I have a confession to make. I'm one of those annoying people that reads classic books in order to look smart. We've all seen them right? That one wanky douchebag sitting in a café reading Sartre, Nietzsche or Oscar Wilde trying to look like an intellectual. So, yeah, that's me.
The beauty of it, however, is that while trying to look smarter than I am, I end up learning stuff. Which means I'm slowly becoming less and less stupid. Maybe in a few years time I'll finally go through a philosophy book without having to go back three or four times on each sentence to grasp the concept.

I'm currently reading Adieux by Simone de Beauvoir btw. But that one I'm reading just cause she was such a badass.

A daisy.

There's a man that goes to the same café that I do. Some days I get there at six, order something quickly and rush off to work. When I do, he's there. Sometimes I get there at seven thirty, order a nice breakfast and eat it reading a newspaper. When I do, he's there. Sometimes on the weekends I come with my flatmate at nine. We order hot chocolates, and drink it while throwing the marshmallows at each other, laughing. When I do, he's there, but never for long. He usually leaves at nine thirty.
The man looks old. He's very short, with a rather pronounced hunchback, as if the weight of his whole life still rests on his shoulders. He walks with the aid of a cane, a beautiful one, made of gorgeous dark wood. He wears woolen trousers, shirts that never seem to be ironed, suspenders and those hats that used to be exclusive to old men, but now are popular among teenagers. And everyday he comes to the café, he brings a daisy.
I think that's what sparked my interest in him. Everyday, he'll get to the café, order a coffee, put his daisy on a little vase and just sit there for 3, 3 and a half hours. He always looks... nostalgic. Not sad, but behind his glassy eyes you can almost see the past he seems to be remembering.
And it makes me wonder, what is that past? My imagination runs wild. I ask the girl with shaved hair that works at the café if she knows anything about him, and she tells me he never speaks much. He just comes in, orders his coffee, and sits there.
After some time I make wondering about his life my hobby. Maybe he's an imigrant. Maybe he came to this country forty years ago, holding on to a promise of money and easy work. Maybe on the way here he met a woman; a beautiful woman. Maybe they fell in love during the trip, but were sent to different places upon arrival. Maybe they kept in touch. Maybe they sent letters to each other every day, telling one another about how difficult not speaking the language was, how exciting their new life was, how they met tons of new people at the factories they were sent to work at. Maybe one day he finally gathered enough money to go meet her at the place she was living. He would've put on his best suit, combed his hair and wore perfume. On his way to her house, he would've picked a flower to give to her. A daisy.
Maybe after arriving at her house he would've discovered she was already married. Devastated, he would've gone to a bar nearby, decided to drink himself to death, not seeing a reason to live if he couldn't be with her. But as soon as he raised his first glass of scotch, she would've entered the bar running, her cheeks red, her hair blown off, the daisy he had given her resting behind her ear; the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
And then they would've eloped. After that, life wouldn't have been easy, but they managed. They had a few children, raised then to be honest adults and watched them leave. One year, after the kids were long gone, she gave him a cane for his birthday. The doctor had said he needed one, and she secretly saved money for months in order to give him the prettiest cane she could find. It was the best gift he had ever received.
And one day she was gone. It was only him. So everyday, instead of staying at home and remembering the sound of her singing while making breakfast, the smell of her hair as she walked around the kitchen, the sound of her laugh when he told her how beautiful she looked that day, he prefered to come to the café. And he brought a daisy. Cause he never forgot her.
I finish my coffee, put the newspaper I wasn't reading away, and get my bag. As I get up, for one second I consider if I should go over to the old man. Pull a chair, sit in front of him and ask him what is his story. But I decide against it. To hear the truth would be to kill this perfect couple I have created in my mind. And I love them too much to do that.

Love.

- I love you.

"Crap."

- Why?

- What?

- Why do you love me?

- I... Don't know. I just do. You make me happy.

- Do I, really? I mean, we've been going out for what, 2 months? How can you know you're happy because of me? Maybe you're just having a good couple of months. For all we know you could lose your job tomorrow, break your leg next week and then break up with me cause I drink all the milk and then put the bottle back in the fridge or something.

