December 13, 2009

How excited am I about tomorrow?! It's SUNDAY!!!! Yesssssssss, and I have absolutely NOTHING planned for the entire friggin' day. Excitement level: ecstatic, Evangelical snake dancing hill billy code red. I can sleep, I can read a book, I can fart around in pajamas all day, eat icecream out of the plastic tub, and scratch my butt with the spoon.

December 12, 2009

The five stipulations that X out a potential second date (according to my friend T.)

#2: if he's a bad kisser.

Happy birthday blog! You turned a year old back in September, but I am oblivious as a well, whatever reference you have regarding being oblivious. I am a terrible parent, but then again I never thought that this blog would last as long as it has. It started out as a side project, something I did once in awhile and now I have more or less forgotten my main blog in favor of this one. Or maybe I am just high a lot more than I thought I would be. Or am. Whatever. I feel like this is also a case study; I am writing on this blog only when I am high and I would love to compare that to sober writing and see what the main difference is.

Christmas wishlist: a set of kick ass computer speakers. Fucking yes, please, thank you.

I need more spontaneous dancing in my life. Spasms of muscles twitching, limbs flailing, out of control swinging legs, eyes rolled back, whites showing.

December 9, 2009

Super Duper Anxiety Time

It's like a show that has a roulette and I turn the wheel (much like in that show with Pat Sajack), and the needle lands on ANXIETY IN ALL ITS FORMS and then I proceed to freak out and get a full blown anxiety attack.

Quiero llorar. Que se me salgan las lagrimas, que se entrecrucen con mi sonrisa, lagrimas saladas en mis labios.

I don't want to. I don't want to believe in destiny, I don't want to believe everything is pre-ordained.

P.s. I fucking hate my haircut, detest it. This has only made me want to chop my hair short short, pixie short. I really am not happy with it.

December 4, 2009

I am so high I can't even write or organize my thoughts. How fantastic is that?! To die by your side, well the pleasure, the privilege is mine.

I want someone to be passionate about and who is equally as passionate about me. Why is it that in most relationships there is one person always giving more than the other one? One always loves more than the other, I feel. Do people ever fall in love around the same time? I yearn for that single moment where I see clearly that if I breathe one more breath, laugh one more time, think of this one person, I am going to fall, and fall hard. The *click* moment.

The premise: a romantic comedy drama of this couple who have been dating a year at least. She's open with him, loves him, slaves for him and contorts herself into impossible positions for him. He definitely likes her, he might even live with her but he's not in love with her. He doesn't cheat on her and he likes her company, but he's not about to sing up to a balcony, he's not willing to romanticize the situation. She keeps hoping he will one day just see what he has before him. But she stays with him because she does in fact love him. Something happens (maybe a guy steps in? she gets pregnant?) a series of unfortunate events happen and then he finally has his *click* moment wherein he realizes that he loves her.

Love. I am starting to not like that word. I am getting jaded, my skin developing a crystalline sheen.

I am so high I keep shaking my head a bit hoping to clear my head. Not working.

November 30, 2009

How Google Works for me:

The last remaining fragment of a quote rebounding in my head, a quote from the novel I had just finished by the name of Middlesex, something having to do with dappled, so I proceed to google 'dappled quote' and out jumps this poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins:

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
    For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
  Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;        5
    And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
    With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:        10
                  Praise him.
 Which of course makes me google something else that caught my eye: rose-moles. Which I then google and come up with yet another link in the never ending Google chain: Sprung Rythm. When is Googling enough? Google fuck, Google trick, Google backseat lover, google exhaustion and city madness. I will Google the fuck out of you. I Googled him. Even Google hates him. Googled to death.

This (shit) writes itself

You know that moment in the night when you are too wasted to remember photos being shot of you doing crazy shit you might not want posted on facebook and then it happens with a cheerful forewarning of, "Oh great now I can post all those Hilarious X locale pictures I shot!" on a Facebook wall and so I start backtracking to see if I can remember anything indecent I might have been caught doing (yeah, I'm doing great in the living life department) and I come up with zero not because I wasn't doing anything that I shouldn't have been, but because I don't remember parts of the night. ZING! Jaggermeister 1 PJ 0.

Things NOT to Google while incredibly High Part 1 of God knows how many:

Buto dance.

Seriously freaked me out.

