NOT A DREAM POST

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.

long delayed - promise of more (sorry for the typos)

Long ago, I found a cure for my depression: writing. Uninevitably, as I never listen to myself, I stopped doing this for the better part of last year. Partly because I didn't want everyone to know all the dark twisty things (because, obviously, the only way to write is to blog) inside of my head. People had found out about all of my broodiness before, and catastorphic consequences ensued (not really). I often lie in bed thinking of good sentences that just come to me and I am too lazy playing mahjong to write them down. Sometimes I think of a good line of a poem while half asleep. Again, too lazy. Every single thing I write down on the notebook that I carry around with me feels daily-journal-y... describing bus passangers, events of the day, a little fly on a window pane, it all seems like counting calories (and that shit is for boring anos)

cry ano bitch cry
(via fuckyeahtattoos)

But, luckily for my muse, I recently had my heart broken and now I don't give a shit. I want to let it out again because most of my friends are far away and the ones that are here are busy and don't live next door as my college friends did.

(via april27th)

It's very cold and windy here, my skin is very dry and chapped, even the skin on my legs. I notice how old I'm getting. Grey hairs, scarred skin, weird spots. When I watch movies or TV shows, I usually half-cry most of the running time: Santana and Brittany kissed TEAR, a father loses his child TEAR, a child loses his father TEAR, Zach Galafinakis (sp?) is fat TEAR, etc.

will die will die

My heart is a little bomb, that I know will explode one of these days. It will be the familiar routine, more pills, therapy, warm weather, happy again. Except probably not.

I am greatful that despite of this shitstorm I am still able to work and stuff. I just don't think much. I haven't read anything since I landed. I mostly spend sleepless nights whispering regrets under my breath.

Living with my family again also ain't easy. It's not that I don't have room for my stuff (I don't), I don't have room for me. ME ME ME. I expanded and stretched all over the place when living in college, even when I was in Paris. I need space and I need silence, and there's none of that here. And it's not my mum's fault... It's mine, for failing to get a job in the States, for not performing better in college, for being ugly, for not foreseeing this, saving up for rent somewhere here, but 8000 pesos will get you nowhere. And I'm smothered by my own house.

(via letgooftheredballoons)

Lots of things have happened since I came back to Uruguay. A girl I was very excited to see and kiss and hold hands with told me she didn't want to do all those things with me. This had repercussions on a lot of other relationships for me and I am held in an uncertainty limbo right now. I had a terrible cold, I kept coughing. In my hypochondriac mind I thought I might cough up blood any second. But then it went away (edit: immediately after I posted this I spent 2 hours coughing. I woke everyone up). I haven't stopped smoking like I said I was going to. But there's time for a serious health scare, no?

bitch please

So, in order to get out of my funk – or at least make it productive, I must: read more, write more, see my friends more often, not spend so much fucking time on the internet, take pictures, draw, and probably smile more often.

I spent a month traveling the States. That is my next writing mission: a portrait of each of the cities I visited and their people. Could be sort of a delayed short-term travel blog. Are you interested?

as excited as this baby was when being held by david bowie

<3