Satanic stories, black magic & love

It was my birthday, and I met you a couple of days after. You were a kitten, a newborn kitten. Still blind and still not ready for life. Still new to this world. Still not ready for what life brings. You were my baby. My baby girl. Pelucha was your name. A fitting name for a girl like you. Fluffly and lively. Full of life and never ready to surrender to the boring days. Your smile would make everyone forget about their heavy baggage. They would forget about their problems, and their bad times would dissipate in the thin air of the afternoon. You had the most distinctive smile from every other cat I had ever had. You were my daughter. I had rescued you from week 2 and you knew it. It was such an amazing time with you by my side. Stress and problematic times would disappear with just a look into your yellow eyes.  I was always drawn to your purity and innocence. To your charisma and to your friendship. You were my best friend in my darkest moments. I would cry my heart out and you wo...

 It was one of those nights when the snow falls so hard the darkness turns white. Snowflakes gently crashing down and colliding in such a violent fashion. There was an ambiguity to it that made the cruel winter seem lovely. It was 8:05pm and I already had 2 beers down my throat. I had had a tough week and I was tired. I was tired of everything and everyone around me. Judging me, patronizing me, and thinking they knew better than I could ever do. For me, it was natural selection, I had come to understand why people leave. It was the best explanation I could have come up with. Why do they always leave? Or should I say: why do the good ones stay? It is always a matter of how you see things. You can be like my parents, fatalistic, and believe everything is up to destiny. Poor destiny. All the lies and the heartache that is credited to fate. If only destiny could refute these claims and shut them all up, life would be a different story. You could see all the good in things and people. L...

 "Destroy to open," read the instructions to my newly acquired vinyl by Marilyn Manson. The instructions were clear, yet I grew confused by the minute. I, an avid collector or music, didn't want to destroy the latest addition to my collection. I wanted to preserve the black paper wrapper, forever. But at the same time, I wanted to tear it open and play the shit out of it on my turntable. As loud as my eardrums could bear. As loud as I could to make it all go away, just for 4 minutes. I stood in my living room with the lp in my hands, tightly holding on to that moment, unable to decide whether I should go ahead with its destiny and play it, or just keep it in limbo for God knows how many days before temptation finally made me give in. I think I was always the collecting type. Even if it was cards or the occasional toy that came in a chocolate egg, I would keep them and place them carefully, displayed for everyone to see, but most importantly, for me to know that I had them...

They say that hell is not hot. And my first night in Rio de Janeiro proved to be a scorching one. I had everything packed and ready to go. I glanced one last time at my open suitcase before closing it. My gun, my passports, a bunch of cash and an extra pair of torn-up jeans, everything was in its place. "It's my obsessive-compulsive personality disorder", I sighed. Everything, right where it belongs. I made my way out of the hotel room, where my perfectly made bed awaited to be violently unmade by the next guests. There are two kinds of hotel room users. One type is the one, like me, that after binging on whiskey and beer chasers, has to crash and recover from all the self-inflicted wounds, everlasting scars of memorable past stories.  The tear-stained face that has been running away from their fate. The second kind is the one that has decided to hide under the bedsheets and escape their boring everyday life in the company of their partner in crime. A guest that i...