Lizzy

Late Night Shift

2012-01-12T17:04:00.004-02:00

As promised, a new story. Enjoy!

I placed the last glass inside the cupboard and sighed. Thank god that shift was over. Everybody had left already, and I was just closing up after a very, very long night. It was Christmas, and I had agreed to take the late night shift, since I need the money. Oh, and everybody else has a family and friends to get back to.

Tonight had been like every other holiday night. Empty, save for the few sorry drunk sods, crying on their beverages, trying to explain to me that it’s really not their fault that their wives and children left them, or that it’s not really their fault they lost their jobs or whatever. I always try my best to listen, but I feel like I’ve heard the same story over and over again. So I just smile and offer them some nuts, on me.

I nudged the old man asleep on the booth at the back. He looked up at me, “time to go?” he asked.

“Time to go.”

He gave me a twenty. I tried telling him he had already paid, but he insisted I took it anyway, and left. I locked the doors and left to the bus stop.

I sat there, alone, at 3am, after a six-hour shift, waiting for the bus to come. There was a broken lamppost not far from where I sat, and it cast a strange shadow at my feet. I stared at it for a while, wondering why it hadn’t been fixed. I looked up at it. Behind it was the starless night sky. I never see stars in the city, only at the suburbs where I used to live as a child.

The bus arrived. It was packed, filled with people like me. Not all of them young, but all of them need the money for something – family, university, rent. They all looked tired and miserable. It was, after all, Christmas. And here we were. Trying to stand without falling in a packed bus, waiting to get home after a long day to eat the leftover turkey your 80-year-old neighbour left at your door because she feels sorry for you. And we all knew we’d be back tomorrow, early in the morning, ready for another full day. Just making enough to get by, making enough to afford a gift or a card, just a little something to remind someone we still love them. Or something.

At the next stop, people poured out of the bus. There were now a few empty seats here and there, which were quickly filled. I sped to the nearest one, at the window. I enjoyed looking at the buildings as the bus moved. I liked seeing the way the skyscrapers jumped up and then fell right down again, and the ones with the light-up billboards announcing the time and the temperature (almost always incorrectly, but at least they tried). As the bus moved further away from the centre of the city, the skyscrapers became tall residential buildings, which turned into big houses, which turned into smaller ones, with the lights still on and you could hear music and people talking and celebrating Christmas. At every stop, the bus emptied more and more, until I was the only one left. My house is at the very outskirts of the city, where people who can’t afford a real home live. I live in the basement of the 80-year-old lady. I have my own kitchen and my own bathroom, complete with old, dirty bathtub. It’s shit, but it’s home.

Also, it’s all I can afford.

I was alone in the bus, so I opened my bag to count my tips. Seventy bucks in tips. Ninety, if you count the extra twenty the old drunk man gave me. It’s all right. It was a slow night, and what did I expect for Christmas? I stuffed the money back in my bag and rubbed my eyes. At least I had enough money for rent and tuition in the bank.

I sighed. I began the same old line of thought; life isn’t hard. I’m not starving. I can afford the basement and I can sometimes splurge on the nice shampoo. I could go out with my friends, had I had time. And friends.

Such is the life of the 20-year-old student, working overtime and only really doing the laundry when there isn’t any clean underwear left.

But there’s this sense of nostalgia creating a gaping hole within me. I’m not sure what it is. I miss something from my old life, my old miserable life living in the suburbs and going to a school I absolutely hated. Maybe I miss having friends I can call every night, maybe I miss having a lover to curl up against. I suppose I miss both of those things. I suppose I miss the certainty of what would happen tomorrow. I knew every day, as I woke up, exactly what would happen. Life wasn’t unpredictable at all. I wasn’t unpredictable. I knew what to expect from others and they knew what to expect from me.

But I don’t know what to expect from my short-tempered boss, I don’t know what to expect of the dingy bar at the heart of the city. I don’t know what to expect from customers. I don’t know what to expect from university and the teachers and tuition. I don’t know what will happen to little old Claire, who so kindly accepts the rent whenever I have it, and doesn’t really mind if I’ve run out of flour and doesn’t really enjoy having her children over because since her husband passed, they’ve just been pushing her to give them the house and kick me out, because I’ve become her only friend in her old, old age.

I don’t know what to expect from myself.

Yes, that is what I miss. I miss the certainty I had before. I miss knowing exactly what would happen. I miss the predictability of the people I saw every day.

I also miss loving. I used to love so many things two years ago. I loved my friends and I loved my significant other. I loved art class and I loved my 15-year-old Labrador, Tessa. I loved my bedroom and I loved our backyard.

And then everything was gone. My friends moved away for university, and my significant other found another paramour to court. I can’t afford art classes in university, and Tessa passed away. My bedroom is no more, and our backyard is gone.

The bus stopped, slowly. My stop. I got off, and walked the extra two blocks home. Claire was already in bed, of course, but at the foot of the stairs were a little package and a plate of turkey for me. The turkey was already cold, but I chewed on it anyway. I opened the door to my lovely basement and filled the tub with scalding water. I opened the package. It was a picture frame with a picture of a smiling Claire and me sitting on her porch.

Goddamn, I love little, old Claire. I couldn’t afford a gift this year. I felt so bad. I placed the picture frame on the nightstand.

I sat inside the tub. The water was still too hot, but it didn’t matter. It was freezing outside anyways.

When the water began to cool, I jumped out and wrapped myself in a big, fluffy towel, before crawling under the thick winter covers and passed out.

I had planned this story a long time ago, back in August. I wrote down a bunch of ideas for it on one of my many notebooks and this is the finished product. I'm actually quite happy with it, so bleh.

2012-01-01T22:06:00.000-02:00

This is currently my desktop picture. Because it makes me happy and I think 2012 should start on a good key.

ANYWAYS, happy new year everybody! I hope you all had a great time partying and enjoying new year's eve, and I hope the hangovers weren't too bad. I know mine wasn't, thank god. I had a great time this year, but getting a cab back home at 5 am was almost impossible. But we did, and Goomy and I got home just fine (then proceeded to crash for something like 7 hours).

As promised, I'll go back to posting stories after the 10th (soon, my lovelies, soon).

Much love,

Lisa

2011-12-24T17:30:00.002-02:00

Merry christmas and a happy new year! I hope 2012 treats us all right, because we deserve it.

Also, I promise to go back to posting my stories here once the turmoil of entrance exams goes away.

Much love,

Lisa and Frida

2011-12-14T21:54:00.000-02:00

I'm sorry I've been away for so long. I've been really, really stressed out about entrance exams lately, and I'm sure everybody can relate to how hard it is to produce something you actually like when you're under so much stress.

I'm still writing, just not a lot of it. I've got a few pending projects I plan to finish after my last exam in January, and after that I promise to come back!

2011-12-14T19:07:00.002-02:00

HEY IS THIS STILL WORKING

Hopeless

2011-10-02T18:21:00.001-03:00

Deformed as she felt on the inside, she knew that she was not. She knew that men and women alike lusted for her, and she knew that some of them even loved her dearly, and wanted nothing but her wellbeing.

But it never matters when one feels hopeless.

And though she was loved by someone she loved as dearly and as intensely, she could not live without the imminent sense that she was deformed and diseased, that she carried inside her this virus that could not be killed.

It was hopeless. She was hopeless.

And that’s how she felt – day in, day out, rain or shine, she felt such an intense hopelessness inside her.

She felt her existence was hopeless. She felt the days that passed were hopeless, and the days to come were even more so. She felt that waiting was hopeless, but doing was even more so. Everything around her was hopeless, and it didn’t matter how much she wanted this to change, no matter how much she sought help, no matter how many pills she popped, everything was still hopeless.

“Maybe you should make plans for the future,” he once suggested.

“Plans are hopeless. The future is hopeless. You and I are hopeless. This,” she motioned to the both of them, to their intertwined hands, to his other hand caressing her knee, “this is hopeless.”

And it pained him more and more each day, for he loved her the most. He loved her more than anything in this world. He loved her more than he loved his family. He loved her more than he loved himself. He wanted her to be happy, even if that meant he would be miserable.

And seeing her that way – degrading, worsening, the terribly miserable look in her green eyes, the delicate scrunching of the skin of her forehead that indicated a deep-rooted sorrow and dread. Seeing her like that made him miserable.

And in time he came to share the idea she had planted in their home. In time, he came to believe that everything was hopeless. Though he still loved her madly, he accepted the fact that his love for her was hopeless.

“Even though I love you,” she once whispered in bed, with her eyes closed and lips barely moving, “Even though I love you more than anything I have ever loved in this planet, it is hopeless.”

The disease, the deformity, found inside her had spread like wildfire. It consumed her body, mind and soul and it reached out with its bony hand to touch her lover and consume him with the same disease.

She wept day and night after the morning he didn’t wake up. She cried and she cried, and she blamed herself for it.

In his hand, along with the empty bottle of sleeping medication, was a crumpled paper that read, in his childish script, “It’s hopeless.”

The disease had set, and it had killed them. Though she was alive and physically healthy, she roamed her home and the streets with an even heavier sense of dread that it was all hopeless. She had become hopeless.

Though it took the life of the man she loved and though the hopelessness was still with her day and night, she finally realized that man’s existence is only hopeless when there is no love.

2011-08-20T20:45:00.002-03:00

So, remember I was going to try to post a story every week?

Yeah, not doing that anymore. I'll post stories here sporadically and whenever I feel a story is good enough to be put out.

I've posted many half-assed stories over the past few months and I guess I just did it because part of me thought of it as my duty - to post something.

Well, I've come to realize nobody really reads the new things I put up and I get the feeling whoever does is doing it less and less.

I suppose this is a sort of hiatus for now.

Also, many of the things I've been writing lately have been extremely personal for many reasons. I've also been quite busy with cram school and whatnot and blah blah blah.

I'll post links to my older stories on twitter and Facebook and my tumblr blog, but I won't be posting anything new for now.

Feel free to go through the blog and read older stories and all that! Comment and tell me what you think on my older stories, you can even tweet me (@sheepneverlearn) how you feel I've improved or something or send me helpful tips!

Letters to Dad pt. 2

2011-08-11T09:41:00.001-03:00

I watched you as you ran towards me, my arms outstretched ready to catch you. Your little fists were high above your head, and you had the biggest, most beautiful smile across your little face, glowing in the sun.

I heard you giggle when you finally toppled into my arms. I looked up at your father, his eyes filled with tears.

“Did you see that?” he said, “she walked!”
“She ran, darling,” I replied, still holding you.

And you, all giggles and smiles into my chest, looked up at me and turned to your daddy laughing. I felt you turning in my arms, ready to run again! I’ll admit my eyes swam in tears by then too.

“Come to daddy, Abby! Come, come!” He said, his voice quivering as the tears rolled down.

He was so proud of you, Abby.

You, still giggling, your little baby arms up trying to keep your balance, fell into his arms. In tears, he kissed you all over. I ran to you both, and that was when this picture was taken.

Your father and I smiling between tears and you, beautiful baby, smiling in your eyes and lips.

You were as proud of yourself as your dad and I were.

We couldn’t wait to be proud of you as you learned more and more, and grew older, always with a smile on your lips and your eyes.

The day he left, you cried all day, and kept hitting your little fists against your crib, whimpering, “papa, papa, papa.”

But, Abby, mum is very proud of you.

You are beautiful and bright.

Keep smiling. Keep smiling for mum.

Letters to Dad pt. 1

2011-08-03T11:30:00.001-03:00

Dear Dad,

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have grown up with you. Would I turn out differently? Would my life be completely different?

Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

I just turned 10 today. Mum told me she’s really proud of me. I’ve been doing well at school, but sometimes I wish you were here to be proud of me too.
I hope you’re proud of me somewhere.

Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

Fourth grade is not as easy as I thought it would be. I’m not making many friends and a boy today told me you left mum and me because you didn’t love us enough. I wish you could’ve been there to tell him he was lying and that you love us very much.

But you’re not.

Abby.

Dear Dad,

It’s Father’s day this weekend and our teacher told us to make cards for our dads. It was kind of weird when someone said, “But Abby doesn’t have a dad.”
So I’m making a card for mum instead.

Are you coming back? Ever?
Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

It’s mum’s birthday today, so I tried making her a cake. It didn’t turn out very well, but mum was happy anyways. I gave her flowers I picked from the park.

I wonder what you would have given her.

Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

Mum said your birthday is tomorrow, so I made you a card with stars and a drawing of our house. I told mum I was going to put it in the mail, because the mailman knows where everybody lives. She told me she’d do it herself, but I saw her throw it in the bin before I went to bed.

Why did she do that, dad?
Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

It’s my birthday today. I just turned 11! I checked the mail three times today, just to make sure you had sent me a present, but nothing came this year either.

I guess the mail lost it. But I’ll wait.

Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

I just turned 16. Mum baked me a cake and gave me flowers, just like when I tried baking her a cake a few years ago. They are beautiful, and the cake was delicious.

It’s summer again, and mum told me I took my first steps during summer too. She said you were there.

I wish you were here now.

Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

It’s been a few years since I’ve last written you. I’m off to college next week and I’m scared of leaving mum alone. She’s very lonely, and doesn’t have many friends. I’m scared of leaving too.

She’s my best friend. I wish you would come back to stay with her so I feel safer.

Abby.

Dear Dad,

Mum’s doing okay. I’m home from college now for Christmas. She looks tired. She showed me a picture of you today. We look alike. I wonder if you have a picture of me somewhere.

Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

College is hard. I’m trying my best, though. Mum sent me a letter the other day and she said how proud she was of me, just like when I graduated high school. She doesn’t talk much about you anymore. I guess she thinks you’re never coming back.

But I’m still waiting.

Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

Mum is sick. We can’t afford the hospital bills on mum’s salary, so I’m dropping out to work.

We need you here.

Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

Mum is getting worse. She cries a lot. I do too, but I don’t want her to see me crying. I have to be strong for her.

Would you be strong? Would you stay with her at the hospital day and night?

Abby.

Dear Dad,

I take mum flowers every day. I don’t want her to see flowers wilt. She told me you used to do the same thing when she was expecting.

She smiled today.

Love,

Abby.

Dear Dad,

I had to work a double-shift, and the flowers wilted.

Mum didn’t make it through the night.

I’m alone.

Please come back.

Abby.

Dear Dad,

Mum’s gone. I miss her. I miss my best friend. I feel so lonely.

I wish you were here…

Abby.

I'll be posting the second part of this next week! :)

Joy of being alive

2011-07-28T11:30:00.000-03:00

She was certain that there was only one joy in life, and that was to love and to be loved completely. However, as she lay sprawled out on the grass underneath the sun, squinting and breathing in deeply and slowly, she knew that her time would never come. And that a life without love was not a life worth living.

She continued through her days hopeful that her time would come, that she would meet someone who would love her unconditionally and with all his might, but a part of her – a quite big part, at that – knew that it would never happen. She knew that she would meet boys and men and that they would be together briefly, and lie to each other in the dead of night, whispering that they loved each other oh, so much, but she knew better than anyone else that it would soon end. And they would go on with their separate lives.

And somewhere, not far from her, there was a man with the same conviction. He spent his days reading books and playing music he loved, and every time he finished reading a book or playing a song, he would sit back and sigh, with the conviction that heroes and heroines may fall in love all they want, and musicians and artists will have their muses and their lovers and will live joyfully with the knowledge that someone, somewhere loves them, but he knew that would never happen to him.

And they lived their lives separately, unaware of each other’s existence, quietly suffering because of this conviction.

They once bumped on each other at a park, while he listened to music and she observed the colourful birds above her, and each mumbled an apology.

And for a moment, they locked gazes and for a moment, they knew. They knew they believed in the same thing, they knew that they were both loveless beings with the constant fear of dying alone. For a moment, they yearned to hold onto each other, to comfort each other; to allow each other to weep in desolation, for they both knew that they were destined for a lonely life.

But it was only for a moment. A flash of recognition, of understanding. For a moment, she wished to grab onto his t-shirt and yell, “I know how you feel!” and he craved to grab her hands and touch his forehead to hers, whispering that they would be fine, that being alone wasn’t so bad, to share for a few brief moments the notion that they both knew so well they were bound for loneliness.

