Sunday, August 24, 2014


From Tumblr, I need to start taking pictures again.
I used to have a friend called Luna. That's Spanish for "moon." It was funny because her face payed homage to her name; it was spherical, round, yet happy. The happy part didn't pay any homage. I guess I'm not painting a pretty portrait of her, what with the roundness and the spherical and the way that most handsome people are miserable (right?), but she was beautiful. I've seldom had friends as alluring and blossomy as she was.

But then we both changed schools and I became a left-winged feminist and she became a non-politicized general bloom-a-berry child. And that was that.

The other day I had to recite a poem in my school's yearly Poetry Affair. (I don't know how to translate it.) Although I had practiced my poem like mad, I got it all wrong, and forgot it. I knew I was going to forget it, because I'm bad at memorizing and reciting and that kind of things, but I love acting and stages. It's okay though, because the day that I get a poem perfectly recited, I'm going to be a ton happier than I would've been with several good recitations.

And maybe it was because my turn was right after a girl in my class that has a stuttering problem. And she got up there, and recited anyways. And it was heart-wrenching and one was awed with the courage of it all and then I wanted to cry because I was nervous with my recitation that wasn't as beautiful as the stuttered recitation anyways.

And this gloomy Sunday I sit on my bed waiting for my sore throat to ease into normality again, and this gloomy Sunday I wish that the boy with the blue eyes and the strong arms and the perfect smile -the perfect boy who has led me on for a whole year- will finally let my heart calm itself a bit. And I'm sad and I want to cry but I have no tears and perhaps I wrote all of the rest just because I didn't want to write this.


Friday, August 15, 2014


I'm sorry about the shit quality of the pictures but they're from Facebook.

That, the man in the picture above, is my cousin.

He is a man of conviction, but he is also a man of dreams. He would kill me if he knew that I'm sharing these pictures my blog, but he would never suspect I have this blog. (Because the feeling that I should share this piece of internetia with my real-life people died out a few years ago.)

A few years ago, my cousin was the studdest of studs but then he let his hair and belly grow because he isn't going to fight against natural occurrences.

Like the need to wander.

He's leaving on Wednesday -that's four or five days from now- on a very long and very undefined trip through South America, with nothing but a couple of his favourite books, his guitar, a scrap of money and the bare necessities. 

He told us -you know, the family- about his plans, because that kind of thing were you go all Into the Wild on your family is not exactly pleasant, and I swear, he's such a good person, he'd never do a thing like that.

But I bet at times he wishes he wouldn't have told anyone, for they all fight. My whole family is constantly fighting against him, against his current, they're the dams in the river of his existence and now I'm going to stop this sentence because it's starting to get mushy.

I bet he wishes he hadn't told anyone because they argued. Why South America, the continent in which you've lived in your whole life? Why alone? Why now? Why don't you visit the Galapagos with us, when we go there in a few weeks? Bla bla bla.

And yet, I understand him.

And my soul will travel with him.

Because I can't go. Not now, at least.

I will be the stride in his feet and the lice in his hair because he is living out the one dream that I suspect I'll never be able to fill out.

Leaving. Alone. With destiny as your path.

Because I'm a girl. And I can get raped, you know. And maybe I don't even have the convictions.

Yay patriarchy.

I hope he uploads some pictures, but I bet he won't.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

The Human Body

Because I am an absolutely self centered human being and because I want my Europe pictures to be useful for reasons other than Instagram and because I want my face to appear ocassionally on this blog, I am posting pictures of myself. If I were a serious blogger, though, I'd be posting pictures like these:

Real ""artistic"" pictures yippy yow.

Because I want to talk about the human body: Its curves and imperfections, decorations and concavities, secrets and whispers, growths and stabilities.

Let's think about it for a moment. Let's, also, suppose that everything has a spirit. Would you dare tell me that a snowflake possesses no spirit, nor the rain, nor the sea? That a little soul doesn't hide behind a book, that a blanket doesn't hug you at the end of the day?

However, the snowflake will fall and it possesses no will over it's falling and melting and evaporating into the air once again. And the sea might will with all its might to quit the swaying and just stand still, but gosh, no amount of adderall will help it stop fidgeting. And yet

us humans have been gifted a body with limbs and tiny fingers on our feet to walk and traipse the Earth

and yet

some people


to be


of it?

I wish we could all be naked all the time, embrace ours and other's bodies and understand that part of the world's beauty, resides in our perfect imperfections too.


PS. I seriously wrote this sober. What the fuuuudge.

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

What is life?

I'll tell you what.

Life is not confined within four walls, within the inoffensive colours of your school's preference, it is not a chronometered race against procrastination with the next project's due date as the finish line.

Life is out there.

Life is to touch, life is to look, life sprouts from our innermost.

I don't want my life to be a race.

