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I’ve been quite quiet lately. One of the reasons is that I thought I was devoting too much of this space to talk about my sentimental problems. And more than likely, people were already tired of reading the same thoughts over and over again. But today I thought that everybody is free to read or not this blog. So, if you think I’d better move on with another facets of my life or whatever, exit the site and go read something else. This is my space to vent. And, Jesus, how do I need to vent… I’ve been in Cambridge for a few months and don’t have anybody to talk to about this thing which is bothering me almost every day. It feels much better when I write down my feelings and somehow know that a few people will read it and maybe one or two of them will understand my situation.

So there we go again…

Hi. My name is not Cziffra, I’m 30, only one ex-girlfriend on my life logbook, a couple of good friends and not as many enemies as I’d like. And I’m in love. Unhealthily in love.

Often people point out the pain underlying in the uncertainty of not knowing what the other part feels or thinks about the enamoured individual. But in certain cases, believe me, knowing is worse. Knowing that the other part is not interested is much worse. From that point on, life is a chain of hours to fill up with something that will take your mind away from the person that you have idolized. You can actively fight your feelings, and you might even see some improvement in the way you handle the situation, but, at the end, it’s only time the ultimate cure for your pain. Only time will heal your wounds.

I have decided to get rid of this obsession (how I hate that word) and some days I find myself doing pretty good. Some others, however, I’m hopeless and very little comes to my mind which is not related, in one way or another, to her. About six weeks ago I told her I liked her. She said let’s just be friends and hence closed the door definitely (despite my reticence to admit that) to a more intimate relationship, without saying it explicitly. Today, the only thing I regret about having told her that is that I cannot tell her again. And, God knows, I feel like telling her every day. Every hour. I’d change a word or two in my speech, sure. Like “I love you” rather than “I like you”. Things have evolved within me, for the worst. But there is no way I’ll ever talk to her in those terms again. It’s just a matter of self-respect. I need to suck it up.

Have you ever read or heard about physical signs meaning that the other person is interested in you? I have. They’re bullshit. I’ve been receiving a ton of them from her lately. I observe her very carefully whenever we talk. And before (say, until a couple of weeks ago, maybe only one week ago) there were none of those signs. Now, it’s slightly different. She plays with her hair about 80% of the time we talk. When we face each other, she crosses her legs, feet pointing towards me, and moves them up and down. She smiles often, open smiles, showing her upper teeth. She’s like a manual of positive signs to look for. Now, take this: that means nothing. Just the way she is. It happened lately just by chance, pure and simple chance. Because, many other times, within minutes of displaying those signs, she doesn’t give a damn. She acts like I don’t exist, some days I leave, I say bye to everybody in the office, people say bye… She doesn’t even open her mouth. And here I am, overanalyzing everything like life is eternal and I have nothing better to do.

Somebody warned me, not long ago, about people noticing my obsession and I’m aware I might be making a fool of myself. As I said, most of the days I do pretty well and manage to skip most of the idiotic thoughts that fight to install in my mind. A few other days weakness kicks in and I just have a constant thought throughout the day: “I’d do anything to kiss you”. Sounds like a high school girl’s thought? Sure. Pathetic? You bet. Stupid? Ok, hold on the criticism and put yourself in my place: sharing nearly 40 hours weekly with a person to whom you have the most intense sexual attraction you’ve ever experienced. Try to picture it, day after day, and then come back to me and tell me about being tough. It’s like a diabetic working in a cake shop: some days you do fine, some others you feel like a tiny piece of shit staring at the forbidden fruit.

There are plenty of opportunities for me to screw everything up. On a daily basis. Today, for example. She was wearing a tight top. It had a sentence on it: “I am the best FCUK”. The letters were rather worn out. It was difficult to read. But easy enough if you stared at it for a few seconds. A few more seconds than what one would consider polite, given that the text run across her chest. No need to say I read it pretty quickly. And said: "Cuerpo, for a second I misread what you top says”. She laughed, nervously, and replied: “The letters are quite blurred, people are not supposed to be able to read it. I only wear it because it fits really well with my jeans- (I wonder if that is true)- but I don’t really like what it says”. Then, I nearly screwed it up. I almost said “You know? Actually I agree with what it says”. I managed to keep my mouth shut, thanks God. There are plenty of examples like that one. I wonder if I can behave myself indefinitely. I want to believe that it’ll get easier with time.

