I wish I had spent the afternoon lying in a golden chamber fashioned like a late-roman empire  intrigue, where Mademoiselle Charlotte Casiraghi’s pouting presence, meets me sipping tea with Diane Kruger-turned-fag-hag-of-the-jour at Chanel’s Paris-Byzance Métiers d’Art defilé. But no. Instead, I channeled the unfortunate version of my potential self, struggling amidst hours bended over antique philosophy books, solely to find out that every human whom preceded my existence managed to thrive on better work ethics and accomplishment paths than I do. When electricity was unaccountable (so no reading past 8pm) and taurine energy drinks were a farfetch, there lived a handful of genius phonies who together schemed to dethrone my low ambitions in every way imaginable, crafting world intellectual history like an immense mantra of epistemological over-achievement which spells underachiever every time that I – regular human being with concentration issues – attentively, open a book.

A long time ago, actually two thousand and five hundred years ago, before state of the art science resources like microscopes, laser guns and Givenchy Phenomen eye mascara were available at Sephora, Greek duo Leucippus and Democritus got bored during a Greek-gay-sauna strike, thus deciding to put on a show – without Rihanna. Together, they formulated a purely theoretical thesis that stated that matter was not infinitely divisible, and instead could be singled out to an essential and last element of reality: the atom.  Doing so,  it was solemnly conquered a huge leap in physics and metaphysics which is still to be fully understood (by me and inferior Harvard graduates) to the present day. Unsatisfied, another gall: Anaxagoras, took his Sunday morning to write one thing or two about a “primordial pebble (which) began rotating moving apart air and ether, and doing so: creating the stars, the Sun and the Moon”. Ring a bell? Neither had he watched educational Discovery Channel astronomy videos, nor had this guy saw Britney’s Oops I did It Again-Mars-landing. Nevertheless, Anaxagoras was able to formulate the Big Bang theory – alone – from his Mediterranean terrace, complete with ocean views and very much recession proof genius-estate flare.

Yes, they’ve done it all. And so I ask: anyone wants to further comment? No? A weird silence. A sad on everyone’s face. The seminar is closed and I’m heading to the nearest patisserie where I’ll seclusly indulge in blackberries, strawberries and misery cream tarts of comfort food. They say misery loves company, but actually…Misery loathes company. So if you just happen to be passing by and spot me through the glass facade: back-off. Right now I only want two things: sugar and my never-will-I-make-it Celine Dion songs.

It is unfathomable. How could 13,75 billion-year-old six Leptons and six Quarks generate every bit of substance, comprising my own self and the other mildly important particular contents of the Universe – from illiterate youth crowds auditioning for American Idol, to brain-dead masses watching American Idol. How come we share the same origin, destiny or despair? My point is: where is the point? And while we’re at it: who makes a point? Or else, will I get the point?

I ask, but unpredictably Stephen Hawking mind-commands his office door to a sudden shut, grabs an I’M-OUT-bandana, and rushes to the nearest highway in his wheelchair as a desperate effort to avoid brain-damage. Don’t worry: I’ll spend December tracking him down – since focusing on my own talents would obviously be impractically radical.

Somehow, in order balance hyper-ventilation after brief episodes of study-infused high awareness: comprehension has to give in for contemplation. Case in point: I might need hope.

Adriana Lima (a genius mind only rivaled by Bertrand Russell) declared that, at the end of the day, after paving her earnestly earned tale of Brazilian bikini successes, she very much wants to come home to a man – picturing an extremely desirable scenario, since Lima’s matting outcome (preferably with Gareth Neff) would infuse our Universe with joy and plenty of objectified eye-candy for generations to come. Still, my stance on the topic speaks otherwise. Desires of coming home to a man, or a goat – whatever creature I might fancy – are easily surpassed by the transcendent prospects and spiritual reassurance conveyed through a structured Chanel-anything that whispers from a distance: it’s Ok. Mama’s proud.  If Adriana wants calor, I want chameur. The latter, a less tactile, less latina, or less heterosexual version of heat: charms like a kiss of light with a hint of dazed. I long, quite simply, to contemplate the supreme consort between human anomalies (google Natasha Poly) and art contingent superiorities. No stings attached, no shared bathrooms. What about love they say? I fuck it every other month in Chanel boutiques worldwide and the only man I’ll have around is the driver. Again: back off.

If some of us yearn for a male model (or a rabbit, your choice) to ease the harshness of a mind wreaking working-day, others fantasize with less predictable antics. Aristotle said that where there is perception, there is pain and pleasure, and where pain and pleasure may be, desire will necessarily follow. I’m guessing orgasm stands for the highest form of sensorial pleasure, thus wins as the universal most desired perceptual Grail. Or is it not?

My phone rings and Lily Allen is on the line. Time to pop the question: why did you end up laying in a unfair wet patch of meaningless void when you could have lied in a golden chamber of byzantine mesmerize (think awesomenessthink Lady Amanda Harlech) that shuns ten-minute matting bestiality, for a much more promising and possibly infinite spectrum of divine ecstasy?  Yes, orgasms are the universal relief for hard-work, bad hair days and regular feuds with the local mafia. And yes, I sometimes feel like politely asking my hawt College male teachers to gently allow me those. BUT, when mind-traveling to those memories of YOU acting like the biggest slut in town, who screwed every animated object – blindfolded – while singing “Give Me More” tranny’s remix on the summer of ’69 – surprisingly, evidences do not clearly attest fulfillment.


There’s a bird looming over your head ready to outshine your achievements. There’s a vulture from the past set to peck at your future. No matter what, when the sun sets, the only thing that makes you different from the rest, is not how much you’ve done, but how much you dream. Are men the answer? Sure: for matting season. But for the tomorrow that may never be: you can only dream Chanel serendipity.