Friday, December 31, 2010

Practically Children

Don’t let high school labels fool you, there are only two kinds of teenagers: teenage girls and teenage boys, and they are both made of the same image issues, raging sexuality and dramatic mood swings.

Exhibit A: The Teenage Girl and the Eternal PMS.

Long has been since my younger cousin rocked to the Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs tune; the only rocking going on nowadays takes place inside a lockdown room which she rarely leaves. During this Christmas break, I only say my 14 year-old cousin at dinner time; there, she just looked disgusted at her plate of food. She took two bites, her mother accused her of not eating right and hell broke lose, just like every single night: You just don’t see me eat, and what you don’t see must not happen, RIGHT? It’s always the same with you! I can’t take this anymore! Just leave me alone! I HATE YOU ALL!!

Don’t worry about us, though; my family has already survived four teenagers (and last one was me. Believe me, I wasn’t the adorable snowflake I am now). We just dedicated her half a minute of silence until someone cracked a joke.

Exhibit B: The Teenage Boy and the Adventures of the Penis.

One of my best stories. Kids, this is the story of how I discovered 16 year olds are adorable.

My big brother has a second roommate, who I haven’t mentioned because there’s nothing exciting to him… Other than having a rather cute 16 year old best friend. I could tell you the story of how our friendship blossomed but it’s generic as shit: we didn’t know each other, we talked and we got along great. You won’t believe me, but he truly doesn’t look or act as a 16 year old. Just a week ago I decided I had the hots for him (just like that, I’m very uncomplicated) and thought “this isn’t even a challenge”.

It wasn’t… And before I go on, legal age in Spain is 13. Look it up if you don’t believe me!

I swear I was planning of writing how incredibly adorable interesting it all was… But even I have my limits, and this kid’s integrity is one. I will, however, tell you two things: 1)I walked out feeling like all these years I knew moves not even Hugh Hefner dreams of and I wasn’t even aware of it. (OMG! What if I did invent blowjobs?) 2) It ended in a very cliché way: He smoking a joint while telling me what a goody goody he thought I was. If I had a nickel for ever time a guy has ever told me that… I’d have like two or three nickels, whatever.

Friday, December 24, 2010

Angels start Coming Out of their Boxes

Of all the things I rant about, Christmas is not one of them. Sometimes, when I’m in the mood, I even defend it from cynics. I heart Christmas.

I don’t get all the hate, really. I get it from teenagers, if they already hate themselves, poor little Christmas doesn’t even stand a chance. I’m pretty sure adults have different reasons to hate it; it’s one specific reason I don’t understand, probably the most in fashion nowadays: because it’s special.

People always bitch about the rest of us being hypocrites on Christmas; we are nicer, spend money we don’t have and make painful attempts to cook. Well, fuck yeah, we are. We are filthy hypocrites… So what? What would be the fun of the Holidays if we just did the same things we do on a daily routine?

A romantic may say we should be nice to each other the rest of the year. Yes, that’s very cute and I agree, but is that poor Christmas fault? I don’t hate Halloween because I don’t get to wear a costume the rest of the year and I surely don’t hate my birthday because people don’t give me presents the rest of the year. If someone is following my train of thought, what we should really hate is “the rest of the year”. Fuck “the rest of the year”.

The truth is, for the average person, being grateful, generous and lovable all freaking year is exhausting.

I can’t talk for everybody here. I find myself, most of the year, complaining about my dad treating me as if I still was a five-year-old, my mom’s endless list of questions, one brother’s lack of contact and other’s constant nagging , female friends’ slutty ways and male friends’ crappy jokes… I’m glad there’s a date when I’m pushed to face how much my life would suck without them.

Happy Holidays,
you filthy hypocrite.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Sensitive as a Goddam Toilet Seat

Remember my brother’s roommate? You know, The Roommate… The one I had such a pathetic crush on? Well, this entry is not about him.

(However, if you were wondering how that was going… We are passed that awkward stage and we now get along great. Every time I visit their apartment we stay late watching movies and talking. My brother even gave him permission to fart in front of me; permission he haven’t use yet, but he seemed rather excited about it. As if I didn’t have enough handling my brother’s delicate stomach… This entry is not about that, either)

Before I start with my real topic, I’m going to set this straight: I always try to write in a “general matter”, without mentioning anybody in particular; it seems like the nice thing to do, and you know me, I’m polite and shit. Since this is something of a “sensible topic” I have to make it personal, if not, it’d just seem like I think a lot of girls suffer from this complex.

I have two female friends that are very different from each other; different age, nationality, appearance and general attitude. They do, however, have something in common (aside from having boobs and a vagina… huh… See? This is why people can’t take me seriously); when I told them about The Roommate and how gorgeous and nice he was, I finalized adding with a defeated sigh “but he has a girlfriend”. Both of them answered me with a “So what…?”.

This is the moment where I warn you that I’m about to make a big deal about nothing, but I’m guessing you’re a recurring blog reader and you’re pretty much aware that’s what personal blogs are all about.

Well, I think those few words speak very low of both of them. The more I thought about it, the more I realized they’re weren’t that different from each other. First, I’m going to answer their stupid question with a simple ‘ There’s another woman involved, you selfish bitch’. Apparently all that ‘Girl Power” we like to brag so much about disappears when there’s guy in the picture.

In their sweet little minds, once the panties are off, dudes forget about everything else, including that things they call girlfriends. If you really think about it, it’s sad. That set of beliefs is still there because more than one guy has reinforce it. Of course I’ve met jerks, the world is full of them, but I’ve also met incredible guys. That includes my two big brothers (who are, both, currently very much in love) and my exboyfriend, that I always knew (except when I was PMSing) he loved me and respected me. Call me naïve, but I’m pretty sure that, even if he’s given the chance to cheat, not every guy will take it. That’s why ‘having a girlfriend’ is pretty much a deal breaker for me.

Maybe it’s because these two friends know I enjoy having conversations involving dicks and tits or they just have the need to brag about it; for whatever reason there is, I’m pretty much aware of all of their sexual encounters and, may I add, I’m also aware of all the disappointment and the why-hasn’t-he-call-me? those encounters lead to. They don’t understand why they can’t find a steady boyfriend. It’s funny, right? They’re looking for the kind of relationship they don’t believe in.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Old Enough to Know Better

After the constant phone calls to my mommy, the sudden need to lock myself inside my room and my lovely mood swings, I started wondering how much was I actually growing up. Right after the following thought popped into my head I no longer question that I’m 20 going on 16:

“Is everybody having more sex than me?”

All this started a couple of months ago, while I was having a not-so-deep conversation with an 18 year old girl friend, who isn’t exactly the sharpest tool on the shed, but I wouldn’t say she’s dumb… She’s sweet, really, most of the times. I guess that would be a really long nickname, so let’s call her “my tall friend” (yes, she’s tall… Didn’t I mention that?).

Tall Friend: […silly monologue you really don’t need to know as I can hardly remember it] but I’m pretty sure I don’t have more experience than you do.
Me: With how many guy have you been with?
Tall Friend: When you say ‘been with’ you mean actually fucked?
Me: Yeah… [If you want, make up something extra here, pretend I actually add something of value to the conversation]
Tall Friend: Eight.
Me: So I look like a girl who has fucked more than eight guys? That’s good to know… [and I meant every word]

From that point on it seems like everything I hear is how many fucks people have had in their lifetimes…

Unfortunately, from the first night I tried to catch up with those number I realized I have high standards … Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m just as surprised as you are.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Girls, Liquor and Sex

One would think that after a 3 day party weekend I’d had such a hangover that I wouldn’t be able to think something other than “Another one, please! And keep ‘em coming!” (this applies to Martinis as much as to aspirins)… But I did, I managed to learn something along the way. Two somethings, actually. *Clears throat*

  1. Some (emphasis on that word) girls try too hard.
  2. I’m way too old for this shit.

I’ve always been a stay-home girl but now that I have such a freedom to go out, I have decided I need to try something up before I decide that I hate it… What I’m trying to say is that I’m kinda new to this whole social ritual and I’m amazed of how hard women have it (and by amazed, I mean fucking scared).  Do you, guys, know how much time does it take for a girl to get ready? Ha… I already knew the answer, I just wanted to mess with you. However, I’ll still say it: it’s fucking annoying. I don’t get why it’s so hard for them to chose a freaking outfit, I find it incredibly easy: “My boobs look great on that dress + I want my boobs to look great tonight=I’ll wear that dress” It’s simple math, people. Then comes the make-up, god forgive if they leave the house without privatizing an inch of skin from oxygen… Finally, my worse enemy: High heels. I get heels (I don’t wear them, even if my 5’2 height begs me to, but I do understand why people wear them), what I don’t get is high heels. Just super models can walk in high heels, the rest of the mortals just look like they have osteoporosis.

