Faça o que eu digo, não faça o que eu faço.

"O que os olhos não vêem, o coração não sente."
Eu nunca sei o que pensar dessa frase.
Já falei sobre ela antes, sobre como é mentira... porque saudade é exatamente isso: não ver e sentir. Sentir falta.
Mas hoje, apesar de estar morrendo de saudades de tudo e de todos, to pensando em outra coisa.
Não sei se quero ou não saber de certas coisas da vida de certas pessoas. Por um lado eu NÃO QUERO, porque percebi que sou (secretamente) muito mais ciumenta do que eu digo ser. Eu te digo que quero te ver feliz, e realmente quero. Mas não me conta que ela é linda. Não me conta que ela faz melhor. Não me conta que com ela você ri muito mais. Não me conta dela, ponto final fixo. Porque eu vou sorrir, fazer piadinha, ficar "feliz" por você e agir perfeitamente normal... na hora. Mas todo mundo volta pra casa no fim do dia. Todo mundo diz "tchau, até depois" e vai embora só. Todo mundo dorme sozinho, mesmo dividindo a cama com outra pessoa. E eu tenho MUITO medo desse(s) momento(s), apesar de gostar de ficar sozinha.
E é exatamente por isso que estou pensando sobre essa frase hoje. "O que os olhos não vêem, o coração não sente".
Eu descobri que QUERO sentir. Sempre. Quero sentir tudo. E todos. Quero rir, quero chorar, quero fazer loucuras, quero ser pega no flagra, quero ter meus segredos, quero me ferrar, quero ganhar, quero perder, quero amar, quero tudo tudo TUDO. Eu. Quero. Sentir. Ponto final fixo.
Ou então eu só sou curiosa e não resisto perguntar. Se ela é linda. Se ela faz melhor. Se ela te faz rir. Não quero sofrer. Mas quero saber. Puta contradição, mas fazer o que?
Então me conta. E vê se não apronta?
*

Prazer, sou toda errada.

Prazer, sou toda errada.
Eu bebo.
Eu fumo.
Eu fico na rua até tarde. Ou cedo, dependendo do ponto de vista.
Eu durmo até não poder mais.
Eu não trabalho.
Eu sou absolutamente retardada com números.
Eu amo a Rua Augusta;
Eu sou egocêntrica.
Eu preciso de atenção.
Eu faço besteiras. De todos os tipos.
Eu sou estressadinha.
Eu sou irresponsável.
Eu durmo de maquiagem. As vezes.
Eu gosto de meninas. Até demais.
Eu ando na chuva mesmo resfriada.
Eu sou tarada por óculos Ray Ban.
Eu tenho preguiça de dia e fico inquieta de noite.
Eu dirijo bêbada.
Eu bebo dirigindo.
Eu to nem aí pra o que pensam de mim.
Eu ligo demais pra o que pensam de mim.
Eu minto.
Eu invento.
Eu fantasio.
Eu falo demais nas horas erradas.
Eu falo pouco nas horas erradas.
Eu falo nas horas erradas, ponto final.
Eu enrolo.
Eu sou indecisa.
Eu sou teimosa.
Eu sumo.
Eu assumo.
Eu gasto demais.
Eu como besteira.
Eu falo muito "eu".
Eu sou distraída.
Eu não sei o que quero.
Eu não sei o que não quero.
Eu tenho a pior TPM ever.
Eu tenho problemas com minha mãe (hahaha).
Eu sofro por amor.
Eu sofro por ódio.
Eu sofro por tudo.
Eu não sofro o suficiente por nada.
Eu sou inconsequente.

Quer me amar?

*

Post X

Não sei o que escrever, só sei que quero. Não só quero, mas preciso.
E não consigo!
Ai ai.
Acho que hoje, o máximo que rola é um "ctrl c" "ctrl v" básico da Tati Bernardi. Apaixonei! Todos os livros dela estão no meu wish list de Natal, by the way :)

"(...) Ei, seu tonto, será que você não pode me olhar com olhos de devoção porque eu estou aqui quase esmagada com sua presença? Não, não dá pra dizer isso. Ei, seu velho, será que você pode me abraçar como se estivéssemos caindo de uma ponte porque eu estou aqui sem chão com sua presença? Não, você não pode dizer isso. Ei, monstro do lixo, será que você pode me beijar como um beijo de final de filme porque eu estou aqui sem saliva, sem ar, sem vida com a sua presença? Definitivamente, não, melhor não. Amor não se pede, é uma pena. (...)É triste amar tanto e tanto amor não ter proveito. Tanto amor querendo fazer alguém feliz. (...)Mas amor, você sabe, amor não se pede. Amor se declara: sabe de uma coisa? Ele sabe, ele sabe."

"Eu passo quieta por você, você passa quieto por mim, e eu ainda escuto o barulho que a gente faz."

"...Aí ele chega, tão lindo. E vai embora, tão feio. E liga, tão bobo. E some, tão especial. E eu morro, ainda que não ligue a mínima. E eu não tô nem aí, ainda que pense o tempo todo em não estar nem aí."

"Cansei de quem gosta como se gostar fosse mais uma ferramenta de marketing. Gostar aos poucos, gostar analisando, gostar duas vezes por semana, gostar até as duas e dezoito. Cansei de gente que gosta como pensa que é certo gostar. Gostar é essa besta desenfreada mesmo. E não tem pensar. E arrepia o corpo inteiro, mas você não sabe se é defesa para recuar ou atacar. Eu eu gosto de você porque gostar não faz sentido."

*

Coisas que eu já fiz na vida...

Faz tanto tempo que não posto. Mas não estou afim de pensar, então peguei isso do tumblr de uma menina aí...

01. Pagar bebidas pros seus amigos.
02. Pegar num tubarão.
03. Dizer “eu te amo” sentindo amor de verdade.
04. Abraçar uma árvore.
05. Achar que vai morrer.
06. Ficar acordado a noite inteira só pra ver o sol nascer.
07. Cultivar e comer suas próprias frutas e vegetais.
08. Dormir sob as estrelas.
09. Mudar a fralda de uma criança.
10. Ver uma estrela cadente.
11. Ficar embriagado.
12. Doar coisas para caridade.
13. Não dormir por 24 horas.
14. Olhar para o céu e achar o cruzeiro do sul.
15. Ter um ataque de riso na pior altura possível.
16. Fazer uma luta de comida.
17. Apostar e perder.
18. Convidar um estranho para sair.
19. Fazer guerrinha de papel.
20. Pegar num cordeiro.
21. Gritar o mais alto que puder.
22. Andar de montanha russa.
23. Dançar como um louco e não se preocupar se estão olhando.
24. Falar com sotaque por um dia inteiro.
25. Estar mesmo feliz com a tua vida.
26. Ter dois Hard Drives para o computador.
27. Conhecer o teu país.
28. Cuidar de alguém embriagado.
29. Ter amigos fantásticos.
30. Dançar com um estranho.
31. Ser parada pela polícia.
32. Ficar de coração partido mais tempo do que se esteve realmente apaixonado.
33. Sentar na mesa de um estranho num restaurante e comer com ele.
34. Brincar na lama.
35. Brincar na chuva.
36. Apaixonar-se e não ficar de coração partido.
37. Fazer uma arte marcial.
38. Entrar num filme.
39. Sair em uma propaganda.
40. Ser penetra numa festa.
41. Ficar sem comer 5 dias.
42. Fazer um bolo sozinho.
43. Fazer uma tatuagem.
44. Receber flores sem razão.
45. Representar num palco.
46. Gravar música.
47. Ter um caso de uma noite.
48. Guardar um segredo.
49. Cantar bem alto no carro e não parar quando perceber que tem gente olhando.
50. Sobreviver a uma doença em que se podia ter morrido.
51. Perder dinheiro.
52. Cuidar de alguém com dor de cotovelo.
53. Fazer uma festa legal.
54. Por um piercing.
55. Partir o coração de alguém.
56. Evitar alguém de propósito.
57. Andar a cavalo.
58. Fazer uma grande cirurgia.
59. Ter uma foto sua num jornal.
60. Mudar a opinião de alguém sobre alguma coisa em que acreditas profundamente.
61. Fazer de um inseto um animal de estimação.
62. Selecionar um autor importante que não trabalhou na escola e lê-lo.
63. Comunicar-se com uma pessoa sem partilharem uma língua em comum.
64. Escrever a sua própria linguagem no computador.
65. Pensar que está vivendo um sonho.
66. Pintar o cabelo.
67. Salvar a vida de alguém.
68. Nadar pelado.
69. Viajar para fora do país.


http://myfever.tumblr.com/

*

Post Tristinho

It's weird and completely disorienting how you have the ability to take out the absolute worst in me. The absolute worst in terms of feelings, fears, and reactions, all wrapped in one.
I really do miss you, the old you, the you who would sing and read to me and hold me until I felt safe enough to close my eyes and fall asleep.
Now that I think about it, you're the reason why I fail to easily accept compliments with nothing but a thank you and a smile. Instead, I always, always insist on knowing how and why. It's because in your eyes I'm the absolute worst and nothing more. And despite how many times I repeat to myself that "it's just words", it's not. They hurt and I feel alone. I mean, you are the one person in the universe who's supposed to love my heart, body and soul just the way they are. And you don't, you've said it before. So how am I supposed to go on expecting others to love me, if you so clearly don't?
And it's not just the fact that you don't. It's how you remind me of that, every single day...
Honestly, I wish I could take your advice and leave. I wish I could leave you with your friends, your house, your life. I wish I could give you the pleasure of not having to be around me, if I'm all the horrible things you say I am.
But I am the responsible parent in this household and even though she's not my child, I am my sister's keeper. I am not like you and that's the one thing that keeps me going.

