Drama Queen

I inherited it from my mother. I would glance down at my vibrating phone and roll my eyes at the "MOM" flashing on the screen for the tenth time in the span of like fifteen minutes. "Sweetie? How are you? how's the party going? are you okay?" and I would wonder, as opposed to the last time we talked? "Yes mom I have taken two steps, blinked a few times, and took several breaths since we last spoke, I am, surprisingly, still fine."

It didn't make sense to me, I didn't believe she was actually worried for my safety. What could happen? Whether I was at the mall or at the movies or at a friend's house. Even when the time came and I went to clubs (ha yeah I'm cool) I'd be on the phone with my mom. "HEEEEY! yeaaaaaah I can't hear youuuuu mommmm I'm drunk!! this is greattttt i LOVE YOU! come dance with me!" and she would be up waiting for me to get home. She wasn't a strict parent and I was for the most part a good kid. I came home by her reasonable curfew and if I wasn't going to make it I'd let her know. 

She wasn't waiting up to chastise me. She was waiting because she feared every single minute that something could happen to me. And I just laughed at her and called her dramatic. But lately, I understand her a little more. There have been a few events happening around me and people I love that have made me seriously anxious. 

The threat of a coup d'etat in Venezuela made me cry harder than I had in a long time. It's not even happening yet and my mind could only think about all my family, about militias and angry chaviztas shooting at them. I became hysterical. This time it was my mom who calmed me down. It's like she had this little mom sense and knew she had to call. "Breathe, calm down, you don't have to worry yet," she said.

And I couldn't really believe it. I felt the fear making knots in my stomach, of something that wasn't even happening. Of something that was only a slight possibility. And then I felt dumb. 

Then Boston Marathon bombs. My first thought were my best friends. Of course I would think they decided to go watch the marathon, even though reasonably I knew they were probably asleep. But it was that fear again, something similar to what my mom would feel and I don't think most people actually get it, until they feel it. "What could happen?" But the thing is once you realize something can happen, there is no going back from that realization, and yes I freak the fuck out.

Maybe it's an over reaction, but to me it doesn't feel that way. I have to talk to my best friends and make sure they are completely fine. I need to call them hear their voices and come home as fast as I can, because in my mind they were in danger and now they're safe. 

I think it might be because I am maturing (or am I immaturing?) or is it because I actually care now? I'd like to think I always cared, but didn't see danger where there was. Whatever it is. I get it.

Idk

I didn't know why I had done it. At least that's what I said to myself. The voice in my mind that resembles what I think my own to sound like, forcing the me that knows the truth. Forcing her to believe the better version. But I couldn't. I couldn't! The real thing, the actuality of the brutality kept fogging up everything. Curling itself around the memory I was trying to shape into being. And her, she was mad. She was insane.

"It was aesthetically pleasing," I told her. The colors. Red flowing into white. It could've been a work of art, I reasoned. The bitch wasn't having it. We both wanted a cigarette. Our hands shook as we lit it. She couldn't even smoke it right, the sissy kept on crying. She kept on trying to lie. Trying to make herself innocent. But I know the truth. I know why we did it.

White girl your parents

You know, "Fuck you mom!" "get out of my room!" 

This to me was astonishing. I would sit on my friend's bed watching this go down and wondering, why the hell has she not gotten slapped yet?? This would not fly in my household.

My hispanic father commands respect, (or fear, which in some cases is the same thing) with a single look. "Ivanha Alejandra! come downstairs" and that usage of my middle name has me shaking in terror. Ok, not literally, but it does cause a chill to run down my spine, take extra time to go down the stairs, each step making me closer to my impending doom. The worse is when it's just to inquire what I would like for dinner or something equally mundane. There am I wondering what I did wrong, getting ready to look at the ground, eyes fixated on a specific tile, take my punishment gracefully; for nothing.

But of course there would be no other alternative. It has never crossed my mind to talk back to my parents. The few times I ventured to respectfully disagree, things did not go well for me. I ended up profusely apologizing for my disrespect and saying something along the lines of "I was totally wrong, I don't even know, I totally deserve to be grounded forever, I should have never left that bowl of cereal in my room." 

I will never understand how my friends did it and how their parents didn't react. 

and well that's all I have to say on that topic. 

not creative todayyyyyyyyy

or ever

 pzzzz

Before I turn 30

I love making lists. And with all this worrying about am I doing enough? and bla bla bla... I decided to make a bucket one! (actually it's just things I wanna have done before I'm 30, so I have a good 12 years to work on it...) I think everyone should make one at some point. It can be really therapeutic, and possibly depressing if you don't cross out anything, but I'm just going to use it as motivation.

Here is mine: 

1.) Skydiving (duh, doesn't everyone have this on theirs?)

