Ten Tons of Sunny D

considerandos.

2011-11-09T17:24:00.001-08:00

As vezes o esforço que se faz para conseguir pronuncias as palavras "estou chateada" é tanto que até você conseguir dizer, a dor já passou.

As vezes não. Mas soa tão simples que todo o esforço é meio ignorado.

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Sóbrias.

2011-11-08T19:08:00.000-08:00

As vezes fico pensando se é melhor nem começar para não ter que ter medo de terminar. Se é melhor nem começar para evitar os problemas que nos acompanham desde o primeiro passo, desde o primeiro sim, desde o primeiro sorriso. Se é melhor nem começar para não correr o risco de amar.

Amar é estranho. Ou você fica idiota, ou você quer morrer. E você não tem outras opções, só essas duas. Quando está idiota, fica sorrindo porque o passarinho é preto-brilhante, porque viu uma joaninha no vidro do seu carro, porque o som do celular vibrando com uma nova mensagem é lindo, porque seu cogumelo de pelúcia ainda está com cheiro de brigadeiro rosa. Quando quer morrer você chora porque encontrou a camiseta que Você usou ontem a noite, chora porque o copo que roubaram juntas do bar está no seu carro, chora porque sim e chora porque não. Você sente dores que nunca imaginou sentir, em lugares onde nunca imaginou que as ia ter.

E por incrível que pareça, isso tudo te faz feliz. Mais feliz do que imaginou que iria ser. Todas as brigas, lágrimas e lições de vida (por mais dolorosas que sejam) valem a pena e no final do dia você percebe que não trocaria isso tudo por nada. E fica óbvio que por mais medo que a possibilidade de término e de problemas te dê, sempre é melhor ter começado. Sempre é melhor ter dado aquele primeiro passo, ter falado aquele primeiro sim, ter dado e recebido aquele primeiro sorriso (mesmo que eu tenha sorrido com o salto quebrado, caída de bêbada quase dentro do lixo pra Você ).

Não acho nada romântico ficar idiota ou querer morrer o tempo todo. Por isso queria poder repetir ontem até a eternidade: jantar, vinho, risadas, ralador de queijo phyno e difícil de usar. Mas fazer o que se o amor não é romântico? Felizmente pra mim, Você é.

Quer saber? O amor que se foda. Você dá de mil a zero nele <3

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"vontade de algo que não sei o que..."

2011-10-27T13:37:00.000-07:00

Saudades da época em que eu tinha tempo pra pensar.
Tempo pra sorrir.
Parece que ultimamente eu sou de pedra, meu rosto fixo e meu olhar parado.
Presa nessa apatia muda o dia intero com poucas, mas obsessivas, idéias na minha cabeça.
Nem sequer podem ser chamadas de idéias, mas sim estados de vida.
Trabalho.
Aula.
Amor.
Acho que estou meio mal de só ter uma coisa boa na minha vida.
Acho que estou com saudades de mim.
Dos meus pensamentos, das minhas manias, das minhas bobeiras e das minhas vontades.

Queria ler mais, ir mais ao cinema e sair pensativa, escrever mais, desenhar...
Mas como tudo nesse mundo, meu tempo é em função ao dinheiro.
Sei que é temporário mas já estou cheia. Cheia e vazia ao mesmo tempo, é difícil explicar.

Por isso tenho andado tão explosiva ultimamente - para todos os lados e com todos os tipos de explosões.

Não é raiva, mas sim estresse.
Não é tristeza, mas sim vontade de mudar.
Não é apatia, mas sim desgosto.
Não é ciúmes, mas sim saudades.

Sei lá. Vontade de abandonar tudo e ficar sozinha no sol, deitada na areia olhando pro céu.

E pensar que antes eu reclamava do meu tempo de sobra...

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eight.

2011-10-03T20:56:00.000-07:00

fico pensando... eu disse hoje que era bom ter festinhas, eventos, viagens e bobeiras pela frente pra animar meus dias, mas na verdade VOCÊ é minha festa, meu maior evento, a viagem da minha vida e minha bobinha mais linda do mundo.

te amo eterno, feliz!!

mip.

com amor, joaninha.

2011-09-01T18:26:00.000-07:00

Você me dá vontade de coisas românticas.
Um dia confessei que se pudesse eu escreveria nossos nomes no céu com um daqueles aviões de fumaça. Você riu e carinhosamente me chamou de brega e eu achei que fosse explodir de amor.
Hoje tive a seguinte idéia: quando formos velhas, vamos ter dois carros. O meu com a placa MYL e o seu com a placa ISA. Você vai rir ao ler isso e me chamar de bobinha, mas eu gosto. Sua Saveiro Cross preta fosca com placa ISA. E meu minicooper lindo com miniadesivo de joaninha e placa MYL.
Te amo.
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sorrisos.

2011-08-22T19:21:00.000-07:00

A linha tênue entre ser e fazer.

Hoje assisti a uma palestra da Marina Silva que mudou minha percepção dos políticos e das palestras da FAAP. Mas não vou falar sobre a palestra em si, mas sim sobre algo que ela disse que me deixou pensativa o resto do dia.

Cheguei na FAAP sozinha e fui embora do mesmo jeito. Faz um tempo que tenho colocado na cabeça que lá não é meu lugar; que sou diferente de todo mundo e que não há possibilidades de conhecer pessoas legais, além das que eu já conheci. A velha prepotência capricorniana, lógico, mas fazer o que.

O auditório estava cheio e tive que sentar no chão. Eu estava levemente desanimada por assuntos mal-resolvidos dentro de mim, então demorei pra prestar atenção. Algumas pessoas me encararam e eu já fechei a cara, mas lembrei do meu gorrinho de pompom. Oh well.

E então a Marina disse aquilo. Aquilo que de repente encaixou tudo aquilo que estava solto e vinha chacoalhando dentro de mim. Aquilo que deu aquele estalo e me botou nos eixos novamente. Mesmo que "nos eixos" não signifique imediatamente "bem", mas sim caminhando pra isso.

Marina basicamente ressaltou a importância do autoconhecimento e da integração com os outros e com si mesmo. A diferenciação entre o ser e o fazer. “Chegou a hora de acreditar que vale a pena, juntos, criarmos um grande movimento para que o Brasil vá além e coloque em prática tudo aquilo que a sociedade aprendeu nas últimas décadas. (...) Se antes dissemos 'chegou a hora de acreditar', afirmo hoje: chegou a hora de ser e fazer, de nos movimentarmos em conexão com as redes e pessoas que expressam a chegada do futuro e o constroem na prática, no dia-a-dia." Ela disse que muitas vezes chegamos a fazer tudo que temos, em teoria, que cumprir para realizar algo. Mas falta o ser. Ela falou sobre a volta à infância, quando nos perguntavam "o que você quer ser quando crescer", em contraposição aos dias hoje, quando nos perguntam "o que você faz?".

Eu não quero ser alguém que simplesmente faz. A própria frase entra em contradição consigo mesma: ser alguém que faz. Pelo contrário, eu quero simplesmente ser. Voltar a pensar nos valores antes das realizações. Voltar a pensar no que me faz sorrir antes de pensar no que terei em mãos. Voltar a não pensar; voltar a sentir.

Não quero nada material, apesar de saber que estes são simplesmente meios pra fins. O que eu quero é caminhar sobre a linha tênue entre o ser e o fazer, pra conseguir alcançar essa realização da qual a Marina falou hoje. Sim, ela falava de outras coisas. Mas acredito que o que admiro nela é exatamente isso: saber que ela poderia estar falando sobre política e sustentabilidade, mas que seus valores vêm de baixo - que se aplicam aos mesmos "desencaixes" internos que eu tenho de vez em quando.

Então saí do auditório diferente do que estava quando entrei. Sozinha, sim. Mas pensativa, ao invés de anestesiada. Antes eu não queria pensar. Depois, estava pensando. Tinha voltado a pensar. Estava com saudades de mim mesma, acho, de abrir mão da minha prepotência e perceber o mundo de maneira diferente. Não de maneira desgostosa, como havia vindo o vendo. Não de maneira cética e pessimista. Magoada, triste, desesperançosa.

Fiquei feliz de estar lá. De me sentir diferente dos outros, mas de estar exatamente onde eu deveria estar. Tudo depois disso fez mais sentido, apesar de eu continuar esquisita. Percebi mais sorrisos, mais amor, mais gentilezas até dentro do banheiro da FAAP - onde tudo que eu costumava ver era antipatia e vaidade.

Sei lá. Acho que, apesar do tempo frio e cinza, voltei a ver mais cores no mundo.

minhocas.

2011-07-10T19:34:00.000-07:00

"Aí teve aquela cena também, De quando eu fui te dar tchau.
(…) E você olhou e me perguntou: "Não to esquecendo nada?" E eu quis gritar: "Tá, tá esquecendo de mim."
E você depois perguntou: "Não tem nada meu aí?" E eu quis gritar: "Tem, tem eu. Eu sempre fui sua."

Ultimamente, quando brigo, choro, ou fico magoada, tenho pensado muito nessa frase da Tati. Meu pai sempre diz que relacionamentos funcionam da seguinte maneira: cresce, cresce, cresce, até o namoro virar oficial. E depois vira uma reta, "tipo naqueles painéis de batimentos cardíacos, quando uma pessoa morre", segundo ele. E depois começa o declínio.

Pra mim definitivamente não é o que acontece, pela primeira vez na vida. Antes eu sempre concordei com meu pai, e apesar de bater o pé e negar até a morte, eu sempre senti bem no fundo que era verdade. Mas agora não. Coisas de primeiro (e último, pelo menos pra mim) amor.

Por isso tenho pensado na Tati. Porque talvez eu possa estar tão apegada a esse "quentinho" dentro de mim, que eu não vejo o outro lado. Talvez, como a Tati diz, o motivo pela minha irritabilidade ultimamente é exatamente esse: medo de estar sendo esquecida.

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fldsjfsdl.

2011-07-09T08:28:00.000-07:00

Ontem fui dormir me sentindo péssima. Me lembrou um pouco daquele meu ano caótico (intensamente comentado aqui no blog), mas de um jeito novo e diferente. Antes, talvez por eu ser mais nova, tudo, até pequenas bobeirinhas eram gigantes fins do mundo. Minha primeira bad rendeu não só um, mas dois posts insanamente confusos. A primeira vez que eu achei que me apaixonei também deu em vários posts, e minha descoberta de que na verdade não teve nada a ver com amor mais ainda. Meus sentimentos de insatisfação e revolta com as pessoas em minha volta na época do high school, quando todos meus amigos foram embora. Enfim. Coisas pequenas, que, apesar de pequenas, não devem ser menosprezadas porque eram minha vida na época e me marcaram profundamente.

Mas sobre ontem. Me lembrou daquele ano porque tudo pareceu dar errado, ao mesmo tempo que certo. Nunca me arrependo de verdade de nada, apesar de fazer várias coisas erradas o tempo todo, mas ontem fiquei meio mal comigo mesma.

Tudo já começou meio mal, comigo atrasando de novo. Eu odeio me atrasar, especialmente pra ela. Nunca tinha falado eu te amo na vida por vários motivos, entre eles nunca ter realmente tido a vontade de ser perfeita pra ninguém. Eu te disse que só quero te fazer bem, que quero te dar infinitas quantidades de amor, te mostrar que você é uma pessoa diferente do resto, uma pessoa que vale a pena - o que é muito raro hoje em dia. E te fazer esperar no metrô nesse frio me deixou angustiada de modo que cada minuto que passava no relógio do meu carro me parecia uma eternidade, meu coração a mil e meu corpo inteiro tenso.

Depois no carro, quando você estava quieta e tensa e preocupada com um milhão de coisas (coisas que eu odeio, por te deixarem mal) e eu não soube o que dizer. Já disse que eu sou egocêntrica, e acho que estava tão enrolada no meu próprio drama de ter atrasado de novo, que não consegui estar lá pra você. Eu sempre entro em pânico quando isso acontece. Quando a gente se afasta, mesmo que não seja por mal, e é por isso que depois eu te pergunto um bilhão de vezes se você está bem.

Então tudo realmente começou a dar errado. Eu fiz coisas que sabia que me fariam mal, gastei demais, me meti em um lugar abafado e com energia ruim, comecei a passar mal, quase não te agarrei (apesar de você estar tão linda), fiquei estranha na frente das suas amigas DE NOVO por me sentir mal, quis ir embora mais cedo... Blargh. Não sei porque me meto nessas coisas sabendo o que vai acontecer.

Depois me irritei de ter passado mal na sua frente no caminho pro carro. É uma coisa tão boba, tipo aquelas coisas que nossas mães falam que não podemos fazer na frente da namorada. Tipo cortar a unha do pé ou fazer xixi. A Sylvia Plath (uma das minhas autoras favoritas) diz que não tem nada como vomitar na frente de alguém pra imediatamente tornar essa pessoa sua melhor amiga. Mas eu não quero isso. Sim, você é de várias maneiras minha melhor amiga, além de namorada, mas tudo isso me levou pra cama pensativa e mal e com raiva de ontem a noite.

Como você sempre diz, quero ter um relacionamento saudável. Mas pra isso precisamos ser saudáveis de mil maneiras. Nos sentimentos, no amor, fisicamente, e dentro de nós mesmas. Essas coisas bobas tipo vomitar na sua frente, cortar a unha do pé ou fazer xixi são pequenas. Concordo que nossas mães talvez sejam um tanto antiquadas nesse sentido, mas isso de vomitar foi desnecessário. Não porque é feio e nojento (apesar de ser) mas porque estamos fazendo mal pra nós. Não precisamos chegar nesse ponto de fazer tanta besteira a ponto de vomitar uma na frente da outra. Sou inocente, idealista, e até meio boba, mas acredito que podemos viver do nosso amor.

Vamos parar. Voltar. Não voltar, mas mudar. Resgatar nossos jantares e idas ao teatro. Lógico, sempre com muita bebida porque também uma vida certinha não tem a menor graça (e acho que nós duas acharíamos meio impossível haha). Eu te quero pra vida toda e acho que o que temos feito só têm empacado tudo - e você sabe muito bem que já temos complicações o suficiente nas nossas vidas. Não vamos complicar o que temos. Porque pra mim é a coisa mais real e pura do mundo - a única coisa que me faz verdadeiramente feliz.

Ainda não saí direito da cama, então talvez nada faça sentido. Mas dormi mal e acordei do mesmo jeito. Talvez esse post seja uma das minhas brisas de enquanto estou dormindo, tipo Anselino Anselmo ou sua mãe no banco de trás do seu carro. Rawr.

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"Aritmética"

2011-06-17T16:26:00.000-07:00

Lembrei desse livro esses dias. Fernanda Young.

