ANOTHER FAKE, ANOTHER LIE AFTER WHICH ANOTHER MOVIE WAS MADE. It's about Constantinescu's MISTRESS

ANOTHER FAKE and ANOTHER LIE AFTER WHICH ANOTHER MOVIE WAS MADE

Now the translation of Constantinescu's text, the one after which a film was made, but, completely upside down and false, like all the things that were falsified, like the 365 days movie that I will comment on a little later. Quote:

"It was so cold in her painting studio, but they rarely realized it. There were old newspapers instead of blinds, glued directly to the window. When you wanted to look outside, it was as if you were looking back. Towards a world that no longer there were, but who then had bomb titles and important people caught in prenandez (a solution for gluing shoes and other objects.) Like flies on sticky paper. many of those people had died in the meantime.

It's like only we exist, he said.

Maybe while we're here. When you go out the door, there is also your wife. Maybe when you walk out the door, I don't exist anymore.

He realized that if they talked, they would argue. And if they argue, he'll make love to her again.

So, empty-handed, he had no desire. But a good fight always made her even more beautiful.

So, he said something that annoyed her every time. the bad part with the things you keep being told is that at some point their mere mention makes you jump, that is, it annoys you. The good part is that in 5 minutes they were in bed. He didn't let her take off her shoes and now he could feel the heels on his buttocks.

He was terribly annoyed by the thought that he was not a rider, but a horse. Reverse riding. Who seduced whom?

Who was the sinner and who was the temptation? Everything is so clearly crossed, like links without beginning and end, like alloys that can no longer be separated in their raw materials, like a contract made by God or his aide from the meat-based power plant.

Which of them was the ink and which pen holder, who wrote on the palimpsest of time?

This 2nd hand time, on which it was written, from which it was erased. Which of them was the ink that would run out, which case that would break.

He laughed at the thought of going to the priest to confess. With this story with the palimpsest and the holster and the ink. And the priest will say to him with a smile: Son, this is a problem for a graphologist... you have to find out whose handwriting it is.

He found it so funny that he whispered the story in her ear.

No woman in his life laughed like that.

Totally and disarming and with him inside. It was as if dozens of small waves would rise and fall in ebb and flow.

He ends up laughing.

Life was broken like two corners of bread: one white, the other black. Theoretically, you have an "integral" life in two halves. When he left, he was too in a good mood to see the almost steamy car parked nearby. Not the other woman's eyes. Which had no wipers. They should have...

The next day, near the studio with newspapers in the window, it looked like the same car. Half on the sidewalk, right next to the ad: we make portraits by model or photo!

A slender woman, with sunglasses on her eyes, enters making the doorbell ring cheerfully:

Hello, I would like to order a family portrait...

Sure, what size?

Natural size, is it possible? or at least half. After the photo. There are three characters, me, our husband and our child...

The painter smiled: it will cost you a bit...

The woman smiled too and said very slowly: I have already started to pay...

The painter did not understand, but she did not think she had missed something essential, so she did not ask her to repeat.

Do you have the photo with you?

Sure I have.

He was smiling at her from the picture. Between an indefinite child and a woman as easily recognizable as possible.

Is it hard to do? Do you deliver it if I leave you an address?

She was trying to keep her composure: of course, IN how long do you want him at home?”

I intentionally left this part of the text here, to which can be added the rest of the text that I wrote in purple. Everything that is written in purple is about me and the real situation in the stories of Lucian (my former boyfriend) to him, as well as my discussion about my own, my first and only confession until then.

Everything that is written in black is his real story, with HISMISTRESS, Ramona Lehanceanu, "painter" without paintings, who became his wife after she separated him from his second wife. So, the story with the wife who goes to his mistress, a painter, is his second wife (who went to Ramona, today, Constantinescu), whom he left because she had gained weight after giving birth. That's from what I read written by him; I do NOT have other information about him, except from his own texts and from what I understood behaviorally speaking, through what he posted to me as information on my own Facebook page.

To be continued with explanations!

Acum traducerea textului lui Constantinescu, cel dupa care s-a facut un film, dar, complet pe dos si fals, ca toate lucrurile care au fost falsificate, ca si filmul 365 de zile despre care o sa comentez putin mai tarziu. Citez:

"Era asa de frig in studioul ei de pictorita, dar ei rar realizau asta. Erau ziare vechi in loc de storuri, lipite direct pe geam. Cand voiai sa te uiti afara, parca vedeai spre inapoi. Spre o lume care nu mai exista, dar care atunci avea titluri bomba si oameni importanti prinsi in prenandez (o solutie de lipit pantofii si alte obiecte). Ca mustele in hartie lipicioasa. multi dintre oamenii aceia murisera intre timp.