I often fantasize about giving her the following quote: “If I ask you out, will your answer be the same as your answer to this question?” I wonder what she’d say.

I hope I’ll never find out. I feel like a goddamned drug addict trying to get out of the addiction.

A daily struggle. One day it’ll end, logic says. I’ve won a few battles already. Lost a couple, too. But I want to believe I will win this fucking war against myself.

Cziffra ipse dixit.

Vale, no es el Titan, pero, en su modestia, me va a proporcionar muchas horas de doloroso entretenimiento. Tras 90 minutos montándolo, he descubierto que las tuercas que venían en la caja no valen ni para cascarla. En lugar de ponerles una arandela, se trata de tuercas con tope de nylon. Eso no supondría ningún problema si no fuera porque los tornillos proporcionados son más largos de la cuenta. En definitiva, que no ha habido forma humana ni divina de dejar el banco con suficiente estabilidad para que mi vida no peligre durante las decline dumbell press.

Menos mal que trabajo en un laboratorio de investigación. Mañana a primera hora me apropiaré de un puñado de tuercas y arandelas M10 y un manojo de llaves inglesas.

Y por la noche, a estrenar a la criatura.

I always had the dream of spending Christmas Eve and New Years Eve alone and silent. Frugal dinner and a book. Some incense and Bach's Christmas Oratorio in the background.

I don't see the point of people gathering around an insanely huge meal just because they're supposed to. I've witnessed too many Christmas dinners in which family members that I rarely saw or spoke to regularly popped in and the conversation spinned around those who were not present. And the whole thing used to end up as a pure mess, with people arguing all over the place. I'm talking about my own experiences here. I'm aware that many of you love the atmosphere and are looking forward to share those moments with your loves ones, but in my case, my family has been disintegrating slowly over the years and I remember my last few Christmas holidays as sad events.

So... I told my dad that this year I have reserved the Christmas holidays to myself. He will travel to England around mid December to spend a few days with me and then he will go back to Spain to spend the holidays with my grandfather. Me, I'll be chilling out and enjoying the days of rest.

But there is more...

I've been stuck at 150 lbs for the last month or so. I don't want to further reduce my calories to lose those last 5 lbs of fat that would take me to ~8%. I know a number of things that would break the plateau, though. For example, introducing Tabata intervals... That'd work wonders. Or, increase my calories to maintenance over a period of a few weeks, get my metabolism on fire and try to cut again. Or, switching my macros around, decrease carb intake (which is around 40% at the moment) and/or change my PWO protocol (slow digesting carbs instead of dextrose). The possibilities are endless.

But I want to make these Christmas really memorable. And, therefore, I'm gonna go HARDCORE. By hardcore I mean I'll be following the Velocity Diet (Part I, Part II). Why?, you might ask. And that's a very good question. I'm trying to kill two birds with one stone, here. On one hand, that will make my Christmas really ascetic. I enjoy challenging my willpower to the limit every now and then. It keeps me clean, it keeps me honest, I get to know myself better. On the other hand, I'm curious as the results of such an extreme approach. People swear that you don't lose muscle on this diet and I'm rather sceptical about that. What I'm sure of is that I'll lose some fat, that's unquestionable.

Why risking my hard-earned muscle with this experiment? Well, because experiments, when properly designed, bring out knowledge, regardless their results. A word of caution, here. The V-Diet is designed for 4 weeks. I'll be doing it for only 10 days. In that way, I won't lose that much muscle in case the whole thing goes terribly wrong. Plus, I don't have that much fat to lose to begin with. I will be taking the exact supplements suggested in the links, so I can get rid of as many hidden variables as possible during the experiment. They're a bit pricey, but, hey, the grocery bill goes literally to the bin.

