Saturday, May 14, 2016
If you have been reading my blog since the olden age of 2013, you might know that I went to a literary workshop. Scratch that. I go to a literary workshop. Yes, I've been wasting my time writing silliness for two years now, going on three.
Ricardo (fake name), the only dude in our very feminine sessions, is gay. He's also hilarious, very warm, and a great writer. I generally don't feel a need to specify someone's sexual interests, but I did it for two reasons: One, it's a big part of his identity in the sense that he's always talking about it. Two, it's relevant to the story.
Our homework this week was writing letters. I wrote a letter from the subway to the subway users. Javier's letter started with "Dear friend."
It talked about how close they had been. About all the hobbies they shared. About how he loved him.
I thought the letter was directed to his ex boyfriend. They had been a couple for seven years and only broken up a few months earlier.
When the letter ended, he broke into tears. Ina, our teacher, explained to whom and why the letter was written.
To his best friend, who died from an AIDS-related sickness a few days ago at the hospital. He was going to marry (the saccharine and legal Chilean version of gay marriage, though) his couple in the hospital on Tuesday. He died on Monday.
He told us his couple was the HIV carrier. They had been strictly monogamous.
I can't remember the last time I'd been so moved. Because it's so unfair that heterosexuals are less likely to go through shit like this, are less likely to get stigmatized like this. It's so unfair that love can hurt us, in ways one never expected it should.
And because the story was wrought with impotence and heartbreak.
I don't know why I'm telling you this, but I had to tell it to someone. Because HIV, although no longer a deadly disease, is expensive as fuck to treat, and expensive as fuck to carry around with your social baggage. Imagine knowing you have HIV and searching for a partner, a real partner whom to love and care for. Even if great people do live out there, who will be willing to sacrifice some aspects of sexual life for others of emotional life, the person who has to hunt for said person must suffer so much.
I'm being particularly inarticulate today, because this isn't an easy topic to be articulate with.
Love you guys,
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
I hate depressive blog entries. That is why I'm going to write a huge post about ALL THE DE ZINGS THAT I'M GONNA START DOING TO BE HAPPIER.
I'm gonna go do my nails done and I'm gonna spend quality time with my best friends. I'm gonna stop looking at my phone for hours on end. I'm gonna go to all my classes. I'm gonna force that smile.
I want to be happy.
But winter months make it so fucking hard.
Monday, May 9, 2016
It's time to get honest about bulimia.
I am bulimic. I have been for the past four years. Four years.
The great majority of the months within these four years I've kept it under control. Hardly ever binging-purging, maybe just once every few months, a rate that didn't really worry me. The first year was by far the worst. At some points I would purge several times a day. My throat would hurt for weeks on end. My nails were all chipped from the stomach acids. My teeth were starting to chip too.
The second year I discovered the oh so magical recipe for controlling something that I felt was by far beyond me: Eat healthy. Work out. Feel good about my body. And the past three years have been pretty controlled.
And yet I still say I am bulimic.
Because for the past year, I've been steadily gaining weight. It's been oh so long since I last checked the scale because I'm far too afraid to see the number that it will show. And the last two months, I've been eating like shit. Not just that, but I've been full on bingeing. Without the purging, because "I have it under control", you know.
But that doesn't last too long. Purging is addictive, sort of. You feel so great after having purged a horrible binge, one that you didn't really want and are not sure why you went through in the first place. Sure, you will pee a little bit on yourself, your throat will burn, your eyes will tear up, but that's only temporary. The emptyness in your stomach will thank you afterwards.
I cried on top of a toilet an hour ago. I'm crying right now. Writing through a blinding veil of tears.
It's not easy having an eating disorder. It's not easy feeling like you should be in control, like you're the one to blame, when you are a Psychology major and should know better.
I'm sick of feeling fat and not feeling in control of my relationship to food. I'm sick of feeling guilty and greasy all the time. I'm sick of people telling me I'm skinny when I unconsciously pick at my fat all day long, and know it's there. I'm sick of feeling like a horrible feminist and yet knowing that it's not true. The books tell me this isn't my fault.
I wish I could say "tommorow it all ends;" but I've said that so many times all ready that I no longer believe my own lies.
|The icy skies of winterland|
Do not get me wrong, dear reader. I am of the ardent spring 'n' summer lovers. But since I have no option and must live through the grey and boring winter months, might as well make the best of it.
I like the love that bed covers are wont to give you during the best eight hours of the day.
I like the singular richness of toast during winter, and the romance of its smell wafting through your sleepy senses.
I like hugs especially during these months.
