Recently in me Category

bitterness prevails.

the human heart is designed with a certain capacity for love, joy and satisfaction. there's only so much love one could withhold before bursting, only so much joy before feeling lame and only so much satisfaction before wanting more and losing the status quo. noone's ever heard of a series of fortunate events, merely singular exceptions in an otherwise routinely disappointing affairs. that's of course caused by the heart maxing out on its happiness quota and seeking and finding the next glorious piece of misery in its surroundings, and sure enough it's right around the corner.

on the contrary and extremely out of proportion, taking away the little love and joy from the same seemingly lousy heart leads to infinite feelings of resentment, rage and apathy. noone's ever heard of 'as bad as it gets' simply because it can and will always get worse. there's always more to break, more to take away, more to endure and suffer. asymmetric hearts, that's what we've got. capped and bottomless.

he was thinking about all of this walking back home from the theater in midnight's chill. in a moment he took off his fleece jacket and then his t-shirt. in less than a minute he was numb. if only inside could go numb as quickly, if only it could take three years instead of thirty... but then even after thirty it still hurts. as much as things have gone wrong over and over and over again some once-upon-a-time stranger could manage to show up out of the ridiculous blue and take away more. how can one take what didn't exist? did she bring it with her when she arrived and took it away when she left? or was there some more he hadn't noticed until it was all gone? is it all gone now? is he finally safely frozen for good? what is left when one loses grace? what is left when one cheats on himself? when one challenges his own ego and wins? when one identifies with thoughts of all the freaks and losers and pests? when one can frightfully justify any given evil in sixty seconds or less?

but does it matter?

what matters? seriously, what? he got a single scoop of chocolate brownie on a regular - not sugar free - cone last night. it mattered, because he was too busy licking and didn't think much while it lasted. he got a dark chocolate chip muffin this morning and was too busy munching on it for some three minutes, it still mattered. maybe dark chocolate matters, especially its bitter aftertaste, maybe. and nothing else.

i went to bed at twelve thirty. i woke up and i was thirty. there.

thirty minutes to get ready. thirty steps down the stairway. thirty more soldiers died in iraq. thirty cents short in change for coffee. thirty songs on my ipod playlist. thirty men standing along the track. thirty seats on the second deck. thirty stocks plunging, thirty rising. last thirty pages of factotum. thirty crazy years behind. thirty dirty thoughts on my mind.

i've been with thirty women, some of them in my head. i've lived a day with less than thirty dollars in total assets, much more in debt. i've killed thirty spiders, crushed thirty snails and smashed thirty flies. i've drunk thirty bottles of whiskey. i have thirty shiny degrees piled up on my desk and thirty dusty pictures on my wall. i know thirty people and some more. i fell in love with thirty of them, and i cried for thirty months when the first one left me. I've told thirty million cheap lies and thirty really good ones. i felt really bad when I lost thirty cents to a slot machine, and spent thirty grands on fine dining that felt really good. i had thirty golden opportunities to make it big in life and wasted all of them, i had thirty perfect opportunities to commit suicide and failed on all of them too. i have thirty pieces of new york steak in my fridge and thirty bottles of wine on my rack, thirty more reasons to live.

the mexican girl who'd truned thirty sat next to me for the thirtieth time. she wasn't reading the bible like she used to, she had thirty ways to improve your relationship in her left hand. i spent thirty seconds trying to read thirty lines from her book, but her cleavage proved too distracting at the bottom of the page and i gave up: she had small breasts, thirty a, or b. i thought of thirty lines to start a conversation with her, and i found thirty reasons why we'd break up in thirty days or less. i counted to thirty and back, and i was outside walking on thirty celebrity stars on thirty pavement tiles.

i ordered thirty lattes and thirty croissants and only paid for one, and i realized what the world feels like at thirty. it feels like thirty thousand reasons to live and thirty thousand to die, and a most seductive indifference towards all of them, and the rest of the reasons in the whole thirty year old world for that matter. it feels like thirty venezuelan topless strippers on one side and thirty horny zombies on the other, and me walking in trance in the middle, oblivious, indifferent and expressionless, simply so careless that they can't tell, as if i'm too good for them, as if i'm too smart for them, as if i own more than thirty dollars in cash, as if i'm everything they are not, as if i'm thirty. there. i am.

and here's to another piece of paper with my name on it.
another short chapter.
another resolution of vanity.
another something i don't know what to do with.

and here's to corporate america.
to sam walton,
to samuel adams,
to wall street, and to the almighty greed.

and here's to myers-briggs,
to contingencies,
to net present value of a grandiose loan,
to china, and to insomnia.

and here's to the illusion of being some hot shit,
to an unprecedented level of arrogance and confusion,
to irrational exuberance,
to conjoint analysis of three years of fuck-you-i'm-busy-too,
to same old crap, with a brand new strategized roadmap.

and here's to you, mrs robinson.
jesus just left the house.
let the show begin.

