two-color ghosts

THIS A SONG BY DAFT PUNK REMIXED BY M83 EVERYONE SHOULD LISTEN AND OWN IT. (right click for download)




And now for something completely different: 




The amount of observing I am doing: I hardly talk any more. Today my friend's grandma died and, obviously, when that kind of thing happens, it stirs shit up from my past. About half of my family is dead: all my grandparents, my father. My mom has had some fucked up health scares. I have to be careful about what I think. It's super windy outside, it makes everything lonelier. I had a teacher once that didn't like when I used adjectives meant for people as adjectives describing a feeling or a day or a mood. He can go fuck himself. I like doing it, it may be cliched but there it is.

Erin McCarty

The night is lonely, herself. My eyes are lonely, so are my ears. They miss having people around, colors. Right now, my color gamma limits itself to pale yellow and navy blue. The colors of Montevideo at night, the colors of inside my apartment. 


This apartment, where both of my grandparents died. I am right now in the room where my favorite person in the whole world, el Señor (con B mayúscula) Beltrán Castro, died three years ago. I can pictures his thinning hair and the even-more-thinning fabric of his old ass PJs. They were lovely. He was lovely. But I miss him with a smile on my heart. I wish I could say this to my friend who lost his grandma. In a little while, you'll remember and cry but with a smile. 

recodis magazine

And you'll laugh about the way he used to recite random poems in the lunch table and no one would know what to do. The way he would always joke that I was the stupidest in the family even though he loved me the most (sorry, family, but we all know it). He would sing folk songs to which I never bothered to learn the words, because I though they would be there forever. But now they're not. It's OK, they are his songs, not mine. I have my own, and my grand children will have to ignore my singing some day. 

Nick Vargas

My grandfather was the most practical person in the world. He needed to have the time on the microwave reset every time there was a blackout. I did that for him. He pealed my banana and orange for me. 
Te extraño, abue. Is your ghost in this room? Someone is here with me, and they are heavy and sleepy and melancholic... is it you?

unknown artist: not mine, probably not yours either. 

There are other dead people I can never remember with a smile. They still scream. 








..

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!

i live on a 7th floor

thought: i wonder if you die from a heart attack first or from the actual impact? but what if you don't die at all? that'd be a fucking bummer. 

sad fact: i don't have enough sleeping pills on me to cause damage. 

sad fact two: i found it comforting when i *did* have enough pills to cause damage. 

i miss your pretend presence in my life. i want to put another face onto it pls

how i learned to be gay

I used to watch a lot of lesbian movies when I was younger because I needed to now what being gay looked like... since I din't know any body who was gay in real life. Buffy, L Word, Sugar Rush, Fucking Åmal, porn... those actually were my first teachers in queeritude. 

tara and willow, joss' characters who showed me it was okat to be gay

show me love showed me it was cool to be gay

sugar rush showed me it was fucking hot as shit to be gay. also, my bristol obsession stared right then.

Once, a girl told me that she and I had L word sex, which goes to tell you where I learned about fucking. At 12, a produced-only-for-the-male-gaze lezzie porn (*i actually remember exactly which clip, i found it online i would link to it but I am too embarrassed)  actually taught me that such a thing as a clitoris existed and that it felt *awesome* to touch it, because god forbid anyone teach you *real* sex education.

you knew this was coming

But back to lesfilms, I became obsessed and would watch any fucking film, no matter how horrible it was, with a lesbian plot line. It didn't even have to be prominent or the main story... just anything, any glimpse of gay that would signal to me what kind of gay I was. Was I a top? 

if only she could act 

I pretended for a long time I was because those were always the coolest characters, like Shane. I'm not really. I'm not really anything. I stopped watching any gay movies I could find. Now I only watch ones that actually look like they could be good... Does that mean I am more comfortable with my gayness? I don't dress up to appear more or less gay now. I used to. I like my long hair and I'm not getting rid of it. 
I paint my nails all kind of ridiculous colors but I also wear plaid shirts. I'm happy where I am with the gay in me, I don't need to see endless representations of gay to define myself anymore. I'm confident in my gay. Which is hilarious, because I am getting less laid than ever. Yes, hilarious is the word for it.

But I did learn my first steps into lezziedom from these shows. I learned how to be gay from the television! I learned how to be in a relationship from Willow and Tara, I learned how to fuck from Shane and Better Porter, I learned most lesbians find one person and become obsessed with them from Sugar Rush.... Thank you, TV! I love you. It's not the same now, but boyfriend, am I glad you were there for me, like a pervy older friend who toyed with my emotions but totally showed me what was what. I salute you!

