Le mirabolanti avventure di Barbara Jacob - There's someone in my head but it's not me

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Former freelance web developer Barbara Jacob was on the verge of breakdown because of appalling customers behavior and the huge mortgage she had to repay for all her foreseeable life. So one day she escaped to London, where she isn't happier but at least she can keep the wolf from the door. Well, and now that we are here, what we will do with our life?

December 2009
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Category: There's someone in my head but it's not me

"You are going down. What happened to you? Are you sick?"

No, fucking moron, I am not sick - it's three months that I starve myself on salads in order to get thinner, and now yep, thinner I am.
Thinner, well groomed (well, for my standards at least), and that's all the acknowledgment I've got, from the aziendastrafica inc scatterbrained janitor. "Geez no, I am not sick and what you are saying is not very polite" I just answered, but it took all the best reassurances from Rich and the Handsome Portuguese in order to restore partially my ego for the day.

It's getting warmer, thanks srand($deity), but I still haven't adopted the summer leather jacket, except on the warmest days of the crazy London Spring.
The recession is in full swing and even aziendastrafica inc, in spite of its healthy balance, is cutting costs, jobs and benefits. No week fades away without a card to sign and/or a leaving drink. Last week we signed for all the contractors from sports department, and I couldn't help but notice that even the cards are now smaller, a A5 instead of the usual A4. Talk about cutting costs!

After nearly one year there, I am one of "the old". My popularity, which somewhat suffered after the drunken incident in last November, has recovered and is now at an all time high. I suspect that I, like the other "old", deserve some kind of homage just because I've survived and thrived for so long. But probably yep, I am exaggerating. I've said goodbye to so many friends: le Chat et le Renard, for instance, are among the most missed. I strongly suspect the Handsome Portuguese to be considering his options too. Alas, you haven't really got the time to get used to people here.

I keep in touch with The Ferret, albeit not enough as I'd want and, moreover, I feel like we haven't got much to say to each other. I am thinking about seeing him once again, if he wants too of course, just for the sheer pleasure of seeing a face I like, and to catch up for good about all that happened in these last months, even if he knows already most of my whereabouts thanks to the killer app FB and I suspect he won't dwell much about his owns. But let's wait and see.

Siuffi taught me a German work, Sehnsucht, that seemingly resumes well how I feel in this early Spring. After one year and a half in London, I've kinda settled down, the work is not difficult as it used to be, I have a modicum of economic security and a bit of social life, in short, most of the pressing issues that I faced after leaving small web agency four years ago and becoming thereafter a freelancer are sorted out. Now I am left face to face with my life and I am embarrassed on what to do with it. I don't seem to have any particular social or political inspiration; I look for love but only the romantic part of it, I am not especially looking for a long-term relationship albeit the idea of finding My Other Half is so present that it borders to obsession. But I am not really looking and I am rather discouraged: think about it - I didn't fall in love since I met Lord Greensleeves (1999!!!) and here we are, my heart crumbles in little pieces for a tormented, genial, angry twink that gives me, from an intellectual point of view, the very ride of my life - but nothing else. Even worse, what I really feel about it all, it's only it has been too short. Because little me would have gladly continued with that until exhaustion. The very important point about The Ferret, is that he was nearly perfect, the next-to-perfection thing to keep me hooked (giving, but not too much, detached, but never cold, challenging, but not cryptical...). Considering all the implications of our friendship, not only is highly unlikely that I will ever meet the Ferret 2 The Revenge, but I can only acknowledge that the very things that prevent me from getting bored in a prolonged interaction, are also the ones which prevent me to undertake a conventional relationship (which, at this point, I doubt I will ever have again). That means that my reasons for living are to be looked for elsewhere, I am afraid. In a more positive outlook, I could maybe try and build my own proprietary style of love. Maybe.