i was watching this guy today, the one with the orange cap. he's about to be thirty and reading a children's novel, and he cried at the end of this chapter, when one of the characters died. intense. pathetic. and then he climbed up the stairs and stretched his arms wide open to the cool breeze of early mornings, and he smiled like there's no tomorrow, immensely content for a very short second, but long enough to whisper dazlious to himself before he stepped out of the bliss and back into his own office at the corner of this and that in his own world.

he then embarked on yet another imaginary letter in his head: dear buk, you're a pretty good read, but not all lose it around thirty, some keep it burning. regards, sh. he didn't need stamps, for in his mind letters are delivered instantly once they're authored. you see he thinks there's only one mind divided between individuals. the little voices are but only the sound of other random individuals thinking within our vicinity in the universal mind. the only problem is that people in our mental vicinity are almost never geographically close or even known to us. so there's no good way to tell their identity or intentions or even level of sanity.

he's of course nuts to think this, but he likes the idea of others hearing his thoughts in their heads, and maybe once in a while listening to his crazy ideas, and maybe even acting on it only to explain themselves to their friends: the little voices told me to do so. huh, beat that.

i know this guy who thinks he's a little voice inside little heads of little human beings out there. and he makes them do things and see things differently. he thinks it's a funny little world and we're all his funny little puppets. i think he's nuts. he thinks i'm him.

she said it calms her down when he talks to her. he said he doesn't know why but he couldn't discuss this with anyone but him. she said she hadn't felt so good about herself in the longest time. he said he manipulates people's minds into this temporary state of unreasonable lightness, something like a cheap drug, and he talks them into self-appreciation...

it's nice and all that but he doesn't really care for many of them. not that he's a mean person or anything, not the he doesn't like to make people feel good about themselves in general, it's all there. it's just that it's all a massive weak attempt at exonerating himself from his past, when the only one who ever mattered left for this and other reasons, because the very he failed to make her feel good about herself, and because someone else didn't.

ironic.

or not.

or that's how everybody lives their lives, exonerating themselves from their failures, their mess-ups, themselves.

my father has just checked his watch, he’s considering going home. sister is doing the same, and what to do tonight, when to meet p., where to eat, and of course she needs to make time for a shower and a trip to the hairdresser right up the alley only because now she can afford to pay her ten bucks every night to have her hair done right. mom has spent an hour talking to my uncle; recently she’s got to make such phone calls when my dad’s not around, but they’ll get over it soon and daily life prevails as usual. home has started firing up its energy-saving light bulbs, one by one, kitchen first, then the living room and eventually the bedrooms and the bathrooms, except the guest ones of course.

and as all that is happening back there i get on my 6:09 train with manu chao in my ears, bukowski in my hand and a good number of school books in my backpack. i have just finished my first coffee of my daily four, next one to be poured and drunk out of my office mug in exactly 87 minutes now. it’s gray outside, but i’d bet my life it’s going to be just another sunny day with highs in the eighties and lows in the sixties. it’s just another great day to be alive, to work, to breathe, to work, to listen to music, to work and finally to work a little bit more when all is done.

see this is why I can’t write anymore. i’m not sad enough, not drunk enough, not unproductive, not estranged enough. my family is not dysfunctional enough, i mean drama is on and all that, my mom cries all the time and my dad still mishears her worries after a lifetime, but it just doesn’t strike me as disastrous enough. i don’t even hate her anymore, not even that coward of her new boyfriend who used to beat me in basketball when we were still together. my life is not miserable enough, come on life, i know you, what are you waiting for? bring it on damn it. shit I don’t even say fuck as much as I used to. just read bukowski, see that’s why his poems are so powerful, that’s why his books are the first poetry books ever that I actually finish, it’s gotta be the f word, what else? maybe it’s all his women, maybe it’s his meticulous night job, maybe my job is not mundane enough. maybe he was just a bigger asshole than i am, maybe, maybe… maybe i’m simply trying too hard...

the problem is that it’s all been said and done and felt and lied and complained about before. it’s all been observed, most intensely described, most precisely depicted and most passionately denounced. or maybe that’s just me, i’ve lost it, comfortably numb. i don’t bother study the strangers around me anymore, i let the random headlines and silly billboards get away being ridiculously stupid and all that. i’m reading something instead, or maybe even playing sudoku. i don’t even bother write down my ideas, not even the morning shower ones, what’s the point?

gee I can’t even find any differences between myself and the old woman sitting across the aisle from me reading her people magazine. i’m positive her grandson could mistake us for each other from far enough; both have two legs, two hands hanging from our shoulders and a head on top of it all with a gazillion extremely pathetic thoughts inside. maybe i’ve finally become one of ‘them’. maybe i have truly gone ordinary, one in the millions, just another particle, negligible in my entirety, redundant to begin with, insignificant at my best. maybe i’ve always been like this, just too full of myself to admit it.

