Thank you, society


In other countries and contexts, I would be a welfare queen. From my point of view, however, I am given a chance to live a dignified life thanks to the efforts of everyone as a society.

I would like to thank everyone who provides for those who cannot provide for themselves. You are doing God’s work.

Hot and spicy

I should always trust my gut.

One tip: if you are going to pretend to be a professional Android app developer, it helps to behave in a professional manner.

What is shown here is public information, enjoy:

His e-mails: [email protected] ; [email protected]

Name: Diego Maidana.

CUIT: 20-36176011-6

His linkedin profile

Here is a gem, he “liked” the following titled article:

#HablemosDeGénero La comunicación tiene un gran poder transformador ¿Y si lo usamos para construir una sociedad más equitativa, equilibrada y justa?…

Do you think that you are transforming communication, building a society based on equity, stability and justice by insulting a disabled person online, Mr. Front-End Developer?

It was a mistake to consider you a friend.

More writing to come most likely tomorrow, as I have matters to attend to today, for a change.

Until we meet again.

Off the grid


I decided to “go off the grid”, somewhat. I deleted my social media. I kept Telegram since nobody cares about it. The only way to contact me now is by email, by phone or in person.

Does this make me a contrarian? I find no value in any of these venues. Communication comes from elsewhere, those platforms are for something else. Something I disagree at a fundamental level.

That is it, I guess. Use the contact me link at the top if you need anything.

Until we meet again.


There was once an artist and a philanthropist who was not satisfied with his work. He could not find the right colours. The right canvas. The tools were mediocre. Common, easy to get tones were incapable of conveying his message. He was looking for the perfect hue. The perfect combination of saturation, texture and expression. So far, his efforts bore no fruit.

To pass the time, he worked in a soup kitchen to aid the less fortunate.

Until he met her. Her skin was alabaster. Her hair black as midnight. Both contrasted with her pursed, crimson lips. At last, he found her muse.

She was not shy. Far from it, she had a mind of her own. She was hot-tempered and the leader of her own life. Her passionate outlook on life only fuelled his interest towards her further. He knew he was staring at a diamond in the rough. With some adjustments, she’d be perfect.

Her feisty demeanour made it easy to propose to her a position as a model for one of his works. She saw it as an opportunity to step up within the social ladder. For him, it was a step closer to grasping the perfect magnum opus.

He invited her to her study. Its size was modest but brimming with personality. Overflowing with his obsessions.

While confident, she seemed unsettled by his art corner. He offered her a cup of tea in order for her to relax. It was a special blend, he assured her. A mix of strands combined with a technique passed by generations. It let you understand art to a higher degree.

After preparing the tea, she gulped the tea with no question. That is all it took for her to black out.

At last, the artist could start to work. With a delicate grasp, he took his crafting knife and began the incisions. They were accurate, done with a perfect pulse, and most of all, with pure love.

He needed painting to use for his work. Nothing a swift, decisive strike to the carotid artery could not fix. Blood gushed out in an spectacle of scarlet beauty. Etched in his mind, the crimson fountain would be a fond memory for time to come.

The vivid, wine tone of her lips dissipated. Darkening and thinning. His act of violence whisked away what beauty had left on her lips.

After some time, he managed to strip her out of her prized skin. It would make for a magnificent canvas. It was plentiful and stout enough to stretch over the entirety of the canvas. It provided an unprecedented texture and quality to it.

Last but not least, he needed materials for his brushes. Her exquisite mane would do. He was certain of it. Once again, separating her scalpel from her skull was a work of art in itself. He felt delight when manufacturing one-of-a-kind brushes. Of course, made from the hair strands of his muse. Not even the finest bristle from the most prized beasts could hope to compare. Such superb tools would let him paint a masterpiece, one that would be redefine the very essence of the term.

He toiled without a hint of a break all night long. Delirious, out of this world. That is how you would describe him and his finished masterpiece. It was a rose field, the most life-like rendition humanity would ever hope to gaze their eyes upon.

Finally, he achieved the masterpiece he always yearned.

The morning after, the destitute at the soup kitchen had an extraordinary feast. Plates of tender, ripe meat accompanied with fresh vegetables and spices. While they were grateful it was not gruel, they did notice a queer flavor in the dishes.

The meat, in particular.

The aftermath of imposed faith


I would like to summarize my experience with faith. The Roman Catholic Church in particular.

My parents hoisted me into baptism as a child. I began my incursion into religion without any context or explanation. Why did I do anything when it comes to Catholicism? I went to mass in our local community by force.

I remember with clear distinction a certain event. The part where you have to shake hands with strangers. I wanted to go home wash my hands afterwards.

Then the catechism began. Once more, the imposition of beliefs, values and punishments occurred. I did not agree with many. I understood some of them even less. I went with my sister.

She understood how to play the game. How to curry favor from others. What to say. How to say it. How to act. When to pull and when to let go. Psychopathy at its finest. For her, I was an embarrassment. As expected from someone who values validation from outsiders. Why would you waste time validating someone who is not you? Why would you comfort somebody who is not in fact you? I was meaningless to her machinations. Invisible at best, the victim of abuse otherwise. You can forget words, even if you cannot forgive them. Physical violence lasts a lifetime.