- Was that you?

- It doesn't matter. All I'm saying is: you don't love me. You may like me. A lot. But love is just too much.

- But I do! I love being with you, I love looking at you, every moment away from you is like hell to me.

- Well, that's not love. That's some weird kind of psychological addiction.

- So what if it is? I still love you.

- No you don't.

- Why are you saying all this? Why can't you just accept that I love you? Why do you keep trying to prove me wrong?

- Cause you are wrong. Love is huge. It's never-ending, intense in its mildness. It makes the small things seem huge and the big ones seem irrelevant. It gives life a reason. It's beautiful and awful all at the same time. Love is not like they show it in tv. It's not about liking someone, fucking him a couple of times, having a big talk with him where you tell each other about your endless love and go get married. It's not that simple.

- Sometimes it is.

- It's not.

- How do you know?

- I just do.

- So you're saying you don't like me?

- No. I'm saying you shouldn't go around saying you love people like you were asking them to pass the salt shaker.

- But I really do love you!

- Really? So when you see me everything leaves your mind and you just enjoy the moment, right? When you know we're gonna see each other you look forward to it like a child looks forward to Christmas, and when we're together you feel like the luckiest guy in the world, right?

- Yes, exactly.

- Well babe, sorry to inform you, that's infatuation. That goes away in six months at most.

- ... Look, I don't know what's wrong with you today, but I'm gonna leave, ok? You're obviously not in a good mood, and I don't wanna turn this into a fight.

- We're not fighting.

- Whatever. I'm going now. I just don't know why you think you know what I'm feeling. How do you know so much about love, anyway?

He leaves.

"... Cause I love you."

So, I need a job. Badly.
Now, looking for a job is never something one thinks much about when growing up. We just think we're gonna go to astronaut school, or to a ballet academy and leave to go be badass. Actually, fuck the school. We just think we're gonna grow up and become whatever the hell we want.
Sadly, I'm not an astronaut. Yet. Or a ballet dancer. Yet. (Yes, someday, I'm gonna become a astronaut ballerina, and I'm gonna be awesome, and I'm gonna be on the cover of Time, so fuck you and your law degree). I work at McDonald's. People say McJobs are terribly underpaid and require you to have no dignity whatsoever, and they're right. It sucks. Managers treat you like shit, the job is pretty damn awful and i can't even begin to describe the shame that comes whenever you have to tell people what you do for a living. I'd rather tell people i turn tricks on the street than tell them i work at Maccas. I mean, shit, at least I'd have interesting stories to tell. The best stories i have so far are how we ran out of fries one day and than we had to sell combos with just drinks and burgers or when someone did a bad close on the night before so the sauce guns were still dirty.
But now I am moving out of home, so I need a job close to the flat I'm moving to. Now I could say that I hate working with fast food, so I just didn't apply to any other McDonald's stores, but that would be a lie. I applied to other stores and guess what? They turned me down. After considering ending my misery and just jumping off a bridge already, I realized that I can't think of any bridges in Wellington, so i might as well look for something else.
No luck so far, though. I got turned down for about 4 jobs, and just didn't hear anything from about other 27. Now I'm down to my last option. The only thing worse than fast food. The career dead end destined to those who are destined to a life of shame and minimal wages. A supermarket.
I'm applying there next week. A friend of a friend works/worked there so I may be able to get it pretty quick. Lucky me. Or not.

orly?

Janet decides to tell the truth.

Janet closed her eyes, took a deep breath and watched as her breath became steam in contact with the cold air. She looked to her left once again, hoping to see the train coming closer. It wasn't, so she looked in her bag, took a pack of cigarettes and lit one.Surely enough, two puffs later, there was the train. Slightly annoyed she threw the cigarette in the tracks and entered the train.
- One way to Wellington, please. - she told the lady, before giving her some coins and getting a stamped paper ticket back. She always prefer ed when the person in the train was a lady. They seemed nicer, for some reason. With a sigh, she rested her head on the window and watched the trees and cars go by. It was gonna be a tough day.

