Friday, November 14, 2014
Sunday, November 9, 2014
|Cereal-eating morning face yum yum.|
Fuad is the name my friends and I have designed to express our contempt over subject of choice. In this case, birthdays.
Yesterday I turned 19, which is not only old, but unromantic, unspectacular, uncool, uneverything.
Not only that, but it fell on a Saturday -a Saturday in the midst of IB exams, where half of my best friends weren't in Santiago because of some seminar or whatever, and the other half were not going out because of said exams.
And in spite of all the Saturdayishness, I had a test that morning.
So, in summary, I cried all morning long.
But in the evening my parents took me to a smallish restaurant with my bestish friend and I ordered exoticish food and we laughed and it was nice and I sort of forgot that it was my birthday and I liked it.
Morale: The worse you can be is alone. People actually have the tendency to make you happy. People that love you, anyways.
happy birthday to me
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
|Pictures from my trip to San Pedro de Atacama.|
Nothing quite as poetic as quoting David Guetta on your blog post title.
A pity, because I inteded this post to be somewhat lyrical.
I had in mind a start such as "Above all dream jobs, I treasure the dream of being a teacher." After that, I planned on listing some of my other dream jobs, such as being a famous writer or a florist. And then I would assure every one of you that, although making a living amid flowers is probably the quaintest thing on Earth, above all, I want to be a teacher.
Because I want to dedicate my life to something that I can be 1000% sure is contributing to the good in humanity, if such a thing dares to exist anyhow.
And how, as substitution for the quaintness of the flower shop, I might leave Santiago to become a country teacher such as Anne from Anne of Green Gables (but really Anne of Avonlea and Anne of Windy Poplars), and, oh, I would dye my hair red once and for all and paint the Annish freckles on with a sharpie. And I hope I would give a fuck that in all probability no pupil of mine would be the Great Minds that I would find in the metropolis because Chile's centralized and shit happens.
But, oh, I would be happy. Stealing away to the Great North or the Small North (I swear they're regions in Chile) and scorching under the rays forever amidst the sand.
Hey, it did turn out somewhat lyrical.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Clean up ye olde blogge.
When the fudge did it get so ugly?
Aye doesn't this sound like a Medieval poem.
Pretty picture found above to compensate fuglyness.
'Tis of ye olde bio field trippe.
Aye but field trips 'twas things of the past.
Senior year's a-come to the tomb.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
|Best series known to man or what.|
Perhaps the most nerve-wrecking aspect of turning 19 in a month and graduating from High School in two is the clock-at-midnight feel of time's over.
Not just for my beloved uniform-wearing, Lolita*-feeling hallway catwalks, but because I've always really, really wanted to be part of a teenage rock band and now I'll quickly be left solely with the prospect of an adult rock band.
With all due respect to my beloved elders, it just sounds less cool.
Perhaps my musical aspirations began with Lane from Gilmore Girls. What the heck, that's where it actually began and probably that is what still nourishes it. In fact, Gilmore Girls was pretty much an important factor in my whole transition from Billboard music aficionada to The Smiths junkie.
And perhaps my musical incursions haven't been scarce, but I still suck. No musical talent within me whatsoever. Fine, I can play the guitar, and I can sing, but it's not like music comes easy to my fingers or throat or lips or whatever music-producing body part you wish.
BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER THE DUDE FROM RANCID HAD A HORRIBLE VOICE AND HEY HE'S THE DUDE FROM RANCID ANYWAYS.
The part I hate the most is that my school besties have this really popular school band called The Magic Ponies (in fact), and when I say "popular" I'm not being a pubertal snob but just honest. Like, kids have begged them for selfies, signatures, whatnot.
(Yes, popular within my school's fences, but still.)
And I've begged them to let me in and they've refused every single fucking time.
Which is sort of mean.
So I asked my acoustic guitar to come with me, charged my uterus with all the estrogen and progesterone that my girl power could provide, and signed myself up for a school concert.
Thank you, Chilean folk music, for not being particularly hard to execute in spite of your beauty. Apparently, I did fine, which is finer, because I'm probably never doing something like that again.
*I romanticize Lolita, obviously not because of the pedophile part (which is particularly nauseating given the horrible cases of pedophile priests found in my country lately) but because of the undeniably awesome aesthetics of the movie and book.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Although I was ruminating over a more profound writing topic last night, as is normal, I forgot what it was. (Perhaps my fight on maternity as an imposition with my Dad? Who, by the way, is exemplar proof that you can have an academic, intellectual, cultured individual with the mind-set of a XIV century peasant.) So, as with other aspects of life, when in doubt as to your writing topic, food it is!
Yes, I have a decent BMI and whatnot, but my relationship to food is complex, bla bla. Whatever, I wanted to talk about how food accompanied by travel makes for the best dish in the world.
With all due respect to my daily meals, cafeteria meals and flakes for breakfast are in no way, no how, comparable to the frijoles negros con arroz that I lived on in Brazil, the Turkish candy from, yes, Istambul, or the tihina in Israel.
Yay for exotic food.
