I loved to curse

Fuck. Latelly I don’t manage to write a single line without starting to correct it.

I remember a long time ago, when I was still a young kid, in the Sunday school (yes, yes, I spent sometime with catholic “teachers”, when they would try to “indoctrinate” me and I would try to have some fun), and a monk and a nun were trying to get youngsters to join the convents. That day I offered to join a nuns convent – surely they tried to correct me, but they were the ones who got correct – and me rejected. I seems the catholics don’t like boys in nuns’ convents – I can’t understand why, as I’m sure we would have a lot of fun. Biblical kind of fun, I would dare day.

Later, was I barely sixteen, I had an accident and in consequence of that I lost a leg. A few days after my last operation, was I in the hospital gardener with my family, when some older women – I would normally call any woman a lady, but that wouldn’t match with what I’m writing next – stopped by because she did know the family, and asked what had happened, and finally got to the “poor thing” part. That as the time I finally got into the conversation that was happening next to me, about me as if I was not present and really annoyed just said something that would translate to – “Poor Thing my ass. If that’s the best thing you have to say, fuck you and move one”.

Not long after getting out of the hospital, after the accident, I manage to go to school, talk to the teachers, and finish the 9th grade, mostly by delivering papers that I would work on at home. And not long after that I told my mothers one night – tomorrow wake me up, that I will go with you when you go to work. – Why, she asked. – I’m going to sign my self up for the Computing course at school.

A few years later, my grandmother was comparing me to a cousin – who was finishing his master – saying – look at him, how he is doing, how he’s working at the University, and that also got a “There’s nothing worst than a fucking good example” from me.

Unlike the old woman in the hospital, I loved my grandmother, and she is one of the few people I really miss (she died a few years ago).

But, the point is that what other people thought, even the people that I knew loved me, didn’t use to get me out of my way to the things I loved and wanted to do.

On the day I meet my wife I told her that the person I loved more, that the most important person in the world for me was myself. I still am – I use to say that even when I disagree with myself, at least I have to understand myself. As, I believe, most people, I’m a complex person, with different things I want to balance in my live, things that I want, things that I care about, wishes and hopes, needs and feelings and dreams. And, as most people – I believe – sometimes I have to choose between them. However, instead of letting things happen and not understanding why, I try to understand which parts of me want each path, and what wins and looses each of this mini-battles on the path we call life.

I still understand how I got here, but in some parts of my life, I feel that I was in the passenger seat too many turns. And the worst thing is that even if I know that I’m already completely overdue there, I don’t really feel like getting back on the wheel.


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