Monday, August 26, 2013

Summer Stories: 4 (Anastory Edition)

These pictures have no stories in particular beyond the ones that the viewer can imagine.

An Ode to Floral Dresses

Me! In Disney! If that were not happiness enough, read the following:

I didn't intend for this to come out poetical, but it just did. So fine.
(It's a little bit more cheezy than my usual stuff but HEY it's floral dresses, I get to be as cheezy as I wish.)

Hope you have a great day!

Monday, August 19, 2013

The Nose Job

My big nose in all of its splendour in Jerusalem.

We all have physical shit that bothers us. Our ears, our foreheads, our weight, our height. It's different from the psychological crap because, even though it might not be that way, at least we feel some power over how we act or what we say. Our bodies are what they are and kaput.

Until!! Medical advances led us to, tari-daaaa, plastic surgery!!

I haven't told many people about it yet, though, because I'm reluctant to hear their comments. Most of the time, they're stupid. Even my own parents "I would never have expected it from you!" or a "But you seem like such an easy-going girl! I wouldn't have thought it from someone like you!" The worse is "but aren't you a feminist?"

Yes, people, I'm all that and still I want to get a nose job.

Because what is the friggin' worse that can happen from doing it.

Because trying to look your best is a biological tendency that is natural to most species (it's called grooming, hey), but condescending on others, classism, sexism, and all of that; well, that is specifically human.

Because when I talk about condescending on others for """indulging""" in plastic surgery, I talk about something that's so sexist that I would just get a nose job to defy it. Girls are supposed to be beautiful, within a beauty standard that is reallistically impossible to reach, however, heaven forbid girls try too much to look beautiful.

Because I wanna look pretty and so be it. This is not about following the social standard for beauty, but my own personal confidence compass. For example, I pride in my unruly brown hair. I don't care for the straight kind, no matter how much Yves Saint Laurent tries to buy me into it.

Because this doesn't mean I'll start looking "fake" or any shit like that, after all, in a few years you'll start getting used to this renewed version of myself. And my personality isn't going to change, just the medium for it to express itself will a little. Gosh, it's just a nose.

Because a few centuries ago, wearing makeup was reserved for women who lived off sex, and now, oh, how much does Sephora earn?

I just wish I had the energy and articulacy to tell all those cool kids who care SOOO much about my nose all of this.

Otherwise, I don't care what they think.

Summer Stories: 3 (Sandy Edition)

Not much to say about this. I was barely murdered by the erroneously denominated Pacific Ocean and its sadic waves, listened to a lot of Jorge Drexler, walked, played, beached. Fairly pleasante, aye.

Oh, yes, I also ate a lot of Dunkin Donuts. And palmeras and cuchuflís. Basically, the typical Chilean beach pastry. I could joke so much about them but I think you'd have to be here to understand them. If you get a hankering to visit, call me up.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Summer Stories: 2 (Terrace Edition)

A group of friends stayed in an apartment right in front of the beach. (Yes, in fact, utter bliss.) It was martyrdom to climb up to their 10th floor, but, other than that, you won't find me complainin'.

We blew bubbles, danced to reggaeton (basically the cheapest music you can get in LatAm), flashed the people on the boardwalk, drank Coke, ate old cereal, read cheap magazines, and saw many a pretty sunset. That's one thing about the Chilean coast that nothing can replace. Every evening, you can count on the sunset.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

Books & The City #1

Some children dream of becoming rock stars, soccer players, austronats or accountants. I dream of becoming a writer. I'd probably be better off with any of the former dreams.

But, anyhow, I keep on dreaming.

One of the hardest things as a wannabe-writer is the lack of pressure to write. The pressure to study for Monday's physics exam, the pressure of spending quality time with my family, the pressure of cleaning up my room, are all vastly more intense than the pressure to finish my story. Yes, I do write because I like to, but when the painful part of the story hits, the one where you actually have to think about what the character's going to do next, or think about how you're going to say that, the pressure of physics test seems more welcome than the lack of pressure to finish the story.

Another hard aspect of being an adolescent wannabe-writer is that school is full of jerks.

No, this is not true. School is varied, school is diverse, and school has you stuck in a group of friends with whom you don't share many interests but they're still your friends. Allow me the benefit of doubting that any school on the planet lacks A SINGLE GOOD SOUL WITHIN THEIR RANKS. He/she might not be the BFF of your lives, but still. Hating school, as with most hatreds, is generally your own fault and not the hated's fault.

Anyhow, combine my authorly frustrations, the lack of writing incentive, and a vast number of unliterary classmates, and you get a nice pie of Me Wanting To Do Something About This. Something as in "a literary workshop."