November 3, 2009

romantic vs. cynical chat excerpt

I: Do you recall moments of looking into each others eyes and thinking this is not like sex with a guy I really feel comfortable with like a boyfriend
Me: No waaaaaaay
I: Feeling like their eyes are empty
I: Do you even look?
Me: Hmmmmmm
I: I recall looking last time and not seeing anything, it was odd
Me: It's called sex
It's impersonal
It's not making love
Sex is just getting pounded
and liking it.

October 7, 2009

Awesome things today:
  • bought my cleats and some awesome NB sneakers for a total of $53.00!
  • this purchase also means that I didn't get the job I was hoping for but,
  • it means that I can now go back to smoking all the weed I ever wanted to smoke again!
  • this deserves a second sentence just for me to really brag about it. WEEDWEEDWEED!
  • it also means that I have to keep working at the place where I am kind of "feh" about
  • back with my bitchy co-worker who fucking hates my guts and is jealous of me
  • I figured out she was jealous today when she played back an entire conversation I had with an Israeli a month back. I couldn't even remember!
  • there is not much to be jealous about.
  • I also feel like she is stealing my people technique and it is kind of freaking me out.
  • saw a acrazy movie with A. the weed didn't help make it any more coherent. Sex, drugs, and severely jaded, moody, teens.
  • how glad am I that stage is over and done with.

July 24, 2009

Me: Oh you've got really pretty eyes.
Israeli dude: Yes they're beautiful.
Me: I've got pretty eyes too (I lean in close, open my eyes real wide).
Israeli dude: They're nice but not as beautiful as mine.
(a beat of silence)
Me: Our children would have beautiful eyes.

Awkward chit chat ensues and then Israeli dude leaves and my boss tells me, "It would've worked on me".

July 20, 2009

No, I will not go there,
walk that well traveled path,
Feet planted firmly on the ground
stepping solidly.

No, I will not obey you,
tow the line habitually drawn,
straight lines carved on the earth
which I cross over defiantly.

No, I will not love you
give in to your many advances,
your pleas for love,
for love,
for love.

No, I will not care,
give myself over to empathy
hoping to create a moment,
a chain around us, bonded.

No, I will not forget
your image intricately drawn
in the back of my mind, a shadow,
your smooth skin, prickling.

You know your mother is a pothead when:

You borrow her pipe because the pipe she bought you broke. You actually tell her this. She actually loans you her glass pipe.

'Cause when we kiss our stars align.

Tell me this one random night and I just might
fall a bit hard for you
for this moment for the heart for rushing endorphins
coursing freely through this shell of a person.

In what moment did I fall for you? Was it Saturday night, at the bbq? You in your big boy shirt and me in my overly short Tina Turner dress. Was it when you teased me non stop where I was forced to fight cleverly back with witty sentences. There were also some things I could not fight back against. Yes, you teased me mercilessly. Did I fall for you when you had to include your friend in this little ode to me, saying, "You are the coolest girl we have met in a long time." at the bar, drunkenly, with eyes glazed over, arm around your friend. Why not own up to it and say it was you all along who thought it. I mean, your friend was nice but he and I didn't hit it off like you and I did. Was it Monday, when I suggested we all go out Tuesday and we did. We all did and something was there that wasn't before. But you mentioned, later, how you thought I was beautiful the moment you saw me. You knew it well when you told me that you knew I wasn't all that attracted to you when I first saw you. I agreed, what could I do? I smiled shyly, chastised or caught or who knows. I like you now, isn't it enough? Is it ever?

"You are beautiful outside, but what's inside of you makes the outside even more beautiful", dear sweet nothings that I could eat a million of and never be full, satiated. Whisper them again and I'll try to burn them into my memory as they vanish from my mind seconds later.

You're not my type! I don't think. Though you're not too tall which is something I like in men (a couple of inches taller than me), kind of sensitive, and quick witted and self deprecating. God, I tend to lean towards guys that need mending. Why am I so intent on fixing a man? Being his very own Mother Teresa. I blame this all on my Catholic guilt induced upringing. It seems all my exes were defficient or damaged or malformed in one way or another. Is this what psychology is all about? Cataloguing every single person with some kind of mental problem (there's a movie or something about this somewhere).
You are way too into yourself. You're vain and conceited and I love douchebags, maybe. I love the guys that drive me literally crazy. Too smart, too fast, too vain and proud. I love them all. Bring me your smart, intelligent douchebags who drive a million girls like me crazy.

July 6, 2009

You know your mother is a pothead when:

You borrow her pipe because the pipe she bought you broke. You actually tell her this. She actually loans you her glass pipe.

This is not normal.

I feel heavy, my lids heavy, my breasts heavy, my belly heavy. I feel like a piece of lead getting pulled close to the giant magnet that is gravity. There is no holding back gravity, what is there to defy? The human body alone can only get propelled a certain amount on it's own. I suppose that's why gymnasts, athletes and dancers are so amazing. The human body is capable of so much, how far can it even go? Incredible to push it to it's limit.

I just had an idea for my birthday which can be amazing or terrible. The idea would be Trashy Glam theme at the bar. It could be such an awesome, fantastic, Fabulous with a capital F or it could be a disaster, no one would end up getting dressed up and it would be me and a couple of girls dressed trashy glam and everyone else in regular clothes (like last year's party). I don't intend to go crazy over this birthday thing like last year, I am going to take it easy and not be a hostess and just chill and get really hammered for my celebration. I never truly celebrate when I am host, I run around worrying and picking up after people.

No, I will not go there,
walk that well traveled path,
Feet planted firmly on the ground
stepping solidly.

No, I will not obey you,
tow the line habitually drawn,
straight lines carved on the earth
which I cross over defiantly.

No, I will not love you
give in to your many advances,
your pleas for love,
for love,
for love.

No, I will not care,
give myself over to empathy
hoping to create a moment,
a chain around us, bonded.

No, I will not forget
your image intricately drawn
in the back of my mind, a shadow,
your smooth skin, prickling.

July 4, 2009

The jug was turned over and it's contents spilled free

All right so, no second interview. Sent an email which I almost titled "what the fuck already?" but then remembered that this is someone I want to impress and not one of my vacant bosses or fucked in the head friends. Always good to make that differentiation, no? (had to spell check diffirentiation  *<---on purpose how I wrote it first time* because I fucked it up; more reading necessary asap!). That last sentence makes no sense. Maybe I am trying to communicate with aliens or something. Love the ADHD there. Anywhatthefuckisthisshit? This is quickly spiraling out of control.

So Intensa and I came to the conclusion that the Dumpee always ends up having these crazy mixed feelings about the Dumper (are you up to the flow? We're talking about break-ups here, not scatology... that´s a different story).
She just got dumped by a dude who was soooo into her, like eating out of her hand, the taming of the lion, she even thought he was way into her than she into him. They had even gone as far as talking about the future and she was already hearing possible wedding bells and thinking about kids name (I know! Loca!) So she's still feeling it and wants to get back at him somehow (he probably knows this). I feel the same way (not that i want to get back at him, the other other sentence about the bla bla bla). I've only been dumped twice, and yet those guys are still the ones I have unfinished business with. Maybe in a way I do want to get back at them by giving them another try of what I offer (oh god where is this goinggggg?!). Let´s talk about them shall we? How unhealthy my head is this will surely tell.

G. macho, arrogant, rude, lovable, fuckable, 30 back then, hot and single. The color of the earth in Arraijan, dark sort of reddish-brown, a badass tattoo on his bicep that his uniform sleeve barely covered (oh, did I not mention we were co-workers? Also, he had 10 years of seniority over me, oh yes, add to that terrible mess that I was in an unhappy relationship, chomping at the bit). The first moment I met him I could feel my pheromones sparking, the danger whispering in my ear, for this guy was danger (my friend would also say my clam was clapping, but she's a dirty ho and I'm not). There was something about the way we teased each other, marking wit against wit and charm against charm, the way he looked at me, made me feel ... someone toss me something cliché here).

We didn't really talk much when we first met, I kept to myself prudishly, listening to my iPod and looking stoic (I can be such a frigid bitch). We chatted one day finally about this and that, but I kept my distance. I was in such a serious relationship with a crazy emotional psycho that I felt I couldn't really make new guy friends, especially not make friends with guys I thought were hot. Fast forward 6 months and the relationship with the crazy emotional psycho (from now on abbv. as CEP) was on a terrible rocky road (yum) to the very bowels of hell (I do believe that was after he had thrown a box of tissues at my face that cut my cheek, or was it the time he slapped me thrice in front of his apartment house).

I was on MSN one day and G started chatting me up. I had to fly that afternoon to Mexico and mentioned it to him. He said that he also had that flight (in that moment I quickly searched for the piece of paper that had my scheduled flights and chief of cabin and sure enough G´s name was listed as chief instead of the guy I was supposed to be flying with). What a pleasant surprise, I was delighted. In the back of my mind I had already severed ties with CEP, things had gone as far as they possibly could go.