To tristinha...

*

Writer's Block...

... because ALL I think about lately is you, and as soon as I think of you I feel so insanely HOT I can't do or think of anything else.

Here's another song instead. For you. Again. <3



Banana Pancakes - Jack Johnson

Well can't you see that it's just raining?
There ain't no need to go outside.

But Baby,
You hardly even know this
when i try to show you this
song is meant to keep you
from doing what you're supposed to
wakin' up too early
maybe we could sleep
make you banana pancakes
pretend like its the weekend now
we could pretend it all the time.
Can't you see that its just raining
there Ain't no need to go outside
But just maybe!

Hala ka ukulele, mama made a baby
Really don't mind to practice cause you're my little lady
Lady lady love me cause I love to lay you lazy
We could close the curtains pretend like theres no world
outside.
Then we could pretend it all the time
Can't you see that its just raining
Ain't no need to go outside

Ain't no need, ain't no need.
mmmm mmmm mmmmm mmmmm
Can't you see, can't you see?
Rain all day and I don't mind
But the telephones singin', ringin', its too early dont, pick it up
We don't need to
we got everything we need right here and everything we need is enough
just so easy
When the whole world fits inside of your arms
do we really need to pay attention to the alarm?
wake up slow, mmmmm mmmmmm
wake up slow

But Baby,
You hardly even know this
when i try to show you this
Song is meant to keep you
from doing what you're supposed to
wakin' up too early
maybe we could sleep
make you banana pancakes
pretend like its the weekend now
Then we could pretend it all the time.
Can't you see that its just raining.
Ain't no need to go outside.
ain't no need ain't no need
Rain all day and I really really really don't mind
Can't you see can't you see?
you gotta wake up slow

*

...and I'm crazy but you like it.

Aquilo de "o que os olhos não vêem, o coração não sente" é mentira total.
Não to te vendo... e to sentindo MUITO sua falta.

*

Cocaína

Um fragmento do meu atual furacão emocional... é um textozinho da Fernanda Young que me mandaram depois do "Closure III". Porque sim, todas nós temos passados, do mesmo modo que temos futuros e presentes. E eu estou feliz com meu presente - mais feliz do que nunca - mas o passado às vezes gosta de tirar uma da sua cara, com mentiras descaradas e falsidades verdadeiras. Enfim...

"Não posso mais roer os nervos enquanto as horas passam e você não aparece. Preciso me poupar. Não pretendo mais sofrer, depois, quando você sumir de vez. Sofrer por amor é pura vaidade. Vou olhar para retratos meus e, de novo, sentirei orgulho de mim. Fotos minhas antes de você. Quando eu ainda não tinha provado desse seu veneno vicioso. Da saliva que se fez heroína. Do cheiro que se fez lança-perfume. Deveria ter uma tabela antipaixão como as que fizeram para os tabagistas. Marcaríamos um xis nas vezes em que pensássemos no outro. Assumindo assim nossa fraqueza. Contando as horas em que fôssemos capazes de esquecer. Poucas, no meu caso, já que tudo me lembra você. E de noite as coisas pioram. Mas quero, e posso, vencer essa semana. Sobreviver à abstinência de você por sete dias. Ao éter da mentira, que deixou-nos malucas e cegas. Estávamos correndo descalças entre os destroços da cidade grande. Seremos crianças? Seremos julgadas como adultas. Sendo a culpa toda sua, que acreditou no ar que respirava. No sujo. Na inveja. Perdemos tudo na paisagem desolada dessa cidade. Cidade feia. E, no feio, nos perdemos. Ou me perdi. Sozinha. Para depois ficar aqui, sentada no meio-fio."

Azar o seu, tenho que parar de pensar tanto nos sentimentos dos outros. Tenho que parar de pensar no passado. Tenho que parar de ter pena de você só porque EU estou feliz.

E com uma saudades descomunal dessa minha felicidade insanamente fofa :)

*

¡La Noche es Rosa en la Ciudad!

Meu novo papel de parede.
Porque eu extraño correr pela Calle Florida com um saquinho de Ruffles em uma mão e minha meia-calça (misteriosamente) na outra, gritando "BRASIIIIIIL!" o mais alto possível.
Porque eu extraño minha twin e minha musical soul mate.
Porque eu extraño a esquina da Reconquista com a Marcelo T. Alvear.
Porque eu extraño o cara mais player do mundo e sua mania de andar pelado pela Avenida Santa Fé.
Porque eu extraño o Kilkenny's e a eterna presença da Madison no palquinho logo em frente à "nossa" mesa.
Porque eu extraño meus amigos bizarros que davam medo nas california girls (Brianzito, El Negrooo, Shampooo!).
Eu até extraño as empanadas. Con huevos, Paul.

Que sea rock, siempre!

Buenos Aires, te amo.

*

Get Off of My Cloud!

"Quando você sabe para onde está indo, já tem meio caminho andado."

Sim, eu concordo. Mas não sei!




*

Apesar dos Apesares...

Um post meio melancólico, apesar de feliz. Porque sim, existem MUITOS "apesares" e complicações.
Mas tipo assim, quando alguém aparece DO NADA na vida de outro alguém... e esse "outro alguém" até agora não queria nada com nada (a não ser balada após balada, sempre regada por muita vodka com red bull)... Não dá pra ficar quieta.

Especialmente quando esse "outro alguém" era eu. Sou eu. Não sei. Aiiii to confusa. E meio bêbada. Sim, de chopps melancólicos, mas felizes, com meu PAI num bar da Paulista.

Anyways.

Sim, estou confusa. E bêbada. E nada afim de escrever direito. Mas hoje é uma daquelas noites onde TODAS as músicas do rádio parecem ter sido escritas pra mim e pra você. Hoje é uma daquelas noites onde eu simplesmente não consigo dormir, não por insônia, mas por ansiedade em te ver de novo. Hoje é uma daquelas noites onde eu chego em casa e fico no carro, ouvindo a última música até o final, mandando o Jason Mraz se foder por ter escrito essa música antes de mim. Porque sim, eu queria MUITO ter escrito ela antes... pra você.

Antes que eu fale demais (porque eu SEMPRE falo demais), alguns assuntos pendentes entre nós to take into consideration:
1- Tattoos. No further comments, só que você me deve.
2- Já disse que sou a pessoa mais impaciente do mundo e juro juro JURO que to fazendo o maior esforço do muuuundo pra tentar mudar isso. Apesar dos apesares, continuo tentando.
3- Você me perguntou como eu estava me sentindo. Não consigo me concentrar perto de você, é bobo e ridículo mas eu adoro :) Me pergunta de novo que eu te falo.

Então tá. Sei que tenho o gosto musical MAIS BIZARRO do universo, e apesar de realmente não escutar quase nada além das minhas músicas bizarras... essa foi a famooosa última música que ouvi hoje no carro, querendo prolongar ao máximo essa noite complicadamente deliciosa que tive com você:



Não sei de mais nada, viu.

*

no regrets, just...

I love every single detail of this knot in my chest, pumping hot and cold blood that feels and almost tastes like chocolate just because of the melting feeling I get when I'm with you and/or thinking about you. I love how I wish I was strong enough to flip a dinner table over and jump your lovely (and ridiculously hot) bones right there and then, not minding the "decent" families and "regular" couples eating tacos and drinking virgin margaritas around us, clueless as to how to react to our hand-holding over the table. I love it how you make me feel like a teenager all over again, listening to Katy Perry songs about dreams and texting like crazy all day long just to talk about everything and nothing at all. I love how my entire existence rattles and shakes as you pull me towards you for our first and totally knee-weakening kiss as we wait for our cars outside and the whole world falls apart around us as people stare and whisper - and I'm really not one to care. I am SO fucking proud to be just standing there next to you and all I can do is indulge on the feeling of your insanely sexy body molded to mine under the stars of an extremely promising night sky.

And hey, don't think I don't know of all the... complications involved. I do. Very well. Too well. But just like I'm willing to stop being such an impatient brat for you, I'm willing to take a chance. On you.

Fuck.

*

I'll Kill Her...

... by Soko.

Mardy Bum

Para drinks apimentados.
Para atrasos pontuais e encontros e desencontros.
Para noites irresponsáveis.
Para fugas.
Para isqueiros que não se perdem.
Para mentiras verdadeiras e verdades mentirosas.
Para Copacabana Club.
Para bares underground.
Para hipsters e faapers.
Para olhares buscando antigas lembranças no meio de tanta mudança.
Para aventuras irreverentes em lugares ousados.
Para deliciosas dores.
Para inesquecíveis suspiros.
Para vodka com Red Bull. Ou com suco de laranja.
Para esmaltes inusitados.
Para contatos bizarros em lugares esquisitos.
Para risadas sufocadas.
Para ser inocentemente chique.
Para beliches penduradas no teto.
Para toalhas que surgem do além.
Para espelhos e caras maliciosas.
Para provocações.
Para abraços e beijos.
Para aquela incurável vontade de sair.
Para segredos e omissões.
Para vozes agudas e risadas de verdade.
Para caronas.
Para tímidas teimosias.
Para falta de formalidades e por-favores.
Para sumidas enlouquecedoras e ridículos sentimentos de desespero.
Para desentendimentos e falta de comunicação.
Para viagens.
Para planos para o futuro.
Para a esperança.
Para ciúmes não-justificados.
Para a insegurança.
Para os Rolling Stones (apesar de eu não gostar).
Para a teimosia.
Para o Facebook.
Para amigos, ex-casos, e para a família.
Para comida japonesa.
Para a diversão de seguranças, manobristas e recepcionistas.
Para "graças a deus que sou trabalhador".
Para janelas mal-posicionadas.
Para aquela lua.
Para inspiração para viver.
Para estar desempregada.
Para frescuras.
Para jaquetas de couro e saias curtas.
Para escoltas policiais.
Para querer um "one LIFE stand".
Para estar sendo observada.
Para Regina Spektor e Justin Bieber.
Para caras de Alice.
Para estar completa e irremediavelmente ferrada. E saber disso.
Para a loucura.
Para o ódio.
Para o amor.

