Why I Write Romantic Stuff- Part 2

***In case you’re wondering, here’s PART 1 of the saga a.k.a How I Met Your Father, though I don’t have any children, so what gives? I don’t know, man, my head’s not like an exact science.***

I slept over at my friend’s house after the party. Well, sleep is an understatement. That cute blond boy with a dimpled chin couldn’t get out of my head.

Then I remembered that I had his phone number.

Holy shit! I was going to call him. Was I really that desperate, or was he really that special? Before I figured it out, I was already calling, well, texting, because I’m shy and socially awkward, and if I had called him, I’d probably have said something stupid like, “Isn’t it a lovely day to fart?”

I can’t remember what I wrote. I guess I just asked him how he was, and if he wanted to, like, do something together or whatever, you know, really kept my cool there.

Silence followed, for a reeeeally long time. That’s the downside of texting, if you ask me: it makes ignoring people way too easy.

“That’s it,” I thought. “Totally blew it.”

But the phone rang, and yes, it was HIM!  He was one of those guys who preferred calling to texting. In his defense, he was ancient, you guys.

So we talked, and then we decided to meet after I was done working on Monday (Blondie was on holidays visiting my country, Brazil, which is an awesome place and you should totally visit, tell them I sent you).

So we went to a bar, and we talked, and drank, and ate delicious finger food.

At some point, he turned to me and said, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

And I was like, “Yeah right, that man talk won’t work with me, buddy.”

He smiled in and adorable way, his blue eyes kind of puzzled and amused at the same time, because here’s the deal: He had actually meant it.

He was falling in love with me ON OUR SECOND FREAKING DATE!


By the way, Blondie looked a lot like this hot dude, but maybe that’s because I really digged him.


I look a lot like this lady, but maybe that’s just because I really dig myself.

So we had a fun night, and in the end, I went home alone. I should tell you that I was a bit of a prude before I met Blondie, but that totally changed later. Oh yeah, this turns into 50 Shades of Grey, because on our next date, I decided I’d give him access to my glorious va-jay-jay (which is a douche word for vagina, in case you’re wondering).

It was an easy decision: He was foreign, he was only there for a few days, and YOLO. 

I wrote a super detailed report on the whole ordeal, but let’s skip that because our families might read this someday, which would make things beyond awkward.



See, my family is run by three lionesses: Mom, Grandma and Auntie, and they all had the opinion that every gringo was up to no good; that they only came to Brazil for drugs or prostitution. Plus, lionesses are EXTREMELY protective of their cubs (Also, they’re all-knowing, wise, and possibly superheroes).

So the next day, I was kind of brainwashed by them, and I told Blondie, “Maybe it would be better if we stopped things here. I mean, you’re clearly a drug dealer.”

And he was all like, “Speaking of drugs, are you using any right now?”

I shrugged and gave him a knowing wink. “Come on, every gringo who comes to Brazil is either into drugs or prostitution.”

He laughed. “Are you serious?”

Sadly, I was. So he told me the obvious, “For Christ’s sake, I’m not a drug dealer.”

“Aha, that’s exactly what a drug dealer would say,” I countered (pretty good point, if you ask me).

He scratched his forehead and winced, because he was very white and had spent a day at the beach, so his forehead was peeling a bit. Which means he looked like a lobster, though an adorable one. But I digress.

“What can I do to make you believe I’m not a drug dealer?” he asked rather patiently, with that smooth voice of his that’s more beautiful and soothing than any sound on this Earth.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I suddenly thought of a brilliant not solution. “Meet my parents?”

“Okay,” he said.


That’s how life is sometimes, and you can’t explain why. He met my parents on our FOURTH DATE because I thought he could be a drug dealer.

Now THAT’s freaking romantic.

Naturally, my three lionesses loved him instantly. Gone was their askance and doubt, soon replaced by the eagerness of fan girls. They asked him if he wanted more food, if he was comfortable, the whole shebang. At some point, I thought I should remind my mom that I was her daughter and that I was the one who should be pampered, not the guy I had met LESS THAN A WEEK AGO.