I arrive at the airport and proceed to the office to sign my name in the ledger and look at the rest of my crew. I am the only other woman on board aside from the co-pilot, a young girl no older then 21 years of age with a childish-brattish attitude, to boot. I start realizing what this means immediately: I had a room to myself. The company I worked for only assigned guy-guy or girl-girl rooms to share, so if say the crew was 3 girls and one guy, he would get to sleep in a room by himself. My crew was 3 boys and me, little old me, young, beautiful and only 22 years of age, a veritable babe and her hot, martial arts practicing, singer in a rock band, boss on board. This sounds like the contents of a steamy novel. The title would be Flying High, of course don´t you doubt it hahah.

Back at the hotel bar, we finish the tapas and beers numero 2. We all have a couple more Negra Modelos and then move to my comfortably roomate-less hotel room. Four of us now, three crew and the young copilot. After more time of ordering beer, we all end up paired in different beds to watch a movie or tv or something on the boob tube, me conveniantly with my boss. To say that we're all a bit tipsy is underrated, we were siding on the side of sloshed, if I had been walking I would have been one of those slappy, happy drunks, spilling shit everywhere.

We're face to face, our noses inches away, breathing the same carbon dioxide in and out. I breathed him in and a bit of him became a particle in my lung, hidden there for ever. The other crewmember and co-pilot are fast asleep, inches between them. The television flickers blue and static white on their sleeping faces. We´ve gotten serious, our topic hushed and whispered urgently, I know what I am doing is wrong. It´s wrong to be in that bed with him, I have a boyfriend, a terrible boyfriend, but never the less a boyfriend. I tell this to him. He remains quiet and looks at me, a small smile on his meaty lips.
"I would love to kiss you" he whispers across me, his words tugging at my ears.
"I have a boyfriend" I utter, not entirely convinced, as he places his mouth on mine. I don't resist and it´s exquisite.

Part 2 to be continued whenever.

June 18, 2009

Dude, fucking hire me already! I am more than qualified, I will work my ass down to the tailbone, I will get shit done. I will dance like a monkey on crack for the money and then I'll dance some more! No joke. What do I got to dooooo to jump through these hoops?!!!

Ok so, no man on my radar. I am the truly OK person without a significant other and without any real interest in anyone. I know, it's kind of freaky. I have no prospectives, no one to stalk on Facebook (or their home, who am I kidding?). No one to shamelessly flirt with, no one to wear sexy undies for, no one, nothing and I am fine with this. Saw my ex boyfriend today and didn't feel like hiding out under a rock. He's the same, he won't ever change. Invited his on and off girlfriend to the bar, we'll see if she goes. In fact, I'll be surprised if she does go. She surely has balls if she goes. I have nothing against her only her asshole boyfriend.

Cute guys por todas partes, but none that spark my interest. Maybe it's time to buy a vibe and give it a name.

I could, I should, I would, I am.

I am.

April 16, 2009

This is your brain on drugs

  • The most rational panamanian ever
  • Trying to hide my flabby stomach (poke fun at yourself for pity: 10 points)
  • Panamanian hipsters! We´re so cool we wear tight ass pants that cut off the blood flow to our toes causing them to fall off! Much like diabetes!
  • If I really wanted to be your friend I would have made the effort before.
  • What the fuck these italics refuse to fucking go away.
  • Ok now I fucked it up even more and pressed the bold button and now the bold button refuses to go away. This dashboard is cursed.
  • Fuck the pallet! Black is for losers anyways.
  • Spastic Fantastic! My next shirt with the silhouette of a demented little girl dancing spastically. Fucking trademarking that shit NAO.
  • I could really use a healthy serving of food. Any food would do, except that food you know I don´t like or prefer or even choose over worse shit. Namely most veggies (yes now you look at me like I´m the crazy one..).
  • The Italics are gone! Bye!

March 22, 2009

I keep saying I want a tattoo (have the design ready and everything), but I never make any valid move towards getting it. Maybe I don´t want it all that bad.

I'm kind of seeing this guy, I didn´t realize it until today, but yes we have been on a couple of dates. Dates that I didn´t even realize were dates until he mentioned it in passing. Then it dawned on my poor oblivious head that yes, he does in fact have the same feelings that I have for him. This makes me giddy. A bit hesitant as well since I don´t really want anything serious right now. But oh, the joy of the first couple of dates, the flirting, body language, the innocent accidental meeting of fingers on skin, th electric jolts, the swarm of butterflies in your stomach. The aching, beautiful anticipation of seeing the person and memorizing a knuckle, a slender finger, the soft hairs dotting his forearm, his golden skin color.

