Blame Canada

Ver How I Met Your Mother, la mejor comedia de la década y seguramente la más icónica desde Seinfield y Friends, implica escuchar al menos cinco bromas sobre Canadá por episodio. El hecho de que Cobie Smulders sea canadiense (y no sólo su personaje, Robin Scherbatsky, a quien amo) ayuda a que este sea un típico caso de "reírse con" y no "de" alguien.
Personalmente, creo que desde que me enteré que Jason Priestley era del Great White North ese país guarda un lugar especial en mi corazón, lugar que se afirmó a medida que mis gustos musicales se expandieron. Hay muchos, muchos músicos canadienses fantásticos; algunos son conocidos (Alanis Morrisette), otros no tanto (Sarah McLachlan) y otros son injustamente subestimados (Matthew Good), pero todos ellos son increíbles. Podría hacer una lista que incluiría a gente como Bryan Adams, Paul Anka, Melisa Auf del Maur (de Smashing Pumpkins y Hole), Michael Bublé, Allison Crowe, Nelly Furtado, Chad Kroeger y más, pero no hay tiempo (además, ya está en Wikipedia =P).
Claro, también está Justin Bieber (¬¬), así que para compensar, una canción sencillamente perfecta:


Bear with me...

Après Moi

Once upon a time, there was a girl in a bathroom. Of course she didn't just wind up materializing out of thin air in a bathroom, but I guess that's where this story really begins. Or maybe not. If a story is defined by its starring characters, and these - real people, not ficticious characters - are marked and affected by every single event in their lives, then perhaps this particular tale begins twenty-something years before, when its starring characters came to be. But that's irrelevant, isn't it? Because there is no certain way in which we can list every single moment that has lead us here - probably because, ultimately, every single moment has lead us here -, which means that any attempt at doing so is futile.

Thus, once upon a time, there was a girl in a bathroom. That's where this story begins, at least for practical purposes. With a very drunk girl in a quite filthy bathroom. Details elude me, after all this time, and I'm surprised to find the deepest sadness invading me; I would give anything to go back to that precise moment and savor it for what it was - a beginning. In any case, it occurs to me that one can somehow tell as something meaningful is taking place, always, if we pay close attention. So, even if I can't quite remember our conversation, or what I felt as we sat there (or perhaps this sadness is actually what I felt), even if she wasn't as drunk as I think and maybe I was a bit less sober than I'd like to remember, I can honestly say I knew something special was unraveling.

Once upon a time, there was a drunk girl in a bathroom, asking to be loved. She didn't ask me, particularly, to love her, but since she didn't speak about romantic love, I did. You see, there are three kinds of people in this world. I have found there are people who will never say nor show that they need anything or anyone in their lives. They generously offer themselves and gratefully take what they can get from those around them, but they never depend on it. People like me - needy, selfish, greedy - either love them or hate them, but always, always envy them. This girl, however, was the kind who may admit needing to be loved and then carry on with their lives, anyway. And us, those who kick and scream for affection, who desperately need to be needed, well... we never fail to indulge in the fantasy that we might make a difference in somebody's life.

That is basically how I ended up meeting a girl in a bathroom, and loving her, and setting out to prove her wrong as she spoke of being irrelevant, and easily written out. And I should have been more careful with myself, but I didn't care at the time, because I really didn't need her to reciprocate and maybe that's what was special about it all. I felt enough for the both of us. I didn't really need to be anything more than what I had set myself to be: the one person who would definitely notice when she wasn't around, who would miss her when she was gone. I only needed her to see that, thinking that perhaps my simple, innocent fraternal love could heal her.

Maybe I innocently thought that by healing her, I could finally be healed.

But perhaps I am not being quite fair with myself, for I wasn't always like this. Once upon a time I was a girl, not in a bathroom but in the backseat of a car; alone in the very crowded backseat of a car, in a very dark road, thinking about being irrelevant, easily written out. And always, always carrying on with my life. So perhaps it was inevitable for me to jump at what seemed the opportunity of preventing someone from feeling the same way. Perhaps I never really stood a chance, did I? Because on top of it all, everything she was, said or did seemed to pull the strings of my heart. I loved her for reminding me of myself, but I also loved her for being a completely different person: herself.

The problem was, is, that this particular girl, in this particular bathroom, in this particular story, never once spoke of romantic love, but that was ultimately what was missing. The one thing I could never give her and the one thing she would never take from me anyway. I'd like to think I made some kind of difference in her life, that I helped her somehow, made her life easier or at least a little brighter, but the truth is that somewhere along the lines I started needing her, and needing her to need me. And I hated myself for that, because I knew that if I asked for something that I knew was impossible for her to give me, then my heartbreak would be nobody's fault but my own. So, when she met him, the boy she had already known all her life, I couldn't help the feeling of loss that choked me.

Once upon a time, I met a girl I already knew, in a bathroom. I came to love her, and I think she eventually got around to loving me as well. But then I started needing her and she let me, because she never once believed me when I told her this would be over at some point. She asked me once, maybe twice, what was it that I wanted from her. At the time, all I knew was that whatever it was, I wasn't going to get it. Now I think I just needed her to fight for me -- to fight herself, and even myself, for me. Then again, that would perhaps require the utmost sacrifice of all: trust.

Sept. 9th, 2009. The end of winter really was a bitch.

Like we speak the same language

Esto es lo mejor que me ha sucedido en mucho, MUCHO tiempo.

TV Tropes.

Una guía directamente a mi cerebro! (L)

Come Around

The joys Mini Gut brings about include a newfound access to all sorts of concerts and musicals. That is how I stumbled upon Counting Crows Soundstage performance, in which they presented Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings.
Now, I've mentioned before how much I love them, particularly their debut album, but I think explaining why I love them so much is an entirely different can of worms (still, thanks for recommending them, Ryan Butters, wherever you may be).
Well, seeing Adam Duritz talk about their songs, and the journey they represent, did the trick for me: These are not songs written for broken people, these songs are written by broken people. When you add that to my pathological attraction towards trainwrecks, it's a no brainer, really. It even explains how I went from "seriously dude, I know you were on top of the world at the time, but how did you land BOTH Courteney Cox and Jennifer Aniston?" to "Oooooh... how come BOTH of them let him go?".
He.

You see, there's this song (there's always a song).
There's this song I heard in a TV show (there's always a TV show).
And it's not even a good TV show; it's one of those crappy mid-season replacements for a cable network, which means that the song is sung by one of those Tori Amos' redneck cop-out that seem to spring from below rocks these days (hi, Taylor Swift), but you know what? It's one of those songs. One of THOSE. The kind that stays and haunts you, in which every single verse is so dead spot-on that it hurts and stings. The transition after learn to let it bend before it breaks? Gosh. This song burns. It's been burning me alive for days now, and yeah, perhaps it's just me, but really.

Say it ain't so, say I'm happy again.