I didn't shave my balls for this

I guess that before anything, I should explain how I have ended up in Italy. I had been living in London for five years when I made such a hasty move.I was sickly tired of London, feeling extremely down and completely exhausted with the lifestyle. A huge, wonderful place, that I love to bits, very much, but very difficult to live in. Especially for someone like myself, full of aspirations and dreams and provided with a bit of strength and intelligence, but no degree or proper qualification. I went to London for a university break and never came back. I fell in love madly with the city and thought I'd stay. After 5 years of bar work, coffee shops work, waitress work, and a lastly horrendous (but fairly well-paid) job as a sales consultant for a mobile phone shop (you can check more about this sort of work in the UK watching this: http://www.channel4.com/programmes/phoneshop. Not the best show in the UK, though, but quite accurate in some ways), I had just had enough. Everything I had been planning for three years never worked, no matter how hard I'd fought, and with my stressful work making my hair fall out (literally), I decided it was time for a change.

I've chosen Italy primarily because that's where a part of my family is from, even though I had been in here only for tourism and spoke no Italian (still don't speak, by the way). So I thought that discovering a bit of my cultural ascendancy would be interesting. Also, I wanted to live somewhere where the pace would be slower and the people less hypocritical, cold and frigid than people in England (on that matter, I could have gone anywhere, basically, as if you're colder than an English person, my friend, you're a psychopath). The experience of living in another country and learning another language is one of the most beneficial experiences any human being can have, I'd say. And besides, it's Italy. Who wouldn't want to experience Italy?

So, I chose a 400.000 inhabitants city in Italy very known for its University, its open-mindedness, its culture, its music and its cultural diversity. I didn't want to end up in a place like Rome or Milan and continue to be a human being who is constantly doped with the stress of a major centre. Nor did I wish to be in a tiny racist town with nothing to do but attending Catholic processions.

I quit my job in London out of sheer impulse (I went on holiday, and when I came back, my boss had been replaced by my super arsehole assistant manager. The plan was to quit three weeks or a month after I'd return from my holidays. I quit two hours after I had been in the shop). I didn't know anyone in the city I was heading to. I managed to rent a room with a mad evangelical Christian family, all I had in my pocket was like, 300 pounds and my credit card. And there I went.

As I arrived in Italy, I've made a few contacts with people from the church of the crazy evangelicals. I met a couple of really kind and helpful fellows. They soon became my friends and helped me go through the  physically and mentally excruciating, overwhelming, soul-destructing Italian bureaucracy. Apparently I still managed to do very well, compared to people who have had much bigger issues with the lovely Italian offices that have a unignorable presence as strong as Catholicism and crazy politics in Italian daily life.

These two friends of mine are beyond words in terms of how wonderful and they were, and still are, to me. But they are Christians. I am a Christian myself, in the sense of believing in Christ, but I am on the Catholic side of Christianity. Also, I believe that freedom is a major part of having a relationship with God, and my friends (and their branch of Christianity) disagree with that (even though they say they don't, yes they do, and that is one of the motives it was so hard for me to adapt, as it's extremely difficult to feel totally comfortable when ideologies and religion are a constant repressive power in your life). But religion should get another post, maybe. I don't like to talk about it too much, as I strongly believe it's something to be very personal and I have a special space in my heart for the hatred for people who like to tell other people what to do. The case is, firstly, Italy for me has been a very spiritual experience, so it might be hard not to mention considering this is basicly an emotional report of my last few months in here. Secondly, as I have mentioned before, this is fucking Italy. Catholicism is EVERYWHERE.

A friend of mine, knowing of my family roots, gave me a book about Italy three years ago. It's from an  English writer who lived in here for a while because his then girlfriend and now wife, is Italian. This is the book: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Heart-Italy-Tobias-Jones/dp/057123593X/ref=dp_ob_title_bk , and I read it once I was in this insane land. It's quite precise, and I would recommend it to anyone who ever wants to come in here. My account isn't far as good, obviously, but it might be slightly inspired by his writing.

There's a song by a band called Nashville Pussy which I really like to listen to when dealing with unexpected situations in despair. It's called "Why why why" and the first chorus goes like this:

"Well she was flatter than a pancake

And nowhere near as sweet

She got real good at giving head

And fixing stuff to eat

But then I caught her and her

Uncle making out in a ditch

And I asked myself 'Did I shave my balls for this?' "

I interpret this as someone having to face a horrible situation and not being prepared for it. If he was going to join the mentioned crowd and deal with them, he'd have to have his balls shaved. I think this is quite an analogy. I use it all the time. If I feel ready and confident, "Yeah, I shaved my balls for this". If I don't, then well, I have hairy unprepared balls, and that sucks. I hate when my balls are hairy.

