The tear whisperer

You would think that all men are equipped with the same quantity of tears. What with all men being considered equal and such. Over the years, however, I came to the realization that yours truly, of all people, seem to have an inexhaustible source, because believe you me, I use them tears quite liberally, and I never seem to run out.

I guess most people cry when they’re sad. Some also cry when they’re deliriously happy (there’s also some sort of squealing involved in most of such cases, but I digress).

Well, no, not me.

I cry when I’m sad, I cry when I’m happy, I cry when the sun don’t shine from the right angle, I cry when I’m frustrated, I cry when I watch movies, I cry watching cartoons (some, ok?), I cry when I do nice things for other people and I realize I’m actually a wonderful person, I cry when I develop scenarios of nice things that I could do (but never actually get to the point of doing)…. Let’s just say I cry a lot.

And whoever tells you that crying ain’t contagious, doesn’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Miss C. almost predictably gets runny-nosed and puffy-eyed when she so much as hears me sob. IN THE DARK. So there.

My question is this: what if I DO run out of tears just when I need them the most? When I really have something serious to cry about? What if I go dry to the point of complete dehydration just then? What will I do instead?

I shudder to think of the mad woman impression - , which I am now, and have been for so long, trying so hard to conceal - I will then, finally, begin to project.

Will keep you posted.

Sniff.

all i wanna do is

Would you be my Valentine?

Ok, first of all: not a big fan. Don’t really get it. I call it Ballantine’s Day, but that doesn’t really have any bearing on what my actual point is going to be.

Anyway, what I was going to say was this: why do people need ONE day in a year to celebrate their temporary/never-ending/cheesy/chaste/crazy/punch-drunk love in an over-the-top exhibitionist display? Why one day?

Getting to my point any second now.

I have a suggestion, in the shape of a question mark. How about celebrating your love for that special human being EVERY day, every minute, every second of a year, and then on that particular day when all of the others run around like headless chickens with little hearts on top, you just kick back, relax, have a beer and watch some old movies with your better half? Seriously, how much cooler is that? Because we got the love coursing through our veins; if it’s there, it won’t go away so easily, we have plenty of reserves that just get bigger and better with every new smile and every new hug we get from THAT person. It’s enough to go around, it’s certainly enough to cover 364 out of the 365 days of the year.

So how about it? Huh, huh?

life's little surprises

ahh...the incredible joy of being told, at 7:07 AM this morning, that I could go back to sleep, because it's Saturday...such a relief.

The shit we do when we’re drunk. Or in love.

I know I’m not alone in saying, with all the sincerity that I can muster, that when we get drunk or fall in love, our IQ drops exponentially and we pretty much forget everything that everyone’s ever told us NOT to do.

There’s also the unfortunate case when you’re in love AND you get drunk because the feeling’s not mutual and you don’t know any better. The desperate texts, the emotional blackmail – which never works, and even though you know it doesn’t, you conveniently choose to forget (it’s hardly a matter of choice, really, but still), the stalking, the harassment. Oh God, it’s all so humiliating.

What’s even more tragic is that after a while, when we cool down, when the madness passes, most of the time we realize that it wasn’t even worth it. That deity we worshiped is just another human being, just like us, maybe worse, and after all, as the saying goes, we all shit the same. He, he. I just threw that in there for good measure, things were getting a little too weepy.

Of course, as it so happens, to add insult to injury, most of the time we choose to act like idiots in public, as some sort of self-torture because of course exhibitionism also kicks right in. So more bad shit. If you’re really lucky, nobody takes pictures.

What we’re left with, after all that torment and all that drama, is one little question: what the fuck was I thinking?

Pedal to the metal

I hate speed. I don’t mean the drug. The kind of speed that makes everything whoosh right by when you’re driving (or when someone else is – even worse). I never got the fascination, the thrill, the hard-on about speed, I only got the fear. Yes, another fear, go figure.
Do you think there’s some kind of hypnosis-based therapy that could help me get over it?
I’d definitely like to try it.

just because I love this

Dreams

I should definitely start writing down my dreams. I tell you my friends, there is some really freaky shit going on there sometimes. If only I could remember it all when I wake up, it’s so frustrating. Going back to sleep in a big hurry, pretending that the wake-up never happened, doesn’t help either.
Damn it.

indeed

that is all.

The collector

We are all collectors of some kind. Whether we collect stamps, postcards, stories, experiences, things or people, we just love to have some sort of personalized exhibition to enjoy whenever we wish, and share with whomever we please.

Some of us do it consciously, others let nature take its course and live their lives while the collection grows by itself and they just wake up one morning and realize it’s there.

Collectors of people are the most interesting kind. They go through life acting as though they have dozens of different shelves, with boxes and jars and pantries with nooks and crannies filled with all the people that they’d ever crossed paths with – or swords, or hearts – and they can just pick one up and use him (or her) exactly when and how they desire. I think I’ve been in one of those collections myself. Alas, I managed to escape.

My own collection, I should say, is not necessarily the enjoyable kind. It’s more of the kind that you just want to put away somewhere and maybe forget about it altogether, but that’s not really possible. I collect fuckups. Of the human persuasion. Well, I used to, anyway. I seemed to have an unfathomable capacity to attract fuckups, and ultimately get fucked up in the process. Which is probably why I ended up having an incredibly low self-esteem and being scared of so many things I can’t even remember them all, until they hit me in the face.

Now that I think about it, I was probably wrong.

I collect fears. Even worse, I think they collect me.

Here's to all of them: