You were the woman of my life

Jú, if you are reading this letter, it means that I have just gone from this one to a much worse one, after all, I doubt that there is whiskey, Nutella, Netflix, coxinha with “catupa”, rock and roll of responsa and good quality marijuana there. sky. At most, a food truck, some Mexican palettes, someone trying to push magazine subscriptions and an Avon store, that’s my bet. In fact, since this conversation has everything to be frank, I repeat what I said to you when we were still married: I doubt there is a heaven and all that blah blah blah you claimed to believe. But let’s not argue about it, okay? In fact, even if you want to – as you always insisted! –, you can no longer send me to the bitch who gave birth to me (your ex-mother-in-law), because I really died, I’m not kidding. The cat fell off the roof and stomped its boots. “Here lies more Zé, who died without the right to a nightcap”, will be written on my tombstone.

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I write from the place I hate the most in the entire galaxy (even more than Poupatempo and that infinite shoe store where you made me wait millennia for your indecision). I’m here because of some nasty tantrums I’ve been having in my figueiredo. And the doctor, with all the delicacy in the world and using only technical terms, informed me that I’m more fucked than a nymphomaniac porn actress pepe. Yeah, I’m on the clown’s lap – and, looking at it from here, it doesn’t look like Patati’s lap, who’s nice and doesn’t snort cocaine like Bozo.

I bet you, at this moment, in addition to having already started taking those long breaths – a technique you use when you want to put off crying -, you must be dying to throw the truth in my face, to tell me: “Well done, Zé Edward. Well done, you piece of shit! What else could happen to someone who takes the glass even to the shower? Huh? And I still had the courage to say ‘Relax, Juzinha. Take it easy!’ when I said you were killing yourself dose by dose, drunk by drunk.” But it’s not worth fighting a dead man, do you think? Unless I become one walking Dead, huh? Then you have every right to blow my head off. Talking about walking Dead, I’m pissed: according to what the doctor hinted with that look of “you’re in the shit”, I think I’m going to leave even before the end of the last season of the series. Guess I better not start anything too long, you know? I’m just going to finish Big Brother and that’s it, mission accomplished. I’ve seen shit in this life. Only by lost and dexter, I must already have a thousand hours on my back. Anyway, soon it will be my end.

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Can you believe I’m leaving before Keith Richards from the carriage floor? Better for humanity, which will lose much less. Or will you dare tell me that I, from the day I came out of the womb until today, have done something so memorable when the riff of satisfaction? I didn’t even come close, that’s the truth. I wrote some cool books, I know. However, for the rest, I just screwed up. Shit after shit. And it’s because of one of the countless shits I’ve done – the biggest of them – that I decided to write this letter. It’s not that the horrible Wi-Fi in this hospital hasn’t had some influence on my decision; but I write mainly to confess a discovery I made some time ago and which, unfortunately, I never had the courage to admit to you: you were the woman of my life. And it will continue to be. Unless the night nurse appears in her panties à la Paolla Oliveira, introduce me to orgasmic techniques of pompoarism and, after I’ve rolled my eyes, allow me to eat a pepperoni pizza, let me smoke a pack of chest pops and that I drink about twelve cans. Or twenty. No, not even like that… You were the woman of my life, without a doubt. And I’m not saying this because of your sleeping pills, the blowjobs tuned with Black Halls or the shantalas you used to make my tummy to relieve my post-rotation cramps. Not just for that, better said.

You were the woman of a life full of women (more even than the life of Martinho da Vila, I suppose). And I, stupid like most men, exchanged him for a rounder ass, which was soon exchanged for an even rounder one, which, believe it or not, was also exchanged for a rounder ass; and so, from buttock to buttock, I was feeling emptier every day, especially after I emptied the bag and was taken by an immense nostalgia for the philosophical conversations we had after having sex. Remember? I’d love to throw all my skepticism on you, still naked and heart pounding from your recent orgasm. I did it on purpose, I don’t deny it. That bunch of “don’t travel” said just to see you get pissed at my disbelief in everything and everyone. And you stayed. Not only a bitch, but she also looked beautiful with that angry face, knowing that she would never be able to convince me or, at least, make me admit that the existence of a life after this one is possible, although unlikely. It is possible, now I admit it. And I’m not letting you breathe a sigh of relief and, finally, cross out “Convincer o Zé” from your to-do list. I admit it because I’m terrified, afraid that you’re wrong and, in fact, there is only this life itself, nothing else. I admit the existence of a possibility because I would, right now, really like to find out that your crazy theory about reincarnation was right. You can’t imagine how much I want that, more than I want to take that little cane out of my dick or find a cigarette dealer inside this hospital. But I don’t think I’ll be reincarnated in anyone. And if that happens, by the time that someone grows up to be old enough to seduce you, you’re probably already dead, married, or too wrinkled (just kidding!).

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None of my ex-wives will receive a copy of this letter, believe me. And do you know why? Because by their side I really felt loved until the end, as I didn’t even come close to feeling next to them, the others for whom I couldn’t even cry when I left. Even our shacks were prettier than the shacks I had with them, I swear. And the fucks we had after them, huh? Splendid! Will you deny? Of course! I bet the neighbors didn’t understand how we went from swearing to groaning so abruptly. And I bet, too, that they envied us, that bunch of old people who were always trying to screw up our little parties for two. But they couldn’t, ever. We even turned down the volume, but minutes and many glasses later, the blues started eating again. And love too.

You fucking miss me, that’s what I want you to know. And it will be even more missed when I go from this one to a much worse one, after all, if there is a heaven – a hypothesis I can’t believe, sorry! -, I doubt that there is someone there who – as only you managed to do – will make me feel like a Joe again, loved for what I truly am. And not thanks to the many princes I’ve vomited around, in books, at dinners, in interviews, on everything.

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