technology conspiring against me

Today was one of those days where every song I listened to, I could relate to. Mainly because 97% of songs are love songs, and 93% of those are break-up songs. The remaining 3% of songs are about murdering bitches, and I also feel like doing that. And mind you, I did not go straight to La Roux or Adele and just felt the lyrics. No, this was me sitting on the bus to work, listening to my “Top Rated” list, in random order. So, the rundown, in order:

Heaven at Nite – Kid Cudi. Because one of the things he told me last night is to stop worrying so much and to relax and let go. Because I can't, and I have not felt Heaven at Nite in a long, long, long while. A year? More? Remember that night we sneaked off to the woods and I liked you so much and I liked myself so much and the stars were clear and the river was cold and I kissed you in my mind? I do.

Sonnet– The Verve. This song is just super sad. I dig that.

15 Step – Radiohead. Basically this:

How come I end up where I started?
How come I end up where I went wrong?
Won't take my eyes off the ball again.
You used to rail me out and then you cut the string.


A Well Respected Man – The Kinks. Because last night he sounded so secure and logical and mature when in reality we all know everything is messy and bloody, a deep well with dirt at the bottom that sometimes is warm like a blanket but sometimes is freezing and hurts your skin. We all know that.

Then the Skins theme song came on and it made me sad because Skins makes me sad (and like I wanna do a shit ton of drugs), specially Effy because I get her.

Gratuitous Kaya Scodelario gif time! Do yourself a favor and google image her.

Dancing Queen – ABBA. Once I made up a story that in my 17th birthday they sang Dancing Queen to me instead of Happy Birthday. It was so long ago I don't even remember if it happened or not.

Oh Well, Okay – Elliott Smith. “Haha, wanna feel better about your day? WELL NOT ON MY WATCH” my iPod. And Elliott Smith.

This dude had been ruining my life since 2004.

How Deep Is Your Love – The Bee Gees. Not very deep, apparently. Chhhhhhiiiiillllllll song tho. I enjoyed this one.

Never Going Back Again – Fleetwood Mac. One heart break a year is, like, standard, right?

Kids – MGMT. This one made me feel guilty because sophomore year was the year of this song and we were so happy for like two weeks and then I fucked it all up, I'm sorry. I think about this a disturbing amount. Congratulations on graduating, by the way.

Pétalo de Sal – Fito Paez y Spinetta. This is just a love song, but it made me think about all the songs that have not been written about me, about the lack of fictional characters inspired by me, the absence of paintings or photographs of my likeness. No one has ever given me flowers, ever. No one ever has made me anything. I have inspired no grand gestures nor art. A girl did write me a poem once. It was about how cold and distant I am. Thumbs up!

So Happy I Could Die – Lady GaGa. I miss Paris in the spring.

Suffocation – Crystal Castles. Crystal Castles makes me incredibly nostalgic for Smith for some reason. It was the last time I was kind of happy. Doing a bunch of addies and writing papers and having friends around. This song in particular is also sort of sexy at the same time, and it reminds me of all the sex I'm not having.

Trátame Suavemente – Soda Stereo. Translates to “Treat me Softly”. “Te comportas de acuerdo con lo que te dicta cada momento/ Y esa inconstancia no es algo heroico, es mas bien algo enfermo” Oops, was that, like, me?

Heartbeats – The Knife. Once I showed him this song and he was like, I don't really like it, and I was like WAT.

Imaginary Love – Rufus Wainright. Beeeeecause let's face it. I heard Schubert in my head too. It was all in my head, no? The way you used to smile didn't mean anything and I never made you nervous.

via suk.me legit website

Then I started listening to Wu-Tang and felt better. By the way, the above-mentioned songs, in that order, could be the worst playlist in the world. The shuffle feature can really fuck you up. I'll be fine, as people always are. I will not, however, be dating dudes anytime soon. That shit is fucked up.