I guess the reason I don’t worry too much about it, is because I know something most 18 year olds don’t. I could be wearing an oversized t-shirt and no make up, tell a guy in a bar I’m horny and I’m pretty sure the answer won’t be: “Sorry girl, you’re totally wearing the wrong shoes… And I like licking the eye shadow out of my girls, gets me going”.

Point number two doesn’t need much of an explanation, right? I think even at 16 I was too old for this; people call it being “an old soul”… I don’t think that’s my case, but if I have to put my finger on it, I’d say I have the soul of a bitter old woman. I’m getting a bit too tired of hearing these girls complain about every little thing when we go out… And I know what you’re thinking, I’m complaining about people who complain (and if you weren’t thinking that, shame on you, it’s a great argument), that’s part of my charm, I’m full of contradictions.

I’m fat. No. You’re not.
I have nothing to wear. Then don’t wear anything. Guys will love you.
My nose/teeth/feet/etc is/are too big. Probably yeah, but what are you going to do about it right now? Just own it.  

What I’m not too old for is playing match-up, as if I was in elementary school. Ok, ok, hear me out, this was actually kinda fun. Girls and boys received a little paper, at a party, where it was written the name of an animal; it was very biblical, one guy had an animal and some girl out there had it too. I was a tuna! And just like life itself I harassed a couple of guys outside of their bathrooms asking them if they were my ‘tuna’. One of the guys  answered “Sorry, I don’t smoke”… It was either a mix because of my accent or he thought that the only possible reason I could be asking that kinda stuff would be because I was smoking marijuana. Oh, well. I didn’t find my ‘other half’; should I take this as foreshadowing?

Sunday, November 21, 2010

He’s Out in Hollywood

Just now I realize that the amount of love I have for an –out of my league- celebrity at any given moment it’s a direct reflection of my lack of love/sex life.

About a year ago, I had boyfriend (including, you know, all the good stuff) and I really didn’t care for any famous guy; I’m not going to lie, of course I thought Jake Gyllenhaal was drop dead gorgeous and scenes from Full House could make my lower region feel all funny (scenes with John Stamos in it… I’m not into anything weird), but that’s as far as I got.

There isn’t any other way of describing my current situation other than doing the polite thing: Inviting you all to my wedding with Rupert Grint. June, 3rd. Summer wedding, it’s going to be lovely.

I wish I was kidding… Well, no. To be honest, I wish I wasn’t kidding and there was an actual relationship, not just me being mentally unstable.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

A Professional Secret, Buddy

Getting Laid 101 (straight* guys edition).

Search for a girl who looks like she doesn’t get out of her dorm too much and is craving for some male attention. Once you’ve spotted that girl, make sure she’s around to hear your new resolution: You’re working on demonstrating that a guy can be happy without sex. It’s very important you say this casually and not directly to her, to a guy friend preferably; say it with confidence (I can’t stress this hard enough), you don’t want people to think it’s just an excuse for not being able to get any.

Don’t make any moves on her just yet; I can promise that you already have her attention, but you want to make it believable.

Wait until she does something a little bit sexy: a dance, a look, a smile, whatever works for you. Ask her (again, casually and with confidence) to stop doing that, let her know that’s she’s making it really hard for you to keep on with your little goal.

If she responds positively, (if she doesn’t you’re screwed and I’m sorry I made you go all the way through this) she’ll, hopefully, bring up your (made-up) objective, tell her something along the lines of “you’d be able to convince any guy to do whatever you want”.


You should be giving her head by now… Or at least she's picturing you doing it.

*It doesn’t hurt if you’re drop dead gorgeous too.

*Warning. Don't use this technique on a girl who has to head home half an hour later, due to strict rules of her residence. Both of you will end up horny and alone.

Lines to Avoid:

“You look like the kind of girl who has a better relationship with her father than with her mother”

“Has anyone ever told you your hair kinda looks like a mop?”

“You’re 20? I thought you were 23”

And whatever you do, no matter how desperate you are, Never Ever go for this one:

“Just make out with me! Look! All your friends are making out with my friends!”

But if, for whatever reason, you blurt it out, and she said no (and I'm hoping, on the name of self-respect she'll say no): Don’t lean to kiss her either way… I mean it.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Oh, Marvelous!

Here’s a fact that might shock some of you: Girls are loud. Girls are fucking loud. Girls won’t just shut the fuck up… Yes, this is the best introduction I could find for my entry.

Living in an only girls dorm is not as bad as I thought it would be. Sure, lack of testosterone makes us go all gaga every time we hear a male voice inside the building; usually is just the technician, but a girl would be surprised of how guy-deprived syndrome makes one look at middle age fatties with a whole new perspective.

Other than that, it’s going quite well… There’s no drama, so all my training watching America’s Next Top Model hasn’t paid off, I’ll just have to wait a little bit more to drop the “I’m not here to make friends!” line. Girls are usually nice, ask you how your day is going and offer help if they can. My only issue is that they always find a reason to scream, and, boy, do they scream.

Please don’t assume I’m some kind of Daria; I’m not. I do some jumping of my own when I’m on the mood, specially while watching puppies, and by puppies I mean penises (no, I’m kidding… I actually meant puppies). I just think that my jumping and giggling should be kept for special occasions and preferably not at 1am on a school night.

Say it. I’m such a nerd.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Don’t Shout, Please

Girls who are, at least, average looking can have sex whenever they want… Or so they say. I have never tried it, nor have I seen a girl do it so explicitly, but I’m pretty sure in 90% of the cases, if a female asks a random guy to fuck her the answer will be “yes, please”.

I know that option exists. Somehow, every time I think about trying, for a night, to be the slutty girl a bunch of guys pass around I think about my brother, his roommate and the hundredth of conversation I have heard from them; they’ve talked about those girls that really doesn’t matter if they’re smart, funny or nazis, they’re willing to spread their legs and it’s all there is to it. Then, I think about how sick to his stomach would my brother be if he knew his little sister was one of those.

So, there it is, that’s the main reason why I keep it under my skirt.

I can play hard to get; I mean, I’m no master but I’m naturally good at it (you know, the shyness and sarcastic jokes don’t exactly yell “I’m not wearing underwear!”). The problem is, I love sex. Even if it is just with myself. If you know where I’m going with this you win a cookie… Or a vibrator, because that’s where I’m going with this.

Just a week ago, I was (very innocently) shopping for a pair of slippers in an underwear store when I noticed they also sell vibrators; apparently this store thinks that if we, girls, are already fitting our pussies into these really tight uncomfortable thongs, the least we could do is thank them at the end of day.

It wasn’t going to be my first vibrator, but the situation was completely different; the first time I went to a sex shop with my boyfriend, this time I was going to go to an underwear store alone. I went from kinky to pathetic. It took me a couple of days to convince myself it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, or better yet, it would be totally worth it.

It went something like this: So, I’m on the store. Now, I can’t just buy a vibrator, I have to buy something else, right? If not, I would be the girl who NEEDS a vibrator. Maybe I could buy winter pjs, which I need… Nope, I prefer a thong. I really don’t have a lot of them and lets just face it, guys love them. Oh! A beautiful pair of thighs that I also need (it’s cold and I have a really cute skirt… Yeah, you know, whatever).Great, now I have something to buy aside from that thing. Man… Now, I really want the thong, and there it is, a really sexy but classy one (if there’s such a thing). Wait! I can’t buy a pair of knickers without the bra that matches, it would break the whole illusion… So you could say I need that bra. Why was I here on the first place? Oh, yeah, the vibrator! Now it’s pretty simple, I will just grab it on my way out, as if it was that accessory that would go great with the whole shopping spree but that I don’t really need (and that’s the key).

By the time I was out of the store I swear I could hear Rocky’s soundtrack playing on the back, but there was one last stop before I had to head home: the supermarket, I needed cereal. That’s how my brain works “I need orgasms… Oh, and by the way, some food would be nice”. Things didn’t go so smooth there, though. The metal detector ratted me out, and some clerk grabbed my bag (I swear I’m not making this stuff up); I haven’t read one single book on etiquette, but I’m pretty sure it’s frown upon to peak inside some stranger’s underwear shopping bag. Luckily, that lady agreed with me and just let me go. 

Once I arrived to the dorms I wasn’t able to erase that stupid smile off my face; when a nun asked me how I was doing I felt like going “Awesome! I just bought a vibrator and nothing happened!”… But I’m pretty sure that would have blew the whole incognito vibe I was going for.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Sit Still and Behave

Welcome to her busy dizzy life,
Of going out and getting high,
And following all the latest trends
While shedding all her oldest friends.
It’s been weeks worth of weekends
when fake I.D.s and fake passions are her best friends.
She’s been thinking wishing she could hide
From the girls with the comments passing by.
It’s the boys in bars on Friday night
That replace the emptiness inside.
She’ll be spending her whole weekend
Faking laughs and faking smiles with her fake friends.
Promises you made back home
Are crumpled like the goodbye notes;
And last night’s dirty clothes
Were on the floor next to the phone,
And it’s been disconnected months ago.
No calls from your friends back home.
You lost your point of view and now
It’s got the best of you.
It really comes as no surprise,
She’s gonna break.