All the rest is pretty much stationary. I look forward to have something to look forward and I am trying to figure out the meaning of all this. I'll keep you posted.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 13/04/09 at 06:55:17 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | 1 comment

I remember one night when he told me cheerfully "send me a friend request on Facebook!". I reacted annoyed, firstly because such a request is a no-no (since you know my name, I don't see why you shouldn't go and proceed by your own means), and secondly because until some months ago, my neglected account on Facebook was only a receptacle for people that I feel still affectionnate to but that I despair to see ever again; a sort of shrine for my past rescued from sadness and nostalgia mostly by the presence of the "friends-for-real" AndyCapp and Wiz and a few others. I didn't want to be parked in Facebook, to become the has-been icon of a tender encounter.

(have you ever noticed how Facebook's accounts tend to be clogged with exes? Ex-roommates, ex-coworkers...)

But of course he didn't know all that - my quite eccentric attitude - and possibly he thought "the crazy Italian doesn't want me on her Facebook list". Such an occurrence, believe me, at least here, is enough to break friendships and make foes. Luckily, we actually had worse problems so this one went nearly unnoticed. At some point I ended up sending him a friendship request, he accepted and this particular incident was closed hopefully forever.

I don't despise Facebook for its corporate nature, it's the same lack of faith that makes me order Coke at the greasy spoon. I know it's bad, it's conceptually, generally bad, but either this or make with a generally unpalatable coffee. Facebook is convenient like Coke. I've never ever given the address of this diary to anyone, because inside there is a part of my inner life and I like to pretend to myself that I am anonymous here (I am not... and most readers know me in real life anyway). Like the coffee, it's kinda an one-to-one affair (in my mind at least) and contains a modicum of unknown: I don't care much who reads as long as I can carry on with my pretension of anonymity.

Facebook is the down-to-earth side of the virtual life; I am there pasted on a page with name address and biographical data and this make it much closer to day-to-day life. My friendship list contains people I wouldn't dream of revealing my inner torments to, and still, I don't accept anyone I haven't seen at least once in meat-n-bones form.

Recently, I've changed my mind about the "parking" thing and now I go with the flow and keep there... well, everyone. Except for Lord Greensleeves who doesn't have an account (but I do have his best friend in my list), and my half-brother (no account either), a good part of the people from my past and all the people from my present are there. If you are on my friends list it won't be too difficult to match the nicknames of the personnages in my diary with their real names and pictures. And you could discover for example that AndyCapp is an handsome dark man with a "don't mess with me" air, that the Portuguese Colleague has a nice smile and is an Atheist, that The Boss has sad sweet eyes and is a Sagittaire, etc etc.

I contemplate my collection and think to myself that those people are my life, that I am defined by them as much as I define a tiny chunk of each of them. It is quite fun to see them all together in a website, and I don't feel less unique because I enjoy this freeze-dried version of virtual relationships. I may seem naive but since I was a kid I dreamed of having a big book in which I could read the life of all the people I knew. I guess it came true because such imaginary references are a piece of a collective mind, that we all more or less head in the same direction...

And that makes me think that, long before the Facebook incident, I handed over for him to read "Fragments of an hologram rose", the Gibson's short story, because the last paragraph suddenly, in his company, made perfect sense:

Thinking: We're each other's fragments, and was it always this way? That instant of a European trip, deserted in the gray sea of wiped tape - is she closer now, or more real, for his having been there?

But the problem there was: he didn't know what an hologram is. Which spoiled the story for him and distracted both of us from the main topic. I tried frantically to explain all I knew about holograms, but the part that, if broken, an hologram becomes two whole, smaller holograms, left him incredulous, which really didn't forebode well. Next time I try to reach for someone I must remember to avoid all kind of metaphor. It doesn't help. Like it wouldn't help to give someone the address of this diary: would someone know me better because he or she has read my inane ramblings? I am my inner life, but I am also - and maybe much more? - some biographical data and a picture on a standardized template. At least is a good place to start from.

But each fragment reveals the rose from a different angle, he remembered, but delta swept over him before he could ask himself what that might mean.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 03/02/09 at 12:13:46 am | randomly put in the category Citazioni, There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | 1 comment

So last week I did the unthinkable: I phoned R. and apologized for my rather untidy behavior on that infamous night of Autumn. Strange it may seems, I was scared sick and at least three times I dialled half the number and I hung up. Finally I managed to dial the whole number and he didn't answer - for my utter agony. I repeated all my gruelling self-coaching and in the late afternoon I called again and he was there.

He wasn't annoyed nor hostile nor distracted: elegant in his very fashion, very present and somewhat sad, he accepted my apologies and didn't take any minimal revenge. He gave me some very weird news that I won't write here; suffice to say that well, things were different from what I expected.

R. didn't ask to see me and I didn't dare to - moreover, I was pretty satisfied just by knowing he wasn't (anymore?) mad at me, and that sense of soothing acceptation I seem always to receive from my contacts with him gave me quite a good kick. The day after I felt so relieved and delivered from my ghosts of mourning and guilt-tripping, that I was all aglow and buzzing with ideas and projects.

I took some time to think about all this, about how and why this left-handed kid has touched me so deeply, that even now that the relationship is well closed and gone, its memory lingers, and all too often I find myself thinking with a smile "R. would have said that". I reckon that the explanation could be pretty simple: a very good chemistry, and although R. didn't refrain from criticizing me every now and then, I felt generally accepted, cherished and cared for - enough to make a big difference in that sour life of mine, where intimate relationship seems always to contain an unhealthy dose of antagonism. Albeit complex, prone to boredom and quite narcissist, R. lacks pretense: he likes Coke, candy and football, he can use words like "truism" and "anticlimax" but never puts a show of his culture; he wants attention and to be listened to and valued - he has his fans but I've also heard that he is considered difficult to get along with. For me, he couldn't be simpler, and his intelligence makes him one of the most rewarding and charming people I've ever met.

Broadly speaking, his very quirks validated mines. Our friendship failed mostly because his pace was significantly slower than mine. I am a paranoid and I have problems with trusting people, so I am usually the slowest one to open up. When I've decided I can give up most of my defences, usually the other one has given up his/hers already. This time it was the other way round, and I've found myself in that unexplored place, when I had already surrendered my façade and he clung desperately to his - making in the process all my alarm bells go madly off, and precipitating the tragically ridicolous end. Moreover, maybe it's my lack of imagination, but I've never been able to figure out what place he could have taken in my life if he had remained. A lover, a friend, an acquaintance? I would have joyously accepted whatever he wanted, but in theory no one of these clichés could have applied, for various reasons, and a true free-form relationship requires a depth of character that I don't frankly see neither in me or in him.

Still, the very fact of meeting someone who was able to reach for me has changed my perspective. And even if now I don't even manage to imagine how someone else could give me even half the pleasure that the company of R. brought to me, I guess my perspective will change again and again, and the new me's could blend into the world in new and unusual ways. Isn't surprising how I have implicitely accepted to be again into the big chaos of feelings, after so many years of disdainful detachment?
Definitely I haven't see it all. More is yet to come.

And who knows, we will maybe meet again one day.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 25/01/09 at 10:15:11 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | Leave a comment

Walking in Knightsbridge, in the afternoon, squashed by nostalgia, unable to say if I'm sad or cheerful, seeing my own memories in front of my eyes, awash with the violent light and the nonsensical, random beauty of the world.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 11/01/09 at 08:17:54 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | Leave a comment

[....]

Another life
Another time
We're Siamese twins writhing intertwined
Face to face
no telling lies
The masks, they slide to reveal a new disguise.

[....]

They say follow your heart
follow it through
But how can you
when you're split in two?

[....]

(Face to face, Siouxsie And The Banshees)

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 07/12/08 at 09:10:13 pm | randomly put in the category Songs, There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | 3 comments

- So you're in love - I half ask half affirm.
- I've just seen her once! - answers Andy - Unlike you, I don't poke my fingers into things, me.

He's right - alas poor me, I know I do that.

It's just that I can't resist poking my fingers into things, drunk or sober, all the time.