I will add that he had the advantage of looking like this:


Sadly, the next day was his last day in Brazil.

We said goodbye, sexually and verbally speaking. After that, he dropped me off before heading to the airport.

Leaving that cab was one of the hardest things I ever did. See, in only a few days, I had fallen for a stranger who lived a thousand miles away. This amazing person was leaving, and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see him again. In fact, I had the gut-feeling this was it. Our fairy tale had ended.

As I left the cab, holding back the tears, I knew it was over. Even though we had agreed to keep a long distance relationship, I knew it would never work.

I cried for a really long time that day, and it wasn’t the cry that comes in sobs. It was a discrete cry, the kind that lasts for hours and never really leaves. The kind that tugs at you when you least expect, a cry that is always there with you and doesn’t go away.

That’s how much I had fallen in love in just a few days.

And now my love story had come to an end.




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Posted in Fun, Lifestyle, series, Writing

Why I Write Romantic Stuff- Part 1

It all started on a shitty New Year’s Eve party.

They only served Red Bull and Vodka which are two of my favorite drinks in Hell. The music was a mix of bad rap and mellow rock, not to mention that people were way too drunk. The only good thing about that party was the location: the club stood on a stretch of land that ventured farther into the ocean. Here’s a pic:


So there I was, up on that rock, when fireworks started bursting overhead and everyone welcomed the New Year.

Awesome, right?

Not really. I felt like CRAP. I hated my job, I still lived with my parents, and I had ended a relationship only a few weeks before.

No to mention that watching fireworks by the ocean during New Year’s Eve was so excessively romantic, it would’ve made Nicholas Sparks hurl pink glitter. And as you know, seeing romantic stuff when you’re single is the equivalent of plucking your eyes out, filling them with meatballs, and waiting for the ravens to come and feed.

I quickly decided dancing was the only solution to my blues, even if the music was crap. So off I went to the dance floor.

That’s when I saw him, or better yet, he saw me.

“You’re beautiful,” he said in German, and I figured that this dude had to be batshit drunk, because he was talking in the language of Jesus or whatever.

He laughed and repeated the sentence in English, and I was all like, “Aw, he thinks I’m pretty.”

So we danced and talked. He was funny and cute (blond, blue eyes, and an adorable dimpled chin). When he looked at me, I felt… you know the feeling you get when you return home after travelling for a really long time? You know, when you remove your shoes, drop on the sofa and reach nirvana, just because you’re home?

That’s how that stranger made me feel.


So we talked and danced a little more. I made some jokes because I’m dorky like that, and he actually laughed at my awkward humor(!) In turn, I laughed at his–he was as crazy as I was!

At some point, he asked for my number.

Look, I NEVER gave my number to guys at parties, but on that day, I GAVE him my freaking number. Not a fake number, no, my REAL one. 

He phoned me right after to make sure the number was good, and I was all like, “A worthy opponent at last.”

Now, 2008 might’ve been a crappy year to me, but it had been even worse to my friend, and as her bestie, I had to be there for her. We had agreed on a no-men policy for the evening (you know, girl power, F the patriarchy, that kind of thing).

And as they say, besties before bros.

So I told him I had to go and be with my friend, effectively ditching him. This might sound crazy to you, but I was so blinded by my misery, that I couldn’t see him for who he really was, not fully and not just yet.

What can I say, people do stupid things, and I’m a person, so I qualify.

Just before I left, he held my hand, put it to his heart and asked me to stay.

Even after that wonderfully cinematic moment, I didn’t. Yeah,  even bestie was all like, “Girl, ya dumb.”

I soon realized that I had made a monumental mistake. He was cute and adorable, and crazy as it sounded, I missed him already.