2.) Learn a new language

3.) Live in Italy

4.) Travel as a backpacker

5.) Go skinny dipping (bahaha sexy)

6.) Graduate college as a journalist ... I'm starting to see these aren't really in order of priorities.. or are they? ;)

7.) Write my own column 

8.) Go Bungee jumping

9.) Run one hour without stopping (maybe let's make this 40 minutes)

10.) Be a good driver, with a stick

11.) Live within a tribe (far-fetched, but AWESOME) 

12.) Break one important rule 

13.) Get a tattoo

14.) Cook something that tastes good

15.) Play a song on the guitar

16.) Eat a brownie that has marijuana in it 

and these are my meaningful life goals! I should probably revisit this and add other things possiblyyyyyy

Hating on the U.S measuring system :)

“Want to go for a run?,” “sure!” I answered, then I asked the simple question of how much would we run, but of course this wasn’t really a simple question. The answer was six miles, which for me has no meaning. Therefore I am faced with the task of converting to kilometers, and let me tell you, maybe it’s really simple, the difference isn’t that big... whatever. Math is not my strong suit, that means I have to go on the mighty, solution-to-everything-internet and look for a site that does it for me. Yes, I know; how lazy, how dumb, and why don’t you just use the calculator on your cellphone?  True, maybe a little, and no can do. What good is the calculator if I can’t remember the equivalence in the first place. 

Now, I ask, WHY? What the fuck is an inch? Miles? Fahrenheit? What's wrong with the perfect sense making metric system? Every other place in the world uses the same UNIVERSAL system, kilograms NOT pounds, kilometers, NOT miles... centimeters!! 

Trying to have a conversation about almost anything becomes exceedingly difficult, beads of sweat start materializing, my forehead wrinkles and my eyes shut deep in concentration as I desperately try to convert my height from 1,70 meters to feet, just so I can casually chat with a friend, or maybe fill out an application for the gym. I can’t even tell if it’s cold or not by a simple look at the weather reports or at the temperature sensor, because 40 degrees is quite hot to me, but oh wait! it’s in Fahrenheit, a whole different world in comparison to the simple and easy Celsius. So, obviously 40 degrees Fahrenheit is not shorts and a tank top weather.... 

And like this many other examples in day to day life, that make no sense at all.  Seriously, I just want to understand the reason, why use different measuring methods, and really annoying ones at that. Life could be so simple, everyone could understand each other, stripping away the hassle of conversion. That room in our brains it occupies could be free and used for other way more important and productive purposes.

Most businesses in the U.S have realized this, and utilize the metric system in order to be more productive in an economy that is increasingly becoming more globalized. Globalization is a huge part of the world today, nonetheless there is still the U.S measuring system, the only major country in the world who does not use the metric, which in my humble opinion is much more practical.  

Even the names of the units are disgusting.  The word pound makes me cringe, and don’t get me started on yards... it should just be the name of a stick, not a distance. On the other hand the names used in the great metric system are logic based. Take centimeters and meters, a centimeter, 1/100 of a meter, it’s explicit in its name. The name is explanatory! As I said before, it’s all about practicality, which obviously the U.S system lacks.  

Presidential Debate Discussion

Sitting in class. Can't concentrate on anything. Debating on Romney's wording, but really I'm just debating internally on taking a furtive nap. Now, how would be the best way to do this? Maybe I can manage to close my eyes and sneakily nod off while holding my pen. This way it will look like I am attentively listening, waiting for that piece of indispensable information that I just can't wait to transcribe onto the page.

Gun policies. And binders full of women.

Maybe I'll let my hair down, thus creating an effective shield for my face. This barrier will provide a perfect mask for my clever ruse. Who is to say that my eyes aren't completely open with anticipation? Eager to absorb knowledge behind my beautiful, untamed locks of brownish/ other-colorish hair?

The right wing sees Obama as an angry black guy.

Wait, that sucks! Those stupid right wingers... I could just invent an illness. Get out of class now. That sounds delicious. I'm so tired I've become delirious. If I were to stay because, honestly, I'm bad at lying, I have to perfect my methods. What can I do to prevent my head from sliding off my arm once I reach that idyllic state of blissful, oblivious rest? That would probably wake me up and bring attention to my predicament... I could lean against the chair, but at the same time have my elbows on the table, while tilting my head so my hair covers my face, simultaneously holding the pen against the paper, so it doesn't slip from the grasp of my idle fingers.

Yes, I have carefully outlined a plan that looks promising. If I can master this artful form of sleep I will have in my hands an invaluable weapon.

Obama goes on the offensive.

Time to try it out......

So I found this somewhere in the interwebs and I couldn't resist... I had to post it!

Date a Girl who Writes

Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music. Interesting factoids about Catherine the Great, and the immortality of jellyfish. Laugh it off when she tells you that she forgot to clean her room, that her clothes are lost among the binders so it’ll take her longer to get ready, that her shoes hidden under the mountain of broken Bic pens and the refurbished laptop that she’s saved for ever since she was twelve.

Kiss her under the lamppost, when it’s raining. Tell her your definition of love.

Find a girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with her’s. She will never stop, churning out adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.

She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet), separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she’s thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.

Use a pick-up line with her if she doesn’t look to busy.

If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her first novel.

It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.

She’ll give you a chance.

Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for better or for worst.

A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.

Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.

If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.

She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.

She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s quiet and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright.

You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.

You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely, remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.

Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo - so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.

Maybe she’s not the best at grammar, but that is okay.

Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She’s witty, she’s empathetic, enigmatic at times and she’s lovely. She’s got the most colorful life. She may be living in NYC or she may be living in a small cottage. Date a girl who writes because a girl who writes reads.

A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in stories, she lives in reality.

Date a girl who writes.

Because there is nothing better than a girl who writes.