She’s Gonna Break Soon

I’m actually being quite dramatic… I’m beginning to have a great time. But let’s just ignore that, since it makes me more interesting if I just complain.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

I’d Just be the Catcher in the Rye and all

The first weeks of my new college have resemble my worst years of junior high more than I’d wish for.

You see, I wasn’t really popular while I was growing up, and it was mostly my own fault; there weren’t any bullies or Regina Georges to blame. It’s Simple, I don’t like the attention. I spent most of my classes laughing with a friend about how much the word angina sounds like vagina, and that’s about it.

Where I’m going with this… ? Hum… Let me check my notes. Ok, here it is: Starting a life in a new place is hard, at any age (yes, I’m pretending I’m giving you brand new information. Go along with it and nod, please). It’s even harder for someone who blushes every time all eyes are on her; and worse if she can’t avoid those eyes since every time she opens her mouth people think “oh, she talks funny”.

Considering my social disability, it is a given that I won’t be receiving friendship bracelets any time soon. On the contrary, I have found myself alone in my room listening to Boulevard of Broken Dreams wondering if that phase wasn’t suppose to be over about 5 years ago.

But, before Holden Caulfield gives me a pat on the back, I have to say… I’m not complaining; I’m aware this things take time.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

What’s the Routine on Joining a Monastery?

If you know me at all, you would know that having a roof over my head is a very big deal for me; that’s why the first thing I did once I got to Valladolid was find a dorm. I’ll make a long story short, I had two options. A boys and girls dorm and a catholic only girls option… I know, right? Well, hold your horses.

The unisex dorm had just a few rules and boys <3; other than that, it had lousy common rooms and even lousier bedrooms with a bathroom where, I swear (and I do swear it), you can take a dump while you’re showering. The stuck-up chicks dorm looked like a hotel, if hotels had libraries and chapels; big individual bedrooms with bathrooms where you can fit at least 10 people (not that I’m going to try), but it does have a very unsettling name: Slaves of Jesus Christ’s Sacred Heart.

In hopes that the name has a secret kinky S&M connotation and that I was planning to become a lesbian anyway, I chose the all-dudettes way.

It has just been a week, but I’m in a serious need of testosterone. The only male specimen I’ve seen around here was a technician, and he only made it through the lobby. 

Whatever, maybe the desperation will make me better in bed.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Very Phony, Ivy League Voices

Lately I’ve been having the recurring dream of knowing everything is a dream. I don’t mean it in the cool way like: Is this a dream? Fuck yeah! I’m going to fly like a mother fucker and then have intercourse with every single rockstar without getting aids! God no. It’s quite depressing, really. Just to give you an example, the other day I dreamt about meeting Rupert Grint, I was acting all cool thinking that would making him love me. When that didn’t work out I tried, actually, talking to him, and he ignored me; I got mad, but then he turned to me, grabbed my hand and smiled… That’s when it happened: Wait… Shit. I’m dreaming, right? RIGHT? This is just lovely. Whatever, I’m not having fun anymore.

The explanation for this (or at least the one I made up with all my free time) is my lack of progress since I came to Spain. I’ve been here since August 1st and I have gain nothing. I still have no college or Spanish ID (I did, however, buy a lovely Blackberry)… Not my fault, mind you, I sent my applications in time.

I’ve tried my best to keep things going, or at least make myself believe I’m keeping things going by calling each college I applied to almost every single day.

Phone Conversation Reenactment.

August 1-15
Me: Hi! Uhmmm… Hello! Did I already said that…? Good morning, yeah.
Whatever University: Hey.
Me: Uhm… Yeah… If it’s not a lot of trouble could you pretty please check if my application is in progress?
WU: It’s summer, no, fuck off.
Me: Ok! Thanks!

August 16-31
Me: Hi! I’m wondering… How is my application going on?
WU: Is Summer still going on?
Me: Ok, bye.

September 1-10
Me: Hi! About my application…
WU: It’s in progress… Call in a few days.
Me: Ok, tha- hello?

September 11-19
Me: It’s been a few days.
WU: We’re going to send you a letter with the answer, wait for the fucking letter
Me: I’m still going to call, you know? By the way, good bye.

September 20-24
Me: I was just…
WU: Oh sweetie, you again.
Me: Yeah, hi… How are you?
WU: I’m great, thanks… You still have to way a few more days, you know?
Me: Yeah… I kinda saw it coming. Thanks anyway.

I know it’s been a while since I updated this blog, but I waited because I wanted to, at least, post a bit of good news. Well, now I got good news. Yesterday, I called Valladolid University and the conversation got a unexpected turn: “You’re in, kid. You’re so fucking in… Now, please stop bothering me” (Ok, he wasn’t that enthusiastic; but, I bet he wanted to be, if those etiquette rules didn’t exist).

Does anybody knows someone from Valladolid…? Because I don’t.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

My Sex Life is Lousy

I really shouldn’t tell people this… I mean, I really shouldn’t; but this would be a really boring blog if I just told you, people, things I should. So, here we go, let me just kiss goodbye the little self-respect I had left first.

The apartment I currently live on it’s not tiny, but it really lacks privacy… That’s why I’m glad that, while I’m still on summer break, I live with two guys who work and leave me alone on mornings, giving me… Some “loving myself” time. I guess everybody here can back me up on how uncomfortable it can be when you’re trying to masturbate (there! I said it!) while someone is knocking on the door asking you how much more time are you planning to spend inside.

After a mildly satisfactory experience on my brother’s shower (fuck… maybe our relationship is kinda twisted…) I thought about how different men and women have it on that area.

(Of course I’m not talking about the penises and the vaginas, give me some credit.)

Guys are pretty simple when it comes to their thoughts during the whole process. From what I understand, there aren’t even thoughts. Guys just grab a magazine, watch port or think about Megan Fox’s boobs, *insert a couple of faps here* and… Done. Which is great, yeah, whatever.

I can’t do that… And, since I know I’m not a special snowflake, girls will have my back here; just like in everything else in life, it’s a bit more complex for us. Ok, I don’t feel confortable speaking for the entire female race, so I’ll just stop now.

I just can’t ‘do’ an image, I need an entire situation, so I make up short stories for myself. Now, these stories have to make sense, have to have a beginning, a middle and an end. I just can’t be lying half ass naked on a bed, I have to start with the date before that. Even in my fantasies I get a bit offended that Jake Gyllenhaal carried condoms with him on our first date.

There are so much things I have to ask myself for the story to make sense. If a handsome police man decides to force my way out of a ticket, there must be a reason for me to be speeding up on the first place and why in the name of god did I thought it was a good idea to stop on a dark isolated alley.

Here’s a real life example of my train of thought (and god would I love if I was just trying to be funny).

Ok… I’m in a basement and I’m handcuffed to a- to a what? I need something that gives me the movement I need… A pole? Why on hell there would there be a pole in a basement? Old fire place? Stip Club? Ok, I can work on that later. How did she took me here? Did she planed it or it was spontaneous? If it was spontaneous why was she carrying on her purse handcuffs? Ok, it was planned… And if that bitch apparently has super strength she could also had taken the pole with her and install it on the basement. Perfect, problem solved! …No, wait. What kind of underwear are we wearing? Fuck, I’m going to need a couple of hours here and a Victoria Secret’s catalog.

Monday, September 6, 2010

In my Mind, I'm Probably the Biggest Sex Maniac You Ever Saw

I feel like embarrassing myself today (random need I have from time to time), and talking about my undying love for my brother’s roommate is the fastest way to reach my goal.

I’m not going to talk about his dreamy blue eyes, his tanned perfect skin, his wavy brown hair or his amazing abs that he likes to show off walking shirtless around the apartment… I’m sorry, why am I not talking about this? Pff… I knew I should had made and erotic blog. Ok! Who’s in the mood for a very explicit story about me giving this really sexy guy a blow-

Tonight’s show has been interrupted to inform you all I just reached my just mentioned goal (and a couple other things too)!

Well, I’m not going to talk about his girlfriend either (ugh…), or about her annoying (but pretty cool) 60’s dresses… Or her great taste in movies, music (and guys) that make it really hard for me to dislike her.

Nope. I’m going to talk about me, since that’s the thing I do best being incapable of talking to him without sounding like a complete retard.

Him: Hey!
Me: Hi! How you doing?
Him: Great, how about you?
Me: Great! How about you… I just asked you, right?
Him: …Right.
Me: Ok, then.

But, I’m proud to announce that he isn’t the sharpest tool either when he talks to me.