I downloaded some new music and new music is very much like the first couple of dates. Excitement to hear the new melodies, the new voices and lyrics and songs. Memorize the words and find meaning to their sung odes.

My cousin gets in from the US this afternoon. I hope my high fades away a bit so that I don´t become The Stoner Cousin. The family already has an Oops I Got Knocked Up At 17 cousin, an I Am A Recovering Heroin Addict, the last thing they need is a J the Stoner Cousin or J the deadbeat hostel working pothead cousin.

My mom is a walking talking Mal Trip. Definition of Mal Trip: someone who harshes your fucking flow, takes away the happy feelings, brings you back to reality, makes you aware of something you didn´t really want to be aware of, puts you in an awkward situation, etc. I hope this trip to pick up my cousin doesn´t become 45 straight minutes of Mal Trip with my mom.

March 16, 2009

You know your mother is a pothead when:

She steals the joint you were saving for a special occasion and then when you mention how your joint has gone missing she pretends she has no idea what is going on. Finally after much prodding, she admits she smoked it, and then she mentions that it was good shit.

March 5, 2009

Random Thoughts:

  • I could really go for some El Ejecutivo french toast right about now.
  • Just say not to excessive facial piercings.
  • People actually still propose marriage? I thought getting knocked up had changed that.
  • Ugh, really too many piercings.
  • Sometimes Facebook is a little too real.
  • It's kind of odd to find high school facebook friends and see all the changes. Have we really become adults? How weird.
  • Just say no to tribal tattoos. What are you in 7th grade or something?


Or how not to get what you're looking for pt. 1.

Whenever you out an ad in craigslist you will never ever get the response you're looking or hoping for. Really.

Thoughts On:

Looking at pictures of girl you don´t really like all that much on Facebook: I can't wait to look at your pictures and pass judgment on them.

I might be a terrible person.

Long Lost (Crazy) Relative

I have this cousin who lived in the same country with me till she was about 6. From then on she lived in the US and her and I never really had any conversations. I heard about her through the grapevine (she got knocked up and had a baby when she was 17) and I am sure she heard things about me as well. Suffice to say we were not very close in comparison with the rest of the cousins we have in common. She recently found me via Facebook a week or so ago and has been inundating all my pictures with "I love you. Miss you prima" all over the place. If I had a wall she'd be plastering it with questions and I love and miss you's.

I told my mom about her behavior and my mom mentioned that she (my cousin) was bipolar or something along the lines of it. She's been plastering the walls of all the cousins as well. Why do we feel that we're blood related we must be so wishy washy and I love you and touchy feely? We definitely wouldn't act that way with strangers, but we feel it's ok with family members we haven't seen in years?

Maybe I am just not the touchy feely with strangers regardless of their blood relations-type. I kind of just pity her. I mean, she's gained a bunch of weight, is kind of loony, is the babymama of a 7 year kid, lives off of food stamps, and is on a billion different meds. How else am i supposed to feel? Facebook is probably her fantasy getaway.

Spoken vs. Heard

Spoken: Mel Bell says, "I just got back from flag football."

Heard: I hear, "I just got back from the hospital." and say, "OMG, wtf, are you ok? Why were you at the hospital?!".

Grammar is nuts!

Munchie Food vs. Non-Munchie Food

a) Rice Crispy Treats

b) Chewy Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip

c) Feta cheese squares in oil and spices

If you chose C) you are not only correct but also very obvious.

February 24, 2009

The Integrity of a Pancake: Beach Edition V.1

These are actual thoughts processed through my head and written down on a fat small notebook while at the beach high, I am transcribing it as is, no changes or editing.

- Coca-Cola is gross. Really. Completely fabricated fake artificially created FRANKENSTEIN!!! And we all swallow that noxious liquid. Today is the last time that I drink a fantasy beverage*. T. just sprayed me with 2% sunscreen**. Today and forever will I ever bring near or drink Coca-Cola. Nevermore.

- T. doesn't know the words of some gay-ass 80's song. I wish I could re-create the beauty of the moment, but alas my words are not lovely or detailed enough.

