The opposite of Prince of Imperfection

Your superficiality hurts me deep in the guts. It's blinding to see that you don't know who you are and can't find a way, a path of your own. It's painful to observe how you run away from your own pain or even life. It's scary to watch how you're scaring away all of your friends who have a brain working outside the world wide web. It's sad that you prefer to surround yourself of fake people and fake ideals and fake interests, while you're getting more and more empty and making other people sad. It seems that you crave emptiness and keep acting like you're perfect and standing above. You're just the opposite of Prince of Imperfection, who was indeed the closest that someone can get to perfection.

The baby (aka dissertation) is a HE!

I decided it should be a male dissertation, dealing with hardcore basic science in a sensitive way. Yes, the so-called love child is a he and now it really has to see the day light in December. I'll just dive in the books and papers, I'll just look at my data as an art work, I'll be designer and art director, doctor and patient, mother and step-mother. I'll do this as I did everything before, quietly and effectively. Btw, didn't you know that being creative and flexible is not the same thing as don't having goals? Didn't you know that going with the flow is a result of adaptation? And didn't you know that adaptation results from natural selection? Okay, probably you don't remember Darwin, that would be being too book-smart for you...

Rosemary's Baby (as in GG)

I smoked in my bed, I smoked by the window, I smoked in the kitchen floor. Then I got pregnant. The love child is due in December, if all goes according to planned. I made peace, I didn't forget but I put it behind. I'm glad I was expelled from your sick world of fake pleasures and fake images and fake people and fake goals. As the song goes by, I apologize, but I'm really sorry for you.

Arrasto-Expulsão-Erosão-Sedimentação

Tipicamente teria de ser assim... Senti hoje aquele aperto no estômago, que os portugueses insistem em chamar borboletas, quando assim se perde todo o significado da expressão original. Eu não sinto borboletas de certeza, esses seres delicados... porque só sinto esse aperto quando sei que, quaisquer que sejam os seres irrequietos que se agitam no meu estômago, não vão poder libertar-se ou aquietarem-se com um simples toque.

Passei estes dias a tentar fugir da solidão, a tentar não pensar, a distrair-me com os amigos, com as festas, com os artigos, com as drogas, com o passado... Mas a tua recém-imposta imagem não se desvanecia.  Não se desvaneceu ainda... E eu desisti de tentar apagá-la. Vou usar o tempo, em vez de o deixar usar-me a mim. Lamento a ausência de importância e a ausência de impacto. Gostava de poder (não-)sentir o mesmo...