Trabajar como bartender en un bar conocido, en lo posible dentro de un hotel.
Ahorrar, irme a vivir sola a un departamentito.
Seguir trabajando, y estudiar algo que me guste, si me da el tiempo.
Irme a vivir uno o dos años a Vancouver o alguna parte de Inglaterra.
Volver, pedir un préstamo, abrir mi restobar vintage inglés.
abril 13, 2014
abril 11, 2014
abril 10, 2014
'Era tóxico, era tóxico, era tóxico...' sigo repitiendo, en un acto más bien desesperado de sacarlo de mi cabeza.
Era como si hubiera muerto. No tenia permitido hablarle, ni hablar de él, ni preguntar por él, porque yo misma me lo prohibía. No quería volver a salir lastimada gracias a comentarios ajenos sobre su nueva y 'sana' relación. Pero con un agregado; el dolor de ser consciente de que no fuimos suficiente el uno para el otro, a pesar de haberlo intentado tanto. De que el esfuerzo no alcanzó y los recuerdos que dejamos en el otro pasan a ser eso, solamente recuerdos en una infusión de melancolía.
Era como si yo hubiera muerto. Porque, si bien el último mes fue, sin exagerar, el más triste de mi existencia, lo quería de vuelta. Hubiera preferido seguir teniendo las cosas malas, las amarguras y los disgustos, solamente por poder tenerlo conmigo, saber que era mío, sentirlo mío, y de nadie más.
Me había vuelto adicta a él, sin saberlo.
Y era tóxico.
Era como si hubiera muerto. No tenia permitido hablarle, ni hablar de él, ni preguntar por él, porque yo misma me lo prohibía. No quería volver a salir lastimada gracias a comentarios ajenos sobre su nueva y 'sana' relación. Pero con un agregado; el dolor de ser consciente de que no fuimos suficiente el uno para el otro, a pesar de haberlo intentado tanto. De que el esfuerzo no alcanzó y los recuerdos que dejamos en el otro pasan a ser eso, solamente recuerdos en una infusión de melancolía.
Era como si yo hubiera muerto. Porque, si bien el último mes fue, sin exagerar, el más triste de mi existencia, lo quería de vuelta. Hubiera preferido seguir teniendo las cosas malas, las amarguras y los disgustos, solamente por poder tenerlo conmigo, saber que era mío, sentirlo mío, y de nadie más.
Me había vuelto adicta a él, sin saberlo.
Y era tóxico.
marzo 17, 2014
Send me to the stars, tell me when I get there kid.
I can be your Nancy, you can be my Sid,
get into some trouble like our parents did.
Hey, they'll never know.
If you love me hardcore, then don't walk away,
it's a game boy, I don't wanna play,
I just wanna be yours.
Tell me that you need me more and more everyday,
like I always say, never let me go.
Just stay.
I can be your Nancy, you can be my Sid,
get into some trouble like our parents did.
Hey, they'll never know.
If you love me hardcore, then don't walk away,
it's a game boy, I don't wanna play,
I just wanna be yours.
Tell me that you need me more and more everyday,
like I always say, never let me go.
Just stay.
marzo 14, 2014
marzo 12, 2014
marzo 11, 2014
marzo 02, 2014
febrero 21, 2014
The benefits of mood lighting.
"R U doing NE thing 2nite? U should come hang."
SEND.
And just like that, he’s here.
He pulls out a bottle of wine from a backpack. It’s endearing until I remember he has a motorcycle and literally has to have a backpack if he ever wants to bring anything anywhere. Then I become envious as I picture him gliding back and forth through the cars that crawl at a dismal rate of barely, but he moves through a sea of angry fists pounding on steering wheels like a bird narrowly flits through power lines, and I realize that it’s almost the same thing as flying.
He opens the bottle of wine with ease which makes me uneasy.
I don’t know why, but men that open bottles of alcohol with ease terrify me.
Maybe it’s because I used to watch my uncle open bottle after bottle as his body deteriorated from so much substance. But it’s in the same way (opening bottles) that one dresses their toothbrush with paste and polishes the pearls in their mouth to glossy mint perfection, and I’d think "why does my uncle find comfort in the flippant levity of becoming some unfunny clown version of himself?”