It was hard to find one, nevertheless a suitable one, but when I did, bingo.

On Monday, I met the woman who led the literary workshop that I found out about at a café.

In the interview with my writer lady friend (her name is Ina), she described to me the group that I would be integrating tardily as a "Santiaguinan and literary Sex & The City." I haven't ever watched Sex and the City, but I get the idea.

And, boy, is this the idea.

Fast forward to Thursday night, and picture me entering an apartment building in downtown Santiago that is flooded with tobacco smoke and jazz music. I find myself in an entrance of pink walls, and a darling plastic chandelier. Small enough to be cozy. The apartment has gorgeous decoration of a very fun inclination (Futurama characters, Fab Ciraolo paintings, Memes decorating the walls), and books. Books everywhere.

Ina is a bedazzling woman with short curly hair, exquisite taste, and a sharp sense of humor. ("Sharp sense of humor" ie, the funniest person I've met.) I'm faintly in love with her. She could have perfectly been the inspiration for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. As far as I know her.

And she reads and writes and loves to do it. Quote Ina: "GOD, nothing makes me happier than a good book." Scratch the "faintly." I'm in love with her.

The six of us from the literary workshop sat around a small dining table, to talk about life, sex, drugs, and ocassionally about the stories we had writen too. I was drunk on Urbanasia, the name I've given to the condition when city life overwhelms you with EXTASYYYYYY.

I've written a lot for now. More to come next week. 


PS. Did any of you understand the title of my new blogging series? I sorta love it. Feel so fucken grown-up.
PPS. Ina cusses a lot and in my aspiration to be as cool as she is someday, I think I might be taking it up too. JK, I've always sworn like a sailor. Defying the patriarchal paradigm and all.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Help Requested

I try to avoid the depressive blog entries.

But today, my wintersome walk home after school finalized in a wonderful surprise. My house's gate was open.

I thought, how lovely.

I thought, how terrible is it that we live our lives behind locks, in a sort of chosen captivity, with the excuse of protection.

What are we afraid of, that's out there?

There are so many answers, really.

There is, for example, that the world that turns its back at me every time I glimpse out the window is grey, the trees are old, the sky is dying. There is no life.

There is, for example, the fact that I can't seem to do anything right. I can't seem to get it just good enough for school, or for my youth movement, or for my friends, or for my family. I'm a stranger everywhere, imperfect everywhere. This chipped wave which I'm surfing on will at some point crash on the oceans.

And I will drown.

But, for the meantime, my hope rests on the clock that keeps on tic tocking, and the minutes slowly drag me closer to the ominous spring... when the world will be alive and smiling again.

Help me, spring. Help.

Monday, August 5, 2013

Summer Stories: 1 (Night edition)

As a blogger, one has to decide on a route so as to not remain obsolete:
  1. Follow blogging trends
  2. Be so utterly cool that you create your own blogging trend
  3. Fuck the stats, fuck the followers, fuck it all. But accept the obsolete-ness.
As the only bloggers I can think of right now that are cool enough to be included in number 2 are Tavi Gevinson and Elsie Larson, I have decided to be pitifully mainstream and follow the masses.

Therefore, although I am currently undergoing the harsh cruelties of winter ("cruelties" such as reading, writing, drinking tea, and enjoying getting into bed intensely) I will take every Monday throughout this August to recall and tell a story, accompanied by the gorgeous disposable-camera pictures that I took.

I have a group of immensely creative friends. Thank you, for teaching me how to drink. We are so past that phase where you still have to brave the disgusting liquors that are popular in Chilean culture. Now we decide what to drink, how to drink. We will make the drinks cool. Pictured here, white wine in a melon. Not pictured here, this was taken in the middle of the street. No cop is going to stop you for eating melon. Not pictured here either, how cool I felt for getting drunk on wine. A step closer to becoming a poet.

Partying tip for those currently experiencing summer activities: Take a disposable camera when you party. You will laugh infinite number of minutes at the memories that you don't remember. And it won't matter as much if you, as is common in drunken meanderings, lose said camera.

Not sure when this happened.

We were walking towards Burger King at 2 am. The walk, which otherwise would have taken 30 minutes, took a few hours. Every few steps we were stopped by an irresistible urge to dance to the night's music, greet people that we thought we knew from somewhere on the street (or at least this was a great opportunity to start knowing them), to scream "YOLO!" while we jaywalked the empty streets for fun, peed in innumerable dark corners, etcetra. Translation: "Stop... Stealing."
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