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.

via

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

MEN I WOULD GO STRAIGHT FOR: IT'S ALL ABOUT HEATH

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.

THE DUDE:

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.

lol

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.

THE LESBIAN APPEAL:

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:

WHAT I WOULD LIKE TO DO WITH (TO?) HIM:

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.

FAVORITE INCARNATION:

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.

april in 1000 words or less.

There have been many changes and things that have happened or I have done since the last time I wrote anything. They are so intertwined that it's hard to start somewhere, so I'm just going to start with one throughout and explain EVERYTHING in between. 

There are some people in this world that are just not designed to learn a language. I very recently started a new job. Well, a new side of the teaching thing. Last week the institute that I work for offered me a deal where I would travel to Paysandu, a small city in the countryside of Uruguay and teach there. I would travel Sunday night and come back Thursday night. I would be teaching students from two different private companies. I would stay in either a company house or a hotel. The money was good, so I said yes. Not without reservations, mind you. Several things kept me from making a decision faster. For example, I have started dating someone new with exciting body parts (i.e., he's a boy. I will come back to this "detail" later) and it kind of sucks to be apart from the person that you like for so many days a week. But, money. Also, Paysandu is pretty far from Montevideo and I didn't know anyone there (still don't, no one worthwhile, at least). 

                    




                   But the main reason I didn't want to go is because I am very depressed. Despite the relative ease of my life, how little I have to worry about starving and/or my family dying because of suicide bombers or mass murderers, despite the fact that I am not terribly deformed, starving, or stupid, I feel like shit. Despite the people who say love me/like me/miss me, I am a worthless piece of crap with poopie on top. Why I feel this way will be the eternal mystery till the end of my days. Anyway, I mostly feel scared and very extremely astonishingly not ready to: 

                                           move to Sweden in a couple of months. I was awarded a place in the University of Stockholm's Master Film program. Pretty fancy, eh? Well, I am unprepared and fooling everyone. I so don't feel ready to live in a country where I don't know anybody, learn a new language from scratch, study in GRAD SCHOOL (when, let's face it, I barely made it through college), find an apartment, and get a job that pays me enough to support myself entirely. This is not high school or college, children. This is real life. Yes, I would love to study film in Sweden and be independent, but, will I love that more than sleeping and food? Who knows. My money (?? haha money) is on "not so much". Will I be able to wake up on time, go to work for 8 hours, go to class, study, write, cook, eat, have a social life? eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee is the only sound my brain makes when I think about all of this too hard. 

HOWEVER, money. Because Sweden. So, I said yes to the job. And right now, I am on a bus on my way *back* from my first week as a small-town English teacher. And let me tell you, there are people who cannot possibly ever learn a new language. I have this one group, right, comprised mostly of mechanics and field workers. All men.

                      I, as a 24-year-old girl (woman?) who spent three years of her life surrounded only by women and loving it, feel kind of uncomfortable in a room full of men. But I do NOT let it show. In fact, it kind of fuels a strong sense of power, and I am much more domineering and strict with the men than with the women. HAHALOL. Now, in the last, like, month, my views on male/female relationships have changed drastically. To be more exact, the relationship of me, Lau, a womangirl, vis a vis the MENFOLK have changed a lot because I

                                           


                                              started having sexy (and other) times with a member of the penis-having party. Yes, omfg, giggle snort, this is ridiculous. I found a boy I like and I am keeping him. I have sex with him and I like it. Don't tell my Smith friends. I still consider myself a lesbian, my identity and political self have not changed. I just happen to now like *A* weener. I really cannot say much more about it, because the whole deal is semi hush hush, semi not. 

                      But obviously this fact has had an impact on my views of men. It's weird now kind of thinking: "Oh, you are a guy, I touch one of you." I don't know, it's all very teenagery and weird, but real nonetheless. And it definitely changed something in me that I cannot pinpoint. More on this later. 

me and the people I'm attracted to. 

