22 Weeks, 1 Day.
I originally was going to write at 21 weeks, 4 days.
Procrastination and the willingness to do absolutely nothing got the best of me.
I do nothing but play video games and… then play more video games.
I did something yesterday.
And something the day before.
So at least something.
It’s a weird feeling getting used to someone’s death.
Though it still chokes me and hurts and I get tearful. I’m already used to it.
And I say everything is weird.
Because everything is fucking weird.
Existence is weird. Being conscious is fucking weird. We all living life pretending we all good though we all know we are nothing and soon we will die and no one will fucking care, because who is there to care if that one that cares is also a pointless being and so on.
I’ve been drinking and smoking way too much. Well… a lot. I didn’t drink on Friday!
And on Friday… I went to therapy for the first time in my life.
A friend, more like an Instagram person that I follow and she follows me, recommended me her therapist. So there I went. Friday at 10 a.m. After a night of heavy drinking and playing Smash Bros by myself until 3 or so a.m.
I drank too much.
Therapy went great. I think. I’m not sure.
I just talked about myself. But nothing I wouldn’t tell anyone. I have no secrets… almost. Well… not really secrets. More like shit that I just usually don’t spew.
I assume people know shit about me even though I never told them. Because I use to say it way too much. My claim to fame was to be near famous people and taking their pictures. Hah. That’s why I’m a photographer. And I assume that people know this.
It was until someone asked me about my beginnings. And I’m like “oh shit, I thought you knew.”
That was over a decade ago.
It’s still silly to think I was a paparazzo.
Well… that was Saturday.
Talk about being sidetracked.
Let’s go back to therapy.
It was an intro to myself. She said she enjoyed the talk. And I enjoyed the questions that she asked me. It alleviates me somehow. The curiosity.
But in a way… it’s a weird date.
I mean… I know she’s married and has kids. But talking about oneself is something I’ve only done in dating scenarios.
And it reminds me of the girl I met through Bumble on my last night in CDMX. I enjoyed talking to her. Though I felt like she was analyzing me in a psychologist’s way. She was cute. And single. But she would never give me therapy and date me.
That’s not how shit works.
I always thought friends were enough to be therapy.
Or this stupid blog.
Which btw… if you read it. Tell me. I think no one reads this shit and suddenly one little fan sprouts out like Gaby Blue and requests to read my book.
I wrote a book.
She is going to be like the 20th person to read it.
I said I would put it online and charge $10 to see who pays for it and reads it. I think I only wrote embarrassing shit. So I’m not really proud of it.
I’m not really proud of much of what I have done. It’s rare.
Going back to therapy.
I did discover one thing. The one thing I just mentioned.
I don’t really like myself.
But I don’t really like anyone. I like myself better than most people.
I often compared myself to a greater scale. Not even worldwide. But timewise.
And that’s why I always come to the conclusion that I am shit. But I am surrounded by bigger shits. And I just wonder how are they alive?
Humans are such garbage.
That was therapy.
Things I didn’t like about it.
Well… I don’t really mind, but I would have preferred it for some odd reason.
She’s exactly my age. Someone older would make me feel better…
She knows people that I know. We discovered that quickly. But it would be a real challenge to find someone in Tijuana that doesn’t know someone that I know or that knows someone that knows someone that knows about me.
She also said she would read me. So… hi therapist Alicia! I’ll see you next Friday or something. Because I sort of want to drive to Ensenada or anywhere else. But yeah. I’m definitely going back.
Driving feels good.
I like driving.
Things I didn’t like about it.
She’s not even expensive. Therapy in the US would cost me an arm and a leg. But it just feels weird to pay someone to listen to me. It’s usually the other way around…
I don’t really mind.
But my wallet emptied out quick when I had to pay for therapy and for my parking spot for the month.
And my wallet keeps getting emptier as I don’t FUCKING WORK!
Things I did like.
Friendly reminders on my phone that I have an appointment. Making sure I don’t miss it.
About not fucking working.
I’m supposed to be working on writing. And I can’t. I simply… can’t. Knowing me, I will until the money is scarce and I have to fucking write.
About yes fucking working.
I did some work yesterday. Unpaid work. And I was supposed to do unpaid work today.
I do unpaid work all the time.
Skipping todays though.
I can’t complain about “work.” I got invited to a Rosarito food tour because I’m an “influencer.” I don’t like that shit. I honestly just like taking pictures, especially of food (astrophotos, landscape, and girls also).
Gotta send a couple of those.
I took 500+ pictures and edited down to 151.
It was a good tour, albeit, somewhat slow.
This post needs a picture. CAT!
Most of the other pictures are of food. And that belongs to Tijuana Adventure. And I got an email today about renewing my WordPress for TijuanaAdventure for $18… and I think I’m just going to kill it. I don’t update that website. I don’t make any money out of it. I rather just post on Instagram and that’s it.
Another project that I say I will do, done.
And I fantasized about making foodie tours. Expensive foodie tours.
But nah. Too much work. And we’ve all learned that work is something I don’t like doing much.
Back to Rosarito tour.
Let’s start with the fact that I DISLIKE ROSARITO!
I haven’t even been in years.