Another Example
Him: (holding a bottle of sunscreen SPF50) Is this yours?
Me: Yep.
Him: You need to put this on…? I’m sorry…
Me: I don’t need your pity, mister.
Him: No, no! I didn’t mean it like that… I was just thinking about the need girls have to get tanned- I really don’t understand it really, it’s ridiculous- not that they can’t look good- I mean… Forget it.

Can you imagine our children? They wouldn’t know what a proper conversation is.


In other embarrassing news… I decided to create a Tumblr account. I would be ashamed if I weren’t having so much fun with it.

Monday, August 30, 2010

You Don’t Have to be a Bad Guy to Depress Somebody

This is a very adequate sequel to my previous post…

Here’s something you should know about me and my brother: we can’t handle confrontation, for very similar but different reasons.

The similar. We are unable to keep ourselves calm.

The difference.
Him: You’re fucking wrong, you fucking fuck!
Me: You…*cries a bit* I just… *cries a bit more* I just don’t get why you have to be so mean!

Now that you know the facts, let’s jump to the story. Place yourself on the same scenario described on the last entry; the music, alcohol, lame dance and random make-out dude. I’ve already forced my brother to watch me being a drunk slut and he didn’t seem to have a problem with it; rather, he seemed quite proud his little sister’s milkshake could bring all the boys to the yard, only this time, he wasn’t ok about it. To be perfectly honest, this time the random dude wasn’t that random. He was a friend of his girlfriend.

My brother came up to me and in that very serious voice of his told me,
“I don’t want you to talk to that fucker anymore” Take a breath “You don’t have anything to feel bad about, you didn’t do anything wrong; just don’t talk to him”.

Since I’m a firmly supporter of the ‘Bros before hoes’ philosophy I listen to him, but the damage was already done. After that, it was an hour of waiting for my brother and his girlfriend to finish fighting about it; I still don’t know what exactly trigger the fight and who was on my side (if there was someone on my side).

See, we don’t fight with each other, since we don’t know how to; lately we just talk  if we really need to. Things are getting better, but not as fast as I’d wish for. I’m not the one for complaining (who am I kidding? I totally am) but I don’t know a lot of people here, if my brother doesn't talk to me I don’t have much more.

I’m pretty sure I’m quoting a lot of crappy songs here but… I’ve never felt so alone.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Daddy’ll Kill You

Quiet. That’s the way I’d describe the way the trip started. Me and my big brother (along with some friends of his) decided to visit a small beautiful town two hours away from here (it’s called Comillas, if you were wondering). In complete silence, it was just him and I on our way over there;  early 2000’s songs were the only sound that kept us from hearing crickets.

Once we got there and met the rest of the people… Well, let me just tell you this entry was initially about the glory and sanctity of alcohol. A couple of drinks helped me go through being a social retard to the adorable snowflake you know I am; and that was just while we were chilling (ugh… I’m definitely not the kind of girl who says ‘chilling’) on our hotel.

When we hit the town (I should stop with the clichés) my brother started a tequila-shot competition with a friend (you already know they both regretted it the very next day); I, on the other hand, was dancing as if I was actually good at it. Well, I must have been doing something right, since I caught the attention of a group of guys. After dancing for a while with a dude who was young and not bad looking (pretty much my only standards when I’m drunk) he asked me where I was from, when I answered Mexico he became the definition of facepalm. Before I could wonder if this guy was some kind of jerk, he shoved his tongue down my throat.

We made out, and we made out hard. When I came out for air I noticed my brother wasn’t that far away from me; he looked right back, and with a very drunk smile on his face he offered my make-out partner a shot of tequila.

A couple of minutes later I gave ‘my guy’ a quick “Gotta go, see ya!” and left the place right behind my group. One of the girls (who was drunk, of course) asked my brother if he had a problem with what went down just then which he answered “I guess she knows what she’s doing”; the reason why I’m telling you this is not that, is the hilarious answer he got in response from the same girl:

“¡Cuando yo tenía 20 años follaba y mamaba como tu puta madre!”

(“When I was 20 years old, I fucked and sucked like your whorish/fucking mother”)

The third night there… Yeah, I’m not even mentioning the second one because there' are just very few good stories that start with “Once, I was so hangover…”. It started just like the first night, actually, it was pretty much the same, up until the point where I met another guy at the club. This time the place wasn’t so crowded and loud, we got the chance to talk and not make out. After a while I needed to go the bathroom (one of the many wonderful things you can blame alcohol for), when I finished I reunited with my original group. My brother smiled at me and yell:

“What a champion you are!” lift my arm up to the air while he turn to look at his girlfriend “Hey! Took a picture of me with the champ!”

Quiet. That’s the way I’d describe the way the trip ended. On our way back it was, again, just me and my brother in complete silence… No, not really. This time there was this short conversation that lasted for about a minute.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked.
“I’m getting a zip right here” I point to chin “You see?”
“Deep thoughts you have”
“Well… What were you thinking of?”
“That we’ll have to do some research over the internet about the the history and architecture of this town… So we have something to tell mom and dad about”

Friday, August 20, 2010

Don’t Answer if You don’t Feel Like it.

- If you're from Africa Mexico, why are you white?
- Oh my God,
Karen, you can't just ask people why they're white.

(mean girls, 2004)

This is what my life has come to.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Always Showing Columbus Discovering America

My plan was to upload pictures of my trip (I guess it’s not actually a trip) but, you know, plans change.

I should warn you in advance, this video will just be a waste of your time (but that’s pretty much a warning for my entire blog).


Few notes for your amusement:

0:11-0:17. No one told me I forgot a spot on my nose… I don’t really know how long I had that semen-looking fluid on there.

0:35. That’s my  big brother <3

0:42. Just a random kid… He didn’t need a note, didn’t he?

0:44. My blowjob face is glad to meet you.

0:57-1:00. Translation: “That you’re a whore and I can see your bra”. I heard a 12 year old telling that to some friend of hers… I thought it was hilarious.

… Song by Parry Gripp.

Sunday, August 8, 2010


Fact: Getting an Spanish ID is harder than, as a girl, grow a small penis.

I already tried three times. Ok, first time the place wasn’t even open but still counts as a try.

Next try, I was there at 9 in the morning, behind a line of, at least, a hundredth people; it looked as the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows midnight release (or so I heard… Err… Ok, I was totally there). An hour later a police man gave me and the rest of the losers around me, a number and told us to get lost for a while; it wouldn’t be our turn until a couple of hours (charming guy, that one). I was back in time to hear my number; I went something like this:

Mean Old Woman: This is the first time you’re getting an ID?

Me: Yes.

MOW: Where are you from?

Me: Mexico.

MOW: But you have Spanish Nationality?

Me: Yes. Here’s my Spanish Passport.

MOW: That shit is useless (I’m paraphrasing here). I need a Spanish Birth Certificate; they can send it to you via fax, so don’t worry about that. NEXT!


After a very disturbing and embarrassing call to my mommy she agreed to email me everything I may need.

Third Try. I arrived 30 minutes early now, that time there were only 50 people in front of me. After I got my number the same police man told me to get back in about an hour. Here goes a pretty boring story that I’m too lazy to write in details: I had to find a place to print my documents. Nothing was open. I had to trade my number with someone else to give myself more time (so waking up 30 minutes earlier didn’t help at all). I found a place. Blah blah blah. My number was called:

New and Even Meaner Old Woman: What’s this?

Me: Spanish Passport. Family Book. Mexican Birth Certificate. Spanish Birth Certificate.

NEMOW: I don’t need any of this, I just need your Spanish Birth Certificate.

Me: You also need to get laid but whatever (You already know I didn’t say that).

NEMOW: Where’s your Spanish Birth Certificate? WHERE?

Me: Woman, pull yourself together, it’s right there! (There’s also the possibility I just whispered a shy “there”).

NEMOW: Oh, right… We have a problem here. It’s not signed.

Me: It’s a three paged documents, it’s signed on the last page.

NEMOW: It should be signed on the first one.

-Insert here a short “but there it is” “I don’t give a damn it should be here” discussion-

NEMOW: Go to wherever you got this and ask them to sign it on the first page, you filthy whore.

Probably she didn’t insult me, but I wouldn’t know, by that time I already got up and walked away. I hold back the tears; and, when I was outside of the building I finally got the chance to curse them… In Mexican, they deserved a curse they wouldn't understand:

“¡Pinches pendejos! ¡Que no mamen!”

The meaning would be lost in translation, but it’s something along the lines of: Fuck those idiots!


Oh! As a totally unrelated note. I just saw a a 14 year-old girl grab the penis of a 14 year-old boy on the middle of the street. Suddenly, I feel as a stuck up bitch for thinking that my ‘showing-love-to-the-penis’ time was meant to be used on a privet or semi-privet place.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Do They Fly Away by Themselves - go South or Something?

