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?
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!

coffee-induced panic attacks

I just finished watching this kind-of-docu film about Rock Hudson. It is called Rock Hudson's Home Movies and it is a great film. Sad. Rock Hudson, if you don't already know, was the biggest shit on the Hollywood block in the 1950s and 60s, big, masculine, more than 2 meters tall, dark, handsome. Oh, and also gay as a unicorn. Getting pounded by another unicorn. 

Afternoon Delight

Rock was in the closet all his life, obviously, because no one could ever be out in the 50s, because he was famous... he was motherfucking Rock Hudson. Because fate is a bitch and has a twisted sense of irony, Rock died of AIDS-related complication in 1985, he was a little over 60 years old when he died. (Later, I can write a little rant about how much I HATE THE MOTHERFUCKING AIDS BITCH CUNT)

The movie in question (which is on Netflix Instant Play) treats his life with humor but also decency. The movie understands that the clips they are showing are funny, but the fact that Rock was made to say these lines (lines dripping with implicit homoerotic content) is fucking indecent and mean. Directors and writers casted him in movies in which the recit would question Rock's character's sexuality. Several times, he played a straight man playing a gay man to get the girl. But he was gay to begin with. Ironic? Fucking mean? In the industry, everyone knew he was gay and still gave him these "innocent" lines to perform. They still made him get married and do a different kind of performance. Being a 'bachelor' turns suspicious after you turn 32, Rock. 

Knowing little grin.

And then, and then and now I think about all the actors that we know and love now, and how many of them are still made to be in the closet. I refuse to admit that in Hollywood, there is not ONE A List actor who is gay. Bulllllshit. But they are married, or otherwise don't say anything about their sexuality. Kevin Spacey is one of those, if you consider him A List. It makes me so fucking upset! Really, guys? Do you think you couldn't land a straight role if people knew for certain that you're gay. I mean, probably, yes, but that's fucked up. I bet there's Rock Hudsons out there, suffering. It blows. 

Got that right, Gervais. (also, fun fact, when google image searching "fuck hollywood", I saw a lot of dongs and vajayjays)

I mean there's rumors about John Travolta and Tom Cruise and, while I believe them, and I am frustrated that they won't come out, I understand. I'm really sad about living in a world where this happens. 

who are you kidding, my man?

In other news, this week was weird: I had two panic attacks, probably caused by drinking too much coffee, but it freaked me out. I hadn't had full on panic attacks for many years, and now they start up again. It obviously has to do with me leaving the country and my friends and everyone I know. And it's not like I'm going somewhere horrible, Jesus. Why do I feel this way then? My problem is that I get too attached to people and then I have to leave. I guess it's good, makes me a good friend, but it hurts so much. No one else seems to be getting this upset about leaving or... well, actually, leaving me. Behind. That is what I feel. Irrational? Probsies! 

But at least I watched awesome movies and TV (Born in Flames, The Hunger, Working Girls, Angel, A Bit of Fry and Laurie) and read awesome books (American Vampire, Interview with a Vampire) and articles (some Pessoa bits [of which I will write more in depth laterz], Laura Mulvey's various essays, and much on queer film theory, which was HILARIOUS because the scholar writing these [mostly gay themselves] would describe themselves as midle-class white queens with ridiculous tastes in movies). 

Thank god Stephen is out and proud. 

Oh and we also watched The Mummy and painted our nails Friday night instead of going out. 

They fucking SPARKLE!

<3