different is good, new is better

it's so different to wake up in the morning without any fear that something might go wrong at work (or elsewhere) today, that someone's going to come to you and push that last button that will make you either burst into flames or spill blood – not your own. i'm exaggerating, of course, but the point is that freedom is sweet and even though i wasn't a firm believer in the change the place, change your luck theory, i'm starting to feel like they might be on to something with that particular one.

it's fun. oversleeping when you work from home, working in your pajamas, taking as many breaks as you want and not going out just to get away from it all or eating lunch on your keyboard while answering the phone just to talk to people who don't really care that ...well, who don't really care about anything other than themselves.

it's so refreshing not to see everyone around you running and running and having that look of exhaustion and despair firmly imprinted on their faces, all wrapped up in a good package of corporate discipline and carefully set goals which they keep checking, one by one, while not an ounce of happiness appears to make up for their accomplishments.

this is a beautiful place. i'm sure it has all i need to go back to my old self, or, even better, to a new self. a new self that loves itself. a new self that's serene, beautiful and happy, one that can heal itself, should anything happen, or just get rid of any of the old junk it's been carrying around for so many years.

i want a new body, a new soul, a new mind that's open to new things.

i want a new me.

i know that's probably not necessary and not even possible, but i really feel that in some way or another, i'm on the right track.

so here's to a new life and a brave new world!

grey hey hey

This is one depressing city. Grey, mad, sad and fucked up at the best of times. Of course, there ARE nice places, but they're doing their absolute best to tear those down, one by one, day and night (mostly night, because they're sneaky fuckers that way), and every damn day you wake up to find another ruin, another pile of debris, another gap in the universe. We're a sorry lot, that's what we are. I need color, people. I am color. Every fucking day I go to work surrounded by a bunch of lemmings in black or grey suits, wearing the same expression of resentment and resolute exhaustion. I have decided. To the best of my ability, I will soon stop being a corporate fuck. Not that I am that, entirely, because I've stopped believing a long time ago.

Ahh. And it's so good to start seeing colors.

mind-blowing shit - i want tickets to this

help?

I know I’ve talked about this before, but I really think I need some help and I don’t know how to go about it.
How do I get over my fears? I know: face them. But how do I get over the fear of facing them in the first place? I seem to be utterly incapable of even thinking about some things without triggering an intense physical reaction that numbs and paralyzes me.
What do I do?

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.