At the Bottom of Everything

So there was this woman and 
she was, uh, on an airplane and 
she's flying to meet her fiancé 
sailing high above the--the largest ocean 
on planet earth and she was seated 
next to this man who, you know 
she had tried to start conversations 
an really--really the only thing 
she heard him say was to order his bloody mary
and she's sitting there and she's reading 
this really arduous magazine article about a 
third world country that she couldn't 
even pronounce the--the name of and 
she's feeling very bored and very despondent
and--and then, uh, suddenly there's this huge mechanical failure and one of the--the engines gave out 
and they started just falling -an- thirty thousand feet 
and the pilot's on the microphone and he's saying, 
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Oh My God, I'm Sorry" 
and apologizing and she looks at the man and she--and she says,
"Where are we going?" and he looks at her and he says, 
"We're going to a party, it--it's a birthday party. 
It's your birthday party, happy birthday darling. 
We love you very, very, very, very, very, very, very much."
And then, uh, he starts humming this little tune and--and, uh, it kind of goes like this, it's kinda:

- 

This is the introduction to a song by Bright Eyes and it caught my attention. :) 

I'm lacking inspiration. 

Your Ex-Lover is Dead

I'm not sorry I met you, I'm not sorry there's nothing to say, I'm not sorry there's nothing to say. 

When there's nothing left to burn, you must set yourself on fire. 

PS: little side note, I'm also doing the whole not-lying-for-a-week thing with Alan and Vicky. Expect a blog post in a week of how that turned out. 

All These Things That I've Done

I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand, 

Another head aches, another heart breaks,

I'm so much older than I can take, 

And my affection, well, it comes and goes

I need direction to perfection, no no no 

(Thanks, Brandon Flowers :D )

Laying on her bed, with her cat asleep on her stomach, she felt complete. Soft music wafted from her stereo and all thoughts of sadness and loneliness were drained from her mind. She simply concentrated on her breathing as her heart swellled with all the love in the world. 

-

I'm listening to Asleep by The Smiths, it always makes me feel different (thanks, Stephen Chbosky). 

She sat down and buckled in. The ride lurched forward and started going up, steadily. Her entire body ached and tears welled up in her eyes. The ride sped up and she moved around, up, down, upside down, the wind blowing in her hair. The speed rushed her and made her cry even harder. This was the only thing that made her feel alive. 

Prefiro desabafar para estranhos anônimos do que para gente que eu conheço; weird. 

Listening to Blink 182 makes me feel young and carefree. Not that I'm old and worried, but y'know. 

"And when i feel like giving up like my world is falling down, I show up at 3 am, she's still watching 'Vacation', I see her pretty face, it takes me away to a better place!"

Preliminar

"I'd always loved the part in movies when a project, or even a person's whole life, came together: the montage, set to uplifting music, where you saw the spunky multicultural kids set aside their differences and fix up the old man's house, straighten the hanging shutters, paint the outside, mow the lawn, and weed the flowerbed; or the twentysomething woman who finally lost weight, dancing through aerobics classes, moping her brow while she rode a gym bike, with a white towel around her neck, and then at last she emerged from the bathroom all cleaned up, bashful but beautiful (of course, she had no idea how beautiful), and her best friend hugged her before she left for the date or party that would be her triumph. I wanted to be that person, and I wanted the in-between time when I improved myself to glide by just that smoothly, with its own festive soundtrack." 

"Sports contained the truth, I decided, the unspoken truth (how quickly we dam ourselves when we start to talk, how small and inglorious we always sound), and it seemed hard to believe that I had never understood this before. (...) To play a great game of high school basketball - it was something I myself had never done, but I could tell - made you know what it was to be alive. How much in an adult life can compre to that? Granted, there are margaritas, or there's no homework, but there are also puffy white bagels under neon lights in the conference room, there's waiting for the plumber, making small talk with your boring neighbor." 

I reread "Prep" for probably the ninth time and each time I read it, I get that "hey, someone gets knows I mean" feeling. Only really really good authors can do that. 

PS: the name of this post is the name of the book in portuguese, but i find it kind of awkward and reminds me of foreplay. 

Do you pick your friends or do your friends pick you? I never know. 