"Quando entrei naquele carro, já estava amando. Amando mesmo, com amor de verdade, não apenas paixão; que, masculina cresce junto com o pau e também murcha com ele. Sentia, sim, amor de verdade, e isso era perfeito, merda, perfeito. Não era pau querendo boceta, o mais fácil dos sentimentos. Era eu querendo ela, e imediatamente, e intensamente; e para ficar com ela, trepando ou não. Para sair com ela pelos lugares mais públicos, dizendo para todo mundo: Vocês estão vendo essa mulher? Heim? Estão vendo? Ela pode enlouquecer, engordar, emburrecer. Pode me desprezar, cuspir em mim e chamar meus livros de porcaria. Ela pode a puta que o pariu, que eu vou continuar sentindo a mesma coisa por ela: amor. Para todo o sempre, estaria louco por ela e morreria por ela, mesmo sabendo que “todo o sempre” é errado dizer “por ela” é feio. Por ela, escreveria mil livros inteiramente errados e feios. Só por ela. Porque ela sempre seria inteira linda, e nem isso importava. Ela já possuía meu infinito amor, quando me sentei ao seu lado. Pois percebi que ela era minha. Minha. Louca ou não, burra ou não, linda ou não, magra ou não. Grávida de outro ou não. Eu a amava, como ainda a amo, e fodam-se todas as estatísticas que provam que isso não existe. Que amor não nasce desse jeito, que não dura. E se um amor só pode ser especial assim se for triste, que eu morra. Ou tivesse morrido. Naqueles longos minutos, no carro, indo para um hotel barato."

"E a língua portuguesa não agüenta mais a chateação dos meus versos repetidos, repetidos por ela, que tão docemente recebeu minha língua em sua boca, dando-me um gosto que um milhão de palavras não poderiam traduzir. Porque não há verbo, ou sinal, ou lirismo, que consiga expressar o estranho que foi, o desconforto que foi, saber: esse beijo é o meu beijo."

P.S.: Sei que só tenho escrito sobre o amor ultimamente, mas (ai como sou fofa) é só o que eu tenho sentido, pensado e respirado de uns tempos pra cá. De mais ou menos seis meses pra cá. Rawr <3

É muito mais gostoso fumar na porta da sua casa.

2011-05-26T20:50:00.001-07:00

Eu adoro a brisa do cigarro.
Encostar numa parede
e tragar o maior trago do mundo.
Soltar metade pelo nariz
metade pela boca
e esperar.
Meio segundo.
E fechar os olhos.
Cabeça vazia.
Barulhos de Nova Iorque.
Sangue formigando.
Frio.
Abrir os olhos
e ver as luzes da cidade
acesas
e as pessoas dormindo.
Penso na solidão coletiva
e na coletividade solitária
minha
sua
e de todos
(até dos aliens bizarramente lindos que eu PROMETO que existem).
Não sei quem vai cuidar de mim
mas quero cuidar de você.
É muito mais gostoso fumar na porta da sua casa.

Hoje me lembra daquele dia nessa mesma varanda com você. Na minha varanda. Com as minhas velas. Os meus cigarros. Os meus bons drink. A minha Cat Power. E você toda linda me olhando com esses seus olhos que são os meus favoritos. E eu querendo te fazer minha também, pelo simples motivo de já me considerar sua. Aquele dia na minha varanda. E hoje. E no primeiro dia que te vi, quando eu estava bêbada e caindo no lixo porque meu salto machucava. E para sempre.

Minha cama de solteiro é gigante sem você. Eu sempre quis uma cama grande, mas agora trocava todas por outra noite na minha barraca quebrada montada no lado errado da ladeira enlameada. Trocava todas por outra noite no meu carro esperando dar a hora de você voltar pra casa e me ligar cinco minutos depois, porque você sabe que eu durmo no volante. Trocava todas por um lugar no ônibus que me leva até você. Amanhã. Quase hoje. Amanhã.

É só esperar.

"Mesmo assim, a espera não é tão ruim porque depois vem você. Mentira, é sim. Então tento escrever para expressar um pouco do que sinto. Pra ver se esse sentimento escorre pelas minhas palavras para que seja mais fácil carregá-lo até o dia de te ver novamente."

Essas coisas
que você escreve pra mim.
Como a brisa do cigarro
que eu adoro.
Me encostam numa parede
porque sem apoio
me deixam sem chão.
Me dão vontade
de te tragar inteira
para sempre
no maior trago do mundo
e não soltar nem menos da metade
pela boca ou nariz.
Te ter pra sempre.
Inteira.
Olhos fechados.
Cabeça vazia.
Sentindo e ouvindo
apenas você.
Abrir os meus olhos
e ver o mundo nos seus.
Saber que você vai cuidar de mim
e querer eternamente cuidar de você.
É muito mais gostoso fumar na porta da sua casa.

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Обратите внимание

2011-05-24T14:01:00.000-07:00

Pequena.

2011-05-11T17:31:00.000-07:00

Queria ter um baú dentro de mim pra guardar as coisas ruins. Queria guardar esse sufoco. Essa solidão. Essa frustração. Essa solidão. Essa vulnerabilidade. Essa solidão. Essa raiva. Essa solidão...

Me dá a mão...

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Lista (não coube no "seu" post-it verde).

2011-05-10T19:19:00.000-07:00

Cozinhar coisas além de omelete e tapioca e spaghetti com molho pronto pra você (tentar).
Te encontrar no meio da tarde pra tomar um café.
Ajudar com trabalhos e palavras bizarras em inglês e te ver toda linda e concentrada estudando.
Deixar você tirar fotos de mim DE VEZ EM QUANDO. Com joaninhas.
Perguntar coisas nas lojas&etc pra você.
Te levar e buscar no trabalho no dia do rodízio da sua saveiro linda.
Ler Rousseau pra você antes de dormir e achar fofo se você dormir no meio.
Te proteger de pernilongos e não deitar até matar todos (porque você sabe que eu mato mesmo, rawr).
Deixar banho de espuma pronto na banheira pra quando você chegar toda suja e picada de abelhas do campo.
Fazer massagem e rir do seu dedinho lindo.
Assistir filmes de medo com você, mesmo que eu morra depois, só porque você gosta (e porque eu te agarro haha).
Beber vinhos com você all over the world, porque vamos viajar muito ainda.
Esperar na fila de padarias&supermercados&etc trocando olhares e morrendo de vontade de te agarrar, mas me segurando porque sou um ANJINHO.
Consertar fornos DE VERDADE pras bruschettas não caírem no chão de novo.
Fazer drinks "meio" fortes pra você e dizer que estão fraquinhos. E depois ficar bêbada muito mais rápido e fingir que não. E depois ficar tão bêbada a ponto de admitir que... tá vai, bebo menos.
Não dormir mais dirigindo. Porque tá nas regras, namorada não pode morrer.
Ter uma casa a prova de Jujubinha (lembrar de comprar fita dupla face pra colar as coisas no lugar, assim ele não derruba).
Mandar o Mamper ficar bem pra morar com a gente.
Morar perto de bistrozinhos pra tomar cafés da manhã phynos de domingo.
Cozinhar pras nossas famílias de vez em quando na nossa casa.
Passar tardes gostosas com sua mãe em Santos.
Passar noites bêbadas com meu pai na Augusta.
Ter um cão felpudinho quando formos velhas.
Passar protetor solar em você e ficar o dia inteiro na piscina da nossa casa (sim, vamos ter uma um dia!) tomando bons drink no sol.
Rir da @harpias.
Dar a mão pra você. Porque encaixa.
Fazer uma coleção de coisas que só nós entendemos, tipo "sua verde" e "nenenzinho".
Fazer algumas loucuras de vez em quando e passar mil dias "resfriadas" e com o nariz escorrendo depois ;)
Dormir vendo "Mamães Adolescentes".
Mandar você dormir de fone no seu campo pro bicho não entrar.
Fazer macarrons feios, mas gostosos.
Poder ficar dias e dias em lugares meio isolados tipo minha casa da praia, só eu e você. E sua faca. Haha.
De vez em quando dormir juntas no carro só pra lembrar como era.
Te dar uma aliança toda phyna e fazer o pedido de casamento mais lindo de todos. Sóbria, senão você ri de mim e não ouve hahahah <3
Te acordar todos os dias com aquele "beijo fofo" que você adora.
Ter você deitada em cima de mim todas as noites, assim não preciso mais me enterrar embaixo das minhas almofadas.
Enfrentar horas de trânsito por uma pizza do Pizza Hut (com sotaque, rawr).
Passar horas escolhendo restaurantes com você ditando o telefone deles bem perto no meu ouvido.
Tirar um ano de loucura pra viajar pelo mundo sem ligar pra mais nada.
Viajar de carro com você toda linda me ensinando a ultrapassar caminhões gigantes.
Aprender a montar a tenda e a barraca NO LUGAR CERTO. Não pode ladeira.
Te emprestar minha camiseta cinza de dormir todos os dias (e minha jaqueta de couro e minha camisa verde e tudo que você quiser, quando você quiser) e depois usá-la quando eu ou você estivermos viajando.
Levar susto com o toque alto de mensagens do seu celular.
Ter medo de coisas bizarras e você me zoar até a morte, mas me proteger.
Correr com você algumas vezes por semana. Tá vai, começamos com caminhadas.
Brincar de sombras na parede quando a luz acabar, tipo na barraca aquele dia.
Brigar as vezes, porque faz parte, mas sempre te respeitar e admirar e confiar em você, porque eu achei lindo isso que você falou.
Sempre lutar pra te ter comigo, porque o que temos "não se encontra em qualquer esquina. ou bairro. ou cidade estado país continente" OU GALÁXIA COM ALIENS.

Enfim. Quero que essa lista seja interminável. Porque você é a pessoa mais inteiramente linda do universo inteiro (inclusive os aliens bizarramente perfeitos que eu prometo - não juro - que existem).
Eu sou sua e você é minha.

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(sem título)

2011-04-06T08:21:00.000-07:00

Sinto que quanto mais nós eu consigo desfazer, mais nós se formam do outro lado da linha.

Me sinto pequena, infantil, impotente e incapaz às vezes. Todo mundo tem seus dias ruins, eu sei. Já tive os meus, piores e melhores. Mas nunca iguais. Porque não sou do tipo que acredita na obrigação de dar explicações pra ninguém. Eu simplesmente não dou. E é angustiante agora querer fazer isso - querer me explicar. Não pra me livrar da responsabilidade de nada. Não pra poder dizer que dei uma desculpa e saí ilesa. Não pra "sair bem na foto".

Queria me explicar pra poder me entender.

É carência e sobrecarga emocional, eu sei. Tem muita coisa acontecendo de uma vez só e pela primeira vez são só coisas boas. Eu estava tão acostumada a lidar com coisas ruins que essa avalanche de coisas boas me deixa desorientada. Coisas pequenas - conseguir meu primeiro estágio sem ajuda de ninguém, estar namorando, conseguir ter uma conversa honesta com a minha mãe depois de muito tempo brigando... Fico ansiosa porque não quero que tudo volte a dar errado. Então é lógico que eu acabo cagando na sorte.

Não sei o que aconteceu aquele dia e nem quero falar sobre isso.

Eu só queria me explicar pra poder me entender. E não de um jeito totalmente egoísta. Um pouco, sim, porque sei que muitas vezes sou egocêntrica. Mas a única razão da minha angustiante necessidade de me explicar é que falando com VOCÊ eu me entendo. Eu me sinto normal de novo. Me sinto grande, completa, apta a lidar com a vida, e incrivelmente feliz. Não que eu não consiga fazer tudo isso sozinha. Eu consigo. Conseguia antes, consigo durante, e sei que vou continuar conseguindo. Mas acho que a vida é isso - desfazer nós só pra encontrar outros do outro lado da linha. A única certeza é essa constante dificuldade, esse sofrimento permanente pra simplesmente SOBREVIVER. E depois morrer.

Eu não quero isso.

Não quero sobreviver. E não quero morrer tendo apenas sobrevivido.

Quero simplesmente viver. E com você eu me sinto viva. Não de um jeito dependente, mas sim leve. É meio utópico e escapista, porque do seu lado todos os nós desaparecem. E o que me deixa mais louca é saber que é real. Aliás, SURREAL, porque até te conhecer, não tinha sentido nada igual. O que eu sinto não é pesado, mas sim intenso. Intensamente leve. Insanamente intenso. Levemente insano. Leve.

Enfim.

Não sei mais o que estou falando. Outra brisa, tipo aquele dia na praia. Na piscina. Outra daquelas coisas que podem se resumir a "eu te amo", mas mesmo assim faltam-me palavras. Então apaga, apaga tudo isso. Apaga o que machuca e apaga o que foi, o que está, e o que vai estar errado mais pra frente. Esquece a linha e todos os seus nós, e pensa em outro tipo de "nós" - eu e vc. Só quero segurar sua mão.

Uma música sobre o que eu senti aquele dia. Mas não ouça pensando nisso, ouça só pela múica. É foda :)

*

Só digo uma coisa...

2011-03-26T12:51:00.001-07:00

Valentine's Day

2011-02-13T19:08:00.000-08:00

Eu não ESTOU apaixonada por você. Eu SOU apaixonada por você - a diferença entre os dois sendo o sentido de atemporiedade, de infinita durabilidade. Não é algo momentâneo. Não é um estado de espírito passageiro. E definitivamente não é só mais uma das minhas instáveis mudanças de humor.

O que eu sinto por você está mais para condição, no sentido de que faz parte da minha existência. Faz parte da profundidade do meu ser, do meu viver, do meu respirar. E é assustador.

Sou, por natureza, a pessoa mais medrosa do universo, eu sei. Até de peixe eu tenho medo! Peixe, trovão, filmes de terror de quinta categoria - COM a Megan Fox, mas whatever ;)

Mas o que me assusta de verdade, em relação a tudo isso, é o fato de que a cura para todas essas minhas fobiazinhas... é você.

Happy Valentine's Day! Te amo :*:

PS- Fui dormir ontem e percebi que agora eu não só durmo com um travesseiro no rosto, mas também com um colado no corpo, tipo abraçada. Até mesmo meu subconsciente sonolento quer você na minha cama SUA LINDA :)

PPS- Escuta. Green Eyes, do Coldplay.

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Aviso: Não Ler Esse Post.

2011-02-13T17:23:00.000-08:00

"Que final de semana foi esse?"
Normalmente essa frase é usada depois do melhor finde ever.
Estou exausta. Queria poder estar de ressaca. Queria poder estar com os pés doendo do salto. Queria poder estar com o corpo dolorido da balada de ontem.

Mas simplesmente estou cansada psicologicamente.

Não aguento mais carregar pesos que não são meus.
Não aguento mais ouvir palavras que mais tarde são "apagadas do histórico" como se nem tivessem me machucado.
Não aguento mais ser tratada como insuficiente.
Não aguento mais cenas de filmes tristes.
Não aguento mais olhar pra camiseta rosa de coelhinho dela cheia de lágrimas. Ou pra fivelinha torta no cabelo dela só porque ninguém arruma. Ou pro rostinho dela vermelho, quente e cansado - igual ao meu. Ou pras mãozinhas dela pedindo um abraço e a mãe dela virando as costas.
Não aguento mais pensar que cheguei no fundo do poço e achar que amanhã tudo vai melhorar. Porque, do mesmo jeito que acho que amanhã não vou chorar, amanhã não melhora. Amanhã eu ainda choro.