From the moment I knew I was going to spend 9 hours of my life on a plane sitting between two strangers I started picturing who those people could be. Well, you know the kind of nympho I am, actually fantasizing about all kinds of sexy people… I swear, my favorite scenario was the one I sat between a Mexican dude and a Spanish one; you must know exactly what I mean, two of the finest samples of what both countries have to offer: young, hot, funny, and with a very thick accent (ha! you thought I was going to say something else, huh?). Apparently, someone listened to my prays, but just to half of it. I sat between a Mexican and a Spaniard… Around their 50s.


Ok, the Spanish dude had this George Clooney sexy vibe going on… But, whatever.

Nothing major happened other than that. I went to the bathroom, and it said it wasn’t occupied; so, I pushed the door and someone pushed right back. I see now that knowing how to use a lock is a gift given to only a few lucky ones.

My brother drove 5 hours up to Madrid just to pick me up (he’s such a sweetheart, isn’t he?). On our way back to Oviedo (city where I’m going to stay until classes start) a fucking pigeon crashed against the windshield. Just like that. I thought that kind of things just happened on horror movies; just there birds have a death wish. There were blood, brains and feathers splattered all over (if you needed help picturing the whole thing).

I’ve been staying on my brothers apartment, and if you read the last part of my ‘Something about me’ section just to your right you would understand how that could be an awesome thing for me.

It isn’t.

He has a girlfriend now.

May I go back to Mexico, now?

Friday, July 30, 2010

Inexpensive-looking Suitcases

I’m leaving in just a couple of hours, and I feel like I’m going to throw up my breakfast any minute now.

I’m lost for words; but I have a song!

Don’t look at me like that! Cliché would have been if I had posted Good Riddance (Time of your Life).

Wish me luck, fuckers!

(I’m sorry, I see there wasn’t any need to insult you. I thought I could pull it off… I can’t).

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Blue Pajamas with Red Elephants

This entry is, basically, the sequel to: Had the Whole Evening Free. It’s common knowledge that second parts are never better than the originals; so, being a true college kid: I’m not even going to try.

Without further ado, here they are folks, the new set of t-shirts I made.

I’m giving credit, of course. I didn’t come up with half of this; they did.

(And yes, apparently I’m pinching my own butt).

(… Now, I’m just rubbing it).

I got the quote from Harry and The Potters second album.

(I’m running out of places where to place my hand).

Cover art from The Matches’ A Band in Hope album.

It’s a bit hard to read, but it says: The troops are having a blast here.

Idea stolen (I, however, prefer ‘borrowed without a plan to give it back’) from here.

You see why I can’t sell these things? It’s not because I love them way too much to give them away; hell, I would even sell my kids for a reasonable price. Nope, I just like my life without lawsuits falling all over my head.

If you excuse me, momma is planning to send her new portfolio to Mexico’s Next Top Model…

Saturday, July 24, 2010

My Red Hunting Hat

Yesterday at night, I got home after a mildly interesting grocery shopping experience to find my neighbor, who’s about my age, outside of his home with a bunch of friends. Now, I must tell you I don’t know a lot about him; actually, I wasn’t really sure who, of that group of guys, was him. All I really know about him is that he plays the drums, since we were both teenagers, out on his garage (how very cliché of him, I know), and with time he has gotten slightly better at it; that and his dad is blind. Getting back to my point; I watched for a couple of minutes this group of young strangers, in the dark, while they were drinking beer and listening to Green Day; it wasn’t until I was safe at home when I realized how embarrassing would have been if they had noticed. However, while I was staring at them (like the creep I am) with “When I Come Around” playing as the soundtrack, I started thinking how my neighbor and I could’ve hit it off. It’s not a secret that I have the hots for drummers, after all; almost as much as I cream for guys who appreciate Green Day’s good old days. Maybe, if we had met somehow, he could be now my best friend, some annoying dude I know, a great fuck, a creep in the past, or the greatest love of my life. But he isn’t. I don’t even know his name, and I surely won’t miss him when I’m gone.

Nonetheless, this entry is not about him. It just got me thinking about all the things I am going to miss that I already accepted I can’t take with me (and by “accepted” I mean, threw a big fit that got me nowhere). But this entry isn’t about that either (I’m so sorry); actually it’s about what I’m taking with me. Some people may call them my “most valued possessions”, I prefer to avoid that term, since it would be embarrassing to call this shit valuable; these are just my “must-have’s”:

I need to get the tittles for my blog from somewhere, don’t I? And I admit this emo rich bastard is goddam entertaining and all.

What could I say about this? Of course I have to take my favorite band’s CDs.

Mock me all you like, I love Jack Dawson and I firmly believe next time I watch this move he won’t die.

Mexican comedy about two kidnaps; say what you want about Mexico, but if there’s something we can do is laugh about our situation. I’ll watch this movie everyday so I don’t forget my awesome accent.

This is even more embarrassing than Titanic. The 90’s were cool, ok man!?

I just have the first four seasons, the only ones my adorable and sexy Shannon Doherty appears (did that lesbian joke got your respect for me back? No? Ok).

I can’t even pretend to be cool now, right? … Moving on…

Well, here it is. That intro had a point after all.

This was my first CD ever; ok, not exactly, it was my brother’s, I just took it when he moved out, whatever, no one has to know that; unless I post it on the internet, but why would I do that?

Sunday, July 18, 2010

I Never Liked Romeo Too Much After Mercutio Gets Stabbed

As most 14 years-old, I used to have a fight against the world. I did what any socially inept teenager at that time would have done; I wore black oversized t-shirts and had a problem comprehending the correct use of eyeliner. Yes, I was part of the whole Avril Lavigne pseudo-punk wave. Saying that I’m ashamed of it would be unfair, the phase helped me overcome the fact that I didn’t have a lot of friends at the time; pretending to be a Punk gave me the option to say “people suck, I choose to be alone”.
February 2005
Girl meets boy. Boy shows interest in the girl. Girl drops on her knees, being him the first guy to ever notice her.
Let’s call him First-Kiss guy… Aw, did I just spoil it? FK was 18 at the time, he wasn’t particularly good looking but neither was I, back then; he was funny as hell, thought (but there’s a real possibility that I was so head over heels that I just laughed at whatever he said). The important thing for me was: He liked me. ME!
March 2005
I went out with a group of friends, including him… You know what? I’ll let the 15-year-old in me take it from here: So, we got, like, away from the rest. We got into his car, he had a car! I know, right? He, then, started, like, going on and on about Rap music and I was all like “I love rap, too!” I know, so embarrassing but what was I supposed to tell him? That I hated that effing music? I mean, right? Whatever. He, like, pulled off his car and I was like “Is he going to kiss me?” and he did! It was so retarded. I didn’t, like, know what to do, and he was, like, totally feeling me up, like, my boobs and all. I know, right?
After that day, he rarely spoke to me again.

I can’t even began to explain how mad/sad I was . Doesn’t even matter now; after a couple of months and hearing over and over Taking Back Sunday I was pretty much over him. Thanks to him I learned that not all guys that I invite to feel me under my bra are going to be interested in hearing my heartbeats along the way.
I saw FK several times after that and we held short but nice conversations. He left town about two years ago. I wasn’t angry at him; the way I saw it, it was my own fault I got hurt. I created expectations for a guy who never promised me a thing.

Now, for this kind of talk you were better off watching re-runs of 90210, I know. This is relevant to my life now; seriously, I’m getting there.
Around May (of this year) he sent me an instant message. We started talking and suddenly the conversation got heavy *drum rolls* He confessed me he really liked me, and after all these years he still thought about me. He told me the age difference freaked him out at the time, but mostly he was so damaged he just got spooked of how much he liked me. He now regrets it.
… I know, right?
It was a big ‘is-this-real-life?’ moment for me. All of a sudden my beliefs were based on a lie (I could be more dramatic, but I’m tired). Paraphrasing one of my friends: I thought I was dealing with a male whore but he turned out to be a pussy.

Months passed and he was ready to come visit me, he wanted to see me before I left the country. Alex happened (big hurricane that flood a bunch of cities), he’s ok, but he’s trapped there. Let me tell you something: I’m so fucking relieved.
The second part of this story is like a crappy sequel of a horror movie, where the screenwriters decide to add a twist to the story that will just not work. Suddenly it’s not about my expectations, it’s about his. He still remembers me as the self-conscious 14 year-old girl who would have said anything just to make him like me.
We are now this new shitty version of The Great Gatsby; he’s a guy who’s trying way too hard to recapture a moment with a girl who isn’t what he remembers anymore (and probably, never was).

Oh, again, the 15 year-old me wants to add a few words:
Who’s crying now, fucker?