Para mim.

Para você.

*

Abstinence

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”

-Neil Gaiman

Closure III

Your clothes on everyone else's bodies leading my heart to skip a beat every time I thought I saw you.
Your message - the last one I got before my phone died - right as I boarded that plane to the Paradise City.
Your smell lingering on all of my going-out clothes as I unpacked my bags all by myself on that cold, cold night.
Your name on that dingy bathroom stall, hauting me with someone else's initials carved beside it.
Your song on TV while I failed to fall asleep, scared of what was to come.
Your face tattooed onto my memories all day and night and the in between.
Your laughter, your delays, your insanely appealing sighs, your ridiculous red shoes, your incredibly hot jacket, your ignoring me, your unexpectedly sweet messages before I went to sleep, your running away, your coming back, your getting me into trouble, your getting me out of trouble, your overdrinking, your insolence, your arrogance, your humor, your intelligence, your expertise in getting me to contradict myself...
I wanna say fuck you and I wanna say I love you. I guess I fucking love you and I'm sure I love fucking you. I wanna stop calling you and I wanna call you right now. I want you to disappear from my head and my life and I want you to never ever leave my head and life again. I wanna dress up for you and I wanna undress for you. I wanna tell you that I like it when it hurts and I wanna tell you just how much it hurts to like you.
You're the reason behind this chaos. You're the reason behind my lack of interest in anything that doesn't involve you. You're the reason I'm a liar and an asshole. You. Are. The. Reason. PERIOD.
I don't even like you. At all. Not a single bit. In fact, I hate you. I even hate people like you.
And yet you have me here right now, anxiously counting the minutes 'till I see you again. Anxiously hoping you won't cancel. Anxiously longing for just one last night around your unbearable presence. One last time.

Unless you tell me the contrary.

*

I meant to post this a while ago. It doesn't quite fit my current situation anymore, but still is (was?) meaningful nonetheless. I guess it's just another part of my "Closure" series - a considerably late last fit of catharsis. Hopefully.

Momentos Cinematográficos

Adoro momentos cinematográficos.

Sempre que estou prestes a vivenciar um deles sinto cócegas na nuca, como se tivesse sendo observada por tudo e por todos.

"Hope is a thing with feathers that perches on the soul."
Nesse caso, Hope era eu. As penas, meu Ray Ban. A alma, o muro frio e ligeiramente molhado do sereno. Sim, "sereno" existe. Aprendi isso com a Cenoura.

Além de frio e molhado, o muro era alto. Não ALTO alto, mas alto o suficiente pra me pedir um pulinho. Mas é claro que TIVE que sentar lá em cima. Sou mimada, não vivo sem meu momento cinematográfico.

Lá de cima, o mundo era esquisito. Aquele friozinho ensolarado estava me deixando nostálgica; fui atropelada de uma só vez por insanas memórias de La Rubia Divina botando fogo no Kilkenny e nas minhas entranhas ao som de Guns n' Roses enquanto minha blusa rosa choque implorava-a para olhar pra mim. Lembrei daquela música daquela garota que berra de corpo e alma "olha a minha cara de quem gosta de você". Fiz a minha "cara de quem gosta de você" pra ela. E depois, só pra fazer charme, caprichei no sotaquezinho brasileiro. O Brian riu e falou que eu não prestava mesmo.

Agora que relembro tudo isso, outra frase me vem a cabeça - na verdade, o trecho de um livro: "Poderia contar as mentiras mais formidáveis para elas. Aventuras impossíveis de acontecer pra quem talvez nunca saísse de uma cidade tão pequena. Mas eu estava ali, também, porque queria que minhas mentiras fossem uma verdade incontestável ao longo do tempo." Pena que eu não sabia mentir.

Fiquei triste e decidi não pensar mais nisso.

Eu não estava exatamente confortável lá em cima do muro. Minhas pernas estavam longe do chão e sem nenhum apoio. Não podia escorregar nem para frente nem para trás sem correr o risco de cair. Não tinha vontade de conversar. Não tinha paciência para escutar. Não tinha nada além de uma tentadora possibilidade de me entreter olhando o mundo.

Não via pessoas, e sim seus sentimentos. Suas vontades, suas preocupações. Vi que todos eram iguais, tanto por fora, quanto por dentro. As mesmas roupas das mesmas lojas, mas só em cores diferentes. Os mesmos comentários sobre quais vips conseguiram pra quais baladas. A mesma hostilidade para com o diferente e a mesma necessidade de impressionar.

Devia ter ficado mais triste ainda, mas não foi bem assim.

Fiquei feliz porque estava lá no alto, longe de tudo aquilo e de toda aquela gente. Fiquei feliz porque não precisava de nada disso, e apesar de estar imersa no caos, estava intacta e ebriamente sóbria sentada no meu murinho. Fiquei feliz porque a Cenoura finalmente desligou o celular e soltou um "QUE FRIOOO", daquele jeito que só nós entendemos, e me puxou de volta pro chão e pra vida que tanto adoro.

Fiquei feliz porque ganhei meu momento cinematográfico.

*

Mourning

I don't like the person I AM when I AM with you.
I like the person I WAS when I WAS with you.

This whole day reminds me of a surreal dream of a drunken dawn at Kilkenny's, with nothing to clutch but a shot of Jäger poured by the Rubia Divina in person while El Negro lends a friendly shoulder for all my whining and complaining. In the background, an old Pink Floyd song soflty sifts throught the delicate netting of the dingy pub's soundsystem:

Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry
Momma's gonna make all of your nightmares come true
Momma's gonna put all of her fears into you
Momma's gonna keep you right here under her wing
She won't let you fly, but she might let you sing
Momma's will keep baby cozy and warm...

And I miss her and I want her to fly over and hold me and drink coffee with me at Genesis Café and share alfajores with me while we shop for scarves and talk about life. I want her to listen to me talk about last night and laugh and tell me I'm no good while bearing the biggest proud-parent smile I've seen. I want her to like the people I'm in love with - actually, just meeting them and being okay with their existence would do too. I want her in my life like before.

Today reminds me of the reason behind this morbid haze floating around the house. The "she" of my memory is not the "she" wearing the slippers I gave her for Mother's Day. The "she" my sister still sees is not the "she" who used to spend whole afternoons with me at the studio teaching me how to paint. The "she" I wanted there with me, living the best days of my life by my side, is not the "she" spilling hurtful words about myself and those I love.

So as I sit here in mourning, dressed in black from head to toe (yes, my brand new leather jacket is indeed part of it), another Floyd song dances in front of my eyes:

How I wish, how I wish you were here
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears
Wish you were here

*

Que Sea Rock

Glitter.
Skinny jeans.
Flashy belts.
Fur vests.
Dyed hair.
Tattoos.
Beer.
Kilkenny.
Feathers.
Cigarrettes.
Girls.
Boys.
Sex.
Guitars.
Moshing.
Prost.
Hot accents.
Boots.
Rock and roll faces.

International Relations? Nahh, I think I'll just be a groupie.

you are SO not walking away again

"Our flesh is almost touching. We exchange big grins... I love this part. These next few minutes - I wish I could live them in slow play. This bit is almost as good as... And this, right now, is just as intense. Flirting. Slightly hazy from the booze. The inevitability of... hanging over us both, just like a spell."

-Millie, Brass

Fuckkkkk.

About letters and nuggets

I hate writing letters. I never know what kind of paper to use, if I should write it in pen or in pencil or in one of those cute glittery things, if I should seal the envelope or not. Nothing.
And then I don't know how to begin. I always start out writing a name, then erasing it and giving something a little more sentimental a try, and then erasing that and going back to just the name. Just like when having a wardrobe crisis - I always settle for what I tried on first.

Well, today I noticed how much harder it is to write a letter for you. I've written countless notes to you in class, billions of blog posts about you and us and our adventures, and even the random post card here and there. But a letter...

I hope you take into consideration everything we've gone through and I hope you find my attempt to explain my whole life to you right now unbearably cute. Or at least heartbreakingly honest. Because it's both. To me.

To you it'll be just sad and hard to get, I know. You'll think it's an excuse for a plain and simple "no", you'll think I'm overcomplicating things, you'll think I'm someone you were wrong about all along... And I hate it. But I do love you and you know it. You're the only one I can hold hands and walk with for two hours straight under the rain while we're lost and cold and hungry at an unfamiliar city - and still have fun.

And... well, enough with the drama. That's not what we're like. Happy nuggets day, silly :)

*

Cute?!?!