Eu sou reclamona, eu sei. Eu até gosto de reclamar das coisas bobas - das músicas do rádio, das roupas de tal pessoa, da situação pós-revolução no Egito, you name it. Mas sinto que ultimamente, não tenho nem dois minutos de paz pra poder reclamar das coisas bobas. E isso cansa - e muito.

Não sou assim, normalmente. E por "assim" quero dizer triste. Li uma frase uma vez que achei muito tosca, na hora: "entre ser feliz e ser triste, eu prefiro ser feliz". Durr, é lógico que eu prefiro ser feliz. Mas depois fiquei pensando nisso... e cheguei a conclusão de que não, não é nada tosca. Eu realmente sou do tipo de pessoa que prefere ser feliz. Não gosto de chegar nos lugares com cara fechada e meus sentimentos carimbados no meu rosto. Eu mesma já não suporto me sentir assim por dentro, então não tem porque transpor isso pra fora. Eu saio exatamente pra não pensar em tudo isso, portanto deixo minhas tristezas em casa. Assim, evito contagiar os outros com sentimentos negativos - e desse jeito, escolho ser feliz.

Mas escolher ser feliz não basta. Lógico, ajuda muito. Escolher ser feliz só traz coisas boas e te leva pra caminhos do bem. É só que as vezes a vida te deixa tão pra baixo que nem forças pra fazer essa escolha você tem. Queria poder realmente ser feliz, no sentido de permanentemente.

Eu sei, ninguém é permanentemente feliz. Nem quero isso, gosto do jeito irritantemente reclamão que sou. O que eu peço é o direito de poder deixar um pouco desse peso pra trás. O direito de poder chegar em casa e me sentir em casa. O direito de poder reclamar das coisas bobas, e não das dolorosas.

Argh. Odeio post tristes assim. Quero posts minimamente divertidos - no mínimo tragicômicos. Esse é simplesmente deprimente. Não leiam. Pluft, voltei ao normal, to sorrindo, essas lágrimas são de felicidade, qual é a boa de hoje, cadê cerveja?

Bem que eu queria poder ser assim o tempo todo.

*

Outro post sobre saudade...

2011-02-01T14:55:00.000-08:00

... mas outro tipo. O tipo que machuca. O tipo que eu não quero sentir. O tipo que dá raiva. O tipo que me deixa mole e sem vontade, deitada na cama olhando pro teto com vontade de nunca mais sair dali. O tipo que dói, que arde, que corrói.

Odeio esse tipo de saudade, mas ela existe. Excessivamente, ela existe.

Tenho saudade dela me pondo pra dormir. Eu, com minha mãozinha de criança, segurava a manga do pijama dela com tanta força que meus dedinhos ficavam brancos, mas mesmo assim eu não largava. Até adormecer. E só então ela ia embora. Hoje em dia ela vai embora - ou então nem aparece - com tanta frequência que eu fico lá, procurando a manga do pijama, sem saber que rumo tomar.

Tenho saudade do estúdio dela. Do cheiro das tintas, dos panos sujos, das telas em branco, do avental dela pendurado no banquinho. Das tardes que passavamos juntas, ela fazendo arte e eu fazendo bagunça. E ela deixava, porque sabia que pintar fora das linhas faz parte.

Tenho saudade de fazer a coisa mais idiota do mundo e ela achar graça ao invés de brigar. Tipo aquele dia que eu peguei uma cadeira de praia que achei na rua e coloquei na varanda. Fiz limonada, coloquei o óculos de sol mais ridículo do mundo e pintei minha cara tipo índio, com protetor solar, e fiquei lá até ela chegar. Quando ela chegou, ela nem ligou pra cadeira. Que estava toda enferrujada, rasgada e suja, by the way. Ela veio correndo me dar AQUELE abraço, com AQUELE sorriso, e o mundo podia acabar que eu nem ia ligar.

E hoje em dia, quando o mundo parece que vai acabar DIARIAMENTE... ela não está lá pra sorrir ou pra me abraçar. Ela não está lá pra me deixar fazer bagunça com as tintas dela. Ela não está lá pra me por pra dormir. Ela simplesmente nunca está lá.

Eu fico triste.

*

Saudades...

2011-01-25T14:09:00.001-08:00

... de conversas pontuadas por beijos.

*

Come on Bartender...

2011-01-06T08:02:00.000-08:00

I miss the feeling of having all of my strings cut off; the feeling of free falling into the interminable void, wearing nothing but my heart on my imaginary sleeve. My heart and my guts.

I love getting ready to go out. Picking clothes like an actress picks her character. Painting myself another face, to the utter annoyance of Shakespeare. Tossing my valuables into a tiny designer bag. And then finally deciding on the perfect pair of shoes – my lifelong weapon of choice.

But the whole process is only oh so meaningful if I’m getting ready to go out by myself. When I’m deliberately tossing myself into the unknown for the pure sadomasochistic pleasure of it. I like it. I truly do, with my heart, body and soul. I like the idea of stepping out of my comfort zone, my home, and into a world that has no idea who I am. I can be anyone. I can lie. I can cheat. I can pretend. I can steal. I can be reckless. I can do whatever the hell I please.

But the thing is, I don’t want to. I never want to. I always and forever end up choosing the simplest (and, by experience, the stupidest) option: being me.

Just as I love the feeling of free falling, I absolutely live for the feeling of ripping away my outer shells and exposing my unreserved weaknesses to a world I know will eat me alive.

There were many unforgettable moments in my life.

That first time I went to a concert by myself (and ended up meeting a friend for life, not to mention the whole guitar-pick incident).

That time in Paradise City when I was completely honest about my likes and dislikes in terms of love.

That time in my car, driving over to meet her, the girl whose name I will never be able to say unaccompanied by a sigh.

That other time in my car, driving over to the Impersonation of Rock and Roll’s birthday.

That time in my dining room, alone with my Dad and an already empty bottle of wine, spilling my guts about… what else? My likes and dislikes in terms of love.

Huh. My life does tend to rotate around love. I guess I get why I always end up getting fucked over. I like free falling and I like doing it with my deepest, darkest secrets out in the open. With the real me branded all over my face. With my entire existence printed on my business card. And I do it all in the name of love. With childlike innocence and simplicity, but with my entire heart attached.

And then I change my mind and the whole situation spins around. Spins around as fast as it takes for me to fall over. For me to be tossed out and back into my comfort zone, my home. Back in front of the mirror, choosing my clothes and my make-up and my shoes as my lifelong weapons of choice.

Fuck. Regina Spektor, just pour me another one already.

*

Pink Lingerie

2011-01-03T19:10:00.000-08:00

A song and the trailer of the best movie ever to start the year off. My New Year's Resolutions? Love, of course. Always. And Peace. And Happiness. Forever and always <3

Nat King Cole - Nature Boy

There was a boy

There was a boy...
A very strange enchanted boy

They say he wandered very far, very far
Over land and sea
A little shy and sad of eye
But very wise was he
And then on day
A magic day he passed my way
And while we spoke of many things
Fools and kings
This he said to me

The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return...

*

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

2010-12-27T11:35:00.000-08:00

"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.

2010-12-20T06:34:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-19T11:15:00.000-08:00

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...

2010-11-21T17:17:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-07T17:28:00.000-08:00

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...

2010-10-25T06:53:00.000-07:00

... 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.

2010-10-06T17:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-05T07:12:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-09-28T15:42:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-09-27T13:28:00.000-07:00

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

Sim, eu concordo. Mas não sei!

*

Apesar dos Apesares...

2010-09-20T23:12:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-09-18T18:42:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-09-12T14:48:00.000-07:00

... by Soko.

Mardy Bum

2010-08-30T18:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-27T20:45:00.000-07:00

“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

2010-08-24T10:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-16T20:37:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-09T16:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-03T17:31:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-30T08:44:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-06-17T14:10:00.000-07:00

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?!?!

2010-06-06T16:05:00.000-07:00

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!!

2010-05-15T23:11:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-04-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-04-30T09:20:00.000-07:00

"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...

2010-04-28T17:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-26T15:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-24T15:07:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-14T15:52:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-12T15:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-04T09:19:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-04T09:16:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-01T10:03:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-28T12:50:00.000-07:00

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"

2010-03-23T18:46:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-10T15:36:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-28T09:49:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-24T15:53:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-23T15:12:00.000-08:00

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??

2010-02-17T18:22:00.000-08:00

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???

2010-02-17T12:00:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-10T08:46:00.000-08:00

(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.

*

Monday Night Disaster - Part I

2010-01-21T12:50:00.000-08:00

In my case, things went backwards. There was no "experimenting" before the big Monday Night Disaster, no taking it slow whatsoever. I did not get coaxed into taking a bit at a time and I hadn't ever actually tried anything before - I mean, I had, but nothing (except me coughing like an old lady) had happened.

You know me, I had to have the whole thing, all at the same time, in ridiculously huge quantities.

I left the bathroom holding hands with my friend and laughing at how absurd it was that the bathroom was 2-in-1 (men and women in the same sweaty, slippery room). I fished the sunglasses I'd stolen from a guy at another club two months ago and slapped them on, advertising my night's mission - I was to find some ridiculously drunk guy who'd be thrilled with getting free sunglasses, and I'd finally get rid of my "stolen goods" (yeah, I'm silly and supersticious like that; I steal, but I can't keep it for more than a few months).

"Everyone's staring, you know," my friend Crazy let go of my hand and laughed at me.

"That's the point," I grinned back, "I mean, how are they to know what they're in for if I don't put on a show?"

He laughed, then suddenly shifted his attention to a familiar-looking girl by the mirrored wall. I'd met her two months ago exactly, during my crazy let's-pretend-to-play-soccer adventure trip with my uni's team (I sucked and all the girls in the team hated me by the end of the trip, but oh well - I got to go and had ridiculous amounts of alcohol-fueled fun). I'd stolen the sunglasses from a hippie guy that went to my uni's rival during that same trip, so I was feeling all mystical about the significance of running into her tonight. I explained my mission and she laughed, but agreed to help me find the perfect victim.

Suddenly, my friend Crazy pushed me up against the wall and told me to open my mouth. I'd still been talking to the girl, so I was more than just a little startled.

"Whatsup?" I semi-slurred, my eyes all wide and child-like and confused. He looked at me all naughty and mischievous and up to no good, and if I didn't know better about us being strictly just friends, I would have imagined something else. God knows where my head was at that moment, but I just did what he said and opened my mouth (okay, I didn't just open my mouth - I made a totally stupid face and stuck my tongue out at him while I gave him the finger). Anyways, to my utter (and further) surprise, Crazy stuck his thumb in my mouth and under my tongue, then removed it and licked it "clean".

I was about to ask what the fuck was the matter with him when I felt a tiny paper-like thingy stuck underneath my tongue. O...kay.

"Swallow," he patted my head and gave me a patronising smile, as if he was talking to his pet dog.

"What's this?" I felt sort of panicky and glanced around expecting to see pink elephants on parade in the air.

"You said you had a thing for Woodstock," he shrugged, his pirate smile still on, "Now relax, will you? Don't wait for it to kick in."

An hour later, I still wasn't feeling a thing, to my relief. I mean, when did I become this sort of girl? Yes, I had a thing for JD shots and clubs during weekdays, but it was all for the fun&music. I am not by any means the sort of person who randomly takes acid at a club on the wrong side of town at three in the morning with a guy whose secret nickname is Crazy. People who know me can confirm I am more likely to spend a Friday night at home re-reading the "House of Night" Series or watching "Heroes", so this whole situation was certainly... different. To say the least. But then again, I'd been starting to feel like a big fat liar. I mean, how could I say I liked rock and how could I say the twisted truths I said to my friends without dragging the full trouble-maker persona at my heels? I clash. I clash with myself a lot in many respects, so me simultaneously being a book-nerd and the world's biggest JD-shot drinker had recently started to get on my nerves.

I just took Crazy's advice and relaxed. It was in my system already, wasn't it? Nothing I could do about it this far.

It still wasn't working though. I vaguely wondered if I was too much of a good girl for the acid to want to make me nuts, and I half-cringed at the thought of the tiny paper thingy laughing at me from my own insides. (But then again, there I was giving a drug thingy living qualities - maybe I was hallucinating already after all).

"This sucks," I yelled at Crazy over the loud music ('Friday I'm In Love' by The Cure, at that moment), "It's not even working."

Crazy nodded in agreement and stuck his hand in his Diesel jeans pocket again. He motioned for me to open my mouth and before I could even half-think the whole thing through, I opened up and left it under my tongue for a little longer this time.

About twenty minutes later, the lights start going fuzzy. I'm ecstatic about being at this city's best club in terms of lighting effects because the multi-colored lasers are now making bizarre shapes on the walls and in front of my eyes and I can literally feel neon-blue glitter falling on my face and washing me clean of the night's tricks. People seem to be laughing at me and I tell Crazy and he laughs at me too and says with a knowing look "It's finally kicked in. Enjoy!"

And just like that, he's suddenly the Master of Ceremony of a big, colorful circus with scary women and fat slobby men. But then the song changes to 'Pretty Woman' and both the women and the men are now transvestis with fake boobs and exaggerated makeup and absurdly high heels. "They're gonna trip," I say, desperately making an attempt to hold up a girl who, incidentally, doesn't need to be held up. Jesus, I forgot I was at the wrong side of town - she gives me a twisted smile and jerks her head towards the bathroom, inviting me to some craaazy adventure Goodie-Good Me wouldn't understand. I laugh and Crazy pulls me away just in time.

"I need to dance," I suddenly tell him over Lissy Trullie's 'Ready For the Floor'. I make some unfortunate remark over Megan Fox's utter hotness (somehow, I wasn't high enough to forget that the song was in her latest disaster "Jennifer's Body") and off we go to the very center of the dancefloor. Crazy expertly guides me through the Trip, despite his also very mindless state, alternating between telling me to shut my eyes and soak it all in, covering my ears with his hands and making me feel like The Beatles' yellow submarine (under the sea and on my way to meeting Sgt. Pepper at an octopus' garden - in the shade), and massaging my back as if I was made out of plasticine (and giving me very intense and indecent shudders all over).

Next thing I knew, it was already almost 7am. The girl I'd met two months ago had left and Crazy and I were sitting side by side on a very comfy leather seat facing a particularly disgusting-looking couple. The guy was a goth to the extreme, sniffing at something his dirty hands shakily concealed, and the girl was sort of fat but stylishly dressed, and deserved much, much better than him. Crazy and I were having fun holding hands and staring up at a stain on the ceiling, describing to each other our very own versions of flying 'C's' up in the air (mine was yellow and purple and girly and his was grafitti-like on flames and very guy-ish).

"I gotta call Dad," I heard myself telling him once we were out watching the sunrise. I was having my umpteenth ciggie of the night and in no state to go home.

