sear those thoughts of me, alone and unhappy

Supposedly, this song reflects «a desperate, broken state of mind», mixing drug use and co-dependent relationships. I got this info from Reddit and Google AI, they even quote Billy Corgan's interviews from different sources. 

Why I am listening to this song? 

Apart from this question, it sickens me to write in my cellphone: I'm almost unable to write a single word, the style corrector “predicts” what I want to write and it always fails and I always have to re-write what I want to write, cellphones always remind you that you're another human in the world, just like everyone... Anyway, I'm awake from 4:30 AM and I got up from bed and as usual I bled and wrote my glucose levels on a notebook and wrote what I did and thought about my most recent days on earth on another notebook, while I was sort of pissed.

Yesterday I woke up and checked my e-mail, the Editor in chief from Current Behavioral Neuroscience Reports informed me that they accepted for publication this MS I wrote between July and August 2025, that I left aside from September to October 2025 and that I formatted and submitted it to Psychopharmacology on December 2025, the Editor in chief from that journal told me that «they had more job than they could handle» and recommended me to send the MS to Current Behavioral Neuroscience Reports.

Then, between December 24th and 25th, I re-formatted the MS and submitted it to Current Behavioral Neuroscience Reports (I'm ommiting the part of reading the requirements of each Journal —Cover Letter, scopes, references and citations, abstract extension, etc.—, and uploaded all the files to the system of each Journal and, before all of this, I'm ommiting the part of finding an appropriate Journal for the MS); more or less, and after I had to make another style corrections asked by the Editor of the Journal, I received a response from the Journal on January-February 2026, in which they informed me that they had asked 10 reviewers to check the MS...

Then I received an e-mail with the referees comments' on March and the Journal gave me nearly 3 weeks to resubmitted the corrected MS with a point-by-point PDF directed to the referees... Those were unusual weeks —the Yorkshire of my sister in law got very sick and its condition worsened in a few days, after a long week my sister in law decided to say goodbye to her Yorkshire, it was so sad, then my wife got very ill and ended up in ICU, it was awful, my wife was so sick, I never felt so sad and vulnerable...

For the first time in my life, I had to ask for an extension, the Journal gave it to me, and I worked and worked on Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays, I almost went nuts, but re-discovered how much I enjoy this specialized job —intelectually, creatively and emotionally demanding, besides being hard-working—, and resubmitted the MS to Current Behavioral Neuroscience Reports a week ago.

Yesterday, as I wrote, I received an e-mail and the Editor in chief informed me that it was accepted for publication. As I am not officially the Corresponding Author —even though I did all the Corresponding Author job—, I can't proceed with the next steps. And I'm sort of pissed off 'cause these guys I'm eventually working with, don't give a f#$k. I sent them a WhatsApp nearly 24h ago and they haven't given me an answer. And I understand, we are on Sunday, yesterday was Saturday, we are in the middle of holidays. But I'm also aware that one of these guys I'm working with called me, out of nowhere, on a Saturday of July 2025, while I was having breakfast with my wife in a Toks, to remind me «You have to write this MS» (obviously, then I had already started to write this MS) and then, between August and September made another “out of nowhere”-call, to demand my attention on why did I put myself as Corresponding Author and First Author in the MS  This MS is part of a deal these guys I'm working with proposed me on June 2025. They paid me off 3 months, I worked from September to April without receiving incomes. They told me we would speak of businesses when the MS would have been accepted for publication. It was accepted for publication yesterday. And they just haven't answered.

Who understands? What's the point? I wouldn't be so pissed off, if he just hadn't called me up whenever he needed to talk with me. Assuming that I'm always able to talk. Each time I try to call him up he's not able. It seems that I have to make an appointment.

Do you see it? I hate this isn't reciprocal.

Writing and submitting this MS and responding the referees comments' to this MS was a though job; don't get confused: to start from scratch and get accepted for publication in nearly 6 months, it's not usual, it's not standard, it's that I am good at my job.

