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.
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