I don't want my sweat to lead the way into college and sweat to be my parting gift out of college and to use this sweat in search of a job.

I don't want to live with my eyes set on vacations, the few days a year when I actually live.

I appreciate education but this is just nuts. I appreciate learning but this is not learning. I'm not going to learn here. I'm going to learn there, out there, with the grass on my heels and the wind in my hair. I have palms that need to embrace a lot more than just pens.

I have music and I have words and I have human touch. (Oh! That human touch. Nowadays I wonder more than ever, why we can't leave at touch and proceed to fists and slams, why why why...)

I have life within me, waiting for spring, waiting for vacations, waiting for dancing and running and smiling and laughing.

But I don't want to wait.

Life is not a line, it's not the minutes before a dentist's appointment. And why does it have to be so hard?

Saturday, July 19, 2014


Saludos from Europa

Un abrazo

(What souvenir would my beloved readers prefer? Refrigerator magnet? Pencil holder? Postcard? Nice Greek boy with a butt as good as the one from The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants?)

More updates when I am safe and bored in Santiago de Chile.

Friday, June 27, 2014

I have to go to the gym

But I'm tired so I'll blog instead.


  • Tests next week.
  • Tired me.
  • Surviving me.
  • Europe during vacations.
  • Europe during vacations!
  • Istambul during vacations <3 li="">
  • Tan need
  • Very pimple
  • Very fat
  • Very hair
  • Why hair?
  • Ugly hair
  • Tired me
  • Surviving me
  • Yupee

Hey, I'm like a burgeoning poet or whatever.


Sunday, June 22, 2014

Is anybody out there?


Blog readers? I think I miss you guys.


(Pretty pictures anyone? Maybe that will make you like me again?)

I really miss blogging. But then, I really miss reading, writing, taking pictures, all of that stuff in general. So, yeah.

My love-hate relationship with school and the IB diploma in general. Sigh.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Because I Can and Will

In lieu of the history project I have to turn in by 12:00 and of the math test the size of Kanye West's penis I have tommorow, what could be better than creating a

List of My Favorite 10 Books Evahr
(not in chronological, logical, likeability or rockability order)

  1. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
  2. Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
  3. Metaphysics of the Tubes by Amélie Nothomb*
  4. Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
  6. A Tale of Love and Darkness by Amos Oz
  7. Blindness by José Saramago
  8. Looking for Alaska by John Green
  9. The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa
  10. Rookie Yearbook by TAVEHY
Who says it just has to be 10? It's MY list

    11. Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett
    12. Of Human Bondage by William Somerset Maugham
    13. Lés Misarablés by Victor Hugo

I REPEAT, they're not in order. That would declare one of them my absolute favourite, which is unfair.

Because nothing has shaped me as Anne of Green Gables.

Scarred me like Blindness.

Thrilled me like Metaphysics of the Tubes.

Blessed me like Siddhartha.

Transported me like A Tale of Love and Darkness.

Enthralled me like Waiting for Godot.




PS. Not to mention the illustrated books that I continue to read today! I mean, had I included them, the list would be twice as long.

*Note: You won't find this book on Amazon, or anywhere, under this name. It's official name is The Character of the Rain which is a poo poo translation. It's real name is Metaphysics of the Tubes.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Zrsly Dprzd

I was sitting on the cold bathroom linoleum, jacking off to an Etgar Keret story about how he lost his virginity. (Trying not to make any noise, of course.) It's not that his story had turned me on, but rather, that I enjoy paying attention to other things while I masturbate; I study, watch videos, read or scroll through feeds with one hand and play with my vagina with the other.

Etgar Keret is one of my favourite authors, because he has an unexpected way of writing; yet it wasn't his sex anecdote that turned me on.

I was horny because I had gained weight in the last few months, because the added weight had made my face look like a Jackson Pollock painting, because I feel unloved and García Márquez has me thinking that love is stupid because you'll feel lonely anyhow, and because I had been reading health articles in which masturbation figured.

I was also horny because I've been watching a lot of Gossip Girl lately, and that's got me living vicariously through the glamorous life that I don't have. The beautiful lives of the rich and famous being spied upon the ugly lives of the rest.

And when I see the wannabe-writer character in Gossip Girl, Dan, I realize that writing about my own life is stupid, and will take me nowhere. Even though he is probably the character I could relate to the most, I don't, because he's a stupid ass and pretentious intellectual bitch.

So I think Gosh, when I write, I should write about spectacular things.

Not about how I was masturbating on the bathroom linoleum because I felt despicable about myself.

Not about how I got drunk and high on Wednesday night and made a complete fool of myself and want to eliminate my presence on this Earth and never see anybody again.

I shouldn't write about my bulimia, my harmful relationship with chocolate, my addiction to homework as a means of escaping reality, my death-hurrying procrastination.

