Rewrite your future... before the ink runs out.
September 19, 2025
Am I a failed writer?
One day my mother told me I’d be a disaster at whatever I tried. If I were a soccer player, I’d score an own goal; if I were a boxer, I’d take a knockout that would fry my brain and turn me into a vegetable.
When I said I wanted to be a writer — a novelist, to be precise — she laughed in my face and said I’d only be good for writing obituaries. I was twenty back then; even so, I cried like a snot-nosed kid. But not in front of her — wouldn’t give her that little victory. I cried in the movie theater: multiple sessions in the dark until I accepted the failure my mother had so elegantly placed into my life.
I know that the lack of encouragement from someone so close could fuel someone to chase repressed, unreachable dreams even harder, but I work the opposite way. The more they push me down, the deeper I sink. But let’s be clear: I’m not depressed — not yet. I’m just resigned to my defeat.
I’m thirty now and I’ve published two books. Should that make me proud? Maybe. But no. Both books failed as spectacularly as I did. The first came out five years ago and is called “I Found Little Strawberries on the Path to My Good”. It’s an upbeat, motivational story about a wandering girl who has memorable encounters while searching for happiness across the world, but it didn’t connect with readers — if there were any (it was released for free and I still haven’t gotten any feedback). My second book, published three years ago, is called “Burning Sensations”: a collection of erotic short stories I released with my last savings and a bout of insanity. Guess what: colossal failure.
That’s why I’ve made peace with it. I don’t have thousands of blind followers, nor dumb sponsors to bankroll me, nor a fancy vocabulary (you’ve probably noticed I gave you nothing specific — not my looks, not where I am; I didn’t use “gourmet” words and I didn’t help you imagine much).
But one thing’s for sure: my mother was right.
And just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I started to become certain, you know?
By the way, which of these two books of mine would you like more? I never asked you that… though I can already guess what you’ll say.
I’d love something refreshing to cool me down.
Oh, and after I was approached by a weird Seer leaving the club Sabor do Oriente, I gained the superpower to shape the future. So here I am, eating a vanilla ice cream to cool off. And it was free — at least that’s what the ice-cream guy who appeared out of nowhere said; he claimed it was on the house (I have no idea which house he meant, and I didn’t bother to ask). But the ice cream is delicious and refreshing. Then the Seer jabbed me with a fountain pen and handed it to me, saying that anything I wrote with it would become real in a few minutes. I didn’t believe her — after I took the pen from her, she ran crazily down the street yelling, “YOU’RE SCREWED, SUCKER! HA HA HA HA HA.” I thought she was a charlatan (she wore a ridiculously silly pair of glasses).
Anyway, when I got home I decided to test the free pen. Oh, right: the fake Seer also said I’d need to write “camouflaged words” — and it also wouldn’t work if I wrote nonsense (to test that I wrote that I’d love a flying unicorn in my house; moments later someone knocked and handed me a My Little Pony plush unicorn. At least it was Rainbow Dash — I love her).
That day I wrote so much I got dizzy, almost fainted. But as soon as I stopped writing, everything happened. I was deported to Hawaii, shoved into a military plane with Shakira dancing “Waka Waka” right in front of me. What happened after that? I’d rather not tell you now, but it could easily be material for one of my published books.
Now I’m sleepy, so I hope you read what I’ve written so far and don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.
September 20, 2025
I’d love something delicious to put out my fire.
And you were right, baby. Today I was visited by two well-endowed guys who satisfied me. We did so many crazy things in the Hawaiian sunshine that I lost my breath. And here’s a truth your lovely mother might agree with: your erotic stories are awful — but if you want, I can tell you about what happened today.
September 20, 2025
What the hell did you do, you slut? I woke up in a foam-filled bathtub, completely roasted. The middle of my butt is still throbbing and the two guys are asleep in a huge bed that I have no idea where it came from! I can’t believe you let them shove those elephant trunks into my emergency exit. Is that the kind of thing you want the future to give you? Man, I regret talking about that charlatan Seer. I thought maybe we could finally understand each other.
September 22, 2025
I’d like to find again the person who gifted me the future.
You’re clever, huh. You already met the Seer. Hiding what you write won’t help: we share the same space and, in one way or another, the truth comes out. The Seer said you’ve already met her twice — many of the questions I asked were repeats. She got hysterical, yelling for us to make up our minds. I asked why she gave away the fountain pen that writes the future and do you know what she said? This: “This question again? Oh, I knew you’d drive me crazy. Fine, I’ll say it one more time: this pen doesn’t write the future, it just absorbs your blood and writes the future with it. So it’s your blood that writes the future. You could cut your finger and write on the wall with your blood and it’d be the same. I only gave the pen away because I didn’t want to throw it out.”