"You nuts?" he laughed at me whole-heartedly.

"Long story short, I promised him I'd call him tonight. He'll literally kill me if I don't," I told him with a heavy weight tearing at my insides and sinking to the pit of my stomach.

"Sure you don't want to wait till you're... down again?" Crazy offered and I shook my head.

And as Crazy went on and on about being sucked into the ground by the music and feeling every single person's thoughts and souls right next to his, I called Dad and told him I was ready. Dad made some comment on the time and the sun and the morning traffic, but was on his way.

"I'm so, so screwed," I laughed only so I wouldn't cry. People's waxy faces were suddenly scaring me, and despite how beautiful the sunrise was, I knew for a fact I was nowhere near sober yet. In fact, this Monday Night's Craziness hadn't even started - the worst of it hadn't even kicked in. What the fuck had I gotten myself into?

(to be continued...)

*

RE: your text msg

2010-01-18T09:07:00.000-08:00

ADVICE FOR MEN: if (and that's a BIG "if") you do decide to text her back, make sure you spell things right. No, your gorgeous accent doesn't excuse you from knowing how to spell "beer".

ADVICE FOR WOMEN: never ever fall for bartenders, bass players, or guys wearing Clash shirts - or in my case, the three combined. Period.

19

2010-01-17T09:17:00.000-08:00

I get there about an hour late and find the tallest, hottest guy standing by the front door - who I just happen to be very good friends with - and engulf him in a very tight "happy new year/christmas/I've missed you" hug. He's on the phone with his mom. Aw.

Crazy emerges from the bar and walks right past Tall and I. "Hey?!" I call, and he turns, wide-eyed and nearly spilling his beer, and hugs me. "Happy birthday, birthday girl!" he smiles ecstatically.

In we go for what will eventually be one of the craziest - if not THE craziest - birthday of my life. No, my Best Friend wasn't there for it (she was in Rome with her BF) and yas, my Party Friend/ JD-buddy passed out before she could make it there, but oh well.

Music gets there soon after and presents me with my favorite birthday gift of the evening, I'm afraid to say. He proceeds to insist on paying for both my drinks (yes, I do order doubles so I'll never find myself drink-less) and I reluctantly swoon. He's supposed to be my friend. We're supposed to be just friends.

Two of my friends get there as Music and I are sliding over to the bar. The three of us girlishly laugh and shriek and jump and hug while Music watches with a patiently amused grin, and off the two go to get their drinks. Crazy stumbles over and announces with a rather triumphant smile that he got us all a table, despite how crowded the place was that night. Perfect.

After one of those fruity red drinks, three beers, and a shot of JD - on just my side of the table - off we go in Tall's car to my favorite club ever. It's MY birthday, so I'm allowed to be selfish and to ignore people's complaints about it being a rock club. We manouver ourselves to the front of the cue and skip all the waiting after Tall charmed the gay bouncer. People behind us rant and protest, but oh well.

Once inside, my two friends and I down a Jager, another girly red something that tastes like cranberry juice, and a conspicuously-named mushy brown substance called "Orgasm". Forget the final exam I was supposed to take at 8am on the next morning to pass the course I'd flunked. I was staying here till the sun came up.

Fast-forward the night until about 6:30am. Bartender with an accent (and a sexy Clash shirt) has been giving me drinks on the house all night (while his boss wasn't looking) and managed to steal my number from Tall, so something interesting awaits. Crazy and I made plans for every single day of the week. I faintly remember agreeing to go to the beach with Music and Tall and my two friends, but of course we all forget about it on the (infamous) morning after.

So I get home, still glittery from last night, at about 7am. I decide I have no time to waste and eat a banana (ew), then change into slightly less nighty clothes and off I go to my car. Yes, I'm still quite drunk and laughy from last night - but I'm already such a great driver that I don't care. I don't want to get there too early, so I decide to take a short 20min nap in the car and set my phone's alarm.

Of course I slept right through it.

To my utter mortification, DAD finds me in a semi-coma in the fogged-up car and scares me to death as he incessantly taps the passenger's window. "Don't you have a test?" he asks, a knowing grin on his face. Oh, shit. "Yeah!" I jolt back to life as I see it's already ten to nine and start the car. Both of us drive away from the house, side by side, him laughing at me and my post-birthday drunkenness, and for the lack of a better excuse I stick my tongue out at him and accelerate. He agrees to stay behind and off I go to class.

I practically fling my keys at the valet guy (no, I cannot for the life of me parallel-park so I do pay a ridiculous amount of money for someone else to do it for me - every single day, cringe) and run across my uni's gates with flushed cheeks and crazy hair. "The professor was looking for you," a faceless girl from my class tells me as I'm bolting up the stairs. "Awesome!" I call back breathlessly, "thanks!" What for, exactly, I'm not so sure.

"There you are," the professor smiles at me as I walk in to find two people still taking the test - thank god - "I was about to call your home," she's super nice about it. Yes, that's one of the benefits of taking a class only six people managed to flunk - the teacher gives a shit.

"What happened?" StonerGirl asks me with a... stoned grin. "Yeah, what happened?" the professor asks curiously.

"Yesterday was my birrrthday," I have a hard time not slurring, "I came straight from the party and accidentally fell asleep in my car," I'm - cringe - totally honest about it.

"You're kidding me!" StonerGirl and the professor laugh simultaneously.

"Unfortunately, no," I smile back with droopy eyelids.

Bottom line: this sort of thing only happens to those of us who were born during the holidays. Or not. Who cares? Best birthday ever and even if I hadn't passed that course with a super-satisfying B+, I wouldn't have changed a thing.

The First Thing One Should Paint/ Are The EYES

2010-01-11T15:53:00.000-08:00

Golden-Tipped
Like Yours
Is exactly what I seek.

Come make me GASP.

Draw in purple on my skin
To the sound of crumpling plastic cups.

Spray-paint the shit out of me
In silver and in gold.

Hang me up on the wall of your soul.

Run by me again.
Let's start rumors of our own -
Because with me in the picture/ it just looks a damn better.

I'll give you a guitar pick alright
Yeah, I'm talking to YOU.

Because Golden-Tipped like yours
Is what I seek.

***

I am I am I am. Like Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar". But different. I am. I. Am.

...what, exactly? Not a name, not a word. "What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other word would smell as sweet," said Juliet to Romeo.

What's. In. A. Name?

Ugly. The Name in question is ugly. It sounds like a particularly nasty STD. It makes me sick.

But that which it represents, is not. That which it represents is... beautiful. I like it and I'm drawn to it and I ache for it and I want it and I'm getting it and it makes me throb with mad desires and it has everything to do with a pair of certain golden-tipped eyelashes from back in the days when the Name scared me. When the Name felt alien, like death - could happen to others and did, but not to me. Never to me.

I guess Romeo makes all the difference. Poor Romeo, for having to wait. Poor Romeo, for being merely a distraction from the Name. Poor Romeo, for falling so hopelessly in love with Juliet, when Juliet was actually looking elsewhere. My Juliet, at least.

My Juliet is falling for the Name.

My Juliet is scared by the Name.

My Juliet wants a fresh start where she can chase after the Name. Forget Romeo, forget Paris - hell, even forget about Mercutio!

Juliet died because of love. Too much love. But not for Romeo, no. Not even for herself. Juliet didn't even get to taste the reason for her death.

I sure hope my Juliet gets what she's after.

The Classic New Year Post

2010-01-10T16:37:00.000-08:00

Here I am, back again. Today's excuse for my long absence: I was finishing off my new book. Yes, I'm afraid to say I've spent a huge chunk of my holidays on that - wasting my days and nights away in front of my brand new laptop (woohoo!) and falling in love with my hopelessly troubled characters. Anyways, I'm back because I have too much to think about and need to unload a little. So here goes my classic New Year post.

I was reading one of those crappy neighborhood newspapers while I got coffee with my Mom today (yes, she was on the phone as usual) and was surprised to read something that actually got my sleepy holiday brain thinking. New Year can only be called New Year if we step out of our comfort zones to make it different. It's supposed to represent a brand new start and all, but the more I think about it, the more I see how January 1st is on January 1st for me and most people. Always. With very little exception. Why do we even bother to make up New Year's Resolutions when, at the end of the day, all they amount to is a brand new to-do list like the ones in our agendas? Okay, yeah, so the agenda might be brand new and stuff, but what you're writing there is just the first little list of pending chores - and nothing more. If you don't turn it into something more, that is.

So I guess my only New Year's Resolution this year is exactly that - to go the extra mile with everything I vow to do, and to turn things into that pretty pink and glittery something more. Hell yeah, do I have more stuff I want to get done this year; I'm just not going to tag them as a Resolution with a capital 'R', is all. I could go on and on now about how we tend to name things so they sound more important than they actually are, but that's a whole other story. True, but momentarily irrelevant.

Let's change the subject, then, shall we?

Since the new laptop came, I've been spending more and more time in my room hunting for interesting blogs to read (notice the brand new box that's replaced my lonely playlist of random songs), and that's how I came across this. Self-centered and quite useless, yes, but fun nonetheless. Like pretty much everything we do.

1. My uncle once: bought two identical Tiffany's diamond necklaces and accidentaly gave them both to me - one for Christmas and the other one for my birthday, about 20 days later. I didn't complain a) because I wanted to be polite and b) because it was a fucking diamond necklace, for christ's sake.
2. Never in my life: have I celebrated New Year at home.
3. When I was five: I wanted to wash cars for a living and own a vintage VW bug. I still want the VW bug.
4. High school was: a sort of bipolar experience - awesome and perfect in some ways, scary and miserable in others.
5. I will never forget: my first ever kiss - 3rd grade, in my (locked) bathroom with a super cute blue-eyed boy called Gabriel while my nanny desperately pounded at the door.
6. Once I met: an apparently super famous tattoo artist (who was on the cover of Maxim last month). She's my neighbor at the beach and she was the one who gave me my Blackbird.
7. There’s this boy I know: who has the prettiest eyes in the universe and a killer rebel-without-a-cause attitude that makes me swoon. Sigh.
8. Once, at a bar: I somehow ended up being the rope in two guys' game of Tug of War. I was flung inside the bathroom and left the bar with a big fat smile on my face.
9. By noon, I’m usually: hungry and wishing I was out at the beach, roasting in the sun.
10. Last night: I watched "Inglorious Basterds" with the Infamous Zipper Man. Heh heh.
11. If only I had: just a little more patience...
12. Next time I go to church: I will try (harder) not to feel claustrophobic.
13. What worries me most: is having to wake up tomorrow at FIVE FUCKING THIRTY in the morning to re-take the class I flunked this semester. Five whole hours of Math 1, anyone?
14. When I turn my head left I see: a Calvin Klein gift bag, an unpacked backpack, my guitar.
15. When I turn my head right I see: my room's balcony.
16. You know I’m lying when: You don't - I hate lying, but I'm awful good at it.
17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: Siouxsie and the Bansheens, New Order, Gang of Four... you name it.
18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: Viola - pretending I'm something I'm not and accidentally falling in love with the guy I'm supposed to be helping has my name written all over it.
19. By this time next year: I hope I won't be dreading having to wake up at FIVE IN THE FUCKING MORNING. Ugh.
20. A better name for me would be: Ten Tons of Ideas, Too Little Time
21. I have a hard time understanding: my mother.
22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: probably be picking my little sister up as usual.
23. You know I like you if: I keep smiling like a moron with a face glitch.
24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: Mom, Dad & Little Sister. Aww.
25. Take my advice, never: say "I will never ____." Next thing you know, you're doing it and people are looking at you with big accusatory question marks on their faces.
26. My ideal breakfast is: bunches of fruits (in odd numbers, of course), cold milk, and a slice of toast with honey.
27. A song I love but do not have is: Joss Stone's cover of Queen's "Under Pressure".
28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: bring shitloads of money. That saying about the best things in life being free is utter CRAP in this city.
29. Why won’t people: just say what they think, PERIOD? I. Do. NOT. Like. Playing. Games.
30. If you spend a night at my house: please don't break my bed again :)
31. I’d stop my wedding for: wow, I'm getting married? THAT in itself is such a miracle I don't think I'd stop it for anything. (yes, I'm a little up to here with men at the moment)
32. The world could do without: fanatic preachers. Ick.
33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: Ew. I think I'd prefer doing anything else rather than licking the belly of a cockroach.
34. My favourite blonde(s) is/are: oopsy, I'm busted. This is my twisted and deranged little secret. For now.
35. Paper clips are more useful than: staples. I always staple things in the wrong order and then spend ages trying to pluck it off and end up ruining my nails in the process.
36. If I do anything well it’s: sitting around on a rainy Sunday afternoon doing absolutely nothing.
37. I can’t help but: have a major crush on Taylor Lautner's insane b-o-d-y. Yum.
38. I usually cry: when I'm royally pissed off.
39. My advice to my child/nephew/niece: follow your dreams (yeah, major "Almost Famous" reference).
40. And by the way: I'm not going out with you again, listen to Lily Allen's "Not Fair". Get the point?

Mini Post-Christmas Bitch Fit

2009-12-28T07:52:00.000-08:00

Enough is enough, right?
Ha. Lessons you learn from watching "Pretty Woman" for the gazillionth time. That's exactly why I write under the name of Penny Lane. Got a lot to learn from her in terms of... well, saying enough is enough.
I'm just tired, that's all. I want real things now, but at the same time I'm scared. And no, come on, who am I kidding? Listen to Joss Stone's "Lady" - "why are you still here when I told you it don't come to nothing?". Just go. All of you.

Need. Time. Alone.

*

"Sweet heart, bitter heart, now I can't tell you apart..."

2009-12-19T09:02:00.000-08:00

Sadness soaks and chokes the life out of you
When really, life should be permanently invited in.
But you don't invite sadness
And neither do you expect it.

It comes in bunches, instead.

She sung about miniature disasters
She played about minor catastrophes
And I am living proof that they will bring you to your knees.
No amount of patience, bravery or introspective thinking will make it go away.

Because it comes in bunches - it's bad.

There is a cure and it hangs in the skies
She blows the clouds around a twinkly dot of hope.
You become curious and enthralled and wonder if it's just a plane
The cure is that which whispers to you that the dot is indeed a star.

So yes, it comes in bunches.
It's sad and bad and messes with your head.
I'm still crawling on my knees, tearful and sore
But because of that star last night... I'm not dead!

Dead in the body and dead in the soul
Are the far ends of (at least my) reality.
I don't want either for anyone
But if the choice is to be made, let it be the first over the latter always and forever.

Soul.
"She's in Heaven and Heaven is in our hearts,"
I was told by a six-year-old.
Out hearts and souls beg us for Peace, Love and Humanity.

Believe in stars.
Choose life for the soul.
Keep the sky in your hearts.
Your head's still on fire, your body is still sore, and your eyes still leak.

But how would you otherwise know and feel you're still alive?
You're still alive.
We're still alive.
Don't look for who shot the arrow - follow it and look for the target instead.

