El diario de Dafne. Pícnica.

El otro día encontré, en una novela sobre los asesinos de los páramos, una frase que decía: "Excepto por los escritores profesionales, los únicos que llevan diarios son los comandantes de expediciones y las vírgenes". No soy virgen, y ciertamente no soy comandante de ninguna expedición. Pero sí soy escritora profesional. La frase me pareció un guiño personal de la autora hacia los escritores, entre los lectores de su libro. Esto es permitido, por una de las grandes diferencias entre la producción escrita de literatura y la producción escrita, por ejemplo, de las ciencias sociales: un antropólogo puede estar absolutamente seguro de que el noventa y nueve por ciento de los que lean su artículo van a ser antropólogos (más específicamente, estudiantes de antropología); el uno por ciento restante va a ser un sociólogo confundido que se equivocó de texto en la fotocopiadora de la facultad. Este infinito círculo de endogamia escrita difiere enormemente de el deleite plural y variado que provee la literatura de ficción y de no ficción, para consumidores desde empleados bancarios hasta seres humanos. Aún así, se sabe que un porcentaje importante de los lectores de libros son escritores (ya el hecho de que una persona lea un libro en la actualidad implica que le gusta escribir, o que está en la escuela secundaria), por el simple hecho de que la totalidad de los escritores son lectores de libros. Una manera un tanto vil pero efectiva de hacer un texto exitoso es apelar a la vanidad de los lectores/escritores, haciendo al protagonista mismo un escritor. El mismo recurso emplean los guionistas de cine haciendo a sus personajes guionistas o artistas cinematográficos de otros tipos, lo que suele extasiar a espectadores como jurados de festivales de cine, iniciándose así legendarias celebraciones al film que tanto entiende y refleja la vida del trabajador audiovisual. Estas celebraciones normalmente terminan en bacanales de adulación y entregas de premios.

Por supuesto, siendo yo misma una escritora profesional me pregunté, cuando estaba leyendo ese párrafo sobre Myra Hindley y el diario virginal que sirvió posteriormente como evidencia ante un juicio, por qué no tengo un diario. Tuve diarios en el pasado, infinidad. Nunca duraron mucho. Creo que principalmente me encontré con el hecho de que no puedo escribir para mí misma. No tengo algo así como una comunicación interna, excepto cuando me hago chistes, o cuando me insulto. Hace diez minutos, sin ir más lejos, fui a la cocina a cambiar la yerba del mate y me golpeé el pie con la puerta. "¡Ah, pero sos medio forra, vos!", me grité, inmediatamente respondiendo: "Callate, estúpida, y haceme un sánguche". Obedecí.

Mi falta de autocomunicación no es falta de monólogo interno. Simplemente, siempre le estoy hablando a alguien. Escribo desde que tengo memoria y siempre estuve de acuerdo conmigo misma -esa estúpida- con que es fundamentalmente importante cuando se escribe tener en mente al lector, y saber ponerse en su lugar. Los diarios, es este esquema, nunca tuvieron mucho sentido, siempre empezaba a escribir e inmediatamente me preguntaba quién lo iba a leer y qué iba a pensar, entonces escribía mentiras por si acaso alguien llegaba a encontrar mi diario y a leerlo. Automáticamente, el diario dejaba de ser un diario y pasaba a ser una colección de ficciones. De esto se excluye el período de mi adolescencia entre los doce y los catorce años en los que simplemente necesitaba escribir una y otra vez el nombre de la persona que me gustara en el momento. Simplemente escribirlo me daba una satisfacción infinita, e iba acompañado de uberdramatizadas historias sobre cómo esa persona me ignoraba o me prestaba atención. Sí, exactamente como Myra Hindley y punto para la autora de la novela. Claro que en ese entonces era virgen, no escritora. Quién sabe, quizá algún día sea comandante.

Más adelante, los blogs transformaron el "diario" en algo público, lo que hizo perfecto sentido para mí, ya que el lector no sólo existía sino que estaba presente en la publicación, mediante comentarios y feedbacks. Aún así, el blog no es un diario, un diario debe ser para uno mismo, o esa es la idea... supongo. ¿Vos qué pensás, Dafne?

Entonces decidí intentar una vez más. "Voy a escribir como escribo en el mundo real", pensé. Con citas, diálogos, cadenas de pensamientos, puntos, comas, explicaciones, chistes y anécdotas. Pero, esta vez, sólo para mí. Sólo para vos, Dafne.

Y se me ocurrió empezar escribiendo sobre la estructura de mi vida, que es algo en lo que me gusta mucho pensar, pero nunca pongo en palabras. Siempre tuve la teoría de que poner en palabras es forzar los pensamientos intangibles a tomar formas lógicas y, por lo tanto, cobrar sentido o ser destruidos. La estructura y los nuevos hábitos minimalistas, organizados, dionisíacos de mi vida son algo interesante, lo más lindo que hice hasta el momento, y quizá es hora de empezar a pensarlos, a escribirlos, quizá para ponerles nombres y darlos como consejos en cajas de bombones.

"Chau, Dafne", me dijo Anita la cajera del súper de la vuelta de casa, "que tengas un buen día". Intenté levantar la mano para saludarla, pero el peso de las compras no me dejó. Empecé a caminar a casa. La manija de la bolsa se volvía cada vez más fina y cortante, mientras el peso de dos litros de leche semi-descremada -que, por cierto, ¿pesa semi-menos que la leche entera?- se hacía sentir en las articulaciones de unos dedos cada vez más morados.

"Tengo que salir a correr ni bien vuelva", pensé. "Y, de ser posible, terminar de escribir el artículo de los extraterrestres". Trabajo para una revista que se especializa en satirizar publicaciones amarillistas (de esas que se dedican a ovnis, nazis refugiados en Sudamérica y complots de la Cienciología). Una parte importante de los lectores realmente no ve el chiste en ningún lado, lo que no afecta pero mejora las ventas. "Si termino temprano con el artículo, puedo practicar esa canción que saqué ayer". Entonces vi mi reflejo fruncido en el vidrio polarizado de un coche. Me reí. A veces pienso que mientras más me acerco a mis metas, mientras más me comprometo, día a día, con mis objetivos a corto y largo plazo, más se asoma una sombra que me dice que estoy esforzándome demasiado. 

"Todavía acarreamos ese insoportable eterno malestar religioso y moral en todo nuestro hacer". Poco a poco, paso a paso, se puede erradicar la culpa de la vida, esa culpa que es universal, que nos apabulla a todos. Soy sistemática, elaboro rituales y listas de actividades diarias y semanales. Después de meses e incluso algunos años de adultez y minimalismo, aprendí a tejer mis listas de cosas por hacer, ya sea en papel, en digital o en lana de pensamientos, incluyendo actividades "ociosas" en el mismo nivel -y entremezcladas con- actividades "productivas".

Por supuesto, si una de esas listas viera mi abuelo, me diría que todas las actividades son ociosas. Por el otro lado, si la vieran la mayor parte de mis congéneres, me dirían que todas son productivas.

Yo ya no las quiero ver como ocio o producción... ni como cosas que si no hago me hacen sentir culpable o si hago con demasiada puntualidad me hacen sentir que soy muy estructurada y ambiciosa. Son cosas, si lo pienso, que me gusta estructurar en objetivos recurrentes porque son cosas que requieren una cierta persistencia.

-Ejercicio (60 min.).

Por ejemplo. Si puedo mantener un ritmo constante, quizá pueda recuperar un poco de la flexibilidad de mis rodillas, y devolver un poco del dolor de mis tobillos.

-Piano (20-60 min.).

Requiere una consistencia que quizá me permita algún día poder realmente jugar con las tonalidades con libertad creativa, y cantar sin preocupaciones de calidad.