I shouldn't write about my life, because my life is no fun.

I should, instead, write about glamorous and adventurous lives, ones unlike mine. About people that have fun and unpredictable friends, unlike mine. About pretty places and fresh air and the sun and the moon and all the clouds in between.

The world is beautiful somewhere, just not here.

(I wouldn't write about me anyhow, because I'm sick of people only caring about themselves, a characteristic to which I'm the guiltiest.)

Thursday, April 24, 2014

A Journal

"What is a blog exactly?"
"Uh, it's like an online journal."
"And people actually read that?"
"Uhm... I guess"

That, in fact, was a conversation with myself.

An online journal, huh. So I like, talk about myself.

that sounds like I have a huge ego and I just might but it's not the kind of thing you go on promoting about yourself so please don't read it that way.

On Instagram: (dude, I think the 100happydays shit is really working. Like, what the fuck. Freud and the Dalai Lama have taken over IG.)

On Tumblr:

And on Snapchat (@anaruizbooger), Whatsapp, like, all that shit.

My Mom is getting really mad at all my cussing.

I get mad when she calls it "unfeminine."

I gave her a sunflower yesterday.

They're my favourite flower.

Yesterday, in Catalunia, was Love Day; and people gifted each other books and flowers.


Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Weekend Like Smoke

I will let this weekend vanish like smoke.

Into a dark sky of stories and of sleep.

I will let this weekend froth
and burst
and there will be music
and there will be colour
and pictures
(yes! I'll take pictures
to upload here)

I'm going to be happy,
I swear.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014


I love autumn.

And naps.

And I really love chocolate cake.

And soccer.

I love my Mom.

And I love children.

I love being loved, and I'm trying to be loved, and it's hard, but I'm going to keep on trying.

I love Tumblr.

I love naps.

Did I already say that?

I really do love naps.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

New Horizons

One of those treasures that the internet gifts us with at occasional times, which we, mortals and ungrateful, save with no respect for its origins.
Warning: The really important part about this blog post is at the end. Either cut to the chase or please stick around, I really want you to read it.

Hello Bloglandia. I miss you guys. Seriously.

I want to blog all day and post pictures and have internet friends and get comments and get really exited over stats and share and write and see things about the world I didn't see previously. Because when you're a blogger everything is blogging content and honesttogosh, that makes you see things.

For example, I'm listening to a beautiful 8tracks classical music mix. It's music you feel in your bones and stomach. (Which is what I love about music with no lyrics. It is pure feeling, and complete inconsideration for rationality and all that crap that I'm sick of.)

Also, I cut my hair. Because my innards feel different than what they did in my long hair times, my exterior needs to show it too.


Here goes the important part!!!

And although I have an absolute lack of time what with all the breathing I have to do, I started a new project!!

It's called "Tumblr's Library" or "The Stories Behind This" and what I'm trying to do is writing maximum 300 word microstories inspired on cool Tumblr pics.


Toodles and love,

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Hey, I Miss This


Therefore *read in Darth Vader voice*:

I'll be baaAAaaack.

Thursday, February 13, 2014


This was going to be a post titled "Things I'm Currently In Love With" but it gave way to an emotion that I'm having a harder time with as of now.

Fear > Love

Because I'm loving the sea, and the blue summer skies, and my new Zenit camera, and all the great books I'm reading.

But I'm afraid that the weather is determined to make my seas and skies grey, and that all of the pictures in my new/old Zenit camera will turn out too white, and that I'll never write a book as great as the ones I'm reading.

I'm afraid of all this, and of more.

I'm afraid of death. Not of death for me, but of death for my loved ones, and how painful it can be for them and for those who love them in turn. I don't want anybody to suffer. I want everybody to smile.

I'm afraid of the death of blogging. It's imminent. It's been imminent ever since I started my first blog back in 2008. It's just the platform that I've always loved the most, so it's hard for me to say the hardest two words. Ka boom. Grande finale. Good bye.

I'm afraid of my lack of talent. This is my last year in High School, and I need to choose. I'm smart enough to choose the safe path -medicine- and yet I wonder how happy I would be with it. Would I be happy at all? Does it matter whether I would be happy or not, if I can be saving people's lives?

Ka boom. Grande finale. Good bye.

The end is near for this blog, and I need to start thinking of what on Earth I'll do now. Tumblr? Twitter? Maybe I could keep this old guy up for the sake of my own fun? But is it any fun anymore, with the pressure of I'm never doing things well enough?



I always thought when my favorite bloggers said farewell "do they know how stupid they're being? How great they are, how much we love them? They could just keep at it in a more mellow fashion, and we will keep on loving them still."
It's so easy to think
and so hard to act.

I'm 18
going on 19
and not angsty anymore.
Ka boom.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Just My Luck

My parents and I a few years ago.

