Not really. It just made my parents complain that I was prioritizing everything over them, so I stopped doing it. But what I did was to accompany mentally ret*d people to a few more or less interesting places, together with a few classmates vastly more socially skilled than me, mostly female, and I still had time to get two remarkable experiences:
• Being mistaken for one of the ret*d people. Now, in retrospect, it seems like it was bound to happen, but I hadn’t been officially labelled as mentally defective yet.
• Having my hand squeezed tightly and eagerly by a woman, interlocking her delicate fingers with mine. I’ve never even come close to experiencing it again. I was sixteen; she was twenty-seven, mentally ret*d and clearly desperate in some romantic way, as she’d easily start telling any male volunteer she loved him. We went to the cinema, where I sat next to her, and that’s where she grabbed my hand. It was extremely and surprisingly erotic to my completely untrained teenage self, though I was discreet and didn’t let anyone else know what was going on—particularly not what was going on inside my pants. I wonder if it could be construed as rape on my part, especially if it happened today.
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The red lake has been forgotten. A dust devil stuns you long enough to shroud forever those last shards of wisdom. The breeze rocking this forlorn wasteland whispers in your ears, “Não resta mais que uma sombra”.