My little sister's essay for an assignment titled "A Memorable Event From Your Childhood"

My Attack!!!
One day, when my sister and I were watching TV, I lied down on the sofa and I thought: “I’m not feeling very well, I think I have a fever, maybe if I lie down I get better, I don’t even have to tell mom about it.” I felt like if an elephant was falling on my head, after a while I also felt something inside my stomach going up and up, suddenly I threw up! I didn’t know what was that white thing spreading all over me, and after ten minutes, my sister looked at me to comment about the cartoon. She looked at me, gasped, and then she panicked, I had a gruesome vomit all over! She ran to tell mom, and said: “Yuck, Isa has white vomit all over, she has oatmeal, and she smells like if she had not taken a bath for years!” After all that my mom carried me to the bathtub and gave me a super bath, and she said: “Why didn’t you tell me you were not feeling well?” I didn’t answer her but I thought: “I’m only two!”

CUUUUUUTE?!?!?!

*

Love love LOVE you!!

I've missed you. Like, WAY too much! I've missed our everlasting talks about the good ol' times and our new lives and the world and the people in it... I've especially missed your goofy laugh. I've missed the way your glasses slide down your nose a little bit while you do it.  I've missed the way you smile and I've missed how tiny your eyes get- all while you're sitting there laughing at me.

I love the way you're good inside out. You're seriously on a whole different level of "good" than the rest of us. I love your heart and your soul and the way you bump into inanimate objects and actually apologize to them, kind of sort of unconsciously. You're my favorite friend ever, misterrr.

But tonight is actually about giving you one of our exclusive and clumsy hip bumps and a bear-sized thank-you hug. I love it how you were the first to listen to me and I love it how your first reaction was to beg me to "be careful". You could have reacted like any other guy in my life, but you did that cute thing with your eyebrows and asked me to take care of myself instead. Then you gave me the naughty smile and asked me for a demo one of these days, okaaay. But hey, for you I sure will, haha. Promise. Because I love you the mostest and I'd honestly marry you right now, if it wasn't for our little secret.

Tonight you're the last face on my mind before I go to sleep. Love you lots xxx

*

RE: Hell Yeah, We Can!

Okay, this is ridiculous.

I'm still in a thoughtful and revolutionary mood, so I was doing research about last post's issue when I ran across this site. I thought it was going to be a satyrical thing, kind of like The Onion, about extreme conservatorism. But no, the thing is for real. Here are some "highlights":

http://www.conservapedia.com/Contraceptives
http://www.conservapedia.com/Feminism
http://www.conservapedia.com/Harry_Potter
http://www.conservapedia.com/Homosexuality
http://www.conservapedia.com/Evolution
http://www.conservapedia.com/Abortion
http://www.conservapedia.com/Madonna_Ciccone (okay, I did laugh about this one).

Yes, Juno, we've both said this before, but hey... "I'm losing my faith in humanity".

*

Hell Yeah, We Can!

"I love it when you get all rebel-without-a-cause," 'Carrot' said to me after class today. Yes, I actually went, despite how beer-before-noon today felt like.

"Why?" my royally pissed-off frown automatically morphed into a sweet little smile just because I'm random like that.

"Because you're my let's-change-the-world buddy," she bumped her hip against mine and stuck her tongue out at me while stealing my lighter again.

Yes, at the moment I just laughed and popped the flavor switch on my cigarrette (did you know those existed? THEY DO!), but her comment just wouldn't leave me alone afterwards. We should all have a let's-change-the-world buddy, I concluded.

***

It all started today, when my favorite professor (yes, the feminist hippie one) gave a class on 'perversion' and the power of words. We were analyzing the Catholic Church's speech concerning all the pedophilia scandals when she showed an article of a Really Important Religious Figure basically blaming it on homosexuality. Needless to say, everyone was extremely surprised, and yes, in the negative sense. It was one of those intense moments in class when everyone starts letting out indignant comments/noises and the teacher has to ask everyone to shut up at least twice.

Anyway, she began telling us about an incident about an year ago in one of the Law classes and we immediately calmed down again. It was around time of the Pride Parade, which is a huuuge deal here in the city, and of course people were joking around about it. Sample conversation:

Guy 1: "Hey, man, did you buy your outfit yet? Hahahah."
Guy 2: "Yeah, dude, your dad came with me. I loved the panties he bought. Hahaha."

Right.

So the Law teacher came in and asked what everyone's fuss was about that day, and someone told him. He snickered and pushed his dark-rimmed glasses up his nose and let out with disgust, "If it was up to me, I'd line every single one of them up and execute them."

!!!

The class fell silent in utter disbelief until a girl politely asked, "But professor, don't you think your comment goes a little against what is stated the Constitution?"

"No," he frowned with extreme self-righteousness, "What those people do is wrong and I wouldn't think twice about shooting them all up."

"Well," the girl stood up, "In that case, you can start with shooting me."

Silence again.

And then a boy stood up and raised his chin defiantly, "And me."

And then another boy stood up, and then another girl, and then another and another, and soon enough the whole class was standing up. The professor didn't apologize or try to explain himself better (which would be extremely difficult, considering everything), but proceeded to insult and discriminate even more.

Long story short, the class immediately marched over to the Headmaster's office and the ignorant little fuck was fired.

***

"Well, we can change the world," I told 'Carrot', smiling at the goose-bumps the story still gave me, "We're going to. Trust me."

*

J'veux ton amour/ Et je veux ton revanche...

I know this side of me sucks, but I just can't help it.

You had become boring months ago when I first stopped taking your calls. And you managed to become boring again even after I gave you the miraculous second chance a few weeks back. I thought I'd made my point by vanishing from your life for the second time, after that one night. Clearly, I hadn't. So yes, I was rude today. Not just rude, but merciless. I asked you why the fuck would I call you back, when all I felt like saying was 'I'm just not into you anymore'?

I really did say that and it scared me. It scared me because I wanted to have said it in a nicer way, or at least feel bad for you. Instead, I didn't feel a thing.

So I got home today and sulked in selfish thoughts that had absolutely nothing to do with you or any of the others, but with me instead. I thought and thought and finally got it - why I can be as cold and uncaring, I mean.

See, when I first wrap my head around the idea of any of you, I'm the giddiest, clumsiest, most in love person in the entire universe. And when I get what I thought was what I wanted and see it really wasn't, I vanish. I'm well aware I do it and I'm a jerk enough to not really care and still do it anyways. But what I figured out today was that I only do it because I don't love you!

Okay, so that doesn't make it sound any better.

Well, let me try again. My apologies for all the, ah, 'hurricane side-effects', as Ray most kindly reminded/teased me today as he heard me shrieking at you on the phone. Really, I'm being honest. So honest, in fact, that with those apologies I throw in the promise that I will not do it again. Or at least I'll warn you. If you're up for it anyways and then regret it, it's your fucking problem. But I will not jump into things I don't have my heart on.

There. Now I'm just another commoner looking for true love.

Blargh.

*

Fire and Ice

One by one, like fireflies in the forest, they went on around dinner time, illuminating bottles of wine and mouth-watering meatloaves and leftover chunks of bread from yesterday's supper. Round dinner tables surrounded by velvet-lined chairs under elaborate chandeliers or rectangular formica desks with creaky metal seats beneath naked lightbulbs.

Then they came, formal and silent, but undeniably together, to sit down in graceful and synchronized moves and eat. Under the same starry night sky, under the same slice of moon... but sheltered and warm, unlike me.

I sat on my balcony, a cigarrette on one hand and a pristine glass of water on the other, and waited until the very last minute I was allowed the privacy of my room. My balcony, to be more precise. My netted cage of a balcony.

My bare legs felt cold and my freezing feet, numb. I wrapped my arms snugly around my chest and took the very last drag before flinging the down-to-the-filter ciggie away into the night. I watched it fall, eight stories down, its half-dead tip still burning in its plunge to death. I uncrossed one arm and absent-mindedly fingered my hair back and let out a sigh.

Then I turned around and stepped back inside. And while the space in itself felt physically warmer than my utterly beloved balcony, my heart cooled down and transformed back into a lonely ice-cube, two parallel lines melting out through the window of my watery eyes.

*

Female Earthquakes

Okay, this might as well be titled "Women's Rights Bitch Fit #2". I know I've posted about this before, but I still ALWAYS feel like breaking something every time I read something like the following:

“Many women who do not dress modestly lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which increases earthquakes,” the cleric, Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi, was quoted as saying by Iranian media.

Yes, it is absolutely ridiculous, to say the least. And I really shouldn't still be surprised to hear such things, especially from such a pretentious, sad and pathetic little man like Mr. Sedighi. Just to clear things up, I'm not bitching out at him because he's a man. I mean, even though I'm pretty much up to here with them at the moment, there are good men out there (note to self: look up the directions to Out There). Instead, I'm taking out my torches and pitchforks because he's a stupid sexist extremist hiding behind a twisted version of what was meant to be a beautiful religion.

So Mr. Sedighi, I know that you probably don't even know how to turn on a computer, considering your well-rounded skills in being ignorant. I know that even if you were listening to me, you wouldn't really listen just because a) I'm a woman and b) you can't deal with having to stand up for your beliefs, because deep down you know they're shallow and erroneous, and c) I fall under the exact category of women you're describing, in terms of dressing sense. I know that you probably had no choice about being brought up the way you were and I feel sorry for your lack of personal motivation to know more and to change. I know that you probably have sex issues with your wife, if you have one (or two, or four, I don't know how these things work over there), which are probably to blame in your ridiculous and uncalled-for declaration about women. I know all that, I promise.

