The srrr srrr of the carrot

I don’t know if it was a party, a gig, or a workout with a punk soundtrack.

It wasn’t pretty or epic (or maybe it was): it was distortion, sweat, yelling with strangers, and the need for something to give me back the feeling of being alive.

I jumped, I sang, I invited people to dance and nobody kissed me because a kiss wasn’t what I was looking for. I wanted permission to drop the mask for a bit.

I came back smelling like bar and perfume (I guess—because in those moments you don’t exactly self-perceive), and in the morning the tile floor of my room looked like modern art:

shredded carrot (the rag on the floor went srrr srrr, a domestic soundtrack), bleach, and the perfume of regret.

Between the acid and the disinfectant I had a practical thought: at least the chicken and the carrot didn’t gain any weight.

I found another forgotten puke when I tried to straighten the closet. A perfect stomp with a flip-flop included. I laughed alone while cleaning: “sweet, new porcelain-tile textures,” I said out loud and then with irony because shame was trying to convince me it was all my fault.

At fifteen it seemed normal to drink until you threw up.

It was a social rite, laughter and shared disaster.

Today, after a long time without drinking, one single night was enough to remind me the body also has memory and tripwires: trembling, nausea, an emergency nap.

In the middle of it, near the stage, I tried to spark movement, asked for the pogo to start, got lost with those who wanted to get lost.

Just enough to turn off the cringe and turn on the engine without asking for permission.

I danced with half the place (because I know there are people who stay very still, barely nod to the beat, but inside they’re dying to sing and scream while jumping).

Later, at home, it wasn’t until three in the afternoon that I could brew the first mate (Argentinian drink) with burrito herb of the day.

I needed it at 8 a.m. like always, but today I had to spit out the viscera first.

Then the stomach said “you may pass”, and my chest unclenched.

I haven’t fully tidied up yet: a shirt the union I quit gave me (which I used to quickly wipe the mess that got out of hand at work) stayed behind the furniture, the trash bag is still tied up waiting for a destination, and in the bathtub a bucket with flip-flops is serving as a technical island.

Partial order; dignity in process. Narration without pity or shame.

But for now I can hold that I was there, that I fell down, that I cleaned up in my own way, that I laughed at my tiny tragedy and filed it without faking it.

Sometimes the euphoria you mix from punk, alcohol, and movement is enough to pull the curtain back for a while.

Today I’m leaving the floor to dry, leaving the noise playing, and letting myself rest.

Tomorrow we’ll see.

If any of this made you smile or remember your own srrr srrr,

subscribe to the Newsletter Ardiente and swing by loquearde.net

There’s less bleach, more truth, and a bit of noise to keep you company on the days that don’t come out “pretty or epic (or maybe they do)”

SUBSCRIBE