At the end of summer, what have I been up to?

I’ve had this blog for a little over two years and in that time I’ve mainly used it as a place to share my work, be it in the form of stories, opinions, photography or video.

Weirdly, I don’t think I’ve ever used this blog as, well, a blog. You know, those out-of-fashion concepts where people write about they’re up to so that the people with a big enough attention span can read up on the dwells of their daily lives (read: like 2 people, mothers excluded).

Well, today I feel going about something different and putting my life into little compartmentalized sections that people can skim, dissect and digest at will.

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So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye!

My graduation ceremony was yesterday, but I’ll be honest, I don’t feel like anything is over.

Yesterday I didn’t cry. I didn’t make long, sappy movies in my head about how it’s all changing. I didn’t despair at the thought of never seeing my friends again and I certainly didn’t look with longing at the faculty that I had always classified as cold, lifeless and exceedingly bureaucratic.

For me, the end of college feels more like a start.

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Bolo? Bolo!

O meu maior problema com a comida é que, se está perto de mim, eu vou comê-la.

Se o meu prato está cheio, eu vou comer tudo, independentemente de qualquer falinha mansa da pessoa a servir, como aquelas frases inúteis do estilo “ah mas não tens de comer tudo!” que são, sinceramente, uma grandíssima p*taria. Eu não consigo resistir e qualquer pessoa a olhar para a Gisela de 16 anos com 80 kilos sabe que ela nunca vai deixar comida no prato. Hoje estou um pouco melhor, mas isto continua algo que eu tenho trabalhar e que provavelmente nunca vai mudar, porque metade de mim não quer estragar comida e a outra  metade vai ser sempre ‘loves this like fat kids love cake’.

Com isto em mente, viver sozinha é provavelmente a melhor coisa que já me aconteceu, pois não só controlo todas as minhas as porções, mas também controlo a comida que existe em minha casa. Se não há comida de lixo por perto eu nunca vou comer mal, pois sou demasiado preguiçosa para sair de casa só para comprar umas bolachas.

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that one story

I have a terrible fear of being left out. I’m not sure how and when it originated, nor am I willing to go down memory lane and introspection road to find out. After all, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.

My fear is a rather common one. It even has its own acronym — FoMO! Human beings are social creatures by nature, so there aren’t a lot of people out there happy to be the outsider, with no plans or good friends, never the one people think of. As for me, this terror leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth and a pull in my stomach. It’s like an empty hole in my chest that sucks all the air in and chokes me at the same time.

To be excluded is to be forgotten.

To be forgotten is to die.

Or, you know, at least that’s how I see things in my completely chill, not in the slightest bit dramatic or biased point of view.

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Experiência cicatrizante do dia

Apanho o 729 todos os dias, depois de sair da faculdade, para percorrer o caminho entre o ISCSP e a estação de Benfica. Depois de sair do autocarro ando um pouco para a frente, até que viro para uma rua relativamente longa e relativamente deserta, mesmo ao lado da esquadra da polícia, que perfaz a maior parte do meu caminho a pé para casa.

Imaginem agora este cenário: estou a descer esta mesma rua que hoje, por ventura, nem está assim tão deserta. Passo por duas senhoras a carregar as compras na direção oposta e à minha frente, a seguir na mesma direção que eu, está uma rapaz, mais ou menos da minha idade. Tem o cabelo curto e veste um daqueles casacos de desporto americanos e calças beijes, nada de muito reconhecível.

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Sorry, could you tell me your name again?

Disclaimer: my grandpa was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease a year ago. Since then, his condition has only gotten worse. He’s now at the point where he only remembers the faces of close family and struggles with our names. At the beginning of September, 2015, my family decided to put him in a retirement home. Up until that day, my grandma had been his caretaker, but doing so was a physically and mentally tolling job that she could no longer perform.

I wrote this text one of my visits to the retirement home, back when I was still struggling with the situation. I wouldn’t describe it as a difficult read, but it is quite personal and heavy. Written without capital letters because that’s just what you do sometimes.

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