But hey, if you were, for some reason, listening to me, I wouldn't dare bore you with explanations about plate tectonics and the causes of an earthquake. That you could get even in the most outdated science book in the planet. Instead, I'd just flash you and give you the finger and say you know what? You're absolutely right about women being the leading factor behind earthquakes. We don't even have to try. Just our presence in this planet is enough to move the earth. Women do rock the world.

ASSHOLE.
*

Avril 14th

If you want things to come to you, sometimes all you gotta do is hold still. Sit down on the curb. Stretch your legs out in front of you and cross them, then uncross them - either way is fine. Light up a cigarrette. Don't even cup the flame of the pretty pink lighter you found again after so long (hidden in the lining of your favorite winter bag, of all places). Light it up and let it burn. The wind will hold still for you, just for those two and a half seconds, and then will blow the hair off your face again so you can see right. So you can see the world right.

The clouds will move and the sun will reach through just for you. There's only you in the world and no one else. You take a drag and blow out the smoke just to watch it drift and snake through the sunshine, and then you smile. Somebody halts to a surprised stop in front of you and calls your name, and even though you're answering as if your listening and asking all the appropriate questions, you're not really fully functional.

But you can't possibly be asked to pay attention to the rest while you're busy feeling the world breathe in and out around you. Cars drive by and the earth vibrates with their weight; people walk and their different-paced footsteps keep drumming within your insides until they are long gone; voices tickle your ears; the lights change; limbs and bodies brush past you and you're still there, pulsating with your very own fragment of the universe: your life. You are fragile and you know it. Not really, you don't. You do. You don't. You're not sure.

And honestly... you don't care. You're there and you are making people laugh by laughing at them and calling them stupid. You're there and you're running into exactly who you'd been dying to see - dressed in particularly pleasant outfits. You're there and you're allowed to be silent, because that in itself is the perfect sort of conversation between the two of you at that moment. You're there and you sound smart, even though you were just kidding. You're there and you're talking to a lunatic on the street, but having the first real conversation in days. You're there and you're being offered all the craziest things masked by fun-to-say names, and you care so little about the rest that you take them. You're there and... you're there.

Yes, I've been told I sound stoned more than four times today. I'm not. I'm just here... and there. Holding perfectly still.



Listening to: "Avril 14th", Aphex Twin - Marie Antoinette Soundtrack



*

Closure II

Maybe it's just the weather. Probably. Hopefully. Because I really don't know why you suddenly re-surfaced in my mind after all of these months, right when I thought I had you tucked in right and under control.

Anyways.

I was out on the street with "Ray" and "Carrot" deliberating between the bar or the gas station (it was 9am, so our getting alcohol was a bit of a critical situation), when I looked up a the impossibly ugly weather and cringed. A total "Joy Division sky", as Millie would say. I tugged at my ridiculous bright orange jacket (not my fault - I borrowed it, okay?) and held on tight to my umbrella, and just cringed. "Oh no," I thought, "here they come". And sure enough, the second I found myself alone again, shitloads of memories began pouring down over my head, along with the annoyingly insistent rain.

It was the sixth of July and I'd flown all the way over there with piles of idealized hopes for our one day together. You'd taken the train, just like in the movies, and I couldn't feel giddier about this if I tried. As usual, with you and me, I'd just gotten there the day before and you were just about to leave on the day after. You were headed to the place we met and I, the hopeless romantic, was finding it all extremely poetic.

So I woke up on that unfamiliar bed that morning and rushed straight into the shower. Yes, I did use every single primping product I managed to get my hands on just in case, and yes, I did spend ages walking around the room with my soaking wet hair and that impossibly fluffy hotel towel trying to pick out an outfit. I kept checking the weather outside because despite how miraculously clear the skies were, it was unbelievably cold for a summer day. I settled for my favorite cropped denim skirt, a cute pink shirt and a light sweater, even though I knew I'd feel cold the minute I left the flat. But I was stubborn like that for such things - still am.

And so I waited at the front desk for what felt like years (proudly announcing "I'm waiting for someone" every time one of you overly polite Brits offered me help) until I finally felt the need to stand up. I got up and went outside, fiddling with my rings and biting on my lip and tugging at my hair and telling my heart to shut up. I didn't exactly know why I chose to stand up at that exact moment... until I saw you, standing by the rusty iron gates with that adorable lost expression on your face. Our eyes locked. You smiled. We walked towards each other and produced a sort of awkward how-do-we-act-now hug. I laughed and you joined me and we hugged again - and this time I felt safe and warm steady in your arms.

You wanted to meet my parents, despite my protests, so up we went. My dad gave you about thirty seven head-to-toe once-overs and I just knew he'd have some sort of comment to make about your sexy v-neck sailor shirt and crooked wool hat (which he did, only later - thank god). After those few tense minutes I slipped my hand around your wrist and dragged you off to the streets. I wanted you just for myself all day.

What we did on that weirdly life-changing sixth of July isn't really that important, now that I think about it. It just isn't. Yes, there were bagels on vintage bistrots, a totally lkafjdskk visit to a dingy museum with none of its lights on, and an ass-freezing walk in the world's most poetic park, but other than that, there was nothing. Nothing but the growing distance between us that had started precisely two years ago, the minute I left you outside my dorm room while the cops finally left after yelling at us in Chinese.

It started to rain right about when you were supposed to be dropping me off to catch the train back to your hometown. I cursed the (unsurprisingly) cold weather before I finally blamed myself for my wardrobe choice, until you gave me your jacket and took out a bright red umbrella from your stylish mailman bag. I laughed and you didn't get why - you just proceeded to open it up over our heads. It was tiny and we had to squeeze underneath it to avoid getting wet - not that I was complaining. In fact, the size of my smile had just about quadrupled as our hands touched, and all I could think was "at fucking last!". I made a point to give you sideways looks from time to time and you noticed them. Your sexy thin lips curved upwards in a discreet smile and I have no idea how I didn't just push you up against the nearest wall and jumped you right there and then. I mean it!

"We're here," you said with a choked up whisper. We had reached a large busy avenue and it was (again) just like in the movies: the cars and the people rushed past us while the rain ceased to a stop as if on cue, and there we stood, face to face.

"So..." I began, taking the brave step forward.

"So..." you repeated, closing your ridiculously comic red umbrella. I watched you and you looked right back at me and I couldn't read your eyes if my life depended on it. Panic grew inside me exponentially. You thanked me for the gift I brought you all the way from home and I thanked you for yours and for our day together. You stepped forward too, closing up the distance between us, and hugged me tight. I hugged you right back, with my heart dropping to the pits of my stomach. That would be it and I knew it. I indulged in your feel, your warmth, your smell, and then finally got myself to let you go. I gave you a valedictory smile and you returned it, and then we were off. Strangers walking down the street in opposite directions. I didn't dare look back to see if you were looking at me because I knew I'd drop dead when you weren't.

And that was that.

So as I stood there with my new friends, bracing myself for the rain while living my brand new post-you life, I finally got it. I was tired of feeling like that postcard you no longer cared for (like on that song I'd written you months ago) and was surprisingly okay with it. Okay with tired, okay with not needing you anymore, okay with diving into memories of the two of us - you name it. And yes, I do become a total bitch every time I see your irresistible black and white pictures with her on a beach somewhere, but hey... We had a history together. One of those exciting and breath-taking movie stories people never believe can happen. But you know what the London rain made me realize today? That I liked it and that I don't regret it. More importantly, that I'm ready to feel that way again. But in reverse. Or not. Or both. Oh well. I'm not making any sense outside my head, I know, but then again... I never do when I feel this way.

And I suspect I do feel "this way".

*

Closure

It's not about her and it's not about anyone else. It's just about the 'grown ups' and she understands. With brilliant and child-like simplicity - but she understands.

She felt like a girl in a movie all through the car ride: the impossibly short denim skirt, the exaggerated headphones, the abundance of rings and bracelets and chains, the classic Ray Ban Wayfarers...

The agressive vulnerability in her eyes simultaneously clashed with and contributed to the feeling of alienation growing within her.

Up front, on the driver's seat, he went on and on about her father, with one laid-back arm resting on the window and a despicable grin perched on his blasphemous lips. Beside him, she told tales of men and cars and credit cards while repeatedly coating her artificial lips with more lipgloss. In the backseat, the kids laughed and played video-games and blew bubble-gum bubbles, and the whole world could be on fire, but they still wouldn't budge an inch (which didn't mean that they weren't listening - far from it).

And then, smack in the middle of the snotty pitch black SUV, sat the girl and what was left of her most immediate family. Her mother and sister discreetly clung on to each other on the seat next to her as if their lives depended on it. Her sister pretended to be asleep just so her mother would hold her, and her mother feigned a phone call just to have an excuse to dodge the spotlight.

The girl was left with herself. Not that that was good news to anyone, but it was just how it was. Left alone with an out-of-place craving for home and for her dad and for her cigarrettes. Left alone with her detached thoughts about the trees, the bridges, and the factory buildings that raced past the bulletproof window on her side. Left alone with the self-proclaimed recklessness she just couldn't get rid of.

When night came she couldn't sleep. The car ride and the Versailles dinner had exhausted her, yet she couldn't bear to stay still in her bed. She missed more than just home and dad and cigarrettes, but she wouldn't allow herself to admit it. It was too soon and too impulsive - even for her - to let herself succumb to such feelings. 'It's the heat,' she silently repeated until she finally got the energy to get out of bed.

