Long Story Short

I walked in one night to find the apartment empty, no sign of my baby or his mother. I took it she had left me. And that was that. I didn't call her in days, until I found some financial statements all out of order, there was a large amount of money taken out of my bank account. Beware of a scorned lover's wrath. 

For weeks, I sank into a deep stupor, barely functioning, lost the upcoming FSD examination for the building I had studied so hard for, didn't even protest the results. I did subscribe once again to school and finished the course, but never took the time to go to Metro-Tech and take the second step. Suddenly, I woke up and decided to get a roommate, to split the bills in half, now that my baby's mom was out the door. I waited around a prudent three months, see if she decided to come back. Not that I'd want to stir the pot again, so late in the day now, but the story I'm about to tell started there. 
We'd both go through these weird phases, these melodramatic episodes, as I often accused her while I engaged in my very own moody tantrums as well. 
Being a flight attendant, the fact that she just took off in a plane with only a few hours of anticipation wasn't as bad as it sounds, that "one day she just picked up and left." She was used to doing just that, given her line of work, and it wasn't like she had gone through the trouble of buying a plane ticket or anything of that nature. It wasn't as sinister a prospect to simply one day pack and leave. What I did find appalling was the way she chose to do so: without the slightest regard for her lover. I knew there and then our relationship had been irreparably damaged. It was to be expected as we both are damaged good kids. We had a good run, sprinting as far as making a baby, renting an apartment and planning a life together. 
My mind relived the abandonment of my youth, unstable years of my early formation, upbringing among relative strangers, the daunting task of migrating two days before the age of fifteen. It all looked worse than it was; often our state of mind is betrayed by our best efforts and you fall prey to insecurity which has been the bedrock of my personal Odyssey. Nothing makes misery more personal than being slighted by our loved one. And to add insult to injury, she didn't even say a word. Women are first to report abuse of physical nature but they can be rather sadistic in their emotional blows. 

Take for instance my mother. She claims our bond has been severed by my attitude towards her. That I'm an evil son of a bitch. She forgets she is the very son's mother she speaks of. She forgot how out of sheer laziness she refused to meet with my father's brother, the principal in a private school I attended briefly before I was taken out. All because my mother would refuse to sign off the consent, as my rightful parental guardian, for the scholarship my uncle wanted to give me. I had already done my part by passing the admission exam. I begged for weeks.

"If your uncle thinks he's going to humiliate me with his pity, he's dead wrong. If he's the principal, he should use his authority to get it done. Why does he need me for? 

Mother forgets how she would hit me with anything she could get her hands on, for anything she may have found offensive. All it took was one of my sisters to say that I had hit them, for her that was enough. Having been abused by her brothers, she feared me incarnating that threat and turn the victimizer, I would reason. 

But when she found I had forged her signature, she lost it completely and unleashed all her bitterness on me. That was the day I said enough is enough. I grabbed the broom stick she would hit me with and broke it in half. I looked dead into her eyes and told her she was an evil woman.

Connie met my mom. Of course, they got alone fine and they soon had plans to move in together. See, for my mom is not enough to doom my childhood. She wanted to do away with my life in adulthood. She fed Connie elaborated lies and Connie never needed too much to give in to the deception. It was a match made in hell. But I soon saw the patterns and Connie would find any excuse to fight, be a creator in the indefinite misery of her own melodrama and suck you in. Every time I deal with her, no matter the aplomb or soberness I deployed, she'd fit right in the shoe of the victim. It is fittingly tailored to her size.

So I needed to make sure she wasn't just bluffing. So I could find the excuse to move the fuck on with my life and deal only with the baby.

I wanted to make sure it wasn't just a sham, that she definitely was gone for good, so I waited, asked her, sometimes even insisted that once I moved on, I will stay the fuck out of her life, the important thing was doing so in a cordial and amicable way now that we had a baby. 
I pledged to never again put her thru the motions. I called, made plans to bring the baby to New York, and eventually saw them again, not long after they had left. In time, it all acquired a degree of normalcy that resembled the reality of things, both of us growing apart and moving on with our lives. We couldn't do so in the same good old fashion that ex lovers do. As dully stated, we had a change. 
That change of hearts, to come back again, did not come for her and I was glad that was the way because by then I had already met someone else. Of course, this is all ancient history now, but it serves as a good parting point to start with the story of how I went about to love again and then again. 

