It Is The Real Thing

I thought we were friends, and now I see that it was more a fantasy than a real thing. I met you a decade ago, or so, and we kept in touch for so many years on Facebook –I don't even remember when was the last time I saw you, but it was probably around 2008, when I got married and invited you to my wedding–, and a few months ago I even tried to make a deal with you –a podcast–, but you said that you were pretty busy –at that time I worked on awful conditions, teaching classes from 1 pm to 6 pm on a daily basis, among other duties– and I just found it arrogant. 

You have changed, you are so radical now. You act like all men are idiots. You confirmed the stereotype I have about writers: they act like if their readers –the rest of the world– are the dumbest humans on Earth. The writers I talk about don't care about nothing but themselves. 

So disappointing.

they keep calling me

i'm drunk. i would like to say that i don't think about you, but i do. i remember your voice, your face, your blonde hair, your hands, your opinions in class. 

instagram has told me that you are still alive. instagram has reminded me of you. and now i am listening to nine inch nails, an old album, and this song makes me feel like i am 25 yrs old.