Pro Wrestling is REAL, people are FAKE!

Lembro-me do dia em que tudo começou. O primeiro lock-up, o primeiro irish whip, o primeiro headlock, o primeiro pin. Lembro-me daquela tarde de quarta-feira, a primeira de muitas quartas-feiras daquelas. O início da ENW. No início era só o Venom e o Kandertaker X. Trabalhando todos os dias para preparar aquela a tarde de quarta-feira seguinte. A pouco e pouco, o culto aumentou. Ficámos a conhecer o Martini Man e o Matos Xtreme, as novas aquisições no nosso plantel. Agora éramos quatro. Gastámos horas da nossa vida, cansámo-nos e arriscámo-nos pelo wrestling. Ainda hoje tenho marcas de uma dessas tardes. Dois dentes rachados contam a história de um sleeper hold, as minhas costas contam a história de uma senton bomb, e a minha mente conta a história de 3 anos de wrestling. A chama que ardia dentro de nós era suficiente para incendiar uma floresta. Aquilo não era um hobby, era uma paixão. Até que um dia, tudo acabou. Por motivos de força maior, fomos obrigados a deixar a ENW para trás. Mas a chama nunca se apagou. Continua aqui, dentro de mim e, espero bem, dentro deles também. Isto é dedicado a todos os que contribuíram para que a ENW acontecesse.

André Matos (Matos Xtreme)
Miguel Guerreiro (Kandertaker X)
Pedro Monteiro (Martini Man)

MUITO OBRIGADO!

Miserable

You leave home every day, go through the same path to go to school or work... every day. You do it so many times you don't even think about it. You don't ask yourself "which was am I gonna go today?", you just do it, that's it. But you go through different people every day. I know it because it also happens to me. Sometimes, you leave home really angry, you're having some problems and/or you had a rough night, rolling over in your bed all night long, facing the annoying inability to sleep. Insomnia, that's what the general public calls it. As I was saying, you have insomnias, leave home angry and see all the people smiling, demonstrating confidence and happiness. You just wanna snap those fucking little necks and ruin those (already) miserable, routine lives. You feel bad because you can't. If you did it, you would ruin your own life too, you would feel more miserable than you already are and worse, you would get ass-fucked by a bunch of 7-foot faggots in prison. Is that really the life you want? No, it is not, so you let go and continue angry. You go to your school/job, and, you know it, there's always someone you want to assassinate in a brutal, violent, almost psychotic way. As you read this, you're probably denying all I said. Well, you just can go fuck yourself, because you know all I said it's true. Continuing, you find this person you want to kill, he/she pisses you off. And there's nothing you can fucking do about it. So, once again, you do nothing, because you fear all I said above. Yeah, 7-foot ass-raping motherfuckers. And you let go. You let the hate that lives inside you emerge. In the end of the day, you ho home. Your mom says "hello", you say "fuck off!" all lock yourself in your bedroom. You lay on your bed, get really depressed and angry, break down, and finally, start to cry. You feel so empty. You realize your life is so miserable that you no longer have fun, even when you do. You're just angry, 24/7. So you want to forget this feeling that is making you sad. You pick up your wallet and keys, leave home again. You go to the supermarket and buy, let's say... a bottle of vodka. You sit on the ground, you drink it, and you cry. Oh yeah, you're drunk, bitch. But you still can't eliminate that annoying, stupid feeling that you have inside. You slowly get up, go back to the supermarket, buy another bottle. You sit on the ground, you drink it, and you pass out. Oh yeah, you got REALLY drunk. You wake up in the next morning, completely naked, feeling heavy and hungover. Oh, and you got sunburns all over your naked torso. You look kinda orange. Your head aches, so does your entire body. You touch it and you feel that excruciating burn. You scream. Your body is burning so much you don't even dare to move. So you can't get up. And there you are, completely naked, exposed to the world, with orange skin and two bottles of vodka beside you. Some people laugh at you, some just close their eyes, they don't wanna see you, you look... fucking bad. As the time passes, you're still there, the sun is still burning your skin, and guess what? You feel even more empty and angry. All because of a fucking insomnia. You're a fucking miserable piece of shit.

40 anos depois...

Faz hoje 40 anos que faleceu um dos mais emblemáticos guitarristas de sempre. Falo, claro, do homem que é descrito por muitos como o melhor guitarrista do mundo, Jimi Hendrix.

R.I.P

Não me apeteceu pôr um título nisto, mas é romântico.

She's the only colour I can see, the only flavor I can taste
She's the only voice I hear when I'm feeling left to waste
She took over my mind, occupied my lonely heart
When she is not with me I feel strung out and torn apart

She brings me happiness and peace, puts a smile in my face
She is my beautiful angel, that girl is fallen from grace
She changed my life forever, I wish she was right here
I'm addicted to that girl, without her I live in fear

Ano Novo, Vida Nova (to my hardcore family!)

