Stormy Weather

It was raining cats and dogs in Buenos Aires. Literally. It always rains cats and dogs in Buenos Aires, and it inundates the streets. Especially the one I happen to live in, so its fun to see how cats and dogs fall over the edges of the road at first, covering the drains systematically. Its then turn for the rain to fall, heavily, like it doesn't fall anywhere else, almost like someone with giant buckets of water was throwing them at us with anger. It is fun until I realize that I have to be part of that apocalyptic scenery to start the day. At first I felt reluctant to leave my shelter. I schemed excuses in my head. But everyone else was facing their responsibilities, I had no special excuse to be exempt from swimming to work.
I turned to open my "rain closet", where I keep an umbrella, a pair of rubber boots, a diving suit, goggles, an inflatable boat and an inflatable vest that I stole once from a plane. I didn't take the boat that day, I figured that everyone at work would take one too and the closet to store them would be full. The last time this happened, we all got them confused and many of us couldn't find our own. I dressed myself in normal clothes, and wore the diving suit on top. I also decided to wear the goggles.
Leaving the apartment building was hard, again. I couldn't open the door because the water pushed it back inside. All the tenants had agreed to change the direction in which to open it but none of us ever got to it. So every time it rains it takes a long time to struggle against the door until it is possible to open it. When it actually is, water runs inside the building's hall, dragging along some cats and dogs.
This time I couldn't open the door and no one seemed to be around to help me. I kept pushing it but almost a meter of water had already accumulated. I was too late for work and frustrated, so I decided to stop pushing and wait for someone to help me. I saw a family rowing to school and work, lots of people swimming, a woman making her way around by jumping from bus roof to bus roof and a man sitting peacefully high up on a tree contemplating the whole scene. I wished I could just sit like this man, to watch the whole world go crazy and waterlogged.
When the old woman from the 2nd floor joined me in the struggle to open the door I was already two hours late for work, so I dived into the watery street and swam as fast as I could. This was made difficult by the vast amount of boats blocking my way.
No one at the office seemed to care that I was horribly late, they were all concerned with their own issues. Rainy days posed an inconvenience for all of us, and especially this day water kept falling uncontrollably from the sky.
Everyone at the office made me fuzzy, so I left, deciding to make the best of the city under water. I swam along the most crowded streets, witnessing various discussions between people that didn´t even seem to know each other. I got to the bridge next to Facultad de Medicina and sat. Avenida del Libertador was a proper river by now and cars looked rather picturesque floating around, smashing tree tops and buildings.
The rain stopped and the whole city was beautifully quiet.

Monsters under my bed

I used to check systematically for monsters under my bed. Not a night went by without me telling myself that I wouldn't bother kneeling again to take a quick look. I though to myself that I never found any monsters, that I was just going on my knees in search for something that I would never find. I tortured myself every night before going to sleep, begging myself not to repeat this senseless ritual.
Some nights I would get into bed without checking, and sleeping was impossible. I would toss and turn for hours, realizing that making sure that there were no monsters under my bed was the only way for me to get some sleep.
I guess it was fine for me to feel the need to check "just in case". The problem was: what if I actually found a monster under my bed? What did I expect to do? What was I going to say?
This went on for years and years. Even if I had had the most exhausting day I could not resist from bending and looking for something hiding under the mattress. Until I saw someone. And it was no monster. As a matter of fact, she was not even close to being one. Under my bed, the most beautiful woman in the whole world was smiling at me, and with that smile I froze. All those nights of looking for a horrible creature that would threaten my life had lead to finding a beautiful woman lying on the floor and smiling at me! After staring at her for what felt like an eternity I stood up dizzily and pinched myself to make sure I was not dreaming. As I didn't seem to be sleeping, I said to her: "Um...hi...I'm Greg. Wanna come out of there?" I heard no response, so I went on my knees again to find the floor under my bed empty like any other night.
After the disappearance of that incredible and surprising sight I could no longer sleep. She could be there while I was unconscious and missing the chance to get to know her. I spent millions of nights awake, waiting for her to make a new appearance. My tendency to check under the bed for monsters became a more preoccupying one: I was now willing to find someone, someone that had now shaken up every aspect of my life. I didn't sleep anymore, I barely worked. My life revolved around the event of finding that woman again and knowing what had brought her there.
After a year of constantly hoping that she would show up again, proving that she must had had an interest on being there in the first place, I lost my faith. That exciting event that had changed my life and beliefs was probably not meant for the simple guy that I was. It must had been a mistake. I had to go back to my normal life or I would be sucked into an obsession that would lead nowhere.
I overcame with time my tendency to look under my bed. I try not to think about the fact that she is probably there, laughing at the fact that I succumbed into an obsession after seeing her for a few seconds. I try my best to forget about her and move on with my life. After all, if she ever decides to visit me again, she knows that I once cared enough not to sleep for countless nights thinking about her. She will maybe come out and we will meet again.

