The Bullet Biter

Every time I openly admit that I’m not a huge fan of birthdays, I can’t help but noticing the astonished expression that slowly appears on people’s faces. A few days ago, finally, someone had the courage to tell me why: ‘I see you as someone who appreciates being the center of attention. On your birthday everything is finally and legitimately about you. A person like you should love such a thing.’ Let it be clear: I am not a self-center megalomaniac with a helpless delusion for grandeur. Yet, I didn’t deny it: I do enjoy grabbing the attention of the people around me as a part of my intensely communicative personality. As a storyteller, I’ve developed a need for a permanent ‘audience’ that is focused and attentive on me when I require their attention. So how come I don’t like birthdays? It’s not always been this way. I actually started out as a birthday fanatic: when I was younger, I counted the months, weeks, hours left to the big day. I waited eagerly for that

24 June 2016 This morning I woke up with the sad news that everyone’s probably heard by now: Brexit has actually happened. I was shocked. I really didn’t see it coming. I mean, clearly I’ve been here in London in the past few months and I’ve witnessed the tireless campaigns of both sides and I knew perfectly what could happen. It’s just that, very naively, I never believed it would actually happen. You know, we are all used to those far-right loonies so keen on bringing the world back to the middle ages who periodically come up with the brilliant idea to destroy the achievements of modern democracies or re-penalize abortion and make divorce and homosexuality illegal again. This just sounded like it. The thing is… you know that they’re there but you never really listen to them because you know, you might be skeptical when it comes to politics but you still have faith in the people, and you assume the people will never let that stuff happen.  And that’s where today’

I was in the same bar as always, down in Kew Gardens. On the other side of the room there was a big TV, on silent, and three women seemed to be having a lively discussion while the TV showed pictures of the young black-haired intern who  had an affair with the president.  From the speakers above my head I could clearly hear the unmistakable hoarse voice of Macy Gray. Games, changes, and fears. When will they go from here? When will they stop ? - she sang.  I finished my Manhattan, and continued, while looking her straight in the eyes. ‘’It’s not always what it seems, you know. I can’t really get rid of this feeling. You wouldn’t expect me to feel out of place after all this time in the big city. I mean… it’s 1999, we are at the dawn of the new millennium and I get to live this historic moment in the most amazing place on earth, New York City. But you know… things have changed. They are not like they used to be. It’s true, New York is big enough for me to hid

So here I am again, lying on the floor while enjoying the darkness of my claustrophobic room. This horrible carpet always turns out to be the best place to gather my thoughts and write (when I feel rich I go and reconnect with my oppressed hipster soul and write at the local Starbucks, but it’s not that time of the month yet). The Pink Floyd are the only company I’ve got left this cloudy morning, a shy beginning of the unpredictable English summer. English summer… what a big lie! It sounds nice, though. English summer… I should probably create a cocktail and name it like that. I bet it would sell and finally make me rich so I could move to a bigger room with a bigger carpet where I can gather bigger thoughts. Damn digressions! The point is… no holiday for me this year. Just a very short escape next month. Summer in the city... I am trying to imagine how that’ll feel like. Most of my friends have left, creating a vacuum in my daily life that I am tr

Many times friends and acquaintances confessed me their secret frustrations, complaining about their failures and their alleged lack of talent. They accept a self-imposed fate made of self-diagnosed diseases. In the meantime, they whine. And coming from me, a professional complainer with years of experience, it can only be bad. There’s nothing wrong with complaining as long as, in the meantime, you are actually doing something to root out the cause of your uneasiness. But no, they don’t. ‘Cause they’re lazy. Of course, it’ easy to solve the problem with the panacea of all panaceas: I can’t do it. Now, this is the one phrase that irritates both my sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous system altogether: what exactly do you mean when you say I can’t do it ? Come on, be honest. The fact that you don't know how to do something does not really prevent you from doing it. I see it as a nice and self-victimizing way to say I'm lazy and I don’t want  to try . It&

Today felt like the first day of Summer, yet the city has never been this cold.  Cecily left us, they write. A Facebook post, a heart, some confused words of a friend who tells her Goodbye. And here comes the truth, who turned today's blue sky into a huge black hole. No way out. Cecily is dead.  I didn’t see this coming. We all knew she was ill. But I’ve read her story, I’ve listened to it: in the past two years, Cecily chewed death and then spat it. She talked about it, she wrote about, she painted about it. She exorcised the demon, made it human… vulnerable. Because after all death, the thought of death, is only deadly to the living: it can only affect us when we are alive. The fear of it, mostly, its overshadowing presence. But in her words, in the conversations she had, death had the same relevance of the last nail polish she had bought or the horoscope of the day.  She didn't only fight it, she opposed it, she denied the disease its deadly status, by t

This was meant to happen, sooner or later. I bet you all saw this coming. I mean, everyone who knows me has heard me complaining about any form of public transport at least once. And after spending one year in the busiest city in the world, where the tube is basically a national institution just like the Queen and cucumbers in sandwiches, I am ready to speak out. Even though I promised myself that I wasn't going to merely look through all the legendary stereotypes about public means of transport, the circumstances force me to mention at least some of them, clearly enriched with the inedited shades of absurdity that have been coloring my life since its very beginning. I'd start by describing you one of the most uncomfortable situation that my daily life offers me. No, wait, I'll reword this.  I am not talking of one particular episode. I mean, that's it: my life is an uncomfortable situation. But let's start from the beginning. I wake u

Chad and Iris were sitting on the tracks of the abandoned railroad. The rails, imbued with warmth, told the stories of the midday sun. A sun that Chad now was struggling to see, as it was hidden behind the stone mountains, with no trees nor plants, drawn on an indigo sky prematurely filled with pale, shy stars.  She stared at him, trying to unravel its mystery. A lock of hair covering her lips, red as cherries resting on the snow. '' Give me a smile. It's your anniversary’ '' she said. He kept looking in the opposite direction, his eyes firmly planted on the wheat fields, endless golden blankets that in summer transformed the barren grasslands of Missouri in a Van-Gogh painting. He turned towards her, touching her face. '' A year '' - he said - '' A year. How many things can happen in one single year? It 'a trivial question, I know. But think about it for a moment, Iris. One year. 365 days. A time segment,