"But when you touch me like this
And you hold me like that
I just have to admit
That it's all coming back to me..."

COOL.

En el secundario, estaba enamoradísimo (platónicamente) del chico del video de la canción “Cool” de Gwen Stefani. Yo quería todo, el Lago di Como, la Vespa, el plato de pasta al mejor estilo “La Dama y el Vagabundo” y el pibe de ojos claros rodeándome con su brazo mientras veíamos el atardecer sentados en el muelle.

Qué boludo que era, ¿No? Y desde ya, no que ahora haya dejado de serlo.

"Cool"

LENGTHS.

“Well, I hope your relationship fails miserably so maybe I’ll have the chance to kiss you again.”

That’s a very good line, innit?

So, let’s talk about the lengths we go. Sometimes is a few steps, sometimes is crossing oceans. I crossed the Atlantic a bunch of times. I stretched out of my comfort zone a few other times as well. Which one is the largest distance to cover?

If any, it’s all spice and pepper to an otherwise flavorless existence. A little pain now and then. A little leather. A little wrong, a little sad.

Buy me candies and get me into your car. And drive to prehistoric times and let’s fuck with the dinosaurs.

Kiss goodnight Mr.(place name here). I’ll dream about you, and maybe I’ll wake up with a boner.  

OUT OF SHIT.

Once, this friend of mine told me he thought I was full of shit. I was quite offended by this comment, but at the same time I couldn’t help wondering what is it exactly that triggered such perception of my persona in that twisted mind of his. Ok, as I was writing this, it just became clear that showing this much care on what other people think of my persona is basically portraying me with extreme immediateness as particularly self-centered. You know what? Fuck it, maybe I actually am so. The idea of proudly adopting self-centeredness as an inevitable and welcomed feature in my character is something that I wouldn’t normally embrace, but maybe, encouraged by the memory of the “you’re full of shit” comment, I’ve come to realize that actually that might just be the case. Let me briefly explain: I’ve no idea what my friend was referring to when he quoted that, what he was basing this judgment on, but I’ve just read what I wrote the other day, that new entrance after such a long time no see, and I couldn’t help but feeling I sound like a completely idiotic flakey brat. All that whining and complaining about how awful things are, when I have nothing to complain about. The only thing I should be unhappy with is how air-filled my head is, how lazy I’ve become and how much I dread having to step up and face my fucking life. If that doesn’t make you someone full of shit by itself, let’s add to the mix how big of a deal I make out of other people’s perceptions of me, and there you go, the result is an ego-centered, flakey, air-headed, plaintive brat.

So now, I’ve nothing left but to embrace being full of shit as just another one of my many traits, and the first thing I’m gonna do, is to try to be less apologetic about it. Maybe then, the entire premise will loose its core and I’ll end up cancelling the whole thing and passing on to the other side, the one for people that are actually out of shit.

LET'S CARRY ON.

I’m supposed to be trying my best to figure out a way to manufacture an assignment on company briefs for tomorrow, and then, considering the very responsible and willing version of myself I should try to be would do so, spend the rest of the night sketching patterns to sew a blazer on my own before Friday.

Instead of that, I’ve just poured myself my fourth vodka-grapefruit, and uploaded a new episode of “How I met your mother”. (No comments).

The ways I’ve lost faith on myself are so various and so plain that I don’t even dare to mention them at all. I’ve questioned myself so many awful times in the past few days on what is it that keeps me going, and where exactly is it leading me towards, that is no longer of any help to even do so.  

I’m 22 and I’m here, just like so many of you are…       Here.

When I feel my whole being is slipping down to getting compartmented into this two categories, that vacant version of myself that tackles my day-to-day matters, and my higher emotional and thoughtful self, which is being repressed in a cage of its own creation -and for its own sake-, I can’t help but to wonder if it’s this the realm I’m bound to strive to ever find happiness in, or if it’s just a sad attempt from the sneaky context I’m immersed in to make me believe it’s the one and only option I’ve got.

I believe in hard work, in stability, in commitment, in success and in a life that fulfills itself because of the mere presence of these previously mentioned items. Therefore I can’t believe I’m facing a reality in which I’m barely out of my teen years, and I no longer even have the energy to strive for that elusive ulterior motive. Has the pressure been too much, or am I just a bad combination of facts?

My fourteen-year-old self had such high expectations and such an amazing predisposition towards the future it sometimes makes me wanna be able to go back in time and just slap the fuck out of my young self.

I’m drunk. I’m off to bed.

Oh. And before I leave, may I just say: FUCK EVERYTHING.
Beso!