Friday, November 14, 2014

Pretty Pictures

I'm just going to leave these pretty pictures of my summer here to console and reassure myself that IB Exams will be over soon.

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

Those will be the best memories

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.
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