Marmite

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 25/11/08 at 08:14:21 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | 8 comments

On Friday morning. I had just taken off my shoes and was ready to drink my coffee and prepare my demo which was due for noon. The fire alarm rang. Damn.
The only difference with our last exercitation was that people was suddenly walking for the exit a bit quicker. My Portuguese colleague in particular was really swift. I stay behind to lace my shoes, vaguely thinking that maybe the building was going to explode and I was going to die because I didn't want to go outside barefoot. I felt very marginally relieved when I arrived in the garden. The whole thing nevertheless went in a very orderly and civilised fashion.

Another difference was that Roy wasn't there and I felt an huge pang of nostalgia while I was waiting in the church garden, talking shoes with Rebecca and Alixe. He had asked me to tip him off "next time" - I was right in suspecting that there would never be another time, not with him present at least.

I kept my nostalgia for myself. Some freaker had set alight a bunch of cables on the sixth floor and by caution all the building had been evacuated. Less than one hour after we were back at our places, but I had lost a very precious and needed hour to prepare my demo and rushed through the task, continuing knitting it, doing and undoing things until five to noon.

So went my first real life experience of a fire alarm in London.
Milder than expected, and kind of melancholic.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 16/11/08 at 11:13:22 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | 3 comments

[....]
E' così strano che abbia bisogno di te
Tanto lontano, tu così diverso da me.
[....]

(L. Dalla)

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 16/11/08 at 09:35:35 pm | randomly put in the category Songs, Citazioni, There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | Leave a comment

http://samvak.tripod.com/faq74.html

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 15/11/08 at 01:02:10 pm | randomly put in the category Citazioni, There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | Leave a comment

Home again, late and tired, I offered drinks, I was offered, I've swapped phone numbers, email addresses. I'm pleased - it was another nice night. I feel likeable and liked, I lose myself in the bubbling present of the big city, I feel light and empty.

But late at night, each night when I am back home and discover distractly how many phone calls I've missed and how many email I've received, I am still vaguely sad, because in the crowd of names I see on the screens, yours is never there, and neither in the many faces I remember to have seen each night - your eyes are never there.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 13/11/08 at 09:29:28 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | 2 comments

The world financial system is teetering on the "brink of systemic meltdown", the head of the International Monetary Fund (IMF) has warned in Washington.

L'altra mattina ho incontrato in ascensore uno dei boss di aziendastrafica inc. Mi ha mostrato il giornale - The Times - che esibiva un titolone che già non ricordo più, e mi ha detto tutto grave we live in historical times.

Aziendastrafica inc non potrebbe passarsela meglio; però venerdì al pub ho rivisto questo capo ed ho notato che non ha aperto bocca per tutta la sera, e guardava lontano.

L'altra mattina per qualche coincidenza eravamo lì entrambi all'alba, io ed il mio amato compagno di programmazione, in cortile, mentre io fumavo e ridevamo discutendo dei fatti nostri, ed è arrivato Alexandre tutto eccitato chiedendoci come ci si sente ad essere azionisti di una banca, alludendo all'acquisto di azioni da parte del governo britannico, e sia io che R. avremmo voluto dire qualcosa di intelligente, ma eravamo veramente altrove ed abbiamo detto solo ah, who knows.

Ogni mattina alle nove, mentre prepariamo il local build per la giornata, R., il bel portoghese ed io apriamo la pagina dei mercati della BBC, siccome lavoriamo in una società finanziaria pare brutto non saperne mezza. In realtà, nell'IT è normale capire poco del prodotto, ed i nostri commenti sono di una piattezza devastante:

- Oh, two points down in half an hour
- Oh, two points up in half an hour
- Oh, look at that!

They are cowboys, conclude invariabilmente R. prima di passare alla pagina del calcio. Il portoghese si mette a leggere i blog tecnici, io wikinews e di borsa non si parlerà più per tutto il giorno.