Back to the people incapable of learning a language. I supposed I'm being an extreme bitch when I say this, but it's true. And, unfortunately, (and even bitchier of me), the people in this below-zero level of English course are all, as I mentioned, mechanics or field workers. Some of them haven't finished highschool. Some of them haven't even reached 10th grade. Why is it so hard for them to understand? Is it them? Is it their fault? Is it because they decided to drop out of school? Did they even make that decision themseles or was it something bigger? Is it society's fault? Is it the fault of a flawed education system designed during the Uruguayan dictatorship in the 70s? Is it my fault?

                       Fuck no, I'm a great teacher. 

Who knows but the issue remains that in the past three days I have witnessed some truly incredible lack of synapses. Only language teachers know how frustrating it is to repeat a word, in one case, "give", so many times, and I am talking literally 40 or 50 times, and getting "bep" in return. Over and over and over again. And again. I highly doubt some of these people will be able to learn *anything* if they cannot even emulate sounds. When I asked them where the verb of a sentence was (in Spanish, of course, we are not into such sophisticated language as "what" or "is" yet), I was answered with blank stares and a bit of corner-mouth drool. 

I remember when I was in high school or middle school here, in Spanish class, the teacher could  not make the rest of the students understand what a verb was. And like, she was trying. So what the fuck can you do with that? People in Uruguay often say we are one of the better educated countries in Latin America or whatever, but the level of stupidity in this country says otherwise. And it's not sheer ignorance, either, it's the lack of will to learn. I remember middle school man. My classmates went out of their way NOT to learn. Our teachers were smart. We had text books. The assholes even showed up for class. It's like they were proving something by showing up and not learning. When did knowing things become so devaluated? 

But there is one thing I noticed about my stupid (Is that too harsh? Eh, whatever, it's not like they're ever going to read this) students. They laugh a lot more than my other students, and a hell of a lot more than myself. So maybe they have something there. 

durrrrr

It is Sunday. It is Sunday and I am at work. Doing nothing. I'm listening to this mix from 8tracks, because with a name like that, who wouldn't trust it?

i google image searched "indie fucks" but nothing cool came up

Since the last time I wrote, three important things have happened. Well, they each have different degrees of importance, but my life is seriously so monotonous that these events shook some ground. 

Firstly, in chronological order, I am no longer ***like a virgin*** anymore. My 10-month long dry spell has ended. I am now back on the horse. Fucking the horse? Ew. Nah, just on it.

Secondly, I have developed yet another rash on my chest. This time around it cannot be from the sun 'cause I stayed away from that bitch for the past month like it was the plague. My mom, the ever vicarious hypochondriac, thinks the rash is serious because it could be in my insides too. Which is sort of ridiculous, but I still have to go to the doctor because the stupid rash is getting worse and influencing some top fashion choices. And it's itchy and annoying. 

And, thirdly, a possible cause for my rash, I got into the University of Stockholm for a master's program in cinematography. So that's what I'll be doing in September. Motherfucker, yay! I still don't have much more information, not even when classes start, so try to contain your obvious excitement for me until I have shit more figured out. I've already been snooping on the internet about rent costs in Stockholm and shit is not looking good. But at least I start learning Swedish tomorrow. I'll let you know how that goes...

But here's the deal: I don't feel much excitement over this. Well, I don't feel much of anything, and I have become convinced my pills are not working/making me worse. I've been taking crazy people pharmaceuticals for NINE years. NINE. And if there is such a time to quit taking my medication it is now, because I still have time home to see that, if I feel super horribly shitty and need to get back on them, I can. But I really want to do this. There has to be another way. I have no motivation as it is right now. Maybe doing something different will change something, start a spark, and I can do things.

See just now, I felt so blah about this whole blog entry that I want to delete it. But I won't. 

I'm smelly.

sleepyhead

18 hours spent in bed and I'm still tired. My pores and stomach are full, but I haven't eaten anything in months. My arms feel cold but the small of my back is wet, it sticks to my sheets, it bleaches my hair.  My feet, always dirty, try to escape the confines of my bed to breathe the hot air. All I do is yawn, my eyes perpetually watering, and remember, and dream. 

I remember how we went up to the mountains one day and had breakfast with all the kings of America. I remember your nipples sharp against the cold air dancing in front of my camera. I remember one-sided conversations. I make vague plans to write you a letter you will never ever receive. And, if you ever do, please throw it away. 

