16 Years of Emotion Timetables

The internet can't satisfy my needs anymore, it seems.

I have been putting off this blog because no one seems to like it, but for my sake, I need some distraction and StumbleUpon seems to be repeatedly taking me to images of midget dogs wearing shoes and sunglasses, and it's pretty cute, but it's not doing "it" for me right now.

I wish random Geocity-style websites were still around, for me to laugh at the nostalgic retro-ness of neon green large fonts over tiled backgrounds of low-quality pixelated landscapes, the kind you need to highlight the text to fully read and comprehend. Thank god for Tripod still reminding us that this is once what the internet was.

Or maybe a blog that actually documented someone's life until that twist, that fatal turn we all spend our dreams fantasizing. That one event that changes everything, the one that you find introducing you to a new world of colors, and emotions, shaping your existence completely, no matter how small it is. A big hand dipped in magenta dye, that embraces you so hard that the color is now tattooed on your skin. My biggest dream is to end my life as a rainbow.

In reality, however, there aren't many choices we can make. My self-proclaimed "bald, creepy old" English teacher first showed me how, really, the courses of each one of us aren't dictated by what we want, so maybe the turn isn't even a decision we make, but just a gift of randomness, so subtle at times that you confuse it for the brand-new kettle your best friend gave you for Christmas two years ago, the kettle with the poodles you seemed to hate, but now treasure like it's made of gold.

Most of what happens later on in life is born out of... well... where you're born out of. None of us gets to choose our birthplace, our eye color, our height, and certainly not our family. Souls make all differences, and mine fits my Italian nightmare like a life-size horseshoe on the purple plastic of the newest My Little Pony.

Believe it or not, I'm used to what many of you would think of as "verbal abuse" and "domestic violence". I wish it was the love that had blinded my heart from feeling the weight of the many tensions that inhabit my small apartment here in the world's Fashion Mental Institution. We'd need a mansion to make them all feel at home. But no, it was time that has made everything "easier" and more uncomfortable. I know what happens after every single discussion my still-married-but-no-longer-loving parents have. I know that it's followed by words that I picture as golden coming from my mom's dreamy Portuguese voice: talks of going back to our country, leaving him and everything else behind, "starting again". I could picture myself living in Leblon, another small apartment, but with extra room to fill with excitement and thrill.

The talks would continue as the post-fight ice slowly melted away from our minds. The initial rich yellow glowing color of the majestic tone of my mother would start to fade as she post-poned our getaway... until it wasn't Brazil anymore, and until it didn't involve me changing schools, and then it disappeared. In my head, obviously the glorious dream-haven I live(d) in, the ghost of those worlds made for great mental adventures. I knew that if my mother had the courage of doing what she seemed to promise, we'd all be glad now, but it's that green hint of fear, fear of loneliness, regret, or even worse, guilt. Why those might occur, that I won't explain, but they always thought that hope and expectation were the public bathrooms at the Frat party, puking all over them and ruining them all one after the other.

Now I know. She still tries to ooze me, and the blonde haze glimmers in my head like a lost sparkle, like the twinkling star of Neverland in the night sky of early Disney movies, but nothing more than that. A new gray-like emotion fills my whole when she talks, it's predictability, at times invisible. She is nice though, she makes me smile.

The Eternal Struggle - Time Machine Edition

Welp.
I don't even know what that expression is for, but I think the the spelling is appealing, so "welp" everybody.

I thought about making a post on my dreadful return to the Boot, but then I realized no one would have truly wanted to read all about me glorifying death to the human race as I strut down an airport, covered in sweat and annoyance. Believe it or not, War Piggin' at 5:30 AM actually helps in those situations.

So, instead, I'll rave on about the ordinariness of my average international high school student day. Definitely more intriguing to hear of some good old drama than my hate for Pastaland, that I think is quite obvious at this point.

Except, there's no drama with me. Typically, I look like a bad version of an "Everybody Hates Chris" extra, which is more than ironic. But what can I say? Kitsch retro patterned blouses and flared pants are my weakness, and I have few virtues already. So, with a person like me, the not-so-stereotypical "freak-o" around town it's not like I get much "juice" in my... can?

Today, I caught my bus.
Got to school.
Had physics class with our school's very own Jimmy Paige hair-impersonating Hannah Montana hidden musician teacher in disguise.
Had Italian class with the most boring pseudo-philosophical woman in the universe.
And then lunch.
And history.
And that damn Personal Project bullshit I just won't explain.

I was also hoping to finally brace my fingers on a new lovely bass guitar but surprise, that did not happen.

I should start to seriously consider locking myself up in a Tardis, I mean Love Boat would love to borrow my wardrobe.

It's time for Chris to be loved and not hated.
Welp.

Sting on my friend, sting on.

I despise first posts.
They are like introductions.
But I'm guessing the only way you can really know someone is by, well, being with them, so be with me and you'll get to know me.

That was my formal introduction to this very new way I'm experimenting with to communicate to the world the pains of procrastination, and serve as a negative example to future kids of what not to do with an internet connection.

Either way, I suppose that what I do now is exaggerate a simple story, to make a pretty normal day seem great, or to make myself feel better than I am. That's what typing in a little white box is for. I also have another blog back on hipsterville, but here I'm actually trying to sound intelligent.

Today was a day of great beginnings. The emptiness I felt on new year's, right when the countdown struck midnight of January 1st, I was able to acquire through pain. No, this is not a story on how self-harming is good for you, as a means to obtain "a controversial edge" to the post, but rather, me discussing tattooing.

Isn't it intimidating to walk into a tattoo shop? Especially with a tie-dye shirt. My fear of being labeled and shipped off to a categorical stereotype destination in someone's mind definitely did not help in that sense, but I made it through the glass exit door, so it mustn't be atrocious. Not to the "atrocious" level.

I was told to rummage through a magazine for inspiration, but every page I turned I saw the usual wings for fly-away dreamers; infinity symbols for the ones afraid of the unknown or graphic expressions to the breast sizes of ideal women. Not like the birds on my ankle, that I ended up getting, were less likely to be gained a first impression upon. Not such a good one by the tough tattooers.

After the suspense build-up, that occurred dramatically between stencil-making, and numerous bodily accidents that caused me to leave the store numerous times, I was finally walked upstairs. It looked like a hospital bed.

The improbable surgeon, who's pattern colored muscular endless arms held the most unwelcoming of devices, which in turn made the most dreadful sounds, proceeded to cut my skin slowly, and painfully. Of course, I expected pain. Who wouldn't? Especially after said surgeon makes sure to announce that the pain could be unbearable.
"You could be lost at any second, but do not move, do everything but move"

Without moving there's little one can do. So I thought.

Thinking is one of those things no one seems to practice anymore. Thoughts are now just random information that one examines in his mind. I still believe much thinking we end up doing in our lives in useless, but it's important to remind ourselves that reflecting serves a purpose. I don't do that often, seeing as I'm impulsive, but to stop and meditate is a great experience to clear one's self off any worrisome or paranoid fear.

Obviously, the conclusions I reached weren't that articulate, while someone cut through my skin what would you expect, but I mostly thought about how emotions and pain itself could mean different things to people. With language, we generalize a concept or idea. Take love, to you in might mean hearts and chocolates, to him it might mean fancy dinners and royal hotels, and to me it might mean sex. This is a hypothetical situation, let's remember.

Pain too. To someone, what I felt today (and I'm feeling now) might not even be close to pain. To me it was, but what if it wasn't.

The moral of me tattooing three bird on my leg is that everything could be nothing, and our language and definitions aren't anyone's but ours.