Fighting nostalgia and loneliness.

I miss writing.

Something was always happening back then. Every time the bell rung, you went outside and it really did feel like you were moving.

This days, well, you are lucky to get a smile from anyone. I've always prided myself in being able to see the bigger picture, but lately, it just seems so pointless.

Maybe its me, I dont know. It really starts feeling like the end, anyway.

Now Im just blabbing. Shit.

My mom now cries regularly about... I dont know, something important I suppose.

I never ask her why.

Hey, Revolver.

We used to be so good at this.

This chance wont be the last one

Remember all those moments?

So maybe the random images will stop running through my head.

They're all so pointless now.

Get your head together son, because this is just starting.

Mi mamá piensa que estoy en depresión.

Forget Mexico City, scholarships, grades, everything.

Im thinkin Spain right now, and its so easy I smile every time it pops in my head.

100th post btw.

The Revolver Rehab Project came to life as a result, in the words of Mr. Nolan, of a half remembered dream. The objective of Rehab was, as its name implies, to rehabilitate the writing gene that had eroded in me over time. The way of this healing process would chronicle the way that I was trying to get back into your life.

Since in many ways you are the mother of this experiment, I should note that the time that I was by your side ended up killing our little Project. So, even though I did end up getting my way, the Project didn’t survive the consequent time consuming duties that I found myself enjoying. Let’s just say you were a little bit too high maintenance.

The Project slowly drifted away during the past year, but due to the product from another half remembered dream, there is a new need for the Revolver Rehab Project, only this time it goes entirely against the concept of which it was created.

This time, Revolver is about letting go.

Lo mas sorprendente de todo…

Es que todavía no aceptas nada.

¿Sera posible para una persona perder la capacidad de relacionarse con la gente?

¿Puede alguien, poco a poco, perder la creatividad por medio de la escritura?

Antes tenía dos grandes habilidades, y creo que con el paso del tiempo, estas han se han erosionado a tal grado que ya no recuerdo como era que antes hacia ciertas cosas. Me gusta leer y recordar mis textos de antes, como se me hacia tan fácil crear objetos en mi cabeza, verlas como se modificaban ellas solas una vez que las pasaba al papel o el teclado, y, lo mejor, leerlas y analizarlas ya que se presentaran como producto final.

Otra cosa que me ha molestado aun más todos los días es como me he vuelto hacer esa persona fría y cerrada que era cuando salí de la secundaria. No sé que es pero recuerdo que hace unos meses era alguien tan abierto, tan contento con la persona que era y con lo que hacía. Estos días siento como si nomas estuviera continuando con el movimiento de siempre, que todo es gris y que mañana será lo mismo que ayer. Hay veces donde despierto como del sueño, que regresa todo ese calor y ganas de vivir que tenía, que él solo escuchar una canción me regala un viaje de regreso a todo lo que antes daba por hecho que iba a estar conmigo toda mi vida.

---

Me prometí que ya no te iba a involucrar en mi vida, pero me aterra el pensar que probablemente seas tú la pieza que falta.

A veces me siento bipolar.

Hay días que no puedo soportar tu fantasma que me sigue a todos lados, pero rápidamente, e igual como harías con un malestar, saco mi medicamento, y recuerdo todas las serpientes y escaleras con las que lidiaba contigo. Siento que ya te perdone, que ya mi enojo despareció, y la verdad es que si, ya creo que no tengo nada de eso contra ti. Lo sé porque antes, cuando recordaba mi medicamento, me enojaba. Ahora simplemente me inunda una profunda tristeza, una desesperación horrible, porque es como si te viera en todos lados, pero sé que esa persona que veo es simplemente una pantalla a la que tú me expusiste.

Tu fantasma.

Mi favorito.

I gotta stop this.

I have to stop obsessing over you. I wasn't supposed to be like this. Im the guy that used to not care about trivial stuff like you. You did this to me.

...

But I'll get over it. I know I can.

Someday.

Soon.

I was just thinking about it and realized that you kinda broke me down in sections.

I must be sick.

I love you.

I hate you.

And thats pretty much it.

Still cant believe yesterday happen.

Those things are not supposed to happen in my family, you know?

Fuck her.

I see it as a before and after, you know?

Maybe when im older I look back at this and see it as my turning point.

Who knows?

The way it is all coming out now, this one was for the best.

I'll never believe that this happened because of that night. Sure, I fucked up, I do it a lot, but this wasnt because of that. The way you are now, I think its safe to say that you dont need me anymore, and there was no way I could change that. This was inevitable and thats my saving grace. This is a good thing after all.

So I'll cut the crying and the moping.

I love you, and I miss you already.

And Ill remember to smile when I see you.

And then I'll turn my head away.

(Thank you.)

And with this post, lets hope that this story is over, not because I want it to be over, but because, like she said, and I begin to understand now, its for the best.

Im sorry.

Lets just pack everything and go somewhere we can be alone.

I miss you.

I miss the old days.

I miss life being easy.

(I miss writing.)

My mother slapped me in the face today.

I guess that, after today, everything that I had planned for the vacations is pretty much over.

Shiiit.

And the Inters too.

Is this one really happening?

Is it too little, too late?

Am I already beyond your forgiveness?

Dont you see that I'm at least trying?

Is it a little too late to ask?

If it is, well, I dont care, I'll do it anyway.

So ,please, just show a little bit of faith in me.

I’d like to think that I have changed.