Monday, July 12, 2010

Terrific Book of Short Stories

Some people seem like Barbie to me; knowing, since the day they were made what profession they’ll choose (I apologize for the crappy Barbie analogy, for a second I confused corny with inspired). Being an architecture student I’ve seen this, a lot; most of my classmates loved playing with Legos and did awesome drawings from a very young age.
My childhood was nothing like that. I was a hardcore Barbie fan (hence my need to mention her in every chance I get) and, to this day, people can’t tell the difference between a cat and a microwave from looking at my sketches.
I think I have considered every single career option that is out there; from being an astronaut to a unicorn, seriously.
When I was a 5 I loved my dog so I thought I could be a veterinarian; at the age of 9, I liked Melissa Joan-Hart and I wanted to be an actress (or a lesbian); at 12 I loved ‘nsync (who said that?), and therefore, the music career; and after watching a couple seasons of CSI, when I was 15, I thought being a criminologist would be fucking awesome.
Architecture never came to mind; however, being a writer did… All the time.
I’ve always had the need to write about something; from fan-fictions about how I met all 5 members of ‘nsync and they fell in love with me (seriously, who’s saying this shit?), to well-thought essays about teenage stereotypes and feminism from a Disney perspective… And now apparently I have a blog.
So, how did I end up choosing architecture? Huh… The first thing you need to know is that another subtle love I’ve been developing since the sweet age of 16 is graphic design, and I was sure as hell I’d choose that, even when people told me I’d end up living in a box. But one day I was talking to this guy, I told him all about it, and I still remember exactly what he told me: “Lucky thing you’re a girl, you can always depend on your husband’s money”. This is the moment when I burn my bra and yell at the top of my lungs “I WILL NEVER DEPEND ON ANY MAN’S MONEY!”, but that would be kind of hypocritical since my dad is my major economic support, that and I like my bra… You don’t burn a Victoria’s Secret bra.
I ended up choosing marketing. I heard somewhere I could then master in graphic design. Sounded like a great plan; its only flaw was that by the third day I was already bored out of my mind. I didn’t give a tiny damn about economy, or business for that matter. Then, I thought “Architecture is a kind of design… And I like having a roof over my head, sounds like an architect to me”. The next day I changed my classes and…That’s it. I wish there was more to that story, but there isn’t.
These days I find myself scolding the 17-year-old me for not being bright enough to consider journalism, career that would have put both my graphic design love and my writing abilities (cut me a break, I swear I don’t sound so retarded in spanish) into good use. The 17-year-old me is scolding me back, though, for thinking that at the age of 20 it’s too late to turn back; I don’t mean I won’t try to pursue the whole journalism path later on, I just mean I won’t quit architecture.
It’s frustrating as fuck to be stuck in a class where everyone around me seems to know exactly what kind of future they want; it’s hard to do a good job in projects when I don’t have the love and/or inspiration everyone else has. But, two years along the way it’s a little bit late to find that out.

Now, could you be a darling and forget I told you I was an ‘nsync fan?

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Had the Whole Evening Free

Let’s pretend I just told you all about how much I’ve always wanted to make my own clothes since the ones on stores are almost never good enough for me; or how, when I’m see a drawing or hear a quote, I constantly think to myself “that’s a nice idea for a t-shirt… I’m sure a well constructed paragraph explaining those points would be the perfect intro for this entry. But I’m not known for my perfect intros, there’s no need to mess with my reputation.

About a month ago I bought a bunch of Hanes Men’s Fitted V-Neck T-Shirts with the idea of dying, cutting, sewing and drawing something on them… And, let me spoil that for you, that’s exactly what I did.

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This is what I was working with… I can’t find a funny way to say it isn’t exactly my size.

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First t-shirt I made. Not exactly perfection (it was time for a Friends reference, now); it was my first pancake, some may say.

The drawing is from the debut album by The Matches.

It wasn’t easy to take pictures of myself from a non-MySpace angle. So I took a picture of my reflection and then I mirrored it on photoshop. (If you come up with a simpler way, please, don’t tell me. I’m really proud of my solution).

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This one is a little bit better. I found that quote somewhere on the net, and I take credit for the font. Yay!

Somehow, this shirt reminded me of Karen Smith’s uniform from Mean Girls:

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I'm not comparing my rack to Amanda Seyfried’s… You know what? Screw it, I am. I have nice boobs.

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This IS perfection. I should be humble, but fuck that, this drawing took me ages and a few tears.

If you’re wondering they are the Fashion Club (from Daria) dressed as the Ramones.

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I took the quote from the internet as well… I already do my own clothes; you can’t expect me to come up with my own quotes too.

I still have 4 more shirts to go. I know what I want to do with 3 of them, if someone wants to share ideas for the fourth one, I will… Hm… Thank him/her, I guess. That’s all I can do right now; I have no money on my own and promising sex doesn’t sound like a good idea.

Thank you for your time, and for not noticing the bra lying behind me. Even if it sounds like something I would do, I swear I didn’t put it there on purpose… I noticed it when I was checking the pictures on my laptop; by then, I was too tired to repeat the whole thing without the bra… (Huh, there’s a sentence guys may not like).

Thursday, July 1, 2010

The Thing with Kids is...

As I said on my last entry, I fucking loved Toy Story 3. So much... I just watched it again. Yep, I allow myself to watch the same movie twice at the theatres. Who said recession?

Now, this is not a review… Especially since the only review I can come up with is… IT WAS LEGEN –wait for it- DARY! (“How I Met Your Mother” fans, I salute you)… So I’m not even going to pretend I’m a critic.

I’m also dropping the Hot Andy comments and the sex toy jokes (I just came up with 3…No, wait… 4! I just came up with 4 dirty jokes!)… It would just be way too weird to write about the sexual fantasies I have with an underage cartoon.

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(Add another dirty joke to the list)

The real purpose of this entry was to admit… I cried, just not as hard as I would have liked. On the inside I was sobbing as if there was no tomorrow; but I went to the movies with a friend who knows way too many ways to make fun of the fact that I’m an emotional trainwreck. So I just shed a silent tear behind my 3D glasses (what an interesting sentence I just made).

For a second let’s all just imagine this is not about talking toys; think they are soldiers, cancer patients, sick puppies… Whatever the hell you find worthy of your tears. It was overall a beautiful concept for a movie, the fear most human beings have of moving on, or letting go.

I’m thankful for the perfect timing of the movie, just now I'm able to understand it. Like the characters from this movie, most of us try to hold on to the things we know; we fight so hard to keep everything just like it is until the point when we are forced to realize it’s just not our time or place anymore.

At the end of the movie (I’m not spoiling anything) when Andy is heading out to college, his mom tearfully says “I wish I could always be with you”; since I’m leaving Mexico in a month, saying goodbye to my family and friends…I know exactly what she means.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

I'm Going Alone. So Shut Up.

I normally enjoy going to the grocery store, it’s a weird statement coming from a 20-year-old, but I guess I just feed the I.<3.Shopping girly stereotype. It gives me an excuse to just drive around that calms my nerves (the young “OMG!!!111! It’s that a dog two blocks away? I’m so gonna kill him, I must crash against a tree instead” teenager I have inside can’t believe I just said that); I also like buying all the junk food I want, that my insanely nutritious mother never buys; and, I rarely get to do it, so I don’t get a chance to hate it.
I do manage to have fun while I’m there. For example, today, I was picking apples and while I was struggling to reach the shinny red ones at the top of the pyramid I decided to stand on the tip of my toes and stick out my butt. Of course, that didn’t make the job any easier, but I had a blast putting up a show for all the invisible people around me. I make the simplest day-to-day activities seem like fun, huh?
As I stand in line, I can’t help but look at what others are buying. It’s always interesting what you can learn about a person’s groceries, you can tell if they’re hosting a party, if they are a cat o a dog person, if they are cheap, if they have kids… You know, all that exciting stuff. But today, I looked at my shopping cart for a change, thinking what it said about me.
So, I stared at the Kotex pads, the three apples I carefully choose, 2 six-packs my mom asked me to buy, Nair wax, and a box of chocolate chip cookies that described me as an “alcoholic that wouldn’t want to walk around as if someone just shot at her vagina; likes to see herself as a healthy eater but she can’t fool herself for a long time… And who, under those jeans, doesn’t look so hot (but soon she will!)”; statement that, ignoring the alcoholic part, is completely true.
When I arrived at the register I was all excited to show off my ID. It’s not new or anything, but for so many years I promised myself that when I turned 18 (aka. Legal drinking *cough*sex*cough* age in Mexico) I would use any opportunity to show my ID followed by a “you think I’m underage? I’m so flattered”. Well, that day never came. I’m not much of a clubbing kind of girl (and in this day and age, in my town it’s a good thing); I thought I was an R-rated movie kind of girl, but these last two years I haven’t been, apparently, now that it’s legal for me to watch those moves, Pixar ones seem so much appealing (by the way, ToyStory3 fucking rocks… I laughed, cried, and got a bit horny by all grown up pixelated Andy); the only time I was asked for an ID was in a Sex Shop, and that time I forgot to bring it! But it was ok, my then boyfriend looked old enough for the both of us… Wait, did I just admit I went to a Sex Shop with a boyfriend? … I’m so so sorry, dad…
I lost my train of thought.
The point was that I was actually hopeful the woman at the cash register would ask for an ID but she didn’t. Could it be that I finally look my age…? Whatever, my mind is still thinking about hot Andy and all the new toys I could introduce him to (again, I’m so sorry, dad).
My exact change was the equivalent to 10 American cents; which led me to take the hard decision of not giving any tip to the bag boy. The old saying that goes “Little is better than nothing” is bullshit in this case. Those 10 cents were just an insult.

