What's your purpose?

I think a lot, way more than I'd like and consider healthy, actually. It makes me uneasy. I see people committing to all sorts of lifestyles, and none of them is it for me. Mine isn't either. And I think about it. I haven't found a purpose for any of this, and I'm always wondering what is next; although, I have a feeling that there doesn't always have to be a next, at least not for a great while. It'd be great to think nothing sometimes, to feel nothing, at least nothing but contentment.

I wish I could be satisfied with what I have, especially with the choices I make, and go about
my days without giving everything a second thought, but more often than not that is not the case. I'm always questioning every single thing I do and even more so the things I don't do. I so desperately need to know the why of what's happening to me and around me. It's ridiculous. When I finally achieve a goal I so eagerly wanted to, I catch myself thinking "what now?" It's like nothing will ever be sufficient and I'll never be at peace with the place where I am at. It's not a feeling that's new to me. It has always been here. Always. For as long as I can remember. It's the same feeling that made me fill endless journals throughout my adolescence. It's frustrating to me that some of the questions and doubts, and the uncertainty about life, that I had at 14-years-old still bother me in so many ways. 

I know I'm not alone in this and a lot of people out there are just as frustrated as I am, if not more. I'm not giving myself a pat on back for my metaphysical thinking. 

I look for answers in books, song lyrics, daily news, traditional religions, philosophy, and google, anything that will offer some clarity. I still got nothing. So, having this inner debate the other night, I googled "What's your purpose?" This article came up: How to Discover Your Life Purpose in About 20 Minutes. 

I'm completely against any of the self-help crap, but I gave it a try anyway because a) I didn't have anything better to do, b) I was in distress, and c) even though it might work for some people, it's always good to prove this stuff wrong. So I sat down and started working on my list of purposes. Here's what I came up with:

What’s your purpose?

None. Graduate from college. Get a job. Get married. Have two and a half kids. Travel the world. Read all the classics. Read every book ever written (the good ones). Be really smart. Find the love of your life. Live in a little English cottage. Listen to songs that make you happy and sad at the same time. Write more. Be an actor. Join the circus. Join a church. Become a nun. Found a church. Move to Cuba. Buy a house. Join the Doctors without borders. Go work with kids .  Adopt a baby. Become a witch. Be a teacher. Join a political party. Change the world. Be a hippie. Go live in San Francisco. Move back to Brasil. Live in Gramado. Be a good cook. Open a bakery. Open a Starbucks franchise. Open a café. Open a little new age shop on some neat tropical island. Learn languages. Make friends. Fall for a charming person and run off to fight injustice with them. Write stories. Tell stories. Live alone in a little cottage in the woods. Move back to my hometown. Work with my mom. Live in Paris. Travel through South America. Live in Buenos Aires. Become a truck driver. Say I love you when I mean it. Become completely fluent in French. Move to British Columbia. Declutter. Make enough money to live comfortably. Live without internet. Be rich. Handwrite. Write poetry. Tour Europe. Go to NYC. Live healthily. Eat well. Bike. Find your dream job. Work in a daycare. Teach kids. Work in a hospital. Go live in the Congo. Help people. Become a Buddhist. Become a Buddhist monk. Learn how to meditate. Move to the East Timor. Let go of material goods. Travel. Live in a different place every year. Live in Canada. Get a dog. Have 5 kids. Have no kids. Allow myself to be happy. Worry less. Find a good therapist and start therapy sessions. Buy a horse. Let feelings out. Speak the truth. Buy a car. Buy a trailer. Make the trailer your home. Join the gypsies. Go to China. Believe. Live in a small studio in a big city. Be alone. Empty my mind. Be content with the life I have. Live with the minimum necessary. Give stuff away. Not look back. Accept that other people will fail and disappoint you. Accept that I'll disappoint other people. Love people regardless. Be open. Be a hippie in Arembepe. Shut up more often. Join the guerrilla. Be gentle. Have faith. Listen. Spend some time in India. Trust people. Be Amish for a month. Act. Dance. Sleep less. Be more active. Have fun. Be a foreign correspondent for The New York Times. Drink beers. Enjoy the game. Enjoy what I have now. Don’t think about the future. Join the army. Live in a fishing village. Watch less TV. Accept that I prob won't be able to watch people's reactions when I die. Care less about fictional characters. Have discussions and still be friends afterwards. Talk nicely. Learn how to drive a truck. Respect people. Be kind. Pay my bills. Care less. It’s ok to feel deeply. Believe that people care and not everybody leaves. Believe in love. Settle down. Accept that there doesn’t need to be a purpose. Buy a motorcycle. Write a book. Feel saudade. Be silly. Be the clown. Host parties. Live in Rio. Make grandma proud.