And she said something else (which you probably already know): “You two are two sides of the same coin, you share the indivisible. Past and present together shape the future with blood. But the body will produce less and less blood. That is, the source will dry up if you don’t use it wisely. HA HA HA HA.”
Then she ran off.
September 23, 2025
I’d like to have hot milk for breakfast.
I know what she said, and I don’t care. I’ll use this superpower to satisfy every desire of mine. And don’t try to convince me otherwise: I feel weaker too, but you already know my real situation. So enjoy it while you still breathe, darling. Your life is a mess anyway.
I’d like a fresh sushi as an appetizer.
Asian meat is the best. You should try it.
September 24, 2025
Alright. You’re already dead, I know. You’re the past that won’t let me live the present and now you’re ruining the future we could shape while there’s still blood in our veins. Let it be on record: I said our veins. You’re dead, but every time I sleep, you control my body when I wake, and then when you sleep, I take control again when I wake. No one knows what the other does. It might not be the best arrangement, but it’s our chance to forget life’s (and death’s) frustrations and chase a sliver of happiness. I couldn’t stand being tormented by — I don’t know — a mocking spirit every time I lost consciousness. But I feel there must be some reason we share the same body. I’ve learned to like you; I wish you’d try to like me.
To me, you’re alive. More alive than I am.
September 28, 2025
You’re such a crybaby. A lonely guy whose best friend is a spirit. Anyone in your situation could write a bestseller and spend the rest of their life holed up in a cabin in the woods until they die of tuberculosis.
October 1, 2025
It’d be easier if something like in the movie "I Spit on Your Grave" happened.
Anyway, I woke up tired today; I couldn’t even get out of bed. I thought you’d overdid the debauchery and found an orgy with elephant trunks, but… I found something worse. Burned pages. Pages with writing you tried to hide, though under the living room couch I found a scorched scrap that was still legible. I won’t repeat what you wrote — I don’t blame you for trying to get rid of me. And, to be honest, I tried to get rid of you many, many times in the past. But, like the charlatan Seer said, you have to want it from the bottom of your soul.
I don’t know if we share the same soul — maybe we don’t. But I’m tired. Very tired.
October 5, 2025
Why are you so quiet? Well, it seems you’ve kept your mouth shut all this time — what an unexpected improvement. I’m much healthier now. I’m also much more aware. You were right: my life is a mess. I was just kicked out of Hawaii because I couldn’t pay for lodging. Guess where I am now? In the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Or is it the Indian Ocean? Man, I should know the difference. What kind of writer am I? And what if I needed to set a novel in Hawaii? Ah, nobody would read it anyway. So if you wake up in the middle of the ocean (no idea which one) on a fishing boat older than Methuselah, don’t be scared.
October 20, 2025
I don’t know what you’ve been doing the last few days, but you seem better behaved — which is strange (although I have a weird taste in my mouth and the middle of my butt still burns a little). I won’t focus on that now. I’m at an inn in Mexico, facing the sea. The waiter wouldn’t stop winking at me while I was at the bar. But that made me reflect on the future. So I made a decision: I threw the pen away.
October 21, 2025
Smart move. Now I’ll have to mutilate your body to rewrite the future. Get ready for a lot of scars. I could rewrite the future to get a new blood-sucking pen, but I think it’ll be fun to violate your body in other ways. What do you think of sadomasochism?
I’d love to surf the waves and feel the breeze on my face.
Who would’ve thought the future held so many pleasures. Well, I’m satisfied. Are you getting anemic? You’re weaker. Much weaker. Want some news? I don’t care. What do you want from the future now, baby?
October 23, 2025
I want my body to carry the scars of a happiness I’ll never have in my soul.
October 24, 2025
How tacky. Then go fuck yourself, you phony novelist.
By the way, don’t talk to me anymore.
November 20, 2025
What did you do, failed writer? There’s a new scar on your body.
November 21, 2025
I met the Seer and asked about my future.
November 22, 2025
You what? I can’t believe you tore your hideous skin just to meet the Seer and ask something so ridiculous.
What did she say?
November 23, 2025
She said we’re made for each other. She shouted to the four winds that the lid fit the pot perfectly and it would be that way until it rusted. Then she ran off hysterically through the street (still wearing those ridiculous glasses).
Oh, and I didn’t throw the fountain pen away. I hid it in a Swiss bank vault; the address is tucked in my wallet.
November 25, 2025
I was tired of rewriting the future with bloodied fingers anyway. The fountain pen is way cooler — it writes more smoothly and precisely. Right, chopstick?
November 26, 2025
Yes.
By the way, you have lovely handwriting.
November 27, 2025
Shut up, you crybaby.