I was still in love with her, but the minute that happened I knew things would no longer be the same. First, I needed to survive, and eventually, I'll thrive. I always do. Maybe that proud thought made things not work; I couldn't put all the blame on her. Postpartum, depressed and on good-feeling pills, she stopped nursing our baby in less than two weeks so that she could go back to what she missed the most for the past nine months: drinking. It wasn't all that bad, but to me, having had an autistic first child, made me more cautious this second time around. I didn't want to put this child through the same unnecessary turmoil the first one had endured. My guilt always had been that I didn't stay with my first boy and instead I had become, to some degree, my father. 
First it wasn't me who left and secondly, I fought to get him back in my life, someway. Not in the most ideal way, but in matters of the heart, sometimes you have to settle for less than what your illusion aims. We were ill-prepared and unfit for the demands a life in common with child can exert. 
Besides, I grew up in a Spanish culture where men have little, if any, tolerance for party girls who can't settle down and go stray for more than a few months at a time. That night I met her, first thing out of her tipsy mouth was: "Oh my God! I have a boyfriend." We were by then kissing, and it wasn't as flattering to hear as she might think. Now, it wasn't all her fault. 
Connie was a regular at that bar and I have never been intimidated by a feminist, let alone one who only had friends when drinking, who talked more than she drank, if that's a possibility. It vexed me somehow to get back home from, my three-weeks old infant asleep in the bedroom, and it made me glad to see her happy again, even if it were as it usually is, having drank herself silly in the living room with her rambunctious, colors-flying-out-of his ass flaming gay. 
"He's not obnoxious!" and that would be her, protesting, the one reading over my shoulder now. 
I would have to explain to her and her own audience (her most current girlfriend, one she's yet to alienate, or a legion of drama queens on her Facebook page, ranging from family members to distant cousins and close friends) that, at no point in time, I never said "obnoxious", distinctively, I observe, as it reads: Rambunctious. 
Just as the monster does not see its own monstrosity, similarly as there are hardened criminals in jail claiming their innocence (some rightfully so), it is often difficult for the insane to attest to their own madness, to see themselves as agents of chaos. We may fail to see with the same powers of observation our very own frail state, our sorrowful and decadent ways, our very unique insignificance. When confronted by others for our actions, we may retaliate way of denial, and as it is famously quoted in American Beauty, when it comes to denial, you can't underestimate its power. 
Succinctly speaking, denial is that which we do not want to face about ourselves, so we decide to not acknowledge it. It never goes away, unless you confront such corrosive force and pit your efforts against it. And then at that, it may require more than willpower and clarity of mind, it may take therapeutic years of your life to come up to such realization. And once found, it can easily be all but forgotten. 

We all know what matters most, how to go about bettering things for us and others around, making things better is always an option, in small, incremental ways. You do this not to get to another level; there's no "other" level, transcending your current state of affairs, as things are, all it takes a mere glance, and the most important issues to be taken care of surface, there's no denying that. You can tackle the essentials: workout, meditate, write, and pick up some of the cooking and dish washing around the kitchen, let others watch television as well, stick to your Chromebook and engage them, serve them drinks, meals you've cooked, let others feel your presence through the offerings only dedicated hands can give. It doesn't take a lot but it means a whole lot more. Other people will notice how you sometimes tend to go just out of your way, within the margins of norm, to help someone else. If you're of help, it helps you, it feels good. So long as they pay you, play their servant, bring them food and drinks, and let them feel at ease around you. The art of making others feel comfortable lies in accepting them, seeing their humanity, allowing their pretense or shyness to just be, and not give up immediately on them. There are those who prefer to be left alone, but most people is willing, to an extent, mingle. It's a human need, and finding someone who is like a clock, always there, paying close attention, present, it kind of defeats their regular defenses at large. They will get to see you over and over again, and the more impersonal and relax the welcoming, warmer than cold in your approach, honest smile, open heart, people know. People see, they notice manners, courtesy, and people respond to genuine, good nature individuals who pop out anywhere nowadays and light up the path they walk.
Most drag their bodies along to work, and as they enter their place of work, they're greeted first by me. So, in a subliminal way, it's likely that I may have an impact on how their rest of the day goes. Without blowing things out of proportion, I bring about that energy that can only come from waking up an hour ahead of time to spend plenty of time at the gym before I even get to clock in. I make sure I eat some eggs, lean meat, and have myself a medium cup of coffee, sometimes black with honey, sometimes some skim milk and one Splenda. Sometimes, only tea. Eventually, I think I'll have to give coffee up. That and every other additive in my diet, alcohol included. I want to be as sober and fit as I can possibly be. 
We all have the ability to do this, to challenge the status quo, claim what's ours. Of course, the idea is to do things better or fix some problem that needs solving, come up with a to-do list, do the groceries, hit the gym and get a haircut. 