It took me some 20 minutes to compile this little list and the whole thing turned out to be a list of my short-lived life goals, if you can call them that. The very first part of the list, from graduating from college to having kids, is what my family always told me I should do (I was following the article's steps to the best I could). Most of the rest is me being delusional. It even got deeper and sentimental as I went on, but there were no tears, none whatsoever. Thus, I proved this thing wrong. 

I still got nothing in terms of my purpose in life. Mostly, I think all of my "purposes" were incredibly selfish and one-sided. I focused mostly on my own self and what could make me happy and that's not what I want my purpose in my life to be. There were also a lot of buys and moves in it, which maybe means my purpose in life is to be a shopaholic with a travel addiction? I want there to be more to it than just me. I also want to stop asking myself "then what?" because even as I wrote all of that, at the end of the day I could have achieved every single one of these things (ok, maybe not every single one, but some), and I know I'd still be wondering "then what?" It's daunting indeed.

What about you? Have you found your purpose yet? 

I've got a stalker!

That's right. There's someone out there who hates my guts so much that he's taken the time to write nasty comments on my blog for every new entry I post. He also loves me so much that he's taken the time to write nasty comments on my blog for every new entry I post.

My stalker is obsessed with politics. He especially hates Dilma Roussef, Lula and the PT (Workers Party of Brazil). He hates me for leaving Brazil and for going back to Brazil, for voting for Lula, Dilma and all the thugs who make the PT.

He loves to hate me!

"keep voting for Dilma and Lula and then leave Brazil when they get elected. we, Brazilians, THANK YOU! on Better Days"

What my stalker seems to lack knowledge of is that I haven't voted since '02. Yes! I haven't voted since I was 16 years old. I haven't voted since the first time I was legally allowed to vote and since the first time I voted for Lula. "Meu primeiro voto pra fazer brilhar nossa estrela." HA! I voted for Lula and would vote for him again and again. The only reason I haven't voted since is because I have been out of my electoral district for the most part and, in Brazil, you can only vote if you're in your electoral district. I have justificado my vote many times, but that's about it. I also have not bothered to transfer my título de eleitor (voter's ID) to any of the other places where I've lived because I've not lived anywhere long enough to justify it.

Dude also clearly has a problem with my living outside of Brazil after electing Dilma president (refer to the above paragraph). He has a problem with the fact that I have wiped little Yankees' asses and that I have swept floors for a living. It's the typical Brazilian elitist mentality that I despise so much. My stalker considers jobs such as babysitting and cleaning to be beneath him, and me, it seems. They're not dignified jobs. They are garbage, they are for the poor, the illiterate, the uneducated, such as myself. They are jobs for the preta who's worked as a live-in maid in his house and earned less than the minimum wage all of her life; and that I'm doing this kind of job when oh! I could be doing much better in Brazil if only I had stayed and voted for the PSDB, if I had gone to college, unlike Lula, and worked my ass off to be cultured, evolved, smart, and politically right. Besides, I apparently lost all my rights as a Brazilian citizen the day I got on that plane and left. I'm a pariah. I got no country! I'm beneath the struggling Brazilians who chose to stay, study, and work in Brazil. All while living under their mothers' wings and on their family's money. hehe 

O brasileiro é engraçado, odeia os EUA, odeia o CAPITALISMO, detesta lei e ordem, elege Dilma e os petistas, que fazem o mensalão e desviam milhoes dos pobres, e depois, com a cara mais limpa do mundo, vão morar nos EUA e roubar empregos dos americanos. Não tinham que te dar visto NUNCA! E a justificativa tinha que ser: "Votounna Dilma, então aguenta filha." on Tudo ao mesmo tempo agora

He's gotten issues with my frail socialism too. As per his logic, I should never be allowed in the US because I hate capitalism so much and because I'm only after dollars (right in the middle of a financial crisis, that's what you do; also, very socialist of me.) :-) Maybe I should try to get into Cuba instead; panhandling in the streets of Havana might be my way of making it big time. US citizens, you should hate me too! Hate me and pray that I have my visitor's visa denied. Hate me for thinking you are all bloodthirsty capitalists. Hate me for voting for Lula. Hate me for trying to invade your country and steal your jobs. Hate me for being a Castro-loving socialist. Hate me and drop me some comments in the process because clearly none of you got a life outside of the internet. Canadians, you're welcome to join in the hate party. 

