GAAAAAH...!!!

For me, these woven Prada shoes from 2011 are absolute perfection. They're fun, don't seem to be all that excruciating, plus they have this nostalgic air to them, despite the colours making them look like they're tripping on acid, which for me is just the right combination. But then I remember I had them on my feet once and didn't buy them -  that's when I suddenly start feeling an urge to kick myself in the teeth.

Twenty-thirteen

It all started with a fringe. I wanted to look like this young lady I saw on a magazine. Who cares if she's blonde and I'm a brunette, right? And what if her face has got NOTHING to do with mine??

 Please, let's not get lost in the details, I thought... no wonder I ended up looking like this. But who cares, it's only hair, no lives were lost among this tragedy. I just ended up looking like some 80's rock star (to those of you who are unfamiliar with such a reference, it is not a particularly good thing to compare yourself with... it means you kinda look like a stray dog).

Getting my hair cut was a conceptual affair anyway, so it wasn't such a big deal that it didn't exactly make me look my best. It was meant to signify I had closed a chapter and was ready for a new one. Ya know, it's the kind of thing chicks do. Whatever!

Anyway, speaking of new chapters, at the beginning of the year I planned a major career change. Now this really was MAYJAH, at least in my book. So mayjah I even decided to get a tattoo about it. I was struck by lightning when I came across this Roy Lichtenstein piece: 

 It later resulted on this.

I love it to bits. It's a bit of an art gang in-joke, sure, but it's also my way of saying fairwell to the artworld after investing so much of my time and energy in one of my biggest passions in life. 

I attended political demonstrations with my friends; we made our own signs. This one says 'let go of my bloody paycheck'.

Found out my nr.1 childhood crush (the kid who appeared on the Kinder chocolate bar boxes) grew up to look like this. Let's have a minute of silence, please.

Exchanged hilarious, almost meaningless texts with my friend on a specially boozy night out. 

Jogged by the river Tagus.

Had drinks outside on warm nights.

Made people  think I got dressed in the dark.

Read excellent books on my balcony.

Drank vino all by myself.

...

Went to Venice.

To work on this beauty right here: 

...but ended up falling in love with the most beautiful boy in the world, in between a glass or seven of Limoncello.

Got some cool shoes to celebrate the occasion.

 Soon after I turned 28! Imagine that! Celebrated that epically surrounded by friends, and woke up the next day with the world's most horribly crippling hangover. Then about a month later I went on a cruise with my girlfriends. We went to a bunch of cool places, like Pompeii.

By the way, these Valentino babies joined the collection. HELLS TO-THE-YEAH.

Anyway, I changed jobs in the meantime. Bye bye artworld! We had jolly good times!

I lost my grandad. 

:(

 And then off I went to Marseille. I lived in a tiny studio apartment for a month while interning at this great fashion label. Realized I sort of can parler français, to my big surprise. Such a good experience. 

Visited Provence in the meantime, too. This is Roussillon. 

Sneaked off to Paree for the weekend too! 

When I got back I became a "mum" to this little dude here! Say hi to Simone de Beauvoir, y'alls.

Then Simone and I got ourselves a new home.

And a new job too. Well only me, really. She doesn't do s***, obvs.

:) 

Bring it on, 2014. I'm ready! 

I think. 

Old love

What is it like to be suddenly confronted with someone you've once loved?

DREAMY

Aaron Paul: my latest crush. Courtesy of Breaking Bad.

Two thoughts.

1) I so wanted those gorge' Chanel espadrilles but then remembered: you got bills to pay, fool!!

2) I'm starting to think Neil Hannon from The Divine Comedy is, musically speaking, the straight version of Rufus Wainwright. Or vice-versa.

This makes me laugh.

Professional voyeurism

Just before leaving the office today, as I hit 'send' on my thousandth e-mail, I realised something: I have never actually met a good part of the people I exchange work e-mails with. Considering my job requires a lot of diplomacy and tact, tone is definitely of essence. When I receive an e-mail from someone who sounds like they've got their head shoved far up their arse, I try my best to sound the same; and, likewise, if you write me an e-mail being all "hey, howsitgoin'", I'll be equally chummy.
And I just happen to find that googling the shit out of my addressees and going straight to Google images to see what they look like helps me meet their expectations. And yes, I do think I knowing the colour of their hair, what they wore to an exhibition opening, who they appear with in photos, does provide precious hints on how they like to be addressed. So I do it. ALL THE TIME. And I've only realised it today.

