Pink magazine

During a painful drive between olive orchards (this is in fact True), I noticed a fantastic publication lied forgotten in the backseat of the vehicle: one of those magazines that compile huge arrays of bullshit articles about the glitz, the famous, the good-looking..... you know the deal, for sure. And what amazes me the most is that they're able to do it and fill 100+ pages WEEKLY!!
Yours truly is not by any mean a famous dude. Some friends do weave some caring love for me while others would party their ass off if they knew I fuck up or worse. Ok, again, nothing new here: this is life at its simplest form of reality - no one will ever be able to gather unanimous caring love feelings from all third parties they meet.
Getting back to the magazine subject, I was appalled by the senseless heap of crap that was (badly) written in those one-on, one-off pages.
I sincerely felt that I had much more right to be on those pages!
At this point you might even think that I'm hiding my jet-set-wannabe-status with a pretense pseudo-whatever angry attitude... If that's the case, please do, be my guest! I couldn't care less and I won't sue your ass.... the worst that can happen is that I won't publish your post. But I truly think that both of us can get along and live merrily with our different opinions.
By the way, this world is already full-packed with wannabes, and as a matter of fact, most people are wannabes and curiously even more people deny it.
C´mon dudes and dudettes, I'm not completely delirious.... So what if John Doe no.1 dates Miss Whoever Johnston ....
Is that a plausible reason that this pompous ass should waste so much time of my life? I think not.
Stop and think for a moment: How much do you really care who am I dating? Who am I seeing, and ultimately, screwing? What do you care about my clothing habits?
..... got the picture??
Is there such an urge to self-alienation? Is my life such a bore that I need to scavenge other ones to get a hard-on and a happy grin on my face..
If this is true, then something is very very wrong here!!!
(I'm not being extremist.. I'm just illustrating what you already know)
I'll now change my argumentation to other latitudes and briefly turn my tree-hugger mode "on" and tell you about the paper, the inks, the trees, the waste that adds to the visual pollution that these worship-magazines so blatantly screw into our eyes and other improper human cavities)
But like a coin, every story is cheap... ooops, I mean every story has two sides:
Since Dove started showing half-naked normal women in their publicity stunts, I was immediately staggered with the thought that the golden age of huge breasted, slim waisted, sexy thighed era could well be endangered. I even had a vision of a world where the aforementioned icons were pursued and hunted by a society of Laurels and Hardys where mirrors had been abolished and sex was no longer a pleasant thing to even think about.
Thankfully, both Dove and the hellbent post-modern archetypal woman that can raise dead men with one topless tit, have their market-share, so I called it a day in this facet of the plot.
I got back to my safe harbor and started debating about the true meaning of this god-ridden magazines.
Not having spend much more time that it takes to pick your nose when no one's watching, my conclusion was: being a professional cynical individual.... well, or at least trying to, I would tend to use those rose-colored magazines to update my gossip intel to the fullest, and then, use it carelessly in a frivolous conversation environment, pretending to have known it for ages thus increasing my cool-factor one inch in the most obnoxious way possible.

Either way, and although I read them when I can, I still hate those fucking magazines.

bottled can

Once upon a time there was a canister of sodium cloret sitting lonely inside a damp and dusty closet...
The lil'can (just to spare a few typing distresses) lived his long 6 hour days craving for company...
The opaque environment didn't help either, Lil'can would often spare much of the dark hours fantasizing about the lucky spice recipients, stuck to the wall, always looking from above, oftenly given a much larger attention span.
ok nothing new here... the numerous average John Does don't usually surpass this tiny constraint in their earthly presence. But the can couldn't care less about those humanly habits..
Since its birth to its demise. It existed solely to be kept inside a sun ridden enclosure. And most of all, to keep other substances in such punishment.
The sodium cloret was lil'can's captive. And as sodium cloret, so other substances detention were now a part of Lil'can memory and existence.
It was definitively not an enjoyable "raison d'étre" !
Having to bear this daily carnage, Lil'can noticed that if enough humidity was let through into his gut, the powdered prisoner would react to moist and would assume a tighter and lumpier appearance. Lil'can assumed that it was a very understandable collective effect. When faced with genocide by drowning, boiling, grilling, and most cruel of all, frying. It was more than natural that a "let's go out with a Bang!" or "If one of us must go, then will go all at once" kind of attitude would blossom from that context.
The can kept using its time elaborating his highly complex conceptions of destiny and faith. One day the can started to express that enigma to a powdered garlic victim. Lil'can talked endlessly ... but the grinded garlic was still new in his captivity, therefore in the peak of denial stage. It was simply too much to bear: Beside waiting for certain death inside a tight can, he'd be punished unmercifully while at it . It was sheer psychological torture. For the garlic splinters that was Guantanamo-closet.
However, and as clear as it might seem, a cannister could never hear the powdered prisoners answer. The problem with powder is that each tiny little unit of the bunch, has a voice of its own.
You can imagine the racket of a million grains of dusted curry screaming at the same time.
So, as the moist started to settle in, the voice got clearer and when lil'can could almost understand an intelligible voicing, someone would open the can and, according to the social degree of perfection of the substance, a huge object would come from the sky and batter the lumps to powder status. It was an outrage at first, but then Lil'can started noticing that they would go back at it with added strength, especially in the rain season.
One day, after a long inactive period of time, one brownsugar lump assumed unprecedented structure. Lil'can knew that something above life itself would unravel before his very lid.
In retrospective, the can thought about the endless dark closet days that would just be swept away in a few more time units...
Finally the lump was complete: a serious coherent social stability was achieved. Perfection at hand.... indescribable.
Of a sudden, the lump started moaning as a whole. Lil'can felt he was viewing nirvana in real time... He could finally understand something, the moans and groans seemed to mention something about the human family .....
Something like: "I'll get them so much cholesterol in those fucking veins, you'll be looking like a open-air sewer in Siberia!!!"

1st day of August

It's the first day of August, it's not boiling hot as it should be, but nevertheless its hot anyway.
Slim hopes of summer vacations are nowhere to be seen. Expectations of beach comprised afternoons are nothing but day-long wake dreams. Bummer!
Unfortunately, the sun has proved itself a nice reminder of everything I could be doing instead of staying at the office. Damn!
"Stop bitchin' dude! You're getting on my nerves" the ever-present inner voice spoke.
"....." I gave no answer. The voice is usually right - and that's even more annoying cus' it usually speaks against you, mostly in a critical fashion. And both you and I know that.
"Endure the day, dude! It's all you got to do" the voice assumed a more kind and mildly manner.
As I don't have any other plausible argument to totally waste another working day, I sat back and just waited motivation to come my way. I started feeling more relaxed and noticed that I was clearly heading to La-la-Land .... probably due to last night 5 hour sauna-sleeping session.
Motivation, along with some other successful career key-elements just don't stroll around waiting to be hand-picked.
Unfortunately, I was not in the mood for motivational alchemies: I was feeling tired, sleepy and bummed out. I still am, actually.
Knowing that some decisions must be made unless I want to add one more slab of mason in the guilt wagon... my big morning deliberation is to actually work! (I could see the pleased crowd in awe). I'll work then, and then I'll work something out to lift up the spirit.
The inner-voice quickly replied: " I'll leave you up to it then".
I could finally turn on the headphones and not worry about the karma static.