Al mismo tiempo, particularmente esas dos actividades que mencioné me dan un espacio mental que sólo es comparable con dormir una siesta en un día de vacaciones de verano, en una hamaca paraguaya, estando muy cansada. Exactamente ese tipo de blanco mental temporario... y todos los días, sin importar la estación del año.

Cuando voy al parque, estiro y empiezo a trotar, pienso en nada y pienso en de todo, dependiendo de lo que quiera mi cerebro. Ahí mismo, cuando tomo consciencia de mis propios desvaríos mentales, me confirmo una vez más que esos espacios de reflexión distraída e ininterrumpida son alimentos necesarios para el desarrollo de historias que más adelante se pondrán en palabras y, con suerte, serán publicadas. Por fuera de los pensamientos creativos, esos momentos de autoabsorción idiota también sirven para ordenar y desdramatizar ciertas situaciones estresantes de la vida cotidiana, repasando escenas vividas y tomando decisiones para el futuro próximo.

Hay otras que van en la lista en parte porque requieren constancia y en parte porque aportan a una cierta vida profesional.

-Escribir (30-60 min.).

Por supuesto, esto cuenta como un "tik" en ese ítem de la lista.

-Artes visuales (fotografía, dibujo, collage o pintura) (30-90 min.).

-Leer (indeterminado).

Leer es algo que hago con una voracidad apasionada desde que triunfalmente me recibí de la Facultad de Periodismo para nunca -literalmente- volver a poner un pie adentro (no es por ningún motivo político o personal, es sólo una apuesta conmigo misma). Me gusta compartir la teoría de que uno no lee ficción cuando está en la universidad, no porque no tenga tiempo sino porque leer algo que no sea material para la universidad implica una culpa inhibidora. Una vez que me recibí, pude volver a ese mundo que había abandonado cuando mis estudios serios empezaron, en algún momento durante la decadencia de mi tierna adolescencia. 

Los idiomas, en mi lista, requieren constancia. A veces pueden integrarse dentro de las últimas dos categorías "Leer" o "Escribir". Todo depende de los tiempos que disponga. Miento. El tiempo es uno y es siempre el mismo. Todo depende de las presiones del momento particular por entregar trabajo o por mantener una vida social.

Entonces, cuando me levanto a la mañana, me hago un mate largo y caliente y me siento a leer mi novela del momento (intento leer una en un idioma distinto por vez), o los diarios que mágicamente me trae la Internet. Uno en inglés, uno en español, uno en francés, uno en italiano y uno en alemán. Del alemán no entiendo casi nada, pero intento adivinar, para ir adquiriendo vocabulario desde las primeras etapas de estudio. Estoy experimentando bastante con el alemán, aprendiéndolo de una forma bastante distinta a como aprendí los anteriores: absolutamente autodidacta, intuitiva e impulsiva.

Mis actividades profesionales aparecen en mi lista como "W". Cuando estaba en la escuela secundaria estudiando fuerzas físicas, aprendí que en las fórmulas "W" significaba "trabajo", y desde entonces no creo haber escrito la palabra entera más que en textos a publicar. Mi W se mezcla bastante con leer y escribir, porque mi W es leer y escribir, cosa que me hace tan feliz que a veces me choco los cinco a mí misma y me digo "¡Qué grosa que sos, Dafne, hoy te hago panqueques!", y me hago panqueques. Así, ya que las distintas actividades lo permiten, intento dejar que fluyan y se mezclen de forma orgánica, y trato de no estrucutrarlas demasiado, pudiendo hacer dos o tres al mismo tiempo (tengo concentración estilo siglo veinituno, lo que sería equivalente a la concentración de una gota de sudor en una orgía).

Obviamente, trabajando freelance y desde casa (lo que podría definirse como el beneficio y la maldición de la clase media mundial millenial hipster educada), la palabra "culpa" se escribe "deadline". Pero uno se va volviendo viejo y bueno. Entonces para evitar la culpa se sienta a hacer el artículo con dos días de anticipación en vez de con uno. Y al mes siguiente quizá se toma una semana entera, y lo hace bien, como para ni siquiera sentirse mal por la calidad del contenido... aunque el "contenido" sea el último vislumbramiento del yeti del Himalaya. 

Creo que es suficiente por hoy, "Querido Diario", pero sólo me gustaría agregar una cosa que es fundamental apreciar para poder ser feliz, en este extraño y efímero estado de eterna incertidumbre al que llamamos existencia: los picnics son en súmmum del bienestar. No hay que subestimar los picnics; incluyen todas las cosas buenas de la vida, y por eso que que poner "Hacer un picnic de vez en cuando" en las listas de cosas por hacer, al lado de "Recibirse", "Conseguir trabajo" y "Arreglar el lavarropas". Es curioso que "pícnico" signifique "rechoncho", lo que bien podría ser fórmula intrincada de derivar un adjetivo de un sustantivo dándole el significado de su lejana -pero no tan lejana- consecuencia. Rechoncha o no, me adhiero a un estilo de vida cargado de picnics.

15. Surviving

When we conquer laziness we will conquer our fates. It's obvious. If I conquered laziness, I would write beautiful stories every day, every hour, words would flow through my fingers like metaphors in a good writing.

Self-discipline is our only hope, for us who were born lazy and lazy will die, because that is the way we were designed, that is the way evolution helped us to save energy and survive, by eating highly nutritious meals and sleeping all winter, and not by learning German on our free time; by achieving low objectives the easy way, and not by challenging ourselves to improve.

Self-improvement makes no sense, in a purely strict survival scheme. Writing wouldn't have anything to do with my nourishing and reproduction. Neither would smoking. Or visiting Prague.

What is so logical in nature, is such a restrain in the modern futuristic life. Because we want to learn German, and be artists, and work out every day. But it is easier to eat almonds, sleep and read a book.

What we understood, after millenniums of philosophical despair, is that maybe surviving and reproducing ourselves is not enough, maybe we want to be a fictional character, or a historical figure, and we want to build an idea of our lives where we don't regret anything because we did everything we wanted to, and even tragedies were highly important because of their dramatic inputs to the general story.

We wouldn't trade our life for somebody else's, right?

Now I have to go to my calendar and my to-do list, and build myself a working scheme. It' the only way I can achieve being a successful writer.

14. Time Management

I eat all day

I lay in bed for hours, trying to decide if I want to read a book or on-line comics.

I read, in average, a book every week.

Still, I work. My main job occupies thirty hours of my week, or more. My second job normally takes between eighteen and twenty-two hours weekly, but let's say twenty. That would be not taking in consideration the time that takes me going to work: for the main one it would be about half an hour per weekday, a total of two and a half hours. For the second job, around six hours per week. So far, we are counting fifty-eight and a half hours of my week.

I have a third and a fourth job -though the most important ones to me- that take me in average five hours a week. Sixty-three and a half.

I shower and epilate every weekday, which takes me around one hour -I know, I'm very relaxed about it. Sixty-eight and a half hours.

Every day I exercise for one hour. Seventy-five and a half hours.

Every weekday morning, I take at least half an hour to have breakfast and read newspaper articles out loud, to improve my pronunciation in French and Italian. Seventy-eight. Every weekday I study half an hour of German (eighty and a half) and half an hour of guitar (eighty-three). Every weekend, I go to a coffee shop to have breakfast and read whichever book is consuming my brain at the moment, for nearly one hour (eighty-five), I sleep around eight hours every day. One hundred and forty-one hours.

