a summary of portugal in five paragraphs or less. 83% of which is entirely true.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when my hatred for cereal began (1). Some say the reasoning behind this hatred lay within the close-quarters of sandy beds and sweaty companions with whom I shared my breakfast provisions. Others claim Portugal's flawed dairy system and general disability to provide milk with any desirable taste should be held responsible. I, on the other hand, say my over the top detestation for cereal lies much deeper.
It was during that same Tuesday morning when I chose 'Esterellas' over all the other two euro and under cereals. In all fairness, Esterellas themselves were quite delicious in their attempt to take corn pops and issue their own Spanish twist (2). My problem therefore did not lie with the cereal itself but instead with what the cereal had failed to give me upon acquisition. Interestingly enough I'm a sucker when it comes to toys located inside boxes. It could be a leaky box of broken fetuses but if that box contains any trace of a plaything potentially dangerous to children ages three or younger then broken fetuses I shall purchase. I personally have no idea what possessed Pedro DelNeuve, head of Esterellas' toy marketing team, to say to his assistant, "you know what Jose, I see los corn flakos and el count chocolatrio offering race cars and rubber band guns inside their boxes and do you know what I think? I think, fuck that noise. I think children want vital organs and body parts and all that fancy shit. Do you understand what I'm saying to you Jose? Do you? Do you really? Oh fuck it. It was a rhetorical question. Market the organs". And oddly enough, organs are exactly what Esterellas promised children. Rubber intestines, plastic livers and lungs, even complex respiratory systems were all to be found inside a box of cereal that cost less then two euros. Some called Mr. DelNeuve grotesque. I called him a visionary.
As I sat down with my newly purchased cereal I couldn't help daydreaming about the appendage I wanted most (3). While my fellow apartment mates grabbed bowls and spoons questions raced through my cranium: what would become of me once I acquired the organ inside the box? Would the new organ erase memories the old one had made or more importantly if Carty steals the organ from me and claims it for his own, where would my best escape route be after stabbing him in the throat? Interestingly enough, none of those questions mattered once I dug my hand deep within the knock-off cereal and pulled out my prize. As Carty's health remained, my joyous excitement vanished. After all, what the fuck was I suppose to do with an eyeball? I already have two of those and I'm quite sure they work just fine. I didn't want a new iris or retina, nor did I want a new pupil or conjunctiva. No, all I wanted from this Portuguese breakfast food was a new and slightly improved heart. One with no memory of past intoxicated run-ins, awkward conversations or even mental images of breasted someone elses. I wanted to replace the heart I have now, amid all its metaphors and feeling, with a heart that has yet to experience anything other than its cereal surrounded home. Pause. When I say 'yet to experience anything' I'm simply talking relationship wise I'm not talking about things similar to not knowing the pain of sticking your finger in the toaster or not knowing the humiliation of finding out that last night you hit on someone who had the size value of a large mammal. Un-pause. I wanted a heart that has no idea who I've dated prior to that very Tuesday morning or better still a heart that has yet to be involved in a, 'Id vote for having my collar bone stepped on by an elephant rather than see you in a public setting' type of situation. As I sat at the breakfast table surrounded by an aura of defeat I was reminded of a saying that had been told to me the night before.
I was sitting on a ledge outside of what I assumed was a transvestite bar when a man sat next to me. We had a mediocre conversation about the workings of life and of who benefited more career wise from their sex tapes: Pamela Anderson or Paris Hilton? As he got up to leave he shook my hand and as a closing statement he said, "Remember kid, it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all". Unknowing of how to respond to such a declaration I said nothing and let him walk away. As I traveled home I thought over what had just transpired outside of the tranny club. More precisely, I thought of what the man wanted me to remember for the rest of my life. Who was that guy to say loving and losing is better than not loving at all? What qualifications did he have to make such an outrageous claim other than the fact that he may just have a penis along with some breasts? Does having both make him smarter than a person with just one? Of course not (4). So, fuck that guy I thought. Love sometimes is a slut. And while most people are fine with that, at the time I certainly was not. For the majority of the walk I battled back and forth in my cranium over what made love such a grotesque thought to me. And as I passed a pizza place it all came together. I awoke early that Tuesday morning only to find this scribbled on several post-it notes: 'love is a personal pizza. The pieces reflects periods of time, each of which a month. As months go by or pieces fade, love follows suit. Things get repetitive and slow down much like your appetite. As the relationship ends the love is completely gone so you throw out the box it came in. You're then full and the thought of starting a new pizza makes you want to vomit, same goes for if it was particularly bad. Love therefore, is a personal pizza'. It was from those post-its that I made my decision: love would be better if I had never experienced it at all.