It wasn’t until I was in my late teens that I realized you could escape the self-loathing and sadness with substance. It’s great for a while until you realize that you’ve gone missing and you send out a search team of soul-sniffing bloodhounds that hunt through a forest of pills and casual sex, only to return with nothing. It’s exhausting, and not just for the pups.
Anyway, he pours the wine…
We are a whole bottle in.
Our mouths are stained purple like children that have sucked down too many grape popsicles and look down in shame as their mother, hands on her hips, holds up the empty box.
Guilty is what we are.
"Got anymore wine?" He asks.
The truth is, I never have wine. I don’t like the fact that wine seems to be the universal social adult beverage, so no, I don’t have wine.
I drink whiskey.
I drink whiskey because I can literally feel it warm my heart, and God bless that feeling!
But no. No more alcohol.
I want him to leave so I don’t make bad choices.
We’ve already read poetry out loud all night, and if that hasn’t turned me on already (it definitely has), then more alcohol most certainly will.
I offer an alternative, pot, thinking he’ll say no.
He doesn’t say no.
We smoke pot together and talk about dragons as the smoke blows through his nostrils.
The lemonade that we’re drinking rinses away the purple from our mouths, but not the guilt. That’s still there.
Yes mom, I ate all the goddamn popsicles and I’m sorry, okay?!
We are stoned now, so I do the most cliche thing ever and put Fleetwood Mac on in the record player.
Monday Morning comes on and it’s perfect.
It’s so perfect that I don’t feel guilty anymore.
We lay on the floor, and it’s so cliche, it’s so cliche that it’s clichA, B, and C.
I switch on my light-up Jesus from Party City because getting stoned has become a religious practice for me at this point. We watch the ceiling light pulse to music even though it really isn’t pulsing to any particular beat because it’s a plastic piece of shit. Then Rhiannon comes on. I tell him it’s the song I’m named after, which is true. No, my name isn’t Rhiannon, but both of parents thought Fleetwood Mac sang "Breeeeeeeannnnnna" instead of "Rhiannnnnnonnnnn". The Bree"anna" was then changed to Bree”ana” because “why the hell not?”
He laughs at my story and then stops short.
"What are we doing?" He asks.
I’m glad he asks this because I’ve been thinking the same thing all night but I’m not really sure.
I do know that it may have something to do with the type of loneliness that most people try to face but bow out after five minutes because being alone with your own terrible self is truly awful sometimes.
We are both in a place of un-want. It’s the worst.
He was in a toxic relationship, and I was about to start a toxic one but backed out at the very last second (I’ve already begun patting myself on the back for that one).
Anyway, “what are we doing?” "I don’t know" is my common response to any heavy question.
Lets just relax and not give each other a chance or reason to hurt one another. Sound good?
I didn’t say that of course.
What I did say was: "I don’t know. I guess we’re hanging out and having fun."
"I don’t want to ruin this." He says.
"Ruin what?" I ask.
"Isn’t that what people are supposed to say? I don’t want to ruin this friendship?"
He looks concerned and I shrug. I kind of assumed that this wasn’t an actual friendship. We would sleep together a few times and then realize that we should cut it short for both of our sakes.
But he is my friend. I like him. He listens.
"I can’t be in a relationship right now." He says.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there, Cowboy!
"I don’t want to be in a relationship." I say.
Then I begin to wonder why he felt the need to make that so abundantly clear. What vibe am I giving off? What action or statement have I made to cause such a confession? This isn’t the first time that I’ve had this nugget shoved in my face. It’s an unfair thing to say to somebody so early on.
How could you assume I’d spend one quiet evening alone with you, and then want to jump into your life?
I don’t. I really, really, really, really don’t.
Then I realized that it isn’t him.
It isn’t me either.
Its never me (although, I’d probably fuck it up in some other way down the line), this comes from my current lover’s past lovers and their giant expectations. How I hate these strangers for ruining it for the rest of us!
I wanted to shake him, I wanted to shake all of my random lovers at that moment, and scream "I EXPECT NOTHING BUT FUN FROM YOU!"
Then there comes a moment of silence, which, in my head, I dedicate to all relationships everywhere.
Stevie Nicks interrupts this silence which then forces us into each other’s arms.
Damn you, Stevie!
As our lips explore each others faces and necks, I can’t help but think about my parents.