Otherwise, I want to kill myself less these days, which is good news. As I said to Eva, I promise I won't go anywhere. I'm also eating almost three times a day, and like, food. Progress. 


i'll probably write about this later in full detail but...

*insert poignant lyrics of sad unrequited love song here*

the boy is no more! and my ego hurts. goodnight. 

a well thought-out poem

dear side window on facebook
that tells me who's online and who's not
you're a douchebag
love, lau


catch 22

if you're gonna die at some point, why do it now? 
if you're gonna die anyway, why not do it now? 

end it all because you're not worth it. you're not worth it because you want to end it all. 

work to get money to pay for anti-depressants. be depressed because of shitty job. 

study to get better job that pays more. be in endless debt because of school. 

take pill to kill anxiety. have anxiety because you take too many pills. 

is that what catch 22 means? i never really understood the concept. 

i wrote a letter no one will receive. it talks friendship and family and poison and acid. that's it. i think that's all i wanted to say. goodbye now. the story has no beginning so this is in the middle. it serves no purpose it has no grammar. tonight i woke up my mother because i was crying too hard. she made a point to say that *her* mother never came to soothe her. it's all about me. i took four pills one two three four. my ego and wrists hurt from last night. there are just different levels of sadness between you two. she will never understand. i opened the window and debated with my mother about the possibility of me dying or of me breaking my back. we didn't reach a consensus. the scissors are hidden somewhere in the bed and only one person in the world could find them. she lives in paris. i vomited some chocolate pudding. i closed facebook. i need the attention. i opened facebook i need the attention. my toes curl in worry. no new messages, no new emails no new calls no new. no oxford comma, i said no grammar. can you please not show up in my dreams anymore? it makes being alive exhausting. It needs to be a solid block just a bit mor. it's too hot under this sweater. tears work better than makeup remover. just grow the fuck up laura these are teenager problems. get the fuck on with it. are you actually kidding me? it's been 10 fucking years let it go. i have an alcohol problem. a man i just met told me i should go to a a. i have a food problem. a man i just met told me i am anorexic. i have a drug problem. the man i just met didn't say anything because when he asked if i did any drugs i lied. i also lied that i came that day, i didn't but i was tired and honestly you were not doing such a good job. i am 10 kilos lighter than a year ago. eating makes me want to throw up and punch people in the face. food is medicine. how do you say that in swedish? her poems are better than mine. i mean  i get it how could you love all this crazy ^^? clonazepam dries tears <3 



The second installment in this series belongs to Tim Burton's wife: Johnny Depp. He used to come second to Heath, but now my obsession with him has greatly died down to a distant appreciation for his former looks and great acting skills.

It all started one winter night when me and my bffl Emi wanted to go watch, I kid you not, a Tom Cruise movie. But there were no more tickets left and the only movie available was Pirates of the Caribbean. Mind you, there had been little to no advertisement in Uruguay about this movie and me and Emi were all like: “ewwww a pirate movie? For kids?! Ew gross, we're 15, whatever, lalala”, but we went in anyway because we had nothing else to do. 
Fast-forward to two and a half hours later: wide-eyed and wobbly-legged we exited the theater, staring at each other like we just saw g-d. Holy shit! We had almost crapped our pants with laughter and we now thought this Johnny Depp person was the coolest thing ever.

hahah ssstop

I had been vaguely aware of Johnny before that, but nothing special. After seeing that movie I realized it was the same guy from Cry Baby (John Water's eppppiiiiiicccccccccc mainstreamish masterpiece: watch it now), a movie that I had watched and loved years before. After Pirates, I watched all Depp movies I could: Cry Baby (again), Benny and Joon, Arizona Dream, What's Eating Gilbert Grape, Fear And Loathing in Las Vegas, Don Juan de Marco, Sleepy Hollow, The Ninth Gate, Chocolat, Blow, The Man Who Cried, Secret Window (eugh, in theaters too), Edward Scissorhands, Ed Wood, Before Night Falls, That One Movie About Jack The Ripper Where He's Addicted To Opium And Heather Graham Has An Awful British Accent, Sleepy Hollow, Pirates of the Caribben 1-67, Once Upon A Time In Mexico, Finding Neverland, The Libertine (awful, just awful), Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Alice In Wonderland (this one also in theater AND in 3D – worst 15 euros ever spent), et cetera.

