Thursday, April 29, 2010

My Old Heart was Damn Near Beating Me Out of the Room

Yesterday one of my teachers asked me to help him with a class he’s giving to high school students. I, being the adorable lady (and teacher’s ass-kisser) I am, agreed.

I don’t mean to sound smarter than I actually am; it’s not as if I was going to give the class. The man is teaching them AutoCAD and wanted some help answering questions the kids (did you notice the word I use? “kids”… Hi, I’m twenty and I’m such a grown-up!) may have about the software.

Since the moment I walked in, this guy, the typical cute popular guy (you already know exactly the kind of guy I’m talking about) started talking to me. He asked me dumb questions about the house he was designing, told me even dumber knock-knock jokes… Let’s just say it; he was like totally flirting with me *insert a few giggles and a couple of dead neurons here*.

The story gets a bit pathetic, though, since…I flirted back…

I didn’t care the dude was seventeen, nor did I care I was just feeding that disgusting ego of his… And I cared even less that he wasn’t even my type.

No, no. I had to flirt back. That fat nerdy fourteen-year-old girl inside me begged me to do it.

You would have done the same thing... Right?

Sunday, April 25, 2010

He's the Best Drummer I Ever Saw

I’ve complained like a bastard to every single person who was willing to listen about how tired I’ve been this week. Midterms and all. However, this last 2 days I finally had the chance to sleep… Did I take it?

Huh… That would be like asking “Did Dylan end up with Brenda…?” Ok, (please ignore the reference) I’ll just tell you.

No. I did not (Dylan didn’t either). I never do; no matter how hard I push myself to do it, something else captures my attention. This time I decided to read old journals.

That was… Interesting, to say the least.

I was this semi-artistic fifteen year old weirdo, who actually saw herself as some kind of poet or writer. I used to dramatize things so much; have long conversations with myself about god, future, civilization and life itself… Brilliant and deep for the ignorant eye. Someone who had lived it and be past it would’ve just described me as an: over-analytical pussy.

I hate to admit it, since I fancy myself a “let’s burn our bra” feminist most of the times… But I leant this from guy. My (newly) exboyfriend. Go figure.

In those three and a half years we were together he taught me to enjoy life. That’s it. Just enjoy it, don’t ask questions, don’t make excuses, and never, ever, look for reasons not to. With a little sense of humor I realized nothing is really that bad, I just had to quit being such a little bitch about everything.

The thing is, this past month… In other words, since he left, I forgot that. It’s kind of a blur now; I'm guessing I tried so damn hard to not be that “I want to stay in bed all day crying while I watch a ‘Walk to Remember’ in my pj’s” girl that I kept my mind busy with shit that just got me down.

I could go on and on with this non-sense, but that would be thinking about it too much... I guess all I wanted to do is a little tribute to the guy who changed my way of thinking. Thank him (in a very 2010 style) for all the love he gave me, making me laugh always, three amazing years and the summer of 2009:
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I begged my (… eh) “ex” not to visit my blog once he left, it would be way too embarrassing (and after reading this yourself, I think you understand where I'm coming from). Nevertheless, if, for some reason, he decides to ignore my petition… I’ll take the chance to confess this to him: I had a dirty dream about you last night, it was niiiiice ;D

Monday, April 19, 2010

Girls with Their Legs not Crossed

I have the obligation to lighten the mood here… And I really couldn’t find a better way than to state one little reason I’m leaving this town.

*Note: Let me just say that this reason will make you think I’m a shallow bitch or a girl with awesome taste and style (whatever, both of them would be right).

People here don’t know a thing about fashion. At all. In fact, local model agencies seem to mock us each time they hire a new model: “Here: she’s thin, weirdly looking and she’s willing to pay for her own photoshoots… Yes, she’s 5’2; as if you actually knew models are supposed to be tall”.

Do I know where I’m going with all of this? No... I just like ranting for the sake of it (better than sex, people say… virgins, probably). Let’s keep going, ok?

This is the definition of fashion in my hometown:
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Yes. They were just standing there.
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If you want to read the other side of the story, you can find it on my BFF’s fashion blog. I know most of my readers are guys, (which just makes me wonder, again, why girls don’t like me) but maybe one of you is secretly interested in fashion. She was nice about it, which surprised me; I was, indeed, the one who took those embarrassing photos, but that was only because she was too busy laughing.