Did they smoke pot in the early 80’s and make out to Fleetwood Mac? Did they listen to Rhiannon and think “hey, I’m gonna name my future child some variation of that weird-ass name”? It’s crazy because knowing that I was named after that song has made me shape my life around this woman. I’m totally a Rhiannon, and making out on my living room floor while the Jesus figurine switches from green, to red, to blue, it feels right all of a sudden, because that’s the benefit of mood lighting!
I ring like a bell in the night and wouldn’t you love to love me?
Boy.
Boy in the middle of my living room.
Beautiful boy, wouldn’t you love to love me right now?
Love me more than I love myself, it’ll be easy, I promise.
And he’s saying all the right things to me and I decide that I want to say all the right things to his body.
So I do.
There’s always that moment after a late night of debauchery where you ask yourself "should I stay or should I leave?" I can see him asking himself that very question.
He turns to me and says “I should probably get going, huh?”
(As if its even a question, we both know he’s leaving).
"We’ve both got work in the morning, so that’s probably best."
He then speeds off on his motorcycle. He takes off like a cannon, loud and angry, headed toward the intersection.
I’m jealous again.
He gets to fly away on that bike of his.
He gets the fresh night air to wash away the impurities.
I get to go back inside and be alone with what just happened.
It’s completely unfair.
I go back inside and examine the empty mason jars that are stained purple from the wine and I think to myself:
Would he have stayed if I promised him heaven?
And also,
will either one of us ever win?
SEND.
And just like that, he’s here.
He pulls out a bottle of wine from a backpack. It’s endearing until I remember he has a motorcycle and literally has to have a backpack if he ever wants to bring anything anywhere. Then I become envious as I picture him gliding back and forth through the cars that crawl at a dismal rate of barely, but he moves through a sea of angry fists pounding on steering wheels like a bird narrowly flits through power lines, and I realize that it’s almost the same thing as flying.
He opens the bottle of wine with ease which makes me uneasy.
I don’t know why, but men that open bottles of alcohol with ease terrify me.
Maybe it’s because I used to watch my uncle open bottle after bottle as his body deteriorated from so much substance. But it’s in the same way (opening bottles) that one dresses their toothbrush with paste and polishes the pearls in their mouth to glossy mint perfection, and I’d think "why does my uncle find comfort in the flippant levity of becoming some unfunny clown version of himself?”
It wasn’t until I was in my late teens that I realized you could escape the self-loathing and sadness with substance. It’s great for a while until you realize that you’ve gone missing and you send out a search team of soul-sniffing bloodhounds that hunt through a forest of pills and casual sex, only to return with nothing. It’s exhausting, and not just for the pups.
Anyway, he pours the wine…
We are a whole bottle in.
Our mouths are stained purple like children that have sucked down too many grape popsicles and look down in shame as their mother, hands on her hips, holds up the empty box.
Guilty is what we are.
"Got anymore wine?" He asks.
The truth is, I never have wine. I don’t like the fact that wine seems to be the universal social adult beverage, so no, I don’t have wine.
I drink whiskey.
I drink whiskey because I can literally feel it warm my heart, and God bless that feeling!
But no. No more alcohol.
I want him to leave so I don’t make bad choices.
We’ve already read poetry out loud all night, and if that hasn’t turned me on already (it definitely has), then more alcohol most certainly will.
I offer an alternative, pot, thinking he’ll say no.
He doesn’t say no.
We smoke pot together and talk about dragons as the smoke blows through his nostrils.
The lemonade that we’re drinking rinses away the purple from our mouths, but not the guilt. That’s still there.
Yes mom, I ate all the goddamn popsicles and I’m sorry, okay?!
We are stoned now, so I do the most cliche thing ever and put Fleetwood Mac on in the record player.
Monday Morning comes on and it’s perfect.
It’s so perfect that I don’t feel guilty anymore.
We lay on the floor, and it’s so cliche, it’s so cliche that it’s clichA, B, and C.
I switch on my light-up Jesus from Party City because getting stoned has become a religious practice for me at this point. We watch the ceiling light pulse to music even though it really isn’t pulsing to any particular beat because it’s a plastic piece of shit. Then Rhiannon comes on. I tell him it’s the song I’m named after, which is true. No, my name isn’t Rhiannon, but both of parents thought Fleetwood Mac sang "Breeeeeeeannnnnna" instead of "Rhiannnnnnonnnnn". The Bree"anna" was then changed to Bree”ana” because “why the hell not?”