Speaking of boyfriends, HOLY SHIT TRUE BLOOD LAST NIGHT. 

FINNNNNNAAAALLLLLLYYYYYYY YESSSSS

Speaking of True Blood, have you seen Evan Rachel Wood's new swaggity swag style? I mean, she's trying really hard to be a gayelle (remind me of me like 5 years ago), but she.looks.so.effing.cute! Grrr!

rager on a friday night

It is Friday night and I have made the “decision” of staying in. It's not like there's nothing to do; I was invited to TWO different things. This is a lot for Uruguay winter. I don't feel like a grown-up staying in, I feel like a grandmother.

Other things that make me feel like a grandmother?

and not like these cool bitches either

I get dizzy every time I get up, it feels like I'm on percocet (without the, you know, fun part)

I have to drink Ensure to keep my weight up (woe is me, right? But that shit tastes gross)

My gums bleed every single fucking time I brush my teeth

I have a terrible, been-smoking-for-40-years cough

I am tired, like, all of the times. All of them.

laugh it up, giles. you asshole. 

But I decided to stay in because I don't feel exotic any more. Let me walk you through this insane logic that I have: When I was in the States, even my name was weird. People would be all shocked and surprised and impressed that I was from a small South American country.

like the gay one from nina sky.

“But your parents are American?” No. “But you have lived here since you were little?” No. “Oh wow, you are zooo cooooufllfll” Lalala. Here, I am one more girl with a weird fashion sense and a bitch face on. No one new ever talks to me because I'm old and jaded and pale. I have only had ONE come on the whole time I have been here, from a dude. An old one. And not even at a club, it was walking down the street and I felt dirty.

So, I am not interesting here. I often miss pop culture references, I don't get jokes, and I even make numerous mistakes in Spanish. I feel like a foreigner with no personality. I have nothing to talk about. So I stayed in, because, why am I going out to spend money getting drunk when I can do that here in my house. I bought a flask of whiskey. It is now gone yeeeeeaaaayyyy!

But mostly, LESBIHONEST, my ex was going to be there. Outside, I mean. And I really want to be the person who doesn't give a shit and that can be okay with being around their ex, specially because it's been a month, but running into her every time I force myself to leave my house is not pleasant, having to actually will-power myself into not checking her Facebook isn't either. So I stayed in and deleted her from Facebook which may be childish but I'm too depressed to give a fuck. I'm thinking of getting rid of Facebook altogether. I have most definitely become an internet addict during the past month. I spend countless hours reading and re reading boring posts and news. I don't even read interesting things, or fiction, or watch good movies. I have recently gotten into Pretty Little Liars, for fuck's sake.

they *do* have gays

I rarely eat, I don't read, I don't even listen to music because it makes me feel too much. Whenever my friends are over I sometimes stop listening to what they say and stare at the walls. I do that when I'm watching TV too, all by myself. I'm actually trying to fool myself, by having a plate of food in front of me or talking on the phone or something.

I have a list of things I have to do. If I'm lucky, I'll do one thing a day. Today, I picked up my boots from the boot guy. I also washed the dishes, so that's two things. I didn't send off my resume, and I didn't shower. I slept for 13 hours last night, and then I took a two hour nap. It is time to sleep again.


Next time I'll tell you about the time I almost died two weeks ago. 

strip clubs and facebook stalkin'

Did everyone else know that the people who show up in your “friends” list on your Facebook profile are the people who check your profile the most? It is interesting to me because there's one person consistently showing up on that list who definitely shouldn't be there. I think some stalking has been going on.

stop it. (via)

Anyway, today, children, I will tell you a story about my first (and only) outing to a strip club. When I was kicking it in Portland, pissed the fuck off at the only friend I had in Portland who wouldn't even call me back (I didn't end up seeing her at all), I was staying at this dude's house, via couch surfing. There were another 4 or 5 people staying there too, from all over the world. There was also this guy, Charlie (Charlie is not his real name), who didn't live in the house but hung around all the time and loved to show us foreigners around.

amazing tourist-congregation map of portland, or, by eric fischer

One night we went out the weekly Couch Surfers get-together in a bar with cheap yummy bear. We got properly shwasted. When Charlie was driving me, Masa (an awesome japanese guy with an awesome website and thousands of twitter followers), and a girl from California home, California suggested we go to a strip club. I was all for it, I had never been to a strip club and I'd been told that Portland had the best. So we stop and get off, I finish my cigarette and I was quite nervous. We go in, the bouncer gives us a stern warning: you have to tip the girls for every song. I didn't have any change (I wasn't about to shell out 20 dollah bills), so I drunkenly stumbled over to the ATM (which charged me 3 dollars for the withdrawal) and bought a really expensive and shitty whiskey sour to get dollar bills.

my new fave!

