Ex-stripper, now Oscar winner. She's, like, a dream, man. 


Calm, cool and collected.

WARNING: this post contains long doses of self-pity and auto-therapy bollocks. 


Folks, I've got an announcement.

There's a new phenomenon happening this year, absolutely unfamiliar to me up until this point of my life: the absence of guilt. For reasons unknown (as The Killers would say), every now and then my mind becomes strangely empty during several stages of the day, forcing me to pay attention at whatever is happening around me. 

No, really. I pay attention to strange things, like old ladies crossing the street, or the tracks of the trains outside London Bridge. Hell, I even read the orkut profiles of extremely boring people. Waste of time, right? But I explain: 

I am, or used to be, one of those people that never, EVER, stops ruminating about everything, endlessly wondering, questioning, scrutinising, trying to find a reason for that permanent feeling of inadequacy. In my regular, day-to-day perspective, there is (or was) always something wrong with me: my curly hair, my apple-shaped body, my disproportionate face, the clothes I wear, the subjects I studied, the jobs I've worked in, the places I hang out, the people around me. Why couldn't I be prettier, fitter, smarter, cooler, more successful, stylish, intelligent, desired, all at the same time and preferably NOW? WHY?

Laugh as you will, but the lack of confidence here was that big. And writing about it now, I see that my insecurity had ridiculous proportions. I mean, think about it: what I've always wanted to be was PERFECT. Full-stop, no negotiation, no second-place-should-be-fine. No. 

Now imagine the proportions of my frustration. As you might have noticed, that never happened, or got even close to happen. Or ever will.

I would need several years of therapy to trace precisely the origins of that enormous self-doubt, but I believe it all started at some point in my childhood, when my also very insecure mother would drop me off at my rich cousin P. for play-dates. Only instead of playing with her huge collection of Barbies, she would spend the afternoon showing off her walk-in closet with everything organised by colour, and discussing the benefits of weekly blow-dry appointments at her mom's hair salon. We were 7 years old.

These days, she is married to the richest guy in the state, a brainless good-for-nothing who inherited all his family land and money, and they both lead a very meaningful life swapping Ferraris for Porshes, delegating orders to servants and nannies, attending endless hair/manicure appointments, organising children birthday parties, and shopping, shopping, shopping. I'm not too sure they travel a lot, but I wouldn't expect them to go far off the boundaries of midwest Brazil, where they're known as the one of the most powerful couple of the region. 

Without a single second-thought, I wouldn't swap places with her, not for a minute (seriously, I'm being honest). Maybe bank accounts, but that's about it. I don't want to be her - no, to be precise, her life is the exact definition of hell on earth to me, the absolute opposite of everything I've ever chased. Or at least I thought so. 

Looking back, all I've always wanted was to feel certain, to be assured, convinced, satisfied (and whatever synonyms thesaurus can find). At least for a minute,to not think about what else was out there, and why the choices I made were wrong. 'Cause even If my life was absolutely different, If I was tall, with great hair, a stable family and a stellar career, I'd probably find something wrong with it, and would obsess about it. 

As it is, a classic case of "the neighbour's grass is always greener." Status anxiety.

Well, not anymore. Not for now, anyway. In matter of weeks, it feels like I've managed to grow-up more than I've done in 25 years. Don't know if it is for real, if I'm gonna go back to being a scared little monkey anytime soon, but I'm quite enjoying being this indifferent, calm, cool and collected being.

Okay. Thanks for listening. 



I'm so over being me.

It's crazy how a single book can change your mindset. Since I read Siddhartha, the holy bible of the hippie generation, during my holidays in Brazil, I have, unbelievably, sort of developed an ability to stop thinking ahead of time. No, really. I sort of entered this state where I just don't try anymore to measure how much time I'm wasting by not doing what I actually should be doing. It seems that I've been living like this for so long (or should I say *not living*, because moaning about the past and freaking out about the future shouldn't be considered as such), that I must have had something like a mental breakdown. Like, "Huh?! Am I developing body rashes because of what doesn't even exist yet? HELLO?"

It was probably just another manifestation of my erratic and bored personality, which makes me throw the towel as soon as I see no point for keep on doing things. If there's a thing I'm good at, no, GREAT at, it's quitting, so I simply quit thinking about everything that is not the moment. Simple as that. And I didn't even need a lifetime of meditation to get to this state. I bet Siddhartha would be jealous. And my dad, the biggest fan of that self-help bestseller, THE POWER OF NOW, will definately be proud.

Of course I didn't reach the nirvana or enlightenment or even started sleeping any better (I can't remember the last time I slept a whole night uninterrupted, but with a hugely deviated septum and a spine that resembles the Thames river, who would?), but I've been enviously calm and lighthearted, taking everything in as it is. No overanalyzing bollocks, no scrutinizing shit, apart from these blog posts, which will be become more regular from now on - I'm not perfect, alright?


Oh, I also quit my job. Whilst I was at my "quit thinking" momento, I also thought I should stop wasting my precious hours at dead-end jobs because of irrelevant stuff such as "career", or "CVs", or "status", or worse of all, "money", so I arrived from my one-month vacation in Brazil (taken during probation period) and handed in my notice. No offense, I quite liked the people there, but, I mean, only wankers hand over their lives in exchange of the aforementioned stuff, right? Or maybe the only wanker in the story is me, one of those people who only complain and never do anything about it. I couldn't stand my own self.

People, oooobviously, started babbling away like robots the questions "what you're gonna do now?", "what's your plan?", and "how you're gonna pay the bills?". Hell, who cares. I've always been able sort myself out, even if it requires "underground measures" - so nothing to worry about. For the first time ever, I've no studies or job to agonize about. I can do whatever the hell I want.

Never been happier.


Then, on my first day of freedom, I saw Juno. Gawd. She is like the dream teenager. If I had been as witty, self-assured and coolheaded as her when I went through the same thing, my life would have been SO much easier. The scriptwriter (Diablo Cody, all the rage now. Bitch. Stole my thunder.), obviously never went through an unwanted teenage pregnancy.

Yeah, yeah, there it is. I went through it. Twice. And the biggest irony of all is that they were
 only "unwanted" because of the previously mentioned irrelevant stuff (should I call it "the big CSM"?). I mean, DUH! If I could only have had a glimpse of my future at 25 when I was the teenage version of the little miserable shit I am used to be, I probably would have saved a lot of wretchedness and anxiety over nothing. Or maybe not. I’ve always been a little retarded on the emotional camp – thanks to my lovely parents, who deeply instilled in moi an overwhelming fear of rejection – so I’m totally sure I would have become a melodramatic wreck anyway, had I had, as Juno calls it, "the thing".

Oh, and for those who are wondering, yes, I’m not proud of it. And, hell yeah, I totally, TOTALLY, regret it.


Ah, the bittersweet taste of maturity.