Staring straight into the mirror, she removed every single garment from her body, letting each one fall to the floor with calculated theatricality. But her eyes were not her own - 'they are yours', she whispered, barely moving her lips. And as the ice-cold water shot down and enveloped her shivering body, she forgot. She forgot about her soul, her self, and everything that came with it. She forgot, and then there was closure.

*

Oldies

While listening to Cat Power's "Lived in Bars"...

KT Tunstall's "Big Black Horse and the Cherry Tree"

After the "Monday Night Disaster"

"Effect and Cause" by the White Stripes

And of course... the "infamous" peacock :)

*

The Funniest Thing

I expected to wake up today with the permanent heartache still pounding at my chest. Oh, the drama. Well, yes, these past weeks have been filled with it. FILLED. But I've done my best to keep my smile on and keep quiet - as CJ has twittered, "I'm not asking for a pity party". So besides the silent smiles and my acting like the world isn't really setting itself on fire everytime I come home, I've been carrying on about my businesses as usual. Maybe smoking just a tiny bit more, instead of quitting like I promised "S" and "Carrot" and myself (about that, my last pack is gone - and I don't plan on buying any today or tomorrow and at least until Monday).

So I definitely found it weird when I woke up today, with the sun peeking into my room through the glass doors of my balcony, and felt cozy and at ease. But it was more than that. I felt so not-lonely, so warm and snug and blissful and perfect, that I couldn't possibly believe I was alone in my own bed. I just couldn't be. I rolled over to one side and all I found was the cold wall. I took a second to tuck my feet back inside the covers, and then rolled over to the other. Besides my almost falling out of bed (which is still broken from that thing ages ago) and my noticing the three unread messages on my cell phone, I found nothing. I was totally and completely alone in my totally and completely unaltered room.

I fell back into that semi-conscious state of sleep. Now that I'm 100% awake, I definitely blame it on that. On my falling asleep again. I dreamed one of those light and easy to alter dreams and the feeling that there was someone else in bed with me remained. I could feel this warmth oozing into my chest and spreading through to the rest of my body and I involuntarily smiled. So what if this was a ghost. So what if this was a spirit attempting to drive me mad(er). So what if this was all in my head. Notice the lack of question marks - I really, really wasn't trying to figure it all out, for a change. I just succumbed to feeling those invisible eyes on me, those intangible hands on my skin, those inexistent breaths merging with mine. And when I finally got myself out of bed and walked into the ever-flaming world, I was okay. No more feeling as if I was watching a leaking tap with my hands tied behind my back. No more helplessness over being overwhelmed with responsabilities I wasn't supposed to have. No more feeling sorry for them and for us and for the entire world. And no more feeling alone. I was high on the biggest cigarrette rush without even having any in my purse.

And now here I am with a brand new list of resolutions. Wait. Let's sidetrack for a second here: is it of any symbolical importance that this isn't New Year's, but April Fool's? Oh well. Anyways.
-Get back on the fencing team. The gym is so not working. I hate the I'm-only-here-because-I-want-a-hot-body feeling I get when I go there. I hate the botoxed superficial women and smug beefy men. I hate running on the treadmill instead of outside. I hate using my (impressive... not) strength for no tangible reason. I hate it all. Fencing it is.
-Carry on with the whole "summer for myself" thing. I admit I was a bit delusional when I mentioned moving out a few posts ago. Really. Where was I supposed to go? Okay, so I had had an interesting rooming proposal. Anyways. Since it's not really realistic and since I'm suddenly expected to be the grown up around here, I'm just allowing myself to indulge in my whole month off in the land of the sexy accents. Nope, not the UK - I wish. Let's just say I'll be hearing loads of "hablas español" in July.
-Looking forward to a certain Green Tea Frappucino encounter. Lips closed on that one ;)
-Accepting just how reckless and impulsive I can be, and using that for my advantage. I'm "just a tiny bit" stubborn too, so it's pretty clear I'm not going to change. Instead, I'm going to say what I really think, for a change, and I'm not going to get myself in as much trouble as before. No more proclaiming my love for JD in the middle of the night and then getting myself onboard a car driven by a drunken "Tall", no more holding hands with "Heels" and exchanging weird glances inside completely deserted elevators, no more Monday Night Disasters, no more stuck up pricks I don't even like, no more MPD-fueled nights. I hereby promise I will be one FreeFlowers and one FreeFlowers only. Okay, so maybe I'll just let this resolution sit in my mind for a little while.
-Selling my old amp. God knows I need the money. Or not. Oh well. Money's always welcome ;)
-Being a better friend for "S". Putting up with things I don't want to hear just because of my own personal issues. Honoring the Code of the 'Bjundas'. Hahahah. Love you!
-Making " Diamond" and her friends laugh. Yes, I sing in my car. Yes, I know "Tik Tok" by heart. Yes, I'm a total goofy headbanger every time "Paradise City" comes up on the radio. Yes, I stick my tongue out and give people the finger every time they wink/honk/flirt/laugh at my crazyness. And no, I really couldn't care less about driving on the wrong lane and about wrecking the entire side of my car and cursing out loud and being told on to my parents. What was our made up word for this? Right... Lobia. Lobia lots!
-Having perfectly chilled mornings like this one more often. I still don't know what was in bed with me when I woke up. Or maybe I do. Oh well.


Listening to: "Birds", by Kate Nash. Cute.

*

Confessions on a Dancefloor

Look.

I like the way you ask about the "essentials" in my bag - cherry candy, eyeliner, cigarettes, and a ridiculously large lollipop. I like the way you reach back for my leg in the middle of an especially boring TPE class just to wake me up and make me laugh. I like the way you parade around our hotel room wearing nothing but a slightly wet towel. I like the way you picked up that tiny ant with your clumsily large fingers and placed it on my arm while I shrieked and cringed and tried to hold still. I like the way you laugh about my vintage "Alice in Wonderland" shirt and cropped denim shorts and the fact that I rarely ever wear a bra with them. I like the way you reach into your back pocket for your wallet to pay for my JDs. I like the way you flash your headlights twice when you pick me up at night. I like how you give me a hungry once-over when I walk up to you in the morning with the wind blowing my flushed face awake. I like the way you reach for the back of my head and twine your fingers with my hair to pull my face close to yours when you greet me. I like the way you smile - twisted and deranged like that Arctic Monkeys song you've never even heard. I like the way you laugh at my impossibly childish doodles in class. I like the way you move your wide shoulders to the beat of every song and the way your body feels agains mine when we dance together under the black lights. I like the way you stared at me as if you were the one soul on this earth who got me - only to find out you were only staring because my dress was (quote) "un-not-stare-able". I like the way you make fun of my quirks and I even like the way you laugh when you know you're pissing me off.

But "Ray", my friend, that doesn't mean I'm in love with you. Get over the "boyfriend" questions because that subject is so far off of my mind it's ridiculous. It is. You'll laugh at me when you get it. And you know I'll like the way you laugh, so let's just leave it at that.

*

You Had Me at "Whales and Polar Bears"

Sometimes whole days will go by and I won't even notice.

I'll be holding my breath, busy wanting the sun, the seas and the stars... until my legs dissolve underneath me and I choke to death on yearning for the touch of a certain pair of hands on my fire and the feel of a certain set of lips on my ice.

The unfeeling feeling lingers on until I realize it's all in my head and I shake myself alive, only to find that I will never fully recover from that sweet sleepwalking state that made me laugh when in pain and cry when in pleasure.

Avoiding it is not at all impossible - just accompanied by regret. So I'll just succumb to this sensation and bow to what he's said: "if music be the food of love, play on."

*

I want... but instead I'm stressed.

I want to be where the air feels like the first breath you take as you step out of a club at sunrise. I want to be where I wake up and don't know where and who I I am - just how. I want that 'how' to live up to its embelished descriptions I can't seem to grasp while I'm awake. I want my tongue to tease you to life while you close around it and melt me to death as if it was the sun I was licking, not you. I want to shock, scream, whisper, smile, belong, and walk in hand in hand all at the same time while the world falls dead silent for a flicker of a second. I want the world to go back to normal afterwards and to not just act right, but to be right. I want to create, I want to make, I want to win, I want to fight, I want to love, I want to hate, I want to be there, I want to be here, I want to live, I want to die, I want to simply feel alive.