The week has one hundred and sixty-eight hours. What do I do with the lasting twenty-seven? I cook, I do my laundry once a week, I go to the bank and keep my personal accountancy, I draw, do collages and write short stories, I answer e-mails, I engage in projects, I watch short films and one long movie everyday (well, not every day, but sometimes I watch two, to keep it balanced), I maintain a constant social life with people in my home country, I go partying with my local friends once or twice a week and -one of my favourites- I manage to keep my list of personal belongings short, clean and organized. And I do slug around in bed.

When do I live? I just told you. Beginner's mistake: life only happens during -so called- "free time". Well, I feel free all of my time. Working is life: is social, is creative, is entertaining (proportions depend on what you actually do); on the way to and from work we happen to be alive as well. Showering is part of existence, too (during winter, one of my favourite ones). So is eating ("Amen!" for that), and even doing laundry. Add here a long list of etceteras.

People blames it on time a lot. Poor time... and then when they have some extra, they want to kill it.

When people tell me they want to learn something new but can't because they're too busy, it's because of this life I have that I believe it's only an excuse, an excuse to one self, a product of denial. The same for student's who "can't work", or for those who "don't have the time" to work out, or to read. I never say anything. I just say "Oh, too bad", and nod, and carry on with the conversation. I don't want to convert anybody (maybe I don't have the energy because I do so many things), but I know it's an excuse.

How do I manage to do so many things? Is a lack of laziness? I don't think so, I know me really well, and I know I'm lazy, really lazy. If I wasn't lazy I would be doubling my activities.

The question is not how I manage to do so many things, the real question is what the fuck is everybody else doing all the time?

13. A Dry Run

Last night I experienced something new.

I experienced something awful, that I don't recommend to anyone.

Not even to my worst enemies.

I was working at the pub. Pick up glasses, put them on the tray, fill the dishwasher, empty the dishwasher, put the glasses on the shelves, take them out, fill them with wine, and give them to the costumers to leave on the table: the circle of life. For some strange reason nobody seemed to figure out, instead of being two or three for closing the pub, there was six of us, plus our General Manager, who came without notice, maybe to creep us out a little bit, but in good moment, because we needed her to fix the big mess with the tills after all the system went down. The six of us, and Billie's boyfriend Paul, sailed on our Viking ship to a better place, also known as The Camden Head in the very own heart and nipple of the glamorous and unruly neighbourhood of Camden Town. On the way, outside the Station, we met a friend of Tim's. Actually, I don't remember where he came from because me and Laura were buying fags around the corner. "Why don't you eat some?" asked Laura when she realized I was giving the M&Ms a long concupiscent look. I came back to the world, it was the lack of sugar in my blood that was starting to affect me. "I can't," I said, "I'm on a diet, can't eat any sweets". "Oh," she said, "Is that the Gilliam diet by any chance?".

So, we met the rest. We started walking but, for some reason that I never understood, it is physically impossible to move more than four human beings at the same pace. So, after less than one hundred meters, I looked around and there was only Tim and his -also Australian- friend. "Hello, I'm Harry." "Hey, I'm Sophie." The rest had disappeared. We kept on walking a little bit, but they insisted the wanted to go for a wee. "Sophie, stay here, we're going to a pub over there to the loo, don't move!". "Come on guys, wait a minute, let's wait for the rest, where the fucking shit are they?". "Sophie, we'll be back in a minute, don't move!". They were already gone. Suddenly I was alone, standing on the middle of the street. Not that I mind, I think I'm more used to being alone on the street that with a pack of humanoids to coordinate with by my side.

Far away, from the drunken crowd that was Camden's streets on a Friday night, I could see Billies black fringe. Next to her, Paul, Laura and Rachel-the-new-girl. "We have to wait for the guys, they went for a wee," I said. So, everyone, against their wills, stopped the march for the third time since we left the pub. They were quite engaged in the conversation they were having, anyway, so nobody seemed to care. "Where the fuck are they," asked Laure after five minutes of standing there. "I think they went into that pub," I said pointing at the pub that was literally five meters away from us. "Are you shitting me?" they said almost instantly. So, yes, that was the pub we were going to. The Camden Head.

And we were inside.

Of course, Billie knew the guys on the door. It's not surprising, she's spent all her teenage years and more in those streets, in those pubs. That certainly gives you some benefits. We were heading straight to the loo, with Laura, no stop-offs no train changes, when we saw that Joe, Cristiana, Matteo, Saro, they were all there. The Queen's gang. Not because they have anything to do with the actual Queen, but because The Queen's is the pub next to ours with whom we're good friend's. They're a fun bunch. We're a fun bunch.

When I came back from the toilet, Amy Winehouse was playing (not for real, I mean her music was sounding), and Tim and his friend had already found the rest (nobody mentioned that I had moved from where he told me to stay). Ok, everybody's here, everybody's happy, music's loud, and they're playing Jumanji on the big TV. You know what that means? Lets get some shots! Automatically, everybody moves towards the bar, even me, that I'm not drinking. Of course, they offer me drinks, they buy me drinks, they try to force me like good friends should. I say "No, no thank you, I'm alright, I'm not drinking, I'm on a diet." "Is that the Holloway diet?" Billie asks.

Everybody's dancing, everybody goes for fags every few minutes, everybody drinks shots with one hand while holding a pint with the other.

I'm dying to smoke some weed. I think it's the first time in my life I'm not drinking and I feel really good about it, but I think it would be just perfect to have something to cheer up the existence even more. I think of asking Cristiana, but she seems already baked and she gets quite confused when she's like that. I think of asking Joe but he's on fire with that ugly French blonde girl that Laura and Billie are calling a slut every moment their mouths are free from alcohol.

So I ask Matteo. Lovely Matteo. So clumsy but so adorable. He's leaving the country in five days. That's the way it is, that's our generation. And I don't mean people my age, I mean people like them, that I meet travelling. We are all travellers. We are all away from home, in a weird reality, and none of the locals is understanding that position right there. No one at all is thinking about it, really, but it's there. "I don't have anything," he says, "but Saro is smoking right now, out there." He points out the window.

I don't walk out, I run outside to find Saro who, by the ways, likes me a little bit, the same as Matteo. And yes, he is smoking... tobacco. Miscommunication. But it's alright. I also like tobacco, so I pitch one of Saro's cigarettes and feel happy about being smoking something.

Fate is good and fair, because when I've already given up, I go inside and I find that in our table there's Tim and Harry and they rolling a spliff. Oh, good Heaven, they're trying to roll a spliff, but they're not getting anywhere. Soberer than ever, I approach them and help them with an absolutely confident, trained and experienced professional hand.

To go smoke it, we have to get through the guards. "We're going to buy some cigarettes and we'll be back in a min," I tell -not ask, tell- with my more innocent-but-hot tone. They buy it, or they don't give a fuck, choose one, and we go out, me and the two Aussie whelps.

We went into an alley, like we were selling guns to civil wars in a different continent. and started smoking. The teens -because there it was obvious they were teens, started telling each other how to smoke the "doobie", for how long to keep the air inside your lungs. I was only worried because we didn't have to "take long" (i.e. look too stoned) to come back into the pub. Suddenly, two big pricks approached us. Of course, they came because of the joint, they wanted some. There was the taller one, the alfa-prick, sort of good looking and testosteroney and the short back up one. They talked for a minute or two to Tim and Harry, not noticing my presence, until the formal presentations ("Do you have some to smoke? Where are you drinking? They don't let us there, guys at the doors don't like us") were over. Then, the cocky one talks to me and, maybe because I was really really stoned by that moment, I thought he was talking to me slowly and paused, like I was a tourist, or a fucking idiot or something. He invited me to go to his "loovely" house and smoke some ganja and listen to Pink Floyd, one sentence after asking for my name (reckless teens, none of them's afraid I'm a serial killer until the worst happens). I say: "Sorry, love, I can't, I'm on a diet". "Is that the Atkins diet?" Tim asks.