- Clean coal?? Noooooooooooooooo

* In Chile all carbonated drinks like Coca-Cola, Kist, Sprite, etc. are referred to as bebida de fantasia thus fantasy beverage. We know where beer comes from, we know where wine comes from, but what is Coca-Cola? There is no Coca-Cola tree! I bet it (Coca Cola) has some kind of ingredient that makes people addicted to it because how else could anyone enjoy that disgusting liquid? I will clarify that I have always been a Coca-Cola addict until this realization appeared and the awful truth poked it´s head (Good Idea Gone Wrong: Google evils of Coca-Cola, damn!).
** In my head I probably meant 2 SPF but somehow along the way it got changed to 2%.

I had a good time at the beach. We went to Rio Teta for a couple of hours and climbed trees and rocks, catapulted ourselves into the river via rope, swam, meditated, dove into the river from trees and rocks, and floated blissfully. From there we went to the beach where the ocean was at high tide and the waves were calm and small just how I like them. I was able to relax and disconnect and the best part is that on the way back the traffic wasn't terrible at all which made the empanada from Quesos Chela all the more delicious.
Yesterday I made the realization that my best friend is probably the biggest spaz ever. She's so bold and daring in ways that I could never possibly hope to be. She goes after whatever she wants and doesn´t let anything stop her from being the crazy person she is. I will have to write a little story that just so happens to be true to outline just a fraction of her joie de vivre. I think that simple words would not be able to describe her personality. But I will try! Some other time. Not now. But in the near future.
Today I made the realization that people are fucking weird. I mean we all have those little things that we might think is completely normal but if seen from outside our perspective we'd noticed that it was a weird habit. I mean, like I had a friend that could not sleep with both feet under the sheets; she'd have to stick one out to "let it breathe". I have another friend who used to shave her arm hairs. Things like these freak me out because I guess I don't notice them. Maybe I've known the person for such a long time that these little habits don't stick out. But when I see the same things with different eyes I can't help but be a bit bashful or embarassed about them. The point is: I am so oblivious. It's terrible! Do I always go about the world in a giant bubble or what? Am I living in a bad 1980's anime inspired cartoon? Am I Candy Candy? (Good idea gone wrong: Wikipedia Candy Candy and slowly get absorbed by her life as you envision each and every thing about this article. Nobody's life can be so cruel!)

I also made the realization that some relationships with people are taken for granted; you don't exactly realize the ease of flow of it. You don't feel rushed, you don't feel intimidated; you let your guard down and the real you appears slowly, like a warm sun emerging into the morning sky. I love those easy relationships where speaking is optional. Bonding over music, bonding over experiences, knowing innately what the person is all about. I do believe in love because I believe two very odd people can somehow overcome all their weirdness, get used to living or being with each other, and do this day in and day out. All those little things that seem monotonous and confining to me might seem like a dream come true every day for them. Some people truly mean it when they say they are thankful for having so and so in their life.

I just wish and hope that I can one day be in that position where I truly mean it when I say I am thankful to have so and so in my life.

This post quickly turned sappy!

Abbridged Version: I had a great time at the beach. The End.

February 11, 2009

I'm in Mourning

Nobody died. Well, maybe a piece of my soul. An itty bitty piece of my soul.

I am mourning the death of a great relationship that I was perhaps too scared to take the next step with. I am mourning the instant disappearance of my best friend, he who probably knew most of my facets by heart. I am mourning our inside jokes, now long gone and relegated to each other's memories (which are already rapidly disappearing). I am mourning us, together, a couple, a pair, against everything together. I am mourning my stupidity, which has not gone away and probably will never go away. I am mourning spilled milk because this is not going to change. I am mourning change and a time and a place and Viña del Mar. I am mourning my youth which I feel is fading fast. I am mourning a life long gone.

I am so fucking sad. I haven't stopped crying all this damned afternoon. It's a never ending well of pain, the tears creeping up on and embarassing me. All that I have not cried, all that I held inside, it's pouring out now, enough for ages and ages. Enough to fill in the Pacific oceaan. Enough to take me to Taboga.

I cannot say how sorry I am. I cannot say it enough times and yet I wouldn't change any of it. Or maybe I would. I'd be more open with my feelings. I'd be straight up. Would it change anything? Probably not. I'm still so fucking sorry. I pushed you away, I pushed you away so far and now that you're beyond my reach I am sorry. The sorry's you don't or can't or won't hear. The sorry's that have lost all meaning.