But it was only for a moment. A flash of recognition, of understanding. He nodded at her, and she stared dazed at him, before moving on with their lives.

It was only a moment, a moment they shared. For a brief moment, they were not so lonely. For a brief moment, they were together and they would both remember for the rest of their lives that moment for what it had truly been. He would remember the sorrowful gaze of a young blonde girl, who was far too young to be so filled with such anguish. He would remember her dainty hands forming fists, and her catching her breath. She would remember a man with gloom surrounding his every move. She would remember his widened eyes.

They would remember that, for a brief moment, they had loved each other deeply and unconditionally. They would remember that, for a brief moment, they had not been so alone. And for that moment, being alive was not so painful.

Comment and let me know what you think! :)

Different

2011-07-20T09:00:00.002-03:00

It had really not been a different day the day you died. It had started out like any other day. You shuffled next to me in bed and I felt your arm slither across and around my waist, rolling me over to face you. You kissed me (despite my morning breath) and mumbled, “good morning,” with your eyes still closed. I stretched, still in your arms, and you nuzzled up to me. I carefully peeled your arms off me and kissed you on the forehead before making my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and tie my hair.

Knowing you wouldn’t leave the bed so soon, I began making coffee and setting the table for breakfast. I picked out some strawberries (for me) and an apple (for you), and poured myself a bowl of cereal. I sat down and began reading the cereal box. A few minutes later, you appeared in the kitchen, dishevelled hair and shirtless, yawning and beautiful.

Those were always the moments when I realized why I fell in love with you.

You sat down wordlessly and stared at me. I put the cereal box between us and stared back, peeking over it. You did not move.

“You are absolutely beautiful.”

We had been together for 8 years, and I still could not stop myself from blushing or understand how loving and caring and amazing you were. Remarks like that always unsettled me.

You poured yourself some coffee and took the cereal box from my hands and began reading it.

That day – a Sunday, I recall – went the way all Sundays usually did. We had breakfast and lay lazily in bed until 3 PM, kissing, talking, reading, laughing, touching, panting, moaning, groaning.

At 3, the phone rang for you. You were needed at work. We showered together, and you left me at about 4.

You never came back.

In the midst of my terror and despair, I feared you had been in a car crash.

The truth is worse and more painful.

Man’s ability to hurt each other without remorse or shame will never cease to amaze me.

When leaving the office, you found yourself in the middle of a fight between two armed men. God knows why they decided to include you in their fight; god knows why they decided to hurt you.

Maybe you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I suppose it doesn’t matter why they did it. It only matters that they did it. That they hurt you. That they didn’t stop to think for a moment that you had a family, a lover, friends, a life.

Stabbed three times in the stomach and once in the chest, puncturing your lung.

I didn’t ask because I couldn’t bear to know for sure, but I imagine you felt intense pain that worsened by the second.

And to this day, it kills me. It kills me everyday to wake up on my own, without a kiss, without your arm around me. To eat, shower, read, sleep alone.

The house is empty.

Devoid.

Aching.

And sometimes, when I wake up, I forget for a second that you are dead. For a second, I like to pretend you decided to let me sleep in and I’ll find you in the bathroom or the kitchen.

And then it hits me.

We had lived together for eight years. We had created a routine, so dynamic and fitting to us both. We both knew we were destined to grow old together.

It’s been a year and three days now.

While all our friends understand my pain, they say I should go out. Meet new people.

Move on.

And as much as I cannot bear the pain I feel everyday and as much as I know in my bones moving on would relieve me of this pain, I don’t want to.

I don’t want to move on.

I don’t want to be in any arms that are not yours.

I don’t want to kiss anybody else.

I don’t want to create a new relationship, a new home.

I want you.

But you are gone. And there is no way to lure you back.

I can’t touch you. Ever again.

I can’t hear your voice or your laughter or feel your stubble rough against my skin in the morning or feel the smell of you, morning, noon and night.

I’ll never, ever, have you back.

I miss you so much.

Written in a bathtub in Argentina, after a visit to Cementerio de la Recoleta, after a witnessing a very touching scene - an old man taking flowers to his wife (but that's what I like to think. Maybe it was somebody else).

I've been writing more consistently now, but I've been picking out with more care and caution the stories I want to post, which is why I've been so absent lately...

2011-06-25T02:31:00.001-03:00

I need to forget.

2011-06-18T21:19:00.001-03:00

Sorry I haven't uploaded the second part of Something Missing. I've been having a bit of a hard time organizing everything the way I want it to be! I had originally written EVERYTHING up but I ended up hating everything but the first part, so I scrapped it and restarted yesterday. But I promise it'll be up sometime this coming week!

Love Letter

2011-06-12T23:21:00.002-03:00

I want to be able to smell you forever. I want to have you against my skin every night and every morning. I want to have meaningless quarrels with you, only to make up immediately after and breathe in each other again and again, until we are saturated of each other.

I want to feel every bit of you pushing up against me and touching me, and feeling me, and falling in love with me.

I want all the romance, all the rows, all the silly little things and inside jokes lovers create. I want our own space. I want to find love in you. I know you don’t feel the same way, but this is a confession.

I want to wake up every morning and see you next to me.

And when we are together, I wish time would stand still and we were together for longer. I wish time would stop and we could still move, we could still breathe and be the way we are.

I miss you so intensely when we are far apart. Every time we leave, I feel the urge to ask you, “when can I see you again?”

Even though I already know it will be soon.

Say whatever you want. But I want this. I want you.

For now, you are mine again. Even though I know it won't last.

But despite that, I want you to know that I love you more than anyone else in this world. That I always have. And that I will probably never love anyone the same way I love you.

You once asked me, with a sad smile on your face, if I had ever been truly in love. I said I had.

You never asked me who it was, or when that was, or what had happened. I think that deep down, you always knew. Deep down, you still know.

Still trying to organize myself with Something Missing, so I decided to keep you entertained with a short and quite melodramatic love letter that will never be answered.

How do I know, I hear the masses chant. Well. I'm the author.

Something Missing pt. I

2011-06-07T20:05:00.002-03:00

The day we met had been a rainy, quiet, lonely day. Like many, I’ve always enjoyed rainy days, but hated having to go out in the rain, wearing boots and armed with an umbrella (which, in reality, isn’t all that helpful and you still get wet). I had decided to stay home and read a book, drinking tea, but as soon as I sat myself down on the sofa with a steaming cup of tea and a book, I realized there was something missing. I wasn’t quite sure what, but it was missing and, even though I tried to ignore it, I became restless and was unable to focus on the words that blurred before my eyes. After rereading the same paragraph four times, with a sigh, I gave up and decided I had to discover what was missing in my set up.

I rearranged the furniture, moving the sofa next to the window, where there could be more natural light, and the coffee table to the middle of the room, and the lamp next to the couch (for night time), and the painting my sister had given me to the wall opposite the window, and the photos of my family to the coffee table, and the TV to my bedroom (which required more time and strength than I had thought), and, finally, I moved the cat’s bed from beneath the window (where it had been before I moved the sofa) to sitting directly under the painting.

The entire move took me longer than I had anticipated, but I was happy with the result, so I sat back down to read.

However, there was still something missing and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Too tired to move the furniture once more, I decided to clean.

I started with the kitchen – doing the dishes and cleaning the stove and rearranging the food in the fridge, and cleaning the floor and watering the flowers sitting on the corner of the kitchen. Then I moved to the bathroom, then the sitting room, then my bedroom (now a TV-bedroom), then I cleaned the windows and mirrors.

By the time I was done, it was past noon and I was starving. Too tired to cook, I decided to leave the house. I looked out the window and it still rained. Though this would’ve normally put me off leaving the house entirely, something told me I simply had to leave the house, so I put on my boots, a warm coat, armed myself with an umbrella so big it could fit a family of four under it, and left.

I trudged along the street looking for a place to eat, though I had no particular desires at that moment, so I ended up strolling around the neighbourhood until I found a nice, though rather empty, café. I sat on a round table with a simple white tablecloth and a rose in the middle, and ordered a piece of apple pie and a cup of black coffee. As I waited, I took a look around the café. All tables had a different flower sitting in the middle, and the same simple white tablecloth. A pregnant lady and her husband chatted happily about colour schemes for their baby’s room, and an old, elegant woman sat alone, reading a magazine and sipping on her coffee. And then I saw you. You were also alone, nervously twisting the edge of the tablecloth in your hands and looking around, constantly glancing back at the entrance, as if you were desperately waiting for someone to arrive. Then you looked at me. Like a schoolgirl that had been staring at her crush, I quickly looked away.

I couldn’t bring myself to look back at you, but I could feel your gaze on me at all times, as I ate my apple pie and drank my coffee and paid my bill and getting up to leave. As soon as I stepped out of the café, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry, but are you, by any chance, Annabelle?”

“No, I’m not. I’m sorry,” I replied nervously.

“Oh,” a hint of disappointment in your voice, “Sorry. I know it sounds pathetic. A friend set me up with this girl, but she never showed up and I’ve been waiting for almost two hours now. Sorry for bothering you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe you should just go back home. If you’ve been waiting for two hours and she hasn’t showed up, she probably won’t anyways.”

In retrospect, that was quite blunt. I could see the disappointment in your eyes and your slumped shoulders, but you still nodded.

“I don’t know the area very well. Where can I get a cab?”

It might’ve been that I felt sorry for you, or it was my strange desire to talk more to you, but I told you I’d ring one for you from my place.

Perhaps not the best idea. There was no way of knowing if you were telling the truth about this Annabelle or if you were a psychopath just waiting for the perfect opportunity to viciously murder me and take a lock of my hair as a trophy, but I decided to take you to my apartment anyways. You thanked me profusely and introduced yourself.

Once inside, I rang the cab company and my cat curled on your lap, purring.

“Oh, she likes me!” You rubbed her head.

“Don’t be so excited. She’ll like anything that pets her,” I laughed, “The cab will take a little while because of the rain. You can wait here.”

You thanked me once again, and we were silent, sitting next to each other awkwardly on the sofa, my cat purring and the tap tap tap of raindrops on the window next to us.

“I’m really sorry to be a bother. I can’t believe she stood me up,” you whispered.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve all been stood up at some point of our lives.”

We sat silently for a moment longer, then the cab arrived. I saw you to the cab and we said our goodbyes.

“Thank you. Once again.”

You smiled, and left. I waved.

And then I sat back down on the sofa with my book and the strange feeling that something was missing came back to haunt me. It nagged me incessantly.

What was missing? I couldn’t figure it out for the life of me.

Huh.

Confession

2011-05-25T12:24:00.003-03:00

The truth is I'm crazy about you. I'm so madly in love with you, I can barely function.

It's ridiculous, I know. But whenever I think about my future, there is no fantasy you are not included in.

I love you so deeply, and it doesn't even matter. Because you'll never know.

Because you are gone.

And I cannot go on with my life without you.

I miss you so much. I dream with your return. I dream with you telling me it was all a joke, that you're not really gone. It was all a terrible misunderstanding, there was no car accident, the body was not yours. That you went on a long trip and didn't tell anyone and now you're back.

Dreams.

I only wish I had told you. Let you know. Even if you didn't love me back. I just wanted to tell you, and now it's too late, it's too late, it's too late, and I can't go on like this.

I can't, I really can't.

Someone make me stop writing stories where PEOPLE ARE DEAD JESUS CHRIST

Cover de A Fulana

2011-04-27T14:16:00.003-03:00

Eu decidi que queria cantar A Fulana, de Rita Lee. Desafinei bastante, errei uma hora, mas não tem problema pq a Frida apareceu no video. All is well :)

Galerinha, mudando de assunto, mas dá uma olhada aqui!

Smoker

2011-04-23T22:33:00.003-03:00

I can't help but feel I'm throwing my life away, as I smoke the third cigarette in a row, leaning over the window sill, looking at the window directly in front of mine. He had showed up earlier, and smoked a cigarette. He looked at me, and I back at him, and he raised his cigarette, as if saluting me.

I salute you, mysterious smoker guy who lives in the building across from mine.

And I keep smoking. A small part of me wants him to come back and smoke another cigarette with me, and we can hold this silent conversation, both of us extremely aware of the fact that we are wasting our lives in each drag. Or we could devise an elaborate communication plan and have long conversations that would last all night long. Or we could use signs! I'd write my name and my number and he could call me, and I'd invite him over and then we could truly smoke together, both of us leaning on the window sill.

Or none of that could happen, I tell myself, as I put out the cigarette and throw it on the street below me. Or I could realize that I'm still stuck in a loveless relationship with a man who hates me, but refuses to leave me. That I'm too weak myself to leave, too weak to leave this comfortable situation of having someone with me always.

I sigh as I light yet another cigarette.

"I'm killing myself, aren't I?" I tell whoever wants to listen. The moon, the mysterious smoker living in the building across from me, the cars passing by at 3 am. I look up, half expecting the smoker to be leaning on his window sill, staring at me. To my surprise, he is. He waves at me. I wave back. He then disappears for a moment, before reappearing with a cd player. He presses play, and I can faintly hear the song I'd Rather Dance with You by Kings of Convenience.

I smile, but it hits me that he probably can't see me smiling. So I raise my cigarette and nod my head.

He does the same, but raising the cd player instead of a cigarette. When the song is over, he waves again, and disappears.

I am intrigued.

For the next few sleepless nights (something I have become accustomed with since I've stopped loving him), I wait for the smoker to appear on his window and play me a song. Sometimes it's soothing music, sometimes it makes me want to dance. Other times, it makes me feel nostalgic. But it has become something I wait for every night. Something I yearn for. Something I miss. I spend my days now waiting for the time to come where I snake out of my "lover's" embrace and lean on the window sill, a cigarette between my fingers and a desire to see him that only leaves once he appears on his own window, with equipped with the cd player.

I've grown to love this smoker. As strange as that may seem. I don't know him, I don't know what he does or who he wants to be or what his dreams are. Or were. But he brings me comfort. It is somewhat comforting to have a complete stranger play you all sorts of songs. Love songs, mostly.

And when he is gone, when I sit in my office, waiting for night to come, I listen to the songs he played for me the night before. And I dream.

He played Oh My Love by John Lennon, then held up a sign that said, "I want to see you. Tomorrow. I'll cross the street."

I nodded.

I can't wait...

Desire

2011-04-14T21:49:00.003-03:00

What's funny is that I spent most of the time with her thinking about something entirely different. I thought about work to be done. I thought about my family. I thought about my dog, and grocery shopping and movies I wanted to see and books I was reading and anything else, but when we were apart, my mind was saturated with her. I was suddenly unable to get anything done, and wasted hours and hours thinking about her. About her hair up in a bun, the way she smiled, the way she crossed her legs and the way she gracefully waved her hand when she saw me coming, her hips and her breasts, her stomach and her lovely, luscious, lascivious lips. The way she held my hand and the way she rested her chin on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek.

And when I saw her again, I was ecstatic for a minute - maybe two - before wanting everything but her.

It's strange, the way we only want something terribly once it isn't at arm's length. When we have to get up and look and search. And that was something I really had to do. She'd come by for a day or two, then she'd vanish for two or more weeks. Gone. Not a trace. I'd call and text and write her long e-mails and she never answered. Gone. And that dull ache in my stomach started again. And I'd wait and wait and wait, until the doorbell would ring shrilly in the night and she was waiting on my doorstep, greeting me as if she had never left.

It's strange, how she toyed with me this way. It's as if she knew.

It's strange, how I never loved her, but wanted her with such fierce hunger when she was away, and the moment she came near, the magic faded.

It's strange, how, now that's she's gone, I only have beautiful, delicious, lovely, ecstatic memories of her.

Oh, how I want her...

Síntese

2011-04-12T21:27:00.002-03:00

Em síntese, sou nula. E você também é um nada.

Mas não importa.

Seremos absolutamente nada juntos.

Carinhoso - Pixinguinha

2011-04-10T15:14:00.005-03:00

Unlike Phoebe, my voice is not sexy at all when I'm sick. However, I still love this song and I do sorta like how it turned out.