Back inside, dancing like crazy with Billie and Laura. They're playing "The Eye of the Tiger", and they're dancing, or boxing, or something like that, and I don't understand much anymore. I just smile and let it all through.

The night is going perfect. I'm not drinking, my diet is going great, music's fantastic, they're playing Grease on the big TV, and life's alright.

Suddenly, it happens.

The awful thing.

The horror.

I start noticing something weird in my mouth, like I need to swallow but can't. My tong feels rugged. I realize that my mouth is dry, completely dry. And I don't mean like that time I was about to give my first kiss to that tall kid whatever his name is at school when I was twelve. I also don't mean dry like before presenting my Thesis. I mean dry, Sahara desert, zero liquid, suddenly my tongue, palate, lips, teeth, they all feel the same, like sand, I can touch it, I can tell. I put my fingers inside and I try to find a drop of water in the lower parts, where it usually hides. Nothing.

Immediately, I become absolutely paranoiac. First of all, I'm touching my mouth, probably with a scary look on my face, standing still in the middle of the dance floor. Second, I might die. I mean, this never happened to me before, and I never heard of something similar. Obviously, something very bad happened and now I am certainly going to die. Or not, maybe I'm just stoned and I'm imagining things. So, I start constructing some hypothesis.

First option: it's the weed. Obviously, when I smoke I have normally something to drink. Maybe weed makes your mouth dry and I never knew before because I was always drinking.

Second option: its the fucking diet. I've changed radically my alimentation, I had practically no carbohydrates for more than eight days and I have been living on fried eggs, salad and sausages. Maybe that's why...

Or no. The last option is the worse of all. It's the same thing that happened to him, when he got addicted to water. Should I ask myself? Could it be? Do I have a problem with water? Is it possible that I drank so much water that now I'm dehydrated? I try to calculate in my head how many liters I'm drinking a day, currently. Four? Five? How should I know if it's too much.

All this happens in my brain in some seconds, or minutes, I couldn't say, while my mouth goes dryer and dryer, like a sponge in the sun. It feels awful, I feel I'm going to die any second. The guys are still at the bar ordering drinks, so I ask Laura to please ask for a glass of water for me. I can barely talk, my tongue is sandy, which is fun because they're still playing Grease, and a close-up to Sandy's face is now on the TV screen.

Laura keeps on talking, the drinks are taking forever and, apparently, my water is coming in the end, so I start to panic. I don't know what to do, I must look awful. Paul has been looking at me all this time, he pats me in the back. I think I know what he thinks. "You're not drinking, ah," he says. "No, I say, I'm on a diet". "Yes," he says, "because when you drink you get wild". At first I think he's hitting on me, or something similar, but I don't understand when or how he's seen me go "wild". Then I realize. Of course, I know Paul is an alcoholic. He think's I'm struggling. He think's I'm an alcoholic too and trying to quit for good: "a diet". He pats me again. And that explains why he's been so friendly to me the whole night.

Even after this revelation, my problem's not gone. My mouth is killing me and I'm becoming more and more scared of what might happen. Billie has her beer on her hand. I can't wait. I don't want to, but I just can't. I take it out of her hands and take a tiny sip. Suddenly, I can breathe. It's obvious that the dryness is not solved, and that it will come back after a few minutes, but for now I can relax, and then I'll have my glass of water.

Panic's gone. I still have to drink every two minutes, and my mouth is still not producing any saliva independently, but I'm chilling. We're all dancing, massive amounts of glasses and bottles are being smashed every second, let's have more shots, bell rings, lights on, everybody out, we're closed.

And we're out.

While Billie and Laura have the weirdest longest saddest hug in the history of humanity because they just realized they're not seeing each other in a week, me and Paul look each other really confused because we don't know if they're acting or if they're for real. Doesn't make much difference, they're still crying and talking about how much they'll miss each other and unicorns and shit.

Joe is leaving with the ugly frenchie. Matteo, Cristiana and Saro are long gone, same as new girl Rachel. TIm and Harry are saying goodbye and heading home, hiding a pint under their jackets because they didn't give them plastic cups. They look like two kids stealing a candy from a shop for the first time.

I walk alone my way back home, I smoke one cigarette after the next one and I have the weirdest thoughts... a very creative story, actually, but one for another moment. All I know now, about what happened in the pub, is that if that it's obvious it's a secondary effect of pot, just as paranoia... and the two of them combined, plus a non drinking night, a recent compulsory consumption of water and a new diet, made me freak out.

La poesía azarosa

El final del sueño era lo mejor. Era una especie de poesía contemporánea escrita por Borges pero librada al azar, donde simplemente tenías que leer palabras a lo largo y ancho de un pueblo en el medio del desierto. Quizá empezabas con una palabra escrita en la pared de una casa, seguías un cable negro que salía de la misma y llegabas a un cartel, y así seguía y seguía la poesía azarosa. Al final, poetizar tanto me debe de haber dado un dolor de cabeza, porque iba a una farmacia. Me sentaba por un eterno rato, entre ancianos, hasta que me daba cuenta que no había sacado número. Entonces, simplemente me acercaba a la ventana con actitud de “Es un segundito, igual” y le pedía al tipo (un chico joven, con rulos), “something for the headache”, me decía el nombre súper complicado (que no sé de dónde sacó mi cerebro) de dos remedios y yo, obviamente, pedía los precios. Uno a cuatro pounds otro a tres con cincuenta. “The three fifty quid one”, pedía yo. Entonces, Chiara me despertó: “Sophie, shouldn’t we be on the way to school?”. Me quedé dormida.

11. Travelling

A crocodile was hiding in the coffin. The car was driven by two confused clowns. I was sitting on the roof, playing the piano, while a gorgeous ballet dancer dressed in black licked my belly button.

We assaulted the grocery store by three in the afternoon. Widows were laughing, the police was chasing men dresses in gorilla suits. Identical twins ran up the stairs and cried after opening my bedroom door and finding the violent orgy had started without them.

Sometimes I dream that I travel. I wouldn't day it's the expression of an unaccomplished desire, but a haunting nightmare. In my dreams, I have to make long distances in short hours, buy plane tickets for which I have no money. In my dreams I miss the train, I get uncomfortable seats, the stewardesses want to poison me, the car crashes.

The crocodile ran away, to study finance, get a job in a bank from nine to five and settle in a nice middle-class neighbourhood with an idiot wife and three little baby reptiles. The clowns didn't see the red light and ran over an old lady who was, coincidentally, on her way to kill herself. I ran out of batteries and decided to take a nap inside the piano. The ballet dancer broke both her feet trying to jump over her shadow.

The grocery store was on fire, the widows were now bastards and the police locked itself in a phone booth. Gorilla men started a revolution that costed several thousands of life changes, turning miserable grey existences into self-improved mentally focused conformist individuals. Identical twins said goodbye forever, and went separate ways to find individualism in rather similar experiences but with different landscapes.

I accused the crocodile of fraud. He went to jail and his wife had to strip to feed their baby reptiles. The piano fell on the ballerina's head and the clowns cried in confusion. The fire at the grocery store was put out by the ghost of the old lady. The police died in the phone booth and was buried in it.

I normally dream that someone gives me the possibility to fly to Argentina for a day or two, and then come back. I always reply the same: " If I go now, I won't come back, I know it".

10. The Girl That Looked Like Marion

"You're on a deet", said the bartender, while she was pouring my Peroni. I recognized the New Zealand accent, but didn't want to give up so easily to a more understandable version of English, so I gave her a flirty look and asked: "Sorry, love, I'm on a what?". "On a deet, you know, when you go out with a girl, do stuff...". I laughed, cockily. "Oh, a date," I said, making a special emphasis on the "a" sound. "Yes, love, I'm definitely on a date". I grabbed the two pints of Peroni and went back to my table, where Paula was waiting for me.