Occasionalmente qualcuno si domanda cosa accadrà ed un altro a scelta risponde non lo so. C'è una specie di innocenza nella nostra ignoranza caprina. Le nostre vite sono piccole, qui, tra otto milioni di persone - siamo tutti immigrati e viviamo di un limitato microcosmo di contatti sociali, e neppure abbiamo molti soldi. Aziendastrafica inc fa i milioni a palate, e così tutto questo casino lo guardiamo come un film in una lingua sconosciuta, in modo pecoreccio, senza capire; io registro a malapena le notizie, subito dimenticate, attraverso il flou del mio innamoramento, i fallimenti delle banche e gli ottovolanti dei mercati, come gocce di pioggia contro una finestra dai vetri smerigliati.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 11/10/08 at 10:34:45 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me, Life on Mars | | Leave a comment

You brought me courage
To keep my eyes open wide
To keep my arms open wide
You brought me courage
You bring me courage

My brand new alarm clocks plays mp3 and Shannon Wright's Dragonfly woke me up this morning. Then afterwards it played one of R. piano pieces, that remained with me for some hours, not unpleasantly.
Geez, I thought, this guy has another unfair advantage: even the alarm clock supports him. But that music is such a beauty, and it kept me company even without my ipod, left at home in a moment of distraction.

Stranded for half an hour on Finchley Road, arrived late and straight into a meeting.
Read the headlines with the American bank crack. Felt sad for them.
Perceived all this through a definitely-not-purple haze: I've got a cold.

He welcomes me with his usual lovely and loving manners.

"So, tell me, were you there?" he asks me.
"No, actually"
"Nor I. Too lazy."

We laugh.

I actually entertained for a while the idea of going there in order to bump into him casually (but then afterwards decided that the odds were completely against me and just stayed home): was he thinking the same?

I don't know.

I don't think so.

If a guy doesn't ask you out, he's simply not that much into you.

I remember clearly the last time I wanted a guy (that was a full seven years ago: I'm quite lazy in love matters): once I decided, I went straight to ring his bell at home, without even giving him a call before.
But not only that was another person in another world in another time: the man was literally aching for desire of me, and I knew that. Now, I don't even know if this smart Englishman wants to be my friend or if he's only curious about a relatively exotic gal that happens to sit at his side.

No, definitely I won't ask him out.

And then walking home I think at the fragile web of random acts of kindness that connects me and him. Silly kids we are.

When I was five or six I used to play with my cousin. He was maybe a couple of months older than me and looked much younger, but, surprisingly for a little boy, he was the serious one of us two. I was already mildly crazy and always ready for desasters, from which Carlo had regularly to rescue me - and he did that with the same tender blame that R. displays for my - many - coding errors, without impatience, without putting me down. He was reserved and serious, but after all he loved me, like you can love someone when you're six, without even thinking about it.

Our parents separates us when they found us playing doctor. For once it was Carlo's fault but I did quite enjoy it. I didn't really understand, and didn't feel any shame for that. It took me twenty years to suss it out. What a cruel thing to do to two six years old. We grew apart and I wouldn't probably even recognize him if I bumped into him now.

But that sensation of being a silly and happy kid, apparently is still accessible somewhat, somewhere in my mind, even if that courtyard in the Barca suburbia is so far away in time and space.

Then I remembered so clearly the taste of the pizza in the Ghirlandina pizzeria.
Then I remembered so clearly the smell of the dust in the scirocco days.
The smell of the rain on the sizzling hot pavement, in summer.

All these pieces of a whole that I will never see in its entirety. A tomboy that was zillions of years ago in a poor courtyard in Italy, today a dark-ish looking gal that thinks in broken English and works in a financial company and gazes at her desk neighboor, willing but incapable to explain her history and these confused feelings of tenderness. I wonder if I know her.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 15/09/08 at 08:34:51 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | Leave a comment

... mi scrisse dicendo che aveva bisogno di sentirmi.

Poi non si è fatto più vivo - avrà fatto senza. Ho provato una volta a chiamarlo, ma non c'era ed ho lasciato perdere.

E quindi? Mi rendo conto che non fa nessunissima differenza, il Signor M.M. è da tempo al disopra di meri concetti come assenza o presenza. Tanto tempo fa, mi capitava di rievocarlo in modo così vivido. Se l'avessi cercato, non gli sarebbe dispiaciuto bere un caffé od una birra insieme - ma non lo facevo perché non faceva differenza.