I should've understood she was going through this motherhood thing for the very first time, that it mustn't be any easier having moved back with her parents and I didn't manage those energies well. Instead, I became more edgy, like a girl, high perhaps in all of the sweet oxytocin cooked up in her womb. Juju was like a jewel we both marveled at and fed off our vindictive craves, we were rotten goods products of dysfunctional families, both missing fathers in our upbringing; hers, because of death, and mine, because of maternal neglect and paternal abandonment, we grew up more unsure of ourselves, less likely to thrive. Not ready to give up, us unwanted children find role models all around, I did my bidding through books; it worked, to some point. Not everything there is you will find in books. You may find something you never thought of; whatever the case is, reading has been a gift I used time and again to transcend this mind of mine, crush all of that which stands in your way, and bring down walls, climb up some towels, see if there's a princess trapped high above. We'll drive ourselves there, save the world and get the girl in time for watching the game live tonight across the bar from some beautiful strangers, surrounded by swaths of them everywhere, at every turn. 
How many had not just been on their way from the ladies' room, stop and make out in some neutral corner after we both caught each other's gaze, enough to make us want to kiss right there and then. Why would I mess with this girl about kissing strangers when all I ever did was precisely that?
It was meet, make-out and rarely nothing else; in a very laudable few instances, it went beyond just that night at a bar and the morning after the ritual of finding a reason to stick around after having just mated. Some men are born to be in long-term relationships; it may not be what they're looking for, but they somehow always end up there. And yet, some others, are almost predestined to one night stands. Both are cold, manipulative, extremes of a more plausible solution. Enter: the mid-term relationship. It offers the best of both worlds: on the one hand, it offers the excitement of that first kiss, followed by that first time we slept together, followed by a zillion first time for everything that we had never done before. Including, of course, breaking up just to have that glorious make-up sex where we tore each other to shreds and the screamer next door, a girl who'd pass off as nothing more than just a regular 7, looks like a solid 8 after hearing her scream and get banged by the man she was cheating on her boyfriend with. The guy would show up after the short break-ups this girl successfully pitched to her lover, and ran to another guy, in the hopes that she will be free from that other dude. She was, of course, safe with him, one time I saw the boyfriend, heartbroken knock on her door and she never answered. 
The crazy guy she was with did, and out of nowhere jumped out of bed and rushed to open the door, and they almost had a fight. But the ex boyfriend caved in and saw that the other guy was more built and obviously more prone to violence, given his sudden decision to prop the door open. Besides, he had to business to be there; they were no longer together and she could sleep with whoever she wanted to. 
The crazy guy could've handled that differently, to spare the other man's feelings, but like a real man he didn't see the need for that and instead faced the fool. After that, he slammed the door in his face and ran mind-possessed screaming the girl's name. She was hiding in the bathroom, and saw the door knob snap at his mere pressure, he had broken the locked door with a single push, and grabbed her out of the shower like someone would a child, into the room, over the bed. Once there, he had his way with her. She didn't dare protest it, and went along with it. That's the report she gave to the police and a few days later she was reunited with her ex boyfriend after taking an order of protection against the lover, but judging for the screams and the things she spat back in his face, she would say: "That's my ass you're fucking! Oh my God, oh my God! Ah, shit!" 

It was clearly heard in my apartment as I'm sure it was heard in any apartment on that floor, including the open window that made other neighbors aware of the screams. They were, in part, overblown because she loved to exaggerate in order to make it more exciting for her lover, and so I always liked that about her. Some of us love our women loud in bed but not that loud, graphic but not grotesque, panning, moaning, but not out-loud crying! In order for that to happen, you must inflict moderate amounts of pain. Subtle forms of pain involve detaching yourself from the situation, ignoring her, being indifferent, even able to look her in the eyes and not acknowledge her. They will know because of a microscopic smirk in your demeanor, but who knows, maybe you really mean it, how could this guy be so tough that he'd have the nerve to downright ignore me and even look me in the eye! Yeah, you have to inflict the kind of sedating pain that creates one moment tension, and the very next it releases it. Instead of ignoring her, try giving her some space to work and do her thing. Celebrate her independence if she suddenly has an initiative that involves letting you be for the time being. Get her a massage session or a spa pass. 
It may sound crude to some, but men in their youth can only want quantity, rarely it is that they settle for anything less than something they haven't already tried. It'd be as pointless trying to shame them into shape, it's not like they're choosing to be cheaters. It's more like the decision process is completely null, reason bypassed, all logic tossed out. 


High as only men are when their girl is expecting, the second born love child, a chance to start over with a new-found love, and another baby boy, oh the joy. 

You hold your child like treasure gold, stare at it and toss it like a salad, clean up his poop, and anticipate his every tiny move, his eagerness to embrace the world around. At such stage in life, and all we ever want is to explore and experience all of this unraveled universe. We're not one in essence, we're in flux, everywhere at once, recreating itself constantly. The baby is one with the universe; the man is just a sad spectacle of raw emotions in front of the thing that they love most in the world. We never knew our most precious carbon stone could be so vulnerable. And so, the man can not be without the child, but the child will have to one day do without the man. Looking at our babies, we see the child we once were and how, if it weren't for your loved ones, you may not have ventured too far. 

How in love you are with your one-month old boy to have his mom pack him up and leave one night. No notice. 

Women love drama, some more than others. The less prone to drama our girl is, the better our life; of course, you won't find a relic of a drama-free girl but some had gotten to being there by not a whole lot. Of all the cruel things, women had unleashed madness upon me before, how sick it must've been to plan in detail such a blow, waking up that morning, packing our son and thinking tonight, when he gets back from work, I'll show him, he won't see me here. Was I physically abusive? God, no. Was I mentally so? Perhaps. But only because you can't expect to be any less in a turbulent and passionate relationship, we both had our fun and we loved putting the blame on one another. I've already written plenty on the subject if you know what I mean, then you'll do yourself a favor and take a hard look at yourself now, and ask: Was I such a monster? The fact is that the minute that thought entertained my mind, I was selfish to express it, the ego has a way of getting you in trouble with your significant other; you have to love enough to deny your own ego. And do so at your own expense. The fact is, the more selfless and the less narcissistic you are, others may choose to have their ego running rampant, shitting all over the place, throwing feces at you. You can only play the victim for so long before you end up one. 

