Sunday, September 30, 2012

Something Always Happens

A lot of stuff has happened since I posted last and I plan to write about it… Just not today.

The reason I’m writing this is, partly, to let the 4 or 5 still interested know I haven’t forgotten about my blog; however, this is mainly a remainder for myself to write about this issues.

1. Meeting British Man’s friends and family.

2. Meeting a very weird dude on the flight back from England.

3. Moving into my very own* apartment.

So, wait for that…! Or not. I’m aware I don’t deserve your patience anymore.


*Ok. I know it’s  not really my apartment. I’m not really paying rent with money I’ve earned. Either way, I’m still calling it “my very own”, it’s more exciting that way.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Her Eyes. Her Nose. Her Forehead. Her Mouth.

“We are all going, […] and it applies to turtles and turtlenecks. Alaska the girl and Alaska the place, because nothing can last, not even the earth itself. The Buddha said that suffering was caused by desire, we'd learned, and that the cessation of desire meant the cessation of suffering. When you stopped wishing things wouldn't fall apart, you'd stop suffering when they did.”

― John Green, Looking for Alaska

Yesterday night I met with some old friends, and since I’m leaving Mexico in just a few days, we decided it was a great excuse to go through old yearbooks. That’s what we did. We remembered unfortunate haircuts, braces, not-hypster-cool glasses, baby fat and awkward faces. In that moment it was all about us, every time we opened up a book, we went straight to our generation pictures.

By pure coincidence, one yearbook opened up on the photographs of a generation a year below ours. In that moment, a friend pointed out a picture of a girl; I remembered her instantly. I didn’t talk to her, she was a year younger than me and at that age it means a whole other level of life experiences, but I remembered her. For the life of me I can’t tell why I remember her, though. She had an Asian last name, maybe that was it. She had a boyish haircut, maybe that was it. She looked a little bit Asian, but not quite; her face was pretty and feminine enough to pull off the haircut. Maybe that was it. 

“She died” my friend whispered.

Instinctively, I asked how. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Because we want to hear about a sickness that we’re already cured for; we want to hear about an overdose of drugs we don’t do; we want to hear about dangerous places we would never visit.

She died in a car crash about a year ago. No. Not a year. Months ago. She wasn’t driving; the guy who was wasn’t drunk. He lost control of the wheel for a few seconds and that’s all that was needed. She wasn’t even 21. I think.

I looked up the shocked faces of my friends. I could tell that all they wanted was to turn to the next page and pretend it didn’t happened. We did.

Or maybe I did not. I had trouble sleeping last night. I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl I didn’t talk to and that I never will. When I woke up, it took me just a few seconds on the internet to find the news of her death. According to the site she died instantly. It remind me about the main character of the book ‘Looking for Alaska’ by John Green. He rants about what an ‘instant death’ means; he wonders how long it really is and how awful the pain must feel like. I don’t know about the pain, but just a second of thinking “I’m about to stop existing” sounds terrifying enough to me.

As human being, as the selfish creature I am, I can’t help but think how it makes me feel. How it makes me feel the fact that ten years ago I saw her smiling and I had no idea she was going to die young and tragically (although, I’m being redundant, dying young means dying tragically); how it makes me feel that she must have been going home after a fun night; how it makes me feel that she must had had plans for the next day; how it makes me feel that nobody knew she would stop existing that night… And as selfish as it sounds, that’s all that is important now; how the living feel about the dead, because, even if the particles that conformed her still exist and, theoretically,  will never stop existing, she as a whole doesn’t. She’s not aware of her death anymore, because she’s not aware of anything anymore. So, I can’t stop thinking about my own feelings about it, because that’s what we do.

…Isn’t it?

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Catholics Stick Together

While it can be said that I’ve spent a good amount of time with my friends and family during school break, the photos on my last blog entry (and, well, the simple fact that I have a blog) show I’m not exactly an ‘outside’ kind of person. Luckily I have televisions shows to teach me how human interactions work – Heeh.

Who am I kidding? There’s no pseudo-sciency way to explain why I like using my dad’s Netflix account to watch early seasons of Beverly Hills, 90210.  There’s nothing I can say on my defense; nothing I want to say, to be honest. We are talking about a show with characters like: Kelly Taylor, daughter of a former supermodel addicted to cocaine and alcohol. Kelly, who is voted as Spring Princess ; goes after best friend’s boyfriend; gets best friend’s boyfriend; breaks up with best friend’s boyfriend; goes out with best friend’s brother; temporarily abuses diet pills; temporary abuses cocaine; gets trapped in a house fire with a lesbian who later on falls in love with her; joins a cult because of the fire scare; finds a long lost sister; almost gets rape; gets rape; shots rapist; gets shot in the stomach which causes a 2-episode-long amnesia; suffers a miscarriage; finds out she might never have kids; has a kid. Characters like Kelly suffer daily on BH 90210, the least we could do is watch and enjoy.

What I’ve notice from this show – and many other teen dramas – is that if you take them just a tiny bit seriously, you won’t be able to go through an entire episode without dropping a “what a bunch of horrible horrible people”, even if you’re home alone (and let’s face it, you are home alone, it would be too embarrassing to watch it otherwise). It’s understandable, though, not even I would watch a show full of:

“my dad is a jigsaw puzzle piece cutter; he doesn’t have any kind of criminal relations so I’m not expecting him to blow up in front of my eyes any time soon”

“I’m Pre-Med, I have a child and I’m married at 19… I’m way too busy to have an affair right now, so I’ll pass on this one”

“Drugs? Oh, I’m not really into them, but it’s nice from you to offer”

The only way to stand the actual storylines is to lower your moral standards. Supposedly, there are good and bad characters, although, they are all bitches and scumbags. The only difference between them is that the good characters feel bad about it afterwards. It must have something to do with all of that religious stuff about god forgiving every sin if you feel some remorse and shit.

I don’t know about you, but if an ax murderer is going to split me in half I’d respect him more (if I wasn’t very dead already, anyway) if he was proud of his almost symmetrical job instead of whining about what an awful person he is and then move on to the next victim because, give him a rest, is his nature! 

…Because killing someone is just as bad as stealing their boyfriend!

Anyway, enjoy the 90’s, everybody!

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Coffee, Sandwiches and Magazines

So… This is what I’ve been doing instead on whining about my life on the internet.


San Cristobal Stables, 1968 (Mexico)


Dancing House, 1996 (Prague)


Fallingwater, 1939 (USA)


Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera’s Study House, 1931 (Mexico City)


Guggenheim Museum, 1959 (New York)

Yes. This will be a very useful talent to have now that I’m going to live all by myself and can hardly cook rice without burning it.