In all seriousness (if I can be serious), I try to make my blog as me as possible, and I believe I'm fairly neutral in my writing. I hardly ever point my finger, and, when I do, I lay out convincing and totally valid arguments for doing so. It's all me me me me here. It's egocentric and I like it that way. It's based on what I learned in the karate lessons I took so long ago. The only thing I actually remember from karate: It's not you. It's me. I try to use the word I as much as possible and make it about me because I write about the things that bother me, that amaze me. Therefore, I don't feel as if I'm imposing my point of view on anybody. 

This is how I see things and how they affect me. It baffles me that anyone else should feel so offended by my writing to the point of having to visit my blog every single day to drop a bunch of unnecessary and offensive words. It makes me weirdly proud of myself and the attention I'm getting though. I love that people feel so passionate about the stuff I write and the life I live that they must say something about it, they must judge. It's probably the closest to being a celeb that I'll ever get. However, I have always wondered what makes people do it, what makes people so beastly repugnant. I feel exhausted just thinking about how tiring and life and time consuming all this hatred is. If I disagree with something, if I want to be nasty, I'll offer the other cheek, I'll show my face, I won't hide behind my computer and an "anonymous" post to try to get to people. Not that I have lots of time to go around doing it anyway. I have self-respect, and boy! do I have a life, and I won't be disrespectful of anybody's opinion only because they're different from mine, much less will I google someone just so I can send them some negative vibes. I might hate you, but I will respectfully hate you, and honestly I'd rather waste my time looking at beautiful pictures or drooling over yummy recipes than hating anyone. 

My stalker obviously doesn't know what it feels like to leave a country, to experience new things, taste new food, meet new, interesting, intelligent people, to learn a new language and live outside of one's bubble either. He sounds like a bitter old grump who's got no one and nothing in life, nothing besides a computer, a twisted political view, and a miserable attitude. That's the kind of people who I pity and loathe. The kind who need to offend other people to get a little pleasure out of life. I feel sorry for him and I wish he could come out of his misery and live his life to its fullest. I wish his life were his priority because no matter how screwed up you're, there's always time to fix things, to live happily ever after. As a piece of advice, I'd just tone the bitching down a bit because it won't be easy to make friends if you continue to be a big old meanie. Maybe a trip to the States will do it for you. Take the time, get a visa (if you already don't have one), hop on a plane, go shopping! Take everything your beloved capitalism can offer you. It may make you lighter, happier, gentler. This hatred you're carrying won't be good for you long term. 

Don't get me wrong though. I love the attention. I love it dearly. Otherwise, I'd have disabled the anonymous comments on my blog a long time ago and I most certainly wouldn't be writing about you. I grew up in a place where gossip is people's favorite pastime and I've
been the target of it many a time. I learned to like the attention. I WANT YOU on the spotlight now. You get a turn. Be nasty, be gross, be loathsome, be disrespectful all you want. I'll make sure to publish all of your comments. Enjoy your turn to the max 'cause that's it for you, it's your first and only chance. Maybe you want to be nice for a change, but I doubt it. Let us in on why you're so obnoxious. 

"Hoje você é quem manda. Falou tá falado, não tem discussão."

Nossa língua portuguesa

Eu li Estrangeirismos: "Nem todos os termos têm tradução", diz gramático, por aqui, e digo que apesar de achar que as vezes o povo exagera no uso de palavras gringas, tô nem aí. Mentira, tô muito aí. Certas palavras incorporadas à língua portuguesa me incomodam pra cacetete. E vamos dizer que consigo traduzir 94% das palavras apontados pelo gramático como não passíveis de tradução pra bom e claro português. Os outros 6% eu aceito e acolho como parte do meu vocabulário brasileiro. O que não invalida o uso das mesmas na língua original por outras pessoas e por mim mesma, lógico.

banner - lá na minha faculdade de publicidade, banner era todo cartaz impresso em gráfica, porque professor gosta de fazer aluno gastar dinheiro. Então, banner bom e barato é cartaz.

best-seller - Ora, pois. Quantas vezes já não li livros da lista dos mais vendidos. Paulo Coelho inclusive. SF, hein?

blitz - não sei pro resto do mundo, mas pra mim blitz é batida policial

chip - defeated 

couvert - Français, oui? Nós já não aportuguesamos essa pra cover? Se não, não sei que diabo é isso.

crawl - Essa me pegou pelo calcanhar porque, sério, nunca vi ninguém usar essa palavra em português, mas "engatinhar" may be in order. 

free-lance - defeated 

geek - CDF 

hacker - defeated

impeachment - Impeachment faz parte do meu vocabulário desde os idos de 1990 e do Fora Collor! e mesmo que eu ainda não saiba soletrá-la, estrangeirismo é a mãe.

influenza - aaaaaaaah! Sai fora, gripe.

