I've got to stop lying to myself

"Tou beudo, mas tou centrado"
The sentence above was said by an acquaintance while drunk. It is in Portuguese, in broken language by the way. This fellow was found in a drunk state and said that to a friend of mine. The sentence means that he knew he was wasted yet he was able to be centered. Liar, liar. I have drunk since I was 16. I don't drink as much as I used to but I still practice it a lot and for this very reason I know that that quote is a lie. There is no way to be drunk and centered. I have got to cut down on alcoholic beverage intakes. I have got to lose weight. I've got to stop lying to myself.

I was reading this blog that said: "How stupid it is to post pictures of a pet cat. I don't give a damn about your cat, okay?" Hah! That was tough but true. Nobody cares about other people's pets especially when we are talking about strangers' blog photos of these bloggers' pets. I hope I made myself clear. The thing is all of us who blog care about no one but ourselves. That is what makes us bloggers. We enjoy writing about our own matters, about our loved ones, about our manias, obsessions, addictions of course, and about our pets. I have posted many things about my cat. Tibby is my only pet and she's pretty important in my life, read "my blog." Speaking back on that blog: I also read a comment saying that it is boring to see posts of food as well. The commenter wrote that noboby wants to see how nice the blogger's food plate was assembled. Oh well. Oh well. Oh Gee. I have already irritated people by posting photos of my dear pet cat but I have never bugged anyone with food photos?!?! Hah! There we go:

i am gonna last long enough to cover up my body with tons of tattoos

You Will Die at Age 79

You're pretty average when it comes to how you live... And how you'll die as well.

What Age Will You Die?

...me at a Brazilian Independence Day Parade in 1981

I delay but I carry out all my promises (I was only five at that time!)
PS: Check out this Lori's post. She's a way awesome blogger friend. What's left to say?

It is an old post, however so updated

Yeah, yeah, yeah... I live in Brazil. Yeah, yeah, yeah... It is carnival season again in this nation. When I first wrote about this subject was 2005 (link). We are in 2008 and nothing has changed about this crappy festival filled with crappy songs, crappy drunks, and tacky outfits, and stupid body moves that can be seen on the streets and on TV. Yew! Here's that old post being reposted:

"I never understood why there are jerks who travel all the way to Brazil to enjoy our CARNIVAL!!!

Carnival is a typical Brazilian thing when people are led to the streets to see out there parades, get wasted, and listen to live loud music performances. Everyone is supposed to dress up in costumes, put on masks if they will. They may wear wigs and even become androgenous figures if that suits them since the spirit of the party is to get out of control.

As I am not fond of these kinds of parties, when it gets to carnival season, I normally stay home having my hot herbal tea, sitting on my leather couch, glancing at the parades on TV filled with those naked tramps shaking their asses and showing their boobies hanging (I know someone who would strongly enjoy this.)

The fact that I don't like carnival and being a Brazilian citizen make me look weird among the folks down here. I don't really care about this in part because I am pretty much confident and also because I have got my personal reasons to dislike this so-called cultural event.

I remembered when I was first sent to a carnival ball (let me call that mess this way). My mom took me to this crowded place filled with so many idiots of all ages and races. Some of them seemed to be drunk, others seemed to suffer from epilepsy on their hips, and others looked like having cat allergy for rubbing their nose frenetically. To me, they were a bunch of imbecils dressed in funny clothes, dancing in circles as they were mice in a maze. That's how I saw them, taking into consideration that I was only 4 at that time.

My mom also got me a strange outfit which had a little kid's umbrella as an accessory. Besides looking just like the other idiots of that place, I had to carry that umbrella around wherever I went. That was a huge pain because I had trouble holding both the accessory and a cup of soda, and let me not forget, I was also carrying a munch that was bought from those suspicious club cafeterias. Mom had the wittiest idea, "hang your umbrella, sweety, onto this chair." Fine! The place was very stuffy, so the cold soda gave me a relief.

The music sounded insane. Those carnival marchs played by a poor-sounding orchestra started getting on my nerves. I was only 4, I insist, but I was old enough to distinguish between good musicians and crap asshole losers trying to make their living out of something it wasn't made for them. I was too young, too short, too embarassed to get in the mood for a hectic non-sense party: "what are these people so happy about?", I would ask myself that question many times.

I hadn't noticed that everything was going smoothly so far, until the moment my mom decided to push me to the crowd. She would say "Join them. Dance, honey. We are here to party, not to keep staring at them..." Gee, they were just like starving lions and I felt like a pound of fresh sirloin steak. I figured out:"nay-nay."I prayed so she wouldn't try again but then, a friend of mom grabbed me in the arm and dragged me to the crowd.

At the exact moment she did that, my hair got stuck in the wires of my little umbrella which was leaning against that empty chair mom had asked me to hang that stuff on, and not less ironically, the handle of the umbrella that had a hook-like shape embraced another chair. So picture that folks: a stupid middle-aged female human being had been pulling an innocent tot with non-well combed straight long hair stuck on a kid's umbrella hooked on those cheap plastic chairs for ten minutes going in circles in a crowd of hungry lions listening to horsecrap carnival music... yewf!

After that year, there were a few more intents to participate in such event, with some successful ventures I may say, but those were the years that I was reaching the youth times in my life. I had other purposes but being amused by freakos shaking their booties...

Curiosity fact - For those who may care, my scalp wound did not require any reconstruction surgery!"

by Michael Cuglietta

NO MORE

no more bottles of wine
turning my teeth purple
no more cigarettes
burning holes in my ashtray
no more sleeping in
til the afternoon
no more pornographic DVDs
no more calls
to phone sex lines
no more strip clubs
no more late night women
over bottles of
domestic beer
no more making love
without a condom
penetrating a drunken woman
whose name
I've not bothered to learn
no more flat screen television set
no more high speed internet
no more Sirius satellite radio
no more 30 gig ipod
filled to capacity
with stolen music
no more $500 navigation system
I'll learn to read a map

no more laptop computer
no more wireless card
no more 24 ounce
Styrofoam cup
filled with
convenience store coffee
lots of cream
lots of sugar

no more cheeseburgers
no more donuts
no more not exercising
no more gaining weight
no more getting winded
just walking up the steps
to my apartment
no more forgetting to take
my vitamins
no more putting off
my doctor's visits
no more excuses
no more getting up early for work
no more trips to the bank
no more paychecks to deposit
no more taxes to pay
fuck the IRS
tell my accountant
to go take a walk
no more stopping at
the post office
no more time-sensitive
legal documents
no more overnight
priority mail
no more business lunches
business cards
business meetings
business clothes
business conventions
business, business, business

no more space left in my head
no more loneliness
no more getting bored
no more fogged over mornings
no more standing naked
pissing alcohol
into my neighbor's potted plants
no more phone calls to the police
no more domestic disturbances
no more crying to my father
crying to my mother
crying to my sister

crying to any pretty girl
who will listen to me

the poet