Dedicado a Jack Keroac y a su nombre de 17 palabras que hoy se suma a mi cielo laboral: "One day you're going to find the right words and they are going to be simple". Gracias
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Have you ever wanted to make a graffiti onto someoneâs face when they make you angry? Or found a person who is so stuck into his own sadness that you suddenly feel the urge to cut their head down the middle to stuff it with happy tiny cute pastel things like confetti, marshmallows and glitter and then shake it off, so he can look less depressing and more like a snowglobe? Well, I have.
My name is Ramona and I live in Buenos Aires. I have only one job: going to University, but I am not very good at it. Living alone can be a huge problem for those who are trying to be more responsible. One day, you wake up late and thatâs it. Your brain is changed forever. You are infected with unpunctuality, a disease that prevents you from being a disciplined person. You start missing the alarm and the 10 other times you snooze it. You live according to your biological clock, so you wake up whenever your body wants to do it. Every day feels like a piñata. You have no clue of what you will get out of it, apart from the angry faces who hate you because youâre late, again. Thatâs when you decide that the smart choice is not lose all your friends, and rather go vegan on plans. But I must say, flowing is not for everybody. Â
I usually tell people that I moved here to study, including my parents, but thatâs a fat lie. I donât come from a family of lawyers or accountants, in fact none of them are professionals. I come from a family of good people. People who are very talented at putting everyoneâs needs before their own. People who make the perfect neighbour, employee or husband. The type of people who society loves. I guess society doesnât care about how perfect feels. But, I do. Perfect smells like advertising. Tastes like politicians. Sounds like a monophonic ringtone and feels like something is missing.
Moving to a capital city was a charade of growing apart from a family that didnât feel human enough to be my family. For a long time, I was convinced that my parents illegally bought me at a chinese market, but then I realized I was being stupid because:
1) I look exactly like my mom
2) She is not Asian
My mom was the provider for a long time, thatâs how she gained the power of control and became the alpha woman of the pack. She is the kind of person who doesnât like receiving any help, but loves complaining about it. She also has a strong dislike for people who change - thatâs a comfort zoner classic. I still donât get what is it that she adores about her comfort zone, I mean itâs not even that comfortable. The place is full of multi-tasking, multi-eating and multi-stressing, so when you pass by, anxiety gets under your skin and starts driving your life, and you feel the urge of doing something, anything, anything that doesnât involve relaxing of course. And you do, but you do not enjoy it.
My dad is always dressed in the same way: father shirt, father jeans, no belt. You can only tell that he has changed his clothes by looking at the colour of the cotton handkerchief he carries in his left rear pocket. On business days he alternates between the baby blue with white and navy stripes and the light brown with white and dark brown stripes. He saves the grey one for the weekends, itâs the fancy one of the set. I find this very entertaining, I hope one day someone makes a documentary about it.
He also reminds me of my grandfather. But unlike grandpa he can actually hear. In fact he is a great listener, that is why he is always the one calling and I am always the one talking. We complement each other perfectly. He pays, I spend. He is huggable, Iâm a hugger. Another thing he is very good at is shopping for food. He puts lots of passion into it, I think it makes him feel like a modern australopithecus hunting and gathering sushi for the tribe. Itâs his macho moment. Or it was. Until mom ruined his fantasy by complaining about all his choices and now he is allowed to bring food she will never cook. So chocolate boxes are the only thing left from his prehistoric macho traditions. I want him to keep them alive, so I came up with this ritual: each time I go back home for the weekend, we have to turn the T.V. on and sit next to each other with at least one box of chocolates. During the ceremony, I am the one in charge of discovering whatâs inside of each chocolate. So, I bite all the pieces, one by one, and pass them straight to him, the finisher, the one responsible for eating all my bitten chocolates. Our bonbon celebration was the muse of my new theory: âDad was a grey giant furry dog in his past lifeâ. I have solid evidence:
He knows how to keep you company
He is a best friend by default
He loves eating the leftovers
I have a brother too, who doesnât give a shit about me and loves his routine very much. He leads the same life my grandfather used to. He wakes up at 7.30 am, eats crossfit food and reads the newspaper, starting from the obituaries. Then he exercises, watches TV and goes to bed before 10. He doesnât drink alcohol, his comfort zone is a never-ending Monday.