There was no need for such cruelty. But I let it be. It had been me who suggested it, and I had wanted the best for her and our child. And that place wasn't here, not now anyway. All of these thoughts would come in and out of my mind, angered inner voices will echo payback, retaliation, vengeance, vendetta. How could you suffer such blow and not return fire? At least put your fists up, cover some of those coming blows, you cannot take this anymore so I pattern-interrupt an action, just like I did now on this sentence, and wrote a Craigslist post about a room for rent. Of all the respondents, I chose the email that looked more promising: Russian, young, Anastasia, lived nearby. 

I barely put on a t-shirt and some jeans to open the door. She was stunning. Magazine pretty. Main character in a romantic flick, heroine in a high budget film kind of beautiful. I wasn't fazed or anything, just noticed her flawless features, perfect medium height, slim but curvy, blonde, perky tight-as-fuck booty, slightly larger than what's considered average for her type, emerald green eyes, poise and grace, like a well-fed European model. Only once had I been this lucky before. With a girl from the Canary Islands, some ten years earlier. What I could consider flawless from top to bottom, one for the ages. Back then I was involved with a diva, Emma, who lived on the second floor in a residential house, we were the loudest there. 

Emma had snatched me from under cougar Liz's claws. At the time, I was still at the mercy of predatory women who were out to get their hands on a catch. Women used to do the hunting, be the aggressor, take the lead. These women exhibit men-like attributes: they're ambitious, sure of themselves, know exactly what they're looking for and aren't afraid to go-get it. We met online, along with others, who decided to meet in real life, a New York chat on Terra.com. Some in that group stemmed from nearby New Jersey, and we'd meet one another, until we decided to make parties every Saturday at Emma's place. 

Of all, Emma I met first and we video chatted before deciding to meet up. We both had had bad experiences with people who gave old, photoshopped versions of themselves in snap pics, only to be someone completely different once met. 

It's not just pictures but also video chat that lies. On video chat, she looked perfect, flawless little thing, a stunning girl, no less. 

All because she was the perfect relic bust: from her breasts up, perfection. Voluptuous, feminine, blue eyes and picture-picture facial traits, Angelina Pitt Jones, no less. It is as if midway her frame God had gotten bored of chiseling her sculpt, and rushed to add amphibian attributes to the rest: short legs, thick but sturdy midsection. She had an effeminate boyfriend who "uncomfortable" with me being her friend. But she put him in his place just so that I could take his in the short absences following one of their common catfights. 

We had all witnessed them fight and a friend in common, one who lived in New Jersey, and had come all the way down to this house apartment get-together, all because he, too, wanted her. We all did, regardless of lower half of hers, like a mermaid. Once inebriated, we joked: "It'd be like fucking a mermaid. Half amphibian, half goddess." 

She pretended to be all for him because I pursued another girl in the group, given that she was busy with her less than almighty male prototype. As soon as we walked in a cafe, 

she worked out from time to time, light running for a couple of miles, a few dozen squats, abs pressed fight had her legs were up in the air  as I drilled deep inside and out of her.

Virtual Sex/Life

Technology, it's one of those fascinating things. Take Virtual Reality, for instance. If you add not just the visual experience but an immersive sound experience; topple that with just how far robotics has come along. Now, for just a nano-lapse, picture an engineered hybrid from both fields, that of technology as in virtual reality and that of sex with a doll. 
Come into the scene: a virtual reality world that not only can you see, but also touch, even smell and feel. 
Virtual sex with a sensory-wrapped sex doll that takes human form before our eyes through the sensual mimicry of technology (how did Apple ever get away with the "I-Touch"?), a perpetuated ritual is such a self-absorption, the theatrical moves we take towards attaining that which fascinates us, the adopted roles each one of us partakes in order to achieve a projected reality, some imagine such vividly, fully depicted and therefore more realizable and tangible. Others serve as mental cock-blocks, dwell in a lethargic, self-defeating effort that boils down to fearing it more than wanting it. And not that there's anything more wrong than living your life in fear, but worse yet many of us don't know just how much we fear and how little we really try. To paraphrase Kafka, take an ax to the frozen sea within and chop, chop. It's too cold outdoors to be indifferent inside, drop the act and walk without beating around the bush of your ego, loose the pretense, dare to, go ahead and give chase, hunt down big prey, play the part that strikes only the utmost soulful cord. Walk barefooted, as naked as the ash that dances above the burning flame, the little fragile particles of carbon deluded in the winter air. How you breath when you just ran a few miles and how water tastes then, it's how food tastes when you've fastened till noon or been on a juice diet. You can only fasten others for so long before they starve; toss them some bones, let them sink their teeth in your flesh, suck your wound dry. 