Ci sono persone che sono come dei marchi a fuoco sulla nostra povera buccia. Dopo un po' non fanno più male, ma non andranno mai via.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 26/02/08 at 07:35:17 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | 2 comments

Quest'anno va così.

Probabilmente uno di questi giorni mi inviterà a cena Jeff Goldblum ma fatalmente capiterà una di queste due cose:

- scivolerò su una buccia di banana, cadrò per terra ed in quel momento passerà di lì il trenino della festa dell'Unità investendomi. Me la caverò con danni limitati, ma una microfrattura alla mandibola mi impedirà di aprire la bocca per un paio di mesi, quindi di mangiare, dunque di accettare l'invito (cfr. la storia del grafico di questa primavera).

- senza connettere il cervello, gli risponderò "oh grazie, ma non posso accettare, questa sera esce il nuovo podcast di Photoshop TV con nuove drammatiche rivelazioni sulla versione CS3 e non me lo posso proprio perdere". Ovviamente pochi minuti dopo manderò un sms ad Andy dicendo "Ma sai che mi ha invitato a cena Jeff Goldblum? Comincio a pensare di essere proprio una gran figa! Però devo guardare Photoshop TV, peccato" e solo leggendo gli inevitabili insulti di risposta realizzerò di colpo che ho appena rifiutato e passerò il resto del mese piantando chiodi nel muro con la fronte (cfr. ieri).

Anche se, ad onor del vero, quest'anno ho anche rifiutato più inviti a cena che in tutto lo scorso millennio, semplicemente perché volevo farlo. Ma ne ho anche rifiutati per pura pigrizia mentale. Devono avermi scritto con il marker sulla schiena "aiutatemi che sono messa male", non si spiega altrimenti tutta questa foia collettiva di nutrirmi, già che sono pure ingrassata.

Watched kettle never boils. Se poi ti fai un punto d'onore di ignorarla, o scopri di non avere più té in casa, non hai idea di quanto ci metta poco a bollire. Si rimane anche senza colazione, però, così. Credo che il mio diritto di lamentarmi della mia solitudine sia decaduto già da diversi mesi, e che la Maschilità possa rivolgermi un collettivo "e allora vaffanculo, tu e la tua bicicletta!", ma infatti non mi lamento: sono solo, come dire, un po' perplessa.

Le scuse di Barbara Jacob
(delle quali si assicura la completa sincerità, purtroppo)

- devo purgare il gatto
- ho un brufolo in una posizione che mi rende difficoltoso stare seduta
- l'ultimo autobus passa alle undici
- devo finire di leggere la biografia degli Abba
- ho lasciato iTunes aperto con un loop infinito di tre pezzi dei Blonde Redhead, vorrei mai che i vicini chiamassero i pompieri
- mi imbarazza farmi vedere in pubblico con le sopracciglia così incolte
- a mezzanotte mi deve telefonare il coordinatore
- ho la IUD scaduta da sei mesi
- devo prendere un aereo.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 15/08/07 at 11:02:47 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | Leave a comment

Leggo regolarmente - per quanto lei lo irregolarmente aggiorni - il diario online di Mona Elliott, che è una cantante americana che non è esattamente famosissima, ma è brava e grazie ai miracoli di Pandora, quando funzionava ancora , io posso essere una delle sue fans anche se non passa alla radio e nemmeno ha un entry su wikipedia.

Scrive Mona la vita è troppo corta per preoccuparsi delle piccole cose... per la verità, nello stato in cui mi trovo, mi spingerei a dire che è troppo corta anche per preoccuparsi delle grandi cose.