To know that as a person I’m not just standing still, that I’m constantly evolving, improving, just becoming a better human being.

Until recently I thought that at least to some degree, I had achieved those things. But when everyone around you tells you that you are still the same guy, well, what more can you say?

Normally, I wouldn’t care for any of these things. I mean, I feel comfortable with the person I am.

Only problem is, the person I care for the most isn’t.

Puse mi despertador a las 4 AM por accidente.

Today was fun.

Somehow, you gave me the perfect name.

Even when Im asleep you seem to have a huge impact on me.

(Gotta say, I loved your alter ego. I know it was just a dream but still, what a girl.)

Anyway, thanks for the name.

The Revolver Rehab Project.

It doesnt mean anything, It doesnt stand for anything.

I just like the way it sounds and rolls off the tounge.

Man, it sucks to be in love.

Fuck it.

I gave it my best shot.

Its just not happening twice in my lifetime.

She really did get the best of me again.

Estoy esforzándome demasiado para no enloquecer un día y gritarle que lo siento mucho.

This is why I watch an insane amount of sports.

Casi me hace llorar el ver la ventana en frente de mi compu.

Windows ha detectado un error en el Programa Pencil y tendrá que cerrarse.

Varias horas de trabajo perdidas.

Tenía la esperanza de que por alguna intervención divina, la compu nueva haya guardado el trabajo antes.

Nada. El Windows 7 no sirve de nada.

Ni modo, a empezar otra vez.

You know those days when everything goes slow and you just want to throw up?

I hate those days.

Sadly, its just not worth it anymore.

I cant think of anyone in the universe hated more by its own children than Tijuana.














(It makes me sad.)

Antes no soportaba a la gente que pretendía ser otra cosa.

Ahora me gusta reírme cuando veo/ conozco a alguien así.

¿Tú también lo notaste?

Si, dejo de llover.

Me di cuenta cuando Matilde empezó a llorar.

Si, hoy fue a consulta. Tercera vez en la semana. Me asusta de solo pensar como seria todo sin él.

No, todo está bien, no te preocupes, alomejor solo estoy exagerando.

Si eso ha de ser. Eso espero.

¿Mi mamá? Sigue en el DF. Fue por la operación, creo que mañana ya regresa a casa de mi abuela.

¿Cuál otra? ¿Cuál? Oh, ya, hable con ella.

Sí, bueno fuera.

No, no va a pasar nada, estoy seguro. Te digo que no.

Como quieras, me da igual lo que pienses.

Oye ya me voy, tengo cosas que hacer.

Sale, te cuidas.

---

Ni siquera colgué el teléfono.

Voltee hacia las ventanas del techo. Las últimas gotas se resbalaban lentamente, llegando intactas a los bordes.

Que apropiado, sobre todo estos dias.

According to Wikipedia, K'naan is African.

Mogadishu, Somalia.

Lived through the civil war in the early 90s.

Tough dude.

This guy makes want to go to Africa.

I dont even know if the guy is African, but still.

Anyway, awesome song.

Por alguna razon, a Mati le encanta la lluvia.

She once read the old blog. She said she liked it, but I knew better.

Now, when I remember those days, it all feels like such a blur, like it was never really happening. I would never admit it back then but like a really wise man once wrote, I guess Im an Idiot in Love Now.(After all, I really did love her). Only difference was that he was a man about it and admitted his feelings. I on the other hand, went Clark Kent on her and never really grew the balls to tell her.

Sometimes I did tell her, but it always came out awkward and, I couldnt blame her, she never really believed me. (Of course she wouldnt believe you, its hard for people to take you seriously when you are being such a dick.)

Worse part is that I have a daily reminder of my idiocy. (Actually I have a lot of those daily reminders.)

This one is quite easy to see, however. I just need to stand in the doorstep of my classroom and turn my head left. She is almost always there.

What really stuns me about the whole thing is that you kinda knew this would happen. After all, you have been here before.

Not once.

Not twice.

But three times.

T H R E E

T R O I S

T R E S

freackin times.

None of this really matters anyway. Unlike last time, she already blew over me.

Like, really over me.

But, hey I still have the memories.

I just take a deep sigh and think about them.

Man, they feel like ages ago.

Random Thing About Me

Everytime I meet someone and they ask me how old I am it always perplexes me how shocked they are to find out im 16. I never know if to take this as a compliment or a disvantage. (this sucks when it comes to women. Except if they are some Canadian, Sorority chick drunk in a cruise on its way to Cabo.)

I tend to think people think Im old because Im tall. Yeah, that must be it, because Im sure as hell not a really mature guy or anything. In fact, Im really immature. Hang on, Im going to play Mario Bros. in my sisters DS.

(...)

For the purposes of this book - loosely described as "Evaluating why certain players and teams mattered more than others" - I just couldnt find the answers I needed through statistics. I needed to immerse myself in the history of the game, read as much as I could, and watch as much tape as I could.

I care about guys who puked before crucial games and cried on television shows just because a simple replay brought back the pain from years ago.

I care that someone walked away from a guaranteed title (or more) because he selfishly wanted to win on his own terms, and I care that someone gave away 20 percent of his minutes or numbers because that sacrifice made his team better.

I care about glowing quotes from yellowed magazines and passionate testimonials from dying teammates.

I care about the things I witnessed and how they resonated with me.

-- From the Book of Basketball by Bill Simmons.