We may not fully realize how much of mere bad actors we are throughout the course of our lives, all because we take this fantasy of ours for reality, instead of seeing ourselves as collaborators in this piece. We can depose of roles and sketches of which we disapprove, or make a bold move that's not so far out of the realm of things we can make happen. Little by little, like an invisible existential thread that saws moment to the very next, laughter, sorrow, all the intricacies that make up this phenomenon we call life. Painful, no doubt; that much Buddhism has attested to. And not all pleasure leads to pain, it's what the ancients had wrong: we can have our way, the highway, and midway paths in life. Take a hard look at yourself: are you better off than you were a few weeks ago? A few months? In a few days, you can improve in little, measurable ways. Who said entities could not be quantified? We all know what we like and if it is what we are doing, after spending our days doing other people's deeds, living according to the delusion other people in our lives has conformed us to. What is necessary here happened already, we need to fight back with teeth and nails and sheer willpower, and claim some of the glory we've denied ourselves for far too long. Be a good closer. Don't wait around forever. Step out of your comfort zone. It's life that awaits on the other side of the line, so make sure you answer its call. 

Fights we engage in throughout the course of our lives. We should pick them carefully; sometimes, it is absolutely mandatory that a course of action has to be taken: either trying a different approach, see if a thing has a way around it. Luckily, there are always things to be taken care of, fights to pick, people to meet, friends to have. 

Oh I know, I'm an ogre. I rarely go out. If I do, it's usually a local spot for a four or five beers, and then head home. It's been ages since I fell asleep after midnight, often down by 11 pm, even when I get a day off. Sure, I'll have two or three beers, max out at four beers, Negra Modelo, if not Coors, Heineken, Aguila, Corona, Presidente, Blue Moon draft, or a beer whatever the case may be. 

Work keeps me busy and it's a healthy environment. It's a mini-universe of what the world out there could and should be: courteous, firm 

I get to interact with neat people, being exposed to some many people, one after the other, having to some extent the obligation to engage them visually first, verbally second, and politely. What you do takes notices by everyone around, so you need to assert yourself but manage to do so without coming across as arrogant given your good looks. You won't give yourself away either. Give people space initially, let them get use to your presence and be cordial, effective and impersonal. Sometimes, people will want to get a reaction from you. What happens is, work is work, and then there's play, and it usually isn't a good idea to mix the two. 

I can't say that means anything other than just an imaginary barrier that I often pose. Like Trump's wall proposal, there's just some madness to it that fascinates and catches the general imagination. It's that things as good as they may seem can sometimes rile-up, go wild and all out. Things are never the same for long, for not even a fraction of a second. Everything and everyone is all one-singular being, a whole, and the fact that we see each other as separate nothing more than an optical illusion. It may be scary to find that all the noble ideas we hold oh so dear are truly devoid of meaning other than the one we give them.

Things and people will respond to the energy with which you come across them. You gotta leave them with a positive-lasting impression. The more you create that energy for you by not being judgmental, by being indifferent to rudeness, by extending a hand once in a while but mostly keeping to yourself. Of course, you'll be open to a select few but there are no sacred cows in this clan of mine. It's just me-myself-and-yo. 

It is as if you were to remain still, stay quiet inside. It's here where we reside. Your eyes are full with 

Of course, others have a special place in our collective mind whether we acknowledge it or not. We can get used to one another, dependent on each other from time to time, really miss someone or go days without taking a bath. You can be all down and out laying in bed at home, blaming the world for the misfortunes and slights suffered. Why God? Why, you ask, as if anything would care answer. No one hears your prayers. That much we know, those who really know, know that no one awaits for us in the afterlife and therein judges our character and behavior here on earth while alive, pending a celestial gift, the reason why we must fear how we go about essential issues in our lives: women, sex, the nasty little creature that we really are. Religion, as Nietzsche wrote in the Antichrist, denies us of that which is just as human as are our instincts, our primal impulses, lust, wickedness [so long as you don't expect more than a legal slap in the wrist, I guess we're all guilty, all sinners, so why try to kiss up to a stuck-up like that?], no one gets arrested for "sinning". These things, in small degrees, spice up our routines, we're not saints that it won't make us evil. And if need be, we should be face evil with the same amount of ferocity. What's evil is not our actions in the eyes of a neutral God who sees it all but rarely speaks except if it's a faithful lunatic who'd
That system is not only atrocious, ineffective and ill-conceived, it really doesn't make much sense. 

Of course, if that's your cup of tea, drink up. 

