You taste like rock bottom. You remind me of standing alone at the corner after school waiting for your drunken mother to come barreling around the corner in her bathrobe. All I see when I see you is my bother’s balding chin. And infected teeth. You’re mesmerizing. You play hard to get, but you’re so easy. I am ashamed of you. I am ashamed of being near you; ashamed that I have fallen for your trap. You are drunken nights spent running around an unknown city, trying to run upright down the middle of the street, dodging traffic and screaming at the top of my lungs. But just like those nights and those friends, you are disposable. You are a short high. You are an excuse to look sophisticated for two minutes. You are an excuse to escape life and feel nothing from the tips of my fingers to the bottom of my soles. You are the taste of regretful one-night stands and waking up in the arms of a boy whose name you can’t seem to remember. You are toxic. You are the voice in the back of my head telling me that I am not as happy or as pure as I preach. I am a human being. I am twenty years old, fucked up in the head and trying to justify my reasoning for everything. You are an escape. You are my escape. You remind me that I am not as in control as I have convinced myself that I am. I have you between my fingers; you have me by the throat.
Sitting in the train station trying to do my creative writing homework. This is what I wrote down on the back of a spare envelope I found in my back pack.
I want to know why:
- I only have the urge to pick up a cigarette around my acquaintances and usually under the influence of alcohol
- The man who just hopped off the from Trastevere train just crossed over the tracks
- The Italian woman who came to my door this afternoon begging for money came back a second time with man at least seven feet tall
- The thought of being with one person for the rest of my life terrifies me
- Why my hands get clammy thinking about talking to that guy I met that one time in downtown Rome every Monday during Shakespeare class
- Yelling in Italian sounds so much better than yelling in English
- My mother is incapable of keeping relationships, a job, or taking care of herself like a reasonable human being
- My anxiety level peaks when I am traveling, yet I have this desire to go everywhere and have travelled my entire life
- Large groups of girls make me ashamed to be a female
- Slightly green bananas taste monumentally better than ripe bananas
I’m spending my last few moments in Barcelona at the airport trying not to let my watery eyes overflow.
I’ve always considered myself a realist when it comes to matters of the heart, to relationships. Some would call me a pessimist or even cold-hearted but after spending the past two weeks in Barcelona, I can say I believe in love. I believe that love at first sight maybe isn’t just a silly fallacy. That maybe it is possible to meet someone and feel something terrifying and beautiful all at once.
Something in me feels different. I don’t really understand it or know how to describe it myself, but your insides feel excessively jittery and you feel this persistent urge of awe and disbelief all while a swarm of butterflies dance around your stomach. Describing this feeling makes it sounds like this is me talking from first hand experience but as someone who is reluctant to analyze my own head, it only makes sense that I’m feeling this intensity through a friend to whom if I didn’t know any better I would insist was blood. I think that is what makes this even more extraordinary.
Seven hours. That’s all the time I spent with them. Seven hours was more than enough time. I don’t know much about it, but I believe love is something that happens when you aren’t trying to make it happen. You may not see it, but damn do you feel it. You feel it hard and all at once. It’s incredible and insane, even when it’s not happening to you. I think that’s what has taken me for a loop in this whole situation, that I feel this intense love for the connection between two people I love. It makes absolutely no sense and feels so incredibly extra-terrestrial. But it’s inspiring.
Thank you, Spain for bringing out all of these sappy feelings within me and for surrounding me with people who let me feel vicariously through them. For that, I’m grateful.
Back and forth between homes use to make me sea sick but I’ve learned to love the ocean and how to fight the current
About how we look at ourselves as females and as individuals and it got me thinking about the transformation I have gone through from my fifteen year old days as a freshman in high school to college sophomore.
There was a time not too long ago where I felt like I had to constantly be someone I just was not. I always felt like I had to look a certain way, wear the right labels, style my hair in a particular way, or sweep my eyeliner on in a perfect line to feel good about myself.
But of course that way of thinking ran out the back door screaming after I realized that I was becoming a clone of secondary school pressures. Now more than ever I can say that I am completely comfortable being myself. That means sporting a clean face, embracing my Cuban-born bushy and
sometimes uncontrollable eyebrows, and kooky, usually frizzy head of hair. (Thank you, Leandra Medine and Lorde).That’s who I am. I thank god I have learned to embrace what makes me a little odd or out of the ordinary.
Today actually marks three weeks exactly without a single drop or swipe of makeup across my face, not even my beloved falsies mascara. Honestly… I have never felt better about myself. Being able to feel comfortable in my own, natural skin is one of the most electrifying feelings. I’m my own definition of beautiful and that’s pretty badass in my opinion.