She’s right, though. I should be kind to this shitty place. You know, Mexico’s Next Top Model is from here (yeah, I’m not even going to hide the fact that I watched every single episode… Twice.)
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It’s ok if you like her. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed myself.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

It would've Made You Puke, I Swear

I’ve notice there are not a lot of Mexicans reading this blog. Good thing, that way, hopefully, I won’t hurt a bunch of feelings.

Ok. This girl:
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I know, she is a beautiful little kid… Or was, actually, she’s dead.

The thing most people in my country don’t get is talking about her 24/7 won’t revive her. I know it’s a tragedy; dying at the age of 4 is not fucking fair in any way, and if I could, if it was entirely up to me I’d not just bring her back to life, I’d make every kid under the age of 15 immortal. But I can’t, nobody can.

So, can we please move on? It’s been two fucking weeks already.

I guess I have to start over… Since the point of this wasn’t exactly to end up like an insensitive bitch.

On March 22, Paulette Gebara Farah was (according to reports) kidnapped from her own room. Nine days after that, police founded her dead under her own bed (Don’t look at me; I seriously have no idea why they didn’t search there since day one).

The media is ass crazy about the whole subject. I watch the morning news or at least an hour of them while I get ready for classes. It’s been already… Let me do my math here… 21 days in which at least, half of that hour is entirely devoted to Paulette’s file: Interviews with her parents, babysitters, lawyers, mom’s personal trainer and possible lover… It’s like a depressive version of E! News Live.

The sad fact here (or saddest fact, should I say) is that I live in a place where we really have to manage our media coverage. There’s so much shit happening just here: drug dealers being caught, drug dealers killing people in revenge for the ones who got caught, (actual) kidnappers, earthquakes, our cellphone service getting cancelled because we didn’t register our lines on time…

Seriously, if there’s a country who can’t afford to stop for a little rich girl is Mexico.

I Started Wondering like a Bastard

The past few days have made this Project so damn real it’s almost scary.

My mom forced me to go to this creepy reunion of rich Spanish people she calls friends, in which, for almost an hour all they did was talk about me moving. This lady said I should apply to a lot of colleges in Madrid, that the fact that is such a big city “shouldn’t intimidate me”.

That little snotty bitch… I will apply to those super cool colleges and insert the acceptance papers where it fits, since she’s not intimidated by big things.

My other encounter was in my own living room, where my parents and my bff’s parents sat for another couple of hours discussing us. Well, they’re all up for it. Everybody is.

Terrifying, isn’t it? Classmates, friends, family, ladies with big capacities already imagine us there. Hell, I even have a blog about it.

It’s a deal between my bff and me, if we don’t make it… We will buy a bunch of Spanish postcards and runaway somewhere else. No one will ever know we failed.

But if we do make it, we’ll both have something to miss as hell:
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She just bought a puppy… Soon, she won’t think I’m pathetic for crying about a dog.

Oh… And here’s a picture of me driving.
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Yes. Random is my middle name.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

It was Supposed to be a Big Deal

Guess what? Guess what?

It’s my birthday, bitcheeees!

Sorry. I had this idea that, since it is my birthday, I had the right to insult you.

The day started just great… Missing my first class. I still had the winter time, so I woke up at 8, and my class started at 8. But it was fine, you know? I went to sleep at 4 so that extra hour was greatly appreciated; I was (if you were wondering) doing a stupid fucking project that I’d bring to life just so I could kill it, but I manage to had a blast, either way. Am I an adorable snowflake, or what?

I was thinking about asking you, guys, if I look older now and then post a picture of me on which I draw on wrinkles and bags under my eyes, then I thought what an awful joke that was, and I don’t want pity laughs… Even if it is my birthday.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Where the Hell is Everybody?

My boyfriend left for Germany today (we are a very transatlantic couple and proud of it). Right now, I’m pretty much… Unhappy, is the word? Well, you get the point.


Not much else to add; in this day and age Facebook words are even wiser: I’m not longer in a relationship.