Nothing makes sense if not thought about at the right time.
The right time is not previously scheduled, but comes in random bunches to balance out Sadness.
With a heavy head, sore bones and liquid eyes I hereby beg you:
Don't foll around while you wait for the "right time".

Instead, I lower myself from my kneeling to throw myself at your feet and make an honest suggestion.
While the right time to think doesn't come to your life
Live in Peace, Love and Humanity.
The "right time" has a will of its own and surpasses mortality; your personal expiration date does not.

You make people hurt when you pound at our doors.
We hear your subtle whispers, there is no need to add to the Noise.
Talk.
Just talk to me.

*

Why not?

2009-12-03T07:36:00.000-08:00

Peace, love, safety, happiness, warmth, earth, wind, fire, water, spirit, moon, stars, smells... and a weirdly prophetic dream, as the cherry on top. Then waking up to feel lazily divine, after sleeping with the feeling I was not alone in my room. There. That's where I'll stop.

I will not go blind. This is a new beginning, however little and seemingly insignificant. Because it all starts from withing, don't it? :)

Colour me free indeed. Allow me to have beautiful mornings every morning and let the world shine as bright as it did/does today forever. It IS all in the eyes of the beholder, so let me be a clean, blissful, peace&love beholder. No lies, no cheating, no drama, no unnecessary or evil intoxicants.

Peace, love, and blessed be.

*

Fkldçajs

2009-11-30T06:52:00.000-08:00

I want you (tam tam tam tam tam)
I want you so baaaad (tam tam tam)
I want yoouuuu (tam tam tam tam)
I want you so baaaad it's driving me mad, it's driving me mad.

Hahah okay. I might be going mad after all. All your fault, with your pale blue eyes (don't start singing again) and your fasdjfaç. What is it about you? Shitttt how this sucks.

I love how you say love. I love how you say just about anything. Me and accents, oh well. You might change my mind about something after all, and I hope my friend's wrong about you and that boy (in a rock and roll band la la la la). Shitttttssss.

I had a dream last night (heeeey another song?!), which I can't even bring myself to repeat. I tried to say it to the one friend who'd understand what it's like to WANT but I ended up telling her about the other dream, the stupid dream. You're the dreamy dream I should be talking about because holy shittt how faslkfja you are.

And hey, just for the record, wanting is different from love. I am not in love. I am in wanting, I guess. And I want you (tam tam tam tam tam). Bad.

*

"Putting Out Fire... With Gasoline"

2009-11-15T12:31:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure Bowie's song (see title) is really the best for what I want to say. I'm not sure about anything at all, actually. I mean, how can I be sure if what I'm feeling is so unsure and contradicting and "twisted and deranged" (yeahhh Arctic Monkeys) and simply... crazy?! I haven't been writing anything at all because I feared it would come out like it's coming out - simply... crazy.

Anger: for having to stand up for my uni's reputation in the middle of a World War III (a.k.a. Family Dinner). Hell yeah we party hard, but it's not like you say it is AT ALL. We do study, we do have lectures, we do know what a library is. And for your information, we also do become this country's most influential group of people, no, not because we're filhinhos de papai or bratty heirs, but because WE WORK OUR ASSES OFF FOR IT.

Happiness: for standing in the middle of a dancefloor, buzzing with alcohol but not drunk, being pulled in a trillion directions by a clutter of very different arms. Arm 1: random and annoyingly cute guy who doesn't stand a chance. Arm 2: drunk friend punching the shit out of Arm 1's boozy face. Arm 3: Hopeful person I won't even mention here because I want things to work out. Arm 4: crazy girl who dragged me to a corner and pulled my dress down to check out my *¨&(%. Laughs. Lots of Laughs. And I promise I'm not mad, it was funny as hell. Arm 5: increeeedibly hot guy we sadly suspect is gay. Oh well, sigh.

Disgust: for cheaters, sluts, double sluts, hypocrites, fuck-heads, junkies, and coke-whores. No wonder I don't use my middle name.

Love: for Arm 3. I'm Hopeful and you're Hopeful, and I won't say a word because I don't want to screw this up - and I am known for screwing this up, either because I want too much too fast or because I fall in over my head and end up losing myself in the process. Linger on... those pale blue eyes... Ahhh fsadkljfas you're so pretttttty. I want you. I want you so baaaad.

BOTTOM LINE: confusion. curiosity. madness. anger. the horror. lust. love. hope. peace. smiles. laughter. nakedness. arms and legs. faces. eyes. blue eyes. pale blue eyes. pale blue squinty eyes.

Here's Sylvia Plath, before I go mad. "I am. I am. I am."

Mad Girl's Love Song
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Decadence Avec Elegance

2009-10-30T17:02:00.000-07:00

I walk along the rows of my familiar Friday book store with a serious and determined air, looking for the answer to that which has been robbing me of my usually thought-out, witty words: what am I looking for?

Automatically, I unleash my supposedly soothing thoughts - those meant to keep me from panicking and dropping my mask of poise, elegance, and control.

Why am I looking? Because I feel alone - not lonely, because that's temporary. What I feel is utterly alone in the sense of never being able to be exactly and entirely myself with anyone at all. I'm not saying I'm a liar; I'm saying I'm only parts of myself at different times and with different people. And I'm not alone in the friendship sense either; however, I'm scared to verbalize what I am, in fact, alone in. Because it sounds clichè, because it sounds silly, because it sounds old fashioned, because it sounds lame - take your pick. And it scares me as much as it scares the few friends I'm able to confide in. Aren't I supposed to not care about... love? Aren't I supposed to be out at night, continuously in search of mouths and necks and bodies - nothing else? I am and I do. Did. Do? Sadly, it oscilates. But it's there and that's what matters - that and the feeling of emptiness it brings. I feel like a cannibal, depraved of all senses of self and morality. But I (and everyone else) tell myself: that's what nights are for. For letting it out, for feeling like that, for behaving like I'm supposed to, for not holding back. But then day follows and there's not much else to feel, since there's nothing to feel at all.

I guess that explains the "how am I looking for" part too. And since it's not working, or at least hasn't worked so far, I might go vegeterian in the sense that I won't settle for anything below my so-called "absurd" expectations. Which brings me closer to that which gives me the creeps, which makes me panic, which makes me absolutely vulnerable.

But not yet there. I remind myself to go easy, slowly, patiently... Basically, everything my thirsty self lacks.

So comes the next question: what am I not looking for? Easy, thanks to the past. Not looking for clingy, not looking for curious, not looking for shallow, not looking for someone with all the wrong reasons (or someone with all the wrong consequences either), not looking for money, not looking for a body with an empty mind (or vice-versa, forgive me), not looking for experience, not looking for cheap, not looking for someone who wants to share me, not looking to be someone's rebound, not looking for a candle that burns both ways (but of course I'll make an exception if my big "if" becomes fact), and not looking to be a toy. Oh, and especially not looking to be someone's summer postcard from one in several places of the world to later be shoved away in a shoebox like a distant memory of a long-ago trip. Because that made me believe, for a moment, that I'd never fall in love again.

Okay, deep breath now, as I pick up an elaborately-packed poetry-prose book by a man I've never heard of. Bless you, D.T., for making me believe in the existence of your race. Yes, you did not answer my question at all. You only triggered new ones. But you also gave me clues about what I do want, with that uncanningly (and shamelessly) written phrase of yours. I do want to be the "right ear to lyrically dirty phrases". I do want to give my soul up for words "written in passion-red lipstick". I want to be deliberately stupid, to be "crowned with a sonet", to be "an old poet's muse". I want to believe his words without having to run a background check, I want to trust and be trusted, incinerate and burn, mark and be marked.

Of course, as my best friend so appropriately put it today (in his sad, struggling words), the more I read the pickier I get. Because I do look around to only find myself face to face with betrayal, selfishness, voids, deterioration, and rotten, rotten people. Yet I'm still hopeless in the sense of never losing hope - I know what I want now, despite how hard I try to ignore it. And I'll try not to give into the night, I say as I'm slipping into the shimmery short black dress and heels, and I won't settle for less.

It might not be passion-red, it occurs to me as I carefully paint my lips tonight. But it's red alright.

And the mask is back on.

*

Here I Go Again

2009-10-21T09:53:00.001-07:00

So. What does writing a 50,000 word novel in one month sound like?

www.nanowrimo.org

I'm doing it again this year.

*

Regados Por Cerveja

2009-10-20T15:05:00.000-07:00

Quem? O que? Meus pensamentos? Os conselhos que ouvi? Os que eu dei?

Tudo.

Bem que falei que escrever alegre era mais... gostoso. Tudo flui. Flui.
(Nota-se que estou me divertindo com a pronunciação das palavras - em pensamento. Que beleza!)

Algumas conclusões (e introduções também, já que todo final de uma boa discussão é também o começo de uma novinha em folha):

-Aquele-Que-Não-Deve-Ser-Nomeado (aka Mad Hatter, Heartbreaker, take your pick) não merece nem minha aversão à músicas de fossa. Porque "Crying" do Aerosmith é sim uma das minhas favoritas, e nem a pau que vou abrir mão disso por ele - ou qualquer um, for that matter. Ok, talvez pelo Steven Tyler já que com ele a coisa vira 2-em-1... mas todos nós sabemos que o cara em questão não é nenhum Steven. Mas estou fugindo do assunto. ANYWAYS, decidi que não desisti. Decidi que acredito sim nessa coisa de realmente gostar de alguém, ao contrário do resto do mundo. É uma coisa meio "been there, done that": experimentei o oposto (extensively, for that matter) e não gostei. Ok, talvez eu tenha gostado um pouquinho... ou até bastante. Convenhamos, é sim divertido. Mas nesse caso, o que importa não é o quanto eu gostei e sim o quanto eu me identifiquei - nada. Por isso achei melhor continuar do jeito que sou, sempre sonhando e olhando pras nuvens em busca de um tantinho assim de integridade e respeito. (dreamer/ stupid little dreamer/ so now you put your head in your hands, oh no! etc.)

- ...o que nos leva à questão da verdade. Quero a verdade, a quero muito! Mas não posso sair por aí e chegar nas pessoas "oi, tudo bem, você é de verdade?". Poder eu posso, mas nem tenho a cara de fazer isso. Não tanto pela vergonha (ok, talvez também pela vergonha) mas mais porque ninguém entenderia. Todo mundo acharia que eu estava falando literalmente, quando na verdade não – como sempre. Ninguém entende o meu sarcasmo quando estou brincando, imagina quando falo sério! No fundo é isso que eu quero – poder falar sério. Hoje em dia tudo é muito tipo “e aê cara, conseguiu o VIP da balada?” e eu, como garotinha da FAAP (cantem Seu Jorge quanto quiserem, já to imune e nem ligo :p), convivo com isso toda hora e também tenho meus momentos; afinal, saber quem tem VIP é algo de importância nacional em alguns casos (big flashing lights: aqui estou sendo sarcástica). ANYWAYS, quero também meus momentos de “cogito ergo sum” e coisas do tipo, nem que seja só às vezes. Porque eu penso sim, e logo existo! Juro, acho que a única coisa que me mantém sã é pensar... Pensando bem, talvez seja a única coisa que não me mantém sã, já que a sanidade, como todos sabem, é um produto da imaginação racional dos Caras Chatos – ou seja, não existe. Ninguém é são.

-Outra coisa que não existe é o tempo - e isso me irrita pra caramba. Tipo, o que é o tempo quando na verdade a nossa vida é contínua? Ela não para nem pro relógio, é o que eu quero (e tento, quase sempre em vão) dizer. O que são sete horas da manhã, quando pra você é o fim da noite? O que são nove e meia da manhã, quando você está com sede de cerveja? Quem são seus pais ou o cara do boteco pra dizer que é muito tarde ou que não se serve bebida a essa hora? O que é tarde e o que é essa hora? Se essas horas não servem, qual hora vai servir? Se não sabemos quando vamos morrer, porque vamos nos preocupar com o “quando” das coisas de agora? Sim, não podemos despirocar total. Porque aí a verdade se perde – e isso também me irrita (notem que “poder” depende do que me irrita; notem também que muitas coisas me irritam). Conclusão: faça o que tiver vontade quando tiver vontade; normalmente esse “quando” é o tanto de responsabilidade anti-despirocamento que você precisa.

Sleep it off, love. Sleep it off. Vou seguir os conselhos a-la-Millie. There’s nothing a hot bath won’t cure. Nem uma crise de perda de esperança pela raça humana, um coração arrebentado à distância, ou uma ressaca maluca da única coisa que tem matado minha sede.

This Is What You Write After You've Had More Than a Few Beers

2009-10-17T19:50:00.000-07:00

Call me call me call me. Pick up your goddamn phone or call me. Because I told you I want to drink. I told you I need to drink.

(this is me not drunk enough, but quite drunk to think all these twisted thoughts)

***

I miss you. I see you in that picture on Facebook and I miss you. I want you, just like that, with your eyes closed and yout poet-eyes shut away in dreamland. Because I'm a dreamer and you're a dreamer. She's not a dreamer. I want you, have I said that before? I don't care about anything else - I just want you and that lovely sleepy face. Not in a bus. Not in a tree-lined avenue on the other side of the world. Not at Hyde Park. I want you in places I wouldn't dare list here. I want you like Liz Phair's "Flowers". I want you to unmask that big lie and I want you to play "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" with me and I want you to keep sending me that poem and I want you to fall over on top of me in the tube station (as you so irresistibly call it). Be. Here. Now.

I hate you.

***

Loud music. Mr. Jägermeister gently pouring shots between my lips. American girl discovering Brazilian man. Me jumping and dancing and raising my arms up to the beautiful night sky just because I'm so blissed out - and not even high. Man in torn stockings - note: they're not torn on the knees, they're torn right between his legs so this city's demented shadows can find a way in. He smells like pee and I start to get a little freaked out. I start to realize things aren't quite what they appear to be. I realize I'm in a hole in the heart of this city's underground scene. I realize that guy's Tic-Tacs weren't actually Tic-Tacs. I realize things are spinning. I realize I need Mr.Wasted Guy's special cigarrette. I realize I don't smoke. I realize those girls in the weird capes don't just have a crap dressing sense - their actual "dress", if you can call that minuscule piece of fabric a dress, is a pole-dancer's outfit. I realize I did take a pole-dancing class last summer. I realize I'm not at the right place at the right time. I realize I don't even care. I realize I'm alive.

***

More. More. More. Keep filling that fragile plastic-fantastic cup up till the contents spill. Because it's not about the contents - it's about the idea behind (and in front of) the contents. It tastes like the dirty tap water I had to brush my teeth with from that kinky road-side motel back on that college road trip. It tastes like rotten bubbly water. It tastes like something one should never taste out of free will.

But after one, two, three, thirteen... it just tastes like water. And I'm thirsty, so excuse me. Fill it up, fill it up - I'm burning. I'm starting to see things - actually, I'm starting to miss out on things that are there to be seen. I'm starting to give people extreme-makeovers in my head, like... beauty-fy them. Because deep inside no one's as ugly as the real world makes them. It's not their fault, it's not my fault, it's no one's fault. Blame is like God in many ways - it's omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient, but it's just there, invisibly luring people into its mad fits of uglyness.

