There are, somewhere around, some endearing hominid animals. They like thinking they will shoot themselves to the sky anytime, in a pair of angel wings, cause they’re special… (free adaptation to some ideas by Vylanur Ramachandra, neurologist physician, in one of the 2003 Reith Lectures he lead, don’t remember which one).
All of them write tales… Unknowingly. They begin their mornings writing such plots in front of the mirror. Trying to convince themselves, TODAY is the day. Today, something GREAT is bound to happen. Cool, original, unexpected, unbelievable. Fuc$#34_ great.
The extraordinary happens every blue moon. However, in the meanwhile, we look back at the past, knead some memories and make a singular dough where all of them make sense explaining our decisions and wantings… Despite sensibility, chronology or time length; for our mind will assign value to memories not because of their real value but emphasizing what WE care about and the way we cared about it to explain why and where we stand. I did this and was here. I didn’t do that and wasn’t there. These memories give us a sense of origin affirmation.
The next thing is to plan the day. Talk to the boss for the raise or tell Rosy she has the most kissable lips a fubu might wish for (earning the consequential smack since Rosy has no idea we adore fubu). In the mean time, life makes us trip over or pushes us downhill.
We tell each other the stories of our lives drinking coffee or tea or soaking our biscuit in milk. We use any memorable happening to make sense and and give meaning to our being. Where and when were we born? Who conceived us? How did MY story begin?
I am Merriam and I was born in 19~~, so as a millennial, I have seen black and white bulb tellies changing into flat smartphones and have adapted into writing in its notes. And back then, when I wrote the original entry in Spanish I was about to write the 1~~ something pages of a first novel for the second time. Today I’ve rewritten it five times and I’m struggling with the second one for its complications go beyond my meager means.
We imagine the future to know what we wish and how to get it. Our singular private tale is an everyday renovation of those tiny miny collected memories till it makes sense. Much stranger than plans happening the way we thought them; it is to realize we have wasted time and effort. Nuval Yoah Harari (historian, author of Homo Deus) says we tend to utter: «It wasn’t in vain». We like completing a beach ball we can play with, not filling it with unpurposed holes of anguish telling us we let life go away.
Thus, the best sequel in every movie or book collection we might store is not Rocky X. It is the one we make Thanksgiving day about to get a broken tooth cause the vegan one of the family didn’t clean the organic beans enough . Maybe it happens this Yuletide, after Rosy dumped us or surviving the corona. Has anyone told you their life story was boring or stupid. They won’t. To them, life might get a 7 out of 10. Yet, they will tell you the +8s and -5s moments. Truth is they have good ones. They have told them over and over again. Those who have told their own story once or twice end up with a boring life story, instead of piglet in tamarindo sauce. Of course we mind end up watching the tenth thousand times of the same movie and we might move on to tuna salad and veggies again.
WE ALL WRITE PLOTS. The difference? Awareness.
Would you like to contribute to my life plot with a nice comment? Maybe some love in like shape?
 Chingón in the original, so if you have ever tried Spanish, you know the word exceeds fu$#3&& great in meaning.
 In Mexico we might soak bread.
 This is dramatizen. Tough I am a millennial, according to the Wikipedia, the idea never went through my head. None of my friends or I would like have give a sheep’s manure about being catalogued as this or that generation. It was very recently I discovered I belong to the category… As show off people say: «buy a box and get yourself in it».
 Mind that in Mexico as in everywhere, technology goes around as hand downs.
 In the original entry, this happens January 6th, with the Three wise kings’ round cake.
 And please don’t ask this to someone in the middle of depression or to those who suffer chronic depression. It is not their fault their brains can’t produce the required chemicals to feel life is a 7.
 All right, pick something vegan and yummy if you might but don’t try to convince me to become vegetarian for I won’t try to convince you of the opposite. And no, don’t try giving me that argument. Meat tastes different than soja. Yes, I’m against animals being poached. I’m not ok with animals being murdered to be eaten either but I pretend ignorance and yes, I’m a murderer or accomplice because of it.