I used to go visit a super hot surfer girl that is supposedly a lesbian and we went surfing. And cuddled. And we were a cute couple. And more things happened. And I was falling in love (yes… of yet another woman).
But it went sour quick. Because…. well she’s a lesbian. And she made it clear. So I’m not sure how it happened… I say I am a lesbian trapped inside a man’s body, but nah. I still would date her. I liked her a lot.
But it went sour quick. Some drama. A phone call. And she was gone. With my longboard, my surfboard, my wetsuit, and my favorite scarf.
Since then (almost 4 or 5 years ago) I haven’t gone to Rosarito. I haven’t surfed since.
Let’s be honest. I could never surf though.
So with that in mind… Rosarito … well…
It’s still not that great.
The tour started in downtown in a place called “Food Fest.” It was a mediocre food collective. Foodies in the group liked it.
But them chicken wings had no meat and had no real flavor to them.
That sushi ain’t motherfucking sushi. “Surf and turf” sushi with shrimp, steak, baked, and with melted yellow gross looking cheese and dog barf on top is not motherfucking sushi. It’s barely even food.
And people like that plate.
The fuck is wrong with y’all. The other sushi wasn’t as horrible, but it was still no fucking sushi.
Burgers by some Venezolana chicks was okay. I eat to many burgers to even really consider it as a good burger. It was okay.
The best was a fake crawfish boil with… well shrimp. Cuz they ain’t no crawfish down here. Sauce was good. Yellow corn was good. Potatoes were meh. Shrimp were a bitch to peel and they were boiled (duh, crawfish boil), but fried would have been better.
And there was a torta copy of El Washmobile (which are considered the best in Tijuana and for me, they are not really even tortas…). Fuck am I a picky motherfucker. But tortas go on teleras or bolillos, not on a ciabatta. That’s a sandwich, motherfuckers.
Still… meh collective.
GREAT BEER THOUGH!
That’s the rescue point of the collective.
Drunk Gringos everywhere.
Drunk fucking Gringos everywhere.
That’s another thing about Rosarito. Is way too Gringo…
I probably ate more than the rest of the group…
Monociclo and Enelmar. No one was hungry. I wanted beers. I got coffee.
It was pretty fucking well-done coffee. On the beach nonetheless. Do recommend this spot.
The restaurant “Enelmar” was next. Same space. No one was hungry. Without requesting food, they served us a giant table of food. Like a dinner meal. Different plates.
We all took pictures and had a bite.
Garlic sauteed mushrooms al ajillo were the best. The rest were your standard dinner plates at any fancy chain restaurant. Nothing bad with them. But nothing mind-blowingly new or that I must say “you must try it.”
The space is fucking LOVELY though and the potential is beyond HUGE!
Let’s see what happens with fucking Rosarito.
Next stop. Marea Alta.
SLOW DOWN FOR SURE.
Funny note. The waitress didn’t even speak Spanish in this place. That’s how fucking Gringo Rosarito is…
The service was brutally slow. We probably sat there for more than 45 minutes and they finally managed to serve us some beers, a ceviche, and a salmon mounted on orzo.
This is a place I would come back too.
That salmon with orzo and roasted pecans was on point delicious. And the ceviche of jurel was also tasty tasty tasty mmmmmhmmmm. With a tinge of ginger and what we believe was honey but they only said “a secret” to add some unique factors to the plate.
They also served us to fish sandwiches. Then took them away. They looked decent!
And finally. Last stop. Before the other last stop.
Praised by Michael Gardiner, a foodie from San Diego. This place had absolutely crap beer (I’m looking at you Frontera and Baja Brewing). Seriously… how can you bottle or can your shitty product and then sell it?! This beer had bacteria and it was just plain bad. Undrinkable.
But the food…. the food was tasty as fuck.
And the other foodies didn’t like this place! I don’t get it.
The tacos de barbacoa with caldo were so fucking stinky gamey like barbacoa should be that I wonder were the dead ram was. Tasted like the meat came out of a hole in the ground (like it’s supposed to).
Then seared salmon with seasonal veggies. On point. Nothing special, have had this place in so many restaurants and it’s always a healthy mercury treat. MMMMM mercury.
My camera died at this point. Pictures ended.
But a cowboy steak followed. Again. Another foodie didn’t think much of it. I thought it was tasty especially for that cut of meat. Well seasoned, well prepared, juicy as a mother fucker.
And finally, a deconstructed cheesecake. Didn’t have much flavor to it, but it was a great light digestif. And again… foodies didn’t like it when I thought it was great.
And such is life.
AND ONE LAST STOP.
With my camera dead. And we go to Encanto.
One of the tour guide’s brother is the owner, so for political reasons, this wasn’t a planned stop. Because this would have been a great stop. Camera dead. Foodies already full (I could have drank/ate more). We only had a beer and left.
That fucking restaurant is so close to the ocean that you literally get splashed with waves if you get too close to the tables on the shore.
With live music.
And people handing out free tequilas.
And craft beer.
That place… was charming.
Hence the fucking name. EL Charming.
Cha cha cha. Encanto.
Now I’m hungry.
And that was 2,000 words of stupidity.
Breakfast tacos. Catch a couple Kyogre. Video games. Sleep.
I have some work to handle next week. AND I SHOULD FUCKING WRITE.