She reminded me to someone I use to date a few years ago, Marion. They both did had the same skin colour, but not the same eyes... Anyway, it wasn't so much of a physical resemblance, but that confidence and correct-girl attitude. It's specially the nice and impeccable way of dressing what reminded me of Marion. The girls I usually date are not so much Versace but more of a charity-shop-style. Anyway, she was hot and interesting, in her conventional way. Besides, she was a bartender, like me, so we had something to talk about for at least a few hours.

When we eventually ran out of things to talk about, we started making out, as the protocol indicates. That's where I knew it wouldn't work. It wasn't because of the kissing itself. Actually, the kissing was exactly what made me go on a date with her on the first place. The night before, I went to her pub. I was sort of drunk, and so were the colleagues from my pub who were with me. She was working, and even though I hadn't keep in touch with her in the past few month -or replied her last texts-, she welcomed me with a wide sexy smile. "Hello, handsome," she said. I talked to her for a few minutes -"How have you been? What's new? Give me free drinks. Etcetera"- and went back to my friends, ignoring her for the rest of the night while I caught up with my tequila shots.

A few hours later, reality was quite blurry. David was absolutely hammered, hitting on random tourists on different corners of the dark flattering ambience. Joe and Blake were involved in a very serious discussions about paper and fabric napkins. I decided a deep metaphysical subject like that was a little bit too much for my a neuronal activity as simple as mine, so I decided to proceed to the gent's to unload some amounts of the liquid my body was so happily receiving.

When I was on my way back from the toilets, she was waiting for me. The bar was busy, but she didn't care. She intercepted me in the dark and started kissing me fiercely. I was surprised. When I met her I didn't imagine she tasted so good. Her lips were simply delicious.

So that's why I decided to go on a date with her. "If that's her lips' flavour," I thought, "we better taste the rest of her body".

So there we were the next day, at a random pub in Stratford, where a charming New Zealand bartender accurately diagnosed me with a deet.

When we started kissing in the box where we were seating, I realised it wouldn't work, not because she had lost her taste from one day to the other, but because her general attitude was just... tasteless. She was pulling my shirt up, touching my nether zone, beginning to moan, while in the box next to ours two little kids were starting their burgers. "I don't think this is the appropriate place or time for that," I said, very seriously, when she blatantly started to unbutton my trousers. She was on fire. "So lets take it to the appropriate place," she said.

Half an hour later, we were at her place, a crappy room in a crappy house in a remote residential neighbourhood of London which name I didn't even remarked in the first place. In a corner of the room, there was a small table with cereal boxes, a jug of water and various kitchen utensils. Then, there were clothes inside and outside an old wooden wardrobe, a mirror, hair products, and more assorted random objects, all within a chaotic mess. Mess is usually a deal-breaker for me, specially that kind of dirty mess. But I was horny too, we were finally there after a long trip, and it was certainly too late to go back home (the tube wasn't working after eleven thirty), so I needed a place to spend the night.

When I finished scanning the room, she was already undressed. She took my clothes off in less than three seconds and next thing I knew we were fucking.

It didn't work at all. First reason: she was biting me non-stop; biting my neck, my chest, my legs. I asked her to stop, but she wouldn't. I have really sensitive skin, and while physical pain might be a turn-on for some people, for me is scary and uncomfortable. The sex itself wasn't working so well either. She didn't seem very happy when I put a condom on, and even if we had fifteen or twenty minutes of tuned, tunned and well-timed humping, then it got boring and uneven. I came once, twice, three times. She wasn't satisfied, she wanted more. After the third time, I was too tired to continue. I started eating her out, to make her come and finish for once and for all. Not only she didn't come, but every time she was about to, she would pull my face away from her fanny and make me penetrate her again. I could barely stick something inside.

"Je ne peux pas jouir si t'utilises un preservatif," she said... or something like that. "Sorry?" I said. I understood what she was saying, but just couldn't believe what she was suggesting. "I can't come if you're wearing a condom," she repeated. I laughed -trying to play it cool- and replied: "Sorry, love, but that stays on". I kept on trying to make her come for twenty more minutes, or so, and then I just surrendered to my lack of sleep and my drunkenness of the past four days, and fell on the bed like a log. I fell asleep immediately. My dick didn't work any more, it was absolutely sore after more than one hour of bad-friction sex.

Even when I called it off and went flying to the lands of slumber, the Marion look-alike -I can't even recall her name any more- just wouldn't give up. She rubbed her ass against my crotch the whole night. Every now and then, she would even start to bite me again. I would pretend I was sleeping, but she continued, firmly and strongly, trying to wake me up. Finally, furious, I had to tell her to stop it, to let me sleep, not once, but four times.

By eight in the morning I escaped. I told her I had to work, even if that "work" I so badly had to do was going to my own bed to finally be allowed to sleep for a few hours without someone attempting to antropophagate me. I left in such a rush that we couldn't even find my pants. "Keep them," I said after looking for them for almost eight minutes, "I don't need them, anyway". So I went commando and left as fast as I could.

It took me two hours in two crowded smelly trains -which I refused to pay for, after such a disappointment of a night- to get back home. When I saw my bed, I was so happy I almost cried.

Today, five days later, she texted me. " I found your pants", said the message, "They were under the bed".

"Disgusting," I thought, and never replied.

9. Atheism

If I ever believe in art, I should tattoo "I dreamt that my mother and grandmother were rapists" in my forehead.

Life is a metaphor of itself.

8. The best

It's hard to have low self-esteem. Sincerely.

There are so many people more fucked-up than me, that I have barely time of those who are more successful and sexier. It's not supposed to be a competition. But it is, obviously. We all know it. I'm not particularly interested in the competition, but it relieves me to know that I'm winning.

Even though, I don't really enjoy it when people acts like they're inferior next to me. I prefer it when they're cocky and vain... at least I can laugh at them, and pretend I'm submissive, but letting them know I'm not. But when it's the other way around, it's only funny for a couple of hours. After that, you realize you can never really be friends with someone who feels inferior.

Fall in Love with killing People

7. Blackout

It all started with a towel.

I knew the feeling very well. It was the feeling you have within dreams, when something doesn't make sense at all, so you start suspecting you're not in the waking life. The difference, this time, was that it wasn't a dream at all. It was my first blackout, and a really sober one.

I was in my father house, so it must have been seven or eight years ago. I was going to take a shower. Not many times in my childhood I was alone with my mother. Once, we went to the supermarket to buy her some tampons. We were inside the car, in the parking lot. She told me: "You don't realize, but you are a person with rituals". I didn't agree right away, but I always do what my mother says, so I took that as a part of my personality -a major one.

A few years later, I was following my pre-shower ritual, that included grabbing a towel and hanging it in the bathroom while the water got hot. That day I couldn't find my towel anywhere. I looked in my room, in my brothers' room, in the laundry room. Then, I just went into the bathroom again, hot water still running, and filling every corner of the mirrored room with steam. The blue towel was there, hanging. I knew it wasn't there before. I knew I'd taken it, but I had absolutely no memory of it.

I know, it doesn't sound so special, but imagine me, there, with the same face you pull in your dreams when you question if it's normal or not that you can fly, but in real life.

So I stood there, I started to laugh. What else could I do? It was the first sign of insanity, the one I was waiting for.

6. Potomania

Poto was a fish. Poto was a happy fish until he realized that the world he was watching from his crystal-walled palace was nothing but a tiny fragment of the known universe. Luckily for Poto, his memory didn't last enough to be worried more that a few minutes. After that, Poto was a happy fish again.