God is just one less imaginary friend in life. Not that I discount its functionalities, it's actually fun wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweat and think that there's a demon out to get me for all the blasphemy inferred. Instead it's nothing but darkness, absolute darkness creeping in between the sheets at night and the winter hasn't been this cold in decades, a woman sleeping next to you is all you need sometimes, someone to grab by the hair and drag around the room for the sake of killing boredom on its tracks. Teach oblivion a lesson or two, build more that'll last a lifetime, work secretly on yourself and shoot for the stars, a good book will want to be read to the end and it has dull moments, like everything and everyone everywhere; over time, things collapse, rid themselves of their encumbered posture, fall prey to the impartial passage of time. Is time really "impartial"? Does it rule over everyone the same way? If that were the case, there'd be no reason to ask anyone's age. We can guess but sometimes people do not look their age, not by a whole lot. If you're in your forties, and you still get suspiciously asked for a photo I.D., if people react surprised when you tell them you were born early in March, 1974.
Says Mom: "You were a big baby, even though your dad's family never grew beyond 5 foot 7 inches, it's fair to say at 6 feet and half an inch tall, you're the giant of that family." On top of that, mother named me Boris, as a Russian ex boyfriend's of hers. Eventually, I accepted that my name was unique and not all that bad but really, mom? I was supposed to be named Oscar, like dad, but they had a fight shortly before my baptism and I was baptized Boris. My parents come from a primitive world, at that time and age men were free to abandon their wives with their young, and face little trouble other than social recrimination. They grew up in the sixties, a generation that struggled with the new found freedoms. Sexual freedom, the pill, abortion rights, hippies, gay movements, except they were born in a country in South America. There, laws and institutions were not as lenient, times were tough but lower instincts prevailed: my father abandoned my mother, only coming every couple of years to get her pregnant. She finally cut him loose after the third child; she was never that bright. Cleverness hit her later on in life and she got to play a rich man's mistress. He set her up to live in a decent neighborhood, paid school for her children, we were picked up by a yellow school bus like the ones we had seen in some foreign films. We will in time become foreign to all these images, as if our sentiments had migrated as well, as if whatever it was we suffered took hold in this other realm where poverty does not exist. Not in the way that we conceive of poverty, not just a lack of resources or debts incurred, much-much worse: having to worry every single day what were we going to do in order to eat that day. Yet there was much worse than that. I don't remember going without eating for more than breakfast days, but there were people who didn't have where to live and they did not live on the streets. Families were more united in misery than they're in prosperity. Prosperity tends to dissolve unnecessary human bonds. And it probably is for the best, but poor people helped one another and there were times that other people's help really meant something awesome, more than charity, acts of generosity never go unnoticed. Besides, giving feels great, too. When you do so, you become a larger than life figure, if you do so humbly, and not just to show off. It's okay to want to show off in good fashion, like buying everyone coffee, but it's best to get into the habit of giving not just all in a single offering, and do so with those who deserve your time and will feel flattered by your efforts. Forget trying to impress those who will never see in you much more than their own flaws and failures. Others will treat you just as poorly as they've been treated, if you allow it. You can keep your prudent distance, be cordial and discreet and collectedly open if confronted. Be the one that listens and deflates a situation, bow if you must to save your head, but don't live on your knees. Fight the good fight, keep noble, be a gentleman, dress impeccably, keep the hygiene, the well-rested and meditated spirit. I've seen scarcity, it feeds off our debauchery and lust for life, the fever of romantic bonds, the vices and obsessions we keep.
Those who don't use drugs, use morals.

Fools in Love

Let's not fool ourselves. We've all been had. 

In honor of this Valentine's Day (as if I hadn't read that certain Roman officials changed the calendars so that they could remain in power longer), and as if every other wise man (the honest ones) hadn't already warned me, Only fools rush "in love." We all are, to an extent, fools when it comes to love. It actually kind of dumb you down. Simply put, when you're in love, you can't think straight. Under the debilitating spell of an array of emotions, these elusive but alluring moments secretly shared thrills us, the excitement of seeking out that which obsesses and capture our imagination, it beckons, it compels us.
Nothing was said about those things and that's perhaps the best policy when it comes to past, present and anything in-between lovers. 