Cavolo, ha ragione.
Profittiamo della saggezza degli altri prima di dover imparare noi the hard way.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 17/07/07 at 11:46:36 pm | randomly put in the category Web, Songs, There's someone in my head but it's not me | | Leave a comment

Dietro costruttivo suggerimento dal caro Andy, ho creato l'indirizzo di posta

vaffancul@kitsch-en.net

(ok, in realtà sul mio dominio personale, ma qui non lo posso scrivere) dove

- neo ex amanti che hanno deciso che sono una scassapalle
- neo ex clienti che hanno deciso che sono una scassapalle
- parenti ai quali per il quarto anno di seguito non ho fatto gli auguri di Natale e che sanno già che a Pasqua la darò ancora buca
- amici che si sono stancati di sentirsi dire "non posso, devo lavorare"

possono indirizzare le loro richieste di cancellazione dalla mia rubrica, dal mio cellulare e dai miei contatti di skype.

Da oggi basta tenere il muso, dare spiegazioni arzigogolate, affrontare telefonate drammatiche, riunioni da trituramento di coglioni! E' sufficiente mandare un'email a vaffancul@kitsch-en.net con soggetto UNSUBSCRIBE. La cancellazione avverrà al più presto, il tempo di smaltire la coda di richieste. Se temete di venire colti da improvvisi attacchi di nostalgia nei momenti immediatamente successivi, è disponibile ed ampiamente testata l'opzione UNSUBSCRIBE++, con la quale verrete blacklistati su skype, aggiunti alla lista dei dominii bloccati e messi in mode "suoneria silenziosa" sul cellulare.

Vi invito a farne uso... il risparmio di tempo ed energie mentali (mie) è garantito.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 02/04/07 at 07:48:03 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | Leave a comment

The surest way I know of to get a crushing blow to your heart is to tell a narcissist you love her or him.
(J.M. Ashmun)

Lady sings the blues so well
As if she means it
As if it's hell down here
In the smoke-filled world
Where the jokes are cold
They don't laugh at jokes
They laugh at tragedies.

......

And I have walked these streets so long
There ain't nothing right, there ain't nothing wrong
But the little wet tears on my baby's shoulder
The little wet tears on your baby's shoulder

Lady lights a cigarette, puffs away, no regret
Takes a look around, no regrets, no regrets
Stretches out like branches of a poplar tree
She says, i'm free
Sings so soft as if she'll break, says
I can sing this song so blue
That you will cry in spite of you
Little wet tears on your baby's shoulder
Little wet tears on your baby's shoulder

.....

But now it's time
To say goodbye
Some might laugh
But I will surely cry
Little wet tears on my baby's shoulder
Little wet tears on my baby's shoulder

Lady lights a cigarette
Puffs away, and winter comes, and she forgets.

(Regina Spektor, Lady)

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 19/03/07 at 01:48:58 am | randomly put in the category Songs, Citazioni, There's someone in my head but it's not me, Me | | Leave a comment

BJ nei panni di consulente marketing.

- Dieci euro!? Va bene, guarda - dico io tentando di spiegare i possibili motivi di una redemption oggettivamente bassa - per dieci euro ti faccio un pompino.
- Ok - dice il boss, impassibile.
- Una proposta così cheap non è interessante - proseguo io dopo l'adeguata pausa drammatica - di fronte ad un prezzo così stracciato non potresti che considerarla di poco valore, anche se si tratta di un servizio altamente qualificato: probabilmente ti interesserebbe di più se ne costasse cento. Questa è la prova che, se facciamo pubblicità, non dobbiamo mettere il prezzo. Soprattutto, non un prezzo estremamente economico, o rischiamo di essere presi sottogamba.
- Quello che dici ha senso - dice l'altro boss.
- Veramente io sono veramente interessato - ribatte lui senza battere ciglio.
- In relazione ad un prodotto di cui non conosci il valore, un prezzo basso è dequalificante, mentre uno alto fa pensare che esistano dei valori addizionali dei quali si ignora ancora l'estensione - mi impunto io.
- No, guarda - prosegue lui - forse l'esempio è improprio; al massimo, dati alla mano, hai dimostrato che il nostro prodotto è meno interessante di un pompino.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 10/03/07 at 09:04:23 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me, MadMarketing, Me, XXX | | 1 comment

L'ultima frontiera della divinazione: la spammomanzia.
Come funziona? Svuotate il vostro folder dello spam e ponete una domanda allo spammoracolo. Il soggetto del primo spam che troverete nel folder sarà la risposta alla vostra domanda.