On the drive back I started thinking about all the things I rarely do… Cooking, cleaning the bathroom, ironing, grocery shopping. Activities that I try to have fun with, as I don’t do them very often. Activities that in a couple of months will be a big pain in the ass since I will be dealing with them on a daily basis. It won’t be long until I find myself yelling at pile of dirty laundry longing for the day those clothes cleaned themselves magically.
My only hope is that, when that day comes, I’ll find it in my heart to stick out my butt, giving my imaginary admirers a good show while I cry.

After a somehow deep and meaningful drive, I arrived home, just to find out the damn bag boy put all my stuff into the same heavy but frail bag. It ended up breaking, I kept the beers from falling out, but my pads didn’t run the same luck; and like an old cliché they landed in front of my neighbors’ house for a cute guy to see… Ok, it was actually and old woman, but it could have been a cute guy!
You may call it karma for not tipping the bag boy; I say you’re right… That fucker did deserve those insulting 10 cents.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Dying Nobly, for Some Highly Unworthy Cause

This isn’t exactly a subject I would like to talk about, to be honest. I’m the kind of person who, in front of an unfair situation in which she feels completely useless will just turn the other way. Just call me the ‘if-you-can’t-find-an-answer-pretend-there-isn’t-a-problem-at-all’ girl. This philosophy has kept me, my family, friends and the rest of lucky bastards alive.
You see, every single Mexican citizen at this moment has a gun held to his/her head, while someone whispers in their ears “dare to make a sound and I’ll blow your brains in a heartbeat”. You won’t believe this, but you get used to it… What you don’t get used to is the fear of being too close to someone who dares to make a noise, because They will shoot you too, it’s not like They actually care, your life won’t make a difference in Theirs.
I guess I could write about who “They” are, why is this happening and what it’s been done to fight it; but I’m pretty sure you can read all about it with a few clicks on Google. There’s nothing about this subject that I can say that hasn’t been said before.
Maybe, if you don’t know a thing about it, reading it from someone who is living it or, in other words, from a fairly-ignorant-20-year-old-middle-class-Mexican-girl perspective will give it that sense of reality.
I can’t really say how and when it all started, but I do remember the moment I realized we were all fucked. About three years ago, one of my big brother’s best friends was kidnapped. It was an amateur job, They saw him on an expensive car and thought “if his parents have the money to give his darling son this kind of car, surely they will pay a fortune for his flesh and bones”, he and a bunch of other unlucky ones were kidnapped. The money was paid and he was released in a couple of days; best case scenario, the guy has a great sense of humor and he recovered quickly. Still, I remember this incident as the first time I saw my big brother cry.
These trends started happening. “Express kidnaps”, suddenly people hid away their pretty cars, stopped talking about finances and everybody looked over their shoulders. After that, some people decided to feed from this fear; prank calls informing the abduction of a son or daughter, it was so plausible that a lot of citizens fell for it, even if their children were safe and warm in a friend’s house.
After a season when we really thought “things are calming down, huh?” a wave of terror emerged as an awful reminder of what happens when you assume.
Before I tell you what happened next, you should know a thing or two about my city. This place reached economic stability thanks to the fact that it’s located where two important railroads meet. Well, what makes you can destroy you, I guess. Now the city is being fought by drug dealers for its great location. I could go on and on about gun fights in bars, where a bunch of innocent people (including underage teenagers) have died; but I really don’t see the point.
They don’t plan to kill the working class; They ‘respect’ the working class… But if the working class is in the wrong place at the wrong time, fuck ‘em.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

I've Had a Rough Night

I can't escape these friends
I've made since you left town.
They throw redundant parties
where I'm too often found.
And while I sit and watch girls and boys
trade views of new tattoos
I wonder if it's too late to call your mom
and catch up on some news.
She says you'll be home soon for me
And it'll be just like you were never gone.
I've got these "friends" in quotes
and girls boys* with asterisks.
I watch the time whither
and fall from my wrist.
Out on the porch Van Morrison
is bleeding through the walls.
I don't think your roommate
has been writing down my calls.
You said the distance
would make a difference,
But it didn't.
You and me,
we're both in love with you.

Dog-Eared Page

... Whatfuckingever, right?

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Lovely my Ass

“You always get what you give”.
There’s certain true in there, at least that’s what I thought. For my own good I should start re-evaluating my own beliefs.
If you read a couple of entries here you’ll know I love comparing every single thing to sex. It may be a gift or it may be proof of how immature I am, but I do it. I can’t explain it, sex is sexy. And I usually don’t have a lot of problems with it, since I (most of the times) know when and where is it appropriate to do so. The thing is, a lot of guys work like this: “She’s joking about sex, therefore, she totally wants to fuck me… DUDE, I’M SO IN!”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered guys would “hit it” with me. But if someone jokes for the seventh time about how sexy would it be if I just take off my bra and start running around aimlessly I’ll start feeling a little bit like a slut. I don’t like feeling like a slut; unless, of course, we’ve discussed it previously (kudos to me for just ruining my credibility).
Every time I state this problem people’s advice it’s always the same “Tell him to go to hell”. *whimper* I can’t do that. I’m a wuss… And I blame my mom, she was way too nice to me; taught me all these nonsense about kindness, and to always say please and thanks.
I admire girls who can turn into bitches in 2.7 seconds. I have wet dreams about becoming this rude woman, who is able to improvise snarky comebacks and always dress fabulous… Whatever, I already accepted that it will never be me. There is, however, a nice way of dealing with annoying people; strategy I know well. In this new RealityTv world we are living, there’s something more hated than bitches and jerks: Boring people. I just completely shut off, I answer everything as if it was a “yes or no” question and I don’t even try to come up with a joke.
That always works…! Unless I’m dealing with horny boys. You see, these days, men can live without knock knock jokes while they’re having sex; shocking, right? That’s why, if they’re looking for a quick fuck they won’t give a damn if the girl is entertaining or not.
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And there it is, proof. Neither my two word answers nor the big “I-Couldn’t-Care-Less-If-You-Live-Or-Die” tattoo on my forehead kept this dude from having a conversation with himself.
I guess I’ll just have to live with the fact that my sex jokes send a “I’ll sleep with anybody and include a set of ginsu knives for free!” vibe.

Now… Wait… I can’t stop staring at my creepy collar bone. It’s the position, I swear... I hope.
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Here! … Suddenly I feel like me, my webcam pictures and my inconclusive rants belong on myspace.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

I Didn't Exactly Flunk Out or Anything. I Just Quit.

Today, at 5:30PM I got into my car, didn’t tell a soul about where I was going. Drove for about 10 minutes until I got there, wishing for a longer road. My palms were sweaty and my throat was dry, ironic; meanwhile my brain was replaying over and over the same made up conversation.
Today was, after all, the day I chose to tell the Head of the Architecture Department I’m leaving, for good.
My reaction is not overdramatic, I swear. This dude has been our teacher for a bunch of classes; he’s 34 and has an amazing relationship with his students. Also, I used to have this little crush on him, and since I’ve always got good grades in his classes, I joked about what a big crush he had on me too (never told him, of course!). I guess it’s safe to say we get along great.
When I arrived, his office was empty; but, no problem, his secretary offered to call him up, wherever he was. I don’t know who the hell she was talking to on the phone, but she asked me to repeat my last name about 6 times “so you are…? I’m sorry who? I forgot, what was your…? One last time, please…”this went on until a point where I really doubted that was my last name; suddenly it sounded funny and weird... Whatever, he was on his way “if I could only wait for him a while, please”.
I waited, but my anxiety wasn’t going away. Judging by the way I feared people could actually hear my heart beating you would think I was about to ask my teacher to prom, or something. I had this huge scenario going on in my mind, which included him on a fetal position yelling at the top of his lungs “WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME? I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING!”.
I tried to keep myself entertained with anything while I was there; keeping my mind off the subject. I didn’t consider my cell phone as an option, in the Blackberry/iPhone era it’s not cute anymore when you start playing Snake on your old ass Tamagochi… My shirt was a great plan B, though, since I couldn’t decide how many buttons I should leave undone, I ended up going for two (but now that I think about it, I should’ve unbuttoned one more… I mean, if I was about to “break up” with him I could at least give him something nice to look at).
Here comes the anticlimactic part. He appeared and… Nothing happened. Right after I told him, he suggested me the University of La Coruña, claiming he knows the principle there and gave me a couple of good advices.
Basically, this entry is dedicated to all of those who always expect the worst (and to those who actually think the world revolves around them).
On my way out I decided to climb the tallest building on campus and take a picture from there, thinking it may be while until I step foot into that place again.
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Here it is, folks, this is how my former college looks under this lovely 38°C (100°F) summer weather. Please excuse me while I burn in hell…

Monday, June 7, 2010

Try to Relax Occasionally

The fact that I’m spending my summer days lying on my ass all day long is doing wonders for my back; however, some may think that not having a real life would leave me with not much to talk about on my blog… Well, I’m about to prove those non-believers wrong.