If I knew I was pregnant right now, I wouldn't be worried about many things. I wouldn't be worried about all the weed I smoked in Amsterdam, one month after the last time I had sex. I would worry about all the tobacco, it honestly wasn't that much in comparison to what I used to smoke when I lived in my planet. If I found out, right this instant about me having a four-month foetus jamming my guts I wouldn't even be worried about that late night in Joe's about a month ago, when I thought it was a good idea to share a few lines of Magical Powder of Bolivia with two total strangers on top of the toilet paper dispenser. I wouldn't care at all that the father would be a French guy whose name I barely remember -and if I do remember it, it's actually because it reminds me of an historical character whom I admire. I guess I always dreamt about being a single mom, like Jenny Fields, with nobody to disagree about the raising of my progeny. I wouldn't mind about the money. I have money now, not a lot but enough to not be in a very sad position with a baby in my arms.

What I would worry about, if I found out I was pregnant right now, is that in the past month I have consumed enough coffee to fill an Olympic swimming pool. And yes, I write this while I'm having a coffee.

Anyway, I'm not pregnant. I thought I was for a few day, but only because I haven't had my period in a few month and I'm insanely fat, but apparently that's for other reasons... Now that I think about it, coffee might have stopped my hormonal cycle, that wouldn't surprise me at all, not after the amounts I've been injecting in my blood.

Having a coffee is not a reason to be ashamed these days... It's actually quite fashionable. Alcoholism, on the other hand, is so out. Cocaine is very "nineties" but, as you know, everything comes back and the nineties are starting to be cool again. I don't really mind being addicted to coffee, but it's starting to cost me a lot of money. It would be easier if I was just addicted to water, like that stupid arsehole was.

Daniel was addicted to water. Apparently the doctors told him it was called potomania, what he had, accompanied by an acute anorexia. This was before his homeless period, and after his cocaine period. He was laughing about it when he told me, of course. He told me one day he decided he wanted to drink a lot of water and for a few month from that, he couldn't stop drinking. He was always carrying a bottle with him and, of course, he wouldn't want to eat, but only drink water.

"The funny thing," he said, "is that my parents were happy for me. They kept on having cold water specially for me on the fridge, since they always saw me drinking it... we never kept water on the fridge before that. They thought I was being healthy, that it was a good thing."

He could have died.

Like so many other times... It's quite impressive that he's still alive, now that I think about it, specially after that time his brother tried to kill him.

5. Montage

Like lots of people is this ultra-visual world, I like to think of my life in cinematographic terms. An ingenious remark makes me immediately think "Lovely dialogues"; a boring and undefined person makes me feel like their character has not been quite well constructed; a heart-breaking sunset is a mental applause for the Art Director. Regarding the script, the meaning of life, and etcetera, my theory is that the most annoying and decisive parts -those slow processes that really take your story where you want it to be-, are never properly shown in films. Yes, I am talking about the '80s montage sequence: sports training, studying for the big test, getting organized and getting a job in a Survivor's track time. In the real world with the real humans -stupid humans, I hate them-, we are not prepared to actually do those things.

Whatever genre we choose, we are still in a movie. For what we know, getting fit only takes a strong resolution after a moment of crisis -lets say eating a three-thousand-calorie Swiss chocolate bar... not that I have ever done that, specially not last night while watching Archer (season five)- and three to five minutes of sandwiched shots and catchy rock music to reach destination.

Trying to figure out what really happens in between shots would be an accurate description of my life right now. I'm in the employment decisions moment. Until now, I thought this moment didn't even existed. I blame London.

What Daniel and my lovely hippie life in Silver City taught me, was that there was no decision point, that you could change your mind as much as you wanted, that there wasn't much in the bet anyway, and that having any job is good enough... as long as you have time to enjoy your life, drink your beer, friend your friends, do your art, and smoke your weed. I still feel that way, I feel it strongly. But, I also must admit London is having an effect on me, and all that competitive, non-rewarding and ass-raping system is making me truly afraid of not having money, not having a job, not having enough education (meaning academic education). Since Daniel is gone, I'm having a hard time balancing my socially-fit side with my fuck-the-system side. I'm lacking a little bit of the latter. I am ashamed to admit that I have been thinking long and much about money: the money I'm saving, the money I don't have yet, and the things I could do with it. Of course, they are Felix-like things to do with money, like opening a coffee shop, or raising a baby, or dedicating myself to write.

I reached a point in my concern when I desperately needed robot-mum advice. Should I continue to study? I don't even think that's possible, even if I wanted to, not without the money and references. Should I find another job? I'm not sure I could afford a rent and continue to save money. Should I travel? First I should solve that problem with my credit cards, probably -I promise I will call today-. What should I do, Mamma?

She was, as usual, kind of neutral, kind of directive. I think she would prefer me to study, but I don't think she actually knows the variety of impediments on my way for that. She tells me I can be a writer, work in magazines and publishers. Thank you! That's what I wanted to hear. That's what I've actually been saying for the past year or so: "What I really like to do is writing for magazines". So, I had already decided what I wanted to do... I just didn't remember.

On our last weeks of friendship, Daniel was convinced he wanted to go to Bolivia to live with and defend a local community of people. I say "local" in order to avoid terms as "aboriginal" or "Indian". After all, I don't hear people around here saying things like "I'm going to Amsterdam to smoke ganja with the aboriginal Dutch", or "This aboriginal English peoples sure know how to enjoy a greasy breakfast!".

He was more like a radical character, always extremist, always wanting the big change, always wanting to be completely different from everybody. Daniel couldn't just bare the idea of being normal. He wasn't normal, except for that strong urge of being abnormal, which is actually very normal... specially these days. I hate to admit, even I have it, and the smartest way I found of being abnormal is pretending I don't mind being normal. You can find it all over my speech, for example in the first sentence of this chapter "Like lots of people...". I just find it fake and "normal" to say "Hey, I'm different, am I the only one who feels his life is like a movie?". I don't think anyone older than fifteen falls for that.

I am writing this to understand the characters in my movie. Eventually, my character. Who am I? What do I want to... etcetera.

When I see some interesting catch phrase in the characters around, me, I take it, I make it mine. For example, the "etcetera" thing. That's Daniel's, of course. Most people use it to avoid listing obvious and boring things, after they've made their point clear. Daniel used it when he was saying something really important.

I can tell where most of my expressions come from. I have many from Julia, lots from Daniel, some from Harry... all above a base that's basically my mother's way of communicating my father's way of thinking. That's good for a start, for defining myself. I really don't feel like a have a core concept, a centre of feelings that are only mine. I think I'm more like a permeable robot, who's been programmed by different people surrounding me. And I am totally OK with that. I don't feel empty. I feel full, of cookies. And that's all that matters to me.

4. Dog Days

My theory is that the mystery of Daniel's unusual mind relied on the fact that he was a dog.

He wasn't, of course, a proper dog, with a happy tail and furry skin. He was, in fact, the hairless person I ever met, male or female. Daniel was technically a human being, with two eyes, a nose, a mouth and a belly button. But I know he was canine.

Myself, I am a four-eyed monster with tentacles instead of legs, one anxious right hand and a horrendously-drawn left hand, covered in glitter, with honey earrings hanging from my carrot ears and a titi monkey as a tie.

Daniel was a dog. He actually liked to bark, specially to police officers.

One day he told me about the occasions in which he got arrested. He's not my only friend who got arrested. In a beautiful summer night in Cordoba city around a fire, my friend Cortés told me and the rest of the travellers of that time he spent a night in jail being a nerdy seventeen-years-old, for hacking public telephones with an even nerdier friend, in order to make free phone calls. Police made the two of them spend the night inside a shit-hole where they barely had place to stand, surrounded by old dirty drunk dudes that were in for robbing or murder. Next to them there was a cell were some guys were threatening them with raping their asses and killing them, just for the laughs.