On top of that, my 10 days of asceticism (23rd of December to 2nd of January) will consist of weight training, working on the planche and the handstand, reading (finally) The Lord of the Rings and tons and tons of physics papers and books on quantum transport. Mobile phone will be off. I'll try not to speak more than three sentences loudly over this period. Grunting while lifting doesn't count as sentences.

Now it's time to train my legs.

Hi.

I've reached a point in which I can hold a clean 10 seconds free handstand. And I did it in front of my peers, with the added pressure implied. That means that well before Christmas I should be able to hold the handstands for anything longer than half a minute, a whole minute not being unlikely.

What does all this mean? Simple. It means that my next handstand-related goal is not gonna take long, either: the free handstand pushups. I'll try to get 10 before next Summer, but I bet it'll happen way earlier than that.

Well, there was a time when I thought that the free handstand pushups were the ultimate handstand feat.

But was I mistaken...

Enter the Clapping Handstand Pushups. Yes, you read right.

Please, leave your comments telling me how that is impossible or how I will never be able to do it, so I can make a fool of you all by posting a video of me actually doing it.

Now, go to hell.

Ayer estaba yo tranquilamente buscando artículos sobre NMR en hilos cuánticos cuando se me acerca El Cuerpo y me dice que va a hacer otra fiesta de disfraces en su casa porque a la anterior no pudieron asistir todos los que quisieron, por distintos motivos.

Pues me has jodido, hermosa. Porque a ver cómo supero yo ahora el disfraz de Superman. Alcancé la cumbre con eso. Cualquier cosa que me plantee ahora va a ir cuesta abajo.

No es cuestión de buscar otro disfraz basado en pintura corporal. En primer lugar porque ya lo he hecho y una de las razones para hacerlo era que se trataba de algo nuevo para mí. En segundo lugar porque no quiero acabar siendo el tipo "que nunca lleva camiseta y se dedica a esparcir pintura en la ropa de los demás". Así que, con gran pesar de mi corazón, he desechado los disfraces de pitufo, Spiderman o Hulk. Nada de pintura esta vez.

Tras una no demasiado larga cavilación, he decidido que voy a ir de Conan el Bárbaro. Para intentar ser algo espectacular voy a hacerme el disfraz en casa, con hilo, aguja y unas tijeras. Y tal vez tenga que empezar a plantearme el comprar un par de kilos de creatina, pues mis bíceps miden algo más de 13 pulgadas actualmente y creo recordar que Arnold marcaba unos brazos de más de 20.

Y ahora, así entre nosotros... ¿No creéis que El Cuerpo ha organizado otra fiesta para tener la oportunidad de volver a verme sin camiseta? No, ¿verdad? Qué pena... Yo tampoco lo creo. Pero de todas maneras va a tener que volver a aguantar la imagen de mi torso desnudo. Esta vez algo más "salvaje".

Por supuesto, aún están ustedes a tiempo de sugerir otros disfraces.

Me pasan un meme. Primera vez en mi vida. Espero que sea la última.

Escoge un(a) solista/banda/grupo favorito, y responde sólo con títulos de sus canciones. Escoge 5 personas para que sigan el test, sin olvidar avisarles de que han sido elegidos.

Cuestionario hecho por: Cziffra.
Nominado por: Estefanía.
Solista, banda o grupo elegido: The Eagles.
Eres hombre o mujer?: Outlaw Man.
Descríbete: Victim of Love.
Qué sienten las personas acerca de ti: Certain Kind of Fool.
Cómo describirías tu anterior relación sentimental: Out of Control.
Describe tu actual relación con tu novia o pretendiente: Already Gone.
Dónde quisieras estar ahora: The Last Resort.
Cómo eres respecto al amor: Life in the Fast Lane.
Cómo es tu vida: Good day in Hell.
Qué pedirías si tuvieras un solo deseo: Witchy Woman.
Escribe una cita o frase sabia: The Greeks Don't Want No Freaks.
Ahora despídete: Take It Easy.

Quisiera pasar el meme, pero mi vida es tan, tan, pero tan triste, que no conozco a nadie con blog activo que se me antoje presa adecuada de semejante atrocidad.