The day I Iost my way

The day I lost my way started off as a pretty normal one. I left home, went to work, spaced out for 6 hours, had lunch, spaced out for an extra hour, answered emails, said goodbye and left. I usually found my way back home using the CN Tower as a reference. Now, I guess everyone does so, since she is especially useful at night with her colored lights. But this day in particular, she was nowhere to be found, so I had no idea how to come back home. I walked to the right. I am aware of the fact that Torontonians, or rather, citizens in general have a basic knowledge of street names, directions, etc. I just never did, I had the CN Tower since I moved into this city two years ago. Walking to the right seemed like the correct thing to do, so that is what I did for half an hour, without finding my apartment. Seriously confused at this moment, I decided to ask someone about the mysterious disappearance. I approached a woman in her twenties, walking rather cheerfully down the road: "excuse me, do you know what happened to the CN tower?". She replied: "What do you mean?". Appalled by her ignorance I said hysterically: "IT'S NOT THERE ANYMORE, CAN'T YOU SEE?" She did not seem affected by my emotional ways and said calmly: "Well, I hadn't noticed, but if that's what she feels like, we might as well let her be."

I continued walking to the right, muttering. I found the Manulife center, and, given that it was almost 8 by then, decided to go up to the bar on its top from where I could find the missing 553 meters high tower. I entered the bar, walked straight to the counter and approached the bartender. It is a rule in city life that bartenders and taxi drivers know everything. I said politely: "Do you happen to know where the CN tower is?" To which he responded looking unsurprised: "Oh, no, not really. A man last night mentioned something about it going away, but I didn't pay much attention, I thought he was just a drunk man talking nonsense." I said now hysterically: "But don't you care?" He shrugged his shoulders and walked to the other side of the counter to serve beer to customers willing to make more banal conversation.

I found myself on the street. The night had fallen and a freezing cold wind slapped me on the face. Snow was imminent. Toronto was hitting me with its hardest blows. I walked and walked, not finding any street or building that looked familiar. After an hour or so, snow was falling on me, threatening to enter my eyes and freeze them. And I was still lost.

I suddenly found myself in the middle of Queen's Park, surrounded by statues, fountains, trees and beautiful buildings. I sat on a bench, contemplating the Parliament and I began to cry. I loved this city, it was beautiful, impressive, unpredictable, exciting. It had everything a city needed to have. Its citizens, like the citizens of any great city, shared its qualities. But that cold and harsh night, I could not understand Toronto nor its citizens. I felt like they did not show me its appreciation. I could not cope with the quality of those Torontians that did not seem to respond to my fit of madness. Toronto was irresponsive, it was ignoring my problems and feelings, mocking my desperation to understand what was the reason of the disappearance of the "tower that defines its skyline".

I strolled down University Avenue until I found a Tim Horton's, went in and ordered a double double and three Timbits. While taking a sip of my coffee I understood. Torturing myself with the thought of Toronto not loving me enough to show the CN tower and letting me go home would lead nowhere. The city had seemed selfish and capricious before, but I did choose to live here. I chose it knowing of this unusual events that made me uneasy and insecure, hoping to learn how to adapt one day. And this seemed to be the day when I had to read the city through the behaviors that confused me and show my love.

After finishing my coffee I was no longer worried about not finding the CN tower or my way home. I loved Toronto, and I should love the way it behaved. So I decided to enjoy its unusual behavior and use it as an excuse to stroll around its beautiful streets, going to every place and loving every part of it.