Another friend of mine, El Don, was also one night in jail with three other friends. They were driving to a David Guetta show, outside Buenos Aires. Of course, they were carrying drugs. The police knew how it was going to be, so they were waiting in the road and stopped my friends, and two other cars. The car in front of them -blond tall botox-filled woman and rich guy- had LSD, ketamine, pills, weed and cocaine. My friends had only five joints... a normal healthy breakfast. Obviously, they had only five joint because they couldn't get any more drugs. Otherwise, they would have had more than that. But they didn't. Not only they had five pitiful joints for the four of them, but also they got arrested for that. They spent the night in jails and -again- sharing the room with people that was in for murder. One of my friends got actually robbed inside the cell (a brand new jacket specially bought for the show). The funniest part is that, in all those hours when they were waiting alone in the cell, they actually managed to smoke some weed some other guys had on them.

For Daniel it was different. Every time he was in jail, it was because he was "walking shirtless in the street" or something like that... and if you are a non-white young guy with dirty clothes and no shirt, you are definitely a danger to society. And if you try to ask the police why they are taking you to jail, they will beat the shit out of you.

"What do you do when they start beating you?," I ask.

"Well... there's not a lot to do, really," he says calmly. "Just shouting them to fuck off and biting them until they get tired of kicking the shit out of me".

When I met Daniel he was convinced he was an angel.

Before starting to write about him, this morning, I thought of using a different name, but I couldn't think of one that would fit his personality appropriately, so I googled "Daniel" to find the meaning and maybe get some ideas from that.

"God is my judge". No way to change that.

During all the years I knew him, during his cocaine addiction, his homeless period, his weed-smoking in public, his psychopath laughing for no reason, his barking... In all that time, other human's judgement never affected him. Not a little bit. Not in the outside or the inside. He knew human judgement existed, he could try to analyse that. He knew the basic stuff to be allowed to walk in the street (like wearing trousers) and to be -kind of- accepted in society, but there's no way he cared about other people's judgement other than that.

He wasn't like that because he was "oh, so independent and careless and free!", but because he was a dog, a winged dog. And he believed in God. At first, at least.

Aceite

-Al contrario -dijo sonriendo-, creo que las personas felices pensamos en la muerte mucho más que las personas tristes. Tiene sentido. La muerte no nos asusta, el suicidio parece una situación práctica y fácil ante los problemas cotidianos. Nada es tan dramático.

-Yo diría que sos un tipo muy particular de persona feliz, entonces.

-Quizá tengas razón, sí.

-De todas formas, no veo cómo un "problema cotidiano" puede afectar a alguien al punto del suicidio...

-¡No! No al punto del suicidio. Sólo digo que a la gente como yo no le da miedo pensar en eso. Y cuando hay una pila de platos para lavar, el dulce anhelo del descanso eterno es una imagen innegablemente dulce.

Los autos marcaban patrones imperceptibles. Rojo, azul, azul, rojo, gris, celeste, gris, azul. Alguien, en ese mismo momento, en otra esquina del universo, estaba inventando una máquina que generaba automáticamente fórmulas determinando la series generada por los colores de los autos transitantes un miércoles a la mañana.

-¿Qué fue lo que pasó? ¿Qué te hizo pensar en la muerte hoy?

-Nada, sólo salí a tomar aire.

-Jaja... Vamos, Miranda. No creo que sea el momento más adecuado para ese tipo de chistes.

-Bueno, si de verdad querés saber, fue el aceite.

-¿El aceite?

-Sí. Quería hacer papas fritas. Pelé las papas, las corté. Exactamente siete centímetros y medio de largo por dos de alto por uno coma siete de profundidad; ochenta y cinco papas. Cuando las quise hacer, me di cuenta que no había aceite.

Rodolfo sonrió. Era verdad que eran el uno para el otro.

-Adiviná de dónde vengo.

-¿De dónde? -preguntó Miranda ya apunto de saltar.

-Del súper -dijo Rodolfo. Miranda soltó una carcajada.

Se tomaron de las manos y abandonaron la cornisa por la ventana detrás de la cual los esperaba su viejo y querido departamento. En el suelo, junto a la puerta que Rodolfo había dejado abierta en el apuro de salvar a Miranda de saltar del séptimo piso, estaban las bolsas del súper, donde dos grandes botellas de aceite mezcla sobresalían con esplendor.

-Nadie me entiende como vos -dije Miranda abrazando el aceite.

3. Little Meetbag in Plumberland

I like it when someone like a plumber comes to work where I live and we tacitly decide to ignore each other in our own lack of comfortableness. It's always better that way... unless the plumber is hot. In that case, I think we've all watched enough porn to know what happens next... Anyway, it's not the case now. He's ugly and old. I can cope with ugly, I can cope with old, but not both at the same time, that's my policy.

I'm going to Germany soon. I was going to go to Berlin, but honestly spending five days drunk in the forest in the unexistent land on Bielefeld sound way more appealing. Actually, it sounds like the most brilliant plan ever. I'm so lucky I'm me. I have the greatest ideas.

Last night I found an amazing way to sleep. I had totally forgotten about it, but it came back to me and it worked immediately. Maybe it worked because I was dead tired, or maybe because I'm amazing.

The thing is you have to lay down looking up. Relax your body and start thinking of your toes. You have to start feeling them until you are really focus on what your toes are feeling. When you're done with the toes, you move up to the rest of your feet, ankles, legs, tights, etcetera. The thing is, as soon as you can focus on a body area, you start feeling the specific pains you have in there, and you are also able to really relax the muscles. To really relax, you need to make the same mental process you make when you are masturbating and you are about to reach an orgasm. It's that exact point when you clear your mind of everything and you lose yourself to the tactile sensations of your body. If you can do that with your toes, legs, back, shoulders, and every part of your body, you will find it's like a resting orgasm. You don't even have to follow a specific order, the different part of the body will call you until you go with them and relax them.

Now, the best part is when you reach the brain. Then, your mind goes immediately blank and, unless you are thinking about how fast you will fall asleep, you will fall asleep really fast.

Of course, it's not the magical cure for anything. My right foot still hurts like shit and my back has new pains that even weren't there yesterday. But I know that if I do that and continue to exercise my poor beaten meatbag, someday I might feel better.

I hope there's a train to take me really early to the airport.

I hope there's a train to the magical fields of Slumberland.

I hope that little animal in the garden is a squirrel and not a rat (both equally possible in Furry City).

Je suis en train de lire Le Petit Prince. Je pense que je l'ai déjà lu en français, mais je ne suis pas sure. J'ai faim. Je crois que je vais prendre le déjeuner maintenant. Je suis sure que j'ai eu un rêve merveilleuse mais je ne me souviens pas du tout qu'est que c’était.

Tout ce que je me souviens c'est en me réveiller et penser "Fuck, fuck life, fuck this, fuck that, I want to sleep"... Je sais, c'est pas normale en moi. Normalement, je n'ai pas de problèmes pour me lever.

2. The Importance of Being Bananas

I think I might be going a little tiny bit Bananas.
How do you actually know? How do you realize when are you going crazy? I always assumed that the kind of craziness that would eventually invade my last pieces of brain would be highly self-conscious. And so it appears to be, now.

Maybe it's because I've been working so much that month, weeks, days and hours start to lose their structure. I don't know what a weekend is, any more, or if an eight hour shift serving tables is too much or too little.

I like it, being Bananas. It makes everything more interesting. It's in these particular moments where I lose all short term memory or capacity to understand basic human behaviour. Xavier just came home. I opened the door.

“Are you alone?” he asked. “Where are Cecile and the kids?”.

