Son las tres de la calle.

Este es un momento de reflexión.
¿De qué le sirve al hombre trabajar,
si con lo que gana debe comprarse ropa formal,
comida de restaurant,
y pensión de estacionamiento?

¿Qué pedo, pendejo?

Fueron las primeras palabras que pronuncié el día de hoy. Esta ciudad me odia y me quiere matar; ¿cómo no ponerme a la defensiva?

Hay fuerzas extrañas operando en el universo.

Creo que todo está mucho más conectado de lo que creemos, y tiene más sentido que el que nosotros alcanzamos a percibir.

Kitty Kidnappers

My neighbor just knocked on my door to tell me my cat is locked up in his storage room. He said it some how got in there two days ago, and he and his workers try to get it out, but it skillfully scurries away among all the boxes, machinery spare parts, and piles of junk, and it has been very difficult.

It's true, my cat's been missing for two days.

'I hope it hasn't made a mess or caused any trouble,' I said, deeply concerned.
'No, don't worry about it, I'm just afraid it might starve to death in there,' he answered.

Then he said tomorrow he'll knock on my door at 9 am so I come with him into the storage room and try to retrieve the cat. I was about to ask: 'why not do it right now?' But then I thought it would be somewhat inappropriate for me to go into his workshop at this late hour. So I said I'd meet him tomorrow moring, and bring some tuna for the cat.

Now I wonder how come I was worried about etiquette, politeness and protocol when I should have been afraid and even offended by this man's proposal. I don't think I'm being at all paranoid when I think: what if the cat died, what if it was brutally run over, squished to death under one of their clients' lorry and they (the guy that knocked at my door is the the owner of the lorry service workshop in front of my house, and he has several mechanics working for him), what if they all realised my cat's tragic death was a marvelous opportunity to lure me into their stinky, greasy workshop, kidnap me, rape me, kill me, fornicate my dead body, chop me into little pieces, feed me to the dogs, and then blend whatever's left of me into motor lubricant?

I hope one of you, readers, call me at about 9:30 am tomorrow to see if I'm still alive.

I hated my house today.

Every pathetic wall of it. Every useless tile and inch of peeling paint. I can't stand its awfully tall ceilings and the particular way sound echoes inside. I can't bear its unplanned architecture, awful texturizing, sticking out water-pipes and terrible electric installation. I loathe every single neighbor--all those fat, alcoholic, noisy, unhelpful, nosy, rude and downright vulgar men that like to stare at me whenever I go in or out of the house. I sometimes hate the whole neighborhood, for that matter, because it seems to exist as if no people actually live here, but only machines and cars and factories. That hole in the wall I once thought so romantic seems simply stupid and inconvenient now. I even despise every minute I wasted making improvements, drilling holes and putting up shelves. Cleaning. Trying to get stains out. Trying to make it look nice.

Most of all, I hate that blind, mindless way I can go about this house, because I know it by heart and it feels like home when I return from my unchallenging job. I wonder if I will always hate being comfortable.