The rooftop was empty, the snow had melted already and you pointed to the Orion belt. I tried to look for more stars but the glow of New York City is just overwhelming; a billion tons of glass and concrete and steel overpowering the whole universe from the ground.

You asked me how is it that we could live so close to each other in the city, and still we don’t talk to anyone, you barely know who your neighbors are. I glance at the building across the street and a few floors below I spot a guy lying in bed looking at his computer screen. What’s his name? What is he doing? He doesn’t know we’re up here but I don’t think he cares.

Later we walked into your room; NO FUCKBOYS ALLOWED says the sign hanging on the wall above your bed. I look at you and you say I’m cleared, you’re already naked and both shades are open facing the street. There’s a lit candle, and a night light, and soon we become part of that glow, overpowering everything outside, the noise, the lights, the cold of the last day of January.

Tiny specs

Growing up I never knew I was going to miss you ever, my great-aunt that never got married and jumped from house to house seasonally because you were a free spirit. Very conservative, like the rest of the sisters, but never conventional, never playing by the rules.

You had an impact on everyone in that house, more my uncles than us, “the children”, although I do remember your advice, your voice, your laugh, all of that which I will never hear again.

Now you traveled back to the source, opening up your consciousness and blended it to the universal mind. You were having difficulties already with your body, so it comforts me to think that you were relieved from it.

You met your creator last night, you saw all of us and sent me some thoughts through my dreams. I got the message. Thank you. Say hi to mom and grandma for me.

I love you all.


I’m not what I expected

I’m calm on the outside, understanding, patient, in control. 

Inside I’m a storm. Dark and violent, a storm of disparaging thoughts and self hate ideas that feel tempting. A whirlwind of labels that hit me in the back of my mind with full force. 

You’re ugly. 

You’re fat. 

You’re a dick. 

You’re sanctimonious. 

You’re passive aggressive. 

You’re selfish. 

You’re not worthy. 

I’ve fought al my life to find myself, to change myself, but I’m now terrified of what’s showing underneath the dusty layer of empty self esteem. Because I’m all of that, all of what I’ve fought not to be. And every single day I’ve fought for the last 10 years. And it had taken me exactly where I am today, the same place if not backwards to where I started. I still am all of that, and I don’t like myself. 


Life is not what I expected

I don’t understand why I’m here. Really. Some people have a purpose, and that purpose is what pushes them forward. Some people have told me that I have a purpose, just can’t tell me where it is. Others have told me I will find my purpose someday, along with a girlfriend and a wife and kids and a house and a pet and a legacy before I die; but I really don’t understand the whole idea of bieng here in the first place.

I thought I was happy when I was a kid, then life happened and I realized you can’t be happy when you don’t have a mom, at least not as a kid. I grew up a little more and I thought I was happy again, I had friends, a girlfriend, a rock band and many music albums; then my grandma died and I lost a second mom, my bandmates were over the band as we all went to college, my girlfriend died in a car accident and I was left alone again, trying to wonder what went wrong. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been deluding myself trying to find purposes for my life.

Few years ago I thought my purpose was to enjoy life in a healthy way, I quit drinking, smoking and ruled out the possibility of any recreational drug, I bought a longboard, a bicycle and a helmet, and I thought I was doing good; I also started my own company, and I used positivity as a basis for it, I met some very valuable people and I thought I could make a difference for everybody. I’ve worked tirelessly for years now, I sleep very little, and while I’m awake I just work, from the moment I get to the office in the morning until I’m sitting in bed with the computer at night, I heard that hard work pays. Then the longboard and the bicycle (and a couple of accidents) took a toll on me, and I got 3 bulging discs and a knee injury that gives me pain every single day. And now I don’t have $2,400 to get a brace and physical therapy, and I do nothing but work, seriously, on the weekends I see my firend and we do all kind of cool things during the day, and at night I’m working again, I work all the fucking time and I don’t have money to get proper care. And the people I trusted and joined forces with to build my own company abandoned me, and I’m here, again, thinking where might that purpose be? Because I don’t think it’s fair, because I work 19 hours a day and I feel like if I worked any less I would be homeless. Is it that my purpose in life is to work without going anywhere? Is that what I am? A working bee? Maybe, maybe one day I will die while working, and everyone will talk about how hard I worked all the time, and how dedicated I was to my career and my goals and my dreams, but no one will be brave enough to point out that I didn’t get anywhere anyway. Because it would be rude.