Can I complain? No? Fuck it.

Gwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh. Sorry guys. "Guys". Like I actually have anyone reading this. Hello my invisible audience. How have you "guys" been?

Doesn't matter. I think it was awesome Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa (which I haven't read of course, because it's so hard for me to go beyond the superficiality of everything) who said, under one of his alter egos, "I write to speak to God". I can't find any confirmation of that on Google, but I've learnt that in school way longer before Wikipedia, so I trust my old school knowledge.

I know it's self-defeating and self-absorbing to complain and talk about myself all the time. For that I am sorry. It's just that since I have moved to Italy (nine months ago) I thought I was going to get inspired and productive and go through this massive and beautiful and intense and emotional life change. Well, I have. But it was nothing like I'd expected. It was nothing like what American films portray when people go to Italy to do some cheap soul-searching of some kind. A bit of crying, a bit of thinking and beauty, beauty, beauty. It was nothing, nothing like that. It was one of the ugliest and darkest times of my life. Now that I feel that the cycle is FINALLY ending, and I want to close this chapter of my life and leave it behind me for fucking FOREVER, I thought it would be wise to sediment all the lessons learned, so I don't EVER have to go through this pain again. Also, although I complain a lot more than I should, I do think that I am privileged to go through the experiences that I go through (even though some of them are bloody self-inflicted), so it's my duty and pleasure, as a social and empathetic human being, to share them with people. Whoever it is who might learn anything from what I have to say, I shall feel extremely satisfied to be of service. Dealing with life is very difficult for me and I have relied on people, always, on this painful and absolutely wonderful journey. Sharing has become so vital it'd be simply unhuman not to do so.

Unfortunately, I am quite lazy, I've been battling low moods, I procrastinate and I have almost no discipline. So I don't share as much as I would like, unless you give me a call and we chat about it. And the ironic thing is, I know there will be loads of people out there who will love to hear the personal struggle of someone trying to figure things out in a place like Italy, but the people around me, like most of our contemporary peers, are so self-centred and close-minded and worried with the tiny tiny little pettiness of tiny tiny little things that will never matter, that they can't be bothered to listen to me.

This sounds quite self-centred as well. I do not make myself an exception. I fight this every single second of my life. But still, compared to most people, at least I have a genuine interest and fascination for people's lives and content. Even if it is to soak on that for my own knowledge. But I can't forgive when the majority of people are not slightly interested about anything you might have to share. Anything. What do they live of? What the hell do they talk about? Probably spend their lives reading blogs instead of actually talking to the amazing person next to them, which they will not give a chance because they are "weird", or something.

This is not the point. Forgive me for not focusing. I tend to keep making these vague observations, my thoughts aren't ordered, and neither is my life. Also, I haven't written properly for years. Be patient, as I believe it's worthy (at least for the pics - it's Italy, after all).

This is three minutes away from my apartment. And I still managed to be very depressed.

I watched Snatch last Saturday. First time I saw it, four years ago, I was totally off me tits somewhere between Peckham and Camberwell (I fucking hate South London, if that eases the judgement), smoking shitloads of bad weed mixed with even worse cocaine. Accompanied by a friendly well-intended bar manager I used to work for, someone whose mum chose his Calvin Klein undies personally, the type of English guy who for some weird cultural reason thinks it's ok to pick his nose in public, and concluded that education is for clever posh twats. For people like him, you know, the "real" people, all is left is a lot of "real" hard work, a pub management career, raves and drugs.

This time around, I watched it with a Christian friend (I am still unaware of how "Christian" and "friend" became a meaningful sentence in my life) who's in the middle of a Sports Science Ph.D., in the center of a cute university town in Italy, in a apartment in which the windows control themselves electronically, after getting stuffed on vegetables and eating condensed milk for pudding.

Conclusion is, drugs are bad even though they're good, and violence is good, even though it's bad. Relish that with sugar, and there you have it, the sober Saturday night.

(Postscript: Academic titles and religion say nothing about a person. I am just using them as means of comparison for an insignificant occasion.)

The inspiring mad air of Italy.

I didn't write as much as I intended whilst in London. Now in the Continent I shall persist.

