‘How much can you bear to be a whole man?’, in memory of the Ideal

How much of a whole man can you bear to be? How far will you go, if you grow anguished when rejected by your eighth-grade schoolmates? When you take them into account, you repeat to yourself tiny and limp. You feel like half of a rotten orange. More specifically: part Fábio Jr.’s orange (a reference to the Brazilian expression “half orange” for a soulmate), part rotten fruit. So much so that few at the Ideal (the school) are smart enough to decipher it.

As for the boys, Paulo would give you a free slap in the recess hallway. Years later, he would record a video of gratitude, never suspecting he had pierced both your kidneys with the same arrow; the physical education teachers — two cretins — would take offense at your disrespect for the perfection of their diabetes; the weak one, the ugly one, faggot! And you, having to share your world with those shitty types.

You sent messages to the one you considered your friend, to tell him of your conversion to his religion, and you were led into the role of the irrelevant. He did not even wish you would go to hell, to keep him company.

You remember perfectly the day Fernando told you: “I invite you to my party, but against the will of the majority, who want to forget you.” That night, you were the embodiment of the ridiculous. Not only did you get dressed up to go to a place where you were not welcome, you also wasted a Sprite, two books, on terrible company.

Do not be the Ideal. And be thankful.