I was confused. “Maybe they went to the park,” I said. He laughed, of course. It was almost nine in the evening, close winter night, five degrees with all luck. The park...

Watching so much Futurama is nice. I liked Archer better, but Futurama gives me better dreams. I am dreaming a lot about living in the future. I like that. Of course, we already live in the future. And now that I came to the futuristic city of London, I can certainly say so. What's so funny about the future is that it's so technological and dirty at the same time... it's a little bit cyberpunk in a way, like in a Blade Runner way. But London is not really like Blade Runner. Now Tokyo, that must be it. London is a little bit more like... The Clockwork Orange, yes. Nineteen Eighty-four, of course.

I, on the other hand, am a little bit like a little lost puppy. I am a ball of sweet rice, a crab in a circus show. I am a robot's best friend. I am a Banana, I am the Banana.

Today I saw Ilka, outside school. She asked if I could store her big suitcase for a few days; I asked if I could stay four days instead of two in her house in Germany. We both politely said yes, and we really meant it.

I still have to find the reason why I get along so well with misanthropist even though they're the opposite of me. Or why I get along so well with negative people when I'm so optimistic. Why are my best friends always depressive while I'm clinically joyful? Maybe my old theory about the happiness/misery curve was right, maybe it is the same: both states reach zero, nihilism, only through a different path.

Whatever the reason is, the real question should be “Why do I always attach to a blond girl?”. I don't recall a moment of my life where I wasn't stuck to a blondie like a butterfly to a windshield.

Now I'm the blonde. And -tell nobody-, it's a fake blond.

Fake banana blond.

But with time, just like the banana, I'm turning brown.

:::

No Internet for a few hours and I've read five books, and written words flow through my fingers like flying lollipops.

The big Christmas tree in the kitchen is hurting my brain. “How” and “why”, I would ask if I didn't know the answer already. Of course Chiara was right, my kids will be so lucky. Not just because I would let them play videogames and watch cartoons, but also because I would even let them have a Christmas tree, even it would hurt my brain. Of course, I wouldn't spend a penny on it, but I wouldn't mind them decorating one in the little garden we would have. I would have to be a cannabis plant, I suppose, and that Christmas tree I could certainly like... it wouldn't hurt my brain, at least.

I think I had an epiphany some days ago, or was it today? But I can't remember what it was about. Was I drunk? Was I tired?

I remember hating humanity yesterday. But before that? Or just while I was falling asleep, maybe.

I think the big pile of paper clips is hurting my brain too. I must kill it, transform it into collages.

I know, I know... I said I would, long ago. But this time I mean it.

Maybe tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow (which, from now on, for the lack of simplicity that in this particular occasion the English language presents, I am going to call “postomorrow”).

Some money just fell straight into my ear. I like the money for the simple reason that I am proving myself what I could never do before: I can save money. The same with exercising every day (though I'm eating more than what I'm actually burning). So far I could save more money than what I thought I would. Well, not really. I saved more that what I honestly though, but not what I ideally thought I could save. That's what high ideal standards are for: not being achieved. I don't know what would happen to me if I ever achieved one of those. I would probably explode as confetti into outer space.

The little green eye kid is starting to grow a feeling on me. I don't know if he's interesting enough, or not-sexist enough, my only two non-negociables, specially since chocolate-is-for-girls guy. I can't believe how my generation is behaving. Seriously, this is the future, the XXI century. Perhaps Futurama is right, after all: not even in the year 3000 we will be free of sexism... and owls.

Reading Tintin is like watching a movie. But I think that's likely because I actually watched all Tintin movies when I was a kid... and the stories are the same. So, maybe I'm just remembering them. Anyway, reading, watching, remembering, all the fucking same to banana brain here. A few days ago I watched The Meaning of Life again. Unluckily for me, hats don't suit me at all. People don't wear enough hats. How much is enough? Forty-two, of course.

I think I might be dreaming right now, because the Internet only worked on the webpage that I thought it would work on, and not on the rest (where I was just plainly hopeless). Maybe all this money that came to me is all dream money and the Tintin story I just read is a vague memory of a movie I watched as a child. The dream feeling is strong. After all, all the things that I thing are about to happen, are just happening, like my fingertips falling on the keys, like the sounds from the kitchen, like the Queen staring at me with her fabric-eyes down from the fiver that rests on the bed.

Everything is going to be allright. Don't panic.

When the Internet comes back, everything is going to be allright.

:::

Ok, normality NOT restored. Internet is still away. I think he might have fallen in love with some Internet chic and ran off to a place where they could love eachother without being judged, because he is poor, but she comes from a well educated and respected family, but he own a very big dong.

I need to find the way to actually make Cafélix happen without having my brain exploding. I need someone to take care of the paperwork, someone I can pay and rely on. I know who that is, of course, the sexiest muthafocka in town. But let us not ruin the surprise. Let's be cautious... for now. I need to earn all this money and more to make Cafélix happen without the stress of not having enough money to make it happen or -the worst possible nightmare- making it half-way through.

Brain, as yourself I command you not to explode.

Not quite yet.

1. The Dead Body

A few days ago I saw, for the first time, a dead body.

I didn't intend to look at it, not because I wasn't curious, but because I somehow expected my first time watching a dead body to be a little bit more... glamorous, whatever that means.

Once I dreamt I was in a wooden cabin in the forest. There was a lovely old man. The cabin was very very tall, and inside there was a mezzanine, from which the old man jumped killing himself because the ceilings were so high that it was impossible to clean them. Since then, I never quite liked very high ceilings: they're out of reach, which can obviously lead into suicidal behaviours. Last night I dreamt that I was in a beautiful Mediterranean island. All my friends were there with me, in the high-ceiling wooden hostel, but they wouldn't wait for me while I went to the room to change into my swimming suite, and they went to the beach without me.

I started crying. I wanted to go with them but I didn't know where they were. So, I started walking through a nice sunny garden, where there were turtles hiding behind the flowers, probably. Waking through the garden I reached the main street, the one next to the ocean, and I sat on an outdoor table of a nice coffee shop. I could have been Italy, or Spain. The outside tables were small and round, made of a metal structure that supported a round decorated tiled stone.

As usual, I had my guitar with me, so I started playing. All the people inside the coffee shop were old and they looked like they were from the neighbourhood, definitely not tourists. The door was open, so they could hear me playing, which made me a little nervous and insecure. In addition, my guitar was out of tune. I never knew how to tune it properly... I should definitely learn. I tried to do it, in the dream, but the instrument started bending and breaking apart, which made it extra difficult.

Anyway... the dead body.

I knew there was a dead body even before looking at it. I was walking down Kentish Town Road, going to the restaurant, as usual. I saw the ambulance. I saw the people stopping to look. I heard the sights. So I knew.

I don't like being the kind of people that stops and stares at an accident, so I just kept on walking... but I couldn't help it. I took a squint.

There they were. The two paramedics were putting the dead body of the young woman on the stretcher. There was no question she was dead. Her face was so grotesque as one could possibly imagine the face of a dead person: eyes and mouth wide open, tongue out.

I only saw it for an instant, it was literally less that one second. Even tough, the impression still remains. I never stopped walking. Next to me, the big Jamaican man was walking at the same pace.

"I am starting to believe I am the Angel of Death," he was saying. "Everywhere I go there's a person ran over, an accident, a stroke...". He wasn't talking to anyone in particular, but I turned to him and said: "Well, mate, you're starting to scare me a little bit...".

We talked for a little bit, walking down Regent's Canal to our respective jobs. He worked at the Camden food Market, of course. I don't remember his name. I didn't find him interesting at all. One minute he was talking about death, next minute he was telling me how much he would like to be my boyfriend, without even knowing my name.