After the train had slowed down and opened its doors, Janet jumped out and made her way into the station. After a brief stop at the toilet to fix her hair and put a hat on, the girl left the station, lighting another cigarette to make up for the one she had to throw away before. At that rate she'd have to buy a new pack before lunch, and God knew how expensive cigarettes had been getting. Oh well, the more money spent on cigarettes, the less money spent on food. She didn't get to her current 50 kgs by eating. With an angry gesture she tried to fix her fringe, already destroyed by the wind. "Stupid winter." she thought, before stopping to wait for a green light. Wellington was a nice town, but the weather was very, very irritating. After a few minutes walking Janet found herself in front of the café she had been looking for. She could see Brad inside, a mug in front of him, and a book in his hands. Brad liked to read about philosophy to pretend he was more intelligent than he actually was. That always annoyed Janet. Taking the hundredth deep breath that day, she threw the cigarette butt in the gutter and went in.
- Hey. - she said, sitting in front of Brad.
- Oh, hey! How are you?
- I'm alright. Sorry I'm late, the fucking train was late again. What are you reading?
- The Metamorphosis. It's Kafka. Really good.
Janet looked at the cover. A huge insect was lying in a bed. It was pretty gross.
- Do you actually like it, or are you reading it so people think you're smart?
- ... What?
- Just asking.
Brad looked at her weirdly and took a sip of coffee. He stared at the street outside for a while before asking her:
- So, why did you wanna meet?
- I'm starting this new project and I wanted to try it out with you. If you don't mind. Well, not that it matters if you mind or not, but I thought it'd be polite to ask.
- ... Ok, you're scaring me. What is it?
- It's pretty simple really. I just say whatever I think whenever I think it. For example, normally I wouldn't comment on how I think you should never wear skinny jeans, 'cause your legs are too fat for it to look good. But now I'll say it. Got it?
- You're kidding right? - Brad's hand instinctively touched his leg. Half of it was muscle!
- Not really. I'm gonna do it for two weeks and see what happens. My theory is that people are never ready to handle the truth and they run away from it. How long can you take it?
- Don't be stupid, Jan. - He put his book in his bag, avoiding Janet's eyes. What was wrong with her?
- Well, not all of it is bad. For example, your hair looks really good today. There's probably enough product in it to supply ten pageant kids for five years, but you can hardly tell.
- You know what, you're being a bitch. God knows why, but you're being a fucking bitch. I'm not staying here. - Brad grabbed his bag and his jacket and left. What the hell was wrong with her?
Janet looked at her cellphone. Three minutes. That was even quicker than she had thought. She took Brad's mug, finished his coffee and grabbed her stuff. If she hurried, she could probably meet some three people before the day ended.

- Stop being a bitch, Janet. - Claire stated simply.
- I'm not being a bitch, I'm just saying what I think. - Janet was getting tired. After Brad there was Sam, who lasted 5 minutes, and Louise, who lasted impressive 10 minutes, before running away crying. People were turning up to be way more boring then she thought.
- Well, how come everything you think is negative?
- I don't know. Maybe I'm a negative person.
- Well, maybe you like being a bitch.
- Yeah, maybe. So what if I do?
- Well, I think that if you do you shouldn't hide it behind some 'psychosocial experiment' or whatever the fuck you're calling it. We all know you're a bitch. Own up to it.
Janet looked at the sea. Maybe Claire was right. Maybe the experiment was an excuse for her to be a bitch guilt-free.
- Brad, Sam and Lou didn't know how much of a bitch I am. They left.
- Yeah, that's cause they're pussies. - Claire took a puff out of her cigarette and blew out the grey smoke with a deep sigh.
- Can I have a smoke? - asked Janet - I'm all out.
- No. - said Claire, before taking another puff.
- What do you mean no? I always give you smokes when I have them.
- So? I don't feel like giving you one. Besides, the only reason you give me smokes is so you can collect the favour later on. It's very annoying.
-... What?
- Yeah, it's true. You know what else is annoying? How you keep talking about your weight, what you ate today, the diet you're on this week... Get over yourself, honey. You're not gonna get any skinnier.
- You know what? You're being a cunt. I'm outta here. - Janet's cheeks were red with anger. How dare she talk about her weight, the fat cow? She got up and walked away.
Claire looked at her phone. With a smile in the corner of her mouth, she shouted to Janet's back.
- Six minutes, bitch! That's all you can last!
Janet gave her the middle finger without looking back. Claire laughed. The poor thing had so much to learn about being a bitch. And with a laugh-turned-snort she took another puff from her cigarette.