With a new sense of enlightenment I arose and left for the grocery store. Disgruntled and disturbed by the unrelenting throbbing of a hangover I decided to ease my pain by purchasing an overtly sugared cereal with a toy inside for future amusement. As I walked down the cereal isle I noticed an old lady wearing a beaded purple dress sweeping in the corner. I thought it rather peculiar to wear such a garment to work but I kept my questions to myself. We were no farther than two steps apart when, to my surprise, the old lady approached me and said in perfect English, "Look, I don't normally do this but choose one of these. Inside one of these boxes lies what you're hopelessly looking for. I know your type. Always wanting everything to be different from the way it already is. Never satisfied you people. Never satisfied at all". She then pointed to three boxes and disappeared behind the deli. After the initial shock had settled I turned to face the cereal boxes she was referring to. They were called 'Esterellas', and apparently I chose the wrong box.
1. It ended around a Monday night of the following week.
2. This was merely taking the non existent mascot of a corn pop and replacing it with one resembling a bear in a space suit with no helmet. Which in turn makes sense because bears don't need oxygen to explore space, all they need is cheaply sugared cereal.
3. Initially I wanted a new liver but decided that id only ruin it due to all the drinking that still lay ahead.
4. In all fairness I have no way of knowing if transvestites are more intelligent. I suppose I could have made a questionnaire and compared the answers of transvestites to those of normally organed people. But then I would have to assemble multiple transvestites and in reality I only know one; who is basically a douche bag.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when my hatred for cereal began (1). Some say the reasoning behind this hatred lay within the close-quarters of sandy beds and sweaty companions with whom I shared my breakfast provisions. Others claim Portugal's flawed dairy system and general disability to provide milk with any desirable taste should be held responsible. I, on the other hand, say my over the top detestation for cereal lies much deeper.
It was during that same Tuesday morning when I chose 'Esterellas' over all the other two euro and under cereals. In all fairness, Esterellas themselves were quite delicious in their attempt to take corn pops and issue their own Spanish twist (2). My problem therefore did not lie with the cereal itself but instead with what the cereal had failed to give me upon acquisition. Interestingly enough I'm a sucker when it comes to toys located inside boxes. It could be a leaky box of broken fetuses but if that box contains any trace of a plaything potentially dangerous to children ages three or younger then broken fetuses I shall purchase. I personally have no idea what possessed Pedro DelNeuve, head of Esterellas' toy marketing team, to say to his assistant, "you know what Jose, I see los corn flakos and el count chocolatrio offering race cars and rubber band guns inside their boxes and do you know what I think? I think, fuck that noise. I think children want vital organs and body parts and all that fancy shit. Do you understand what I'm saying to you Jose? Do you? Do you really? Oh fuck it. It was a rhetorical question. Market the organs". And oddly enough, organs are exactly what Esterellas promised children. Rubber intestines, plastic livers and lungs, even complex respiratory systems were all to be found inside a box of cereal that cost less then two euros. Some called Mr. DelNeuve grotesque. I called him a visionary.