The place was em-ty and I felt awkward. But I sat in the front row with my new friends and waited for the show. I don't really remember which dancer came after which, partly because this happened more than a month ago, partly because my third whiskey sour (after a couple of beers) was getting to me.

There was a girl who came out pretty nakes already. When M.I.A started playing, I knew I was at the right strip club. She didn't wear heels, she wore jazz shoes. She was all tatted up and had, like, perfect tits. She flirted with everyone, of course, but payed extra attention to me. 5 bucks later, I was smiling. I got more comfortable.

Now, I want you to form an image of me, sitting with my legs all lesbian-like, my eyes unfocused, smiling the Spike/Billy Idol smile, acting like I owned the place. I was rocking, shall I saw, some swag. All the strippers noticed this. It was weird. One of the girls gave me her number. Too bad I was leaving the next day.

one of these days, i'll make a list of all the men who could turn me straight.

A girl with huge boobies danced to Blondie. 4 dollars. Another girl danced to Chromeo, 5 dollars. These were probably girls who went to Reed, judging by their age and hipster looks. It was weird when they would, like, bend over and get their pussies like, a foot away from my face. That part wasn't very sexy. But I totally enjoyed it. I stayed for four dancers and then left, afraid I would deplete my bank account right then and there. I mean, I still had San Francisco to hit up.

Walking to the car, Charlie told me that most strip clubs in Portland are like that, young, pretty girls, who don't have saggy boobs or tired faces, dancing to eclectic, non-stripper music. He was surprised it had been my first time (I didn't mention it before) and he said: “Really? I thought you were a pro”.

unrelated image, but OHMYGOD did anyone watch true blood sunday? holeyyy sheeet!

smelly smelly

Is this weird? I used to possess the wondrous odor of nothing at all. I even neutralize perfumes, the delights of Polo Blue lost in my scentless skin. But now? I smell like a person now, specially if that person doesn't shower for a couple of days. Is that a sign of growing old?

get it get it right? right?

But what is weirdest about this whole "smell" issue, is that I don't hate it. I actually think it's kind of sexy. I read an article once about how we are attracted to people's body odor because they have the opposite antibodies than us, so you can make babies with super immune systems. Now, does the fact that I find my own body stench attractive mean that I am perfect in every way or ill and insane. Does it mean that I am only destined to be with myself? Forever? Alone, smelling my own pits? Food for thought.

and my cats. i'll have to get some cats (via)

Today I had a talk with my second mom, Viola. Viola is not her real name. Viola is from Uruguay but lives in the States; she was responsible for getting me there, providing with a ridiculously privileged education, the works. I told her how I am kind of stuck and heartbroken. I detest when people are rational and tell me that sometimes "people just fall out of love". Pshht! I know this, on an intellectual level, but right nowI need to hear "well, fuck that bitch." No one humors me.

eye roll

She told me I am intelligent and smart and I shouldn't rest on my laurels (although the only thing I accomplished was graduating from college with the lowest honors possible) and I will be able to find a great job if I really put my mind to it. But moooom, I just *love* beating myself up! I don't know who I am if I don't think little of myself. Could it be that I actually am all those things? Unlikely; if I was less tortured, I would be a lot more boring.

(via)

My job is going well. Is not exactly brainless, but it's also not riveting or engaging. It's a thing, un queso, just kind of... there. At least the time flies by during the lessons. I really have to start reading more, writing more, and try not to stare at the computer screen anymore.... But but but but they are playing Firefly on the internet! Like, 24/7... Decisions, decisions.

oh capt mal!

This Sunday I want to go take pictures. It's supposed to be a whopping 18 degrees celsius outside! I will have to contain my excitement. Alright, I actually have to work a little bit right now. This shit feels like homework. I'm going to try to relate the account of my first trip to a strip club for next time. 0_o !!


<3