And I'm so proud of it. This is the third MS I publish in 3 consecutive years. I can write and publish in peer-reviewed journals by myself. I don't need anyone. Sometimes, it would look like no one cares, not even the co-authors. Sometimes, it would look like this isn't relevant. Sometimes, it would look like I didn't do the job: that I just followed orders and that, when I say that I write, I say it 'cause I read a poem on a Mother's Day Festival at elementary school and my mother and my grandmother listened to it and told me «You're a wonderful writer!»

We see people brand new people

As I register and tell my name to a woman at the entrance of the auditorium and sign a sheet and she gives me a gift backpack, a folder with several documents and a badge with my name, I sort of remember that I came here, to this very auditorium, almost 20 years ago. Those were different times, I was just an inexperienced guy with a degree in Psychology, months ago I had just graduated from the School of Psychology. The opportunity to start as a teacher of a Motivation & Emotion course appeared out of nowhere. One of the members of my thesis jury used to work at Ibero, and I didn't know it, but then, at some point of the review process of my thesis, I asked him if he knew how could I get involved into academia, that I wanted so hard to acquire experience in teaching, all I had done was to give two or three classes of one of the courses of my advisor. 

I've been exhausted all week, between Monday, Tuesday and Friday I teached 12 hours of classes, I still haven't adapted to this new stage of my life. I've also been writing a manuscript, it's a collaboration that someone proposed to me, this manuscript will be the second manuscript I write in 2025. Honestly, I haven't enjoyed the writing process, I am working against the clock, is not fun. I've been so busy that I haven't been able to go out for a run. For the last two weeks I've been waking up very early in the morning and starting to write this manuscript and studying and working for classes, and fixing some demanding bureaucratic issues. A month ago I was relatively free.

As I walk through the auditorium, I wonder how much the university will pay me. I can't stop worrying about money; it's a pain. I'm a Level 2 National Researcher, which isn't easy; I should receive the salary corresponding to this distinction, but all year I've been looking for an opportunity; I sent almost 15 applications for full-time permanent academic positions to almost 10 universities. None of them saw my potential.

Anyway, I look for a spot, find it, sit down, and have a flashback. I remember that Saturday, it must have been January 2005, I was completely different from who I am now, the only person who'd ever loved me had just sent me to hell, I didn't know how to teach a course, I was so näive, still lived at my parents house. 

I take a deep breath, I should be writing this manuscript. 

Then I see you. You're in the front row, your straight, horsehair-like hair drawing me in. It's so hypnotic and shiny. As if sensing that kind of mental empowerment, you slowly turned your head to the left. I sat to your right, and our eyes make contact. You're smiling at nothing, wearing magnifying glasses. I can't help but glance briefly at your breasts, and I'm shocked. I'm stupid. I shouldn't be thinking this. I wonder what it would have been like to meet you 20 years ago, I wonder what it would have been like to have sex with you. 

I'm sure I'll continue writing this manuscript when I get back home, but I'm sure I'll drink a couple of Jim Beams and also write a story about us, about how we met 20 years ago in a frivolous world, while academia is collapsing and we're listening to this Iggy Pop song about humans being like ice machines.

I was sitting there in a comfortable chair

I walked out from this dream in which I was simultaneously a PhD student and a young professor teaching a Neuroscience course, the classroom was a big auditorium at the School of Medicine, we were more than 200 students and the place was barely enough for so many students. As a student for some reason I was late and I had to sit between a couple of men in a pretty awkward position. I felt suffocated and anxious and irresponsible. Like if that were not my place in the world.

Dunno why but I had no notebook but a Telecaster. It must have been 9 or 10 o'clock, the auditorium and the students reminded me of my first days as a PhD student in a Neurochemistry course in an auditorium at the Institute of Cellular Physiology, it was humid and hot, just like the weather between summer and autumn. At times, the place also seemed a fancy party hall.

