Chapter 1: It gets better

You’re on a boat

Along with 20 people, one of them is a baby.
You are floating at sea in darkness, surrounded by enemies looking for you.
If anyone makes a sound, the enemies might hear and will kill you.
If the baby cries, you can all be dead.

Will you kill the baby?


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I recently had a reunion with my ex-colleagues from a Beauty Industry Giant.

Though most of us have moved on doing our own thing, one of my colleagues, stayed on to become the global company’s head honcho. Mr. Big Shot.

He hubnubbed with influential people and profess to being the deciding factor in our country’s current President’s election.

Curious, I asked what his take was on the President, a known henchman of the poor.

To which, after giving me the boat analogy, concluded …

“He is the father that this country needs.
He will pull the trigger himself and kill the baby to protect the many.”

He asked me If I’d kill the baby.

“Hell no”, I answered.

“Ah, you’re idealistic. You don’t count.”
And he dismissed me and my opinion from then on.

My knee jerk reaction was to say this:

You don’t kill a fucking baby, you monster!

But someone wise inside me said.

Will this reaction solve it? If not, do not waste your energy.



 


And so, I said:

That is a great analogy. May I use it for my book?

To which he graciously responded:

“Sure! And send me an autographed copy.”

So yes, my inner pussy won. 


Because she is right.

It was pointless at that time to get into an argument.  And if I may quote my favorite drunk, Churchill:

You will not reach your destination if you throw stones at every dog that barks.

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In life, it is important to ask the right questions.
The question is not whether to kill the baby or die. 
The real question is :

How the hell did we get here?

How can we, “intelligent” “human” “beings” allow the baby, fruit of our loins, our future...
without shelter
floating on a boat
in darkness
surrounded by enemies,
and its own people ready to kill “it”

if it dared to cry. If it dared to breathe. If it dared to whimper.
If it dared to weep at what we have become.

What have we become?

And knowing what we have become, is there a way out?

---------

Somebody wise once said:

“Either you solve it from the root or you leave it the fuck alone.”

But what is the root? 
Who is to blame? 
Where do we start? 
How do we start?

And so this book.

It will give you answers.

And it knows that you, guided with clarity, will follow your heart, and solve it from the root.

...  

That, or the baby dies.



And by the way, plot twist:


You are the baby.

You are the plot twist.



Author's note:  This is the beginning chapter of my book which is tentatively titled:  
Do the math. A traveller's cheatsheet to life or
Life Roadmap. Cheatsheet by Number

Smelly Pussy


Some of you may have had the good fortune of having a best friend.

That one person that picks on your flaws, calls you on your shit, embarrasses you in public, laughs at your drama, documents your misfortunes but that you know, deep, deep down inside loves you for all your shit.




Well, I have the fortune of coming from a town whose peculiarity is that everyone, from the town doctor to the street drunk, a grandmother to a preschooler- act as if they are your best friend.

They will call on your shit and keep you grounded, make a joke of your misfortunes and in their own weird way make you feel that life isn’t that hard if you don’t take everything too seriously. They are the types of assholes that if you can see the lightheartedness of their assholeness actually toughens and tenderizes you up for school and the school of life.

In fact, our town sport could well be :

“let’s see who can come up with the best insult

and whoever gets affected loses”.

And with generations of practice, nobody loses his shit over insults, over a string of words.


Anyway, we have an event that we look forward to in the month of May which could well be the town’s olympic sport. It is called “Flores de Mayo” and here, the most beautiful women gets to wear over the top gowns and a crown and gets paraded all over town to be admired for their beauty. And as you would expect of our town- be called on their flaws.

So, in one of these parades, we stood waiting and unleashing the best insults for every girl that passes. And mind you, we are all in this fun little town exercise together, so the girls can whip back insults of their own- a beautiful camarederie of tough love give and take.

But then came, the last one. The “Reyna Elena” position assigned to the most beautiful one.

She was flawless. And us, speechless.

Everyone searched for a flaw but failed. No one can come up with nothing in what seemed like an eternity of searching and silence. Till an elderly woman from the back broke the silence and said-

She has a smelly pussy.

So I guess, the moral of this story is this:

We all have flaws.  You can punish yourself needlessly and be in denial of it.

Or you can accept it, laugh about it and use it to connect yourself to a wonderfully flawed world.

That is, of course, if you aren’t blindsided by a smelly pussy.




Know Your Limits


I have two sides to myself.
One is the stoner life of the party and one is the designated sober driver.

I used to think that leading a “correct” life means leading the boring ascetic life of the designated driver. Of leaving all the ways of the world, losing one’s excesses, wearing hemp and singing kumbaya and telling people “don’t do drugs”.

I think this artificial sainthood void of authentic laughter with hallow repetitions of 108 “Oms” and 25 “Hail Mary”s  (done both) is no better than unfettered hedonism or military discipline.

And that life of the party, like ego, the insecure self important drama queen, the catty and confused indecisive bitch, inspite of its many faults – can never be accused of being boring. And no matter how we try, the ego is here to stay.

So, instead of being a self righteous goody two shoes, I make friends with my inner bad girl. I acknowledge that it is there and yes, i have great fun with the troubles it gets me into sometimes oftentimes.

But like a wiser and older drunk, I now acknowledge my limit.

If I go beyond 2 puffs of spliff, I aint leaving the house to party.
And 3 times beyond the coughing limit, i will go transcendental.

So yes, I will not ask us ladies to deny ourselves of sic clothes, foodfests or your drug of choice.
But, for the love of drugs,  let us know our limits.

Because at the rate that we have gone, that party ho has put all the kids on a school bus,  set it on fire and is driving it off the cliff. It is time to heed our inner designated sober driver, sit Ms Stoner Partypants down and tell her- 

“bitch- you gotta know your limit”

And this blog will discuss our limit on how we can have fun without setting the bus on fire.

Let’s do this.