The numbness that had governed my life up to that point slowly faded, and my vision cleared. That’s when the bitter taste of a missed chance flooded my mouth, burned down my throat and made my stomach clench.

I tried looking for him, but there were too many people at that party, people everywhere, clouding my vision and standing between me and him.

Much like Houdini, he was gone. And I never saw him again that night.



PS: This is a true story, I kid you not.


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Posted in books, Writing

A New Book! And Game of Thrones Stuff

Guys, guys, this is awesome. I’m freaking out just a little. No, nope, it’s a lot. Yep, I’m freaking out a lot.


For her, he’ll go to the edges of the universe. Literally.

James Bauman’s life flips 180 degrees when he falls for Miriam Haworth, an alien researcher who is incapable of feeling strong emotions.

James will do everything in his power to show Miriam what love is, but if he succeeds, the wrath of an ancient alien race might crash upon him… and doom Miriam forever.



Anyway, how have you guys been?

Tell me what’s new because I’m like super bored right now, and I’m listening to the Game of Thrones Soundtrack, which is so amazing I can’t even.

You’re welcome for this majestic wonderfulness, yes, I just made up that word, no wait. Wonderfulness is actually a word, WTF?

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Posted in books, Fun, reviews, Writing

It’s Almost Here!

OMFG, From the Stars is almost here.

This is my very first series, so I’m super excited (it’s a Sci-fi romance, say whaaa?) Yes.


If you want to snag an early copy of this book, there’s still time!

Just subscribe to the Awesome Launch Team and voilá. But remember, you will be asked to leave a review of the book on Amazon. That’s not so bad, right?


In the meantime, how are you guys? Seriously, tell me what’s new, because I’m like suuuuper nosy.

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Memories of a Tomboy

When I was eight, a friend from school invited me to a Halloween party. I was psyched. Brazil is known for Carnival, football and women, but definitely NOT Halloween parties, which is stupid if you ask me. Halloween is like Carnival with candy.  I mean, seriously, Brazil, get a grip.


Anyway, I was running around and screaming like a crazy person, because that girl was quite popular and I was a total nerd. Please keep in mind those were the old days, when being a nerd was equal to having leprosy. 

But soon I started freaking out. What costume should I choose?

Now, I was a really weird kid. You know how most girls played with Barbies and My Little Ponies? I had Mutant Ninja Turtles’ action figures (Leonardo and Michelangelo actually), and I kindda had a crush on Leonardo. That’s how weird I was: I bordered on awkwardness.

On a side note, I think my childhood must have been a super fun experience for my Mom.

Anyway. While I dreamed of being Batman and defending Gotham city from the scum that infested it, other girls prepared for motherhood with dolls that pooped and peed, which is so insane that I can’t even. I mean, how screwed-up is that?

At some point in time, some dumb-ass sitting in a high chair thought that, “Girls need to be prepared for their one and only role in our society: being mothers. And mothers looooooove cleaning poop, right? Of course they do.”

You, sir, are an asshole.fartdoll6
But I digress.

So, I told Mom what I wanted for a costume.

“What about Poison Ivy?” she asked. “You could go as Poison Ivy.”

I shook my head, arms crossed.

“Okay, I know: Batgirl.” Mom pushed. “She’s so pretty, sweetheart.”

Head shake again.

“How about Catwoman? She’s powerful and strong.”

“Moooom,” I whined.

Mom sighed, either in annoyance or exasperation, maybe both. “Fine.”


On that Halloween evening, I rang the doorbell. When the popular girl’s Mom opened the door, she came across a figure. A symbol. A myth.

She bent over her knees and asked, “Oh, and what are you supposed to be, dear?”

I spread my bat wings wide and said in a low voice, “Lady, I’m your worst nightmare.”

I never returned to that house again. It might have been the fact that I propped myself on a table at the corner of the room and watched everyone from the shadows.

Joke’s on them because no criminal dared defy THE BATMAN that night.


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Posted in Writing

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From the Stars