So hah.

EDIT: the original thing I posted had screwed up the image, so the entire 2 minutes sort of whizzed by but the audio was right... so I'm reuploading it!

...fail me. Click here!

2011-04-09T13:06:00.000-03:00

I like what my hair is doing.

It's hot now, and yesterday was cold, and the day before that was hot, so now I'm kinda sick. wtf, weather. What the fuck.

A Espera

2011-04-03T21:47:00.000-03:00

Esperava pacientemente com o polegar preso entre os dentes. Fazia isso sempre que estava nervosa – prendia a ponta do polegar entre os dentes, e só. Não roia a unha, nem mordia a carne macia do dedo. Simplesmente deixava o polegar lá, esperando algo acontecer, assim como ela esperava naquele momento.

E ele a observava cuidadosamente. Observava o dedo preso entre os dentes, as pernas expostas cruzadas, a outra mão segurando o cotovelo, a mecha de cabelo desprendendo-se do rabo-de-cavalo frouxo.

E ambos esperavam.

Esperavam o quê? Não se sabe. Só se sabe que esperavam; e esperavam juntos, na mesma sala apertada de paredes brancas.

Ela continuava com o polegar preso entre os dentes, e seus grandes olhos castanhos voavam de um canto para o outro, procurando algo. Mas nada havia na sala. Paredes brancas. Um sofá, que ela ocupava, e uma poltrona, que ele ocupava.

E seus olhos continuavam mexendo-se, até que pararam nele.

Sabia que estava lá. Sabia que estava lá antes mesmo de sua chegada, mas parecia que só havia o visto de verdade pela primeira vez naquele momento. Abriu a boca de leve, e o polegar caiu, pousando por um momento no lábio inferior. Ele percebeu o movimento. Abriu a boca, como se estivesse prestes a dizer algo, mas fechou-a novamente. A menina fez o mesmo movimento, depois de enfiar o polegar entre os dentes novamente, desta vez mordendo com força. Olhou para outro canto na sala.

E agora? O que faria? Havia o percebido, e ele viu-a percebendo-o, mas o que faria? O silêncio era confortável. Não queria quebrá-lo.

Ao mesmo tempo, as mesmas perguntas brotavam na cabeça dele.

Mas... quem disse que esse silêncio precisa terminar?

Ele levantou da poltrona e andou com calma até o sofá. Baixou o olhar para encontrar o dela, e sustentou esse olhar por dois, talvez três, segundos. E sentou-se.

Nada disseram. Continuaram esperando.

Virou-se para ela, abriu a boca novamente como se fosse dizer algo, respirou fundo... Mas nenhum som saiu.

Não havia o que dizer. Ela o observava pelo canto do olho, curiosa. Ele voltou o olhar para as mãos suadas.

O que diria?

Perguntaria o seu nome, a sua idade, o que esperava?

Parecia correto perguntar isso. Afinal, sobre o que mais falariam? Ambos estavam presos na sala de paredes brancas, esperando.

Preparou-se novamente. Abriu a boca, respirou fundo, e quando tornou a virar o olhar para ela, levou um susto. A menina o observava, com o polegar entre os dentes, com os grandes olhos castanhos fixados nele, e a testa franzida. Perdeu a coragem novamente. Fechou a boca, mas continuou encarando-a. A menina mordia o dedo com mais força a cada momento que passava.

Dessa vez, foi a boca dela que abriu e puxou o ar para dentro com força. Segurou o rosto do menino com as mãos, e beijou-o na boca.

Acabou a espera.

2011-03-26T18:37:00.001-03:00

Eu sei que eu não faço nada
Mas eu gosto, gosto muito de você, de você, de você...
de vocêeee

Eu sei que eu não vou à escola
Mais eu gosto, gosto muito de você, de você, de você...
de vocêeeee

Você não acredita em nada dessa história
de eu tocar com você, com você, com você...
com você...

Alimente essa que eu ainda
Vou transar com você, com você...
com vocêeee

Andam dizendo que a vida não está com nada
Eu acho que não
E digo tá, tá, tá de todo o meu coração:
Legal

Venham vós ao nosso reino aqui no Brasil
Rock'n'roll, paz e amor aqui no Brasil
E talvez o fim de semana não tenha mais fim
E talvez a nossa música não tenha mais fim
E talvez a nossa vida não tenha mais fim

Morning Hair

2011-03-26T09:44:00.001-03:00

Morning hair, morning face, morning everything.

600th post

2011-03-21T22:39:00.002-03:00

Or something like that. And because I'm an amazing human being (and drank about 3 cans of Redbull and, honestly, WHO NEEDS SLEEP), two stories just for y'all.

Dor

Aquela dor que nasce no fundo do estômago e se espalha pro resto do corpo, aquela dor que cria nós na garganta, aquela dor que nunca realmente se sabe onde está, mas lá está ela, em algum lugar do corpo. Há quem diga que não é mais do que uma leve indisposição. Mas quem já sentiu essa dor, quem já perdeu fome e sono e vontade de fazer até as atividades mais mundanas e comuns me entende. Essa dor, tão presente, tão desconhecida, que perdeu-se dentro de mim e que me nega qualquer tipo de explicação.

Uma dor que cria saudade. Uma dor que enche os olhos de lágrimas. Uma dor que recusa me deixar.

Uma dor que não quero para ninguém no mundo, mas que sei com toda certeza que a vida de nenhum será completa sem.

Uma dor que chamo de amor, de paixão, de tesão, de vontade, luxúria. Uma dor sensual, uma dor dramática e sem fim.

A dor que faz de todo ser humano masoquista, sádico.

Uma dor que eu desejo. Prefiro sentir essa dor por meio segundo a viver uma eternidade sem tê-la.

Mundane Beauty

Beauty is momentary. It is a white flower amongst pink flowers. It is a beautiful woman weathered by time. It is a man able to love fully without fears and regrets. It is a child's eyelashes, wet, after a tantrum. It is beautiful for a second - then it becomes mundane.

And there is something terribly ugly about mundanity. Waking up, taking a shower, having some toast and coffee, brushing your teeth, going to work.

Coming back home, working some more, watching some TV, calling a friend, having dinner alone, brushing your teeth, going back to bed.

And the next day, it'll be the same.

And, one morning, you'll arrive at work, and something will tell you to look up. And, when you do, you'll see how nicely the purple flowers bloomed on the tree and how nice the green leaves and purple flowers look against the pale blue sky, with only a few perfectly white clouds, and you'll see beauty for a second before it's gone again.

You'll try to retrieve the beauty you saw the morning before by looking up again. But the clouds will be grey and ugly, and the sky will have lost that pretty pale blue and look an awful grey, like the skin of rhinoceros. And, when the sky finally clears up, and the purple flowers bloom once more, you'll see how nice it looks... But it has become mundane.

Beauty hides in the strangest places.

But it is only beautiful for a second, a moment, a glance.

Then it becomes mundane.

I will - The Beatles

2011-03-20T17:20:00.002-03:00

My voice is a little weird today, but still. I like this song.

Lisa + Frida

2011-03-20T16:07:00.004-03:00

Here's a spam of me and my dog being awesome.

A Rant on a video.

2011-03-14T18:40:00.004-03:00

EDIT: Turns out she was a troll, and that she had been doing videos of the sort for a while to troll... mankind, I guess? In anyways, she's still an idiot.

Watch this.

In all honesty, I'm not 100% sure on my beliefs when it comes to god and religion. I like to believe that there is a meaning, somewhere. But this??

This is just fanatical. And sad. This is the reason why any respect I may have for religious people is extinguished. I know not every god-fearing human being is like this spectacular example of our species, and I know that well. I have friends that believe in god, and I have family members that are strong believers and catholics. I respect their need and their desire for belief and for religion, but I cannot respect this woman. At all.

Honestly?

To be genuinely happy about not only the devastation of a country, but the death of over 1000 people?

How can someone be genuinely happy about children losing their parents, about people losing their significant others, about people losing family and friends?

I'd love to go on a hateful rant about religious fanatics, but I can't. I'm not even that angry. Just deeply and intensely disappointed at all of this. I'm devastated (and yes, I am. I may not know anyone living in Japan, I may not be the biggest Japan fan in the world, but it's a horrible thing that has happened to Japan and its people) about the death toll and the consequences of the tremors and the tsunami, and I am disappointed that there are still people like that woman living on Earth. I honestly hope she either realizes how selfish and stupid she is being, or that she removes that video and herself from the internet.

Yes, I have just pulled a 4chan on her and banished someone from the internet.

Though banished isn't the right word.

I wish I could banish her from the internet.

A Collection of Repulsive Stories - UNTITLED SIX

2011-03-11T14:39:00.002-03:00

And so it happened that I found myself in love. In love! I thought this day would never come. My heart didn’t beat anymore; it fluttered. My stomach was a constant mess, and, try as I might, I could not eat. I was never hungry, and sleep was a thing long forgotten.

Love.

Who would’ve known? I, of all people, in love!

And, of course, he was not in love with me. Who would, really?

But if I couldn’t have him, no one else would.

Which is why, Your Honour, his bloody body is lying in my bed, waiting for me to come home.

2011-03-10T09:31:00.002-03:00

Devil's Tears

He said "I am the devil, boy, come with me
And we'll make many storms"
He offered me the universe
But inside my heart there's a picture of a girl

Some call love a curse, some call love a thief
But she's my home
And she's as much apart for this broken heart, but see
Broken bones always seem to mend

I'll taste the devil's tears
Drink from his soul, but I'll never give up you
I'll taste the devil's tears
Drink from his soul, but I'll never give up you

He said "I am the devil, boy,
Come with me and we'll break many laws"
He offered me eternal life but inside my heart there's a picture of a girl

Some call love a curse, some call love a thief
But she's my home and she
And she's as much apart for this broken heart, but see
Broken bones always seem to mend

I'll taste the devil's tears
Drink from his soul, but I'll never give up you
I'll taste the devil's tears
Drink from his soul, but I'll never give up you

Old Friend

You've seen the days when the roads were death,
And the fires burned right to the brim,
And the bike you rode to school now it rests,
Where your story began.

You read your fair share of books,
You tied your lace a thousand times,
And you saw the good in the worst of the crooks,
And your story begins, and your story begins.

The sun it burns so I'll jump right in,
I felt the cold sea kiss my skin,
I turned around and you were gone,
And I'm thinkin' of you, thinkin' of you.

Old friend where you headed for now,
Old friend where you headed for now.

Window frames hold pictures of you,
And the tree outside appears on end,
And you'd seen the good in the seam of the crop,
And your story began, and your story began.

The sun it burns so I'll jump right in,
I felt the cold sea kiss my skin,
I turned around and you were gone,
And I'm thinkin' of you, cant stop thinkin' of you.

Old friend where you headed for now,
Old friend where you headed for now,
Old friend where you headed for now,
Old friend where you headed for now.

Quer Saber?

2011-03-03T09:43:00.000-03:00

Quer saber?

Está tudo errado. Eu estou errada, você está errado, estamos ambos errados, todos estão errados e não há nada que eu possa fazer à respeito neste momento porque estou doente e cansada e sem forças para consertar tudo sozinha. De novo.

Cansei disso. Cansei de ser a única que se esforça para que isso dê certo. Eu fiz de tudo. Tudo!

E você não me enxerga, não me ouve.

Tudo que eu quero é que as coisas estejam certas novamente, mas você também não ajuda, e fica nesse seu ‘nhénhénhé’ , nessa sua confusão, e nem se dá conta de que estou aqui também e que preciso de você, preciso da sua ajuda. Precisamos um do outro mas você se esqueceu que estamos juntos nessa merda.

Você se esqueceu de mim.

Estou indo, está bem?

Então, adeus. Ou até logo.

Depende de você, acho. Você pode me ajudar.

…

Acho que não quer.

Adeus.

Fury

2011-03-03T09:36:00.000-03:00

I had never, in my entire life, been angrier.

I was so angry, it felt like I was temporarily somebody else, and the real me was watching from afar, broken and devastated, unable to do anything.

I saw myself tear the door open and rip the sheets off him, “What the fuck is your problem?” I heard myself yell. He looked at me, sleepily, with confusion. I saw his mouth hint at a, “What?” before I yelled, “Don’t you fucking ‘what’ me! You know exactly what you did,” I saw myself throw my shoes at him. I saw myself then grab him by the shirt and pull him up, only to slap him hard across the face. He fell back on the bed, clutching his cheek, burning bright red.

The real me, watching the angry me from afar, didn’t have the strength to stop her. I knew she was right to be so angry, to be so… livid. What he had done was inexcusable. He had ruined what I regarded as my last chance at happiness. He had no right to do that.

“You have absolutely no right to destroy what I have, to slither your way around my things and go through my agendas, notebooks, phonebooks and personal belongings to do this!” By this point, I could see the angry me tear up.

More than anything, the angry me was destroyed from the inside out. We both were.

“Who do you think you are?” And the dam broke, “Who do you think you are?!”

He got up and tried to touch me. To comfort me. I saw my angry self wipe away a tear, as she furiously pushed him away.

“I don’t want you,” I managed, “I don’t want you!” I yelled.

He looked at me. Hurt. I could see it in his eyes. I didn’t care.

“Don’t do this…” he began.

I wasn’t angry anymore. I was shattered – destroyed.

“You had your chance for so long, and you blew it. For years, you had me, and you never even pretended to feel anything!” I yelled through my tears.

He didn’t even try to explain himself. I could see his pain. I saw it there, but I could care less.

“You ruined my last chance at happiness because you couldn’t bear the thought of not having me,” the thing I wanted to say for so long finally came out, “But it’s too late now.”

He paused. I paused. We looked at each other.

“And now, I can’t even bear to look at you.”

Ringing [COMPLETE]

2011-02-28T18:56:00.002-03:00

Turns out I ended up not using this piece at all, so here it is, for y'all to read and stuff. Enjoy! Also, should I post more stories in Portuguese? I have some other stuff written up that I quite like, so comment telling me what you think!

[Blackout. In the distance, the ringing of a phone can be heard. Faint at first, but rapidly increasing in loudness. When it seems as if the ringing cannot become louder, it stops suddenly, and there is complete silence. A light shines centre stage, where an object resembling a bed (a sofa, a chaise, a mattress, etc) can be seen, and on top of it, huddled under layers of covers, a mass moves until her masked head can be seen.]

Ana: [in a whisper] Is it gone?

[She leaves the huddled mass of covers and sits on top of them. Her facial characteristics show deep fatigue, as if she had not slept for many days.]

It is, isn’t it? It’s gone. [For a moment, her physical stance allows a glint of joy to shine through. As she speaks the next words, this quickly vanishes] Finally, it’s –

[She stops herself. She looks around cautiously, as if looking for the source of the ringing. A spotlight stage left – a stool with a telephone sitting on it. She looks at the phone, before retreating under the covers. She begins whispering]

Oh, no, no, no, no…

[Nothing happens. The spotlight is turned off, and the phone can no longer be seen, but then begins a faint ringing, as if there were a phone ringing in a closed room far away.]

Ana: [muffled, from under the covers] It’s there. The ringing. [She emerges] Can you hear it? I know who’s calling. I know who it is on the other end. I know what he wants. I know exactly what he wants.

[At first, it seems as though she is speaking to herself, but it becomes clear she is speaking to the audience]

But I can’t. I can’t, I simply can’t, I…

[The ringing suddenly becomes louder, interrupting her. A spotlight shines on the same phone seen before, stage left. She becomes extremely still, looking intently at the phone. Again, as it seems impossible for it to become any louder, it suddenly stops.]

I’ll tell you something. Listen.

[She stops for a moment, and turns to look at the phone. She waits for a moment, as if she fears it were watching her. A moment later, still weary, she turns back to the audience]

Listen. Before the ringing, came letters. The letters came first, before anything. Piles and piles of letters. I never opened any of them. [she pauses for a moment] They’re gone now. I don’t know what happened to the thousands and thousands of letters that came, but they’re gone. Every single one of them.

[She looks at the phone again.]