Parca, doar noi, existam, zise el.

Poate cat suntem aici. Cand iesi pe usa mai exista si, nevasta ta. Poate cand iesi pe usa nu mai exist anymore eu.

El realiza ca daca mai vorbesc se vor certa. Si daca se vor certa, o sa mai faca dragoste o data cu ea.

Asa, pe gol, nu mai avea niciun chef. Dar o cearta buna o facea mereu si mai frumoasa. Asa ca, el spuse ceva ce o enerva de fiecare data. partea proasta cu lucrurile care ti se tot spun este ca la un moment dat si simpla lor mentionare te scoate din sarite, adica te enerveaza. Partea buna e ca in 5 minute erau in pat. N-a lasat-o sa-si dea jos pantofii ei si acum le simtea tocurile pe fesele lui. Il enerva teribil gandul ca nu era un calaret, ci un cal. Calarit invers. cine a sedus pe cine? cine era pacatosul si cine tentatia? Totul atat de clar incrucisat, ca niste zale fara inceput si sfarsit, ca niste aliaje care nu se mai pot separa in materiile lor prime, ca un contract facut de Dumnezeu sau de aghiotantul lui de la termocentrala pe baza de carne.

Care dintre ei era cerneala si care tocul care scria pe palimpsestul timpului?

Timpul asta 2nd hand, pe care s-a mai scris, de pe care s-a mai sters. Care dintre ei era cerneala care se va termina, care tocul care se va frange. Ii veni sa rada la gandul ca s-ar putea duce la preot sa se spovedeasca. Cu povestea asta cu palimpsestul si tocul si cerneala. Si preotul ii va spune zambind: Fiule, asta e o problema pentru un grafolog... tu trebuie sa afli al cui e scrisul. I se paru atat de amuzant incat el ii sopti si ei, povestea la ureche.

Nicio femeie din viata lui n-a ras asa. Total si dezarmant si cu el inauntru.

Era ca si cand zeci de valuri mici s-ar urca si s-ar lasa in flux si reflux. El termina razand.

Viata era rupta ca doua colturi de paine: una alba, alta neagra. Teoretic ai din doua jumatati o viata "integrala". Cand el a plecat, era prea bine dispus ca sa vada masina aproape aburita parcata in apropiere. Nici ochii celeilalte femei. Care n-aveau stergatoare. Le-ar fi trebuit...

A doua zi, langa studioul cu ziare in geam parca aceeasi masina. Jumatate pe trotuar, chiar langa anuntul: realizam portrete dupa model sau fotografie!

O femeie zvelta, cu ochelari de soare la ochi, intra facand clopotelul de la usa sa sune vesel:

Buna ziua, as dori sa comand un portret de familie...

Sigur ca da, ce dimensiune?

Marime natural, se poate? sau macar jumatate. Dupa fotografie. Sunt trei personaje, eu, sotul si copilul nostru...

Pictorita zambi: o sa va cam coste...

Femeia zambi si ea si spuse foarte incet: deja am inceput sa platesc...

Pictorita n-a inteles, dar nu i s-a parut ca scapase ceva esential, asa ca nu i-a cerut ei sa repete.

Aveti fotografia la dvs?

Sigur I have.

Din poza ii zambea el. Intre un copil indefinit si o femeie cat se poate de usor de recunoscut.

E greu de facut? Il si livrati daca va las o adresa?

Ea incerca sa-si pastreze cumpatul: desigur, in cat timp, il vreti acasa?”

Am lasat intentionat aceasta parte a textului aici, la care se poate adauga si tot restul textului pe care l-am scris cu culoare mov. Tot ce este scris cu culoare mov, este referitor la mine si situatia reala din povestile lui Lucian (fostul meu boyprieten) catre el, precum si discutia mea despre propria mea, prima si unica mea spovedanie pana la acea vreme. Tot ceea ce este scris cu negru, este povestea reala a lui, cu amanta lui, Ramona Lehanceanu, "pictorita" fara tablouri, devenita sotie dupa ce ea l-a despartit de a doua nevasta. Deci, povestea cu sotia care merge la amanta, pictorita, este chiar a doua lui nevasta,(care a mers la Ramona, azi, Constantinescu), pe care a lasat-o pentru ca ea se ingrasase, dupa ce a nascut. Asta e din ceea ce am citit scris de el; eu alte informatii despre el, NU detin, decat din propriile lui texte si din ceea ce am inteles comportamental vorbind, prin ceea ce imi posta ca informatii pe propria mea pagina de facebook.

VOI CONTINUA cu EXPLICATII!