Johnny has mostly a great movie record, but he does have some terrible movies out there. He also, in my opinion, does not have a great taste in women: Winona Ryder, Kate Moss (yeah, she's physically perfect but seems like the biggest bitch ever), and Vanessa Paradis. He also seems a bit too affected, with his stupid hair and insisting on smoking in-doors. He also made that movie with Angelina Jolie that I refuse to watch that could have only been appealing 15 years prior. He has sported some shitty-ass tattoos.

But I have to admit, I still have a soft spot for him. He's a great actor. I am really looking forward to seeing Dark Shadows, both for him, and because it seems that Burton's got his touch back. Hopefully.

He looks like a lesbian. 

he's on his way to a sunday morning farmers' market to get some produce for his partner

All his life, he has looked like a hot lesbian. He's so freaking pretty! He even dresses like one: with fedora hats and long-ish hair. He knows French and lives in Paris. Which is pretty gay. Like Heath, he has played non-stereotypical gay roles, which leads me to think he's okay with gay.


no, seriously, stop

I would have liked to have hooked up with him when he was a bit younger, he's kind of looking rough these days... but I'd talk to him about his movies, walk around Paris, have some ice cream at Berthillon, and play with his kids. We would make fun of American tourists. I'd make him introduce me to Helena Bonham-Carter.


Charlotte Gainsbourg!

everything she does makes me want to cry

charlotte + johnny + radiohead = melancholic heart attack



The past couple of nights I have done something really stupid. I take this drug, Ambien, to get to bed. It used to make me giddy and write really amazing psychedelic stuff. Now it makes me go online and talk to people. About things no one should ever hear. In the morning (more like mid-afternoon amirite?) I hardly remember saying any of the things I said. I read over my conversations and I am horrified. 

Two nights ago I confessed to the boy that I was feeling a little suicidal. Ugh, no one should ever deal with that crap except the blog and the therapist. But I was indeed thinking about my scarves, and where I could hang them from. You know, logistics. But there are no poles in my house. 7 stories, blood on the carpet. Everyone knows I do it for the attention everyone knows I don't really mean it, right?

I also shared an idea I had for a video essay, which at that moment sounded like the most ground-breaking idea ever. It was something about writing fake suicide notes every night and recording the process for about a week and taking drugs, or some shit. How self-centered is THAT? Says the girl writing a personal blog.

I got two job interviews in the next two days. I have friends. I'm not pregnant. My belly is not full of hot air and sadness like those children's from those dusty countries. I conserve all my teeth and there are two computers in the house. Still today all I ever did was restrain myself from carving my heart out with rusty scissors. I stopped once it started stinging. 

Tomorrow I am going to wake up early and feel better. Tomorrow I am going to wake up early and feel better. Tomorrow I am going to wake up early and feel better. Tomorrow I am going to wake up early and feel better. Tomorrow I am going to feel better. Tomorrow I am going to feel better. Tomorrow I am going to feel better. 

pretty much the exact opposite of this:

crime scene

at first, when i am full, through my salty eyelashes
there is promise of a big finish
and our bodies found inside a black, charred room
but then i am a coward
and my skin won't break
and i don't say a word
my body isn't mine any more
the firemen and police won't know
that i dug and you buckled
but the blood never came
no autopsy will show the scars
my legs flicker while you turn back


Giving up... not! (WUI: Written Under the Influence)

It's hard to give up on something you weren't really trying to get in the first place. I have been in Uruguay for a year and I still have the shitty job I got when I first got here, the one I don't really enjoy, I'm not particularly good at, and, most of all, does not pay good at all. And why? Because I didn't try. If I am to be honest with myself, I didn't try in the States, either. I didn't try to stay. I knew it would be incredibly difficult, and, I just... don't like to work hard. 