My Mom can complain about her eldest's eating habits to her heart's content, but I'm going for the XL portions of bananas fritas con quinoa as many times as necessary to make me sick.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Monday, September 29, 2014
Let me tell you why good grades don't define intelligence.
Because I get good grades, and because I am stupid.
I am stupid because I leave everything up to the last possible second and then I get irregular heart beats and can't think because I'm sleepy and then I can't sleep even if I've only slept four hours in the last two days, so I have to start drinking liquor and stealing Dad's sleeping pills, and pretending that I'm mortally stomack-sick so that I can skip school, when I'm only just nervous up to the diarreah bits and honestly it's all my fault.
The kind where, if you don't actually fall asleep, you know, you sort of get a very weird trip. Now, I've never done hard drugs but honestly they can't be weirder than this one.
Hallucinations, random thinking processes, doing things you'll regret, you've got the tidy party movie checklist.
And that part about doing things you'll regret takes you to Chatroulette and then you take off your clothes and next thing you know you're masturbating to a stranger from California doing so to you.
But seriously what the fuck was I doing.
And now the thought of my pictures getting on a porn page haunt me, and what's worse, it might haunt me for, say, eight years and just when I thought the thing couldn't possibly happen now, bam, everybody has pictures of me jacking off.
The part I hate the most is that one where I really always defended girls who took naked pictures and shit, they had all the right to do so, the people who sucked were those who shared and those who forwarded.
And even so, I hate myself for doing something so stupid and now I'm all scared and thinking about the multiple ways I should just enjoy the moment now that people haven't seen how abnormally huge my clitoris is.
But I can't because I've got an IB Diploma to finish.
Oh I wish I had made this story up.
Friday, September 12, 2014
*Let's lighten up the mood of the last post with a very happy one*
For a long time, Brazil stood upon my configuration of happy places as a very happy place. I lived in a daze of hot romance with bossa nova, caipirinhas, soccer, but particularly bossa nova. AND HORRAY I GOT TO GO TO BRAZIL LAST WEEK.
The catch is that I went to Sao Paulo for a youth-movement related trip, so I had to work some, but who cares, it's Brazil. (Sao Paulo is part of the catch because it's anything but a touristic adventure; it's a concrete jungle a few hundred miles away from any beach of appeal.)
Unfortunately, as the procrastinating IB student that I am, I didn't have any time or energy to sit down and write this post until I forgot a decent percentage of what I had to say. Like, I had something or two planned about the day we went to a live-music venue, where an infernally energetic and happy man played all sorts of brazilian music and the crowd meshed into strands of alive, happy, dancing and kicking people. And I had one or two things planned about the bar where we went to drink caiprinhas, and where a beautiful woman sang bossa nova, and I just felt myself as if a-floating in dreamland. (It wasn't due to the caipirinhas though. Dude, caipirinhas suck.)
Or the way that travelling with adolescent males means that you will get ten times more knocked out on food than traveling with female friends. At least that was the case for me.
GOSH I LOVE PARTYING I DON'T CARE TO ADMIT IT I WANT TO GET DRUNK EVERY WEEKEND AND YES I LOVE TO READ AND LISTEN TO MUSIC THAT DOESN'T CENTER ON A REPETITIVE BEAT BUT I ALSO LOVE TO LOOK HOT AND DANCE AND STUFF.
And I also love to walk through massihumongyenormy parks with beautiful trees and love the universe and take pictures and gah.
Have a beautiful weekend (and shabat shalom!)
Monday, September 1, 2014
Death comes in threes, but sometimes it comes by fours.
At times it arrives in the shape of a cancer-struck math teacher, one whom you never knew but who's ghost whispers through the hallways and wipes out the teenaged laughters when it's heard.
And sometimes it stays as a great-grandmother, one whom lived in a city miles away and you loved in spite of the respites of contact. And then when that death comes, it tastes of guilt, for you could have gone to visit her more often, and because it was only at her funeral that you discovered that she loved poetry as much as you.
And then it finallizes with a youth, and you could swear it ends there, because death comes in threes and because if it's the death of the kindest friend you have in the world's two year old sister, G'd must have taken a deep breath and ordered death to stop.
But sometimes death comes by fours, and you are chilled by the knowledge that death will come in the numbers that it wishes and in the form it can. For if the suicide of a past friend whose friendship you broke a few years ago's mother does anything, is prove that death will come, and that you are no longer the child to whom life presented itself as an eternal state of being. It proves that death in the old years comes often, but death in the young years comes devastating.
And if this is a part of life, why does it leave it tasting thus like its counterpart?
Sunday, August 24, 2014
|From Tumblr, I need to start taking pictures again.|
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.
FUCK YOU TEENAGE HORMONES.
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.
I hope he uploads some pictures, but I bet he won't.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
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
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
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
(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
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 3>
Hey, I'm like a burgeoning poet or whatever.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
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
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)
- Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
- Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
- Metaphysics of the Tubes by Amélie Nothomb*
- Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
- ANNE OF GREEN GABLES AND ALL THE SEQUELS by LM Montgomery
- A Tale of Love and Darkness by Amos Oz
- Blindness by José Saramago
- Looking for Alaska by John Green
- The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa
- 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
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.)