like crying. The whole flight image was his family. To save them!

Part 5 – Year Zero in a New Country

And the US! The Agency provided an apartment, a Social Security number, language classes, and a bank account with regular deposits. All boxes green.

Amir walked into the apartment and smelled fresh paint and emptiness. The first time he went to the supermarket he stood in the cereal aisle for twenty minutes because nothing looked familiar.

That night he called the emergency number they had given him just to hear another human voice.

It rang until it stopped.

Part 6 – The Slow Drift

The Agency reduced welfare checks from quarterly to annual. Employment verified: night janitor at a community college. No hostile contact. Support level downgraded to monitoring only.

File note: stable.

Amir watched the monthly deposit shrink every six months until one day it simply didn’t come.

The case officer who once called him “brother” now answered emails with single sentences, then not at all.

He started checking the door locks four times, then six, then ten. Some nights he sat on the street looking at the Moon. The only one the same as home!

Part 7 – The Place That Was Never an Option

The Agency’s file contains one annex the resettlement board barely glanced at.

Page 47, written by the psychologist who spent ninety hours with Amir:

“Optimal environment: low population density, rural or mountain setting, maritime climate, daily physical work outdoors, minimal law-enforcement presence. Subject repeatedly mentions wind, sheep, and wide horizons as calming factors.”

The form had only one pre-printed destination box. Someone checked it and moved on.

Amir lasted eighteen months in the quiet Ohio suburb before the walls felt too close and every police cruiser sounded like the old regime.

Nothing dramatic happened; he simply faded, the way a plant pale when it is kept in soil it was never meant to grow in.

If they had listened to the psychologist, Amir would be living on a small farm in Patagonia right now.

Eleven hundred dollars a month buys a house with a tin roof, twenty sheep, and a view of mountains that don’t remind him of anything except themselves.

The nearest police station is two hours away. When the nightmares come, the wind carries the sound away.

Instead, the country that saved his life became the place that slowly took the rest of it.

A quiet suggestion for anyone who still has the power to change the CIA’s resettlement forms

Let the CIA psychologists decide the country, not the lawyers or the budget officers.

If the profile says mountains and silence, send the person to Patagonia or New Zealand or rural Portugal. If the profile genuinely says “America is where I want to be,” then bring them here.

But never again sentence someone to a place, his own mind already warned would break him, just because it is the only box printed on the page.

The two truths still sit side by side. Maybe one day someone will listen . And no one life will be destroyed!

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.

Dirty Patrick – My Story as a Nurse

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How Crazy Does This Sound?

For me, it feels like harassment—pure and simple.

I am a Registered Nurse living in a socialist country. Despite my U.S. RN credentials, I have always felt like I’m “not enough” here. My life is limited in means and surrounded by situations that feel unsafe and beyond my control.

More Than Organized Crime: The Threat of Intrusion

My story isn’t about crime in the usual sense—it’s about interference, surveillance, and violations of privacy that feel personal and systematic.

Yesterday, I had a scheduled video interview for an RN position in NY on Microsoft Teams. Everything appeared normal: the time and date were correct, and the Administrator and Director of Nursing participated. I was even told I would receive an offer.

The Incident That Shook Me

Shortly afterward, a former coworker Patrick posted a video online that mimicked the Director of Nursing from my interview.
I could not tell if my meeting was manipulated or real.
Patrick impersonated the black American DON ?
The team’s meeting on my cell was hacked by Patrick?
Patrick video is on YT. Teams meeting is on my cell!



It’s terrifying to wonder whether private communications are safe or whether digital manipulation is affecting my life and career.

Why Speaking Up Matters

Being told not to talk about these experiences is not acceptable.

I refuse to become like the people who intimidate, manipulate, or harass.

I refuse to accept corruption as “normal.”

Even when facing it all alone, I will continue to speak my truth and fight for freedom.

Conclusion

Yesterday was hard—a day of digital manipulation, lost opportunities, and intrusion into private life.
Yet I remain here, resilient and committed to sharing my story.

My experience highlights the importance of privacy, personal freedom, and standing up for oneself even ALONE.

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.