This was not a problem during college and high school because I had no responsibilities, and homework is not hard. But I lack drive. I am one of those in the I generation, I guess, the ones who think everything will be handed to them.


But no one is going to give me a job. Not if I don't try. But, what if I try and still no one gives me a job? I feel like in Uruguay no one is willing to let you in based on your potential talent. Which is all I have, potential. I have nothing to show, nothing created, just bits and pieces that might indicate that one day I'll be an ok writer.

he's the character from The Simpsons I relate to the most

And my blog doesn't help shit. First off, it's in English. Also, the blog is about things that happen (or happened) in my life, and, let's face it, I am 24! There's only, like, five 24-year-olds in the world who have important lives. The rest of us don't have “stuff” in our lives yet. I have no great advice, because nothing has ever happened to me. I have no great stories because I am mostly too drunk to remember them.

So, do I just give up? It's frightening the frequency with which you think about throwing yourself out the window, even if they wouldn't call you “depressed” per se. I am not absolutely depressed. I am not staring at the scissors trying to decide if someone will notice the scars there or not. But the thoughts are still real. I'm chucking it to the disease, that slimy brown rat whose rotten teeth are stuck somewhere in my brain.
The drugs make it better, of course, but nothing, I am sadly realizing, will ever take the rat and extract its teeth.

Between the height of my building and my fragile bones, I would definitely die, but only if I jump head first. I have calculated this, just in case, to make things easier to myself, in case...

But no, you don't do that, not to your mother and your best friend. Not when you at least know that you want to be a writer. You want to be a writer! HI, epiphany, where have you been!

happy dreams!

First part: start writing stories, because, as we have established before, nothing has ever happened to you, ever, and no one is interested in your comfortable non-poor, not-under-a-terrible-dictator life. So, stories, about Gene and Carla and Jenni and Maria, about the things that you wish would happen to you because your soul is so twisty and dark that you actually wish for the drama and when your boyfriend cheats on you, you plan the dialogue and he's going to be so sorry he did it and feel guilty you're not even crying because you want to be strong. So, these blueprints for a perfect breakup or meeting a celebrity can be used with a higher purpose: stories not about you. 

Who will ever read them? Who knows, but, fanfiction is proof that people will literally read ANYTHING.

So, give up after? After you have spent 10,000 hours writing. Clock them. Start with one or two a day. Get a job that lets you write. Go to school were you write scholarly papers about Lacan and The Avengers.Write until it becomes your full-time job and the keys of your mac no longer show letters because of the acid in your finger sweat. 

emo is cool



In honor of my recent foray into straight world, I thought I would start a regular thing: a list of dudes that make my lady parts happy and would drag me deeper into the underbelly of non-gayness. It's pretty fucked up.


At the very top of my list there is one. There has always been one, ever since my poor, confused hormones starting cart-wheeling up and down my body. And that dude is Heath Ledger.

Pretty much, all captions for his pictures should be: "kjhszmq;lmubecojihlkdjsh, ow my ovaries".

Ever since I randomly caught 10 Things I Hate About You on cable, my heart flips every time I see his beautiful, beautiful face. This was the beginning of my bad boy (and girl) syndrome. Fret not, I also fantasized plenty about Julia Stiles. I printed tens of pictures of the both of them and covered my closet door with them (sign number 768 for my mother of my budding bisexualism).
But Heath was special. He was so hot and devilish. This was also the time I began to understand and speak English in ernest; I began to distinguish accents. And holy crap, his accent! His voice! Uggggghhhhhhhhh.

Yes, yes I have. 