As I sat down with my newly purchased cereal I couldn't help daydreaming about the appendage I wanted most (3). While my fellow apartment mates grabbed bowls and spoons questions raced through my cranium: what would become of me once I acquired the organ inside the box? Would the new organ erase memories the old one had made or more importantly if Carty steals the organ from me and claims it for his own, where would my best escape route be after stabbing him in the throat? Interestingly enough, none of those questions mattered once I dug my hand deep within the knock-off cereal and pulled out my prize. As Carty's health remained, my joyous excitement vanished. After all, what the fuck was I suppose to do with an eyeball? I already have two of those and I'm quite sure they work just fine. I didn't want a new iris or retina, nor did I want a new pupil or conjunctiva. No, all I wanted from this Portuguese breakfast food was a new and slightly improved heart. One with no memory of past intoxicated run-ins, awkward conversations or even mental images of breasted someone elses. I wanted to replace the heart I have now, amid all its metaphors and feeling, with a heart that has yet to experience anything other than its cereal surrounded home. Pause. When I say 'yet to experience anything' I'm simply talking relationship wise I'm not talking about things similar to not knowing the pain of sticking your finger in the toaster or not knowing the humiliation of finding out that last night you hit on someone who had the size value of a large mammal. Un-pause. I wanted a heart that has no idea who I've dated prior to that very Tuesday morning or better still a heart that has yet to be involved in a, 'Id vote for having my collar bone stepped on by an elephant rather than see you in a public setting' type of situation. As I sat at the breakfast table surrounded by an aura of defeat I was reminded of a saying that had been told to me the night before.
I was sitting on a ledge outside of what I assumed was a transvestite bar when a man sat next to me. We had a mediocre conversation about the workings of life and of who benefited more career wise from their sex tapes: Pamela Anderson or Paris Hilton? As he got up to leave he shook my hand and as a closing statement he said, "Remember kid, it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all". Unknowing of how to respond to such a declaration I said nothing and let him walk away. As I traveled home I thought over what had just transpired outside of the tranny club. More precisely, I thought of what the man wanted me to remember for the rest of my life. Who was that guy to say loving and losing is better than not loving at all? What qualifications did he have to make such an outrageous claim other than the fact that he may just have a penis along with some breasts? Does having both make him smarter than a person with just one? Of course not (4). So, fuck that guy I thought. Love sometimes is a slut. And while most people are fine with that, at the time I certainly was not. For the majority of the walk I battled back and forth in my cranium over what made love such a grotesque thought to me. And as I passed a pizza place it all came together. I awoke early that Tuesday morning only to find this scribbled on several post-it notes: 'love is a personal pizza. The pieces reflects periods of time, each of which a month. As months go by or pieces fade, love follows suit. Things get repetitive and slow down much like your appetite. As the relationship ends the love is completely gone so you throw out the box it came in. You're then full and the thought of starting a new pizza makes you want to vomit, same goes for if it was particularly bad. Love therefore, is a personal pizza'. It was from those post-its that I made my decision: love would be better if I had never experienced it at all.
With a new sense of enlightenment I arose and left for the grocery store. Disgruntled and disturbed by the unrelenting throbbing of a hangover I decided to ease my pain by purchasing an overtly sugared cereal with a toy inside for future amusement. As I walked down the cereal isle I noticed an old lady wearing a beaded purple dress sweeping in the corner. I thought it rather peculiar to wear such a garment to work but I kept my questions to myself. We were no farther than two steps apart when, to my surprise, the old lady approached me and said in perfect English, "Look, I don't normally do this but choose one of these. Inside one of these boxes lies what you're hopelessly looking for. I know your type. Always wanting everything to be different from the way it already is. Never satisfied you people. Never satisfied at all". She then pointed to three boxes and disappeared behind the deli. After the initial shock had settled I turned to face the cereal boxes she was referring to. They were called 'Esterellas', and apparently I chose the wrong box.
1. It ended around a Monday night of the following week.
2. This was merely taking the non existent mascot of a corn pop and replacing it with one resembling a bear in a space suit with no helmet. Which in turn makes sense because bears don't need oxygen to explore space, all they need is cheaply sugared cereal.
3. Initially I wanted a new liver but decided that id only ruin it due to all the drinking that still lay ahead.
4. In all fairness I have no way of knowing if transvestites are more intelligent. I suppose I could have made a questionnaire and compared the answers of transvestites to those of normally organed people. But then I would have to assemble multiple transvestites and in reality I only know one; who is basically a douche bag.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
northstar:
judging by the look of disgust i got for not going, death cab was good?
issay:
you're hair makes me miss my steps