He laughs at my story and then stops short.
"What are we doing?" He asks.
I’m glad he asks this because I’ve been thinking the same thing all night but I’m not really sure.
I do know that it may have something to do with the type of loneliness that most people try to face but bow out after five minutes because being alone with your own terrible self is truly awful sometimes.
We are both in a place of un-want. It’s the worst.
He was in a toxic relationship, and I was about to start a toxic one but backed out at the very last second (I’ve already begun patting myself on the back for that one).
Anyway, “what are we doing?” "I don’t know" is my common response to any heavy question.
Lets just relax and not give each other a chance or reason to hurt one another. Sound good?
I didn’t say that of course.
What I did say was: "I don’t know. I guess we’re hanging out and having fun."
"I don’t want to ruin this." He says.
"Ruin what?" I ask.
"Isn’t that what people are supposed to say? I don’t want to ruin this friendship?"
He looks concerned and I shrug. I kind of assumed that this wasn’t an actual friendship. We would sleep together a few times and then realize that we should cut it short for both of our sakes.
But he is my friend. I like him. He listens.
"I can’t be in a relationship right now." He says.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there, Cowboy!
"I don’t want to be in a relationship." I say.
Then I begin to wonder why he felt the need to make that so abundantly clear. What vibe am I giving off? What action or statement have I made to cause such a confession? This isn’t the first time that I’ve had this nugget shoved in my face. It’s an unfair thing to say to somebody so early on.
How could you assume I’d spend one quiet evening alone with you, and then want to jump into your life?
I don’t. I really, really, really, really don’t.
Then I realized that it isn’t him.
It isn’t me either.
Its never me (although, I’d probably fuck it up in some other way down the line), this comes from my current lover’s past lovers and their giant expectations. How I hate these strangers for ruining it for the rest of us!
I wanted to shake him, I wanted to shake all of my random lovers at that moment, and scream "I EXPECT NOTHING BUT FUN FROM YOU!"
Then there comes a moment of silence, which, in my head, I dedicate to all relationships everywhere.
Stevie Nicks interrupts this silence which then forces us into each other’s arms.
Damn you, Stevie!
As our lips explore each others faces and necks, I can’t help but think about my parents.
Did they smoke pot in the early 80’s and make out to Fleetwood Mac? Did they listen to Rhiannon and think “hey, I’m gonna name my future child some variation of that weird-ass name”? It’s crazy because knowing that I was named after that song has made me shape my life around this woman. I’m totally a Rhiannon, and making out on my living room floor while the Jesus figurine switches from green, to red, to blue, it feels right all of a sudden, because that’s the benefit of mood lighting!
I ring like a bell in the night and wouldn’t you love to love me?
Boy.
Boy in the middle of my living room.
Beautiful boy, wouldn’t you love to love me right now?
Love me more than I love myself, it’ll be easy, I promise.
And he’s saying all the right things to me and I decide that I want to say all the right things to his body.
So I do.
There’s always that moment after a late night of debauchery where you ask yourself "should I stay or should I leave?" I can see him asking himself that very question.
He turns to me and says “I should probably get going, huh?”
(As if its even a question, we both know he’s leaving).
"We’ve both got work in the morning, so that’s probably best."
He then speeds off on his motorcycle. He takes off like a cannon, loud and angry, headed toward the intersection.
I’m jealous again.
He gets to fly away on that bike of his.
He gets the fresh night air to wash away the impurities.
I get to go back inside and be alone with what just happened.
It’s completely unfair.
I go back inside and examine the empty mason jars that are stained purple from the wine and I think to myself:
Would he have stayed if I promised him heaven?
And also,
will either one of us ever win?
enero 31, 2014
enero 30, 2014
enero 29, 2014
Now is good.
Spring,
a long train journey,
a peacock,
bed-in breakfast,
a joint bank account,
listening to you snore for years and years,
to go to a parents meeting even though our kid is a genius;
actually, all three of our kids:
Justin, Marilyn and Daisy.
Being with you,
being with you,
being with you...
Just being with you.
a long train journey,
a peacock,
bed-in breakfast,
a joint bank account,
listening to you snore for years and years,
to go to a parents meeting even though our kid is a genius;
actually, all three of our kids:
Justin, Marilyn and Daisy.