As I felt awkward in this seat between a couple of men, I saw myself in front of the audience, as a professor. I was not exactly myself, but I knew I was the professor, it was some sort of a weird doppelganger. I saw myself as an enthusiastic professor, I looked like this guy performing Matthew Kimble, the brother of the main character of The new adventures of old Christine, maybe he appeared in my dream 'cause I recently saw him on Fargo, his real name is Hamish Linklater, but in my dream he was me and he was not an actor but a neuroscientist, and he was pretty young. He had a few tics, he constantly stuck out his tongue while he spoke and ran his tongue over his upper lips, he looked natural and enthusiastic. He had long, somewhat curly hair. His hair was so pretty. He was wearing a blue long-sleeved Benetton shirt, quite similar to the one I have. I kinda sensed that girls adored him, each time he spoke and ran his tongue over his upper lips and kept sort of freezed for a second or two, looking into infinity, perhaps organizing his thoughts, girls sort of murmured and sighed. The situation was funny, it didn't seem a PhD course, but a bachelor's degree course.

Hamish-myself walked in front of the blackboard with great confidence, and he spoke about the brain and how we have brain circuits for building a pencil and also a spaceship, but he really only touched these topics superficially. He looked pretty happy. He really seemed to enjoy his job.

Somehow, he took us to a place in which neuroscience seemed so cool and important, but, as I mentioned, he only touched these topics superficially. Nonetheless, the audience looked satisfied. At a point, he gave us a brief recess in which he took a marmalade sandwich or something like that, he said he hadn't had breakfast. Suddenly Hamish neuroscientist was sitting next to me, the couple of men had disappeared, and he smiled at me and winked, like if he knew we were the same person. One girl or two approached us and asked him if he'd ever play guitar just for fun, maybe at the end of the course. Then I realized Hamish had told the students he also play electric guitar and I thought of my Telecaster and wanted so hard to play a song.

I'm listening to this White Stripes album, I read somewhere that it was released 20 years ago and I think of you, the phone calls we had 20 years ago, when I had just bought Get Behind Me Satan and was so obsessed with you and dreaming about you while listening to this album. Did you remember me and saw me as I saw myself in this dream?

estrella de miel tan beautiful

I'm drunk, I've heard the echoes of your loneliness and I've inhaled the signature of your hair, I'm drunk on you, I've seen your new nose and I'm in love with it, it really fits you, it resembles your original nose but it's better than your original nose, it really fits you, and I no longer want to think why you had cosmetic surgery. 

While we spoke about nothing and the apocalyptic sun was hiding behind the clouds of this sandy sky, two days ago, upon arriving in Monterrey, I just wanted to be so close to you, dunno why but I have a feeling we could have been friends in another time, maybe if we had known each other decades ago. So, as the van crossed the city and drove us from the airport to the Safi hotel, I just wanted to be free, to have a smoke with you, to drink a bottle of wine with you.

Now I'm drunk on your nose, on your loneliness, on your hair, on your moves, on your eyes. 

I'm feverish, lying in the bed of this room, 890 km away from home, closing my eyes, in the dark, thinking of you, trying to dream of you, in my dream we're here, in this bed, earlier you looked at me, you were on your knees, and I couldn't believe it, it was finally happening.  

Antes de tres lunas volveré a por ti

Last night I was feeling a little dizzy and nauseous, before going to bed I'd eaten a bag of very greasy potato chips. I was watching a movie. I'd seen it before, but just finished reading the book in which it's based on this week. While Tom Waits as Renfield was eating a couple of bugs and I sort of pictured myself acting in the same character as him if someone had asked me to, suddenly I thought of you. 

Perhaps I'd checked my Instagram open account earlier and your profile appeared as “suggested for you”.

At a first glance, I did not recognize you. Dunno remember when was the last time I saw you, I just know it must have been on September, at the end of an Interdisciplinary Project class. There you told me that you were going to Poland, or something like that, on an academic mobility stay. You told me that you couldn't take the last part of the course and you asked me if it was OK for me. So much time has passed since then. I've been out of college for almost half a year, I started writing a MS, the MS was published a week ago in Pharmaceuticals, I've been surviving, I got sick...

In my dream I was walking thru the alleys of a weird high school, it looked like the typical high school I've seen in movies. It was a sunny day, I had a stomach ache, I wanted to threw up. Somehow I saw you in a bathroom, it was really dirty and it made me sick. You said “Hi” and smiled. Although I was feeling so bad, your presence sort of woke me up. Then I walked out of the bathroom and into a classroom and I felt so powerful as if I were a Roman emperor. 

I just woke up a few minutes ago, and I cannot stop thinking of this song by Mikel Erentxun.