It’s four o’clock. I don’t need a watch to know that. Every night, 4 o’clock, the phone rings. It rings, and it doesn’t stop until... [She glances at the audience, but only briefly. Her gaze is set on the phone.] And when it is time to wake up, to come back… It stops.

[Another ringing begins, far off. It is faint, and it is distinctly a different ring. If it was not shown before, the way she sits on the bed, with a sheet around her shoulders, shows clear unease and surprise at this new, distant ringing. Nevertheless, she continues speaking.]

The ringing. Can you hear it? It’s kept me from sleep. He kept me from sleep.

[She shudders. She looks around cautiously, suddenly afraid that someone might hear her.]

Keeps. [Pause. She allows it to sink in, as if she had forgotten he was not gone just yet.] Keeps me from sleep. The ringing is still here, isn’t it? He said he wouldn’t call back. He said he’d let me go.

But he hasn’t. He didn’t.

Before…

I slept. I slept, and in my dreams, there was silence. [It seems as though she is speaking to herself, now. The ringing is still distant, but now the phone sitting on the stool begins ringing too. This ringing is louder.]

And it was so beautiful. It was so beautiful…

[Now another ring, different, but closer and softer, begins. Three distinct rings. Though there is an obvious discomfort in her physicality caused by the ringing, she seems to try to disregard the incessant ringing as she continues to speak about her silent dream]

And he was gone. In fact, he was never there. [As she speaks, more rings – different in sound and loudness – are introduced. She continues to speak, though her speech has lost the far-off, dreamy tone and acquired a frantic tone.] The first letter came when I opened my eyes. Then came more. And more, and more and more, and the ringing began, incessant.

I found it. I opened the first letter, and I fell into a deep sleep and in that deep sleep, there was complete silence. Complete silence.

But the ringing began.

The ringing began. I searched and I searched, but there was no phone. [Her tone softens.] Then it stopped.

[When she says “stopped,” the ringing of all the phones combined, distant and near, cease suddenly]

And all was silent again.

[Her voice becomes softer]

And then I heard his voice…

[A different speaker] Only in dreams can you control your reality.

[Blackout. A few seconds later, in utter darkness, the faint, distant ringing, as if a phone were locked in a room far away, begins once more.]

On a completely unrelated note, CLICK HERE to read all the useless stuff I tweet about!

Having fun with the pup

2011-02-20T16:51:00.003-03:00

Playing with Frida while listening to Sean Lennon!

The Cellist

2011-02-17T09:06:00.006-02:00

Written while listening to this and this.

What do we desire the most?

Success? Money? Sanity? Health?

Love?

I don't know what I desire the most. I secretly find that if I wish for something too hard, it'll never be mine. So I quietly live my life, waiting for something to happen. My mother used to say that I can't just wait for something to happen, that I must go after what I want.

But every time I've done that, it has been taken away from me.

So now I wait. I organize the books sitting on the shelves of this dusty library and I wait. And because I am waiting and because the books can wait too, I'll tell you a story.

I used to desire love, more than anything in the world. I used to believe that love would solve all my problems, that if I were in love, nothing else would matter. So I sought love. I sought love in the books I organize, I sought love in old movies, in my dreams, and everywhere I went. I sought love everywhere. I sought love in the right places, and I sought love in all the wrong places, too.

And then I found love. I found love sitting on the bench in front of this dusty old library, waiting.

"What are you waiting for?" I asked.

"I'm waiting for something to happen" he replied. I sat next to him.

"I'll keep you company."

And we chatted. I told him about the books and the library, and he told me about music and orchestras. A cellist! Would you believe it? I found love in a cellist, I found love in his long, able fingers and in his embrace.

"Something happened," he said, "just now. Did you see it?" I looked around carefully. Indeed, something had happened.

"Nightfall" I replied.

"Now that something has happened, I should go home."

I was disappointed. I wanted to spend more time with him, talking, learning.

But I had to go home too. So I said, "I should, too."

"It was nice waiting with you," he said, as he got up, "I'll come back tomorrow and wait with you again, if that's all right."

I nodded, and he left.

The next day, I stacked books in alphabetical order, filed under graphic novels. Then, I organized music books in their shelves and, as I did, my mind drifted to the cellist waiting for something to happen. I wondered if he really would come back.

I put on my coat and left the library at noon. And outside, he was sitting on the bench, with his cello case next to him. He saw me, and moved the case so I could sit.

"Hello," he said, smiling, "I brought a friend."

He opened the case and pulled out the instrument.

"Playing a cello," he began, "brings a feeling like no other. I wish everyone could feel this way, once in their lives."

He began playing. Clair de Lune, by Debussy. A few passer-bys stopped to listen. Others dropped some money inside the open case, and some ignored the music flowing out of the strings.

I couldn't stop staring. The look on his face when he played made him more beautiful. The way he slid the bow on the strings seemed so fluid and natural. I felt my heart swell, just by watching him play. He seemed so in love with the sound that poured out of the cello.

When the music was over, the small group of people that had gathered to watch clapped, and dropped some money inside the case. He thanked them and put away the money and the cello.

"That was beautiful."

He turned to me and smiled.

And every day, he would stop by and sit on the bench, waiting for something to happen. When it was time to go home, I would sit next to him, and we would talk. I told him about my silly dreams (to become a published writer), and he told me about his wonderful dreams (first cello of the philharmonic). I told him about my family, and he told me about his silent childhood. My family believed in science, I believed in love. His family believed in God, he believed in music. My family was disappointed when I showed no love for science, and when they realized my talent lay in words. His family was disappointed when he showed no love for God and Christ, and when they realized his god was music.

And our routine went on for months. Sometimes I read him my favourite extracts of my favourite books, and sometimes he brought a tape he recorded. Bach, Debussy, Fauré, Poulenc. I brought him food - sandwiches, pastries, coffee. We sat outside the library and we talked, and ate, and listened. When it rained, we sat inside the library, reading quietly together. He loved detective fictions. Sometimes, I'd watch him reading over my own book. He looked like a child - so excited, so concentrated. And when he finished the book, he'd close it and lay it on his lap, and look meditatively at the cover, before putting it back in its place and choosing another one. My love for the cellist grew and grew, but I held my tongue. I was afraid he didn't love me back, and I feared pain more than anything. Winter came and went, and when spring arrived, he walked in the library. He found me sitting behind the counter, reading. I looked up and smiled.

"I think I might be in love with you," he said.

And that was that. He confessed his love to me, and I answered. We went home together. He played for me, I cooked for him, and we loved each other.

Until he got sick. He couldn't play anymore - he was too tired and weak. He played the recordings he had done of himself over and over, and at night he would cry.

"If I die," he would begin, and I would try to remain upright, try to hold back the tears, "If I die, remember I love you more than anything."

And so he did.

He died, and with him went my heart.

He was so young. So talented.

I loved him so much.

So now, I wait for something to happen, without him. I sit on the bench outside the library, and I wait for something to happen, and I watch the night arriving, and I do so listening to the tapes by the cellist. At first, I waited to wake up from the nightmare that was life without him. But it never ended. I thought I should perhaps find someone new, but no one would do.

I stopped waiting for love.

Instead, I now wait for the day it'll hurt less to wake up and not find him by my side.

Pokésignos no Nerdeando

2011-02-16T21:37:00.001-02:00

Oi, gente!

Eu escrevi um post para o Nerdeando, então cliquem aqui!

2011-02-14T06:59:00.003-02:00

So, in the spirit of Valentine's day, here's a very cheery, romantic song, by Harry Nilsson.

You're breaking my heart, you're tearing it apart, but I love you.

Cartas

2011-02-11T15:12:00.004-02:00

Primeira carta

“Eu sei que talvez não seja o momento certo para lhe dizer isso, mas, se não me sinto mais dessa maneira, posso te dizer que, com certeza, te amei.

Nunca disse nada por que temia sua reação. Temia que se assustasse e que desistiria de tentar, desistiria dessa relação, de mim. Então fiquei quieta. De que adiantaria te assustar? A dor só viria mais cedo, imagino.

Mas é verdade, sabia? Te amei mesmo.

Mas agora acabou. Agora não vale mais a pena tentar. Talvez você também tenha me amado. Talvez você também tenha ficado quieto por medo de me assustar. Talvez você também tenha passado noites em claro, tremendo de antecipação pelo momento em que eu chegaria em casa e pudéssemos nos abraçar.

Ou talvez não.

Então continuo quieta, por que sei que, agora, você não me ama."

Segunda carta

"Quero te ver. Quero te sentir perto de mim, quero te beijar, quero poder te tocar. Quero te ver sorrir, quero voltar no tempo para viver tudo isso de novo – a alegria, os beijos, os toques, sua risada...

...

Quero conversar com você. Trocar algumas palavras, como se nada disso tivesse acontecido. Talvez como se nada jamais tivesse acontecido – como se nunca tínhamos nos apaixonado, como se nunca te amei, como se fossemos só amigos e nada mais, e tudo seria como antes. Você não se lembraria de nada, só de um sentimento distante. Um sentimento distante. Uma vaga lembrança de mim e dos nossos momentos.

Gostava dos momentos que ficávamos juntos, só eu e você, e conversávamos sobre tudo, nada, sobre mim, sobre você, e sobre nós.

Todos esses meses se tornariam uma ilusão, um sonho. Para você. Eu me lembraria. Acho que esquecer seria mais doloroso do que lembrar.

Então você viveria na certeza de que havia sido um sonho longo e bonito, e eu sorriria tristemente, vivendo na esperança de que algum dia você gostaria de tornar a sua ilusão em realidade. E seríamos felizes.”

Fear

2011-02-06T17:37:00.002-02:00

I'm terrified. I'm terrified of everything. Of people, of change, of difficulties, of myself. I'm terrified of never becoming what I can. I'm terrified of never fulfilling my dreams. I'm terrified of never finding true love, or of becoming an excellent parent, lover, friend.

I'm terrified of disappointing my parents. I'm terrified of disappointing my teachers. I'm terrified of disappointing my friends.

I am terrified of disappointing myself.

I've always been like this.

Even though I've grown, I'm still scared. I'm still deep inside that shell, terrified of leaving the safety I've created in it.

I spend my days in silence. I spend my days doing what I think I'm able, but I always give up at even trying the things I don't believe I can do.

I've always second-guessed myself. I never thought I could amount to anything other than...

Well.

This.

No matter how many times someone tells me I can do it, that I'm better than this or that, that if I just believe in myself a little bit...

I'll make it. I'll make everything. I'll be good.

It really doesn't matter how many times someone tells me that. I can hardly believe in what I tell myself, let alone what others tell me.

It's always been I can't. I can't. I can't do this, I can't do that, I'm not good enough, no matter how much I try.

But I believe in you.

I believe it when you tell me I'm good. When you tell me I can do it. When you tell me I'm everything I believe I'm not.

But of all the things I'm terrified, of all the things I fear, what I fear the most is disappointing you.

2011-02-02T21:43:00.000-02:00

DO YOU SEE THAT DUMBFUCK UP THERE?

WELL IT'S HIS FUCKING BIRTHDAY. IF YOU'RE NOT THE BIGGEST FUCKWAD THAT'S EVER ROAMED THIS MOTHERFUCKING EARTH, YOU'RE GONNA WISH HIM A HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ASSHOLE.

FUCK YOU.

AND HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY, FAGGOT.

Ringing

2011-02-01T19:34:00.000-02:00

Ana: Is it gone?

[She leaves the huddled mass of covers and sits on top of them. Her facial characteristics show deep fatigue, as if she had not slept for many days. She looks around cautiously, as if looking for the source of the ringing. A spotlight stage left – a stool with a telephone sitting on it. She looks at the phone, before retreating under the covers. She begins whispering]

Oh, no, no, no, no…

[Nothing happens. The spotlight is turned off, and the phone can no longer be seen, but a faint ringing can be heard, as if there were a phone ringing in a closed room far away.]

[At first, it seems as though she is speaking to herself, but it becomes clear she is speaking to the audience]

But I can’t. I can’t, I simply can’t, I…

I’ll tell you something. Listen.

[She stops for a moment, and turns to look at the phone. She waits for a moment, as if it were watching her. A moment later, still weary, she turns back to the audience]

The letters came first. Piles and piles of letters. I never opened any of them. They’re gone now.

[She looks at the phone again.]

It’s four o’clock. I don’t need a watch to know that. Every night, 4 o’clock, the phone rings. It rings, and it doesn’t stop.

The ringing. Can you hear it? It’s kept me from sleep. He kept me from sleep.

[She shudders. She looks around cautiously, suddenly afraid that someone might hear her.]

Unfinished. Working on it to use it as my Independent Project as a self-devised piece of theatre in relation to Surrealism and Artaud. There's another part that is already written up and shit, but this is what I wanted to share.

Thoughts? :)

2011-01-22T00:54:00.000-02:00

Healing Process

2011-01-20T17:30:00.004-02:00

It's being able to relive the moments in your life without feeling let down. It's being able to find yourself again in the middle of all the despair.

It's slowly feeling the stinging all over your body disappear. It's suddenly feeling weightless again, feeling the edges of your body blurring out. It's not being a harsh rash on society (but mostly, within yourself), but being alive and normal - whatever that is.

It's being able to be yourself again.

It's not being afraid anymore.

It's called the healing process. It's called getting better.

I'm not together -- but I'm getting there.

2011-01-19T10:00:00.000-02:00

Hello from Frida

2011-01-07T23:13:00.000-02:00

The only good thing about this blog is being able to occasionally see my adorable pup, who is no longer a pup because she's almost 10 months old.

Hay Guise

2011-01-02T21:40:00.000-02:00

Sorry I haven't been checking your blogs/commenting on said blogs for some time now. I've been caught up with SO MANY THINGS before the holidays and I thought I'd do some catching up on the holidays.

Turns out holidays are the time I take to hibernate.

So I'll see y'allz when I'm fully rested.

This also means I won't be writing anything for a while (or at least not posting anything here) because hibernating takes up a lot of energy.

So brb ttyl cya

You. [pt. 3]

2010-12-29T04:18:00.002-02:00

I never saw you again.

I never went back.

Somehow, I still think of you. I don't know anything about you. I never will. But those few brief moments with you were enough to let me know I wanted you, and still want you.

I wonder where you are.

You destroyed me. The minute I saw you, you destroyed me.

You looked right through me. You saw every little bit of me. It felt as if we'd know each other for years and you'd seen, met, known and grown to love all of me. All of my fears, all of me.

And because that wasn't true, and because we were bound to lose each other, and because everything is finite, you destroyed me.

I never even found out your name.

How old you were back then, how old you are now.

Your favourite colour, your favourite musician, your favourite love story.

I still find myself thinking about the touches we shared. The kisses. The feel of your skin against mine.

You.

You.

Always you. We've never seen each other before that day, and we'll never see each other again, because it's you.

You, you, you. Always you, only you.

Always you, and only you.

I wonder where you are.

Please, I beg of you, if we ever meet again...

Don't destroy me.

Look at me, but don't see me. We'll get to know each other. We'll be normal, in love.

And one day, maybe, I can tell you what I wanted to when I slapped you.

It's you.

You.

You, you, you.

Always you, only you.

You. [pt. 2]

2010-12-18T10:50:00.003-02:00

I didn't know what to do. Love. Love?

Oh, me. What was I doing?

I squeezed your hand in mine. I wanted to kiss you again, but you looked so confused, so...

Scared.

I was terrified. Of myself. I had to go.

I had to go.

Nothing. You didn't tell me your name, your number, where you lived.

You kept looking at me, holding onto my hand. Your lips moved wordlessly.

I knew what I wanted to say. "What's your name? What's your name?"

And then you let go of my hand.

But the words wouldn't leave me. They felt stuck in my throat.

...

I ran.

And then you ran. What? How was I supposed to react to that?

"Wait!" You called. But I couldn't stop running. I knew you were coming after me, but that just made me run faster.

I stopped. I don't know why, but I stopped and before I knew it you were gone.

I wondered if I'd ever see you again.

I'm not sure I ever wanted to see you again.

Deu.