Then, I watched every Heath Ledger movie I could get my hands on: I scoured the TV guide and the internet. I watched Two Hands, an Australian crime movie he did before he was famous in the States (I actually highly recommend it, it's really good). I watched A Knight's Tale, which I kind of recommend, if only to watch two of the most beautiful people in the world together (Hello, Shannyn Sossamon). 

(Also, fun fact, that movie introduced me to David Bowie. No joke. Also, Paul Bethanny and Whedonite Alan Tudyk are in it).

I watched Candy, with Geoffrey Rush and Abbie Cornish, a depressing story about a once-lovely heroin-addicted couple. I watched Brokeback Mountain. No explanation needed. If you haven't watched that film, you should. Now. Like, literally, stop reading and go watch it. It's gorgeous. And it's also the film with which I realized the Academy Awards are full of shit – it lost best picture to fucking Crash.

Jack Fucking Twist, you sonofabitch.

I watched I'm Not There and The Something or Another of Doctor Parnassus (I cannot be bothered to look up the name – the movie was ruined by the other actors who tried to act like him).
And I watched The Motherfucking Dark Knight. FACKEN WHATTTTTT. He was a genius. Homie literally never picked a lame project. I read that his first job was in an Australian soap opera (bear with me) playing an openly gay teen. He was 16 at the time.

Still fuckable.

And then he up and died. I remember I was on vacation from my first year in college, watching TV at home when the news came up that he had died. I actually cried. And I cried again when his father accepted his Oscar the following year. I honestly think about his death regularly, and get legitimately bummed out. What a fucking loss.


Well, when I first saw him he had longish hair, so there's that. He kind of dressed like a boi would. His name is really cool, albeit a little fake-sounding. Dimples. He also was pro-gay (I'm assuming, given his choices in characters), which is a turn-on. He liked strong, intelligent, awesome ladies (Naomi Watts and Michelle Williams are living proof... I am hoping the Mary-Kate Olsen rumors are not true). And this:


Provided he weren't dead, I would like to go camping with him to Montana in the summer. He could be the Ennis to my Jack. We would make love and I'd make him eggs in the morning. We could wear matching plaid shirts. Then we would get back to the city cause I can't take that shit for long. We would live in a swanky loft apartment in the LES and be friends with Vivianne Westwood and Michael Stipe.


Heath, I wish I knew how to quit you.   


exercise in drunk writing -- excuse the spelling and grammar errors

Hey, you know what Hemingway said about drunk writing? Something like “Write drunk, edit sober”?
Well, I'm skipping that last part, yo.
Today I had DEEP conversations about FEAR and the FEELS with two of my best friends in the world. We talked about me, mostly, which is uncomfortable, but sometimes, it needs to happen. I am most happy when I talk about someone else, when I try to fix someone else's life. But seeing as my life was the most fucked up of the three, it was my turn.
We talked about Sweden and how scared I am. And how I “totally shouldn't be because you're awesome”. My friends are great, but their validation, though extremely nice, does nothing to inflate my ego, currently resembling the deflated plastic bags bag-ladies carry around when asking for money in the street.

also, choosing pictures while drunk may result in lots of "pic unrelated" captions. 

I need to, you know, believe in myself and shit. Which is hard. And I don't like hard things. And thus I leave you with a stream-of-consciousness poem, written drunk (and high off Ambien) and NOT to be revised in the sober future because fuck that. Editorial responsibility is for print.

A late-night text: “Asleep?”
No verb, no subject, no me
“No”, but I was expecting more
I never catch you staring at me
and it's actually annoying when you're not touching my skin
like right now
a thousand almost-liquid fabrics: sheets, clothes, blankets
that t-shirt you forgot last night
(or maybe it was last week)
but no fingers lifting up my shirt
strategically worn so you would feel there was
nothing between us

But I know we could:
osmosis through our skin
water and perfume and the smoke of an incense stick
held by a white Buddha

this is a schiele drawing, and the gif i made by myself. talent.