But on more concrete terms, here's a list of a few things I've been stressing over lately (real, tangible, present-in-the-real-world kind of things, I promise):
-A place for myself. Yes, I will probably immediately a) turn into the typical party girl and drink&party myself to death surrounded by 37 people I don't know and 4 actual friends, or b) turn into a female version of my crazy ex-neighbour who was a war veteran and a sort of hermit writer who never went out, except to scare people on Halloween. But I seriously regret having made the choice to continue living with my parents, not because I love them any less than I did during the whole making-a-college-decision era of my life, but because they just had to choose exactly that time of my life to start kicking things downhill. And now that they can't deal with anything except themselves, I'm the one left to keep running the house. I am not my sister's parent - if I wanted a kid I'd have made one myself (ha)! Seriously, I love my family more than anyone can imagine, hence my decision to continue living at home (not to mention how much easier I have it when it comes to food&cleaning&money heheh), but I'm only 19! It's too much and I need out. So. Anyone looking for roommate?
-Getting a job at rehab. Seriously. I'm addicted (ignore the stupid wordplay) to rehab stories and movies and autobiographies and yes, they may be a "little" less scary than the real deal, but I feel like those people need to be cared for and are not. Everyone thinks helping anyone else is more noble - the kids, the elderly, the disabled... They say addicts "bring out the worst in our communities" and that they "brought it onto themselves - by themselves", so why should anyone volunteer? Well, I say they are more like us than you can imagine. We aren't kids. We aren't old. Most of us aren't disabled. We are young, normal people, who, if raised under different circumstances, could very much be one of them. I'd like to know a random stranger cares for me if I was in rehab, because if I got myself there in the first place, I probably don't have anyone else to turn to anyways. I want to be that someone to some lost, miserable, cold-turkey-ing person. (This reminds me so much of that passage in "The Catcher in the Rye", btw).
-Fixing my car's AC. I know. I mentioned it ages ago and I still haven't fixed it. And it's still summer.
-A certain pair of weird light eyes in French class. Oh, yes, I started taking French. Je m'appelle FreeFlowers. ANYWAYS. I say 'weird light eyes' because they're this strange mixture of green and blue and grey and that colorless shiny wrapper paper color I can't name and they're... nice. Oh my. I'm going all Golden Tipped Eyelashes again.
-My obsession with my own constant confusion. It's sad and stressing and overwhelming and I can't take it. I can't just walk away either. It's kind of sort of like cigarrettes - I know they're bad for me but I almost like the whole process of fishing one out of the secret pocket in my bag and sticking it between my lips and cupping my hand around the lighter while I flick the fire on. I'm like that with my own darkness, and never has any good come out of it. I don't know why any will now. I'm just double-stressed because I can't deal with stumbles right now - only drunken ones. I can't deal with the whole really falling into this mess because now there's just too much at stake: actual good friends, good people, good parties, good places, good everything. The "dark year" I kept going on about before was different because those were bad friends, bad people, bad parties, bad places, bad everythings. I didn't have anything left in myself to lose back then, and it took me this long to realize it. Now it just feels like I'm standing on the ledge of an exponentially taller sky-scraper.
-PMS. Chocolate. Not going to the gym. Beer. Yes, I need to get my old body back quick. And hey - before anyone tells me to shut the fuck up, because that's exactly what everyone tells me with a practically offended look on their faces after giving me a once-over, it's a self-esteem thing. No one ever feels pretty a week before their period is due.
-Lunch with my mother on Friday. Jesus f-ing Christ. By the way we're already arguing over just planning it, I can tell it's gonna be simply dandy (I will never be able to not think of you, B, when I say this). God help me - set apart a fuckload of funny pills and even funnier spliffs (kidding, I'm such a good girl) and turn my autopilot on while I listen to her complain about the horrible daughter I am (and she doesn't even know half of it, ha) and proceeds to make us both cry and look like idiots while I stuff my face with unnecessary calories just so I won't have to say a word.
-Classes. Why, again, am I an International Relations major? I just want to be a writer, an artist, a poet, whatever! I want to laze around and doodle on notebooks and make shitloads of money with whatever crap inks out of my pen. I don't want to be a fucking diplomat and I don't want to be handcuffed to a 4x4 cubicle. I'm already crazy when I'm handcuffed to nothing (or at least nothing particularly boring, heh heh), I'd go totally mental if I was made into one of those glassy-eyed office freaks! Gahhh. I need a different major. And future. And life. And universe.
-My friend, who I'll call Ray (because that's "his" name in one of my novels), is also a stress factor. Ray, I think you're ridiculously hot and even if you had just stood still that day with only that gorgeously flimsy towel on and let me and my friend appreciate your mouth-watering six-pack, I still wouldn't have kissed you on Friday. I love you too much and I'm "mysterious and confused", so again, "Ray! What the fuck are we doing?? CHEERS!"
-Blondie. I forgot your name. Ray doesn't like you. I like your lips.

Shit. I'm a mess and I'm out of both chocolate and alcohol. And gas. And I need to shower. And I need to send my resumee (never know where to place the goddamm accent) to this volunteer work thing - not rehab, teaching again - so I better go.

Happy belated International Women's Day! We rock! No need to get us all showered with compliments because we already know it, right? ;)

There. I'm ending this one on a positive note.

*

When in Heels

Nightmarish figures with razor-sharp dyed hair and painted faces step on our toes with edgy heels and string their pearly beads around our necks in attempt to suck us into their empty shells. She rests an elbow against the flower bed behind her (the flowers withered into dust over the rough granite rocks) until the man in the suit lowers his sunglasses down the bridge of his wide nose and tells her to stop. "Am I that heavy?" she asks underneath droopy, drunken eyelashes, a provocative pout distorting her lips. He laughs flirtatiously but I can't help but think to myself - yes, lady, you are that heavy, despite your bony figure and sickly face. You are heavy with contempt for me and my company, not because we're prettier (we are not) but because we are young. Because the man in the suit does not hesitate to let us in. Because we are holding hands and pretending to talk about our 'others' while our eyes exchange prohibited glances.

In we go under ridiculously hard to say fake names. I follow my friend in, hands still clutched, and enter the elevator that will lead us way down into place where right and wrong merge into a single mass of smiles, bodies, laughter, sweat, tears, alcohol, music, and filthy money. We are the only ones in the elevator, silently standing face to face with deranged ideas in our minds while we clutch its opposing metal walls for support. My knees bend for a flash of a second with pure desire and so do yours. The doors open, sliding a blade of noise and conversation through the moment we just shared. We shake our heads clear and blink it all away. You take my hand and I can walk again.

The place feels wrong. The idea of it colapses in our minds like a firework that didn't go off; instead, the lights and the fire and the loud bang reside in between our silky warm hands, still helt tight. You are in a whole different level of drunk so I have no idea if I'm just imagining things. I can't possibly be - I am the sober one here... aren't I?

And then you look at me and ask me to lead the way. You feel as lost and out of place as I do and, as a consequence, start blabbing away about your 'others' and this place's 'potentials'. But, once again, your hand gives your true thoughts away. Your thumb circles the back of my hand and your fingers tickle my knuckles almost imperceptively. Your hand shifts and rearranges itself in mine repeatedly and I know it's not because you haven't found a comfortable position yet - you are feeling the contours of mine in yours, unfamiliar and dangerous in your head. Your eyes widen and change color and you ask me if I want to leave. I say yes.

Strangers approach us at different times and with different intentions while we stand in line. Our eyes meet and both of us are impressed. You patiently wait for me while I yell at the men in the dark suit, and for a split second, the tension is waved off and all there is is our shared laughter. I'm finally released from the confines of that miniature hell and we are together once again, in our no-longer-necessary hand-holding.

But then the night air slaps us both cold and sober and we let go. I smoke and shift in my feet while you complain about life and we are no longer in sync. I take awkward drags while you watch my lips close around the cigarette. Your mouth twitches and I'm scared of what we're about to fall into, so I toss the cigarette away a bit theatrically and smile at you; "I'm ready to go," I say.

I can't not notice how our legs and feet touch in the cab. Once again, we are talking about the strangers in our lives - the beautiful but pathetically empty shells of people we wished we could fall in love with. We share dirty stories in a language the driver doesn't understand, with code-words and slang no one but us know. And then we're there. You lean in for a quick kiss and our cheeks snap with a tiny electrical aftershock of all the delirious moments we managed to come across on our night out by ourselves.

This, my friend, is what happens when we're not surrounded by the usual crowd of secondary characters. I'm scared. Everyone knows we've got particularily fearsome reputations - you are the earthquake, I'm the tornado. We will rip each other to shreds.

*

Meaning of Life

I've finally figured it out. The meaning of life, I mean. Okay, maybe not as much the meaning, but the goal - what all of us are desperately aiming for.

All we want is attention. When we're born we cry for it. When we learn how to talk we demand it. When we become teenagers we expect it - and throw tantrums when we don't get it. This whole blog is, in several ways, all about attention too, so I'm not being self-righteous when I say this.

In fact, the whole reason behind today's shitty mood is my selfish desperation for just one second of everyone's attention on me - I just want some peace and quiet! I don't feel like dressing up to meet people's expectations, I don't feel like saying hi to this randomly annoying guy I don't even know just because I feel sorry for him, I don't feel like taking shit from a certain bratty girl who doesn't know the first thing about me, I don't feel like answering Magic 8 Ball's pathetically insistent message, I don't feel like listening to this other random guy brag about his new girlfriend (screw you serial monogamists for making my inability to commit feel inappropriate!), I don't feel like having to be the grown up while my mother runs off to the beach without a word, I don't feel like setting my Messenger status as 'invisible' just because this guy I don't feel like talking to is online, I don't feel like getting told I shouldn't get a new tattoo because I'm - quote - addicted, I don't feel like taking my Law teacher's crap about my 'restlessness and inability to focus', I don't feel like printing more recipes for my maid, I don't feel like job-hunting, I don't feel like calling her back, I don't feel like I DON'T FEEL LIKE DOING A THING!

So no, I am NOT going to be a martyr and make everyone's lives easier by going down on my knees and offering them a bouquet of pretty pink attention. All I want is a cigarette, my guitar, the outdoors and the moon, and a blank mind. In the words of Lily Allen, 'fuck you very, very much'.

Good night!

*

I'm not scared, are YOU scared? Because I'm not scared.

I might be giving this a little bit too much importance.

And this.

And maybe this as well.

Over-thinking about it or not, it's all very true - not to mention serious. It is serious! I'm not going to preach and I'm not going to write a persuasive thing pro-all of the above, but I am going to bitch about a few things/people/situations that have royally pissed me off just in the past week and a half.