Bueno, pues como fui un chico malo y quité el resumen de la fiesta hoy voy a daros la de cal y voy a hacer un segundo recorrido por lo que fue la velada. Un poco más escueto que lo anterior, pues me saltaré los prolegómenos, pero con más colorido, pues acompaño el texto con imágenes.

Con la cara lavada y recién peinao me hice la primera foto antes de que se me corriera el rímel. Y como se verá más adelante, la idea no fue del todo estéril. En efecto, a medida que transcurría la noche, mi luminoso colorido fue desvaneciéndose de mi cuerpo al tiempo que aparecía misteriosamente en otros.

Lo primero que hice, tras echarme al coleto el primer par de vinos, fue entrenar el vuelo libre. Al fotógrafo debió hacerle tanta gracia el asunto que terminó contagiándome la risa y no hubo forma de despegar. Entretanto, los demás invitados iban entrando en ambiente. Por supuesto, El Cuerpo-Lara Croft no era el alma de la fiesta (ése era yo) pero sí la tortura de mi alma.

No tardaron en llegar los jinetes. Avestruces y flamencos, mayormente. Venían llenitos de absenta y enseguida se pasaron a la cerveza. No duraron mucho. En algún momento de la noche dejé de verlos. Ni rastro dejaron, salvo un par de cagaditas de pajarraco junto al lecho de Lara Croft (qué buena estaba, madre del amor hermoso).

Hubo otros disfraces, por supuesto, aunque más del montón: a saber, la japonesa, el jugador de hockey, Drácula y un tipo cuya cara no llegué a ver, pero que daba mucho yuyu.

Toda la noche se me criticó que me empeñara en posar para las fotos haciendo un front double biceps tras otro. Bueno, no voy a negarlo, pero otras también se empeñaron en adoptar una pose y no dejarla ni a fuerza de hostias.

Un par de personajes más a destacar: Penderecki como hincha alemán de fútbol (para mí, la foto más graciosa del conjunto, no me preguntéis por qué), y Robin Hood, con el que protagonicé un interesante ejercicio de perspectiva en plan Barrio Sésamo (grande vs. pequeño).

La noche fue transcurriendo y yo empezaba a sentirme en mi traje de Superman como si de una segunda piel se tratara. Sin embargo, y como ya he dicho, no tardó mucho el color en empezar a cambiar de aires. A medida que dejaba mi cuerpo y volaba a mi cara, las prendas de otros cuantos asistentes empezaron a teñirse de azul, rojo y amarillo. Hacia el final, ya nada importaba. La cosa acabó convirtiéndose en un frenesí en medio de una pista de baile improvisada. Tanto fue así que poco me faltó para ligar con esta. Me lo puso tan a huevo que me confié y me dije "ya está en el bote". Pero cuando digo a huevo es a huevo. Es decir, si hablarme tan de cerca que le pude oler hasta el desayuno al tiempo que me tocaba el culo no es ponérmelo a huevo, yo ya no sé lo que es insinuarse. Tan claro lo vi que decidí darme un respiro (recuerden que yo iba en calzoncillos y no me apetecía montar la tienda de campaña en mitad del salón) y me fui un momento a la cocina a retar a todo el que se me puso por delante. Me dio hasta tiempo de hacer un aterrizaje de emergencia. Cuando volví a la pista de baile, la susodicha se había pirado. Mira, mejor. Porque aunque entonces me pareció que no estaba del todo mal, repasando las fotos me doy cuenta de que era más bien un callo malayo, hay que ver qué bien le sientan un par de copas de vino a algunas mujeres. Lo que yo quería, hacerme con El Cuerpo, por supuesto no pudo ser. Y eso que hubo momentos en la noche que prometían. Pero no. Acabé solo y escondido.

A pesar de todo, fue tal vez (o mejor, sin duda) la mejor fiesta a la que he asistido en mi vida. Esto hay que repetirlo. Lo que no sé es qué haré la próxima vez para superar el nivel que me he puesto con el disfraz este año.

Para acceder a todas las fotos sin la palabrería que les he soltado, pinchen ustedes aquí.

Qué naranjita que me ha quedado el post, oyes.