TELEVANDALIST makes the best gifs

I dream about the impending carnival and the mistakes I surely made at work. I dream about sleeping some more. I dream about my friends who are so far away, their red hair beacons from not that far away... but my voice breaks and she can't hear me. She's gone before she knows I'm here. Desperate teeth, a chance of survival quickly goes down the drain with a sigh and another yawn. Whatever. 

There's a well-known story around these parts by Horacio Quiroga about a woman who slowly dies immediately after she gets married. She becomes ill during her wedding night and slowly wastes away. It is later discovered a parasite lived in her pillow, the new pillow her new husband had given her for their wedding, and sucked her dry. It's a nice horror-y magical story and you should read it. But I'm like her. I'm Alicia and her parasite. Except I don't have a husband, or a new pillow, but something somewhere is sucking me dry. And I let it be. 

Things I Have Not Done Lately Because I Was Too Sleepy:
Brushed my teeth
Taken my contacts out
Painted my nails
Shaven
Woken up on time - ever
Read anything
Written
Drawn
Watched TV
Watched films
Cried
Laugh
Gone to the beach
Eaten
Danced
Cleaned *anything*
Drunk

The only thing I HAVE done is gone to work. For 6 hours, every day this January, I have pretended to be a functioning member of society. My work is pretty easy, so I finish every day around 1 and then stare at the wall for hours, trying to not fall asleep. I have no idea if what I have is a deep deep depression so deep I'm too sleepy to cry about it or I'm actually sick, but what I am is fucking over it. I rather be manic and self-destructive than this shit. I can't even cry over it, I feel close to nothing. So, someone trigger me please. 






<3

french people doing crazy things

I have a friend who owns a hostel. It is called Buen Camino, and I have met some really cool people since the hostel opened up, since we seem to be there almost every day. We chill with guests all the time, take them out, give them a taste of Uruguayan culture. Honestly, if you don't have a friend with a hostel, seriously consider getting one. And, if you ever come to Uruguay, that is where you will stay. Breakfast included!

I miss America

Anyway, last week, I met two travelers, Steven and Sarah, who, contrary to what their names may suggest, are French. Steven is doing this project/lifestyle where he travels around the world with no baggage (no backpack, no suitcases, nothing but the clothes on his back), no airplanes (he came to America on a boat--- how very colonial of him), and no hostels/hotels  (he sleeps outside, via couchsurfing, or with random people he meets in the streets). Sarah was with him doing a leg of his journey, which he started in June. He will continue by BUS to San Francisco, then another boat to Australia, from there to Asia, India to Africa, and then back home. 

It took Steven 40 days to get from Paris to Rio de Janeiro on a three-person boat. He has slept out in the jungle in the Amazons. He is a photographer (you can see his amazing stuff HERE), one of those who get real close to people as if in a trance. He and Sarah are two of the coolest people I have ever met and I am so excited to go back to France (hopefully) so I could potentially hang out with them. 

When Steven told his story to a group of us, I think I was the most blown away. Probably because I had the least travel experience within that group (which says a lot), but mostly I can't understand these first-world babies giving all of their comforts up. Since I grew up (and still am) pretty poor, traveling for me is a dream. For them, it's a necessity. Something so unsatisfying is going on in their lives that they need to give everythging up and come visit us. And, like, all we want to do is go over there and experience some sort of mind-luxury. I'm not saying big hotels and first class, I'm talking about some intellectual luxury.
I am so fed up with Uruguay... I can hardly find any people to talk to, I have been looking, too. And in the past three weeks, I have been close to violence more then I would care for. Three times, me or someone who was with me has been assaulted or robbed. It's bullshit and it's ridiculous and I don't want to be around that kind of violence anymore. 

My mother tells me vioence happens everywhere, but it's so tangible here. It's not like it used to. I'm afraid to walk anywhee, and my taxi budget is growing constantly.
So, Europe, you may be all sorts of fucked up, but expect me there soonish.

In other news, I died the tips of my hair pink!