It was a time where I was wrong and told about it time and time again. I was wrong for saying a male name whenever someone asked if I liked someone. Part of who I was, my sexuality, was a sin. Being left handed was wrong. Being left handed is sinister and marks the influence of Satan. Questioning religion against science branded me laughing stock of the group. Of course humanity began ten thousand years ago. Every other piece of evidence is a way for God to test our faith. You can see the mountains over there, right? That is proof that religion is right and science is wrong.

Knowledge was a sin.

I was born in sin. You cannot ever recover from your flawed life. That is what I learned from catechism. That and how to partake in Holy Communion.

My formative high-school years began in a private Catholic institution. I started to question the worth of life from there on out.
I remember by first day of class. I tried to approach everyone in a gentle manner. Greet them and try to come up with a topic in common. Everyone likes video-games. At least everyone did, back then. That wasn’t enough.

I do not carry social status. My family holds no influence whatsoever. I was someone irrelevant and, worst of all, poor. Being part of a working class family is loathsome to the eyes of the Catholic education.

It did not help matters when the formal education started to fail me. The cracks started to show. Struggling, the subjects piled up every year and I had to pass them all. I was incapable of handling physical education either. Team sports were beyond me.

My mental disjunctive manifested. I could do nothing about it. It did not bother me. It bothered everyone else.

I was stupid. Slow. I needed remedial lessons. I slipped away from normality. I am not going to lie: I was happy. Even while suffering abuse, discovering yourself is wonderful.

In an stupor of studying by using alien methods, I succeeded. I studied how I perceived a normal person studied. I am not normal. Nothing I studied nor wrote in those exams remains with me to this day. I learned nothing from those years in high-school. I attempted to learn to cope with an ever encroaching depression.

And so the years slipped away. Depression trickled into my psyche. I began to believe the venom spouted by others. I started to think it was a mistake for me to be there. Not in the institution. It was wrong for me to be awake. Conscious. Alive.

We began to get ready to receive the sacrament of Confirmation in a mixed group. Classmates of a disparity of grades were there. The process went without a hitch nor a care. A formality.

At that point I was not alive. I was a subject for a psychiatrist. I took prescribed drugs. Many of them. A combination of them. According to this professional, I had a problem. Silencing the problem took priority. No need to fix anyone. Lay them dormant with happy pills. These pills did not induce happiness. I felt an intense sensation of poisoning in my mind. And that is where I had an epiphany.

I started to play the game. How to get the right drugs from my dealer. What to say to make them increase the dosage. How to say it in a way that placated their guilt. How to act like a distressed, depressed youth desperate for help. When to pull a scene and when to let go and put on the masquerade. Psychopathy at its finest. I learned from a master, after all.

My collection of venom grew week by week. A myriad of brands, names and colors. An abundant amount of death candy. I remember feeling happy. Everything went as expected. Blisters of demise, hidden from prying eyes. Maintaining the pretension of a medicated patient was easy. Be dull. Act as if you were out of sorts. Pretend that they tamed you.

One day, out of the blue, I pulled the trigger. Mixing my collection of toxins with alcohol, I gulped everything in one go.

I felt the grip of death pressing upon my wrist. The adrenaline of self-destruction.

In a foolish lapse of judgment, I decided to walk to class. I did not make it far. I passed out.

I remember seeing red. Vomiting. There was a lady next to me, bed-ridden. She told me that things get better. I dozed off. By the time I came to my senses, she was not there anymore. No one wanted to tell me anything about her.

Instead, my dealer was in front of me. She made me sign a paper. Suicide cases cause fines for Psychiatrists. This contractual contraption kept her safe. I signed it. I gave up on people. On others. On me.

Time passed. The room had artificial light at all times. Night and day were all the same.

My family visited me. Both my parents were heartbroken. I felt pity for them. My sister kept her act, unyielding. I was a crazy relative she visited for appearances. I still feel pity for her, to this day.

Then the visits began. At first, I was honest. I kept failing the tests. I was sick. Crazy. Unfit for society. I tried again and again. For some naive reason, I thought these professionals would be humane. I was wrong, once more.

I needed a gambit. A way to outmaneuver the slaves of order. And so I did.

I love playing games. I started to play the game once more. How to get the right reactions from my answers. The intonation of my voice. My posture. My mannerisms. Complete composure against adversity. Weaving a story of how I’d turn my life around. My cure came thanks to them. Of course, I was nothing if not for them. They were essential in my recovery.

Never underestimate the benefits of stroking someone’s ego.

They let me go with flying colors. My depression vanished. I had a shining future ahead of me. They considered me smart, witty, a go-getter. I did not care for the praise of monsters. In the end, only one thing mattered.

I was free.

How does this relate to religion? The burden of my self-destruction emanated from its discourse. Everything is wrong. Everything is sin. You are a flaw. Fixing you is impossible. You cannot solve your problems. Ask for forgiveness, that is all you can do.

At least, that was my view on religion until very recently. A resentful teenager incapable of forgiving. I am an adult now. I refuse to forget. I am willing to forgive.

And for that reason, I am willing to give faith a second chance. The onus is on them, not me. They must show me that there is worth behind their dogma. I will be there to witness their attempt.

Good luck, the Roman Catholic Church.