the one time i was really cool

Storyteller 7006
Come on in! Let me tell you about an incident that happened a couple of weeks ago. By the way, this is the second post today because I have not written in a really long time, and I am trying to keep from smoking for at least another 12 hours. I have gone 36 hours without a cigarette, and I want to see if I can make it until tomorrow night. 

do NOT GIVE UP (from this person)

Anyways. Twoooooooo Saturdays ago, J was here and I took her to El Mercado del Puerto. It's a huge old market where near the docks/port/water/bigassboats where they used to buy and sell goods FOB, but is now a turist (albeit DELICIOUS) trap full of restaurants that cook meat RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU. They have this special "wine" thing, called Medio y Medio, half wine, half sparkly shit, and it gets you buzzed

Anyway, I took J there and we went with my Uruguayan bfffffl Emma. Emma is not her real name. We has a delicious lunch and me and J laughed at Emma's stories because she's a hilarious lady. As we walk out of the market, I tell J, in English: "Watch out for your shit, they steal everything around here." Literally dude, cue to a little kid sntching Emma's purse and running away with it. Two of them. I was oblivious, but I reacted quickly. 

classy classy (larepublica.com.uy)

"What did they take?" I asked. 
"Todo." Emma responded with a wounded kitten look on her face. 

Forth comes the most badass moment of my life:

"Hold this." I told J, handing her my cigarette and leather jacket. I promptly started running after these little hoodrats. The possibility of a knife or the fact that we were fastly heading into one of the most dangerous areas of the city didn't cross my mind. Finally, I see that they run into an old house, kind of shantytown deal, broken windows, broken doors, a junky standing outside, the whole deal. Out of breath, I suss out:

fuckas ain't know shit

"Give me back everything and I wont call the police" Seeing as there is a police station one block away from there, I wanted to strike some sort of fear into their little blackened hearts. See, in Montevideo, there are groups of kids, minors, who rob tourists or oblivious girls of their purses, wallets, whatever, and the police can't do shit. There is no good juvi system here, putting them through a trial is expensive and ineffective. And they can always accuse the police of police brutality. So the security around touristy areas is minimal since law "enforcement" officers choose to stay the fuck away. 

sometimes I like James Franco

Somehow, though, I got back my friend's purse, sans the money (150 pesos = 7 dollars) and with a broken strap, but her ID and shit were in there. So, happy ending. I was left with a killed buzz and threatening-to-explode lungs. However, my friends (and mom) pointed out that it was a very stupid thing to do, running after thieves. I would have been shot, knifed. 

Could I? I don't know. I have these reactions ("you don't act, you react" says my mom) that I sometimes can't help. I had a therapist tell me that these "badass" moments I sometimes have are a way to test my limits, but mostly, a form of self-destruction without the guilt. Which, is, you know, all sorts of correct. I also really enjoy all the compliments and astonishment from my friends that comes with doing shit like that. SOMEBODY NOTICEMEEEE. 

Okay, that was my story for today. I have others from my trip with J to Buenos Aires. 


John Waters wrote this book called Crackpot: the Obsessions (which I own but is currently in possession of someone who is not fully appreciating it) and it's hilarious. Everyone should read it. In this book, John lists 101 things that he hates and 101 things that he loves. One of the things that he hates is people who say “I had the craziest dream last night!”. Well, I am a horrible perpetrator of this crime irl. Mostly because I dream a lot and my dreams are hilarious (as opposed to other people's). But I try not to talk about my dreams too much, specially on my blog, because it could easily become a dream log... because, again, I vividly dream every day, even during naps.

I also sleep a million hours a day

But today I talking about a dream I just had, because it is so disturbing it has left me depressed and disturbed. So... OMIGOD you'll NEVER guess what I dreamed about last night....
Okay, I had a dream that I found my real father (keep in mind, I know who my real father was), and he lived in America, was remarried and had two kids, a boy and a girl. I was staying at their house after being kicked out of Smith (you guys have GOT to stop posting about going back on Facbook, it's hacking into my dreams), just for a couple of days. My real “dad” (a short, kinda bald dude) never showed up in my dream. I was sharing a room with my 14-year-old half sister.

via this person

This is the fucked up part: 

I dreamt my “sister” seduced me and we made out and I was planning to have sex with her 

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY BRAIN. WHYWHYWHYWHYYYYY WOULD I DREAM SUCH A THING??????????????????? I woke up feeling WRONG and when I remembered my dream I wanted to jump off the balcony. But it's like, really cold outside, so I didn't. What.The.Fuck. Am I a secret pedophile? It was so gross. It is so gross! I need to wash my brain with bleach.