It's like a role you play in any way you look at it; except, some argue, if you're aware that you can see yourself in the play and logically choose the right path according to a calculated input, then it's cheating. When you choose shoes, you wear them to see if the fit is comfy, you ask for your size, and you choose the style, but not when it comes to love. In love, you get to wear shoes that are two sizes smaller, and do so with a smile; we're rather cave-dwellers suddenly awe-struck by a blinding torrent of light. We turn to ourselves for council as if our judgment were truly partial.
You can always implement a different course of action, even if it's for just a change of pace. This is where freedom lies: not just in the realization but also in the ability to push forth, to put a dent on the status quo and claim ourselves out of deplorable states of mind. Whenever we cave in and succumb to such, often all it takes is a shift in your perception and the reality in front of your very eyes is uplifted and transcended. Beings will evolve, for better or worse; either we adapt to the changing tides, impart our mission and move fluidly towards our most fixated objectives, our most promising goals, or else it withers and dies. It doesn't require genius: the goal itself is not the point; it's having goals, minuscule as these may seem, the moral fabric woven through laces of goodwill and thorough determination. It may require a degree of shamelessness, of being naked and crude, no matter the cause it will unravel, it'll unsettle some, it will astonish others.
I met Natasha in South Beach, one-night stand turned into a steady fuck-spree over the course of four months. She was the good girl in the group, her two female friends having deserted her to go get their freak on, and she had kept a standoffish attitude by the bar that fended off low-status males who tried to covet and pique her interest sending a drink, a smile, a look from a prudent distance. Instead I walked right into her domain without making it about her. It wasn't pretense; I didn't play aloof. It was really as close as a take-it-or-leave-it kind of deal, either way it wouldn't faze me. I ordered a drink and pretentiously unpretentious put my back to the bar, facing the frenzy mob that engulfed the dancing floor. Initially, I walk with the certainty that there are no hidden agendas, at least not of the sexual kind. My mouth speaks of trivial things, plain nonetheless insightful observations, a force to be reckoned, poised, eloquent, tasteful, fit, tall, stout, broad shoulders, immaculate clean, handsome man. Irresistible, yes. And so, when the time comes, I lead her to the dance floor, no questions asked. Maybe we did exchange a couple of clever sentences that she'll find fun, somehow Natasha felt both at ease and disturbed, in her own words: "Scary good."
As she played the role of resisting temptation, I persuaded her to come back to my place for a quick make-out session after which, I promised, I'd kick her out or she can lay down next to me in bed. "Sleep, just sleep, between compatible strangers is just as alluring, if not more, than sex with actual partners. Nothing is as intense as those first encounters, and nothing as strong and irrevocably desirable as giving in to each other: the first look, the first touch, the first kiss. Temptation we have too much of; it's succumbing to it that transcends the mundane, childish infatuation, and open up what initially seems like a Pandora's box, but in actuality is an insurmountable source of pleasure.
We went back to the motel I stayed in. Her bed was bigger, memory foam mattress, so that you could jump on it as a mug of coffee rests still nearby. Instead my bed was one shade of comfort above prison-grade and its foundation cricked as I pounded her legs up high, held in place by my abdomen and chest, as I pinned her down as her arms were immobilized by my hands, locked eyes buried just as deep into one another, lift her up with ease after pulling up your own weight in chin-ups at home, a ratio of ten to twenty reps, five sets, enough to lift any woman under two hundred pounds and keep her suspended there, until I change positions. Make her feel my strength, mindful that she's a fragile creature but rough enough so that she feels in the presence of a larger, meaner, almost predatory animal-like man.
Now, wait. We used the last condom I had and so I rushed to the nearby pharmacy. I walked the first block unassuming and then ran across the avenue, picked up a box some kind of thin latex and got back to the motel in under three minutes, sprinting back and forth. Enhanced senses, heightened state of mind, all thanks to a a few minutes under intense physical exertion.
Explosive mini-workouts throughout the day complement the short periods spent daily at the gym lately. In periods of minimum activity, I'd still conduct these rituals: pull-ups, chin-ups; push-ups; squats; abs. You can get by if you devise a workout plan that targets the three major muscle groups, upper, middle and lower anatomical parts. In other words, hit your legs, midsection and upper body. Two or three different exercises for each muscle group; it requires no more than five to ten minutes top at a time, and you spread it throughout the course of a day in some eight sets or more, no less. For instance, drop to the floor and do as many push-ups as you can in under a minute, then repeat twice more; later on, or at that very moment, if you have the time and will to, you'll do the same for your legs. Sedentary moments, like sitting in front of a computer or a smart TV, you can do sit-ups for the duration of commercials.

I had more than one orgasm in me. She had plenty more than in just one, for starters. She was the shy kind, sweet and quiet so I was kind fucking her brains out. We didn't come from the same worlds; she belonged to a breed of highly independent women, owned her place in a condo upper east side, and was in the best shape of her life. That's what most attracted me to her; there was like a hot teacher quality look to her wit and switching like a knob light gradually from lights on to lights out.


Retreat from who you are at this moment in time and take a look at how seriously you take your role. You may have places to go to, people to see, but that which makes little sense which is awe-striking and makes you wanderlust when you have a fear of heights, is the only foolproof subterfuge. The only escape sometimes is to come to a complete standstill and surrender all your forces. When you confront your fears, look dead into its eyes. Be prepared: the enemy will only seek out your weak spots. How do you get from being afraid of flying (only in the initial moments after departures, ten minutes later in the air I'm at ease) and turn it into part of the adventure of a trip? Well, you have to want things more than you fear them. Even at that, I'd seat myself on a plane, meditate and conquer. Don't listen to your fear; and certainly don't listen to your proverbial heart. The pleasure voice is a repressed child that always wants to have its way and do as it pleases, regardless of ethics, rid of sentiment; cruelty devoid of logic. 

You can to become a source of joy, so be joyous. But how? Happiness isn't assured; on the contrary, you can't fall asleep on one's laurels; nothing should make us more enlivened than waking up with a purpose, have a to-do list for that day; mandatory among activities meditation and exercise. And nothing makes us happy for long with the same intensity, passion may mutate into comfort and trust, from passionate love to the compassionate kind. You should avoid marrying someone you're madly in love with, at least not for the time being. Consider romantic love as a bug that partially robs you of the ability to logically discern, your brain can feel as elated and high as is under cocaine.
Often we're lured into loving another after having fallen in love first, and that rarely is a good idea. Under the effect of an unrivaled feeling, the chemical agents that induce that deplorable state of being known as "in love", you're prone to make mistakes but never like when you're in love. 