Assim começa uma nova fase da minha vida. Escola nova, vida nova. Conheço caras novas, passo bons momentos com elas. Divirto-me. Revejo também muitas caras conhecidas, reencontro-me com essas pessoas. Relembro todos os momentos bons que passei com elas e deixo para trás o que eventualmente poderia ter corrido mal. Chego a casa, depois de mais um dia em cheio. Sento-me, escrevo. Liberto o pensamento positivo que paira em meu redor. No fim do dia, estou cansado, mas feliz... E ainda estou no início de mais um ano lectivo que promete ser absolutamente espectacular.

Dedicado à minha "hardcore family" do Camões.

Bother

Wish I was too dead to cry
My self-affliction fades
Stones to throw at my creator
Masochists to which I cater
You don't need to bother;
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on,
I won't let go 'til it bleeds

Wish I was too dead to care
If indeed I cared at all
Never had a voice to protest
So you fed me shit to digest
I wish I had a reason;
my flaws are open season
For this, I gave up trying
One good turn deserves my dying

You don't need to bother;
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on,
I won't let go 'til it bleeds

Wish I'd died instead of lived
A zombie hides my face
Shell forgotten
with its memories
Diaries left
with cryptic entries

And you don't need to bother;
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on,
I won't let go 'til it bleeds

You don't need to bother;
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on:
I'll never live down my deceit

Fuck you!

Yeah, fuck you, too. Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it. Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car - get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN! Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped-up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gekko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for FUCKING LIFE! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Worldcom! Fuck the Puerto Ricans. Twenty to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good. Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions, swinging their Jason Giambi Louisville Slugger baseball bats, trying to audition for "The Sopranos." Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermès scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take five steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on! Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus-violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck J.C.! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, J.! Fuck Osama Bin Laden, al-Qaeda, and backward-ass cave-dwelling fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fuel fire in hell. You towel-headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish ass! Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row-houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue, from the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park Slope to the split-levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it, let the fires rage, let it burn to fucking ash and then let the waters rise and submerge this whole rat-infested place. No. No, fuck you, Izzy Payne. You had it all, and you threw it away, you DUMB FUCK!

Guns N' Roses - 6 de Outubro!

EU VOU!

Prisoner of Your Love

"My heart fell into the palms of your hands
This love made me understand
I've waited all my life for you
Thought i'd live and die alone
Enraptured by the beauty
I'm a prisoner of your love
Enslaved by the passion
I'm a prisoner of your love
I'm wrapped around your finger
Like the ring on your hand
I'm trapped by your love"
- Yngwie Malmsteen, Prisioner of Your Love

Voices

Cheguei a casa, triste e cansado, após mais um dia igual aos outros. A minha vida continuava a mesma merda de sempre. Atirei-me para cima da cama, fecho os olhos e... Raios, lá estava aquela voz na minha cabeça outra vez.

"Olha para ti, és patético. Estás em baixo, sabes disso. E não fazes nada para melhorar isso. Dizes que a tua luta acabou, mas por dentro ela continua. Desististe da batalha, mas sabes que isso te incomoda. És um fraco, um triste. Nunca vais ser ninguém na vida com essa atitude."

Estas palavras começavam a fazer sentido na minha cabeça. A minha pulsação acelerava cada vez mais, assim como a minha vontade de lutar de novo. Fazer uma última tentativa de matar os meus demónios e finalmente ser feliz. Aquela voz continuava a falar...

"Abre os olhos, sai dessa cama. Vai à luta mais uma vez. Eu sinto que tu o queres, e à medida que eu falo, a tua vontade de lutar aumenta cada vez mais. Não estás farto desse sentimento de culpa que existe dentro de ti? Eu sei que estás! Levanta-te e LUTA!"

E assim foi. A minha pulsação não podia pulsar mais rápido. Tinha um pequeno sorriso na cara, tinha a sensação que era neste dia que iria resolver todos os meus problemas de uma vez por todas. Tirei a minha pequena e velha espada do armário. Limpei-a pois estava cheio de pó. Estava à espera que os demónios que me infernizam a vida todos os dias viessem, para os eliminar de uma vez por todas. E quanto mais esperava, mais força ganhava, mais vontade tinha. Até que eles apareceram, rodeando-me por todos os lados. Atacavam-me vezes e vezes sem conta, mas eu nem sentia. Aí ganhei a certeza que esta luta iria acabar nesse dia. Com todas as minhas forças, ergui a espada e passei ao ataque. Eliminei todos os demónios, um por um, deixando os seus corpos repletos de sangue. Os demónios que me rodeavam estavam deitados no campo de batalha, sem respiração. Acabou tudo, eu era livre. A poeira assentou, e eu, com um sorriso enorme na cara, espetei a espada num dos demónios que se encontrava estendido no chão e fui-me embora. Tinha atingido a felicidade. Agora nada me podia parar. E agora, aqui estou eu, sentado a escrever este post, com o mesmo sorriso que tinha quando assisti à queda de todos os meus demónios.

The Return

Estou de volta. Feliz, completo, e livre de problemas. Mas deixemo-nos de coisas lamechas. Só vim aqui para dizer que o Slave to the Grind dos Skid Row é um grande álbum! E que agora vou tomar banho, vestir-me e tomar uma bela refeição de fast-food no McDonald's. YEY!