1.the process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something, especially to do something creative.

The definition is spot on. Isn’t it always?

Being in school, sharing classrooms with teachers you hope not running into in a mall someday, because you just couldn’t handle the idea of them actually having a life besides wiping the chalk off the board and handing you back disappointing essay results. I didn’t expect much from them, except well, teach us the lesson in a less-boring way than other teachers do.

Now [in our beloved university] I don’t look for inspiration from them either, but they somehow never fail to disappoint. I am guessing it is something about talking to people who have matured from the note-passing in class and the outburst of jokes that only seemed to get repetitive. There is a different sort of air that fills our rooms today, full of professionals and PEOPLE in-the-making. You shouldn’t expect much from your classmates, in school or university, but expect world difference between teachers. Teachers whom you are now friends with. Whom you would actually like to run into in a mall at some point, or would like to go watch them play their instruments in music filled café trottoirs. They are the teachers that make you want to get out of bed at 7am just to witness them endure literary spasms, and see the electricity that comes out of their eyes when they are doing what they do best, they are the teachers with loud and firm voices, so determined to get facts and reality through your brain, while casually flashing a smile or mentioning your name in an example so you wouldn’t lose yourself in the drawings on your table. It is that teacher with the usual red tie and black blazer that you can’t help but complement when they suddenly shouw up in a different tie color the next day, and the woman with long blond hair, just enough make up, and a professional spaz bursting out of her usual laughter in class. Some of them are tortured artists:


  1. The tortured artist is a stock character and real-life stereotype who is in constant torment due to frustrations with art and other people.


Yeah. That teacher that plays an instrument, has built a ground-breaking career, had a chat and some whine with incredibly famous artists, yet no one has heard of his name in the country, and all you seem to want to do is watch him play his drums in the café and hope he sees you so he knows that you actually appreciate his art, and cared enough to listen in class whilst sitting next to your snoring classmates.

Keep your eyes open, some things would surprise you.




So I saw this youtube video that showed how to make a swan out of an apple. I’ve seen a lot of these videos before and actually tried to follow steps in some of them, only to end in complete failure. NOT THIS TIME i encouraged myself. NOT. THIS. TIME.

So I think you should try this one out!


Here’s the link

Careful with the knife!

Tidbit Confessions: a slice of the Icebox Cake

The tidbit confessions: Small personal ongoing confessions about late night cravings.

Bloomingdales is absolutely beautiful.

Yeah whether it’s their clothing line or cute Little Brown Bags, stepping into their stores is an experience by itself.

I was with my good friend when I literally pressured her into going in that part of Bloomingdales where they sold cupcakes and displayed them so perfectly on white plates it was just too good to pass. My eyes practically glowing when I saw THAT ICEBOX CAKE.

I can already feel the cream and chocolate blend melt in my mouth. The taste didn’t change at all, from the last time we got some. This could gladly become a ritual of ours, because my good friend actually introduced me to that cake and I just can’t thank her enough.

Bad breakup? Bring me a slice will you, and some napkins.

Fight with family? Don’t talk to me while I’m eating it.

Meeting with a friend you haven’t seen in a long time? Let me take you to the best place in town, and the best taste.

But for now, the routine will be: Bloomingdales- Touch the window- spot the Icebox Cake in the crowd of sugary goodness- beg the guy for the biggest slice he’s ever given- mooore, just a little more to the left, and when the guy starts looking at you weird-“perfect! ”

“Sure you can eat that all by yourself?”

“Don’t doubt me man.”

Because every bite I took was one from the past, and the near-past felt a little sweet. Not that sour kind of past you don’t want to make your tastebuds go through anymore, but more of the near-past where everything was okay, and where you still remember what perfume you liked and what music was playing in Bloomingdales. That near-past where you can still remember what it felt like when your friend dragged you in to taste what you’ve been craving for a couple of months.