I finished filling out every single application form requested by the universities, along with my certificate of approved subjects, curriculum and a copy of my passport; all sealed up, waiting for those lovely people at UPS to send it to Spain. So…I’m being a productive lazy ass.

I just fell in love with Harry Potter books and movies all over again. Therefore, my sexual fantasies with Ron Weasley are back… My imaginary sex life is so great.

A few days ago I found the best blog in the freaking world: Confessions of a College Callgirl. I read the whole thing in two days; if you haven’t, I highly recommend it… A girl talking about how big her breasts are and blowjobs… I mean, what else could you really ask for?

You know what else is just awesome? Sims… So awesome, indeed, that last year I made two music videos using Sims3, and I just remember about them. Even though, now, I would change it completely (leave the song, erase everything else!) they’re still my babies, and since they aren’t major screw-ups, I have to be proud of them.

I’m ending this worthless entry the most logical way possible; stating that I just had a really amusing chat with a machine: (And yes, I did write “you’re are”, because I’m just that bright).

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Monday, May 31, 2010

Optional Essay Question

I’m not embarrassed to admit that watching a bunch of overpaid actors in “Valentine’s Day” got me in the mood. It may not be a porno or even an erotic movie, but it had me thinking how much I would like to have a hardcore make out session with Anne Hathaway *ahem* I meant Ashton Kutcher, of course… And, since I don’t have any kind of companionship lately and my vibrator just run out of batteries I have to focus that energy into something else. So, I’m switching to a nostalgic mood, just like that.

I’ve wanted to write about my college years here, for a while now. Somehow I couldn’t come up with something other than: Look how well I pull off the construction look!!

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Now, I realize I shouldn’t focus on college itself, since it wasn’t the homework, projects or classes that made these years so amazing… It was the people (Big “aww!” please!)

I shouldn’t even bother writing a corny entry, since it isn’t a corny generation. I don’t know if it’s the time and age, but I would define my classmates as… Attention whores, each one in their own way.

(While I try to describe each kind, keep in mind I don’t have any plans to pursue the comedic path, I’m aware of my limitations)

Hippie Girl. If it was up to her, the whole career would be about explaining how she designed the building based on peaceful thoughts.

Inappropriate Guy. “Penis! Are you, people, listening to me? I said penis! Vagina! Now I said Vagina! Penis in Vagina! Sex! Sex! TWO GIRLS ONE CUP!”

AlwaysRight Girl. And if she isn’t, she’ll throw a fit so the universe change its course and she’ll be right again.

TooGoodForYouFuckers Guy. He likes to think of himself as an already graduated student who’s doing the rest of us a favor by showing up to classes. I see very kinky sex between him and AlwaysRight Girl.

IWillJustThrowRandomComments Girl. “Have I told you I’m going to marry a Colombian? I would but I hate being so fat! I’m a virgin, if you were wondering; and I’d kill for sushi right now… Aren't you worried about skin cancer?”.

Alternative Guy. I know this is a phase most teenagers go through… But he’s already 20, you’d think he’d be done with telling people how cool he is for liking Alice in Wonderland before it became mainstream.

TooGayToFunction Guy. If I said that I’d love him even more if he stopped complaining about how his Burberry wallet and Prada cell phone were so last season I’d be lying.

Perfect Guy. He’s hot and a gentleman, every girl in my class has a crush on him. I would too if I didn’t have the feeling he has a thing with the TooGaytoFunction Guy.

CompletePackage Girl. The female version of the guy above. Pretty, nice, smart, big boobs… What keeps her from being the Perfect Girl? Unlike her male version, she’s into the opposite sex.

HardWorker Guy. I have nothing but respect for a guy who is majoring in two things.

YoYoMothaFocka Guy. Oh man, this whitey sure loves actig like a nigga.

I’m missing a bunch others (who are equally fascinating… I’m just lazy), including me. I’m an attention whore, just like the others, I just don’t know which kind. I’m rooting for the:

LooksGreatWhenShePretendsToBeAConstructionWorker Girl.

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(And if you turn your head a bit to the right you may get to meet the TooGoodForYouFuckers Guy).

I said it before, I can’t come up with something corny to say about these people. I will, however, say this: Just the way they are, each and every single one of them is fucking awesome. I just hope I have attention-whored myself enough so they’ll miss me as much as I’ll miss them.

Friday, May 28, 2010

You're Coming Pretty Close to Doing it

Little update… No, no, it’s actually a big one.

I just bought my ticket to Spain!

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I’m leaving on July, 30. I’ll stop at Mexico City, waiting just 3 hours for the next flight (after having been on an airport for 10 hours, 3 hours is my definition of awesome), blah, blah, blah, I’ll arrive in Madrid the very next morning. The End.

Hopefully I’ll be too busy being scared out of my mind, that I won’t notice it’s such a long boring trip.

Oh, I almost forgot to say something… YAY!

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Keeps Me from Getting Bored

I don’t know if I should say I have updates or just random thoughts… And now, I don’t know if there’s actually a difference between the two. Screw this, it’s 1am: I have something to say.

. I have the house all to myself this week! In 20 years of life I’ve never been home alone before. I guess it’s way to prepare myself for life in Spain… And to PARTYYYYYYYYY!!!

(Naaah… I’m too big of a nerd to do something like that).

. Spain plans are going smooth. Well, at least the papers I need. I already have my curriculum with all the classes I have taken, all signed and everything. That excites me, ok!?

. The other day I went to see my gynecologist for a regular check up (long live the internet who lets me share these kind of things with strangers) and guess who I saw… My 6th grade crush; who, a couple of weeks ago, I found out impregnated a girl. Oh dear boy o’ mine, don’t you know this would have never happened with me? I’m a pro at putting on condoms (I could almost hear my mom saying “that’s my girl!”).

. My beautiful blog just reached 20,000 views. Big fucking yay! It’s a big deal to me… So all jokes a side (I can do that), thanks a freaking zillion to every single person who has ever read me, and special thanks to the people who took some time of their life to write a comment.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Make it Very Dry, and No Olive

Somehow, I lack the creativity to write this entry… I’ll just say this like it is, and you can add some funny accent, yes?

Saturday night was so fucked up, dude!

Regularly, I don’t write about my social life. I tell myself it doesn’t add anything to the main objective of this blog, but the real reason is … I just don’t have any.

Even though I’m Miss Party-Girl to you, now; I’m still true to my principles. This does has something to do with the point of my blog. The party was, amongst other things (like, birthday party, end-of-the-semester party, let’s-get-really-drunk party), my going away party.

I really don’t know what to say about it, though. A lot of shit happened, funny, exciting, weird… But I’m guessing it’s the kind of things you have to be there, or at least know the people.

Ok, ok. I do have a couple of statements:

. I <3 Jelly Shots (and I feel I shouldn’t be this proud of saying it just like that).

. Real fun doesn’t start until you’re thrown in to a pool against your will… And I’m not even being sarcastic.

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The truth is… I will miss these people like crazy.

The second truth is that I should receive a medal (or a set of applauses, at least) for having the balls to upload pictures of myself not only when I’m sleep-deprived, also when I’m wet and drunk (…dirty!).

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Adding to the weirdness of the night and without getting into gruesome details, I have to say I learned something important: You don’t need Europe to try those things you see on French movies.

Friday, May 14, 2010

She's Only a Little Child

Remember what I told you, honey bees, about my super-duper new camera?

If you don’t, you can read it here... or I could simply spoil it for you: It’s waterproof (yay!).

Well, a couple of days ago my baby lost its water-virginity. I was hanging out with a group of friends, and one of them said “you should have done this from the start” and sank the poor thing into a glass of water. It was almost pornographic.

This is the result:

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If it wasn't such a blurry picture you could’ve seen my eyes in terror at the image of my camera being raped.

Somehow I managed to make this entry about my waterproof camera sound dirty. I have a talent for these kind of things.