There Are Too Many Writers In This Town

You get used to pretty much everything in this journey we call life. The beggars, the homeless, the dog shit on the street. The paranoid, superstitious people who stare at you with their little creepy eyes. These people who are afraid to smile in public. I’m sure you know who they are. If not, you’re one of them. (And in a way you are.) 

A thing I’m not used to yet is women reading my blog out loud and translating it to their friends while I’m basically standing next to them, smoking a cigarette in the freezing cold. They just don’t have a clue. Everybody is too busy doing nothing to have a closer look. They would invite the devil into their bed and expect some kind of Jesus.

Lost in translation

I hope she translates well. Translating words is tricky. People might get the wrong idea. 

“Californication!” somebody shouted. Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean? I will have to look it up. The fucking bitch most probably fucked up. Great. Damn. I need another beer. Somebody get me out of here!

 “What’s going on outside?” Vitor asked me.

“Fuck if I know,” I said. “They’re reading some shit. Where were we?”

“Yes, as I was saying, I have an open past. I fill in the gaps with fiction.”

“Interesting,” I said. An open past? I like it. Why the fuck didn’t I come up with that shit. Anyways, it’s mine now. You don’t write anymore, you just talk about writing. Besides, every poet is a thief.

Killing me with kindness

“You poor man,” she said. “So you feel threatened just because you’re close to another writer? Just do your own thing and don’t compare yourself with others.”

“Right. As if you don’t compare your ass and tits with other women’s.”

 “Besides, you are not just a writer. You paint. You make silly movies.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” I said. “If you do too many things, you suck at everything.”

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