Short story

Have you ever had a random dream that inspires you to write? Well, I did. I wrote this literally five minutes after waking up, so it's not perfect, but I kinda like it. Here it is:

-----

I still remember my first day of school. My mum had made breakfast (we never had breakfast), put me into a boring looking uniform and fixed my hair. She held my hand as we walked to the subway station, and sat by me when we got in the train. I remember being very sleepy and very confused. And then I saw you. You were sitting across from me, your eyes closed and your head resting in your mother's shoulder. I remember the pink hair bow you were wearing, and the pink watch that, as I would later learn, was your most valuable possession. I stared at you for a few seconds, not knowing why, when you opened your eyes and looked at me. We stayed like that for a while, until you put your finger in your nose and stick your tongue out. I remember laughing at that, the way I could only laugh when I was a child, like nothing else I had ever seen, or would ever see, could be funnier than that silly face.
With a screech the train stopped, my mum took my hand and led me out to the station, as your mum did the same. I remember making one final ugly face to you before climbing the escalators. After leaving the subway station, we walked for a while until we saw a massive church. I think that if I went back there today it wouldn't be so gigantic, but at the age of three, it was the biggest thing I had ever seen. I held my mother's hand a little harder and went inside with her. She went to talk to the woman in the reception, and I sat on the ground and started looking at everyone around me. At least five kids were crying, a few were asleep and one or two were playing in the corner. And there you were. Sitting nervously by your mother, checking your watch constantly and looking like you were holding back your tears. I was staring at you again when a young lady appeared and said she would be our kindergarten teacher. I stood up, quickly kissed my mother's cheek and went with the woman.
The years that followed were probably some of the happiest of my life. We got close as time went by, and grew up to be best friends. We would fingerpaint together, play on the swings pretending we were spacemen (although you always said you were a spacewoman), sat by each other for lunch and slept on the same blue gym mattress at nap time. I also remember the last time we saw each other. It was graduation day, and our teachers had been working the whole year to put together a show for the parents. Our class was going to do a ballroom routine, and we were partners. I remember my tiny tuxedo, and your frilly pink and sparkly dress. We probably looked quite silly, but we didn't care. We practiced really hard, like it would be the most important moment of our lives, and when the time came, we went to the stage holding hands, with determined looks in our little faces.
And five minutes into the dance I stepped in our foot. I remember feeling all the blood leave my face, as I looked at you ready to yell how sorry I was for ruining our special moment. But you just looked at me and laughed. That cute, innocent laugh. You held my hands again, told me how silly I was, and coached me through the rest of the dance. I remember feeling like I was walking through clouds, like nothing else existed except for you and me.
After the show, our mums were talking, so we went to the playground. We rushed to the swings, happy that there wasn't anyone around to go on them before us. As we swinged, we talked about what the next year would be like. You were staying at the school in the monastery, while I was moving to other school across the city. Suddenly you stopped swinging. I stopped too. You said you would miss me. I said I would miss you too. And then we hugged. Not for long, just for a few seconds, but a lot was said with that hug. Before we could say anything else, however, our mothers called to us so we could go home. I never saw you again.

As I write this I wonder many things. Where are you now? Are you married? Do you have kids? What's your job? I am married, to the best woman in the world, and we have two little boys who are everything to me. Today was my oldest one's first day of school. As we sat in traffic waiting for the light to turn green, I looked over and saw my little boy making funny faces to a blond girl in the car next to ours. And it all came back.
I don't know if I loved you. We were too young for that. But I do know that you were special to me. And I sincerely hope that, wherever you are, whatever your life is like right now, you think of me every now and then. When life seems hard, I hope you remember how innocent and joyful we were. I know I sure do.

-----

It hasn't got anything to do with me, btw. It's just a random story from a random dream I had. Thoughts?