I Preferred Her To Any Other Marijuana

I'm working in this nightmare lab, again, and I dunno why still I'm frightened and attached to it. I hear voices from my ex advisor's office. It seems he's interviewing someone and having a good time. He laughs, and I think “what's goin' on? 90% of the time, from Monday to Friday, I'm the only one in the lab, he always seems unsatisfied with my work, I have published four papers as first author, I never skip none of the seminars in the lab... and he doesn't even says Hi when I say Hi”

Suddenly I don't give a f$ck and I leave the lab. I'm determined to never come back.

Then I sense someone walks behind me. Kinda see her face and her body. 

It all happens as in a movie. 

She's NN, a woman whom I felt attracted to when we were in elementary school, a thousand years ago. Obviously, she's now a woman, not a girl. 

She's all dressed in black and she kinda wants to make eye contact with me, so, at some point, it is impossible to get rid off her eyes, and I look at her, directly to the eyes. She smiles. Her lips are enormous. I cannot stop thinking about a paragraph of The naked ape, one in which Lorenz states a relationship between the size of the lips and the size of the vagina. And it is somehow scary.

Suddenly we're having some sort of picnic, between Las Islas and El Paseo de las Facultades. It is a sunny afternoon. She's having tamales. They look warm and nauseating. She says something about tamales and the way they seem a warm vagina. As she says 'vagina', she emphasizes 'vagina' and gives me a strange look. Again, she smiles.

I tell her I don't like tamales, that I eat them once in a year, and I'm about to tell her that my family has a weird tradition, that they have bought tamales in each each funeral I can think of, when she kisses me.

Her saliva is magnetic, strong and hypnotic. I feel like a bee attracted to a beeswax. 

Then I kiss her and I do it remembering the boy I was in elementary school, the one who believed she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Somehow I am on top of her and I can see her face in a very detailed way. Her eyebrows are weird. It seems she just came out from the beauty salon. And, again, I look at her lips and think about what Konrad Lorenz said about lips and vaginas in his book.

NN smiles again and I feel weak and strong and happy and sad, all at the same time, and I want to get laid with her, and I tell her, and she says “Great! Let's do it!”

Then I wake up. 

I Cannot Remember My Own Sanity

I hate myself, I cannot control myself. I like alcohol. I like to smoke. I like women. I can't help it. I'm a monster. I'm just a liar when I keep myself out of trouble, when I tell you “I ran 6 kms today, I drank water, I avoid junk food on a daily basis”. 

When I drink alcohol, I become a monster, and I forget everything, and I say silly things, and I insult people, and I become an animal. You should keep out of my way. 

I cannot stop thinking about this song of The Vines, and flashbacks of the last Thursday appear out of nowhere, and I'm paranoid. I try to focus on my own thoughts, but I feel someone's spying on me. I also feel nauseating and dumb, and I think of Jack Kerouac and the guy I was before I met my wife, and I feel guilty –I'm just an animal–, and another flashbacks appear and I barely remember what I wanted to do when I was totally drunk, and all that I could have done if my wife hadn't been there to take care of me. 

I'm a monster. Never invite me to drink wine.

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.