And beer helps.

Out I go before I give the entire universe my oh-so-famous finger and walk out on life. Out I go, into the demented holes of this city to drink even more than I already did. Out I go to live, to shoot for the moon and land among filthy rats disguised as stars. Out. Out. Out...

Because I can no longer stand to stay inside. And it doesn't feel grand, lemme assure you of that.

*

Coisas Que Me Irritam (Leia-se: O Post Menos Editado da Minha Vida)

2009-10-16T14:02:00.000-07:00

Ultimamente tenho estado beeeem irritada, to say the least. Podia ser cansaço, depois do fim de semana mais longo (e louco, obviamente) da minha vida. Podia ser TPM até uns 6 dias atrás, exatamente. Podia ser muito tempo sem chocolate. Podia ser um milhão de coisas.
É por isso que vou deixar minha reencarnação budista falar; ao invés de buscar a causa, vou metódicamente discutir o presente, irritação irritante por irritação irritante. Sim, daquele meu jeito perfeccionista que inexplicavelmente bota tudo numa lista... porque assim pelo menos alguma coisa faz sentido - que nem aquele monte de coisas que o prof. de filosofia não parava de falar, sobre a forma vs. o conteúdo e blá blá blá (eu te amo - heheh sorry, não resisti... Lobão de novo, of course).
Ok, vamos botar ordem na bagunça:

-Irritação Irritante No.1: Alguém chegar pra mim, na estúpida tentativa de me mostrar o quão inteligente ele é (why, oh WHY?), e começar a desmistificar a coisinha da fitinha do bonfim. "Cara, como assiiiiiiim?" foi o que eu disse (antes de começar a ficar toda irritada). "Não tem nada a ver, é tudo científico, tipo física quântica da projeção dos pensamentos", foi o que ele 'explicou'. "Não é não, é MÁGICA", foi o que eu teimei. "Mágica o caramba, você olha praquilo toda hora e lembra do seu pedido - isso é fato", foi o que ele manteve. Foi mais ou menos aí que eu comecei a estreitar os olhos e levantar o dedo do meio. Afinal de contas, quem quer ouvir que o Papai Noel não existe? Eu, pelo menos, não quero ouvir isso de ninguém - muito menos do cara mais irritante e mimado e MALA do mundo. Pena que ele é o cara que te compra um saquinho de Ruffles no dia seguinte, quando você está de ressaca total, prestes a entrar na quadra pra jogar futsal, usando um uniforme mega feio e largo, sendo que nem era pra você jogar (já que você só é uma atleta-social, daquelas que sentam no banco de reserva e ficam fingindo assistir o jogo enquanto bebe a cerveja do técnico).
-Irritação Irritante No.2: ser largada no meio de uma balada por uma "garota-no-cio", como meu pai delicadamente diz. Daquelas que dão em cima de tudo que tenha um *** entre as pernas. Ok, paro o desfile de sutilezas por aqui (o jantar com a fami é daqui a pouco, isso é papo de mesa total... NOT).
-Irritação Irritante No.3: cuidar de bêbados só porque você não está louca o suficiente... e queria estar. Mas tem um cocô de jogo de futsal pra jogar. Sendo que você nem joga. Etc.
-Irritação Irritante No.4: estar finalmente conseguindo dormir por alguns minutos, depois de quinze bilhões de horas acordada, e aos pouquinhos sentir um peso em cima de você. No começo é até que bom, tipo quentinho... E o tal peso nem é feio, você percebe, ao abrir os olhos devagarzinho... Mas aí você toma um puta susto e acorda na hora. Como se não bastasse, leva uma lambida na cara. Ew.
-Irritação Irritante No.5: estar dirigindo por São Paulo, o lugar mais caótico pra quem acabou de tirar carta (talvez só depois da Índia), e receber a vigésima ligação em menos que cinco minutos da sua mãe (que está falando algo totalmente irrelevante o mais devagar e compridamente possível, tipo "ah, não esquece de colocar o bolo de banana com canela da sua irmã dentro daquele potinho laranja com florzinhas no bolso da frente da mala colorida de ballet dela, junto com a água de côco e o canudinho e o garfinho do Simba"). Aí você se segura pra não desligar na cara dela e fala que já liga de volta, pois está dirigindo. Pra quê? Pra ela começar a gritar como se tivesse chutado a quina da mesa dizendo que você é uma desnaturada, mal-educada e mal-agradecida que merece um tapa na cara ao ser expulsa de casa. Sendo que você está deixando de ir pro shopping fazer compras para buscar sua irmã na escola e ficar de motorista a tarde toda enquanto lê o livro chato de política pra tirar notas boas e continuar sendo a melhor aluna da sala.
-Irritação Irritante No.6: ser forçada a ficar em São Paulo durante a semana do saco cheio... trabalhando. Period.
-Irritação Irritante No.7: ver seu favorite quote no status de alguém, sem seus devidos créditos. Saber que esse alguém, que te tratou tão mal aquele dia na balada, gosta das mesmas coisas que você... e ao mesmo tempo te trata tão mal aquele dia na balada.
-Irritação Irritante No.8: calorias.
-Irritação Irritante No.9: estar irritada com mais exatamente 23479103 coisas, mas não poder meter o pau em nenhuma devido a 1) falta de espaço, 2) falta de tempo, e 3) maldita censura.

Ok, um pouco mais leve.
Acho que estou espalhando esses pesinhos por todo lugar... aqui, no meu violão, no cara que eu ainda não respondi, nas ruas de São Paulo, no meu carro batido...
Oh well.
You wanted feelings? You got feelings, mate. Agora cadê meu JD pra deixar tudo... lúcido? Acho que isso pede por uma balada solo lá em algum buraco da Augusta - com direito a Joy Division e bateção de cabeça e vestidos caros e curtos e shots de Jägermeister com sabe-lá-o-que de graça, dados na boca pelo próprio Mr. Jägermeister.

Respira. Tipo paz e amor.

*

But you were fucking that girl nextdoor...

2009-10-07T06:55:00.000-07:00

Well here's the thing: you're one of the few idealized thoughts of mine that I'm glad I didn't act on. Because you wouldn't deserve it. Because you're an idiot. Because my thoughts were, as usual, way prettier than what actually happened. Because you act older that you really are and in reality you're you're so full of shit andnot half the man you think you are. Because you suck. You're lame and I hate you and... well, I might have loved you.

Yes, I'm still sort of not over it and I think we shouldn't have seen each other again. On second thought, yeah we should have and I'm glad that we did... That way, I don't have to wonder "what if...?" for the rest of my life. That way, I can know for sure how lame you are and still miss holding hands with you in the park while I froze to death in my mini-skirt just because I wanted to look and feel pretty despite the well-known awful weather. Yeah, I wanted more. Yeah, I'd spent hours planning my outfit because I wanted it to be functional and appropriate for what I wanted you to think and do to me. Yeah, you missed out. Once again, because you suck.

You are not in any way the traveling soldier you see yourself as, with a girl in every corner of the world and lots of clever remarks said in an irresistible accent. What you really are, is lame. I picked you, don't get THAT wrong. And I only did so because you were what everyone was after and I just had to prove (to myself, to the world?) that I could. And I did. And now you're not that irresistible anymore. I can see right through your I'm-so-hot-but-I-couldn't-care-less clothes and your sarcasm and your oh-so-witty comments about the world.

fadsklfjaskljf

Lily Allen is right about you people.

*

Coisas de Domingo

2009-09-27T13:03:00.000-07:00

-Maçãs cortadas e descascadas pela sua mãe, servidas com gelo num potinho do Simba que te lembra da sua infância;

-Deitar na grama e tomar sol o dia todo enquanto o vento sopra, ficando mais preta a cada segundo sem nem sentir;

-Enfiar o dedinho na piscina pra testar a temperatura e sentir um frio do caramba e rir e gritar e ser empurrada pra dentro e ficar mais resfriada ainda;

-Sentir o peso de certo alguém em cima de mim e instintivamente saber exatamente o que fazer e onde tocar e sentir a maior paz (e prazer) do mundo ao fazê-lo... E antes que eu me empolgue demais, lembrar que eu estou falando do meu violão;

-Me irritar num almoço de família (só porque eu posso) e orgulhosamente assumir meu papel de ovelha-negra sob disfarce... e mesmo assim sair de lá me sentindo no topo do mundo just because I belong somewhere;

-Me sentir inspirada e precisar escrever (juro que achei, essa semana, que nunca mais ia me sentir desse jeito), o que me lembra da simples e crua pergunta que inesperadamente me fizeram na época dos College Apps/Vestibular: "escrever te dá tesão? é quase uma necessidade?? você não consegue viver sem isso???". O mais legal é que o cara que me perguntou nunca pareceu ser o tipo profundo e poético, só "o" bonitão perfeito que tem todas as meninas (yours truly sort of included) à seus pés;

-Dar uma volta a pé no quarteirão de casa sem ter que me preocupar com ladrões e cocôs - afinal de contas, é domingo!

*

Segunda Tentativa (de botar ordem no mundo)

2009-09-26T17:29:00.001-07:00

Sim, esse é meu segundo post hoje. E estou escrevendo em português (btw, nunca sei se é com letra maiúscula ou não) pra desenferrujar e pra surtar de maneira diferente - acho que o post anterior já fez isso muito bem. Então aqui vão meus pensamentos, de novo em forma de lista porque pelo menos uma coisa tem que fazer sentido lógico (e eu sei que todo o resto não vai fazer):

Pensamento 1: sim, todos nós temos o direito de ficar irritados. Passei a tarde discutindo possíveis "outlets" (viu, não consigo de maneira alguma pensar em uma só língua! juro que não é síndrome de burguesinha, como todo mundo fala) com minha melhor amiga e percebemos várias coisas. Primeiro, que ela reage da maneira certa e paciente e nobre e eu da maneira errada e impaciente e ferrada - mas mesmo assim sempre nos encontramos no fim da linha, do mesmo jeito, com as mesmas vontades e no mesmo barco. Segundo, que todas nós só pensamos em uma coisa (and I'll leave that to your imagination, thank/fuck you very much). Terceiro, que ela é outra "pessoa a distância" pra mim - vai dizer, isso é maldição, karma ruim, ou pura e simplesmente uma merda?? Bom, percebemos outras coisas também, mas estas não vem ao caso agora.
Pensamento 2: quando não existe opção ou esperança, esperar não é tão fácil não. Nem nobre. E nem vale a pena, eu suponho. Digo "suponho" porque o que eu tenho feito, mesmo sem entender, é esperar. E não entendo mesmo. O pior disso tudo é que minha curiosidade, que sempre mandou em mim, quer entender. E pra entender é preciso parar de esperar e se jogar de cabeça. Mesmo estando a um milímetro desse salto, não pulo - e não sei porque não. Mas quero saber, e o ciclo recomeça. Maldita curiosidade.
Pensamento 3: quero falar tudo na lata porque é assim que penso e todo o resto me irrita. Quero que me falem tudo na lata também porque só assim vou começar a dizer o que penso, o que faço, o que fiz e o que farei. Não posso ser a única pessoa falando tudo como tudo é. Quer dizer, poder eu posso, mas não tenho... a coragem. Ainda, né. Porque, pensando bem, mudei bastante. Até insultei um certo Mr. Shrimp ontem - completamente sóbria - just for the sake of the truth and my honor. E outra coisa - quero conversas cara a cara, não mensagens de texto e posts e scraps e toda essa bagunça confusa que "revolucionou o mundo". Entendo quando um certo alguém me convida pra uma conversa de vídeo (mesmo que na hora nego, pensando em mil e uma obscenidades (?)). Não entendo quando outro certo alguém me manda à procura de seus sentimentos através dos pensamentos de sua amiga. Voltando pro começo desse Pensamento, quero as coisas na lata mesmo! Não suporto esses joguinhos mesmo que participo deles! Lfasjdfk.

Acho que estou 1) ficando maluca, 2) de TPM, 3) em crise de abstinência e 4) precisando sair. Não é nenhum segredo que tenho sede e fome e vício de viver. O mundo é tão mais bonito desse jeito! Millie would agree that the only thing that drives us all is the call of the demented night, waiting to twist up your soul.

*

Blame it on the distance!

2009-09-26T08:53:00.000-07:00

Mood: annoyed.
Reason: same as ever.

***

Yes, I will explain myself a little better.
(Hahah and I AM utterly aware that nobody asked and that this is actually a random monologue that would be better off locked away in my heart, but...)

Okay, maybe change my mood to "bitter".

ANYWAYS, I am rambling because I wanna write about this despite how repetitive it feels and because I don't know how to start, without simply telling you to flip back to the "If I Fell" entry. Because it's about that same person and because no, I haven't even gotten past my second page in that supposedly-oh-so-powerful autobiographical romance on how a certain Mad-Hatter broke my heart even though he was a billion miles away. And I let him, that's what I did. I fucking let him! Like, I allowed myself to get all vulnerable and dreamy (though, on second thought, I'm dreamy all the time) and hence my current I-wanna-curl-up-and-watch-chick-flicks mood.

I don't make any sense, I know.

What triggered this step back into that place, one might ask? The answer's obvious. Somebody else. Who's also far away (again, not even in the same coutry, though at least this one's in the same continent - I swear it's the accent haha, I'm a sucker for that kinda thing). If I get all Freudian on myself, I can easily point out the reason for my thing for foreigners: when they're far away, I'm allowed to idealize them and to blind myself to the flaws. I'm allowed to fantasize at night (mmm wink wink) and turn them into whatever I want.

Okay, this might as well be the crappiest piece of thoughts EVER, I wonder (again) why, instead of typing them and posting them on the fucking INTERNET for christ's sake, I didn't just let them linger in my heart.

Mr.Shrimp (hahah, fake name fake name) would wisely advise me: "Stop thinking about those losers. Jump into your current hippie-guy's car and go pole-dancing in weed-world. (Pause). On second thought, you and I can do a lot more than that - I guarantee you won't regret it".

Thank whoever's Up There for Mr.Shrimp. And the rest of the suckers who've been rocking the boat with me.
And before this post turns into a bigger disaster, I'll leave off with a Neil Gaiman quote:

“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.”