And the pleasure of lazyness.
I like huge and lovingly knit scarves, coats with dainty buttons, smart boots, and sweaters with arms long enought to cover your knuckles upon insistence.
I like holding hands. But then I can like that through the sweaty summer months too.
I like the dancing rain on my rooftop, and the orchestrating wind on the trees.
Winter doesn't have to be too bad.
Monday, April 25, 2016
I am now in the know of the fact that I am a person challenged by severe stereotypes. Not in the "you're black, therefore you're violent" or "you're of Asian descent, therefore you must be an academic genius." But rather, of the "you're a rich and privileged white kid and dress like it, therefore you must be an insufferable piece of shallow trash" kind.
And I have discovered that rich, privileged, white girls and boys can be interesting, funny, intelligent, and think their own minds too.
Over and out,
Thursday, April 21, 2016
BUT THAT IS OVER. GONE. I AM THE TINDER GODDESS.
Anyhow, I've lost many an hour of sleep over Tider this past week, because it's just so much fun. Yet the first few hours where by far the most exhilerating, because, dear readers, I, Ana Ruiz, found the love of my life.
Or, sort of. At least I'm pretty infatuated, which is nice because Psychology majors tend to hang out with other vagina-ridden Psychology majors, and I miss my daily dose of penis attraction.
To the point: This guy's an architect, which, let's be honest, is oh so sexy. And this guy, in some sort of "I'm flirting with a stranger" maneuver is really emphatic about his work and sends me pictures of his diagrams and crap and I understand NOTHING.
Fast forward: Today I was flipping through a magazine, and an article about architecture showed up. I would generally never read something like this, in spite of the fact that I do aprecciate them pretty buildings and hate on them ugly ones, but now I was really intrigued and started reading. A few paragraphs in, I realized how ridiculous I was being, laughed, and turned the page.
Truth: I am, up to a point, a mashup of all the interest my crushes have had. These past few months I've been really into philosophy because that's what the guy I dated last year digged. In eighth grade, I became a pubertal punkhead, listening to Metallica & Co, because that's what the guy I liked digged. In fourth grade (that is, eherm, ten years old), I became a fan of a soccer team that I would never have payed attention to where it not for the fact that it was my current crush's team.
What the fuck.
Do I have no personality? Am I just a hole where my romantic interests deposit their current interests? AM I THAT OF A SUCKY FEMINIST?
Well, no. The music I've been the most passionate about, I started loving on my own (in spite of the fact that I did fall hopelessly in love for a guy that liked exactly the same music.) I've always been a bookworm, and there's a slight chance that I might find fellow bookworms to be a turn-off. Most certainly feminism was something that came from the contagiousness of Rookie, and my ideals where of my own making (and of the needs of the people and the proletariat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!).
But, honestly. Thank the beautiful Lord that I'm generally into interesting guys because I'm apparently prone to liking what they do, and it would suck an awful lot that I were induced into liking douchey shit like partying or whatever. Thankfully I'm into guys that like philosophy. (Please do note the irony.)
Over and out, much love to y'all,
Ana <3 div="">3>
Saturday, April 9, 2016
The girl you see in the picture above is me, Ana Ruiz, a psychology student.
"Whatever happened to Law! Or to Literature! When the fuck did you get the notion that you wanted to be a psychologist."
Dear readers, the truth:
I started Law School (remember, the Chilean system works differently) about a year and a half ago in the midst of an agonizing existential crisis where I was like oh fudge my ideals where arst thou, where ist all that I've thought to be true. Who are my friends, what do I want.
I knew NOTHING, so I joined Law School and even sort of liked it. There were a few points of my 2015 that were thrilling. And I learned oh so fucking much.
But I did not want to be a lawyer. I sort of still wanted to study Law, 'cause I was having a fun time and 'cause I was learning so much, but I did not want to be a lawyer. (In spite of the fact that I don't believe that lawyers are suit-wearing thugs. They're actually very important in the making of a just society.)
Anyhoo, I also knew that I no longer wanted to be a writer and teacher. Just because I didn't. It does not appeal to me at all.
And it clicked.
It's a topic that I'm truly interested about, and it gives me a chance to do some good unto the world, AND, I get to work with kids, which are my very favorite thing and the reason I wanted to be a teacher in the first place.
I am extremely happy that I took this decision, but, boy, does starting university twice SUCK.
Much love to the readership,
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Today I broke up with a guy I'd been dating for about half a year. It wasn't a real break up, because it wasn't a real relationship. (Not much physicality. No formalities. Just the shared knowledge that we weren't just friends.)
