zombies and self-deprecation

I have been writing a 10 minute short film script about two people who fall in love in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. Think “Before Sunrise” but with zombies.

via

I am writing the “important” dialogue now, the parts that are supposed to grab you... the quotable parts. The philosophy and theme. But I find myself too stupid and disorganized to do this. I think every time I write I try to summarize what I think about everything, ever. The absolute truth according to me. But it's impossible, more impossible in a movie, even more in a 10 minute short. I wonder if every writer goes through the same process.

Right now I'm at the part where I don't give a fuck anymore and I write a joke about Jesus and a blogpost about my nightmare script.

I kid I kid, I actually really like this project. But I find myself being stressed out, the way I hadn't been since I was in college (which, hey, dude, wasn't that long ago) and I figured out that it's the only way I can actually do things and push myself. I drank mate today and I was able to work for a couple of hours. If I could only do this every day. I guess what I lack is not intelligence but lots and lots of drive. And maybe prescription drugs.

via

I'm sorry I don't write more often. I don't know how I did it in Paris every day. I am sorry for myself I don't write more often. With practice and routine comes truly great stuff, which I'm not producing right now. Nothing I think is interesting. Maybe I'm just bored with myself.

Maybe November is just really hard on me. You know, because of IT.

But I did get my Italian citizenship this month, which is cause for celebration. I am going to Paris soon. I am starting yet another new life and I'm super excited. I need to fill myself with new people. And hear new things, even if I don;t create anything new or like, give anything back. I don't think I will ever be one of those people. I don't think I can ever be recognized for something unique or new. But sometimes I surprise myself, only myself. I've retrograded into that, but it's okay. I can bullshit it well this time. Some people seem to believe that only because I have traveled and studied in fancy places that I know what I'm talking about. Tip: I don't.

Ssssssseeeellllllf deprecation!!! No, but really. I feel fine about my role as a listener. I just hope that's enough. And now, for some light bed side reading: Derrida. See? I can be an intellectual!

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!

what the fuck, america?

I just came back from CVS pharmacy. They informed me that the medication (one of) that I take to be somewhat sane has a copay of motherfucking 45 dollars! A month. For 30 pills. I realize that Uruguay's drug prices are on the ridiculous side of cheap (3 dollars a prescription), but this is insane! It's an antidepressant! It probably costs 5 cents to make! I hate hate hate my insurance! They should die, literally, I would not be sad at all if whoever made that ridiculous decision died right now, horribly.

give it!

What the fuck, America? Birther bill? Seriously? We are going into another war right now, and you keep pestering us with that bullshit?

What the fuck, America? Cutting NPR of all its funding? Trying to shut down Planned Parenthood? We are going to have a lot more STDs running around if that happens. And orphanages will be overcrowded. More.

What the fuck, America? Trying to define rape rape? Because there is rape that is fake?


DOMA? God hates fags? Are we still homophobic? Why why why is this happening? Are we in the 50s?

What the fuck, America? 16 and pregnant? Celebrity Rehab? Sister wives? Jersey Shore? Linsday Lohan? CHARLIE SHEEN? Westboro Baptist Church?

tiger blood isn't funny, neither is the charlie sheen bullshit

well, maybe this is ok

America, you have been really good to me, and I love you. I really do.

lovers

People like these two are allowed to exist. New York is in America. The best fashion in the world exists here and you can be as flaming as a homo can be. College is here, the best education one could wish for... Burgers and coffee mugs and fast internet and every beer ever and bikers and music everywhere and a sushi place next door to an argentinean bistro and rap music and poets and television.


But, please, for your sake, just stop.