2010-12-17T09:48:00.001-02:00

Deu. Chega. Não vou mais me submeter a isso. Então, CHEGA. CANSEI.

You. [pt. I]

2010-12-13T23:09:00.004-02:00

And there it was - the unstoppable desire to reach out and break something, slap you, hurt you, break you. Destroy you, little by little, as you destroyed me.

I remember the night we discovered each other vividly. I looked across the room, and there you were, standing beautifully in jeans and a white t-shirt and old Converse shoes, looking blankly at the guy talking to you. You rolled your eyes and dismissed him with a wave of your hand and a muttered word I couldn't make out. He left, looking slightly disconcerted and then you looked at me.

You paused for a moment, before grabbing your bag and leaving.

To grab hold of the collar of your shirt and tear it. To slap you some more, to make you cry.

I don't know why I felt like that, but I did. So I left.

I couldn't look at you a second longer. I didn't know you and didn't want to. But your eyes seemed to glue to me, and you followed me with your gaze.

I didn't look back.

I had to find you. I had to find you.

I had to find you.

I awoke the next day and the desire to hurt you was still there.

So I went back.

So I went back.

And there you were, once again, standing beautifully in what seemed to be the same thing you wore the day before. I didn’t judge you – I came wearing the same clothes too. I barely slept.

I had to find you, and there you were, as if you waited for me. You turned to me and I looked at you.

So I walked over to you, and you took my hand and stared at it, tracing the veins on my hand and feeling my knuckles with your thumb.

Beautiful, every single inch of you.

I observed you as you felt my hands, my wrists.

The desire to slap you was still strong in me, but it was being slowly overpowered by the need to lean closer and kiss you on the lips.

So I did.

And then you slapped me.

Kissed me, slapped me right across the face and walked off.

Not a word, not a single word.

I desired you so intensely in that moment, when I saw a flash of rage in your eyes before you stormed off.

Oh, god, you were so beautiful.

I found you next, a few days later, sitting under a tree reading some random book I hardly cared about.

I stopped right in front of you and you lowered your book and glanced upwards at me.

…Dropped my book, stood up and grabbed you around the waist, pulled you closer and kissed you.

I loved you, then and there.

[...]

To be continued.

Motivação

2010-12-12T19:34:00.002-02:00

Um vídeo meio deprimente, mas é domingo e eu tenho todo direito de estar deprimida. Então vai se foder.

Faz muito tempo que não escrevo.

Quer dizer. Que não posto minhas histórias aqui. Na verdade, eu ando ocupada e meio sem inspiração, então tudo que escrevo é fragmentado e nada faz muito sentido e pra ser extremamente sincera, eu não gosto de quase nada que escrevo de qualquer maneira, mas o que eu ando escrevendo ultimamente está pior do que o normal e isso me deprime.

Suspiro.

2010-12-07T23:15:00.001-02:00

E aqui vai um mega post/rant/foda-se

2010-12-06T01:41:00.002-02:00

São momentos como este, que me encontro acordada à 1h42 da manhã na sala de TV assistindo videos 100% inúteis, que eu paro e penso, "Que merda."

Que merda. Que grande e bela merda. Estou acordada agora por que daqui 18 minutos tenho que tomar analgésico para que eu possa dormir 4 horas bem, e acordar às 6 capaz de beber água. Já decidi há tempos que em Janeiro vou cortar o cabelo, e muitos já sabem como, mas até lá (para os que ainda não sabem), fica um mistério. Decidi também, lá pelo começo do ano (mas só admiti pro resto do mundo em Julho) que volto para o Rio para fazer faculdade. Acho que uma decisão assim nunca me rendeu tanta dor de cabeça. Para contribuir à essa maldita dor de cabeça, eu estou perdendo muita aula (por conta da amigdalite que tive no final de Outubro e da operação que tive sexta), estou com muitos trabalhos atrasados e não acho ânimo para começar/completar nenhum trabalho. A operação (por mais que eu a culpe por muitas coisas no momento) foi até muito boa - sei que com amigdalite não me preocuparei mais. Emagreci um quilo e meio já, e pela primeira vez na minha vida não estou feliz com isso. Sei lá, eu estava começando a me acostumar com o meu corpo e emagrecer bem quando você se acostuma com essa imperfeição é sempre uma merda (sei que vou engordar tudo de novo, e então o ciclo recomeça). Fora tudo isso, existem também as dores de cabeça que prefiro não mencionar e aquela maldita encheção de final de ano.

Ah, dezembro. Você é o mês mal-comido e infeliz. Além de ser o mês do meu aniversário (aah, aniversário. Como te detesto), é o mês do Natal e ano-novo.

Olha, sinceramente?

Não existe feriado que eu deteste mais que o Natal.

Não me leve a mal. Toda essa bobajada do simbolismo do Natal, de estar junto com aqueles que amamos, etc e tal é lindo e tudo mais, mas isso não significa que Natal seja menos escroto.

Por que, puta merda, que feriado mais escrotinho. Somos obrigados a dar presentes pra mãe, pai, irmão, irmã, cachorro, gato e papagaio, mesmo se o único presente que queremos dar para essa pessoa é um soco na cara.

Existem outras razões também, mas se eu ficar aqui escrevendo tudo, não durmo.

Desculpa gente, mas eu to comendo gelatina e sorvete desde sexta e estou prestes a matar alguém. E pra completar, não escrevo nada de qualidade há tempos e isso sempre me irritou. Tudo que escrevo me irrita, tá tudo errado.

1h55

Vou tomar o remédio e vou dormir, galerinha. Cansei dessa vida.

2010-12-04T16:01:00.003-02:00

A merda de ter operado é que eu tenho que tomar uns 800 remédios diferentes, e tudo que eu quero fazer é dormir o dia todo para essa náusea passar, só que tenho que ficar acordando a cada duas horas para tomar 20 doses de 600 remédios.

E aí a náusea recomeça por que eu não consigo comer nada, e tomar remédio de estômago vazio é uma grande e bela bosta. Fora que estou tomando antibiótico também, sabe-se lá por quê. Mas estou.

E isso só é uma fração da merda que estou passando agora. Muita coisa atrasada, muita coisa a ser feita para segunda, muita coisa para resolver comigo mesma.

Então até essa maldita náusea passar e eu for capaz de beber um copo d'água sem querer vomitar, vou ficar aqui, sentadinha, assistindo o filme da vida de Georgia O'Keeffe, com sono e preguiça de tomar o antibiótico sabor chiclete.

E aí, galera. To nospitau

2010-12-03T15:37:00.007-02:00

E aí, gente. Vou fazer um blog post rapidinho pra contar minha experiência hospitalar. Uhul.

Primeiro, ó eu aqui no hospital com roupa de hospital que, por mais que você tente se cobrir, vai acabar abrindo e todo mundo vai ver sua bunda e afins. Acho que 8 enfermeiras diferentes já viram meus peitos.

Oba

A segunda foto é da minha mão cheia de fios pra soro, morfina e antibiótico. Como a Cami me mataria se eu postasse ela aqui pra todos verem, vou por num link (respeitando, também, todos os outros que tem fobia de agulha e sangue. Uhul). Clique aqui pra ver minha mão.

Ok. Eu tomei morfina há menos de 15 minutos, então ainda to sob aquele efeito meio herp derp "pai eu acho que fiz xixi na cama" quando na verdade, não fiz.

Enfim.

Me acordaram hoje às 4h45 da manhã para me arrumar para operação. Tive que vestir aquela roupa azul que nem tenta cobrir sua bunda, deixando as minhas pobres nádegas à mostra para todos. Aí a enfermeira (cujo nome não me lembro lol) trouxe a maca, eu deitei de lado e ela injetou o pré anestésico.. NA MINHA BUNDA.

Isso mesmo, gente. Na minha bunda. Doeu. Aí eu comecei a ficar com sono e disse pra minha mãe, "se alguém me ligar, diz que eu to operando e que não posso falar mas que ligo depois e tal".

Lembro vagamente de ter tentado cantar Baby I'm yours de Breakbot. Depois disso, só me lembro de ter acordado numa sala desconhecida depois da operação, e eu queria levantar, mas não me lembro pq, mas não posso levantar sozinha (a pulseira laranja é sinal de que eu tenho risco de queda se levantar sem ajuda), então a enfermeira que estava lá tentou me acalmar, prometendo me dar milkshake depois. Aí eu dormi de novo. Depois, só acordei quando cheguei no meu quarto e a enfermeira que me acordou de manhã me perguntou se eu conseguia ir pra minha cama sem ajuda (ou seja, rolar pro lado e cair na cama sem me foder). Eu fiz que sim. Nisso, eu senti alguma coisa escorrendo do meu nariz (como quando você é pequeno e tá gripado e sente meleca escorrendo) e fui limpar com a mão. Quando olhei pra minha mão, DESESPERO!! Não conseguia falar, então comecei a chorar e enfiar a minha mão ensanguentada na cara da mamãe. Aí eu rolei pra minha cama e não me fodi. Ueba. E dormi mais.

Acordei em algum momento perto de 9h30 com vontade de fazer xixi. Mamãe me deu um pouco de milkshake e chamou a enfermeira. Papai chegou pouco depois com isso para mim.

Que tem, basicamente, toda forma de proteção possível. Enfermeira chega, me dá mais morfina e eu durmo mais. Nesse tempo que eu to dormindo, a irmã do Renny, Clara, linda do jeito que é veio me visitar. Me trouxe um presente lindo, mas o papai guardou já e não quer tirar. E a Clara, linda do jeito que é, tira uma foto comigo estilo TO ZOANDO ESSA DORMINHOCA AQUI LOL VOU TUITAR ISSO DEPOIS. Mas tudo bem, pq ela é linda.

Acordei uma meia hora atrás, pra fazer xixi (que tive que fazer na comadre pq não comi nada. Mas não consigui fazer na comadre, lol) e comer. E tomar mais morfina, mais antibiótico e mais soro.

Agora to aqui, tranquila, no meu quarto do hospital com o papai.

E tchan, essa foi minha experiência (até agora) hospitalar.

Beijos!

2010-12-02T19:53:00.001-02:00

I thought I had it all together
But I was led astray
The day you walked away
You were the clock that was ticking in my heart
Changed my state of mind
Love's so hard to find

And then...

2010-11-30T16:45:00.004-02:00

What now? I can't be at home. I can't, I simply can't. In any way, it's raining too much and I don't have enough money to get home by the magic that is public transport and I can't walk because of the fucking rain.

I shift a little in my seat. I've had the cast on for a few hours now and the bandage around my ribs for a few days. The doctor at the E.R. wasn't happy to see me, needless to say. He shook his head, and sighed, and asked me what happened. "Fell down the stairs again?"

I just nodded.

And this is why I find myself sitting at a Starbucks, drinking coffee I didn't even want, crying for everyone to see.

Fuck off, all of you watching. If you couldn't be home and your arm was broken and had 3 fractured ribs, you'd be crying too, sad fucks. All you're doing is drinking your pretentious coffee in a pretentious way, pretending to read Proust and pretending to know what you're talking about and trying to seem aloof. At least I know who I am and how I feel.

So stop staring.

Okay, now I just flipped off an old dude for trying to ask me what's wrong. Sorry, old man. Sometimes, nice-looking weepy girls like me simply want to be left alone as they drink their unwanted coffee (that has already gone cold) and read Poe.

Oh, how depressing I must seem. I'm the very picture of sad. If they had a picture under sad in the dictionary, it'd be me right now.

I can't talk about why I can't be home either. I wish I could. It has something to do with my husband and my unborn child and our 2-month old Shitzu puppy, Sookie.

Freaking pregnancy.

God damn Sookie. I hope she's okay, though. That little furball makes me happy. I suppose I'll have to go back home at some point to gather my stuff and take her with me back to mum's. I'm not leaving her with that monster.

Until then, I'll sit at a Starbucks, drinking stale, cold coffee and reading Poe.

Actually, no. Poe gives me morbid thoughts. And I'm keeping this kid. I am. A broken arm and a couple of fractured ribs won't stop me from keeping this baby.

Fucking husband.

There's the old man looking at me again. He drops a piece of paper next to me before leaving. I stubbornly ignore it.

Freaky old man. Probably his phone number. Freak. Gross. Ew. Puke, puke.

Oh, there they are. Eyes welling up again. It's probably not. The old man just wanted to help, and I flipped him the freaking bird. I gave an old man the finger. He was probably 80-something!! Just wanted to lend me a hand, to make sure everything's okay, offer to take me to the hospital, I don't know. I mean, I'm a pregnant chick. Not that he knows. Only a few weeks in. But still. I'm a girly-looking chick. Chicks like me aren't accident prone because we spend most of our time indoors reading Edgar Allan Freaking Poe. Why am I saying "chick" all the time? I'm not 16 and I don't surf. I don't even go to the beach. Fuck. Oh, crap, now a kid is staring at me. Go away, kid. Go away. I will kick you in the face.

Shit, I'm going to be a terrible mother.

I can't stop crying.

What did the old man give me?

"It's going to be okay."

...Okay, this helps a little.

It's been a few hours since I got here. I assume the workers didn't kick me out because they didn't want to interrupt my weep-fest. But I got to go. Sookie is waiting. I can't let her down.

Furthermore, he isn't home. I have to be strong and face him, but today is not the day.

I'll go.

Not, in any way or form, based on trufax.

Kbai

2010-11-28T17:28:00.000-02:00

Was a long and dark December
From the rooftops I remember
There was snow
White snow

Clearly I remember
From the windows they were watching
While we froze
Down below

When the future's architectured
By a carnival of idiots on show
You'd better lie low

If you love me
Won't you let me know?

Was a long and dark December
When the banks became cathedrals
And the fog
Became God

Priests clutched onto bibles
Hollowed out to fit their rifles
And the cross was held aloft

Bury me in armor
When I'm dead and hit the ground
A love back home unfolds

If you love me
Won't you let me know?

I don't want to be a soldier
Who the captain of some sinking ship
Would stow, far below

So if you love me
Why'd you let me go?

I took my love down to Violet Hill
There we sat in snow
All that time she was silent still

So if you love me
Won't you let me know?

If you love me,
Won't you let me know?

2010-11-28T16:53:00.001-02:00

Eat up your shame
You did not choose to be this way
These names live on your lips
But you cant help how bloodlines slip

I could never fall for an empty page anyway
I wouldn't like it
You cant haggle with your mother
You cannot choose her love, oh no

Come and fight your corner
Theres no one doing it for you
There would be nobody if we all stayed all alone
I wouldnt like it

To the cast

2010-11-27T13:45:00.002-02:00

Vai em português e quem sabe um pouquinho de inglês, pq, afinal, somos bilingues e misturamos tudo, e fica tudo nesse speech meio louco sem nexo.

De uns meses pra cá, eu comecei a perceber que tudo acaba. Acho que isso é uma coisa que todos sabemos, mas que nunca pensamos muito nisso pq ainda somos muito novos, não? Daqui algumas semanas, faço 18 anos. Estava pensando, ontem à noite, que 18 anos marca o término de muita coisa. Término da escola, daquela fase que tudo é "perdoável" (de certa forma, né). É uma fase meio triste. Na primeira noite, alguns de vocês me viram meio chorosa, falando que foi minha última opening night, etc e tal. Eu até queria poder falar de The Visit e Midsummer's, mas aí isso seria muito demorado e ainda temos que nos preparar para a última noite, não?

Last night, gente. Me parece tão estranho, mas é a última vez que eu vou 'subir' no palco da St. Paul's para perform pra pais e avós e amigos e professores e toda essa gente que eu convivo todo dia. É a última vez que vou perform com gente que se tornou tão querida em tão pouco tempo. Eu sei que (bom, pelo menos para mim) parece que esses 3 meses voaram e as últimas duas noites foram praticamente um borrão de coisas que deram errado que só nós percebemos e de falas que deram certo, e de momentos que a plateia riu quando não deveria, e de momentos que fizemos uma pessoa que nunca vimos chorar com um flashback extremamente pessoal. Pois é, gente. Last night. Acho que posso dizer, on behalf of all uppers and the lowers that are leaving, que é um momento bittersweet. É triste pq é a última vez que faremos isso, mas é feliz ao mesmo tempo pq pudemos fazer isso tudo com vocês, com o Seidl, com a P, apesar de todos os pitis de todos nós em momentos diferentes. Apesar dos pesares.