I'm mourning your kisses, yet I don't want them back. Does that make any sense? I want it all and I want nothing.

I am never happy with anything. I can't just be content with what I have, with what I am, with who I am with, with my goals, with my dreams. Nothing is never enough and I feel I am going to grow old and never find any inner peace. I am not talking about settling, but about seeing a good thing when it's there.

Through it all I am sorry. People ask me all the time how I am. I was doing fine. I don't know what happened or when it happened, but it all started falling on me. Every iota fell on me and I couldn't take it anymore. I was doing so well, so single and carefree (which ironically is part of my 2009 goals). I miss you. I didn't realize the full extent until someone else was enjoying your company. Laughing at your jokes. Playing with your hair. This is not jealousy, just a rude awakening.

I don't, can't, be with you right now. But I miss you. I can't have it both ways, so I will have none of it. I'm going to miss you. I can't say exactly till when, but I am going to miss you till my bones ache and my eyes dry out and pop out like raisins.

It used to scare me to death when you'd say that I was the best thing to ever happen to you. I just couldn't believe that someone like me, ME, could be the best thing to happen to anybody. I still can't believe it. And yet you are one of the best things to have happened to me. I don't say that lightly. And yet I cannot be with you right now (not that you'd want to anyways, after the way I have treated you). I don't blame you.

So is it better to part ways, to say goodbye, to breathe you in one last time and wish you well? I am a coward; this you know well.

This is my good bye.

February 6, 2009

Kiss me on my Little Pearl (huh?)

Maybe now is not the time to try and write poetry. It's hard, so hard to write good poetry. Easy to write whatever you want and call it a poem, but so difficult to write something good that makes sense and doesn't sound pompous or that you're trying too hard. Poetry should be like an extension of how you think, but in a more fluid rhyme-y way. It should make you reflect, think upon a moment, try your brain. A good poem makes you want to dissect every word and wonder why it was chosen. Take apart the structure, ponder the meaning.

Hmmmm, as if I am a fucking English Major. I'm not. On to lighter subjects, I actually played Rockband and sang Paramore's That's What You Getand sang it well (or atleast it sounded pretty good....). I would love to make some whack-ass-crazy-experimental band which crazy cute lyrics and weird outfits. I can't sing and I don't know how to play any instruments, but I am oh so willing to go at a bass and tear that shit apart.

Today I almost got a little bit of ink on my feet, but it fell through because I am working irregular work hours that demand a crapload from me. Been so exhausted this week that by the time I get home I have no urge to go out. Yeah, it's fucking nuts, I know. Andddddddd, I haven't been able to exercise this week for that same reason. Next week I'll get started again and work out everyday regardless of how exhausted I am (that's what cellphones are for right? I can just dial SOS if I pass out from exhaustion).

Current booty shakin' song: T.I.'s Whatever you Like which should be renamed Whatever you like that will keep you having unprotected sex with me and let me fuck other bitches as well.
My lyrics would be:

You're the kind of girl I like
wearing your booty shorts and hoe heels.
Your gold diggin' style is smooth
and your grill is not full of spinach
baby girl let me give you a Choo
but it'll cost you a chrome job.

February 3, 2009

My day was filled with the following:

- Rammed Earth (or pise de tere)
- Chickens and their breeds
- ZombieDonald's
- At home operating procedures
- Gluteus Maximus cramps
- MaryJane/Chyna and Uncle Crackie (those are not synonyms for drugs)
- Glorious iDump
- Armadillo

I wish I could write more but I can't.

February 1, 2009

A) I need a booty call. But it just can't be any old booty call. It has to be someone I am not close friends with ('cause it would be awkward to run into this person all the time), but someone I have a connection with, but haven't gotten to know really well and doesn't hang out in my same circles).

B) When taking pictures I want to take only natural in their element photographs. None of this looking at the camera with a fake ass smile on their face. In fact, I am going to stop smiling in pictures all together. From hence on forward I will be serious in all of my pictures. The Era of Serious has started.

C) Quiz time:
So you know you're a pothead when:
a) You smoke pot all the time(3-4 times a week), but you don't buy your own shit.
b) You buy pot all the time, but you only smoke 1-2 time a week, maybe less.
c) You buy your own pot which you then smoke a shitload of (7 times a week or more).
d) You look and act like Shaggy from Scooby Doo.
e) You can spell internauta backwards really really slowly.
f) You cannot finish any story without some kind of help or hint (What was I saying?).
g) You drive at 20 kph.

