nom nom nom.

this is what i ate for dinner last night. i’m not proud of it, but it happened. and it happened something serious, like a brick, like a delicious bundle of artery clogging joy. it’s called a “francesinha”, and is the token dish of porto. you can order it everywhere, and likely for under 4 euro. it’s as common as goddamn water…or mcdonald’s (which yago refers to as my “embassy”). as if being american isn’t embarrassing enough. anyways, this little number comes in the form of two giant slices of white bread filled with ham, chourico & steak, is smothered in cheese and drenched in a white-wine gravy. it usually comes with a mountain of french fries, but i figured i’d opt for the “diet” version. holy heart-attack batman; i can hear my ass growing. do you know what that sounds like?

but for serious, gorging on bread sopped with gravy is a nice change of pace for me. to be perfectly frank, i feel like i’ve been starving to death since i arrived in portugal. it’s been like fat camp, only minus archery and plus gypsies. all my blouses look like maternity-wear anyhow, so it’s unlikely that my adoptive family would take any notice. it’s probably their conspiratorial plan to make me more attractive, more european. yago’s mother must be 100 pounds soaking wet, and his sister too. and here is the american girlfriend, drooling over the second helpings she will not consume. oh no mr. & mrs. de quay, i swear, i’m really full. my two square inches of fish were incredibly filling, i mean it, i musn’t.

what have i learned? being consistently hungry can make a person rather unpleasant. and by “rather unpleasant”, i mean “god awful.” just imagine your worst PMS, times it by ten, and add a generous dash of fatigue. what you’ve got is a really fun time and sister insisting via skype that she express mail you costco granola bars. fiber one, she insists, your favorite. good times.

so to you, francesinha, i salute you. SHAH-WING!

thank you, my dear ashley

"To the Young Who Want to Die" by Gwendolyn Brooks

Sit down. Inhale. Exhale.
The gun will wait. The lake will wait.
The tall gall in the small seductive vial
will wait will wait:
will wait a week: will wait through April.
You do not have to die this certain day.
Death will abide, will pamper your postponement.
I assure you death will wait. Death has
a lot of time. Death can
attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is
just down the street; is most obliging neighbor;
can meet you any moment.
You need not die today.
Stay here — through pout or pain or peskyness.
Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow.

Graves grow no green that you can use.
Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

why my boyfriend shouldn't sell things on craig's list

Unused Ionizer Humidifier with Air Purifier- $30 (Cambridge)


I'm leaving the country and I need to get rid of it. I used a few times and it works great! It's not only a humidifier with bear ears but it also purifies the air. The blue tank has a special antibacterial coating that prevents moss.

Email me or call me (Yago) at 617-901-9061





Fish Bowl Set- $15 (Cambridge)

My fish died an I'm leaving the country. Includes:

- Fish Bowl

- Assorted color decorative pebbles

- Decorative Conch Shell & Vegetation

- Fizzy cleansing packet

All that your fish needs to have a healthy start : )

Email me or contact me (Yago) at 617-901-9061

good riddance

fourteen months at my place of employment and all i have to show for it is blood so rich in vitamin A it could cure cancer. yes, copious boxes of free, fresh, organic produce was an undeniably good thing. the amount of kale & collard greens i have consumed over the last year is frightening...especially when visualized en masse...but i digress. my brain has gone to shits. what with the data entry, customer billing, receiving phone calls from the affluent and lazy all day in regards to their soft tomatoes and moldy stone fruits. here's an idea mrs. beacon hill- how about you walk the 50 meters to your nearest grocery store and quit your whining? truly. sincerely. this was my life. i love that word, was.


boss: so christina, i won't be in on friday...i'm having a ehh em ehh...a minor surgery.
me: (feigning concern) oh really?
boss: ehh...yeah...ehh, it's not a big deal...i just won't be able to have kids afterward.