Gostaria de agradecer a todos vocês. De verdade, do fundo do meu coração. Sempre achei que faria todas essas coisas pela última vez de maior bom grado, que me formaria (apesar de ainda faltarem 6 meses) da St. Paul's na maior alegria. Agora vejo que não é bem assim. Pra ser sincera, por mim eu faria mais 3 noites de Our Town, só para manter esse sentimento mais um pouquinho. Apesar de não ter me tornado melhor amiga de cada um de vocês no cast, posso dizer com certeza que (até você, Anthony!) gosto bastante de todos vocês. Conversei com todos, ri com todos, fiz piadinha, brinquei, ofereci o queijo do meu sanduíche e reclamei da falta de suquinho de uva com todos vocês.

No final de todo ano, tem alguém que tá fazendo a peça pela última vez. Talvez não me lembre direito, mas acho que nem todos ficaram tão tristes. Não sei, talvez seja pq eu me diverti tanto com todos vocês, talvez seja pq eu esteja com medo de aceitar que ano que vem eu não vou ter que acordar cedo e ficar até tarde na escola rehearsing e tentando decorar minhas falas pra não ter que Pull an Amaral no dia. Não posso dizer com certeza de que volto todo ano para assistir a peça da escola, mas posso dizer com certeza absoluta que vou tentar. Que quero mesmo voltar todo ano e todo ano sair desse theatre deslumbrada com tudo - pq é assim mesmo que o pessoal me diz que se sentiu com a peça; deslumbrados.

Então, gente, muito obrigada por tudo. Todos vocês são extremamente queridos e farão muita falta, podem ter certeza.

E que essa última noite seja a melhor de todas.

CU PENIS

2010-11-21T19:51:00.001-02:00

lisa says: (7:49:19 PM)

VAI SE FODER GIANFRANCO

lisa says: (7:49:20 PM)

PENNACHI

lisa says: (7:49:23 PM)

WHICH

lisa says: (7:49:23 PM)

BTW

lisa says: (7:49:26 PM)

ALWAYS REMINDS ME OF PENIS.

Victoria says: (7:50:47 PM)

janfrancu penaxi

Luuu (: says: (7:50:55 PM)

FRANCU.

Gian says: (7:51:00 PM)

CU.

Gian says: (7:51:03 PM)

CU PENIS

Gian says: (7:51:07 PM)

thats my new name

uuu (: says: (7:51:25 PM)

só pra queimar o filme

lisa says: (7:51:35 PM)

(h)

Victoria says: (7:51:36 PM)

né só "queimar filme" nao?

Gian says: (7:51:49 PM)

antes queimar o filme do que a rosca

Fuck your shit

2010-11-18T21:33:00.001-02:00

Fodam-se todos vocês. TODOS. VOCÊS.

Eu tenho um bigode. Seu argumento é inválido.

Motivation

2010-11-16T08:09:00.000-02:00

The truth is, I lost it. I have no motivation.

For school, that is. I don't feel the need to stay there anymore.

I just want to leave.

E aí, galerinha

2010-11-11T23:38:00.002-02:00

Muita merda tem acontecido comigo ultimamente. Pra quem não me segue no twitter, ~~se mata~~ eu tive OUTRA amigdalite loucona da vida, e melhorei. Agora to meio atrasada com trabalhos na escola, sem falar em problemas com atividades extracurriculares e outras coisinhas a mais que eu prefiro não mencionar por aqui.

Sinceramente? Eu to cansada. Isso tudo cansa. A verdade é que eu não precisava fazer esse último ano na escola, já que é praticamente desnecessário pra quem for estudar por aqui mesmo. Mas eu fiz. E to fazendo. Questão de orgulho.

Então to escrevendo pouco. Não tenho tanto tempo, e, como estou muito cansada, nem tanta inspiração.

Paciência, coleguinhas. Já, já, escrevo mais. E quem sabe eu finalmente posto alguma história em português? Nunca se sabe.

Ah, e eu sei que meus tweets são protegidos. Siga-me e eu aceito, aí tá tudo de boa.

A lot of shit has been happening to me lately. For those who don't follow me on twitter, ~~go die in a ditch~~ I had yet another crisis of tonsillitis, and I got better. Now I'm a bit behind on schoolwork, not to mention troubles with some of my extracurriculars and other things I don't really care to mention around here.

Honestly? I'm tired. The truth is, I don't really have to take this last year at school because it's optional. But I did. And I am. It's a question of pride.

So I haven't done a lot of writing. I don't have that much time in my hands, and since I'm really tired, I'm not really that inspired to write either.

But patience! I'll be writing more soon. And who knows? Maybe I'll post something in portuguese.

I know my tweets are protected. Just follow me, I'll accept you and everything will be just fine.

Certainty

2010-11-09T13:45:00.004-02:00

Oh.

Uh. Yes. Okay.

Thank you.

I know a great deal of preparation went into this... speech you just gave me and I appreciate that.

But-

No, don't interrupt me. It's my turn to speak now.

But I can't say the same. Please don't be offended. This is a classic situation of "it's not you, it's me" and you'll think I'm bullshitting you, but it's really how I feel. It really is me.

"I love you."

It's thrown around so much. Feels the same as "Good morning" or "How are you?"

Sometimes it's used as an excuse, or as a way to apologize, a way to end a fight, or sometimes people cry it out in the throes of passion, in the middle of sex, as if they need to put what they're feeling into words. But I don't think that's love. I really don't.

Love is a word that has such a strong connotation, but people use it so lightly.

I love ice cream. I love him, I love her, I love that actor, that author, I fucking love Edward Fucking Cullen.

People say they love people they haven't even met! Fictional characters. Dead politicians, dead musicians, dead scientists. It's beyond me. I may like the work of a certain person, or quite enjoy how such and such writer portrayed such and such character, but love means so much more than just enjoying or liking.

Please don't get me wrong. I like you. A lot. A whole lot. I mean, I like you more than I like any other person and I think about you all the time. I like you, I really do. I just really don't want to tell you I love you if I'm not one hundred percent sure about it. I don't want to wake up one day and not find you by my side and realize that I didn't love you and you never loved me. It would hurt too much to make this sort of mistake.

Maybe not for you, but it would for me.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me. I never felt that was true. Christ, sticks and stones may break my bones, and words can hurt me. And anybody else, for that matter.

And if you're sure that you love me, one hundred percent sure, then go on telling me you love me. In all honesty, every time you say it, my heart skips a freaking beat and I melt a little and I find I like you a little bit more.

But if you're not sure, please take it back. I won't be upset.

I know this is probably the first time a girl has ever told you this. Hell, in fact, if you ever told any other girl you love her, she'd probably fling her arms around you and kiss you and say, "Oh, I love you too!"

So I'm sorry if this disappoints you.

I want to be sure. If you don't want to wait around until I "decide whether I love you or not," you're free to go. I don't want to tie you down.

But don't expect more than I can give.

No Recreio - Cássia Eller

2010-11-08T10:40:00.005-02:00

No meu coração fiz um lar
O meu coração é teu lar
E de que me adianta tanta mobília se você não está comigo?

Eu lembro direitinho do dia que ela morreu. Estava na casa da minha vó, e passou na televisão. Fiquei tão triste.

ANON, I LOVE YOU FOREVER AND EVER

2010-11-07T18:07:00.004-02:00

So back in September, I posted this:And TODAY, Anon commented this:Whoever you are anon.

I'm goan find you.

AND LOVE YOU UNTIL YOU EXPLODE, I'M JUST SAYING.

2010-11-02T11:00:00.001-02:00

I like this song. It's called The Seer's Tower, and it's by Sufjan Stevens.

Shiver

2010-10-25T17:15:00.001-02:00

She dragged her feet along the grass. She felt the earth and the grass blades rip off underneath her toes. She felt the wind try to push her back. It was no use. She was already at the edge of the river. She dipped her foot into the cold water. A shiver ran up her leg, spreading down to her other leg, and reaching up and touching her spine, touching the base of her skull, touching her quivering lips.

For a moment, she paused.

This was it. She had a choice now – a forked pathway, you could say – as she always did.

Turn back and accept things as they were, the way her mother had done, and perish in complete and utter sadness, as her mother had done or fall into the cold water and let it clean her inside out, let the freezing river cleanse all the doubts from her mind.

She paused, both feet in the water, feeling the cold night breeze bite at her naked skin.

Maybe, she thought, just maybe, I could give up and accept this. I could accept the fact that he’s never going to change, accept the fact that he’s the only one who will ever love me.

And for a moment, she knew this wasn’t true. She knew he manipulated her and hurt her.

She knew her mother knew that too, somewhere in the depths of the afterlife, she knew her mother wanted to see her go through with her decisions.

She took another step into the water. And another. And another. Every time water lapped at her naked skin, she flinched. The cold was painful – she knew it.

But it was necessary. It wouldn’t be long until he’d come home. He would arrive and see an empty house. He would go after her; she knew it.

She had no time.

Taking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let the water pull her in. She felt the strong flow push her off her feet and she felt her entire body being enveloped by the water.

And then, nothing.

Utter silence. The water hugged her in a cold embrace, cleaning away the bruises and the wounds from the past. She closed her eyes and felt every single cell within her. She felt it all breathe in and exhale in relief. It was over.

And, when she needed air, she was free to emerge and breathe.

And there he was. Staring at her.

“What, in the name of God, are you doing?” He yelled. She made a choice – she was in the water. Instead of coming up to him, as she would’ve done before, she turned around and let the water take her to the other side of the river.

He continued yelling. She kept going. Inexplicably, on the bank of the river, she found a light, white dress made of thin fabric – too thin to protect her from the dropping temperatures of the night, but it was better than being cold and naked. She put it on and kept walking away from him.

Away from his yelling.

Away from his anger.

Away from his fists.

Away from the pain.

And when she reached the trees, she saw her mother, waiting for her. She wasn’t cold. She wasn’t scared.

She was at peace.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)

The End

2010-10-24T19:16:00.002-02:00

If everything goes wrong, if everything we built together falls apart, I'd like you to have this letter. I'd like you to read it and never answer it. I'd like you to not feel sorry or pitiful towards me. I'm doing this of my own accord - to give myself closure.

I'm not going to fill this with lovey-dovey notes or with hearts drawn around our names.

I'm not going to lie.

When I first met you, I thought you were the silliest man in the whole world. The silliest, saddest man in the world. Silly because you seemed to turn everything into a joke. Sad because you did that to hide what you truly felt about all of those around you.

You sat next to me at the bar and asked for scotch, then turned to me and said, "I really hate all these sorry bastards."

I blinked twice. We were at our co-worker's wedding and, what seemed to be an attempt to strike up conversation, that had been all you could come up with.

What was interesting was that I felt the exact same way.

But instead of going on with the conversation, I took my drink and walked away.

Why? God knows. As a child, my mother feared I was autistic. I avoided any sort of social interaction.

Not because I was anti-social.

I just really disliked all the other children. My imagination was much more interesting and fun. It still is.

Since then, you always tried to strike up conversation with me. You'd drop by my office and offer to get me coffee (which I always declined), jump into the elevator with me (even though you weren't going anywhere), offer me a ride back home...

I always declined any offer of the sort.

Except for one time.

Learning how to drive seemed like a useless skill to me. There was no place I wanted to go that public transport would not take me.

But that one time, I had forgotten my wallet at home. I had loose change in the morning, enough to get the subway to work, but not enough to get back.

Even though you lived on the other side of the city, you offered me a ride.

I couldn't refuse, could I?

So we sat in your car, in awkward silence, while you drove me home.

"I'm sorry you have to go to the other side of town to get me home."

"It's okay. I don't mind, really. Someone has to have some heart in this world, right?"

Awkward silence.

When you dropped me off, I, feeling terrible, invited you in. The least I could do was offer you coffee.

And that's how it began.

The second I closed the door, you took my face in your hands and kissed me so passionately, I couldn't push you away. I didn't want to.

Secretly, every time you popped by my office, asking me if I wanted coffee, the desire to become your friend grew and grew. And soon, friendship was no longer alone in my interests. I wanted more.

I wanted you.

You kissed me, and your hands travelled all over me, my neck, my back, my arms, hands, legs, feet, stomach, everywhere.

And things went from there.

That night, that moment.

I wanted you more than anything. I wanted you in a way I had never wanted anybody in this world.

I wanted you to be mine.

And, after everything is done, after everything falls apart, after we fall apart...

I'd like you to know that, even though I never said it and even though you never said it either, I loved you. Intensely.

And I know you loved me too.

Pretty Personal Shit

2010-10-19T22:25:00.003-02:00

I copied this from my post on tumblr. Also, click here!

I’m not trying to show anyone OH HOW I SUFFERED, but this is just something I’d like to put out there because it is something I believe in and it is something I suffered with for a while.

When I was 14, I cut my hair really short. Not for any particular reason other than I wanted to and I thought (and still do think!) I looked great. Anyways. I moved to where I currently lived in 2007, when I was still in my short-hair phase, and for reasons I’m not quite sure (other than my short hair, that is) the people at my new school thought (or, in fact, were quite sure) I was gay.

Now. I have absolutely no problem with people thinking I’m gay. I’m straight, but hey! It’s no big deal. Whoever cares about it enough will ask me, and I will tell them, “Nope, I’m straight.”

But at the time, it was, apparently, a big issue for everybody else. For many months, many girls avoided me as much as possible. I’d have lunch on my own because I wasn’t confident enough to sit with the boys and because I knew the girls were sort of avoiding me. Furthermore, some nice girls from the year above mine asked me to sit with them once or twice, but I generally had lunch on my own.

Because so many people thought I was gay, they would ask me in a mock tone, “Did you date anyone before you moved?” This was particularly hurtful, because when I moved I had to break up with someone I was really fond of (and nowadays, we are good friends, so no harm done!) and I was suffering with it enough already without having some idiots rub it in my face that I was hurting. So I was often rude about it and answered, “Yeah, but we had to break up because I had to move to this shit-hole.” And more often than not, I’d make it clear my ex was a boy. This, however, meant nothing to anyone, apparently. Apparently, rumours were stronger than words from my own mouth.

After a month or two, I did make some friends, but the truth about my sexuality only got out after I hooked up with a boy at a party and people finally noticed I was 100% straight.

And after news got around that I was straight, girls started talking to me. Nowadays, I hold no grudges from them, but back then it was really obvious they had avoided me for a few months because they thought I was gay.

This is the sort of thing (the mildest of things!) gay people endure everyday. Prejudice, mistreatment and judged by their peers, just because they are sexually attracted to the same sex.

Come on, guise. It’s not like they’re into animals or children. It’s not sickening, it’s not gross, it’s not wrong. Sodomy? Straight people do it too. Oral sex?Straight people do it too! There is no sexual act practiced by gays that straight people don’t do.

I do have gay friends. I have gay girlfriends. None of my gay girlfriends ever hit on me, because they know I’m straight. They have questioned my sexuality (in the sense where they ask me if I’m not even a tiny little bit attracted to girls), but they never felt me up or harassed me. More often than not, gay peoplewon’t feel you up or harass you if they know you’re not into it, in the same way that I wouldn’t feel comfortable hitting on a guy I know doesn’t feel attracted to me - rejection isn’t easy to handle and it’s always uncomfortable having to reject someone. Gay people are fully aware of this.

But of course, there are exceptions. In the same way some nasty men will slap your ass when you’re trying to have fun at a bar or nightclub.

So there really isn’t any reason why anyone should dislike gay people. If you’re a parent, you’d want your child to be happy, no matter what, right? Would you feel differently if your child were gay? Being gay is not a handicap. Being gay doesn’t exclude anyone from any rights straight people have. Gay people have as much as a right to get married, get health insurance, adopt children as anybody else does.

Srsly, guise. Stop the hate. Spread the love.