Let's make this last forever

Clutching the cold cup in my hand, I returned to where I'd been sitting, next to the bar, near the dancefloor. The place was packed. I sat up a little straighter, trying to see someone I knew and sipped my drink, nervously. 'This is what I get for having crappy friends,' I thought to myself, angry for being alone at a party on a Saturday Night. 'Definitely better than staying at home, though'. 

I was just surveying the dancing crowd when I saw her. She was also by herself. I had a sip of my drank, suddenly nervous and feeling uncomfortable in my worn out Nikes and faded tshirt. She was in the middle of the dancefloor, dancing. Wearing only a white dress and pink flip-flops, she was gorgeous. Her long brown hair was in a messy pile on top of her head, and her eyelids were covered in green glitter. The song changed and she smiled and continued to dance. 

She stomped her feet on the ground, her hips swaying, she threw her arms over her head. Her long, lithe body pulsed to the music and she jumped up and down when the chorus started. God, she was beautiful. I kept my eyes on her, drinking out of my cup. Another song started and she obviously liked it because she smiled and danced faster. I watched her for a couple of songs, enthralled by her never-ending energy. She definitely looked out of place here. All the other girls were wearing tight, shiny outfits and towered her with their clacky shoes, dancing in tight packs. But dancing by herself, not caring about what other people thought of her being there, of what she was wearing, of her lack of company, she was the only one I could watch. 

I had been in love with her as long as I can remember. I think it started on the first day of third grade. My mom had gelled my hair back and I kept touching it self-consciously, knowing that no one else would have hair like mine. I walked in and saw her. She was barefoot and wearing a stripy shirt and overalls, her messy hair in two braids. Even then, she had long, silky hair. "Hi," I had said, walking up to her. "I'm Jack." She smiled at me, showing me her small white teeth. "I'm Daisy. I'm a turtle." She had then proceeded to crawl all around the classroom at a very slow pace for the rest of they day. 9 years later and she was just as quirky and original. It wasn't like she was excluded, she just preferred being by herself than being with other people. That and her excentric wardrobe had earned her the title of "freak" and caused her to be shunned by our class. I had once confided to my friends about my crush on her and they all had said, "Yeah, she'd go out with you. If she talked to people" and then continued to mock me for the rest of our high school years. 

But high school was over now. It'd been a month since our graduation, when she had decided to go against the 'white dress' rule and had worn a colorful frilly dress and a daisy behind her ear. She hadn't stopped dancing for the past half an hour and now her tan skin was covered by a thin sheen of sweat. She smiled and threw her hands at the ceiling, bobbing her head with the beat of the song. She was electric. 

Without the company of my friends, I felt the urge to do something about the crush I'd had for the past nine years. Feeling bold, I drained my cup and left it on the bar. I approached her and she was still dancing, jumping up and down and singing along. Her back was to me and I could see the flower tattoo on her ankle. I touched her hip lightly.

"Hey," I said. She turned around, her pink lips stretching into a wide smile. 

-

I imagined this as just a description of her dancing, but things sort of lost control. In a good way. 

Addiction

He sat down in his usual chair and jiggled the mouse, the screen coming to life. The cursor dragged over to Facebook. Click, click. He was in and just in time. The little squares were waiting for him. His eyes remainded attached to the screen as he did everything mechanically, harvest, plow, plant, wait. He clicked once more on the buttons and checked his watch. It was 2:33. He set his alarm to 6:33, knowing that everything would be ready by then. He might be a little late to work, but if he didn't log in before, they would all rot and he wouldn't get the coins or the medals. He needed them. He went back to bed and lay down, in his empty bed, thinking about what to plant next. This is what his life had become. 

- 

It's a little pathetic that I just wrote a story about a Farmville addict. This is not in any way based on my life haha just on the fact that I also play Farmville :) 

Translanticism

I need you so much closer, so come on. 'Saudades' doesn't even begin to cover what I feel. Eu te amo muito, neném! 