Alcuni esempi miei, veri, che dimostrano che la spammomanzia è, perlomeno, di più facile interpretazione rispetto ai tarocchi o all'i-ching :)) .

Domanda: come si svilupperà il mio rapporto con una certa persona?
Risposta: Say “YES” to perfect sex!

Sembra una battuta facile: ma vi assicuro che è veramente il primo spam che mi è arrivato.

Domanda: avranno successo le iniziative di marketing che sto facendo?
Risposta: BB&T: account secure confirmation!

Questo era un phishing: il phishing è segno di nemici oscuri dai quali guardarsi. Però la presenza delle parole "secure" e "confirmation" sembra di buon auspicio. Questo fa pensare che malgrado qualche problema misterioso gli auspici siano buoni. LOL.

Provate anche voi. Buon divertimento con lo spammoracolo

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 27/02/07 at 11:06:47 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me | | Leave a comment

Come ben sapete, la vostra admin è un Vampiro Paranoico. Come dice il Libro dei Vampiri, il Vampiro Paranoico vede perfettamente il male negli altri anche quando è presente in quantità subatomica. Il Vampiro Paranoico è alienato - e preferisce gli animali alle persone - perché questa visione gli ripugna, e perché rompe il patto sociale che stabilisce certe cose non si debbano vedere: è già molto se riesce a non esprimere vocalmente il suo scontento. La versione "pura" (non sono io, ma ne ho conosciuto uno: siamo stati intensamente amici per dieci anni ed al primo dubbio ci siamo mandati a cagare in due minuti, per sempre) non riesce a fare a meno di cacciare a fondo i diti nelle piaghe.

Ad ogni modo, ci sono alcune persone delle quali il Vampiro si fida: vede la loro pagliuzza nell'occhio, ma per qualche inconscio motivo decide di fregarsene. Questo dice il Libro, ed in questa categoria ricade quasi tutta la mia famiglia apocrifa, cioé i miei amici.

Aggiungo io: ci sono alcune rare persone nelle quali non vedo nemmeno quella quantità subatomica. Incidentalmente, nessuna di esse (al momento me ne vengono in mente due: un mio caro amico che ho visto l'altra sera, e la barista dell'Astoria, l'anziana e - temo - ormai defunta Nella, ma suppongo che ce ne siano altre) sono stinchi di santi, eppure il mio Evil Detector non suona. Non è che abbiamo patti di non belligeranza, anzi, a volte ho avuto dei conflitti con loro: no, lo vedo chiaramente, sono chiaramente innocenti.

Sono persone che capisco bene, a volte oscure ma mai indecifrabili: potrebbero fare qualsiasi cosa, ma in qualche modo, rimangono in una specie di odor di santità. Non vedo come qualcuno potrebbe giudicarli: infatti sono amati od odiati, ma raramente giudicati. C'è una purezza nel loro carattere che li sottrae al giudizio: guardate nell'occhio tondo di un cavallo, e vedrete lo stesso grado di malizia, cioé nil, zilch, nada (detta così non sembra un complimento, ma lo è...). Vanno così nel mondo, sguarniti di ogni compromesso che li comprometta davvero - sembrano sempre navi periclitanti, ma li ho sempre visti stare a galla.

Per quanto la mia idea vi sembrerà senza dubbio arrogante - lo è -, mi fa pensare che se esiste davvero la possibilità di applicare un giudizio morale alle persone (non sono nemmeno sicura che sia possibile), esso non sia legato alle loro azioni, ma ad una specie di predestinazione: si nasce e si cresce buoni o cattivi, innocenti o marci. Per la verità, a me i giudizi morali non interessano proprio: mi piace guardare queste persone per un motivo estetico. Vederle muoversi nel mondo e combinare i loro più o meno funzionanti pasticci equivale a guardare nell'occhio tondo, cieco e trasparente della Bellezza.

Proudly broadcasted by barbara_jacob starting from 16/02/07 at 11:47:14 pm | randomly put in the category There's someone in my head but it's not me | | Leave a comment