-I'm skipping my second class and just peacefully smoking out in the beautiful, tasty sun with my friends, having an extremely interesting and smart ass discussion about the class on feminism we just had (ha ha really) when a totally random guy comes and sits opposite to us. He lights a cigarette with MY lighter and introduces himself. We are polite just say hi and smile - despite how bad we feel like laughing - and when we think he is done interacting with us, we go back to our little discussion. He totally butts in and insists on spending the next hour and a half trying to a) show off about inheriting his dad's company and b) prove why it is not wrong to only hire 'hot' saleswomen at 'his' store. One, he's not even out of college yet, so it's so not his store yet. Two, taking off his shoes to casually flash its Prada label is not cool - just FYI, I was wearing Diesel jeans and Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, and I managed to keep both on all day long. Three, having a 'hot' woman or a fat bald man sell you a fucking office chair makes no difference whatsoever. It's an office chair, mate. You don't go on a shopping spree for office chairs - you buy them 'cause you need them.

-He picks me up in his badass car wearing designer clothes from head to toe and takes me to a super posh restaurant for an over-rated and over-priced plate of steak and chips (called a slightly fancier name, of course). He orders the bottle of the priciest wine and makes a show out of smelling the cork and the glass and twirling it around expertly before finally 'allowing' me to have a sip. Despite my effort to make conversation during dinner, he is quiet and cold and distant and before I know it I am texting my friend from under the table begging her for help. It is pretty clear we are not going on a second date. He drives me back home and I only kiss him because I feel like having just a tiny bit of fun myself after the horrible night. And then when I politely decline 'taking thins to his place' and never call again, he leaves me a furious voice message asking me why I disappeared, arrogantly claiming he dressed up, opened the doors for me, paid for dinner, and drove me home, and calls me a flirt. So what, I, as a woman, am supposed to fall madly in love and 'hand myself over' (ugh how I hate this expression) just because he followed the basics of the Date Rulebook? What they don't get is that a hot dog and a beer at the park accompanied by ACTUAL CONVERSATION and laughter and flirting would have done the trick. And about calling me a flirt - why are men allowed to fuck like the world's on fire and when a woman just kisses a guy because she wants to have fun too, she is automatically frowned upon?

-Maybe it's just the age difference doing this to you, but I think it's quite lame how you root for the guy with money and a last name over the one I actually like just because that's how it's supposed to be. Fuck knows we already have both of the above, thank you very much, so it's not like I'm in need to 'marry up'. If I were a guy you'd be telling me to go for the girl with the looks and the traits of a 'good wife', which is as pathetic as the other way around. It's people we fall in love with, not pictures and reputations.

-We're at my beach house, just the women in my family, trying to be sympathetic to a recently divorced aunt. We're having the time of our lives until you decide to turn diva and refuse to carry the grocery bags, paying a man to do it for you even though all we bought are fruits and chocolates. 'I can carry it myself,' I offer, but you make a face and laugh, 'You're a girl, you don't need to put yourself through that'. Right. I'm silent just because I don't want to be the party pooper. But then it's after dinner and we're opening a bottle of champagne, and you just have to laugh and snottily complain about the 'lack of a man to help us open it and serve us'. I raise an eyebrow and you explain, 'a woman should never be allowed to serve herself'. Instant bitch fit of my part.

I could go on and on but this is getting too long and I'm getting to worked up and pissed off at the entire world, so it really is better I stop. This is a topic I might and probably will come back to - my stories about it are not exactly scarce.

And I'm dying for a shower - my car's AC just decided to die, smack in the middle of the Brazilian summer. I'm not even the tiniest bit screwed, huh?



*

RE: What am I doing??

That was quick. And easy. And exactly what I needed.
You know, it's supposed to be so easy being you; you already have the looks and the car - all you gotta do is be creative, funny, and keep the conversation flowing. Okay, so maybe one guy can't have it all. I mean, you definitely do NOT - hence my not calling/texting you ever again.

Regardless, I'm still going to bed with a big smile on my face. Grazie ;)

*

What am I doing???

Okay, so maybe things are a little more complicated now that I'm back from the beach. Yes, the thing with Mr.Magic 8 Ball (this sounds so wrong haha) is still happening tonight and I have no idea what I'm doing. What am I doing? Fjfkhads.

I still burst out laughing whenever I think about the past four days at the beach. Me as a role model for a sixteen year old during Carnaval is not a very good idea, I know. Yes, there was plenty of drinking, laughing, dirty talking, lying, boys, dodging snow-sprays, and puking our guts out (not my favorite part of the whole thing, exactly), and yes, I did make sure the girl didn't have to pay a thing on her first crazy night out. I'm such a good samaritan.

Anyways, in between all that came the Fohawk guy. Not going to mention any of what happened (because a) I was drunk and b) he was too much of a a good guy, for a change (so there's still hope haha) but now I'm at least a little bit confused. Not because I'm suddenly in love with the Fohawk guy, hell no, but because I honestly have no idea where Mr. Magic 8 Ball's second chance came from. And now he's taking me to a super fancy restaurant (again) and I'm already on auto-pilot as I pick up his call and give him specific instructions about NOT ringing my apartment's buzzer, as I had to lie about my meeting him tonight. Shame, guilt, embarassment, all of the fucking above? Ahhhhhh!!

One thing I learned during my 'dark days' two years ago, as a seventeen year old? Do NOT juggle. Do NOT lie (as often). Do NOT go out with this guy in particular. There's a reason why my dad calls him Trouble, but I guess we just can't help falling for the bad guys.

I'm so royally screwed.

*

Magic 8 Ball

(No, this isn't a continuation of the last post. I don't feel like writing about the bad part of my Monday Night Disaster just yet - still makes my heart pound. Oh, the drama.)


Big, stupid, cliché dilemma. Should I or should I not call him? Text him? Facebook?? Ugh.
No, I'm not actually debating calling a guy who hasn't called back. I don't do that. I'm mulling over mending things with someone who may or may not be sorry for a crappy situation that happened last year; regardless of how true his apologies are, he sure is insistent. I mean, you meet someone at a club (under very funny circumstances, must I say), exchange numbers, and go out for about three times afterwards. That in itself is a miracle. But then things turn bad and you go all "Another One Bites the Dust" on him ("Killer Queen" style ha ha) and promise yourself you are never, ever going out with him or anyone remotely like him again.

And then almost a year goes by and he's still calling. You never answer. He texts. You don't even read them. He adds you on Facebook and posts cute Merry Xmas/ New Year/ Birthday messages on your wall. Maybe you just post an icy 'thanks' comment and leave it at that. And then he sends you billions of private messages and you start to wonder what the fuck is wrong with the guy. He can't possibly like me that much. Such things don't happen in the real world. Plus, he's supposed to be scared by your little bitch fit. And you're supposed to be royally pissed, still.

Somehow, things are all backwards.

He gives you a lame excuse about losing his phone (and with it your number) and when you stupidly ask for his number again (lying about having 'accidentaly' erased it), you see it's still the old number. So either he a)managed to keep the same number but lost all his contacts, b)is just making asshole-y small talk, or c)is sort of asking you permission to start the calls again. And the texts. But now you don't have the option of not answering either - you're the one who fell for his words (again) and asked for his number (again). You gotta answer.

So here I am, blogging. My very own form of a Magic 8 Ball. When in doubt, I type away. Words gradually form in front of my eyes and before I know it, I have a silly prophetic answer right in front of my eyes. Funny thing is, no matter how silly it looks and sounds, it's always true. It does come from some crap place of my subconscious, doesn't it? Very Dr.Phil indeed, but hey, if I'm the one typing, then these words must be mine. This 'answer' must be mine.

Where does this leave me, exactly? Call him, don't call him? Text him? Facebook? Ugh.
Yeah, it's probably stupid to hold a grudge against him like this for eternity when... well, I don't wanna make his mistakes public. I should probably give him just one tiny little chance. Just one. A slow smile is spreading through my lips as I realize I'm now one of those stupid girls from sugary chick-flicks - all the while, while they decide to give some asshole a second chance, you're mentally thinking about what idiots they are. Of course the guy is a man-whore who doesn't actually regret whatever it is they've done. Of course they're going to hurt the girl over and over again (until the surreal Good Guy comes along and they live happily ever after - it is a movie after all). But... I did say, in the beginning of this stupidly stupid post, that my whole thing with the Guy In Question was nothing like real life. In fact, our going out for more than the Deadly Three Times after meeting at a fucking club and his still wanting to call me after a whole year went by, despite how much I (righteously) yelled at him, is nothing like real life. I'd say it's the movie kind of thing, except I know it couldn't be. Because, like it or not, this is real life. Yes, I'm talking in circles. But my point is, he probably just wants me to go back to being a regular at his house again. Oh, to hell with men who are too young to live alone and do just because they're filthy rich enough to afford it. To hell with men who buy you presents and take you out to the best restaurants/clubs/bars and who pick you up in nice cars and take you home to spoil you with good wine and cheese on toast. Ughhh. I'm being a little shallow, hell yes. I like the idea of him, I think, not him per say. Okay, liar. I do like him. I miss him and that's why I got his FUCKING NUMBER again. Jklfajfa!

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I'm calling him . Right now. Thanks a lot, Magic 8 Ball. No matter how many shakes I give you, all you insist on telling me is 'you're totally screwed, but got no way out of it'. Now I see I should probably switch the Magic 8 Ball for a lucky charm of some sort. This will have to be a tiny last chance. I will not be lured into his too-much-like-the-movies-to-be-real world. I will be "Killer Queen" all over again if I have to. Fuck.

*