*

"Confesso que Vivi"

2009-09-14T10:32:00.000-07:00

Okay, looks like I've got billions of things to apologize for. I'm not a big fan of apologies, especially in this case, when none of what I did was wrong. But, since I am living in the real world and not in my mind, and since I am no hippie (so that excuse is taken), and since this is the conventional society that seems to demand an excuse for every single accidental laughter that breaks the silence, here's my excuse for it all: I'm alive and young and careless so all I breathe and all my heart beats for are exactly those moments of "tipsyness" and smiles and long stares and hiccups and fights and peace-signs and angry middle-fingers and kisses and tugs and bites and truths and lies and laughter and repression and jumping and kicking and stumbling and bleeding and hugging and then finally falling asleep. The rest, my friend, is history.
Now if I've seriously offended anyone in doing any of that, well, no apology for you. Because I am sorry, deep inside - sorry you missed out on the fun; sorry you weren't able to see the cup half-full; sorry you were such a pain in the ass. Because hey, after living a life like mine and reaching that point when you're so happy you couldn't care less, apologies start to look a little... morose. And that's the last thing I care about at the moment.
I feel like this is the never ending climax of the whole thing - I've done all I had to do in order to get smart enough for life (from being the best student in the class, to hanging out with all the wrong people, to getting into all the colleges I wanted, to taking a pole dancing course in Vegas, to letting it all go in New Year's, to starting over for the millionth time, to a backpacking trip all over Europe...) and now I can allow myself to actually play around with it. With life, I mean. And I do feel like walking the world, still, because that's what we're all here for. To play and to laugh and to walk the world and then die being able to leave a note with three words of triumph: "confesso que vivi".

Muchas gracias, Pablo Neruda. You're next on my list.

*

Walking After Midnight

2009-08-22T15:49:00.000-07:00

As I heard what sounded like a fat fish falling on the wet floor, all I could think of were my favorite boots. It was crucial not to get them splattered.
I lowered my eyes, which were usually looking up and above and lost in dream-land, to find a wasted-looking girl (who'd otherwise look extremely cool and elegant) puking her alcohol-corrosed insides out. The room spun. Without stopping once, I skipped over the chemically-colored purple puddle of regret on the floor and made my way over to my final destination: the last, blissful-looking black bathroom stall in the dirty, vomit-smelling, toilet-papered bathroom. I locked myself inside and let out a deep, shaky sigh.
A mental timer went off in my mind; I had less than five minutes before they started wondering where I was to figure out the entire purpose of my existence... and pee. My mind was so convoluted with thoughts and drinks that I didn't even know where to start.
I let out another breath, trying to place myself back in control.
First hang your purse on that tiny hook on the door. Check.
Now try to make that toilet look a little less infected. Check.
Okay, now concentrate and release the infinite amounts of liquids you just poured inside your bladder.
The room continued to spin whimsically around me, like a pinched balloon flying in the air. List. Make another list.
Okay.
Glass of Red Label. Shot of Grey Goose. Beer cup, beer cup, beer cup. Vodka & Red Bull.
Ew.
Nausea took me by the neck and I swooned.
My mental timer kept on running, its pace seeming to pick up as every second went by. Another breath. In and out... and start.

Thought No.1: letting the Mad Hatter go, convincing myself that I'd idealized him in every way in my mind... just because of the accent. Check. Additional note on that: this was only the first thought chronologically, not because it was the most important. Word.
Thought No.2: believing with my heart and soul that with time, things at home would even out. Because they were meant to be and they know it.
Thought No.3: dealing with my best friend and hoping to get my message across without causing much damage. Because it does happen to everyone and because I do love him to much just like that - a friend - to be straightforward about it.
Thought No.4: answering someone else's message and deciding if I want it or not.
Thought No.5: deciding if yet another person is bipolar or not, clearing things up about that stolen token of my good-will and about that drunken peace sign last weekend.
Thought No.6: not getting drunk...er.
Thought No.7: ignoring someone else's rudeness yesterday at the place I thought I'd never have to see again. Because I am too nice and because I do care too much. And because he's only bitter because I didn't grovel for him, like the wrong girl continuously does. Laughing at him because she does grovel and because he's flattered, but doesn't want her.
Thought No.8: keeping clear from someone, just for tonight, despite the ride she gave me earlier. Because she's drunk and I am too, and neither of us want to admit it.
Thought No.9: clearing things up with Freddie Mercury II - is he or is he not? I mean, WTF. I am not Bella. Technically yes, and maybe in many other ways too. But... no. Not an inspiration in that sense at all - just in the soul.
Thought No.10: STOP WORRYING ABOUT DINNER. You don't always have to say all the right things and rock because that's what friends are for - for knowing you when you do and when you don't rock. And role models and family even more. And yeah, everyone knows you're a bit of a dreamer and yeah, everyone knows you were born in the wrong decade and yeah, she's a bit of a hippie too. And she gave you her blessings on Thought No.4's someone.
Thought No.11: yeah, your parents can tell when you're sober from when you're drunk. And now you are drunk.
Thought No.12: getting on Facebook and writing your soul out... Tomorrow it will cheer you up.
Thought No.13: you shall not go straight to the bar everyday after class... at least wait till after noon.

Flush.
Get your purse.
Let the desperate banging-person outside in.
Deep breath, walk out, skip over the puddle of puke (good name for a band, innit?), wash your hands, walk out with a big drunken smile on your face and act normal.
Because you are normal - you're normally-drunk!
Cheers! (because I can't remember - or spell - the german word she taught you earlier).

*

Listening to: Walking After Midnight - Madeleine Peyroux

Do the box ***

2009-08-08T09:06:00.000-07:00

From driving till the end of the world to not get a table, to losing/breaking the bar's card, to waiting for a cab in a gas station while having a smoke, to bar hopping and watching magic tricks while playing Kings until they kicked us out by pulling our table, to going to THE party and meeting people I haven't seen in ages, to leaving *again* and breaking my promise of not taking rides with very drunk people, to entering another club and buying the 2nd most expensive beer of my life, to taking a very drunken taxi ride home while holding my best friend's hand. Cheers.

Lived in Bars - Cat Power
We've lived in bars
And danced on tables
Hotel trains and ships that sail
We swim with sharks
And fly with aeroplanes in the air

Send in the trumpets
The marching wheelchairs
Open the blankets and give them some air
Swords and arches bones and cement
The light and the dark of the innocent of men

We know your house so very well
And we will wake you once we've walked up
All your stairs

There's nothing like living in a bottle
And nothing like ending it all for the world
We're so glad you will come back
Every living lion will lay in your lap

The kid has a homecoming the champion the horse
Who's going to play drums, guitar or organ with chorus
As far as we've walked from both of ends of the sand
Never have we caught a glimpse of this man
We know your house so very well
And we will bust down your door if you're not there

We've lived in bars
And danced on tables
Hotel trains and ships that sail
We swim with sharks
And fly with aeroplanes out of here
Out of here...

2009-08-05T11:07:00.001-07:00

Graduating from high school: check.
Getting into my dream college: check.
Making NORMAL friends I'd die for: check
Passing my driving test (even if only after the second attempt :D): check.
Getting a decent car: check.
Getting a decent job: check.

What's left now?

Yes, it's all very exciting and new and I feel sooo bubbly I hardly have time to breathe. And hey, it only confirms the fact that I'm not a lunatic (or a masochist) for loving this feeling of breathlessness. Strangely, this doesn't feel like choking at all. It feels like I'm living. Love it. LOVE it. I don't mind anything else, be it because I don't have any time left to think about it AT ALL or because I honestly couldn't care less now - and it's the best feeling in the world.
I was once told I have that Mona Lisa sort of face - where you can't tell whether I'm smiling or frowning, simply because I look like I couldn't care less all the time. But now I care so much and so little about all the right things and at all the right times - which explains my sudden relapse behavior with the blog for a while. All I've been getting are... well, ten tons of sunny d all the time. And hell yeah, the chickens are out!

Woohooooo!

Hahah, well, I'm out. Baking cookies :)

*

Adventures in Wonderland

2009-07-20T11:11:00.000-07:00

Why I have changed so much, I'm not sure. What and how everything changed - the trip to Europe, of course.
I did write a travel journal down and I was considering posting it here, but what I did is not what I want to talk about, strangely. Instead, I can barely sit still after the whole thing. Maybe it was all the walking, but now I can rarely keep still anymore. So many ideas for the new story, so many things that did happen (in and out of my mind), so much I've learned from "Alice in Wonderland" and Queen - yes, the band I'd been trying to hate all my life and that's now one of my favorites.
So instead of typing down my oh-so-detailed (and packed with dried up flowers and brochures) travel journal, I'll do the bullets thing once again. The list, I mean.

-I'll start with the fight, because that's what's been on my mind since yesterday. The whole "not tonight" situation and his reaction really did mess me up. Actually, what it did was fix me up. In his car on my way home that night all I could do was blame myself and look for what I'd done wrong, but after a serious dose of "He's Just Not That Into You" and chocolate and the whole trip to Europe, I finally got it into my mind that despite the looks and the money and the hands, there's not much else to him afterall. So yes, like a true "killer queen", I called and was "dynamite with a laser beam" in my bitch-fit-breaking-up-mode people rarely get to see. Called him a "spoiled brat who's not used to getting 'no' for an answer" and told him "never to call me until he's thought about it". And who says I'll answer? Freaked him out, it did. Never heard anyone's voice as shaky - and through the phone, cara. Score!
-Met the "If I Fell" person in Europe. Have we become too close or what? Definitely the highlight of the trip (or at least one of them), but it confused me SO MUCH and I still can't talk about it. That's what wanting so much (of him, of life, of me...) does to me. And that's what the whole song's about, isn't it? Yes, it was a scary day and the rain actually managed to make it all better... Oh, what umbrellas and bagels and talks in the park do to me.
-Visited Versailles and confirmed the fact that I am Marie Antoinette. Hahaha, long story, won't get into it. But really, it was creepy knowing it for a fact. Got me in good terms with my "restless spirit", since now I know why my head's always in the clouds. HAHAH okay, I'll stop.
-Fell in love with someone in an Ed Hardy shirt - can you believe it? But it's more than complicated, so I won't get into that either. Yes, my parents would kill me. Millie would understand.
-Almost got abducted by freakish goths in Camden Town while trying to innocently buy a Who shirt. "Wanna see the basement?" was what she said while 'gently' holding my arm. Holy shit holy shit holy shit was what I thought as I shook my head and mumbled something about checking the weather outside. Ahhh creeeepy!
-Leather jackets, cigarettes, warehouses... Okay, certain things are meant to NEVER be mentioned again.
-Explained to dad that one should NEVER agree to see the basement of a Camden Town shop unless one is looking for a million and one ways to smoke weed. "How do you know?" he asked as I innoncently blamed a book I read (hahah, I never know when to keep my mouth shut, do I Millie?).
-Missed Cat Power in São Paulo for... the beach, of course. Yes, it was cold and rainy but everyone knows you shouldn't say no to the beach. Kind of sad that it was reportedly such a good show, but then again, how could it not be? It's CAT POWER, man. Still, going was good because now I'm on good terms with her again, since she's finally decided to own up and quit hiding it. And she's right about me, surprisingly. I'm starting to follow her footsteps, in that sense.
-Saw "We Will Rock You" in London and fell in love with Queen and the whole concept of a musical. Wrote my college essay about it, last year - the way shows get to me... It really is something, I mean, how could an essay about that get me into 3 colleges? I love the whole thing - the goosebumps, the wanting to stand up and clap and scream and hoot and holding back so people don't shut me up, the crying, the chills... It does resemble you-know-what for me, strangely enough.
-Finally decided not to tell her half of what really goes on at night for me. No, I haven't decided to tell the entire truth - I've decided simple not to say a word. It does get more complicated, believe me. She's supposed to back me up when I'm being a bitch, isn't she? She's supposed to understand and to want me to break up with slimy idiots like him after what he's said and asked. She's supposed to want to kill him for what he's done, but instead, she says I was "impolite" on the phone. Oh well, go figure.

Starting a new story in the makes of "Brass" and "The Bell Jar" - autobiographic romance, isn't that what it's called? Putting bits and pieces of the old unfinished ones together and it's coming out quite nicely. I might even have the guts to get it published... under a different name. I can name at least fifteen people who'd start looking at me a bit differently if they knew it was all based on my life. Millie, Esther... and me. The three lunatics everyone falls in love with despite their crazyness and unthinkable thoughts.

PS.- I miss you.

Feriado

2009-06-14T10:24:00.000-07:00

I can't talk about everything, so I'll make a list. Of feelings, yes. And thoughts. Because this has been described as a place of both - feelings and thoughts. That's why it's so vulnerable and controversial, I guess; most people can't deal well with either. I, on the other hand, fling myself face to face to both, unaware of (or purposely blind to) the consequences. But I've mentioned my love for the whole thing before, so I won't get into that.

-Meeting Nick or Paulie Bleecker (take your pick) at the one club I regret going to. Excusing myself to go find my friend. Never getting his phone (and being ridiculed and laughed at for not doing so later) but feeling great about it. Figuring out how nice it is to simply meet someone and just talk for a while before leaving with no regrets, only an ear-to-ear smile of satisfaction for having met one of those people - "ele tem o coração de ouro", que nem o amigo idiota falou.

-Hating the cold and the rain and wishing I was at the beach alone watching the sunrise or in China being attacked by moskitoes (?) while holding hands and being chased by angry chinamen.

-Saying yes and nodding until being called back to earth.

-Wanting to walk down the yellow brick road after a pair of magic red slippers that would take me home.

-Throwing a bitch fit for the first time in my life (scary, yes, I'm usually a calm person). Knowing I was right but apologizing anyway. Not believing in holding grudges, wanting fun and happiness all the time.

-Being called a "fucking hippie full of intriguing quirks" and loving it. Peace and love and happiness uhuuu.

-Wanting him not to go farther away for college but encouraging him to do so "because I know it will be good for you" and "because you just can't ignore the scholarship". Scholarshit, I hate you for taking him even farther away. Hopefully the 6th will match up to our dreams. A couple of bloody dreamers, that's what we are. Hahah, see, you're getting to my way of speaking.

-Throwing another bitch fit as I read last post's comments and finally deciding to control people's high-schoolish thoughts. Changing my mind due to my firm belief in freedom of speech and hatred for any form of censorship. Appreciating the alleged cause behind it all - being stood up for. Thanks, but no thanks.

-Falling in love with Millie and being afraid to "pass out and miss the fucking fireworks".

-Leaving to start my current obsession - aquela receita do Semifredo de Abacate com Cookies de Pistache. Trial and error, baby, trial and error.

*

Annoyed.

2009-06-09T07:43:00.000-07:00

I know we met under unusual circumstances. I know our time together was mostly pleasant, so far, except for that one Sunday afternoon. And I know you're the kind of person every girl wants. Older. Intelligent. Beautiful. Rich. Nice. But what's missing is the spark, the thing that would actually make me like you.

I'd love to tell you random stories about things that make me care a billion times more about the others, but you don't even give me a chance to talk. I try, you take over and start your DULL monologue about I don't even know what, since I have a haaard time keeping track of your words. So know this: yes, I did lie on Sunday. No, you were NOT doing anything right. Yes, I am far more interested in someone else I can't mention here even though I'm supposed to like you. And YEAH, I reaaaally don't feel like going out with you on Wednesday because I'm tired of you telling me you care and of your drinking before noon and of you telling me I don't make any sense and of your constant attempts at proving me something I already know. Friday night was a lot more fun and I deliberately chose not to answer the phone. Saturday too. I am making other plans for Wednesday and if they work out, I'll cancel. Ugh, you piss me off. From the moment you step out of your car to the moment you say goodbye. I know I SHOULD like you, to say the least, but... I don't know. I might not want you or any of them... except one or three haha. Anyways, watch "Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist". You're Tal. And I'm this close to cancelling Wednesday.

