Numbers

A resumé is one of the modern inventions to reduce a man and his capabilities into a single leaf of information. We are subjected to scanners and all we have to do is present this shit of a bar code, and that's it, graduating is worth what, a 4PM-1AM shift, an endless hysteria, a ticket away and for boredom, and if you hang them on the clothesline, all these lives, you'll hear the working class barely breathing. For what is a job than a preoccupation, in its drabbest sense? To think of my course as something marginalized in the entire country, who cares, you write and then? Even Dad knows this. I wouldn't like to plan everything ahead but with all the things happening, I think I will. I'd get a scholarship but that depends on their grade requirement, yes, that's another thing, why do they always have to look at grades, it has never proved anything but to approximate, and sometimes the opposite, and all these numbers superimposed on each other should be torn apart by a bullet, because it can never hold for much credibility, a High School friend confessed she made the same paper for a classmate and their grades differ so much she supposed it was because of the name, and what's with her name? All this you think for about a while and then, well, somebody e-mailed? Or you think you have to get some snack, yes, of course everyone needs a snack.

High Fidelity

In the morning I drink the vodka I bought yesterday because it's cold, and it seeps to the bones. Just down two shots to keep myself warm. Then I think of the possibilities I can do in a day, and how I resort to stay in the bed and do the ceiling check, the floor check, these checks which didn't even make sense but which we resort to do everyday because it didn't hurt. I think of a paper and an exam this afternoon; it's 9:46, and I have four more hours to disillusion myself into saying the world isn't pointless.