No means no

Yes, I have a turtle. Yes, I know they don’t do much and they just sit there, biting on lettuce every once in a while. But Terry has a sense of humor that is very similar to mine and we get along just fine. Sometimes I sit on the bus, apart from him and everything is just so banal. I can picture the bus crashing into a big truck and everyone panicking, running in circles, being cut into pieces, their blood mixing up with the pieces of metal flying all over. Bones cracking, blood flying, people screaming, chaos. But not me. I don’t move. I don’t care. Terry is in the shoe box he calls home, in my room, next to my lamp on my desk. Probably missing me, but not showing it. He is so much like me and people like me will never admit when they are missing someone. I come back everyday and find him there, and he comforts me after those long days of banality, full of nonsense studying that seems to lead nowhere. But not that day. I came back and no Terry. No box. No nothing. I ran to my mother’s room and demanded the truth in tears. He was dead. D-E-A-D. Mort. Muerto. Shindeimasu.
I ran to the kitchen, followed by my mother, grabbed the biggest knife I could find and held it in front of my chest. I was determined. My mother was screaming “Nooooooo!!”. And I said: "Right. No means no”. And then everything was OK again.

The Sadistic Act Of Eating An Orange

Round oranges. Plenty of them. Lying one next to each other, sometimes one on top of the other. Eine auf dem ruecken und eine ueber ihr. Beautiful oranges sitting on that tray. I take one and save it for later. It shall satiate both hunger and thirst when night falls over me without asking if I am done with all my day's work. I shall be filled with exasperation to read those lines that seem to become longer and more complex as my eyes try to catch them.
I will carve my teeth through her skin. Without mercy. Without having pity on ruining such perfect shape or depriving her of garments. I will find her trying to protect herself with that bitter white cover that I will bite all the same, for my desire for her sweet inside will be stronger. And I will proceed to alternate between bitting off the acid peel and the pulp. I will enjoy biting the porous bit of her structure, even if when it makes my lips hurt in an unusual way when the acid is splashed on them. And I will be mocked by everyone who happens to see me soaked in sticky orangy juice but I will not mind. And I will not mind either the persistence of the pain in my lips and the bits of pulp that remain in my teeth even after brushing them twice.

Facebook is the devil

http://www.xkcd.com/355/

It was a Saturday afternoon when he poked her. Yes. In an impulse, he decided to go for it and click the left button of the mouse and poke that woman he had seen about 6 times, sitting usually three rows ahead in phi876h. She usually held her hair back in a ponytail and yawned a lot in class, and dressed modestly, but in her profile picture she usually showed her real self: smiling with a group of friends and showing her qualities with a better angle than the one he could see from back there in the classroom. So he poked. Just to see her reaction. Just to give it a try. Maybe she had also gone through his pictures once and once again in the night, and maybe she also knew the names of all his friends and all his pets. And so a few days went back and she poked back. Oh my god! She poked back.
This was followed by a series of poking back and forward that concluded in the greatest event: they friended each other. And then writing in their corresponding walls began and life was ecstasy. Life was good. They asked each other if they had handed in the essay, they commented on the upcoming social activities, on music. And then, with an email notification, she found that he had sent a message, a private message that none of her friends could see, but would soon receive through a copy paste on a msn message. He was asking her out. And she did not know what to reply. Could she say she knew him? They only waved in class but were very active in their Facebook interaction. Always fast to reply, always had some witty commentary. She said yes.
They had been sitting in a Starbucks for an hour now and the conversation was good. They had relatively enough things in common and uncomfortable silences were not too many to be concerned of.
A month after this encounter, their profiles did not say single anymore, but In a relationship with. But he had doubts. He noticed her staring at that piece of information a few times, probably wishing she had not said yes to: confirm x as your boyfriend?
It was a new Saturday afternoon and she was taking a shower, getting ready to go out with him and some friends. And she forgot to sign out. And he saw it.
A guy she had mentioned before. He was in the basketball team. No, in her French class. Was it him? Whoever it was, he had poked her. And he needed to say something. He asked her for an explanation. She said she had not poked him first nor back. She was confused. She felt trapped. He wanted answers and she was hiding behind lack of proof. And then he asked her to show him her Inbox.
That was the end. It was not only poking, it was also messages, tons of them. He could never continue a relationship with someone who was poking and sending messages to another man. And he erased her name from her Friends list.