Unless we make revolutionary reforms, some day - in some unknown serra - some unknown Fidel Castro will rise up in Brazil.
But I was very much into sports when I was a child.
History is the key to everything: politics, religion, even fashion.
Nature has a way of taking care of things. If you have a certain figure you'll go back to it. Breast feed and don't worry about it.
But for the time being, I've only learned one cake recipe and how to make scrambled eggs.
I also love horseback riding in New Jersey.
But I love fish, cheese and meat, and I eat everything, but only in small quantities if it's rich.
I know I'm bitter and a little jaded, and mildly enjoy it, but am I a sad person? Am I happy? I plan on being happy in the future for sure, but it isn't here yet. So what does that make me, exactly?
Unfulfilled dreams, ongoing relational tension, the loss of friendships, a hard marriage, rebellious teenagers, the death of loved ones, remaining sinful patterns - whatever it is for you - live long enough, lose enough, suffer enough, and the idealism of youth fades, leaving behind the reality of life in a broken world as a broken person.
I don't have many hobbies. If I think of hobbies, maybe ping pong. But I don't have a desire to get a ping pong medal.
Being an art buyer these days is comprehensively and indisputably vulgar. It is the sport of the Eurotrashy, Hedge-fundy, Hamptonites; of trendy oligarchs and oiligarchs; and of art dealers with masturbatory levels of self-regard.