I’m not scared to die.

“I’m not scared to die” is quite a tricky conclusion.

You can get killed for numerous reasons and unforseen circumstances in New York City, the whole place is a death trap. Wash dishes standing next to a 3 ton machine that’s techinically a water vapor pressure bomb? Check. Walk down the street in Harlem and have groups of black guys yell slurs at me, making me unwillfully aware of their territoriality? Check. Riding a bike on 5th Avenue in rush hour? Check. Being in a bike accident and barely being able to walk for two weeks after that? Fucking double check. Not to mention the occasional falling AC unit, blowing man cover, cabbie road rage episode, mugging gone wrong and/or failing elevator when you work on a 28th floor.

My neighbor Clarissa (a very smart non-plus-ultra feminist) hated me because I said I was not scared of getting shot by someone in Harlem. This is not a hyperbole, she hated me after I said that, she never talked to me again. She thought my words were a typical display of machismo (oh that pesky male entitlement that makes us repel bullets) but in fact I should’ve been more clear about it. If someone points a gun at me I will definitely be scared, I’d be fucking frightened (as I’ve been in the past, unfortunately), but the idea of the person shooting me and dying is not terrifying to me, there’s a thin but important line that has to be drawn here. I’m scared of having to feel that bullet in me, I’m scared of needles, but one thing I know to be true, when I die, I won’t notice.

Louis C.K. said it once, dying is the one thing you can never ever be certain of. You can have thoughts like “Ok, this is it, this is how I die”, but you can never be certain, because if it happens, you are no longer there to assess and confirm.

I guess my point is, I’ve gone through so much in life that if I died today I wouldn’t worry about it… Or more like, the idea of dyining today doesn’t worry me now (it certainly won’t worry me afterwards). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to die yet, I already have plans for the weekend, but what I mean is I’ve done pretty much what I want with my life so far, and that’s comforting. When I die and I have all my life pass in front of my eyes, I will certainly be entertained, some people will see themselves living with their parents all their life, eating an occasional truffle and end of story. Me? I will see so many things that I better die choking with popcorn so I can enjoy the last show.

Like riding a bicycle.

The week two weeks ago was not the best for me, I had a small bike accident on the weekend and I had to spend a whole week lying in bed because of a bulging disc. Then on Tuesday, someone stole the bike I had bought for Maite. My bike was inside because my neighbor Diana was awesome enough to help me carry it into the house (I could barely walk without help) but Maite’s was chained to the fence outside right by the entrance. I had taken many detailed pictures 4 days before that because we wanted to sell it, but I forgot to put it online because of my accident. So the police came and I filed a report for the stolen bike, even when I thought I would never see it again, I wanted it to be noted because maybe we need a couple more cops making rounds in this area.

That night my friend called me; “Dude, you see the fat kid from across the street that does wheelies on his bike all the time? I’m 99% sure I just saw him riding YOUR bike”. For the record, I know who he was talking about, and I kinda knew the kid was a trouble kid, but I didn’t think he could be that dumb. I hesitated but didn’t call the cops because one, I didn’t see him myself, and two, I didn’t want to be the white adult calling the cops on the black 11 year old kid. I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Today was the first day I could walk again without a cane since the accident, and I went for a 30 minute walk around the neighborhood as recommended by my physical therapist, and when I walked around the corner of 129th, this kid almost ran me over, he was riding the bike.

He stopped 10 ft away, saw me, jumped off the bike and gave it to one of his friends, and whispered something in his ear so the other kid took off on Lenox Ave. Then he casually walked back past me so I confronted him.

– “Hey, man, I think that was my bike.”

– “No, that’s not your bike!”

– “Bro, I’m telling you, it was parked in front of my house and someone took it.”

– “Nigga I don’t know what you’re talking about! You can’t see a bike that looks like yours and say that it’s yours, there are many bikes that look the same and shit.”

– “It doesn’t look like my bike, it IS my bike, I took pictures before it was stolen, do you wanna see them?”

– “Nah I’m good, leave me alone.”

– “Ok, can I see the bike? Can I take a look? I’m not even gonna touch it, I just wanna see it up close.”

– “I don’t know where my friend go. Why the fuck you following me?”

– “I’m not following you, I was going home. Right where the bike was parked? That’s where I live.”

– “Well I don’t give a shit.”