kosher - de acordo com as tradições judias. :-)

modem - defeated

nerd - CDF

online - defeated

outdoor - essa eu não entendo, se eu fosse traduzir ia ser "cartaz grande que fica do lado de fora," porque sabe como é, a palavra em inglês pra outdoor nem outdoor é, então vai entender, né seu Billboard?

paparazzi - fotógrafos. :D

pen drive - mini disco rígido. hahaha Defeated.

pizzaiolo - fazedor de pizza, mas sendo a pizza estrangeira também, fica difícil. É outra que tá na minha vida há tanto tempo que whatever, é português, delicious and spell-able.

rally - racha? corrida de carro?

spa - lugar caro com pouca comida pra gente fresca e cheia da grana.

sundae - sorvete com calda do McDonald's, ok?

swat - outra que nunca ouvi em português, mas eu posso tá meio out of the loop nas expressões gringas novas. Não sei o que é isso. 

zoom - Defeated.

chat - Oh, c'mooooooon, senhor gramático, que atire a primeira pedra quem nunca entrou no bate-papo do UOL.


Como você pode ver, tenho tradução pra quase todos os estrangeirismos, mas me sinto no direito de mix and match and even code switch as I go. :-) Culpo o meu cérebro que é lento e no bate e volta de informação e palavras o que foi volta igual. E acho que nome de comida, assim como nome de gente, não tem que ser considerado palavra gringa, é nome porra. E em defesa do inglês, porque sou dessas agora, as palavras francesas e espanholas incorporadas à língua inglesa valem por toda a invasão do inglês ao português. Aqui se faz, aqui se paga, sabe como é?


E no mundo globalizado em que vivemos, globalizemos. It's beautiful, como diria Caetano. 

Perdendo a cabeça...

Hoje eu notei que tenho um protetor labial desde novembro de 2008. O mesmo... usado e reusado um milhão de vezes nesse frio dos infernos (?). E desde então eu perdi meu celular, meu iPod (duas vezes), uma criança (por alguns minutos), minha carteira, meu cartão de crédito (três vezes), minha máquina fotográfica, ticket de cinema (na hora do filme), um chapéu, minha bolsa inteira, um pouco da minha sanidade, a graça, e quase dois anos da minha vida. E o protetor labial, que não me custou um centavo, tá aqui até hoje, ainda por acabar. Vai entender...

Err... duh!

Quando eu era criança pequena lá em Minas Novas, terra de doido, mais pra lá de Barbacena. Mãe me ensinou a não chamar ninguém de burro, "ninguém é burro", ela dizia. E eu nunca duvidei de mãe, nunca duvidei do conhecimento teórico de mãe, que seja esclarecido.

Mas cresci e descobri o mundo ruim que mãe cantava pra mim, tomando emprestada a canção de Toquinho e Vinícius. Cresci um pouco mais que aqueles três palmos e já não tenho mais medo de bicho papão. Tenho medo de Lula, Obama, Kim Jong-il e aviões que caem misteorisamente no mar. Medos fundados, acho bem justos. O bicho papão, infelizmente, foi passear na casa da Carochinha.

E descobri que quando mãe dizia que ninguém é burro, ela só não queria que eu, então menina bonita com laço de fita no cabelo, passasse por criança chata, porque é feio chamar as pessoas de burras assim, na lata, mesmo quando nós, e os dito cujos, sabemos que são. A gente disfarça, dá risadinha, olha pro lado, finge que não viu, não leu, não sabe de nada, finge que é o burro em questão, pra não soltar um palavrão daqueles bem grandes, daqueles que fazem o bicho papão vir te pegar, na cara do sujeito.

Nesse mundo ruim, mundo circo que transforma velório em espetáculo e acha bonito botar criança chorando no palco pra entreter multidão, ainda é feio chamar um sujeito de burro, tem que fantasiar, passar a mão na cabeça e deixar passar batido pra não ofender, é se fingir de égua e deixar o circo pegar fogo porque o pão tá garantido.

E como mãe nada disse sobre burrice na internet, não há porque não dizer aqui: "tu é muito burro mermo, mano. volta pra escola, mermão. num enche a p*rra do saco." Porque tem gente que de tão burra e alienada manga da minha inteligência. Mas continuo com aquela política de ficar calada, e dar meus bois pra cair fora da discussão, ainda mais quando discussão corre desse jeito aí, relinchando. Tô fora, muleque!

Balada!

A palavra por si só me dá calafrios. A coisa mais a fumaça do ambiente, ânsia de vômito. Tiro muito mais proveito de uma noite de sono/TV/livro/computador. E pode me taxar do que quiser, é como vovó já dizia: tô cagando e andando.