"no-jeff-thursdays" were undeniably the most bearable. our time was spent mocking said boss, google image searching to our hearts' content, and sharing our discoveries via gmail chat. who knew there was such a cornucopia of cyber gems to be unearthed? i'm talking sites devoted to creepy mascot costumes, fake poop & poop plaques (black holes for general pre-pubescent potty humor), and even worldwide beard & moustache achievements. ahh, when i look back at this time in my life in attempts to salvage some thing, any thing...well, at least i'll have this:



my life will also *thank you baby dinosaur jesus* finally be devoid of the co-worker who spent so many months successfully spleening me. if he wasn't insisting that i go rollerblading with him along the charles, he was pressuring me to "get my girlfriends together" so that he could take us to foxwoods casino. while the image of a 35 year old italian american, born and bred in "mehdfehd" mass and still living with his mother, clad in a dirty wife beater, adorned in gold medallions caught amidst a jungle of chest hair, and sweatily gliding down memorial drive is ever so irresistible, all i can say is "phew." and as a delightful exclamation at the end of this disappointing story, i leave you the special man in all his guido glory. garth; that was a haiku.

happy shmappy

"the atlantic" magazine published an article this summer entitled "what makes us happy?" it is an in-depth analysis of psychiatrist george vaillant's longitudinal study which thoroughly tracked the lives of 268 male harvard students over the course of 72 years, beginning in the late 1930s. vaillant and his loyal study crew committed themselves to the tedious (and oft times, just-barely-funded) project in hopes of discovering the secrets to living a life of fulfillment & happiness; essentially, a life devoid of regrets.

as the subjects of this study were carefully chosen to include a group of seemingly "normal" and promising young men, some of the results proved somewhat surprising. following them throughout the trials and tribulations of career, love & marriage, divorce, substance abuse, mental illness, death, etc., vaillant seems to have concluded that the grade of happiness one achieves in life is greatly dependent not on the amount or severity of obstacles one endures, but rather, the level of maturity one utilizes in coping with these challenges. what resonates with me is something else. the author of the article, joshua shenk, states:

"depression turned out to be a major drain on physical health: of the men who were diagnosed with depression by age 50, more than 70 percent had died or were chronically ill by 63. More broadly, pessimists seemed to suffer physically in comparison with optimists, perhaps because they're less likely to connect with others or care for themselves."

while this mighty little fear has undoubtedly been lurking in the blurry recesses of my brain for some time now, reading it with such clarity is something else. i am so terribly screwed. and here i am thinking my pessimism but a charming quirk.

while the notion of my future as an agoraphobic, delusional, ill-kempt cat lady ala "grey gardens" seems strangely appealing (twisted, i know), i am nevertheless very concerned. i've thus far been exceedingly successful at making myself physically ill with worry and stress; a tragic demise in this vein doesn't seem like much of a stretch. and depression? never heard of it. the article also touches on the idea that positive emotions, or essentially "feeling" the happiness, in actuality makes us more vulnerable than experiencing the negative ones because they are future-oriented and thus put us at emotional risk. the immediate payoffs of fear and sadness, which i know all too well, are tempting. even now as i find myself perfectly content with what life has dealt me, i feel myself yearning for that cocoon, that hazy warm shell of protected bliss.

every gray afternoon in the winter of 2007, my friend john would spare me the horrors of hyde park and drive me to the nearest train from work. there is my down coat, having become somewhat of a second skin for the endless days of frigid temperatures. i imagine myself burning it in a garbage can once summer strikes, and dancing around the flames triumphantly. he shivers and reaches for black leather gloves in the back seat, first rubbing his hands together and intermittently pausing to blow warm gusts of breath. he looks miserable. he explains his misery. i am miserable. i explain mine. we moan in exasperated roars, in unison, in retort. it is still only january, we whine. only february, only march...and each and every day feels not the slightest bit closer to feeling human again, to feeling anything at all. in his stuffy little car we are safely insulated by our commiseration. we will pity ourselves while listening to nick cave and talk about how there wouldn't be art if it weren't for just this. "you know we enjoy this, in our own sick way" he says, and i can not disagree. this is our place, our time. there is ice. and until we thaw our weary bones we will be cold together, worrying only about what mishaps might occur during the short walk from subway to couch.