Latest Addiction

2009-06-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

http://thealphafemalesays.webs.com/

C'est la vie

2009-06-01T07:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday he was angry because I wasn't making sense. And I really wasn't. I wasn't telling him the whole story, but I wasn't lying either. I wasn't thinking straight and my words, usually carefully chosen, fled from my mind and I couldn't speak at all. He said I was confusing him, with my mind in one place and the rest of me in another. I remembered that movie in which the guy said "end of discussion" and the girl angrily responded "end of relationship". I did angrily say something like that, and the worst part is that that's what I meant the most. He said he didn't get me, but I left him there to deal with it. Then I was the one to go home and I was the one to deal with what would follow.

It sucks, but it's a relief to feel childish in the sense of never wanting to see him again. Puta contradição, que nem ele falou. Mas é assim que é a vida, eu disse pra ele, pouca coisa faz sentido. E às vezes é melhor deixar não fazer sentido do que tentar entender. That's when time gets lost (and I do tend to think in time).

Isso é outra coisa que deixou ele confuso - my tendency to think in terms of time. Either we have it or we don't, and I think that's because of that summer two years ago (still). I'm glad I'll finally deal with it this summer - 6 and 7 are my favorite numbers now. Two days isn't a lot, but after yesterday I find that four hours are more than enough time to deal with the important things.

Odeio silêncio. Odeio conversas evitadas. Odeio pessoas que odeiam contradições mas vivem se contradizendo. Odeio a pressa, odeio ontem a noite, odeio vinho, odeio orelhas. Apesar disso, tenho certeza que vou mudar de idéia daqui a um segundo - puta contradição, eu sei, igual a esse post trilíngue sem sentindo (pra combinar com meus pensamentos). Mas é a vida, e continuo a saber que nunca vou me arrepender de nada.

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Friends of the Night (listening to "Date With a Night" - Yeah Yeah Yeahs)

2009-05-28T16:04:00.000-07:00

I found your email on the last page of my song book. It looks funny and intrusive because you're still my friend. It looks very odd because despite it all, this hasn't reached an end.
I remember spelling your name wrong more than twice, till I shoved you my pen and you laughed and made it right. Strangely it was all under the innocence of you wanting those photos. Well... since we're talking about that non-date - your voice's still on my tape. And you're teasing me about knocking that bottle over, saying it hadn't been cheap (while I shrugged and got on my feet and stood on the chair).
You know, I could use a friend right now. Because I still believe in love, somehow. And all I get lately are words devoid of meaning and meaning devoid of words. Why can't I have both? Why and how and when and who?
Oh well, my phone calls me. There's an(other) excuse to be made.

In the name of fun and saudades...

2009-05-25T16:37:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd never say this, but I actually like receiving comments just so I can answer them and extend my (sometimes uninspired) entries. I especially like the last one I got and if I'm right about who sent it, well... he knows I could write a whole book on that.
But hey - isn't life a million times better when you see it in the eyes of a poet? I know, EVERYTHING begins to seem so dramatic and sometimes you begin to overanalyze yourself to try and understand it, but you never can - which makes everything even better. I guess that's why people crave other things (e.g. drinks, pills, you name it). They somehow manage to make our lives even more twisted and it's FUN. Hahah, "fun" might be my new favorite word.
Anyways, it's like a friend wisely said today: "everything begins with a drink". I did laugh. A lot. Because he's right, and I never expected HIM of all people to be. I mean, the best things in life do begin with a drink- and I swear I'm no alcoholic. Think about it. At parties, the first thing you do is head to the bar to get a drink. Or you have an "esquenta" somewhere else before. At Christmas and Festa Juninas, there are drinks... many drinks. In New Year's Eve! The beginning of a whole new year! You start it with a drink(or a whole bottle at the beach with the best people on earth, in my case :D). Drinks may be the best invention ever, after all.
Drinking to an extreme is a whole different story. Fun, but not very pleasant after a while - and not very pretty to watch either. But I've changed a lot on that front since last year, so again, I won't get into that.
So there - that was the phrase of the day for me: "everything begins with a drink". Especially since it was said in Math class, where it's impossible for me not to feel useless and stupid and ridiculously depressed. I'm going to miss people SO MUCH, even though all I want now is to be done. So yeah, I might go back to believing in the absolute truth of that phrase for at least a little while - all in the name of fun and saudades.

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Thursdays (I'm in love... Hahah thanks for the inspiration, The Cure)

2009-05-23T16:51:00.000-07:00

I'm kind of starting to look at life like Millie does. With her eyes, I mean. Except for that minor detail, I'm just like her. And it's FUN.
Thursday was awesome. I love Thursdays. I love wine. I love button-down shirts and well groomed hands that know where they're going. I love running away from the security cameras and sneaking into my own house trying not to laugh. I love it all!
Today was kind of weird too. I met my musical soul-mate and borrowed a bunch of CDs and DVDs. I might cancel on someone else for tonight to stay home and indulge.
I wonder what tomorrow will be like. I might go to the movies and I know I owe someone an explanation, just for the sake of clearing things up about Thursday. But I kind of don't feel like explaining myself, because what happened was just... what happened. And I want things to keep happening, but I don't want other things to be thought of me. Yes, it's fucking confusing. There: I won't try to understand it.

Oh and a note on some of the comments I've been getting: I did consider deleting the negative ones, but hey - if you don't like what you're reading, GET A LIFE and go find something else to do. I've been writing here forever and I'm not forcing anyone to read this. For the positive ones, thanks, I LOVE IT how you choose to spend some minutes of your lives on my thoughts. It does mean a lot.

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Clearing things up

2009-05-19T08:26:00.000-07:00

No, I won't cut the crap and name the names. If you know who you are, you know who you are. And by the way, I did mean what I said to you.

And "anonymous FUN person", yeah you're FUN and do read No. 5, because that's what I wrote FOR YOU.

DONE DONE DONE

2009-05-18T06:26:00.000-07:00

DONE WITH THE IB EXAMS!

Mas por outro lado, descobri que não vou estar aqui pro vestibular da FAAP. Yes, I'll be in Europe a) pretending to be Marie Antoinette, b) touring London and Liverpool with the world's best guide (and trying hard not to forget about life here to stay there with him, hitting Hard Rock Calling and Beach Break to see The Zutons), and c) doing everything else you're supposed to do while there (e.g. shows, museums, musicals, etc.). Fiquei só um pouco preocupada quando descobri isso. Só um pouco. Vou prestar ESPM logo depois, mas nem sei se passo. Se passar faço a transferencia. Se não, fodeu.
Mas nem vou pensar nisso agora. Bem agora que larguei total de tudo que supostamente importa, não vou voltar a me importar. Porque no final das contas, as coisas que todo mundo menospreza são as coisas mais fofas do mundo.

VERY CRAZY Things That Can't Be Left Unsaid

2009-05-17T13:25:00.000-07:00

To Person No. 1: I can’t believe I had to give you such a wakeup call last night. But things did work out for you in the end, didn’t they? All I wanna say is I like her and I’m sooo happy for you! Hahah, someone did get lucky, eh? And you weren’t even wearing my jeans.

To People No. 2 and 3: For the sixteenth time: I do love you!

To Person No. 4: Thanks for the ride, the coat, and the company. Now that I think of it, you’re the one person I hadn’t said ‘I love you’ to, so here: I love you. Hahah yeah, I promise I’m not writing this in my ‘happy place’. I am sober.

To Person No. 5: Last night you told me you liked TTOSD. You also mentioned that you appreciated what I’d written about you two posts ago. But... Ugh, trust me, I AM trying to say it in the most gentle and delicate words, but... well, none of it was for or about you. Since the beginning you were what you claimed to be: a once in a lifetime delicious insanity. Who knows if it will ever happen again; all I know is you owe me breakfast J.

To Person No. 6: You probably don’t remember any of it, but here: I did mean that apology and I did mean it when I said that despite everything, I’ll still miss you. I feel kind of bad for making you freak out like that, but it is what it is in the end of the day (and that I don’t feel sorry about – at all).

To Person No. 7: Thanks for saving me. But I didn’t need to be saved.

To Person No. 8: Like I said – we still have loads of time. Let’s see how things happen for me and do move on with your life in the meantime. Because you deserve someone like her – and hey, I did think you had a thing for her! Didn’t you? Was it really, like you said yesterday, to make me jealous? Because I wasn’t, I love you so much and all I want is for you to be happy.

To Person No. 9: Ahhh you have such a twisted perception of yourself. You deserve way better. It’s like you said – you’re a queen and he’s ‘too much sand for your truck’ haha. Don’t give into them just so you won’t be alone. I think you look way better alone than with him, but that’s just my opinion.

To Person No. 10: Okay, I really don’t know how to start here. What the fuck was that? Alright, I’ll admit I had fun being your friend but NOTHING MORE THAN THAT. Ugh.

To Person No. 11: If you know things will end up badly for others because of YOU, just don’t show up. It annoys people.

To Person No. 12: Why won’t you get on a plane and come after me like in the movies? PLEASE listen to “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)”. Because I do – I WANT YOU. And I’m having the time of my life without you, so for now it’s your loss. But still, listen to the song.

To Person No. 13: You know, 13 is my lucky number. If you’re smart enough you’ll take your phone (hopefully I slurred the right numbers) and we’ll get dinner, like you promised. I think I’ve met you before. I don’t know. I did like your smile too. I’m glad they didn’t beat you up.

*

2009-05-15T15:05:00.000-07:00

I'm writing a new story. This time it's about a compulsive liar. Yeah, it might be a bit autobiographical.

*

I'm starting to get really bouncy about the next few months because I think this time it will be for real. I think this time I won't be let down. I think this time things will not happen in my mind.

*

Let's see how I handle tomorrow, shall we? Hahah, now I know better. I know which drinks not to mix. Bem que me avisaram sobre "intoxicantes budistas". Acho que sei qual mistura faz deles "intoxicantes". Mas dependendo do caso, são eles que eu vou usar pra voar. Afinal de contas, O FIM ESTÁ PRÓXIMO!, como o mendigo bêbado da esquina falou. E nesse caso, todo mundo QUER voar. É estranho pensar que vamos voar juntos dessa vez.

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Let anonymity go to hell. Or not. The doubt makes me wonder whether people mean what they say or not. In any case, thanks for last post's comment, Anonymous Stranger. If you really are who you claim to be, VALEU, GOSTEI MUITO DO ELOGIO. MAS... COMO VCS FICARAM SABENDO DO BLOG?? HAHAH VOU SENTIR SAUDADES.

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Feeling a bit freaked out by a certain stalker I am no longer free to talk about. I mean, that's what stalkers do - they stalk. So I'll have to contain myself on that one. Ugh, hard to do, I tell you.

*

Going to Europe soon! Can't wait... After that there's China, and JFHADSJFHAS I LOVE MY LIFE!

"Well, these should be the best days of your life, but you worried all the goodness away!"

2009-05-05T16:41:00.000-07:00

New favorite band of the moment: The Zutons. A little emphasis on "Don't Ever Think (Too Much)", which fits my current mood perfectly.

In dire need of a Gibson Dove, someone's calculus paper (for copying purposes), more time&rest&health (yeah, yeah, it's NOT the swine flu, I've checked), and SOMETHING TO DO as the end draws near.

Yes. Graduation. AT FUCKING LAST! Been talking to people who agree with my view of my class, and now I know for sure I'm not crazy.

Oh, and today. That someone I mentioned before (and later felt silly about) gave me that look again. Like it's true and like I'm not... crazy. "She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah", The Beatles once said. And who knows, maybe I am going crazy afterall. Here, reason with me:
1-Sighting
2-Nervous and quick (but existent nonetheless) glances
3-Feeling a certain pair of (also golden-tipped, who would have known??) eyelashes making a hole in the back of my head - is it lust, is it anger, what IS it?
4-A surprised hello, suddenly very alert eyes sending chills to the core of my existence
5-I come close, person comes close, firm but unnecessarily long handshake - with the little squeeze and all
6-Valedictory smiles, obvious thoughts of "I wish you'd stay longer", departure.
It is what it is, isn't it? Yeah, it does scare me a bit.

I'm scared. Did I ever mention that? I mean, something big's about to happen next semester and I'm scared I'll get hurt. I'm scared I'm making castles in the air again (or Gibson Doves) and I'm terrified I'll be let down. Here's another Beatles reference (watch Across the Universe for the bigger picture):
If I fell in love with you,
Would you promise to be true
And help me understand?
'Cause I've been in love before
And I found that love was more
Than just holdin' hands.
If I give my heart
To you,I must be sure
From the very start
That you
Would love me more than her.
If I trust in you
Oh, please,
Don't run and hide.
If I love you too
Oh, please,
Don't hurt my pride like her
'Cause I couldn't stand the pain
And I
Would be sad if our new love
Was in vain.
So I hope you see
That I
Would love to love you
And that she
Will cry
When she learns we are two
'Cause I couldn't stand the pain
And I
Would be sad if our new love
Was in vain.
So I hope you see
That I
Would love to love you
And that she
Will cry
When she learns we are two.
If I fell in love with you.
The Beatles knew it all, man. Dev was right afterall. Or was it Thom? Well, it doesn't matter. What matters is my fear of getting hurt because love is indeed "more than holding hands" and I have no idea where what's left of my mind will go if I found "our new love was in vain". Because I want it so bad - true love! I know, EVERYONE wants it too. Everyone's gagging for it, everyone's out and alert looking for anyone to love. The Beatles again: "could it be anybody? I need someone to love". But for me I've already made my mind up that it CANNOT be anybody, because I'm too picky and I've been with everyone I didn't want before and I need a fucking change. I need true and I'm absolutely tired of false - I do live in the biggest of the Vanity Fairs (which I'm currently reading, btw) and maybe that's why I think I'm crazy sometimes - that's why I mix up dreams and reality, that's why I remember things that never happened after especially foggy nights, that's why I've looked around like a lovesick puppy all of last year and some of this year's random moments too. And I know he's like me - not the kung-fu person, but HE. The HE that I want. The HE I can't get at the moment. The HE I'm patiently waiting for (maybe that's where my small share of patience ran off too). HE's the HE who's worth it, and HE's the HE who'll probably break my heart. There, that's why I'm scared.

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Response to last post's Bullet No. 1

2009-04-28T16:42:00.000-07:00

"I walk quickly down rain-black streets, eager to put distance between us. Once I'm back weaving through the smouldering core of clubland, dodging bodies and fun and laughter, the anxious spacey pang in my head starts to lift. In its place, I feel foolish and embarassed at reacting like that - for seeming so brutally stung. For having misread her so badly. And for feeling so intensely jealous..." -Brass, Helen Walsh. My bible. My life.

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