Then he walked back towards Lenox and I just kept walking towards my house. So there it was, an 11 year old kid giving me attitude after I caught him with my fucking bike, but what was I supposed to do? Smack him in the head until he gave it back? I thought of calling the cops, because this time I was sure it was my bike, but I decided to wait a couple of minutes because I was very angry at that moment.

When I got home his sister and her friend were sitting on the steps of my house, right next to where the bike had been parked. The girl is a little older, probably 14, and she saw me going in and out of the house with my cane the whole last week so when she saw me approaching she quickly stood up and apologized for being in the way; “I’m sorry… I see you’re feeling better?” – “I am, thank you! You have a good day” – “You too.”

So now I decided to let him keep the bike, for many reasons. One is that, if he keeps going where he’s going, he will have a criminal record at some point, so I want to give him the gift of not having one at such an early age (at least). But more importantly, I can see where the kid is coming from talking to me like that, I’ve never seen those kids’ parents, the two live alone if you ask me, I don’t know if he goes to school and I have no idea how he’s doing there if he goes, but I want to think I’m giving him an opportunity, a second chance (I know it’s too romantic, this might as well be his 5th chance for all I know, but still), maybe, just maybe he will be the one breaking that poverty cycle, maybe he will grow up and one day regret that he stole a bicycle from his neighbor, and maybe, there’s a tiny possibility that he will end up being a good person, doing something that he loves and having a family, and use himself as an example of what should not be done when you’re a kid, and buy a nice bicycle for his own kid and see the value of hard work, and feel happy to be able to afford little pleasures, like a bicycle ride around the neighborhood.

Love & Respect


We’re too busy.

That night I was holding your hand, and you squeezed my hand. “I’m so happy… so happy” – you said, and you kissed my cheek. Later we shared a cab, I didn’t want to tell you that I was broke so I got off the cab with you with the excuse of having eaten too much and feeling like taking a walk home. We hugged on the stairs in front of your building, but I didn’t kiss you, you were a little drunk at that point and I didn’t want to kiss you in this situation. “Thank you for everything” you said, I smiled and winked at you, then turned around and walked a couple miles home at 3:30 a.m.

A few days later we went to the MoMA, and joked about having someone make a painting of you to hang in your living room, we discussed the Picasso paintings, the Klimts, and I tried to explain why a Newman painting that’s mostly red is one of my favorites, with no success. You bought me lunch, and I made you promise you were going to let me pay for dinner next time.

Dinner never came.

It’s been maybe 3 months now, and people still ask me how’s it going with you, if I confessed my feelings already, if we’ve been somewhere else, if we have any plans. And most of the times I just have one answer “Nothing… we’re too busy I guess.”

It’s the easiest way to avoid letting everyone know that you’re not interested in me, that I’ve asked you out for dinner many times (that pending dinner) and you’ve had other things to do, that I’ve texted you on Tuesday and got a reply on Friday, or that in my last attempt I asked you out for movies in a text and you actually never replied.

And yet I see you and you’re very polite, because now I only see you occasionally for work, you smile and talk in sharp, clear sentences; you know what you want and you ask questions, you have priorities, goals, expectations, and you strive to do the best you can with your career.

Then at night I used to think about your blue eyes, your full lips, your amazing sense of humor, how fucking smart you are; and me? Well I’m just me.

I’m 34 years old, and I have a career in advertising that I’m hating a little more every day. I’m working from 9 to 5 at a corporate building, and then I work from 7 to 2 at home, building my own company. I (sometimes) sleep from 2 to 7, if I’m not working on a freelance project. I spend all the small bits of time in between that investing and trading stocks, writing chunks of music, riding my bike around Central Park, reading an ocassional novel, calling my family back in Mexico. And you know what? I wish I still could’ve shared time with you. I wish I’ve had that chance.

I can’t blame you at all, I’m not attractive by any means, and most of the times I am convinced that that’s the reason why I’m single, because even when I don’t really have time, somehow I still have it. Only there’s no one willng to share it with me.

I wish I could’ve used those (free) movie tickets with you, I wish I could’ve asked you to join me on my trip to Iceland, I wish I could listen to what you have to say, and help you reach your goals, and hug out your worries, I wish I could cook risotto and share it with you on those fancy black plates, I wish we could give each other jars of pickles instead of chocolates, and hold hands at Central Park like a stupid fake love story.

But we’re to busy.