whatever it is, i’m not complaining. It’s a nice weather outside people, stop reading this, stand up, look around you, breathe, walk away and let it be.

my original version is happy today.

my original version doesn't whine. i mean he doesn't have anything against it, like he's not uptight or anything, he's just too busy living his life. my original version doesn't write his life, doesn't picture it, doesn't even sing it out loud killerdriving his car or deadscrubbing his back under the shower. he flat out lives it.

my original version has the same dreams as i do, i mean obviously everything that i am and own is because of him, the cloning folks made it clear during my orientation sessions. we share the same fears too, same doubts, we even stutter on the exact same letters in the exact same words. i sound intelligent because he is, i look friendly because he's nice, i come across social and gregarious, only because he sincerely cares about and respects all the people around him.

my original version doesn't lie, he doesn't need to. he doesn't cheat or betray or misbehave, that's all me. the fine prints in the iClone manual that came with me clearly state in size 4 italicized times new roman that some or all of the source specimen's behavioral habits may appear distorted or tarnished in the cloned version. my original version believes in ethics, he recycles, flosses religiously and always folds his laundry right after they're out of the dryer.

my original version thinks love exists. no i take that back; he doesn't think, he believes in it because he's in it. he loves himself. he loves his significant other, and that's why his never left him. he's not bitter. he's not angry. he's completely in peace with the world. he doesn't inflict pain upon himself, much less upon those around him, he's not a wreck, he takes sugar in his coffee, he likes happy endings, he doesn't feel sick when he sees happy couples, he walks, never runs.

my original version is happy today. he faces all the problems that i've got, he's got all the same issues, i mean we're technically the same, it's just that he chooses to be happy. he's so original it's not even funny. he doesn't like emails, he writes. he orders fries with his burger and spreads ketchup on his pizza, he just doesn't care what others would think.

my original version never pretends, not to be sad, not to be lonely, not to be depressed. he sticks to reality, rock solid, firm, steady. he never makes up stories in his head, especially when it comes to himself. he never pretends he's somebody else's clone. he is what he is, and i wish i were him, living a happy life.

heartache is contagious.

once infected, the patient becomes a talking medium for the virus. heartache is wordborne, thus those engaged in frequent conversations with the patient are most susceptible to the disease. the odds of infection grows exponentially with the intimacy level of the conversations, although undocumented laboratory experiments suggest intimacy may not be of crucial importance in the transmission of the virus, it's rather the perception of the recipient speciemen that matters the most.

heartache is incurable.

once infected, the patient experiences unprecedented severe nervous breakdowns entailed by periods of neurotic hysterical happiness. while the intensity of such emotional disorders may normalize in time and the patient would instinctively develop ways to suppress his inner struggles, the consequences have been proven to be of a chronic yet permanent nature. the virus is believed to be resistant to all mental, physical, organic and artificial healing solutions known to mankind to this date.

heartache is fatal.

the virus has been ranked among the top three threats to human race. the 2006 annual report of heartbrokens sans frontier recognizes the disease as the fastest growing epidemic of the twenty first centry and calls for immediate actions to be organized through the leading global societies. as cited in the same literature, heartache indeed transforms itself into a variety superficial evils such as rage, greed, infidelity, theft and homicide. the post-traumatic effects have often urged the victims to excel in other endevours such as physicall fitness or financial independence.

heartache is a mindset.

once infected, the patient grdually devolves into a whining machine. he'd have all the reasons in the world to feel blessed and yet he constantly sings soothening eulogies over his past losses as his way of life. as he spreads the disease amongst his intimate aquaintances through his contaminated hollow words, he finds yet more reasons to despise his own self, his life and his surroundings.

heartache is an excuse.

once infected, the patient conveninetly disclaims all responsibilities for his evil actions. denying his free will in its entirely, he cultivates stronger and meaner demons within himself, making the world pay for all the wrong that's been done to him, in his own self-centric view of course.

heartache is fictitious.

she says my feminine side is too strong, other than that i feature all of the common symptoms of persian males, i suffer from mother complex, i'm insensitive to my female partner and i evaluate my life by morales i don't believe in myself.

i'm extremely self-conscious when i'm talking to her. i have become so good at justifying myself it's almost impossible to utter just the facts and nothing else. i have become all story and no reality. everytime i hear her say anything positive about my personality i know i have done it again, i have made myself look good even though i was trying not to. there's nothing good left in me, it's about time i stopped pretending.

i think my feminine side is a venomous bitch. she lies, she sleeps around, she makes her victims feel good about themselves so that their hearts - no matter how hard or frozen - start pumping new crimson blood into their veins like never before, and when she pokes her fangs into their smooth necks from behind their whole bodies throb in satisfaction while she thrives tasting their fountains of fresh blood. she's utterly revengeful. she's been going down ever since she left, and she strives to take as many as she could down with herself.

i think my feminine side is a whore. i think i'm departing her.