Being with you,
being with you,
being with you...
Just being with you.
enero 28, 2014
diciembre 29, 2013
diciembre 28, 2013
teenagewasteland.
Let me take you out of this town, let me do it right now, baby, dancing till dawn, staying forever young.
Let's get out of this place,
'cause you're starting to waste within this teenage wasteland.
You will never see my face if you don't get me out of this place, now, baby, I'm not crazy.
I'm leaving, are you coming with me?
diciembre 19, 2013
noviembre 28, 2013
Hit me like a ray of sun, burning through my darkness night.
You're the only one that I want, you got me addicted to your lie. I swore I'd never fall again, but this don't even feel like falling. Gravity camed again to pull me back to the ground again. Everywhere I'm looking now
I'm surrounded by your embrace. You know you're my saving grace. You're everything I need and more, it's written all over your face. Standing in the light of your halo
I got my angel now.
noviembre 09, 2013
.
it does not matter now how happy i am or not,
just as long as i survive the madness.
(i feel like i may loose myself)
noviembre 03, 2013
noviembre 02, 2013
noviembre 01, 2013
octubre 25, 2013
octubre 23, 2013
octubre 20, 2013
octubre 15, 2013
octubre 13, 2013
octubre 10, 2013
octubre 02, 2013
septiembre 29, 2013
septiembre 08, 2013
septiembre 02, 2013
agosto 12, 2013
agosto 09, 2013
junio 04, 2013
junio 02, 2013
Don't make me sad, don't make me cry. Sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough, I don't know why. Keep making me laugh, let's go get high, the road is long, we carry on, try to have fun in the meantime. Come and take a walk on the wild side. Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain. You like your girls insane. Choose your last words, this is the last time, cause you and I, we were born to die.
junio 01, 2013
mayo 31, 2013
I'll tell you about punk rock: punk rock is a word used by dillettante's and ah... and ah... heartless manipulators about music that takes up the energies and the bodies and the hearts and the souls and the time and the minds of young men who give what they have to it and give everything they have to it and it's a... it's a term that's based on contempt, it's a term that's based on fashion, style, elitism, satanism and everything that's rotten about rock'n'roll. I don't know Johnny Rotten but I'm sure... I'm sure he puts as much blood and sweat into what he does as Sigmund Freud did. You see, what sounds to you like a big load of trashy old noise is in fact the brilliant music of a genius, myself . And that music is so powerful that it's quite beyond my control and ah... when I'm in the grips of it I don't feel pleasure and I don't feel pain, either physically or emotionally. Do you understand what I'm talking about? Have you ever felt like that? When you just couldn't feel anything and you didn't want to either. You know? Like that? Do you understand what I'm saying sir?
mayo 29, 2013
mayo 27, 2013
mayo 26, 2013
mayo 11, 2013
mayo 10, 2013
mayo 09, 2013
In the land of gods and monsters, I was an angel living in the garden of evil. Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed, shining like a fiery beacon. You got that medicine I need; fame, liquor, love, give it to me slowly. Put your hands on my waist, do it softly. Me and God we don't get along, so now I sing. In the land of gods and monsters, I was an angel looking to get fucked hard, like a groupie incognito posing as a real singer, life imitates art. You got that medicine I need; dope, shoot it up straight to the heart, please. I don't really wanna know what's good for me. 'God's dead', I said 'Baby that's alright with me'.
When you talk it's like a movie and you're making me crazy, cause life imitates art. If I get a little prettier, can I be your baby? You tell me 'life isn't that hard'. No one's gonna take my soul away, living like Jim Morrison. Headed towards a fucked up holiday motel. Squeeze, squeeze, and I'm singing; fuck yeah give it to me, this is heaven, what I truly want is innocence lost.
mayo 07, 2013
mayo 06, 2013
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abril 28, 2013
I missed the good part, then I realised
I started looking and the bubble burst. I started looking for excuses. A warning sign, it came back to haunt me, and I realised that you were an island and I passed you by. And you were an island to discover. Come on in, I've gotta tell you what a state I'm in. I've gotta tell you in my loudest tones that I started looking for a warning sign, when the truth is, I miss you. Yeah, the truth is that I miss you so. And I am tired, I should not have let you go.
So I crawl back into your open arms.
abril 25, 2013
abril 21, 2013
abril 10, 2013
abril 02, 2013
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