The Bullet Biter

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&