When G-d assigned roles to newborns one 1995, he decided to bless me. A blessing that consisted of my entering the world through the vag of a strong, saintly woman and with half the genetic data of a strong, intelligent man.

I was blessed with my parents.

However; I do not feel this way all the time. It might be the usual fluorescent adolescent blues, but I tend to feel special in my particular shade of blue.

For example: My parents are both MDs, internationally recognized as outstanding in their fields. (I'm currently obsessed with Grey's Anatomy so this sounds fairly more exciting than it usually does to me.)

And yet I think I want to major in Literature, perhaps minoring in Anthropology. In fact, I'm pretty sure -even if Grey's Anatomy has me lightly second-thinking it all.

I'm having a hard time pinpointing the problem, but here it goes, straight out of the fingers currently roving a patient keyboard:

My parents are very different from what I am. Maybe, in 20 or 30 year's time, I will discover that this is not as true as I thought it to be. However, right now, it feels like while they are both genius, outstanding doctors, I'm a weird child who likes to fingerpaint on the walls of her bedroom. They are decided right-wing and I'm an avowed feminist who likes to read Eric Hobsbawm. I don't believe in modesty or at shying away from showcasing your body, and I generally dress in at least four different colours at the same time.

And I want to study Literature. You know, that's the major that gets tons of bullying on Tumblr and Twitter. 

It's hard for me, because at times I feel that my parents slow down my race. For example, they don't know that I write a blog. Therefore, in the VERY HYPOTHETICAL case that I had the talent of Tavi Gevinson, would I be able to do all that she has done? Without their support?

Thankfully, it's been over a year since I gave up on trying to get their approval. Like most good first-borns, I seriously didn't want them to think ill of me. Now I'm more aware that a parent's love doesn't work like that, however, the dregs of this type of thought process remain.

I'm 18. I've mentioned on this blog how I feel the pressure of time against me.

Because I want to write! And live off my writing! Write something great! Yet SE Hinton wrote The Outsiders at 16, Pablo Neruda wrote his most famous poem when he was my age, Tavi was famous by the age of 14, and just look at that Lorde! Am I running out of time?

So should I be resentful of my parents for dragging me down? Because I do not dare to be the full-fledged bohème and artist that I could be for fear of hurting their more conservative spirits?

Answer: No. Because I was blessed with them.

One step at a time, and I'm sure I'll get wherever I want to. I trust that if I work hard and am essentially a good person, I will get where I want to. About the rest; my parents will have to understand me, and I will have to understand them.


PS. For another great article on a similar topic from one more knowing than I am, please check out:

Thursday, January 30, 2014

A Call To Arms

In my last post, I outlined a certain disenchantment with blogging as of late. I thought it was natural; part of a cycle that most bloggers have to go through.

But is it probable that there was no more to it?


In the past weeks, I've thought about what I value in others and in myself. Funny? Intelligent? Trustworthy? Nope, I think it's good.

I've met few people in my lengthy 18 years those that constantly place others before themselves, that believe in the power of a smile. You know, people that work towards making of this world a better place to live in. (Gosh I'm afraid I'm cheezier than a Pizza Hut commercial.) Most of us just look at our own belly buttons all day long and sigh about our troubles. (Example close at hand: "I just can't find anything to blog about!")

Anyways, there is something about TED talks that is not only inspiring but also epiphany-inducing. I saw the one above and it left me thinking, and thinking led to blogging.

I love taking pretty pictures and communicating my feelings here; but I don't feel this is enough.

I don't want my life to be about pretty images and fun moments. I don't want my life to be a collection of diverting amusements and so for the days to pass.

I want to actually do something. To contribute to the greater good, putting my penny of energy into the world's collective so that it rotates at least a bit more in the positive sense afterwards.

I'm sick of the illy frilly blogging. I'm done with it. (I understand now, too, that that is the blogging of blog views and blog readers. I do NOT spend hours on this shimmagadig for something as nonchalant as that.)

It's not like I'm this oh-so-deep personage who doesn't care about colors and fashion and pretty things. I just don't think that this is what my life is centered around. And my blog shouldn't either.


Edited to add: I just read this entry again and I'm feeling a little bit disgusted about myself. Reaaaally cheezy.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

I'm Afraid My Blog Is Getting Boring

I don't know what the matter with me is. I can't seem to pull any good content. I could blame it on my lack of photographic utensils, but perhaps it's not that.

I really want to get back onto the blogging wheel.

For now, I leave you with my favorites as of now from my tumblr ( ). I get a strange amount of pleasure out of how exquisite my tumblr is. Everything's perfectly balanced and to my taste.

I wish my relationship with the blog could be the same.

What do you do when you're on a blogging rut? Perhaps my beautiful readers could help me out.

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