Thomaz is a whore

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Hey, y'all! Sing along!

There was an old farmer, who sat on a rock
Stroking his whiskers and shaking his

Fist at his neighbors, who sat on their wricks
Teaching their children, to player with their

Kite strings and marbles in the old days of yore
Along came a lady who looked like

A descent young lady and walked like a duck
Said she discovered, a new way to

Bring up the children to sew and to knit
The boys in the stables where shoveling up

Contents of stables left after the hunt
The car man was feeing a nice piece of

Straw from the stables, cleaning the walls
In came the dear maid to play with his

Dog in the dairy where she did belong
If you think this is dirty well your fuckin well wrong...

I don't want to go there

I don't want to face that graveyard.

I don't want to have to locate that specific spot on the ground where right now you're being eaten by worms (correction - your now probably rotten carcass is being eaten by worms).

I don't want to pretend I believe it makes any difference whatsoever if I'm closer to or further from the place where we threw a few shovefuls of dirt under your midly decomposing body a year ago.

I don't want to pretend I believe you've 'gone to a better place' or that 'you're looking upon us right now from somewhere else'.

I don't want to live under this suffocation illusion of constant scrutiny, and I don't want to pretend that you're there, all the time, caring for me.

You've spent your entire adult life caring for me, and turning me into who I am.

That is enough.

I don't want to keep telling myself that it was the right time, or that there was any kind of force agent guiding whatever happenings happened. The truth is that you lived in sadness, struglled against sadness, lost most of your battles, and died a sad man. And there is no god in this. There is no major force in this. There's luck, and chance, and randomness, and hard work. But there is no god in this. No god at all. And you have no idea how thankful for that I am.

That is the one thing that gives me any comfort at all. Your whole life you ranted about god and how sarcastically sado-masochistic he was (no, I won't capitalize nouns and pronouns to emphasize a fallacy). Your whole life you talked about heaven and hell, and how ridiculous you thought the concepts were, and all you got was frowned upon.

Not from me, dad.

I miss you unbearably much, and there is a million billion reasons why I wish you were, but right now the chief one was that I just wanted you to hear from me that I agree with you. God is a bastard BDSM junkie and I'm unbelievably glad he doesn't exist.

Wish you were here. Thanks for existing.

Perspectiva

Eu demorei pra postar qualquer coisa sobre a morte do meu pai aqui pq pra ser honesto, eu to de saco cheio de contar a história. De dar os fatos, de verbalizar minhas reações, de assegurar as pessoas de que eu estou bem, de tirar aquele medo padrão que sempre rola de que alguém vá se matar, cair na merda e nunca mais sair, este tipo de coisa. Não é de forma alguma uma reclamação com relação ao apoio que me deram, eu acho que estou superando isso de forma muito mais tranquila do que eu jamais sonhei que ia superar, mas o fato é que mesmo as histórias mais importantes da sua vida perdem força se vc as conta o tempo todo.

O que eu quero falar sobre aqui é perspectiva. É óbvio que também é um clichê animal, mas perder meu pai mudou muito minha perspectiva com relação às coisas. E disso eu tenho falado pouco, mesmo pq é algo muito pessoal, não é algo que as pessoas vão geralmente ter muito o que dizer a respeito.

Você vai morrer, cara. Nas palavras de Tyler Durden, sua vida está acabando, um minuto de cada vez. E olhando pra trás, eu percebo que, na maioria do tempo, desde que as coisas na minha vida passaram a estar mais sob meu controle do q de qq outra pessoa, eu tenho andado a passo de caranguejo.

De um lado pro outro. Do outro pro um. E raramente, muito raramente, pra frente.

Eu preciso encarar os fatos. Eu sou preguiçoso demais, eu sou lerdo demais, eu sou pró-passivo demais.

Eu sou inteligente, e eu sei que eu tenho potencial, e eu estou jogando meu potencial no incinerador. POR PREGUIÇA. Não é medo de cagar tudo, não é falta de espírito, não é falta de confiança na minha habilidade. É PREGUIÇA. Eu tenho PREGUIÇA de fazer algo de útil da minha vida.

A minha aparência física me incomoda. Ser gordo finalmente começou a me incomodar, pesado. Pela primeira vez na vida eu senti que apareceram pessoas que podiam ser parceiras super legais na minha vida e que poderiam me dar muita alegria como namoradas, mas que jamais pensaram na possibilidade de ser minhas namoradas porque quando me conheceram mais a fundo eu já era prefeito da friend zone, e eu tenho consciência de que isso aconteceu pq eu causo uma péssima primeira impressão nesse sentido, e a minha aparência é responsável por isso. E eu tenho preguiça de mudar. Eu tenho PREGUIÇA de ir a um médico, de fazer dieta, de ir pra academia, de me cuidar regularmente. Eu tenho PREGUIÇA.

Eu tenho PREGUIÇA de ser uma pessoa melhor.

Shoot me. Sue me. Kill me. Eu tenho PREGUIÇA.

PREGUIÇA.

Somebody teach me

How to care less.
I need to care less.

I'm just

sad. Outright, downright, utterly sad. And not only sad, but guilty. Guilty for being sad, guilty for a billion unimportant work reasons, guilty for a million other things I probably don't know of.
And I wished I would start this paragraph with something like 'the fact of the matter is' but the fact of the matter is that I don't know what the fact of the matter is. And I need to know.
I need to know what I have to do. I need to have the slightest idea of where I'm going. I need to feel like more than the big bag of shit I feel like right now.
I need to have someone to whom I can talk about this. I need someone to say 'hey, it's not that bad dude, it's not that bad.' The truth I used to think I had people in my life I could call at 1am to talk, but the truth is I don't.
I don't
Fuck, I don't.

Self-loathing

Dear reader,

Thank you for not existing, because every word I write here brings out the purest, meanest, dirtiest sense of self-loathing in me you would have possibly imagined.

You would see me rummaging about my deepest and best-hidden secrets, the secrets I hide best not because I fear them, but because they make me ashamed of myself.

I am weak.

I succumb to any conspiracy theory that would make it seem like things are much worse than they actually are.

If a billion people tell me a good thing about you but that green little almost invisible thing in the dark tells me they're wrong, that's one lucky green little almost invisible bastard I'll believe.

Cause that's who I am, OK?

No, not OK.
Never, ever OK.