I'm not a break-uper. I'm a "please get the message"er. But, along the road of maturity, a little bit of enlightenment has come upon me: It is better to get broken up with than to be ignored endlessly. It is at least less awkward.
So I """broke up""" with a guy with which I'd only kissed. I sort of felt like I owed him that and wanted to spare the awkwardness of future encounters in a tiny country such as Chile.
I'm just not that involved in this, and I thought it would be unfair to continue stringing you along.
It was quick, it was easy, and I was a little bit too happy about that while he wallowed over his coffee. Oh bitchy unsensitive me.
Alas! Lesson learned: One must break up.
Even if one is not sure why one is breaking up.
Even if one faintly suspects that one has severe psychological traumas that will not allow us to settle.
Even if one suspects that said psychological trauma has left us pining for the same guy who does not love us back for a number of years.
Bye, lovely readers,
Thursday, March 3, 2016
This school year I will have lots o' time, for reasons that deserve a blog post on their own.
Unlike most people, I hate free time. It makes me feel guilty and useless. But for two consecutive years I've read oh too little and this is my opportunity to get up to date with all the books I've bought at fairs and never read.
If you would like to add to this list, please do. I love book recommendations.
- Eichmann in Jersualem by Hannah Arendt
- Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
- The Dinner by Hermann Koch
- The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith
- I want to read essays so that I might replicate the arguments and seem smart during debates.
- The Hunting Gun by Yasushi Inoue
- Literature Classes by Julio Cortázar
- Poetry! By Edna St. Vincent Millay, Sylvia Plath, Mary Oliver, Emily Dickinson, and all the gals that prove that poetry is wiser when written with feminine pens, and fuck all of my gender principles on this one.
Remember: I love recommendations!
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
You guys might have noticed that I'm Chilean. Fact: In Chile the school year starts in March, so 2016 feels like it really started today. And I want 2016 to rock. In fact, I'm full of goals and plans for this beautiful blog.
But right now I'm burning up in fever. Send noodles.
For now, I'm just going to say that because I sucked at posting every day during Febs, I'm gonna try to do it in March, but a notch more elaborate than just a bunch of pseudo-philosophical pseudo-poetical posts.
Love ya guys.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Why do people take pictures of the art at museums.
It makes no sense.
Neither does the way we pursue the ocean and then shriek at its cold touch.
Neither does the way we imprison ourselves in claustrophobic rooms to ride stationery bicycles and hate it every step of the way.
But seriously, why do people take pictures of art at museums.
Options: To upload it to social media. To have and to hold within their phone's memory. To manifest physically the aprecciation for something as abstract as aesthetical pleasure.
Why do people take pictures of art at museums.
It makes no sense.
And I like it that way.
Not everything has to make sense.
Not even human behaviour.
Particularly, not human behaviour.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
Some boys are so perfect. And yet they commit the imperfection of just not captivating you.
Some boys are highly imperfect. And yet they haunt your brainspace so often that they start defying your natural human egotism and its tendency to only think about its own self, forever.
Sometimes you fall in love. You laugh at how ridiculous it all is.
Because you can fall in love with the drugaddict
The dude that kisses like a slob
The one that is ugly as shit
The narcissitic nerd fuck
The one that's never ever spoken to you
The one that makes you suffer ever so much
And yet you love them.
You know what I find alarming about this? I've only fallen in love with five boys in my life.
And I'm afraid I love each of 'em still.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Things taste different when had under starlight. And by “taste“ I mean feel, look, hear, impress.
Thoughts appear like vivid realities. We think it to be an actual possibility that we'll read all the books and then somehow learn ourselves out of being flat and predictable people.
Theaters work their magic at nighttime. So do jazz concerts. We get drunk and high when the sunlight is gone partly because we have hope during those hours that this will somehow lead unto charmingly funny stories.
Insomnia hits at night not because those are the times when we are supposed to sleep, but because they are the times when we dream the most.
Food tastes better, in spite of our knowledge about how calories kick the hardest when you don't have a number of hours of activity to burn them through.
Kissing feels less awkward. In fact, it feels sorta magical. The saliva on your chin isn't as terrible. Your Mom is less likely to recognize you if she drives through that park.
You feel thinner and your pimples tend to dissappear.
Revolution appears attainable and doesn't even scare you.
Life seems wonderful.
And then the sun comes up.
Good news: It can sometimes be pretty cheersome during the day.
Monday, February 1, 2016
I‘m watching Twin Peaks and craving more David Lynch. I also watched The Revenant and Hateful Eight to find them, erm, sufferable. Sad fall for my Tarantino love.