Anywhooo, today is the first day without my Jwife. She left yesterday after being here for 13 days. The two months I spent here in Uruguay were basically just waiting for her, I knew she was coming, there was like, a hope. Now that she's gone I can't seem to find anything positive about being here – like, anything

maybe *you* (via thisperson)

I, of course, psychological help with this. Now, who's gonna pay for that? These past two days have been shit, shit shit. I found out a friend's mom passed away, which made me and J pretty depressed since both of our moms have had breast cancer. Most of the time I feel pretty numb, with some flashing moments of my eyes watering a little, my nose gets itchy, I can't get words straight. But then it's back into staring into some sort of screen, nice blues and greens, empty plates around my bed. Crumbs of sandwich number one make friends with crumbs of sandwich number two.

Autumn Sonata - Ingmar Bergman - 1978

I wasn't home when J had to go to the airport, I was at work. She left a note in my computer that I read when I got home from work which said “Leaving you sucks and I am starting to get tired of saying goodbye to my best friend.” How can people be expected to go through this type of shit all the time? Maybe I would have been better of staying here in the first place, never meeting people who will always take a piece of my heart when I leave or when they leave. My brain is scattered all over the world, in about 15-20 pieces, and I am afraid that I will never be complete: these pieces will never be in one place at the same time.

Google "Andre Harlow" and shit your pants.

But then, I wouldn't know so many wonderful people, and, let's face it, it's hella cool to have a piece of your soul in every continent.

On the other hand, I feel paranoid at all times; I am afraid one of my pieces will give up on me and not love me anymore. Let the little bit die. And then I'll die. And then who will I feel sorry for?
Is that why I can't meet people here? I have no more pieces left! All my interesting bits are not with me

... I just realized that all this talk about “pieces” and “bits” is extremely sexual and I didn't mean it it to be sowwwwwy.


two-color ghosts


And now for something completely different: 

The amount of observing I am doing: I hardly talk any more. Today my friend's grandma died and, obviously, when that kind of thing happens, it stirs shit up from my past. About half of my family is dead: all my grandparents, my father. My mom has had some fucked up health scares. I have to be careful about what I think. It's super windy outside, it makes everything lonelier. I had a teacher once that didn't like when I used adjectives meant for people as adjectives describing a feeling or a day or a mood. He can go fuck himself. I like doing it, it may be cliched but there it is.

Erin McCarty

The night is lonely, herself. My eyes are lonely, so are my ears. They miss having people around, colors. Right now, my color gamma limits itself to pale yellow and navy blue. The colors of Montevideo at night, the colors of inside my apartment. 

This apartment, where both of my grandparents died. I am right now in the room where my favorite person in the whole world, el Señor (con B mayúscula) Beltrán Castro, died three years ago. I can pictures his thinning hair and the even-more-thinning fabric of his old ass PJs. They were lovely. He was lovely. But I miss him with a smile on my heart. I wish I could say this to my friend who lost his grandma. In a little while, you'll remember and cry but with a smile. 

recodis magazine

And you'll laugh about the way he used to recite random poems in the lunch table and no one would know what to do. The way he would always joke that I was the stupidest in the family even though he loved me the most (sorry, family, but we all know it). He would sing folk songs to which I never bothered to learn the words, because I though they would be there forever. But now they're not. It's OK, they are his songs, not mine. I have my own, and my grand children will have to ignore my singing some day. 

Nick Vargas

My grandfather was the most practical person in the world. He needed to have the time on the microwave reset every time there was a blackout. I did that for him. He pealed my banana and orange for me. 
Te extraño, abue. Is your ghost in this room? Someone is here with me, and they are heavy and sleepy and melancholic... is it you?

unknown artist: not mine, probably not yours either. 

There are other dead people I can never remember with a smile. They still scream. 



so like a while ago i almost died

Haha no, that's an exaggeration*. Well, maybe, we'll never know. But let me tell you a tale of when I was close to dying (proportion of situation pending) without knowing it.

A day or two after getting back to Uruguay, I noticed something weird on my chest. These red spots, kind of rough texture. Huh... whatever! It's probably cat aids I got from a stray cat in San Francisco or, like, a peruvian flu. My mom insisted it was an allergy to dulce de leche but that shit is ridiculous. I didn't pay attention to the one-inch wide, rashy-looking things on my chest, about 12 of them, spread throughout my chest (and boobs).

it did *NOT* look like this. instead of picturing how gross it was, look at these nice boobs!

A week went by and I was starting to believe what my mother was saying about an allergy. The spots turned into sores, and now I had one on my face. Which sometimes discharged yellow crap. 

I felt really pretty. 

I actively started to worry, changed my sheets and washed all my clothing. Twice. No change. I mentioned to my friend, jokingly, that I might *actually* have AIDS, hahahalulz. He looked at me, with a straight face, and asked when had I had my last STD check. It'd been a while (note to self: get fucking tested, goddammit!). I freaked out, and google image searched AIDS lesions.

do yourself a favor and do *not* google aids lesions. here's a kitty.