Although mom would never admit it, I know that the comfort zoners of the family team up to hate me. My brother is a big devotee of that religion, he ignores me in every possible format: text, email, audio note, inbox, skype, phone call, selfie, flesh and bones. The only time he thinks about me first is when something bad happens. Then you'd better be in a crying-friendly place, because I am telling you, he has no filter. He makes every piece of bad news, worse, especially if itâs the death of someone close. Luckily, we are a small family and he has already used four and a half shots, one for each of my grandparents, and half for my auntâs cancer. I am sure that right now he is fantasising about the lines he will text me when Susy finally dies. Itâs one of his guilty pleasures. Or pleasures. I take the âguiltyâ back.
Itâs been more than a year since Iâve decided to grow apart from my family and even though I still look like 19 year-old Ramona, I feel smarter. As if God was constantly updating my software without my permission to make my human apps work better, and now I can sense more and see new things in the same old situations. No, I am not on drugs. And yes, itâs a crazy experience.
The voice that controls your thoughts breaks and everything you think sounds more mature, more like a 28 year-old Clementine, who wears bordeaux lipstick and feels sexy when she lights up one of her white thin Virginia Slim cigarettes. Being smart is hot.
Clementine helped me realize how awkward our family dynamic has been during the past two weeks. My dad has been acting like my brother, he doesnât call me anymore. So I had to act like my brother and team up with my mom, who has been acting like my dad. I donât know whatâs going on there, neither does Clementine. And the more I hear my mom on the phone saying everything is âgoodâ and âperfectly fineâ, the more I feel haunted by the ghosts of my brotherâs text messages. I donât know what to do. I need to think of a solution. So I turn the TV on - cable movies trigger my thinking. They are showing an Icelandic action movie on channel 42. Cool. I am watching an Icelandic weirdo walking in his weird Icelandic sweater. The phone rings. In real life, not in the movie. Time stops.
Clementine thinks that Ramona should do the right thing and go back home. Ramona is convinced that sheâs being too sensitive. She is PMSing the whole situation. The Icelandic weirdo walks past an Icelandic sheep that matches his sweater.
Ramona reminds Clementine that she only has 500 pesos left, spending that money means asking for extra cash. Clementine feels momâs comfort zone getting more uncomfortable than usual. The Icelandic weirdo is now riding the matching sheep. Ramona tells Clementine to relax. Clementine is quiet. The Icelandic weirdo parks his matching sheep at the supermarket. Ramona doesnât get it. Clementine doesnât understand Icelanders either. The Icelandic weirdo steals a non-matching sheep. Ramona thinks of her family. Clementine feels bad for Ramona. The Icelandic weirdo is now being chased by three Icelandic policemen mounted on their three blue matching sheep. Ramona doesnât know what to do. Clementine is quiet. Ramona breaks into tears. Clementine feels lonely. Clementine and Ramona are now sobbing.
They canât do what they always do.
They canât call who they always call.
They canât call him. Dad.
Clementine turns the TV off, grabs a backpack, puts some clothes on and leaves the apartment to get into a cab. As the car moves, without even crying, tears start falling down her face and the streets of Buenos Aires become more and more blurry. The taxi stops at a red light, the window projects the scene of a young girl holding her fatherâs hand, waiting to cross the street. Ramona wonders if he is acting too. Pretending to be happy when he is not. The taxi leaves them behind and she looks into the rear-view mirror, trying to hold onto that image, but instead she discovers the reflection of a more grown-up woman, sitting in the back of the car. She looks as if she was holding a bunch of worries between her eyebrows and although she is not moving, she feels heavier than before. Her throat is blocked, the air doesnât go through. Itâs hard to breathe when reality has just cracked.
Ramona wishes that her father would open up and talk about what was eating him, and that he had never acted the way he did today, like a sad little kid, calling for everyoneâs attention through a stupid suicide note. Expecting someone to do better hurts. Expecting your dad to do better, hurts even more.
