My sitcom life

Some people are part of a well-written novel adaptation, full of the deep, rich colors of humanity, each chapter bringing tribulations and transformation.

Others try their best to untangle the plot lines of their drama, struggling from episode to episode, with the occasional sex scene or the stressful cliffhanger. Soap operas are a common medium, with all of their family problems, sprinkled throughout hundreds of bland, unimaginative episodes. Its protagonists sometimes mature into serious award-winning dramas, others degrade it to reality shows. I, for one, feel like I’m trapped in a sitcom.

I feel it in each and every word I say and hear. I find the tiniest details and coincidences of my life are infused with a sense of humor and an acute sense of irony. Sometimes it’s only funny retrospectively, like the deep, soul-searching questions of my doctor, or even better, when I learned my dad had Covid right on the middle of a date.

It’s kind of a joke, really, how much of my life revolves around comedy, without me being a comedian of any kind. By now, I’m almost certain my days are dreamt up by a team of sadistic writers, putting ink to paper between mountains of discarded take-away boxes and coffee cups, laughing hysterically, writing me into strange situations to see how funnily I can fail at them.

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Ants and spiders

This won’t be a well-thought out post, I’m warning you. I’m merely using it for an exercise of procrastination and practice, unrelated to current moods and all-around seriousness of these days. My English needs oiling, you see — I haven’t written very very long time.

I felt the urge to make a kind of self-involved blog shit nobody cares about, me included. I’ve mastered the art of rolling my eyes with this kind of stuff, and yet here I am, making a conflicted fool of myself and wasting your time, all in a beautifully packaged mess.

I can’t even begin to explain the confusion inside my head right now. I’ve been hammering away a novel for the first time in years, and it makes me feel incredibly good. It’s a great feeling when you bring new pages to life, even though they may be completely rewritten and disowned by the upcoming revisions. Using a little transparent plastic tube thingy with a metal ball to carve meaningful symbols on the unsuspecting page is a strange predicament.

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The failure artist

There’s Erdinger, doritos and monopoly on the table, as our wolfpack is playing amidst a cloud of happy smoke. While we recover our bodies from a day of snowboarding at a cozy Airbnb, a white landscape gazes at us from the window.

This was my first time snowboarding, and, as you can imagine, I’ve fallen. A lot.

I’ve tumbled like wet clothes on a washing machine. I’ve shaken like an astronaut on reentry. I’ve stirred like a martini, rolled like a Royce, felt my brain pole-dancing on its skull as I fell face first on a white sheet of snowish ice.

I’ve hit the softened ground face first, ass first, God knows what else first, and on those rare instances I flew a bit, as I twisted mid-air before the inevitable impact, I knew — this was one of the greatest days I’ve ever had.

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