The third week into the rash and the panic levels were comparable to a tea-partier in a ODGWKTA concert. I was even more worried that my mom, who is known to be a vicarious hypochondriac through me. The woman blew off her cancer treatment like it was a mosquito bite but calls a doctor every time I have a hang nail.

my mom is also a famous perpetrator of this ^

I didn't go to the doctor because I didn't have health insurance at the time and I was so broke I couldn't afford a walk-in. Also, asides from moments of intense stress-crying about the nasty-looking but painless sores, I didn't feel sick or anything, so whatever.

fuck da police

Four weeks went by and I suddenly (like, totally literally suddenly, I think I was pooping when this happened) realized that it MAY BE one of the meds I was taking. About a year and a half ago I was prescribed a mood-regulating/epilepsy medication to help with my crazy. At the time the doctor said that some people are allergic to the shit, and, that if I got a skin rash, I should stop taking the pills immediately and go see a doctor. Because it might kill me.

HUH, I thought. CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER. I stopped taking the pills and went to a doctor, but like, days later. The doctor told me that thank god I stopped when I did, because if those sores appeared on the outside, I also had them on the *inside* of my body and I would have died pretty soon, probably.

i always imagined my death to be more like this 

And now I'm really sad because the pills are gone and that's fucking with my brain chemistry, but at least I'm not dead. Although the excess serotonin playing in a slip-n-slide of despair that is my organism is making me believe I wish I were, in fact, dead, this is a good thing. Because as soon as I go to the shrink, they will pump me up with some other mood-regulator (probably Lithium, and then I can be the star of my own Nirvana song) and I will be fine, right?

* exaggeration is a word I can NEVER type correctly on the first go, I often spell "exxageration".

also, b4 you leave, check out this girl's blog. it's NSFW and she's kind of an internet prostitute, BUT HER NIPPLES ARE HEARTS. she tattooed her areolas into heart shapes. it's the coolest and I want one!


i live on a 7th floor

thought: i wonder if you die from a heart attack first or from the actual impact? but what if you don't die at all? that'd be a fucking bummer. 

sad fact: i don't have enough sleeping pills on me to cause damage. 
sad fact two: i found it comforting when i *did* have enough pills to cause damage. 

i miss your pretend presence in my life. i want to put another face onto it pls


how i learned to be gay

I used to watch a lot of lesbian movies when I was younger because I needed to now what being gay looked like... since I din't know any body who was gay in real life. Buffy, L Word, Sugar Rush, Fucking Åmal, porn... those actually were my first teachers in queeritude. 

tara and willow, joss' characters who showed me it was okat to be gay
show me love showed me it was cool to be gay
sugar rush showed me it was fucking hot as shit to be gay. also, my bristol obsession stared right then.

Once, a girl told me that she and I had L word sex, which goes to tell you where I learned about fucking. At 12, a produced-only-for-the-male-gaze lezzie porn (*i actually remember exactly which clip, i found it online i would link to it but I am too embarrassed)  actually taught me that such a thing as a clitoris existed and that it felt *awesome* to touch it, because god forbid anyone teach you *real* sex education.

you knew this was coming

But back to lesfilms, I became obsessed and would watch any fucking film, no matter how horrible it was, with a lesbian plot line. It didn't even have to be prominent or the main story... just anything, any glimpse of gay that would signal to me what kind of gay I was. Was I a top? 

if only she could act 

I pretended for a long time I was because those were always the coolest characters, like Shane. I'm not really. I'm not really anything. I stopped watching any gay movies I could find. Now I only watch ones that actually look like they could be good... Does that mean I am more comfortable with my gayness? I don't dress up to appear more or less gay now. I used to. I like my long hair and I'm not getting rid of it. 
I paint my nails all kind of ridiculous colors but I also wear plaid shirts. I'm happy where I am with the gay in me, I don't need to see endless representations of gay to define myself anymore. I'm confident in my gay. Which is hilarious, because I am getting less laid than ever. Yes, hilarious is the word for it.

But I did learn my first steps into lezziedom from these shows. I learned how to be gay from the television! I learned how to be in a relationship from Willow and Tara, I learned how to fuck from Shane and Better Porter, I learned most lesbians find one person and become obsessed with them from Sugar Rush.... Thank you, TV! I love you. It's not the same now, but boyfriend, am I glad you were there for me, like a pervy older friend who toyed with my emotions but totally showed me what was what. I salute you!

Speaking of boyfriends, HOLY SHIT TRUE BLOOD LAST NIGHT. 


Speaking of True Blood, have you seen Evan Rachel Wood's new swaggity swag style? I mean, she's trying really hard to be a gayelle (remind me of me like 5 years ago), but she.looks.so.effing.cute! Grrr!