So that's my two cents. :)

This is the sort of conversation Renny and I have

2010-10-18T21:39:00.001-02:00

(ALWAYS. NO JOKES.)

lisa says: (9:34:45 PM)

WOULD YOU RATHER

lisa says: (9:34:50 PM)

YOUR ARMPITS SMELL MUSKY

lisa says: (9:34:53 PM)

OR LIKE DELICIOUS LASAGNA?

Stranger things have happened says: (9:35:04 PM)

....what..

Stranger things have happened says: (9:35:07 PM)

kind of question is this

lisa says: (9:35:19 PM)

LOL at video

lisa says: (9:37:31 PM)

imagine

lisa says: (9:37:36 PM)

having your armpits smell like lasagna

lisa says: (9:37:37 PM)

FOREVER

lisa says: (9:37:44 PM)

i don't know if that's bad

lisa says: (9:37:48 PM)

but if i were really hungry

Stranger things have happened says: (9:37:52 PM)

.....dude

lisa says: (9:37:53 PM)

i'd feel the need to lick my own armpits

Stranger things have happened says: (9:37:57 PM)

why would you ever take a bath then?

lisa says: (9:38:00 PM)

JUST TO SEE IF IT TASTED LIKE LASAGNA

Stranger things have happened says: (9:38:02 PM)

why

Stranger things have happened says: (9:38:03 PM)

i mean

Stranger things have happened says: (9:38:09 PM)

you'd just let it stink up forever

Stranger things have happened says: (9:38:22 PM)

until THE WHOLE WORLD SMELLS LIKE GRAND MAMA'S KITCHEN

Stranger things have happened says: (9:38:45 PM)

hmm....possibly you wouldn't be too popular with the ladies...

Stranger things have happened says: (9:38:48 PM)

...unless they're fat

lisa says: (9:38:51 PM)

WHO CARES

lisa says: (9:38:54 PM)

I'D SMELL LIKE LASAGNA

Stranger things have happened says: (9:38:55 PM)

yeah if you're into plus-sized women, go for it.

~Later~

Stranger things have happened says: (9:39:34 PM)

*TOP FUCKING PERCENTAGE*

lisa says: (9:39:41 PM)

MY RATATA

lisa says: (9:39:47 PM)

dood speaking of joey

lisa says: (9:39:53 PM)

he called me the other day and wuz liek

lisa says: (9:39:55 PM)

HEY LET'S BATTLE AGAIN

lisa says: (9:39:58 PM)

and i was all like

lisa says: (9:39:59 PM)

lisa says: (9:40:01 PM)

so i got there

lisa says: (9:40:04 PM)

HIS RATATA EVOLVED

Stranger things have happened says: (9:40:10 PM)

....I know

Stranger things have happened says: (9:40:11 PM)

I was there

Stranger things have happened says: (9:40:12 PM)

next to you

Stranger things have happened says: (9:40:14 PM)

RIGHT

Stranger things have happened says: (9:40:15 PM)

Stranger things have happened says: (9:40:16 PM)

YOU

lisa says: (9:40:17 PM)

.....oh yeah

...i don't even

Food for thought

2010-10-14T22:12:00.001-03:00

Click on the image to read the story.

Credits go to Renny who was lurking /x/ with me and found this.

Also, disregard the last reply. But srsly, has anybody else ever thought of this?

The Best Shower Ever.

2010-10-10T23:30:00.002-03:00

I'm about to let you all into a secret of mine.

Every other week (especially when it's been a bad week), I tend to have what I call The Best Shower Ever.

Sometimes, TBSE can take half an hour.

But worry not. Only 10 of those thirty minutes are spent inside the shower box. And only 5 of those 10 minutes are spent with running water.

Anyways.

My dad always buys my mum these expensive L'Occitane shower lotions and salts and creams when he feels the need to give her presents. Consequently, my mum has about a billion different lotions, salts and creams. My personal favourite is a verbena Dead Sea salt exfoliant.

Now, I'm fully aware that that thing is probably worth more than I am, but I digress.

So today, I felt the need for TBSE. So I stole into my mother's bathroom and nicked the exfoliant. I showered (steaming hot water) like I normally do, only I take special care with... well, everything. I spend a few more seconds washing my hair, and my face, and my arms and legs, etc.

I should probably let you know that all my shower and skin-care products smell amazing. AMAZING. So I always smell nice after these showers. And the oil I use as moisturizer smells like babies. And the verbena scrub smells like heaven. I currently smell like heavenly babies.

All of this while listening to extremely relaxing music.

As soon as I leave the shower, I dry up, wrap the towel around my head and prepare for moisturizing.

Most of you know this, but this is pretty much why my skin is so soft.

I use baby almond oil to moisturize. That shit works miracles. Trust me. I know.

Anyways, the exfoliant already makes your skin extra smooth after you get rid of all those pesky dead skin cells, so the baby oil is just really self-indulgence.

Anyways. Once I'm done slathering baby oil all over, I slap on my bathrobe and prepare to work on making my teeth the cleanest they've ever been. I sit on the toilet (whatever I had to do, I do before the shower, okay? Okay.) and floss, brush and gargle. It's awesome.

I fucking love brushing my teeth.

Done with brushing teeth? Done. Onto face.

First, toner/astringent. The one I use has this cooling effect that is awesome for people with huge pores (which I don't have, so I'm pretty sure the only reason I use this is for the sweet cool feeling). Let that dry, and then moisturizer.

Now, I don't use the baby oil on my face. That would be silly. I use an oily-face directed moisturizer. It's awesome.

By the way, all of this is done with the door closed, so the steam doesn't dissipate and so I won't be cold. Comfort is key.

After all that is done, I remove the towel from my head and use the towel to dry off any excess water from my hair (though it's almost dry after being wrapped in a towel for 15-20 minutes), then I comb my hair. I don't usually dry my hair because a) too much of a hassle and b) heat isn't that good for your hair, and I already wash my hair everyday with warm water, so yeah.

And now I'm sitting in bed, under the covers, naked (nudity = best thing ever), reading a book and feeling awesome and a whole lot less shitty than I did before TBSE.

So.

I heartily recommend this for anybody, male or female. It's awesome.

Dreamworld

2010-10-10T10:51:00.003-03:00

I never remember my dreams. I always wake up in the morning as if the past 3 to 4 hours have been just a few hours spent in limbo.

My parents often worry about the amount of time I sleep (when I sleep), but it doesn't bother me because I'm always tired. Sleeping more or less would make little difference - life would still be boring and tiring. My parents forced me into having a session with a psychotherapist, who prescribed me sleeping pills. I bought them and I keep them to indulge my parents, though I don't take them.

Secretly, I keep them because I know that, one day, the tiring, boring life I lead will become too boring and too tiring, and I won't want to deal with it anymore.

But that's another story.

But a few months ago, I had a day that was especially tiring. I slaved away at school, and I slaved away when I got home, cleaning and scrubbing and washing and drying.

Maybe I should mention that I live alone. My parents can't stand each other, and I can't stand them not standing each other, so I moved out at the age of 16.

When I finally tumbled into bed, I didn't even bother crawling under the covers. The second my head hit the pillow, I was out.

And I dreamt.

I saw you floating next to me, smiling. It felt as if I were suspended in water. Weightless. You floated towards me and took my hand, still smiling.

I wasn't quite sure what was going on, so I let you float away with me, tugging at my fingers and urging me to float alongside with you.

So I did.

I stopped being dragged along, and I moved towards you. You laughed at my awkward movements - how are you supposed to move in air that feels like water? Should you swim? Should you just let the air-water take you? I tried swimming, but it felt awkward and strange. You showed me. Your movements looked so fluid, so easy. Your eyes told me to not think too much about it. Just like walking.

So I didn't. And before I knew it, I could feel the fluidity, the ease of this dreamworld with you.

Soon, we saw clouds. You held onto one and pulled me close to you, wrapping your free arm around me. A blast of wind blew us away, together. We were flying!

You laughed. You laughed, and laughed and laughed, and you looked at me and let go. For a split second, I thought that was it. The wind would drag me away from you! But it didn't. I was still floating right next to you, the wind carrying us both and the cloud above us seemed to dissipate into air. You took my hand and pulled me closer, and kissed me.

BZZT. BZZT. BZZT.

Alarm clock. When I woke up, I could hardly believe it.

Had that been a dream? I looked around me. Things seemed to be as they usually were. The air didn't feel like water, and I didn't feel weightless, and you were nowhere to be found.

I wrote down the dream, and hid the paper (though I'm not quite sure what I was hiding it from). I'll admit, I was sort of sad it was only a dream.

And for the next few weeks, I went back to my dreamless, irregular sleep routine. And then, last night, I dreamt.

And then you found me again.

This time, you were in my room. I fell asleep, and I saw you sitting in my bed, drawing on my walls.

You drew us being carried by the wind, that blast of wind that blew us and the clouds away, and you were kissing me.

You turned around and saw me, and smiled.

You dropped the brush. The black ink stained my white pillows. You jumped out of my bed and grabbed me by the waist and pulled me towards you, and you kissed me again, and again, and you kissed my fingers and my hands, and my arms, and my shoulders, my neck, my cheeks, my lips.

And it felt so real.

BZZT. BZZT. BZZT.

Alarm clock. I sit up.

BZZT. BZZT. BZZT.

What?

BZZT. BZZT. BZZT.

Oh. Incoming call.

BZZT. BZZT. BZZT.

"Hello?"

"Open up."

Click.

Your voice.

I open the door, and there you are, with your paintbrush and paint.

"I had a dream, and I want to paint it on your wall. Remember you asked me to? Well, now I have an idea."

You sit on my bed, and begin painting.

The phone rings. Mum. She asks me if I'm sleeping well, are you still taking those pills the doctor prescribed? I just nod. She keeps talking. You should come over more often, we miss you, your sister wants to know when can she move in with you, etc, etc, well, see you later, sweetheart, goodbye.

You turn to look at me. You drop the brush, and you jump out of bed, and you wrap your arms around my waist and kiss me.

I'm still waiting for the alarm clock to buzz and snap me out of this dreamworld.

Ode to my lover

2010-10-06T19:20:00.003-03:00

She teased me endlessly. Of course, never when we were alone. Hah! When we were alone...

Ahem. Sorry.

Endlessly! Her short skirts, the flirty swish of her hips when she walked... Damn, and the way she'd turn around and look at me and smile that smile that melts me inside out.

When we had lunch out, she would look at me across the table and giggle and hide her face in her hands and whisper, "You're so beautiful."

And when we got home...

Oh, when we got home.

I never said I loved her. She never said she loved me.

It was purely lust.

But oh, dear god, she was delicious. If I caught a whiff of her perfume on the air, I would close my eyes and remember our nightly adventures. This sort of thing always happened during classes. I'd open my bag and there it was - a shirt of hers, drenched in her smell. If that happened, I would go somewhere else for the entire lesson. The professor would talk and talk and talk, and all I could think was about her long legs and beautiful smile.

Just thinking about her now, I can feel her hands running through my hair and I can feel her breath down the back of my neck...

Oh, I can't do this.

I've got to go.

Yes, I know ode is a form of lyric poetry that is meant to be sung.

But fuck you. :D

They see me trollin'

2010-10-02T13:28:00.002-03:00

THEY SEE ME TROLLIN'

THEY HATIN'

THEY LOOK AT ME WHILE I'M RICKROLLIN'

LOOK AT ME WHILE I'M RICKROLLIN'

LOOK AT ME I'VE JUST RICKROLL'D YOU

2010-10-01T22:24:00.002-03:00

I'm going to go on a rant now, so you can just ignore this.

More often than not, I feel the need to get up and leave. I wake up in the morning, and I go through my morning routine as if it were any other day, but the moment I step in school, I get the urge to go like, "No. No fucking way," turn around, and just walk the fuck away. Maybe it's because of the things that have happened lately, maybe it's because I realized that there are only about three or four people in this goddamn city I can trust, and I'm not even sure I can trust them entirely. Please, don't take offence by this and don't think I'm talking about you, because, odds are, I'm not.

It's come to my attention lately that I might be regressing, as opposed to progressing. With therapy, that is. Sometimes I feel good about myself; there are moments that I honestly feel pretty and happy with what I look like, and my mind feels like a calm river as opposed to a turbulent flood (and trust me, that's a HUGE improvement), but there are times that I just feel like such absolute shit, that I just sit there and wonder to myself what people's reactions would be if I stood up at any given moment, yell, "FUCK THIS SHIT" and leave.

I never felt I fit in, but now more than ever I realize how I really don't fit in. It's not a question of, "OH, I'm so great and soooo much better than everyone around me, blah blah blah I'm the queen of the fucking world, bow down to me and tremble with fear." It's more of, "Listen, I can sorta see why you're all like this, but srsly? Srsly. I'm just going to walk away because none of you dipshits are really worth any of my time."

Because it kinda is like that. I mean, of course there are some people I get along with fine and some people I actually like a whole lot, but that's a very small percentage of people I've met here.

Okay, now this is a stab at someone who probably does not read this.

Am I mad? No. I'm upset. I thought that you'd realize the world doesn't revolve around you, and not everybody lives to serve you and clean up for you. I don't expect you to be happy with my honesty about the situation, but at least appreciate the fact that you are a bit selfish, egoistic, self-centered and at least try changing your attitudes a little. Seriously, I'm not the only one that thinks this. Just because your parents are big ass softies doesn't mean you're right, sweetheart. Had I done to you what you did to me, I would not be alive right now to write this. My parents would've butchered me. No fucking jokes. It would've been the end of me, and I know it.

End of stab.

And the worst is, this sort of thing isn't something I deal with every now and then.

It's every fucking day. It's dealing with self-centered people who think every one around them is alive to serve them that fucking gets to me. It's being with people like this every day that drove me to depression, and it's dealing with people like this every day that makes me spiteful and bitter towards this city. But if you the people I live with out of the picture, this place isn't all that bad. It's a burst of a culture from all sides, it's a place where so many different, interesting cultures meet! Just look at where I live - the Jewish neighbourhood. Something I was never exposed to before moving here was Jewish culture, and because I live in this neighbourhood and have such contact with jews, I'm actually fascinated by the culture. And I'm not even jewish!

It's not the city that makes me feel like ass. It's the people.

It's the sort of moment you realize that people are rotten.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Something is rotten in people.

2010-10-01T21:18:00.000-03:00

Love.

I've always been a sucker for the romantic soppiness. The whole candle-lit dinner, "let's stay together forever" kind of thing. I would ache for the embrace of my lover. Spend sleepless nights, remembering every sweet thing that was said, and every whispered conversation. The intimacy of it, the sheer beauty of being in love amazes me.

2010-09-30T23:15:00.000-03:00

Ela tinha a boca aberta, a língua fora, os braços duros, os dedos inteiriçados, e o corpo todo a tremer-lhe da cabeça aos pés, continuamente como se estivesse morrendo; ao passo que ele, de súbito arremessado longe da vida por aquela explosão inesperada dos seus sentidos, deixava-se mergulhar numa embriaguez deliciosa, através da qual o mundo inteiro e todo o seu passado fugiam como sombras fátuas.

2010-09-29T17:37:00.001-03:00

Galerinha, to com vontade de postar um vlog de mim cantando. Mas to sem idéias! Alguma idéia?

Mas pensa bem, é tudo a capella! Pelamor de deus, nada daquelas músicas que precisam de uma orquestra inteira atrás de mim, okei?

O Lisa

2010-09-26T21:13:00.003-03:00

It's a song about me! :D (By Weezer, who have absolutely no connection to me whatsoever. BUT IT'S STILL A SONG ABOUT ME!)

Lyrics:

Simple stages in my mind

Now I'm running out of time

I'm wanting to, I wanna do you

Taking stock of feelings stored

Running circles overboard

I'm wanting to, I wanna do you

Oh, Lisa

Can you love me again?

I'll be holding on till then

Only old enough to tell

What is right and what is hell

I'm wanting to, I wanna do you

And if this is our last goodbye

I would love to see you cry

I'm wanting to, I wanna do you

Oh, Lisa

Can you love me again?

I'll be holding on till then

Oh, Lisa,

Can you love me again?