Ramona wants to believe in her father, like she used to believe in Santa, the monsters living under the bed and her imaginary friends. Clementine tells her that the magic is gone and wanting it back is only for comfort zoners. Ramona doesnât want to be one of them, so she chooses to face the sad man that Clementine is now showing her. A man who wouldnât understand the value of his own presence and would think that the only way to keep people in his life is by pleasing them. Ramona remembers her dadâs favourite mole, the grey hairs hidden in his moustache and his weird habit of never wanting to wear a belt, but this time she sees something new. She gets it. Belts are accessories exclusively designed for the ones wearing the pants. Knowing the size of your belt is knowing the size of your personal space, of how much do you occupy in a pair of jeans, in a room, in a marriage, in a family, in the Universe. Ramona is not sure that her dad understands this, so she decides to tell him how important he is and that itâs ok to be sad, because sometimes existing fucking sucks. He could count on her, no matter what and she meant that. Ramona understands now that complex situations require simple words, filled with good intentions. She is excited to show her father her new Clementine voice. She promises to herself that sheâll call him more often, so he can talk to her. She thinks of getting a job too, so the next time she will pay for his drinks. Her thoughts are now interrupted by taxi driver announcing that theyâve arrived at the bus station, Ramona pays and gets off, knowing that with each step she makes, she is closer to her father. The real one. Half-time is almost done.
My name is Meli Navas I am a virgin. When it comes to drugs.Â
No, seriously I am such a virgin that a couple weeks ago my friend Kyra invited me over to smoke a joint, and you know Kyra, she is the type of person who always forgets about things. But in this case she forgot to tell me that the weed was VERY strong ESPECIALLY for a drug virgin like me. So after 2 hits I was out, floating in the Universe, having the spiritual journey of my life, high-fiving God in the face and obviously realizing shit.
The first thing I realized was: I have to leave this place. So I got on my bike and started riding it until I realized I was lost. And I have to tell you that I am the type of person whose face shows everything so as I started worrying I felt it was melting down in a way I have never felt before and that made me think: Wait! Maybe Kyra forgot to tell me that this weed was so strong that it could turn a person into an extraterrestrial, because I swear to God that if you have seen me that night I looked like fucking ET on a bike looking for HOOOOOOME.
Another realization I had is that there is something wrong with my country and itâs the people. Why do we have to be SO friendly? All you can hear in the streets is: Hey Amigo, amigo, amigo! ENOUGH ALREADY! I do not need more friends so keep that fucking friendship away from me! My friendzone is sold out and if you do not believe me, ask all the guys that I have been trying to hook up with!Â
I was having one of those days that just when you think that it cannot get worse (than being ET and fighting the friendship in the streets of Argentina), it does (I was now straving). I didnât know what to do, so I thought like a martian and it worked! I realized I had to find a light to guide me home and that Chris Martin was also high and lost the day he wrote Fix you. So I make a right and there it was THE LIGHT, I would lie to you if I say that it was beautiful and big, because it was ok and it had a decent size. But still I stood in front of it and said to it: TAKE ME HOME! This also reminded me of the night when I lost my other virginity, but I will leave that story for the future. Now letâs get back to this one, I was determined to enter the shinny tunnel and as I make a step I think: Wait! What if Kyra forgot to tell me that this weed was so strong that it could kill a human being? But I must admit that by this point I was high as fuck so I didnât give a shit and I went inside. Once I was in the other side, I felt so much peace, it was amazing. This place had people but they wouldnât talk to you, not even if you tried, and it had food, OMG lots of food! -although 90% of it was expired. I was in the most perfect Junkie Paradise, a.k.a. My Chino. So I grabbed all the food that I could hold in my hands, because as always, I didnât want to pay for a plastic bag, and I went to the cashier to pay. THAT was the place where EVERYTHING HAPPENED. When I looked into my chinoâs eyes I felt like I was finally discovering the reason why God put him on my path (or neighborhood). We had the most deep conversation through our chinese eyes and I have to admit that I learnt a lot. Chung Lee Junior Junior - thatâs how I decided to call my chino, because of course he doesnât talk to me, as he is like a living language barrier- is now my spiritual guide. He gave me 2 lessons I will never forget:Â
1. I realized the type of person that Kyra is. A bad one. She intentionally raped me with drugs - my parents agreed with that. But itâs OK, we need more unfriendly people in Argentina.