Minha terra tem palmeiras onde canta o sabiá

Parabéns, Rio, you did it, 2016 é nois. Momentos que nem esse me deixam muito patriota e orgulhosa de ser brasileira. E agora, because i can, vou colocar 'You know you're brazilian when...' do facebook, porque eu tava lendo esses dias e eu majorly agree. haha enjoy my plagiarism. :) 

You think American bathing suits are enormous.
You like Guarana better than Coke.
If someone tells you to be at a certain place at 1:00 pm, you don't show up until 2:30 or 3:00 p.m.
You know who Xuxa and Pele are.
You still argue Pele is better than Maradona.
Your entire family goes to grandma's house on Sundays for a big family get together....even when you guys see each other everyday.
You can name at least 30 novelas and 10000 actors/actresses.
You would rather die than see Argentina beat Brazil in soccer. 
BBQ means steak, sausage, chicken wings, pork, rice, farofa, molho and beer.
You are the loudest person in the room.
You have a Brazilian flag hanging from your car's rearview mirror.
You travel to Brazil and instead of taking a suitcase with all your stuff, you take presents for the entire family, the dog, the neighbor, not to mention the old/used clothes that you take just in case someone needs it.
You're so proud that you're Brazilian you tell everyone.
You leave your house spotless when you have people coming over.
You have a sweet ass (or you like women with them).
You understand & speak Spanish, but when you say a word in Portuguese no one understands you.
You can drop it like it's hot.
Your jokes are always about Portuguese people.
You take soccer too seriously.
You cried when Brazil lost the world cup.
You go to a birthday party,and you can't leave until you take that piece of cake home.
You know what Capoeira is.
You know a lot about Samba and Pagode.
You eat rice and beans at least 7 days a week.
Your breakfast consists of milk and coffee, bread with butter and a piece of cake.
Everyone thinks you're everything but Brazilian.
You know who Os Trapalhoes, Turma da Monica, Zico, Caetano Veloso, Tom Jobim, Elis Regina, Ronaldinho, Jo Soares, Cazuza, Gilberto Gil, Silvio Santos, Roberto Carlos, Ayrton Senna, amd Carmem Miranda are.
You go to a bar and ask for salgadinhos with guarana.
You are so used to corruption that nothing surprises you anymore.
You know how to play dominoes and cards.
You have a sense of fashion.
You wear slippers..a lot!
You know how to play volleyball and handball.
You take pictures everywhere you go.
You know what it's like to buy liquor without an ID.
You know how to party, and if the party isnt over after 5am...its not a party!
Any holiday...being it official or not, is an excuse to stay home from work and take a week vacation.
You know what feijoada and pave are.
Your favorite drink is Caipirinha.
You dress up to go to the supermarket.
You spend an entire day at the beach.
You are too friendly.
You like it hot and sweaty. Both in and outside of the bedroom.
You make friends everywhere you go. 
Cachaca rocks your pants off. 
You grew up dancing/singing to Xuxa.
Easter is incomplete without bacalhau.
You own havainas in every color imaginable. 
You went to Disney World for your 15th birthday. 
No meal is complete without rice, farofa and feijao. 
You'll fly Varig even if it's a little more expensive because it's Brazilian.
You like mayonnaise on your hot dogs and Americans think you're crazy for it. 
You love coracao de frango. 
You own a pair of white pants. 
You know what bossa nova and pagode is. 

You know you're brazilian when you nodded while reading the things above. :) 

-

Right now there's kind of alot going on in my head, então I'll probably post a story here later. :) 

Lanky

She rushed upstairs, took off all her clothes and ran to the bathroom. Her mother had gotten rid of all the scales since the last time they went to the doctor but that wasn't going to stop her. She was determined. 

Placing her thin back against the wall, she drew a dot on the wall where her hips where. Stepping back to admire her work, she saw the size hadn't changed since yesterday. Frustrated, she threw the black pen on the floor. Standing there in her light blue underwear, she thought she was hideous. She picked up the pen and stared at her white skin. "Fat," she declared, her eyes welling with tears. She placed the pen on her stomach, a black mark tainting her porcelain skin. She frantically started writing on her stomach and when that was filled, she moved on to her legs, then her arms. 

She looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She tugged at her yellow hair that hang down from her head. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her dark eyes bugging out at her. She took a step back and inspected her body. The words 'not good enough' were scrawled all over her body in her spiky handwriting, and that's exactly how she portrayed herself. Just not good enough. 

- 

Because we were talking about anorexia one of these days in class.