Picture your lust for life as a beast you have to learn to deal with. It's not a domestic animal, so it can't be given the privileges of pets. It's more like a vermin, you have to keep your distance from and not toy around with. The more serene your approach towards the opposite sex, the more that this approach creates a sense of acceptance, let everything and everyone around you infect you with their hilarity; relaxed yet tense discomfort, do not let them get too comfortable around you, let them dazzle you with their wit, and deploy your very own charismatic arsenal so that you can inflict some damage on an intersocial level. 

Women and men alike will only respect your strength (physicality, vigor) and fortitude (mental or emotional fitness, strength of the mind)... so be fit and be smart, read, cultivate, grow, fall madly in love, you only regret things left undone. 

These experiences we face daily should be encouraging and amenable, the world we inhabit comes to us through the gates of our mind, the concept we devise before making a projection. Everything from within; nothing without. Just as we should choose our battles carefully, do so with your lovers. They'll know you're a special club when you never go back to what's dead, if it's dead bury it; no need to let it rot. If its suffering is greater than whatever joy might be left and the end is inevitable, then be done with it. You may not agree, but I wouldn't spend another sentence trying to persuade you otherwise. Already, I said, that the writer sometimes works under the illusion that its words are being read (and, no doubt, most will eventually be read) but by whom? And to what conclusions? Who will personify our angst? Who will incarnate and resurrect what's left, and to what end or else to what extent am I deluded? Voiced-in entities surface and if you aren't vigilant they might get to you. It's not hard to overreact when hardwired emotions such as lust, fear or anger often override logic, bypass reason, rule with impunity. These state-of-minds run rampant in our mind; you evolve from a wooden vessel loose canons no longer represent a threat to a smartship. For that you first must engineer a path and the tools that you'll need to deploy and the people that will meet such demand will augment. Such endeavor requires detailed and in-depth planning, however, the more textures and intricate simplicity, tacit in its complexity, the more depth and structure affixed. You get to train your inner dragon and domesticate it enough to have it pass off as civil and yet strike a venomous blow, stick your reptilian-brain pangs into your prey and slowly devour it; midway raw and well-done, just right. 

The reason I look for allusions is that these are entities we can recognize easily in others yet fail to see in ourselves. Emotions that evoke an immediate reaction should be subject. Best to adapt our response to having little, if any, reaction. We can't control others, let alone determine their wicked ways; we can only deter such abuse by being indifferent to nonsense, composed in times of crisis, coolly responsive and collected but vigorously involved in a situation that may deem a more aggressive approach. Even at that, the key issue is self-restraint, learning to extract yourself from the situation and see things objectively, impersonally, keep to yourself. 

Of course, that's not to say that you can't enjoy the company of others. All things in moderation, sometimes to the point of excess, let us indulge in pagan and selfish endeavors, cheat on death, borrow ideas and awaken the lulled senses, inspire awe, bordering on insanity and downright recklessness. Others will challenge you even when they lead unexamined lives, they'll have something to contribute and if they've fallen asleep, a thunderous light will brighten their grayish existences. If only for a while, you can give of yourself to others, the very best in the briefest of ways. They'll see how you have higher standards, do first put them in place, dress neatly, take charge, don't be afraid to be human. 

And so, the faster we learn to tame the beast of our desire, sometimes, like an indestructible villain coming in and out of existence, we get to kill it. Except perhaps it isn't like a beast; it's more like weed. Just gotta weed them out every so often, tend to your garden, plant the seed, lay it on a fertile ground, satiate its thirst, expose to plenty of sunlight and it'll flourish. Unlike trees, our evolutionary cousins, we migrate, annihilate one another, create chaos out of thin air for the lightest slight. Here are some ground rules: tame your ego and you shall be free. The ego is not all bad, such thing as a healthy ego, you may have heard. And as a writer, who can hear if not one of the voices inside, the one reserved for posterity, or is it the one that believes that there will be someone else reading this? There's also the voice that knows that, as of now, I am only deluding myself: no one hears other than the tapping of the keys on this affordable 13-inch full HD Asus Chromebook. 

Now pay closer attention and unto a platform of possibilities sit the posit that all you see is nothing but a mere fraction of a whole that composes yourself and that that self, in and of itself, is only a fragment of an evolving link that lace one moment after the other, in a momentary lapse of incidences, a psyche mimicry that animates the delusion of a continuum when the de facto mechanism in place often manifests as a force of habit, the illusion that in going from what we once were and into who we now are somehow took one giant quantum leap. It took more than what it takes; it is taking as it took and it will take as it has taken, in all forms and directions, as we are, we once were, and we will always be in flux. No past, no present, no future, a whole of sorts all collapsed and merged unto a singularity of events that make things either interesting or nay, allotted memories, or out of chance perhaps. Nothing is coincidental; what's more, we cannot always read in between the strings, so thread mindfully. 

These candid thoughts may not constitute light but fear no darkness either. Let's be fat and lazy, says no one, suits most souls. We all know what steps to take in order to make it out of this mess; those who don't, wouldn't go on reading, wouldn't have made it thus far in these writings and if by chance they happen to stumble upon this sentence, the very next moment they'll revert to their decadent ways: sloth and ignorance.