2. I realized that when you are high, lost, feeling like ET, paranoid and hungry (or when Kyra rapes you with drugs), all you need to do is find your inner Chino and follow it. Because âHome is where your Chino isâ.Â
Analicemos las causas (Vemos una diapositiva en la que empiezan a aparecer Ătems debajo de este tĂtulo: âPOR QUĂ EL CORAZĂN DE MELI NO ESTĂ RECIBIENDO A NUEV@S AMIG@S)
Para terminar quiero plantearle a todos los friendzoners del mundo esta inquietud, digo por ahĂ, quizĂĄs, maybe⊠¿no es probable que nuestro problema hasta ahora haya sido que querĂamos seguir buscando a gente nueva porque estamos corriendo atrĂĄs de un ideal? ÂżNo es posible que estemos buscando afuera lo que quizĂĄs ya tenemos? Por ahĂ este es nuestro momento de soltar un poco el ideal, para que el corazĂłn pueda elegir algo mĂĄs real y llevarlo a un mundo mejor. Solamente digo que ahĂ puede haber una posibilidad, porque hasta ahora con lo Ășnico que me sale coquetear es con mis ideas.
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A veces me pega la princesa Disney y en casa me pongo a escuchar canciones de las pelĂculas clĂĄsicas. Esto no lo sabĂa nadie y de hecho verlo escrito me resulta bastante fuerte. No voy a juzgarlos si me dejan de leer.
Entonces la imagen mental de la que quiero hablar es esta: yo, mi casa, mi compu, youtube, salta un tema de La Sirenita y ahĂ estaban el tutorial de mi vida y la definiciĂłn de todo lo que pasa con los pibes. Â
Cuando le canto a mi sobrina âParte de Ălâ, le pongo toda la pasiĂłn porque me siento muy identificada. El tema me lleva directamente al momento de mi vida en que les dije a mis papĂĄs que me querĂa ir a trabajar a Estados Unidos. TritĂłn (mi viejo) estaba como loco porque nunca se habĂa subido a un aviĂłn, es decir que nunca habĂa salido de su mundo.
(Se escucha voz de contestador automĂĄtico viejo de fondo que dice: You have 1 new Disney Match!)
La gaviota, Flanders y SebastiĂĄn son mis amigas cansadas de escucharme contar historias en las que no termina pasando nada. De hecho, tuvimos que crear una secciĂłn oficial en nuestras reuniones llamada las âNo-Historiasâ. Cansadas de los Eric de este mundo, que lejos de darnos contenido real, nos mantienen a puro suspenso porque no agarran ni una señal. FijĂĄte que en el video, el pibe no entiende ni el nombre de la mina. Todo el Universo estĂĄ conspirando para que el pibe se convierta en el Messi del amor ÂĄY NO LA AGARRA! ÂĄPOR FAVOR!
(Se escucha otra vez el contestador automĂĄtico que dice: You are La Sirenita!)
I feel lost when I use the internet too much, because when you have been scrolling for hours all you can get in exchange is a brain full of duck faced selfies, car selfies, gym selfies, this is how I woke up selfie. Oh! and Pokemon hunters! And that to me, itâs like error 404: Intelligence Not Found. And when my intelligence is not found, I feel like the empty space in my head is replaced by a huge amount of air. Air that I would love to burp through my third eye, but unfortunately I do not know how to do that.
So I do something that I know how to do: go to the park, lie on the grass, and let the earth absorbe all the internet leftovers from my head. Because people say âyou are what you eatâ, so if I am eating too much internet, that means I will become a website. A bad website. A wordart-unphotoshoped-pictures-and-grey-buttons-to-click-on website. Or even worse, a selfie website and I DO NOT want to be that, because I want to be AWESOME. So I decide to start a digital diet right now, and instead of checking my cellphone for the millionth time, I start reading Rayuela. This book has 728 pages, Iâm not sure if I will finish it before I die, in fact I donât even know how Cortazar managed to finish it himself before he died. But thatâs ok, I like extreme sports so CHALLENGE ACCEPTED! I reaaad a lot. Seriously A LOT, so much that I even reach chapter number one, and in that moment, a guy comes to me and asks: - Are you reading the bible?
Thatâs when I realise that in this world you have 2 options: you can either be dumb or catholic, and I do not know which one I prefer, so then again I feel lost.Â