Listening to a lot of reggeaton. Not at all classy or hipstery as my previous pop culture life dimensions. In case your anglo butt doesn‘t know what I‘m talking about, think Pitbull, or Google search Daddy Yankee, Don Omar, Nicky Jam. Guilty pleasure much.
On the subject of podcasts, one called Marxism Today. Dear readers, this is one high browed and very beautifully left winged blog writer you have here.
Ah, yes, I‘m writing this entry from the lands of Spain. You know, where rain falls mellow on the plain.
I wanted to write an entry a day during February, just like last year, but I‘m thinking this Spain thing is going to make it a little bit harder than I thought.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Lists give Ana the illusion of efficiency, happyness, and control. Here are a number of lists that Ana and the readers of yours trully could enjoy elaborating:
1) To do
2) Things I‘m greatful for
3) People I love the most and can trust unconditionally
4) Memories that make me happy
5) What I love about my body
6) Things my dream home would have
7) How to be a better person
8) How to be an interesting person
9) How to make life interesting
10) 16 concrete things to do in 2016
11) 16 Abstract goals for 2016
12) Books to read before some pseudo intelectual asks me if I‘ve read it
13) Things I want to learn
14) Instruments I would love to play
15) Places where I can‘t die withot having had sex at
16) Bad habits that I must quit
17) Movies that I must watch before some pseudo intellectual asks me what I thought about them
18) How to be happy
19) How to make your mother happy
20) How to make this world a better place
Any suggestions or additions my beloved readers would care to make?
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
One of my dearest friend's birthdays was coming up, and so were a million due dates.
We were High School seniors
which entailed a "privilege" where we could leave school during lunch hour,
on the condition that we would be back by the start of our next class.
I had a wonderful idea but a million due dates.
1) Skip class that day. Mom and Dad shouldn't know about this, so I woke up at the normal, heart-breaking hour of 6.30 am, put on my school uniform, but rode my bike to a nearby Starbucks instead of the institution that expected me.
2) Breaking the rules is fun. Starbucks isn't. Working on a History paper during the wee hours isn't either.
3) At 11 am, I rode my bike to a nearby supermarket. I bought frosting, muffins, lots of sweets and salts, a birthday crown, candles.
4) At 11.30 am, I called the pizza parlor. They had a 2x1 deal but on the condition that I went to the store to get my cheese 'n' sauce covered bread.
5) At 12 pm, I was back home, frosting the muffins, puffing into balloons.
6) I wasn't there to give complete faith of it, but the story goes that five other friends kidnapped my friend June and brought her to my house on a friend's car. The story makes sense, as that was the plan I had so astutely connived. June was blindfolded and had no idea where she was going.
7) June arrived at my home.
8) We sang happy birthday and ate lots of crap.
9) That night, we got shitfaced and all Friendshiplandia lived happily ever after.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
My sweet ole mother says she imagines her life's twilight in a retirement home, sharing a room with her sister (who has impeccable taste and will make of retirement-home-life oh so exquisite.) All of this is biologically unlikely, as my dad has got far better life-expectancy genes than my mom.
Old age is not something that worries me at 20.
But then, if I could choose
at an old age I would have a bunchload of grandchildren, a beach house, or maybe a country house, I'd still be working but at an easy pace. Hopefully I'll no longer live in Chile.
Honestly, I think I want it to be pretty much the same life I'm going to have at 20, 30, 40, and 50. Sweet, surrounded by people and places I love, and relatively busy.
What about you?
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Monday, December 14, 2015
These are pictures of scrapbook pages I made in yonder the times of 9th grade. A time of obsession for the stuff.
We all go through said obsessions. The itch to create, to feel that some way or another we are leaving a mark on the world, is almost universal. Some do it through enviable Instagram pages, some through beautifully threaded poems, some through mindfucking academia, some 16 year old Anas do it cutting and pasting paper and pictures into scrapbook pages.
I spent so much time and money on scrapbooking. It can seem ridiculous.
But the obsessed know that there's no such thing.
Anyhow, I've begun a summer journal and apparently my hands have lost the knack of creativity because omg it's looking ugly. I resorted to Tumblr for help and created a page dedicated solely to papery inspiration ( prettyjournaling.tumblr.com ) and all along I feel like I should stop dedicating stupid time to paper things that not even I see and just share shtuff with you guys. <3 br="" nbsp=""> Anyways, if you can redirect me to help or help me yourselves with the journaling thangs I would be thankful.