Monday, May 25, 2015
Ok, so I'm a Law Student (nobody knows why) in a very politicized university and although I have a fair amount of talent for humanities and a fair amount of interest in politics, it's not who I am.
I am a music-listener, a word-whisperer, a book-reader, a laughter-lover, and these might be COMMON THINGS but then why am I the only one that feels so eternally bored by this eternal talk about societies and injustices, when what I see around me are people and emotions?
I'm blind to society, which in my mind, is an artificial construct that is nowhere to be seen.
I see people.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
The memory of eleventh grade has been cycling through my thoughts a lot as of late. Because, unfortunately, I fear I've grown up. And there are more arguments to this conclusion than just my newfound self-control with alcohol.
This nostalgia for eleventh grade has not a thing to do with how much fun I had during that year (I was miserable 'till September.) It has absolutely all to do with the eviscerating passion that distinguished this year from any other. I have never read, written, listened to music, or loved a boy with the blind fury I did two years ago.
In fact, if I could live one year all over again, in spite of the misery and the angsty or drunken mistakes I reiteratively made, it would be eleventh grade.
I took out that year's notebook to relive that passion.
Here's one of the dooderdaffles I wrote back then:
An Open Letter to Seventeen
You are a number.
You could be 19, or 32, perhaps 5, or maybe even 47. But no, you chose to be 17.
Some could say Seventeen was "built." People, Seventeen is not Rome. It is not built in a day, nor in seventeen years. Seventeen is not built, but sort of created, in a mish-mash of stupid romances, of masturbating whilst listening to rock music, of downing a whole litre of cookies and cream ice cream and then crying and then vomiting, of nights racing from one point of the city to the next and then not remembering a thing (through the headache) the next day, a collection of 8:00 AMs pretending to take notes but actually doodling out lyrics in the margins, of professing love for coffee when it's really for the high, of smoking to look cool, of playing guitar to look cool, of wearing jean jackets and skinny jeans and jean shirts to look cool, of crying in the bathroom so as not to risk that coolness, of writing poetry (on your wrists, with knives), of making playlists but then never uploading or burning them, of ogling at books without reading them, of ogling at notes without studying them, of ogling at bodies without touching them, of ogling at phone numbers without calling them, of making mistakes, should be making more, sneaking the car out, crashing into another car before reaching the pavement, of hating your hair, her hair, loving his, shouting at your parents, seeking their hugs, wishing I could fly somewhere else, being homesick, listeing to music to ignore the noise, listening to noise to ignore the life, jogging out the litre of ice cream that you couldn't bring yourself to vomit, getting tired after the first mile, stopping after the second, to lay on the grass, look at the clouds, and see them go by…
Seventeen, I don't understand you, because I don't understand myself. But that's okay, I'll keep on trying. I've got until Eighteen catches me, after all.
And I hope it won't!
(Wishing I could commit all of those mistakes over again. Wishing the climax of my life hadn't been eleventh grade.)
An Almost Twenty-Year Old
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
|Picture of my trip to NYC a few weeks ago that has absolutely nothing to do with the matter of the post.|
I tweeted something about interior design a few days ago, and it got me a bunch of Martha Stewartish new followers, so I guessed if I did a whole blog post on interior design, it might get me on TV or something.
The only problem is that this post is not going to be about interior design per-se, but about the fact that I have realized that, when it comes to picturing my dream habitat, it inevitably falls either into the category of adorable house or funky loft.
- Whereas I summon dreams of the beautiful garden with an abundance of poplars and cherry trees and flowers of all sorts I would have, I imagine the funky loft as being (obviously garden-less but) an oasis full of funky, funky house plants. Succulents and the like everywhere.
- While in my dreams the adorable house is located at least considerably in the middle of nowhere, a quiet, quiet place, the funky loft is naturally set in the middle of Providencia or another really alive and diverse neighbourhood of the like.
- The adorable house is decorated in wooden tones and homey shit like, who knows, flowery quilts and knitted whatnots and I seriously haven't given this part much thought. I do know, however, that the funky loft has very, very funky art noveau (that's the one from the 50's, right?) deco, and a collection of vinyls and very cool art.
- Yet both have very loved bookshelves.
The adorable house is basically a very Anne of Green Gables aesthetic.
The funky loft basically looks like my writing workshop teacher's home:
Friday, April 17, 2015
I've become a lazy blogger and resorted to this:
Crossing out the shit I've done
Upping the font size of shit I'm about to do