The Bullet Biter

So three months ago I started a new job. I was really thrilled at the opportunity to work for a national broadcaster and I was determined to make a good impression. I did my best: I tried to be as presentable as possible despite my hate for ironing or any form of clothes flattening, I became extra careful with the way I talk or the words I choose and - of course – I doubled the amount of effort that I put into pretty much everything I was asked to do. For about 24 hours, I succeeded in my attempt to appear smart yet humble, ambitious yet poised, respectable yet easily accessible. I answered questions about foreign politics, social issues and international trade. Everything was going extremely well. Until of course someone asked me my middle name.  “I don’t have one!” I blurted out. Awkwardness and dismay filled the room. “So you’re just… Valerio” “Yes, but you can call me Val!” I replied cheekily while unintentionally throwing a vintage pop-reference to the 1980s ma

It’s that time of the year. Yeah, the one that comes right before the most wonderful time of the year, you heard me. It’s a genuinely strange time, and people are in a peculiar mood. Most of them are just sad that the summer is over. I, for one, am not going to miss the scorching, brain-melting heat that we’ve experienced this season. I’ve never been a summer person but I’ve always tolerated it well as a child, because at the time summer meant playing with my friends all day long and going to the beach loads during the seemingly endless three-month break from school. It’s not as fun when you have to get into a crowded train with no air conditioning on your way to work and expel all the liquids in your body in the form of sweat and tears with your hair clumped on your scalp and the smell of a thousand strangers lingering on you for the rest of the day. No thanks. Some people, on the other hand, have a delightfully hypocritical/optimistic approach towards it. They see the fall

It’s 2:40 am. I'm in a semi-deserted shopping centre in East London. Rough sleepers are dozing on both sides, their faces pressed on the filthy floor, with cubicles of cardboard to shield them from the fluorescent lights and the prying eyes of strangers. They look like props, artificially placed on the set of a dystopian film, perfectly blended in an upsetting atmosphere of decadence. The junkies go up and down, frantically looking for something or someone that’ll get them higher and higher. The security guard casts a glance full of disdain at the rotten flesh that carelessly shows through their clothes. Their skins are hanging off their bodies, but their smiles persist, revealing crooked teeth ruined by their favourite cocktail, neglect and methamphetamines. And then there’s me. Casually strolling around as I sip a large cup of sprite bought at a 24/7 McDonalds as I returned from a night out cut short by yet another headache.   I take a moment to contemplate the worst

Don’t let the title fool you. This is not a post about gluten. It’s a post about joy, or lack thereof. I couldn’t sleep last night, so I started thinking. And that’s often when the trouble begins. Anyway, I looked back at the past months, trying to summon up precious moments of joy and happiness that would stand out from all the exhausting days spent working tirelessly for my higher purpose. I have spent the past 300 days working really hard. I haven’t stopped a second.   As a matter of fact, I think I haven’t had a proper break in four years. My life is not that much fun these days. Hence the need to find comfort in recent memories that may distract me from the dullness of these dark days made of Sainsbury’s meal deals and Harvard referencing. It took me five minutes to find something… and believe you me, I had to dig really deep before I got there. I have found a few moments, in the end. Luckily, I am not that miserable. But the more I thought about it the mor

Iris had listened attentively to all his words, her face covered by a veil of graceful melancholy.  She paused for a second, trying to compose herself.  She glanced at the mountains, their geometric silhouettes calmly burning in the indigo sky, then took his hand: “ Gaining a clearer understanding of the world and how it works is a paradoxically confusing experience.   I have always assumed that, as you get older, you kind of learn to figure stuff out, you find the key to handle life, you finally take control. As it turns out, growing up is a painful experience. Or at least it has been for me. You slowly strip yourself of layers of childish obliviousness. The same obliviousness that protected you from the harsh realities of an often unpleasant world. Once you leave it you’re naked, vulnerable, exposed. At first, it’s just a crack, almost invisible to the human eye. The years go by and the cracks extends, it widens, it splits you in the middle. Before you know

I've been trying really hard not to lose my shit. Life can be frustrating and painful and, every day, I have to teach myself to resist the impulse to randomly start slapping people in street. I let myself fantasize about it, though. A man should always be allowed to dream. Some people come up to me and suggest I try yoga, meditation, aromatherapy. "Oh my God Valerio have you tried herbal teas? they're like TOTALLY helpful" HORSESHIT. This is what I like to do to release tension. I want to vent my frustration on a public forum and let people think I've lost it. If I can't yell profanities on the street then let me at least write them all here in my safe, mindfulness-free space. Don't be a hater. Speaking of hate. Take a look at the title of this post. Does it ring a bell? You don't have to be a 90s rom-com aficionado like myself to remember the popular chick-flick 10 Things I Hate About You , with Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles. At the