Monday, January 23, 2006

De acerbitas

No.
I'm not Holden Caulfield, nor a demon, nor a wolf.
I am the smiling mother-fucker in the mirror that stare and says: "Glad to say I told you so."

I feel guilty for thinking this, but I'm proud enough to not writing it: My father has ceased to be a warrior to become a vampire. Stealing life around, absorbing auras, sucking souls...

Killing me softly with his love...

Jo, jo, jo.

This next week was supposed to be MY week: my mother at Veracruz; and my father in his own house, with his own (sorry, I must say it) family. You wouldn't believe at what heights my effectiveness reaches when I am alone.

I like to fix things, I like to clean my room, to read and re-read books, to cook, to write, to check and answer my mail... I'm such a geek that I like to recreate famous plays from chess championships; also, being a nerd, I like to make bibliographical cards of the books and films that I have experienced.

I like to be a normal twenty-ager also. I like to play Slayer and Venom and Cliff Burton's Metallica at the maximus possible decibels, drinking mezcal and yelling to the cat; or play Nick Cave or The Smiths or Cash or Joy Division, below a dark beer and while drinking a soft light.

I like to write my nonsense to the skeletons in my closet with Lennon at my right and Hume to my left... like now.

My father went on friday and he will return tomorrow, and I feel like shit for saying that I don't want him here.

I'm being pierced by this rusty blade of sadness, and, at my 22 years old, I feel tired; I don't want to carry this weight, I didn' ask for this.

I don't want it. I don't need it.

My grades speak for themeselves: the only 10 I got stands for the most hedious essay I ever made (the one about Pitagoras and the islamic art), I got the most mediocre grade of all (a 7) in one of my favorite classes, and I will get even worse grades on the subsequent subjects, due to my total lack of respect of myself.

I hate to dissapoint the teachers I admire and care about. But I hate more to dissapoint myself, even if I don't admire or care about myself.

I hate to be absent in my friends' parties because I'm handing over insulin or re- wiring the damn water-heater that accidentally jammed at midnight.
I don't know why, in Satan's name, people like me.

Frankly, I don't even know if I LIKE me.

The pain has always been part of life.

On the physical side, I have been hit, kicked, forced to faint, bit, scratched, slashed, burned, and stabbed.
On the spiritual side, I just have felt (and feel) cosmicly dissapointed.
On the psychological side, I have been in love and not been corresponded, I have hurt girls both incidentally and on porpouse, and I have been an outcast and a misfit more than twice.

But nothing... nothing compares to the emptiness of the inability to count on oneself.

The beer doesn't makes my soul numb anymore.
The whiskey feels dry and taste like defeat.

This night is my first night with myself in many, many time. And probably, the last one.

Myself is ill, Gabriel is rotten, and I can't do anything to help them... except writing these nonsense posts.

Fucking hurray.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Not always of course, but...

You're Holden Caulfield.  You've grown up with very high expectations to bear, and suddenly it all seems too much to handle.  Everyone and everything seems phony to you, and you've become
You're Holden Caulfield. You've grown up with very
high expectations to bear, and suddenly it all
seems too much to handle. Everyone and
everything seems phony to you, and you've
become wildly cynical. You're still desperate
to find meaning in the human relationships
around you, but no one seems to really
understand what you're all about.


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