I know looks can be deceiving, but so can words - especially considering emoticons are deemed inappropriate in professional e-mails ( :'( ). Sometimes people can sound pompous on an e-mail, but then I do my Google check, dig out some photos of them and hey, surprise, they wear pink socks! They can't be all that uppity, surely! Or sometimes when they're male and a little bit flirty, just as I'm preparing myself to flirt back, Google shows me visual evidence that they're gay (I  had imagined it all in my head.)

And sometimes it's not a matter of my being nosy, sometimes it's actually necessary. Here's an example: like some other languages, Portuguese has gender-specific nouns, but as I often reply to e-mails written by foreigners - some of which are really quite exotic, meaning I know NOTHING about where they come from) - in many occasions I have no idea whether I'm dialoguing with a man or a woman. This has once resulted in a very awkward phone conversation where I asked to speak with KJHKAJHDKJHA, whom for some reason I decided was a man, and on the other side a female voice goes 'Yes, speaking.' and I'm all like, 'oh, no, I meant KJHKAJHDKJHA'; again, female voice  goes 'Yeah, that's me.' *facepalm moment then occurs* 'Oh. OH. No w- You're a woman! For months I thought KJHKAJHDKJHA was a man, heh.', I replied, sounding like a total derp. Nevermind sounding like a derp, during that conversation I could feel my own facial expressions turning into this:

So yeah, at first I interpreted this behaviour as just another manifestation of my voyeuristic personality (don't judge me, we're all like that, it's postmodernity does to all of us, darlings), but why shouldn't I see the whole thing as a sign of wisdom? After all, I've finally embraced how rubbish my perceptions of people can be, and, as such, I now openly - and wisely, if I dare say so myself -  mistrust them.

Someone please tell me again how people LIVED before Google existed?

Men's handwriting

I was given this card the other day, by a very  - and I mean V-E-R-Y handsome shop assistant: 

 (actually, why don't you see for yourself how pretty this boy is?? Seriously, I creep myself out sometimes with my ability to find people or just random stuff out on the Internet, CSI-style; plus, yeah, I know he gave me his card because he cashes in a commission - there, I already pissed on my own bonfire for you, so don't bother.)

A few minutes later, after I managed to get over this bloke's impeccable looks, I looked at the card again and though - really??? THIS hot guy has THIS SHITTY HANDWRITING? Seriously, someone please tell me what the hell is it with men and their silly handwriting. I mean, there must be something to it; I've seen far too many horrors of this kind to believe it's a matter of coincidence. So, what is it? I can't deal with the stark difference between this guy's handwriting and his perfectly tailored suit and perfect hair and perfect face and perfectly polished shoes. So why write like an 8 year-old? I swear, this keeps me awake at night; I feel crushed by the weight of this mystery!

I suspect History can provide us some insight here:

 Back in medieval times, men had round bald patches on the top of their heads. They also wore Slankets and tiny brown shoes. And before we judge this poor old chap's sense of style, let us remember that style depends largely on its sociological context; for all we know, medieval chicks could even dig this. But do check out his handwriting:

 

BOOM. Pretty cool, right? So how did we go from this to the wonky modern-day man script? I wonder whether there's an inverse relationship between a man's charm and their handwriting. If there is, I can only imagine Jon Hamm's handwriting will be something like this: 

 I strongly suggest that men do something to sort this out. Look, I mean, if you're going to be charming to the point of handing a lady a handwritten note or a card, just put some effort into it, be old-school about it, will you? Otherwise it's confusing to us.  'K, thanks a lot!

Home(s)

In the past 8 years I have moved house 8 times. And please excuse the images you are about to see, as they are of absolutely no interest to you.

 My student hall at Uni in Lancaster. Epic. Parties.

First student house off-campus, which I shared with 3 boys. That was... challenging. 

Second student house off-campus, which I co-inhabited with two beautiful ladies whom I love very much. This was also known as the Foreign Birds' House, as we were all from different parts of the world. Actually, sometimes it resembled more of a zoo.

London shoe box flat. 

Back in Portugal, first flat in Lisbon. As you can see, it is the ugliest fucking building, but this flat had something I loved to bits: I could hear the ships honk their horns, as the river and the port were so close. That's one powerful sound I've loved ever since!

Second Lisbon flat. Another two words: loud neighbours.

This is the street where I live and where I once stuck my bycicle wheel in the tram track. Yes, I fell off my bike and made an ouchie. All before 8 am!



Every now and again I go on Google Maps and use the street view function to see the homes where I've lived. I've tried to feel at home in all these places, and each of them represents a new start in my life. I was a different person in each of these places, and looking at them reminds me of how I used to be at these different times. Sounds tacky, I know, but hey, it ain't easy bein' cheesy. Plus, since I will be doing some more of this moving business in the future, seems like a good idea to look back and remind myself that I've done this many times before,  therefore I can do it all over again.