I remember that every time I cried over something like this, Mom used to say how much of a sore loser I was - she'd then pat my head, pull me to a hug and kiss my forehead, always saying that she'd still love me no matter how many C's I'd get in maths. 'In fact, I'll still love you, even if you become a hairy lesbian, so don't refrain yourself, Cherry. Just be happy for mom', she told me once, when her own head was already bald, her arm pierced by a needle and connected to those transparent serum tubes.

As much as Gilberto dos Santos (Giba) wanted nothing but to finish his studies, go back to his biological mom and throw his diploma - or a copy of it -, on that stupid stroke-croocked face, the same face that abandoned him years before, he couldn’t help but accept the small tighted rolled cigarrette, to be lit while his History of Philosophy classes were starting.

Hours before - or days, maybe -, he’d be there with Amanda, in the classroom; studying, taking notes, trying hard not to sleep. Now, since she started dating that Ricardo guy (that strange one, with the thick eyelashes and the goat beard), it was Amanda who was there. Giba was long gone, his eyes completely lost in the jet-black blanket covering all the stars and the moon and the other things up in the sky.

As Writer…

You’ll read here some bits of future books I’m working on.
Two in specific: "‘My Sharona’ your ass!", a ChickLit about discovering yourself and fighting for your own identity.
The second is “Amada, Amanda”, a supernatural Short Story in São Paulo, Brazil, that promises to dwell on the mysterious friendship between two women.

July – 2015 ~ Present