Does anyone find it extremely depressing to pull whilst clubbing? It makes me want to cry. I've cried to Backstreet Boys videos, so my tears are no parameter for anything, but still. I'm  not sure if  I'm just getting too old for this, and I can perfectly accept that, or if pulling in clubs actually is so sad and meaningless and pointless it makes you less of a human being.

Probably something in between. Still an unnecessary event, anyway.

Frustrated glamour model from Essex: "Can I get an iPhone 4,  please?"  -  "I know it's the middle of the day, I look too young to have a baby, too tanned to have class, too sweatpants to exclude myself from the lower categories inflicted to sweatpanters, but I am a human in need and I need the Angry Bird! Right now!"

Not up for me to judge, is it? Who the fuck am I?

Frustrated human from London: "Are you employed at the moment?"  - "This is just procedure. I know you're not, because I am, and I am paying taxes, therefore loads of people in England can just raise their children to be footballers and refurbish their home council state after they're famous."

Frustrated glamour model from Essex: "No." - "You can read people better than this, bitch, I am an English young mum with no manners, I obviously don't have a job and I clearly have no vocabulary, so I won't bother saying more than three words at a time to you. Innit doesn't count."

Frustrated human from London: "Are you renting at the moment?" - "So irrelevant, I apologise."

Frustrated glamour model from Essex: "Council house."  - "Like no one guesses when they look at me. And my baby. The state is just providing for the most beautiful need in the world, procreation."

Performing credit check...

Obviously passed. She's got money in the bank every week, innit? She can go for a £45 a month contract with insurance for her new expensive phone! INNIT?

Fucking despise the Benefits system.

She dances frenetically. The vodka has taken its toll and the surroundings are magic. The way people move, the music pumping, the best friend jumping around, the whole magic of Friday  night, where life doesn't seem so bad so anymore. The feeling that everything is going to be ok, the delusion of instant happiness, the short escape from reality. The lights in the dark and the genuine drunk smiles from the crowd. It's going to be ok.

A McDonald's, the bus ride, a little bit more of reality distortion, escape, escape, escape. Everything is going to be fine.

She comes to bed happy, satisfied with her careless behaviour, she's a woman, hear her roar on the dancefloor. Strong, bold, independent. Life's confused but it's just the turn of the wheel. She's hopeful and bright and beautiful and she's still got time even though society says she's not acting her age. All the emotional rubbish and charges and pressures stayed in the club, washed away in a temple of catharsis somewhere in South London.

She lies in bed still feeling the buzz, not worrying about a thing, too selfish to think of her family who worries about her wicked teenage ways. She's got a hangover and a vulnerable heart to take care of, her body used to only act towards her needs and desires. "One of these days I'm gonna change my evil ways", is what she's been humming to herself for years. It'll happen eventually.

Not tonight though. Tonight she just needed to cope, the  only way she knows how to. Everything else demands effort and the escape is not as intense. The delusion is  not as convincing. Hope takes its time to come along and sleep with her at night. There's no frenzy.

She logs in.

She is still strong enough not to stare at it. She is doing it right.Everything is going to be ok. She will forget and forgive, the pain will diminish with time, she will wish them well. She's a good person and shit happens. People come and people go. She'll let him go.

Not tonight. One of these days.

She stares at it. She stares  at the love declarations, she stares at the romantic lyrics, she stares at the poetry, she stares at the changed status. "In a relationship". She stares at the competitor's pictures, she stares at the competitor's blog, she stares at this girl's profile invading her former lover's life like a thunderbolt of unexplainingly intense love. She stares at this beautiful expression of two lonely souls who finally encountered each other and tries to understand. She tries to understand her role in this beastly act. Two weeks ago she was still the girlfriend. One month ago she was still the soulmate. Two months ago she was the wife-to-be.

She keeps staring at all this, knowing that she'll never get any answers and she'll never be able to fully understand. She stares and stares. It's not about love.Love loses its place among so much hurt. It becomes the most delusional factor of all, the one thing that will never get the hope's grasp. It's about treachery. It's about dishonesty. It's about disrespect. Love?She doesn't even know if that has ever existed, that might have been the biggest escape she's ever had.

It's about the intense throb in her heart when she reads a poem line. It's about the relentlessly churning stomach she's been having since the day she found out. It's about the severe sharp pain on her chest when she's on the tube and she remembers the songs the new couple has been posting to each other on their social networking site. It's about the fire that invades her skull when she thinks she was doing exactly the same thing two months ago. It's about the fear and despise she feels everytime someone flirts with her. It's about the horrendous pain that darkens her soul and her sight when she's going to work and she suddenly thinks about it.

It's not going to be ok. Not one of these days.