I'll be holding on till then

And if this is our last goodbye

I would love to see you cry

I'm wanting to, I wanna do you

Ok, granted, it's all about being done, bUT STILL. SONG. ABOUT. ME!

Possible new hair?

2010-09-24T20:31:00.003-03:00

Here's the picture of what inspired it all... And up there are some pictures of my ugly mug for y'all to savour. I'M SO SEXY.

Tell me what y'all think.

HEP BURFDEI PRA VICKY LINDA

2010-09-24T11:49:00.003-03:00

AS COISAS QUE EU FAÇO POR VOCÊ, CRIATURA.

WELL

HEP BURFDEI

I WAS GONNA GIVE YOU A SHOT OF MY BOOBS, BUT I'LL SEND IT TO YOUR INBOX LATER /winkwink

p.s.: se vc reclamar que eu errei 30 vezes na música, eu vou te socar. VOU ATÉ MADRID TE SOCAR

pps: a parte que eu parei e falei "wat" foi pq a letra tava completamente errada e eu não lembrava como era a original. entao shiu. LOVE YOU

2010-09-22T23:07:00.001-03:00

Land of Dust and Copper

Rogue of Love

Renny always manages to pull out the nerd in me.

(And I'm not even sure what all this is about!)

2010-09-22T19:36:00.004-03:00

She felt as if she were slipping through someone's fingers, like grains of sand.

In many ways, she was lost. She was lost at school, she was lost with her friends and her family, she was lost with (but not in) love, and she was lost within herself.

She had gone through life with a dreamy, far-off look to her face and a child-like fascination with almost anything that came her way - a perfectly round pebble or a child with eyes so black, she could see her own reflection clearly; all of that enchanted her.

But - poor thing - it was hardly her fault. Through the years of abuse from her father, she learned to become oblivious to the world, to shut herself out.

In between the inappropriate fondling and the weeping, she found a way to ignore it all. She found a way to avoid a beating, to avoid a threat. And, somehow, at some point, she decided to stay in her perfect little world and leave reality.

Retalhos (Craig Thompson)

2010-09-19T18:10:00.005-03:00

"Não tenho fé no futuro... seja ele perfeito ou abominável."

- Retalhos (Craig Thompson) pg. 296

"Deitado sobre seu peito, posso ouvir a eternidade... espaços ocos, solitários, e correntes que se agitam sem cessar."

- Retalhos (Craig Thompson) pg. 312

"Acho que o que eu estou tentando dizer é que tudo acaba. Não... 'Acabar' é uma palavra muito suave. Tudo degenera, vira pó... então, em primeiro lugar, pra que ter o trabalho de começar?

- Retalhos (Craig Thompson) pg. 370

"Putz. Outra espinha.

- Como assim?

Aqui, embaixo do cabelo. É o estresse, porque você vai embora.

- Elas são sagradas! Elas provam que o resto dessa perfeição não é só um sonho. Sem as espinhas, eu não teria provas de que você é real."

- Retalhos (Craig Thompson) pg. 399

"Mas não conseguia dormir... Então fiquei escutando. A respiração de Raina e, mais abaixo, as batidas do seu coração e, por sobre tudo, o murmúrio delicado dos espíritos pelo quarto. Achei até que podia ouvir a neve caindo lá fora. E os sons se uniram numa orquestra silenciosa que me conduziram até o sono."

- Retalhos (Craig Thompson) pg. 432

"Você ainda está aqui.

- Mas amanhã eu vou embora.

Mas agora você ainda está aqui."

- Retalhos (Craig Thompson) pg. 467

Comprei esse romance gráfico ontem. Devorei 582 páginas em algumas horas. Raramente leio traduções, especialmente quando sei que sou capaz de ler a obra na língua em que foi escrita. Mas vi o livro na livraria e me parecia ser uma história tão linda (e realmente é) que não tive coragem de deixar passar pra ficar semanas atrás da versão em inglês.

Essas citações são as que mais me afetaram. Não as sublinhei no livro porque acabei de comprá-lo e parece sacrilégio.

....Eu sou estranha assim mesmo.

Enfim.

Gostei bastante.

Yo

2010-09-17T06:57:00.000-03:00

Gonna spend the weekend away, people.

I urge you to SHAMEFACEDLY advertise mah stories.

Jk, I'll do that myself.

Issues [FINAL PART]

2010-09-15T22:53:00.003-03:00

Parts I, II and III here!

It was, in fact, easier than I had perceived. You had been patient and quiet as I blabbed on and on and on, and you never once glanced away or avoided my eyes.

I had left the bath that afternoon and began working on lunch. Nothing fancy.

Pasta. It felt like pasta. Something we would be able to prod and poke and later, even if it had gone cold, we would still be able to eat.

So I set the table as you took your bath and finished cooking.

You sat before me, still shirtless and your messy hair still wet. I sat.

You looked at me.

And I looked at you.

"Well," you said, and you served yourself some fusilli.

I went on looking at you. You stopped and looked at me.

"I don't know what I want. I really don't. I spent the night awake and I sat for three hours in the bathtub just thinking of how to react, how to do this. I know you said you didn't need an answer now, but making you wait seems cruel and I don't want to hurt you. And I know you hate waiting."

Pause. Breathe in, breathe out.

"You know what I'm like. You know my issues. You know all my fears and all my desires - you know pretty much all there is to know about me. I like to believe I know a whole lot about you too. Maybe I don't. Maybe you prefer to keep many things to yourself. In any way or another, you helped me overcome one of my biggest fears. I'm still unable to trust people, but I trust you. And that's all I need. One person I can count on, one person who will know me inside out. And that's it, really. I've never been in a relationship. I've never been in love. I don't know what it feels like to genuinely like someone for who they are, but I think that's how I feel about you. I genuinely like you for who you are."

Pause. You were still looking at me. But not devouring me with your eyes. You were looking right into me.

"Love. I think that's too strong a word for now. I'm really just discovering this part of me, and I'm already taken aback by trusting you, let alone love you. I can't ask you to wait for me, though. I can't ask you to sit down and wait until I've figured myself out, I really can't. It's not fair on you. But I'd like to let you know that I genuinely like you for who you are, and I suppose that with a bit of patience and a bit of work, I could grow to love you. But I can't ask you to wait."

Pause.

"So I won't."

Pause.

I put some pasta on my plate and I picked up my fork and I was about to take it to my lips when you pushed my hand down and hugged me, you standing, I sitting down, my head to your heart.

Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, went your heart.

It was quickening. It took me a while to realize you were crying.

"I'll wait as long as it takes."

The end! Hope you've enjoyed it :)

Issues pt. III

2010-09-14T20:38:00.005-03:00

Parts I and II.

That revelation, more than anything, seemed to be a weight off your shoulder. You continued on with your daily tasks and doings, without worrying too much about the possible replies I could give.

After that, we went to bed and you faced the window and slept like a baby.

I couldn't even close my eyes. The thoughts kept racing through my head, screaming, "Love? Love. LOVE?!"

My mind was racing. I knew I wasn't going to sleep.

I opened my notebook and picked up a few crayons and began drawing. Anything. Mostly, scribbles and human forms with big eyes staring back at me as I drew them and drew over them.

I threw the book and the crayons to the side and dove into my knees. How was I going to handle this?

Did I love you? What if I didn't? Then what?

I must've fallen asleep on the windowsill. I woke up, and you were looking at me, drinking your coffee.

"Coffee?" You offered a mug sitting next to your own.

"Yes, please," I stood and took the mug. You continued to stare at me, that funny way you always did. Tilting your head to the sides, looking carefully at every blemish, every imperfection, making note of the tiniest detail; only to look at me as a whole, and smile.

To be perfectly honest, it never really bothered me. I suppose some people would be intimidated by such scrutiny, by such close examination. I felt flattered. To be looked at with such appetite (it did seem as if you were eating me whole, but in a non-ravenous way. It felt like you were savouring every bite, every bit of me), with such... love, really.

You took the mug from my hands and set it down next to yours on the windowsill. You took my hands.

"I don't need an answer now. I really just wanted to let you know how I feel," and a smile.

I nodded.

In the spirit of the situation, I suppose, I blurted out yet another secret.

"I've never been in love."

And I wiggled my hands out of yours, walked to the bathroom and ran a bath.

You didn't follow.

It didn't bother me. I needed time for myself. I needed to be submerged in water and be enveloped in something that would make me feel weightless, that would draw my weight off the ground and allow thoughts to pour in.

If I wandered in air, my thoughts were jumbled and disorganized. The inside of my head was a complete mess, a chaos of shrieks and shouts.

Under water, my thoughts suddenly floated into organization. They were coherent, and the distant shrill shrieking of my thoughts suddenly silenced.

Under water, I knew what to do.

I must've stayed hours in the bathtub - not under water, of course. When I was done, I knew what I wanted.

I knew how I felt.

I knew how to deal with this; with you.

With us.

Final part will be up soon!

Issues pt. II

2010-09-12T19:51:00.004-03:00

First part here.

I woke up one morning and found a note next to my pillow.

A year ago, I told you I was terrified of feeling strongly about someone, but now I'm not so sure I am that scared.

Like always, I read it and remembered it, but didn't discuss it with you. Part of the reason why I could trust you so much (and, I suppose, why you could trust me so much) was because we never had to discuss anything. You'd never question, you'd never judge.

I got up and went through my morning routine. I used the toilet and washed my face and brushed my teeth and washed my hands and put on slippers and wandered into the kitchen.

"Good morning," I said. You nodded. You were cutting an apple with utmost care and concentration. I opened the fridge and found nothing but a carton of expired milk and another apple.

Later that day, we went grocery-shopping.

You were strangely quiet.

On the ride back home, you were strangely quiet.

As we cut and prepared and seasoned, you were strangely quiet.

During lunch, you were strangely quiet.

As we read, you set down your book and looked at me.

"I think," you began. You looked down at the pages of your book and read a few lines. You breathed in and continued, "I think I might be in love with you."

And resumed reading.

Shorter today, but I really can't bear doing any more than this. My head is going to explode.

Issues pt. I

2010-09-11T13:40:00.007-03:00

Raw and exposed. That's how I felt when I was sitting naked in the middle of the empty room and breathing in and out, in and out, looking straight into your eyes.

I had learnt at an early age never to trust anybody. Keep it all bottled up, and only allow yourself to explode when nobody was watching.

I suppose keeping myself to myself had had its effect on me, to a certain extent.

But I never knew any better. I never knew I could open up like this, I never knew I could trust anybody.

Most of all, I never knew I could trust you.

You, just you, all of you.

One rainy night, as we lay on the cold marble floor, listening to the pat pat pat of the raindrops on the window, I rolled over to look at you and I wept. You didn't ask me what was wrong. You didn't say anything. Instead, you wrapped your arms around me and you let me cry all over your shoulder, and when I was done, you were soaked in my tears. You never asked me if I wanted to talk about it. You never demanded any explanation. When I was done, you took my hand and helped me up and we sat in the bathtub for a while, enjoying the warm water and the silence.

Later that evening, after we had left the bathtub and dried up and put on some loose, comfortable clothes, we sat facing each other, poking at our pasta with our forks.

You set down your fork and looked at me and said, "I'm terrified of feeling strongly about someone."

And then you picked up your fork again, and began eating.

I didn't know what to say, so I began eating too.

Ever since, you would slip in a few of those random outbursts of personal fears and desires. After some time, I began doing it too. I opened up.

I remember when I had my first random outburst of personal secrets. We were looking through menus and picking our dinner. I drew a circle around Barbecue Burger, then set down the pen and said, "I love words that cannot be translated. My favourite is Forelsket. It's Norwegian."

You looked at me and nodded.

"I want a barbecue burger too."

I know it's short! But I will continue it. Later. (:

2010-09-09T22:46:00.001-03:00

Voilà, ma petite Amélie, vous n'avez pas des os en verre. Vous pouvez vous cogner à la vie. Si vous laissez passer cette chance, alors avec le temps, c'est votre cœur qui va devenir aussi sec et cassant que mon squelette. Alors, allez y, nom d'un chien!

Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain

Insomnia

2010-09-08T20:52:00.003-03:00

There are always days you feel you should've stayed at home.

It's that morning when you open your eyes and your legs and arms feel heavy and your head is not where it's supposed to be.

It's those moments when you feel a string tighten around your heart and pulling it down towards your feet.

It's the hesitation before putting pen to paper.

It's the realization that things are sitting in the exact same place they were yesterday, but everything seems out of place.

You know what I'm talking about it. Those days.

The nights you couldn't sleep, especially.

You'll awake at 4 a.m. You'll have a dream - you won't be able to remember what it was about - and as soon as it is over, your eyes will jolt open and you'll suddenly be extremely awake.

You'll know sleep won't be coming back so soon.

You'll get up, go to the balcony, maybe smoke a cigarette if that's your thing. You'll pick up a forgotten magazine in the back of the magazine rack and you'll read a few boring articles. You'll drink warm milk, watch some late night shows on TV. You'll realize sleep won't be coming back.

You'll call in sick. And that's only the first night.

The second night will be worse. The dream - it'll be a bit more vivid, this time, a bit more... real - will come earlier. Your eyes will jolt open sooner.

You'll leave bed sooner.

Every night, the dream will become clearer and clearer, and, soon, you won't be sleeping at all.

You'll call your doctor. He'll prescribe you some sleeping pills, guaranteeing you dreamless sleep.

It won't work.

The thing about insomnia is that soon enough your mind starts playing tricks on you.

You think you see a shadow from the corner of your eye. You hear strange noises and clattering and banging, coming from seemingly nowhere.

Nothing to be afraid of, you tell yourself. But soon enough, you stop answering the phone or opening the door. You realize how many companies know your name, your date of birth, your credit card number, your address. You shut down their services.

Hell, you cancel all your credit cards and all your bank accounts.

You instal more locks on all doors by yourself - trust no one.

And before you realize it, you're running low on food but you're too afraid to leave the comfort of your sealed home.

But it's alright. You'll be safe then, won't you? So you'll relax a bit. Maybe even get a couple of hours of sleep.

But that's when it happens.

Clear as day, the dream will return. You'll see every single tiny detail. You'll realize why your mind forced you to wake up every time. You'll realize why your mind wouldn't allow you any sleep.

And you'll open your eyes again, gasping for air, tearing at your clothes - you are suffocating! - and you'll see you're still in the dream.

They are staring right at you.

Nowhere to run, mousy.

Ain't no sunshine

2010-09-02T12:24:00.006-03:00

So. I really like this song. I decided to sing it and film myself doing it, ACAPELLA, because I'm just so cool like that.

I made some mistakes and I completely jumped a part, and I look weird, but meh, whatever.

TL;DR? HERE'S A VIDEO OF ME SINGING, Y'ALL! :)

2010-09-01T22:14:00.002-03:00

Nothing I say can explain quite well how difficult this is for me.

But I suppose I must try.

You see, I never really wanted to do any of this.

But I guess when you are done cleaning the blood from your hands, you sort of realize you are in trouble.

2010-08-30T22:29:00.002-03:00

Any European kid will know this song very, very well.

I remember it vividly. :)

If you go down in the woods today
You're sure of a big surprise
If you go down to the woods today
You'd better go in disguise

For ev'ry bear that ever there was
Will gather there for certain, because
Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic

(Instrumental)

Ev'ry teddy bear who's been good
Is sure of a treat today
There's lots of marvelous things to eat
And wonderful games to play

Beneath the trees
Where nobody sees
They'll hide and seek as long as they please
That's the way the teddy bears have their picnic

Picnic time for teddy bears
The little teddy bears are having a lovely time today
Watch then, catch them unawares
And see them picnic on their holiday

See them gaily gad about
They love to play and shout
They never have any cares

At six o' clock
Their mummies and daddies
Will take them home to bed
'Cause they're tired little teddy bears

Cut my hair

2010-08-29T11:54:00.000-03:00

And this is what it looks like.

2010-08-27T21:37:00.001-03:00

I'm sorry I haven't got any stories in lately. This week was ULTRA busy and the weekend is going to be equally ULTRA BUSY. So, I wouldn't expect any stories until next Saturday, I guess.