D) Today I had a medium McDonal's fries and I feel like I broke the control your mouth code. Someone get me a muzzle please.

January 29, 2009

Don't Give In To The Munchies

Girl-woman lays on her bed with her laptop on her belly typing on blogger a story about herself. She is pale skinned, with smatterings of brown freckles covering her skin, wild originally brown hair, now dirty red-brown, green yellow eyes of differing intensities and rose red lips, small but plump. She has MSn running on the laptop, a couple of chat windows open speaking to would be suitors and friends. She also has a video of herself running in the background. In it she is stoned and raving on and on about palo santo and drawing signs and lines on herself with the burnt charcoal ends of the palo santo (Holy Stick? Hollystick? Hollywood? Holy Holly?).

The story is this: this girl of pleasant curves is on a motherfucking diet. Although it's not a diet per se, she is controlling what she places in her rosebud mouth. She's passed from being pleasantly plump to being overweight and a pretty fat. God, everything, anything but a pretty fat. You know, the girl who has a pretty face "if only she weren't so fat". Gorda bonita. Gorda con ritmo. Pero gorda igual! So this girl is on a mission to lose some weight, gain some muscle and tone, and return to her original size 7/8 jean size (Sir Mix Alot made that song for her). She wants to look bangin' and she just doesn´t feel it when all her jeans don´t fit her ass and she has double chins and C cups for heaven´s sake! Ever has she ever been a size C, so the weight gain is a blessing and a curse. Still though, that ass has to be dealt with.

She gets up from the bed to slither out of the jeans and change into her pj´s, but not before she checks herself out in the mirror, looking at her flaws, looking at the results that working out have brought forth, picturing what she could look like if she sticks this diet and exercising out (image: HOT). In that moment when she is putting on her t-shirt that serves as her pijama she realizes that if she stands up again she will have no control over herself and amble straight towards the white cheddar popcorn in the closet (anybody say Smartfood?) like a hummingbird to a papo. The munchies were eating away at her will, like vultures fighting over the last remnants of a carcass, like mosquitoes swarming a tourist. They had to be stopped. Immediately.

She lays down on the bed with the heavy realization on her shoulders that her munchies were strong, but her will charged into action and refused that shit. There is a goal, a meta, a reason why she is controlling her maw and that reason is stronger than any horde of munchies could ever be. This bitch had water and she was willing to feel a bit hungry in order to look good. Pass the water, girl on a mission.

January 25, 2009

Friday Naitafon

Naitafon = Night of fun. Comes from the days when a neighbor would throw a party and charge an entrance fee and where bands played music and people danced and partied all night. Comes from the Atlantic side of Panama.

Friday night was gearing up to be a dud. I had called on everyone to go out, have a beer, smoke a bud, or whatever and pretty much everyone bailed out on me. I was left alone with my urge to go out into the night. I took a shower, logged on to facebook and up popped a message from G. wanting to know what I was doing on this fateful Friday night. I told him how I had been abandoned and was now in pj's without a plan. He was in the same boat, but we were both lazy and had no specific place to go so we left it at that. Ten minutes later M. pops on to the chat and asks me what are my plans for the night. By then it was midnight. I mentioned that I had wanted to go out, but no plans were made. She said, "I have weed but no car" and I said "I have a car, where are you?" and that is how I skipped out of my house at midnight on a Friday night.

I picked up M. and she pulled out a lovely little baggie with wonderfully pungent sticky fresh bud, packed it into a bowl and off we went to pick up G. We drove to La Casona, but were informed that they were charging 5 dollars which we weren't in the mood for paying so we walked around aimlessly and decided to skip on out to the next block when the sound of congos started reverbrating in the nearby buildings. We followed the sounds to a small shack with the name of the Baños Publicos. We walked in tentatively and were greeted by a five man band who were playing old Puerto Rican salsa. We sat down and watched in awe as the congo players hands flew over the drum in repetetive hits and taps; hypnotized by the sounds, the movements, the words I spoke very little. A couple of drunk gringos swayed with the sound, tapping their sandaled feet and dancing lazily.

We stayed entranced for a bit until the salsa group ended their set and then walked out in a daze into the lit plaza. From that surreal experience we went to Casablanca down a couple of beers and gossip about this and that. We ended the night at 3 a.m. and I drove back home in a happy sleepy daze. Flopped on to my made bed where the images and sounds of the salsa vieja invaded my head and lulled me to sleep.