He llegado a la hermosa ciudad de Dublin y esto es muy bello. No voy a escribir mucho de esto porque me da un toque de paja, pero ta si voy a poner lo que estoy haciendo para acordarme de que estoy haciendo. Ayer llegamos y nos quedamos en la casa de los flacos que son divinos, y simplemente mutamos. Hoy fuimos a una ciudad que se llama Kilkenny y fuimos a Penneys y poco mas que me muero de un ataque comprando cosas...un blazer fuxia a 500 pesos todo bien te cojo. Fuimos a un castillo cagado del año del zodape que sinceramente me chupaba un huevo, y tambien a unas cuevas ahi que no solo me chupaban un huevo sino que me daban miedo porque supuestamente habia murcielagos, pero al final no. Despues fuimos a un museo con ropa de gente famosa y despues volvimos a nuestras casas. Esta demas porque vivimos puteando en español y nadie se da cuenta. No puedo fumar casi nada, es un poco estresante pero bueno ta. Lovely city. Voy a controlar mis gastos por aca asi no me voy al carajo.
Carton - 15 euros
Raybans - 160 euros
UGG - 187 euros
Campera - 209 euros
Blazer - 23 euros
Vestido - 15 euros
Camisa - 17 euros
Total - 626
1/29/2012
1/12/2012
"There's a third option. Forgetting the anger."
So that's what I'm doing. I'm forgetting everything I was angry for, even though I know I'm right. I should have been the angriest person in the world, you deserved it. Not because you were mean, not because you were wrong, not because you meant to hurt me, but because you didn't even care. You didn't have to, but you made me think you would care, and you didn't.
I'm forgetting my anger for telling me you were leaving with the worst timing in humanity's history. For commiting to something you weren't ever ready for, and you should have known. For the fact that you stopped caring, and never even dared to talk about it. For not confronting me, and telling me you just wanted to leave. For not telling me I was never enough, and letting me torture myself trying to figure that out alone. For letting me guess. For making me start talking about what you should have told me the first day. For not even having the courage to dump me, and letting me help you do it, as some kind of favour.
I needed to let that out, I needed to tell that to a figurative someone (that's just me, reading what I write) and stop swallowing it down, pretending I wasn't angry, pretending I didn't wan't to beat the shit out of you. And I did, I did for this long, but I'm not keeping this. I'm not keeping all this crap because it's yours to keep.
I never kept my feelings to myself, I would tell the good and the bad. But with you I kept them, trying to be a "better person" or whatever fuckery I was thinking, just smiling and telling you it was okay. I told myself it was okay too, and I wouldn't even cry in my room, alone. I wouldn't even talk to a friend, I wouldn't even let me think about it. And it burned, never telling anyone I was hurt. But I'm forgetting that too. I'm forgetting that I hated myself while being with you, I was what I always dreaded: the well-behaved, limited girl who would only speak if someone wanted to hear, wouldn't say words like "fart" and would always have perfect hair. I'm not a stupid, random normal girl that you met at a party and is as original as a fucking fork. I'm more than that and I always knew, but I decided to forget that for a while. But I'm remembering now, I'm going back to me, and instead, I'm forgetting this fragment of my life that wasn't worth two seconds of my time, and it's staying in between brackets forever. I'm forgetting the fact that for the first time, some guy I wasn't even in love with, some guy I had nothing special with, some guy that was bearly smarter than a monkey, didn't feel anything special either. For the first time, the other person wouldn't care either.
So that's what saves me; it's just pride. I was never sad, I was never disappointed. I was just angry. Fucking furious.
But I'm not now. I'm forgetting it. I hope you can forget it too, it's a lot easier because you abandonned it first, and I think you must be over it by now; not me (you were never into me), but the way you behaved. I don't think anyone in this planet deserves to be cared about so little, that doesn't even deserve to be dumped. To be told why. To be told SOMETHING. Not even a stranger. But that's your shit, and as I said, I hope you can forget it. I don't think you ever realised or ever will, but if you do, I hope you can forget it. Because it's lame, it's sad to be so weak and selfish. And even if I had been the crappiest person in the world with you, which I know I wasn't, you could have been better. Too much work, I guess. Hope you never get smart enough to understand this, but if you do, I hope you forget it.
I'm never telling you this. I'm never exploding in your face. You will never see the unbearable anger I used to hold. I don't think I should ever let you see anything else of me, not even my worst side.
I'm not keeping it either. I'm not writing about it anymore, but not because of self-control. Because I'm throwing this shit away.
The best of luck from me to you. Hope your life gets as special as your dull, boring normality and your limited, affectedly elitist brain allows it to. No hard feelings or, actually, no feelings whatsoever. I hope you become, for me, the most irrelevant human being on the face of earth, just as you should have been from the beginning since I always knew you were less interesting than a cricket match. But you will be now, because it never took me long to forget about you, but I still remembered how angry you made me feel. And I'm forgetting it too.
So that's what I'm doing. I'm forgetting everything I was angry for, even though I know I'm right. I should have been the angriest person in the world, you deserved it. Not because you were mean, not because you were wrong, not because you meant to hurt me, but because you didn't even care. You didn't have to, but you made me think you would care, and you didn't.
I'm forgetting my anger for telling me you were leaving with the worst timing in humanity's history. For commiting to something you weren't ever ready for, and you should have known. For the fact that you stopped caring, and never even dared to talk about it. For not confronting me, and telling me you just wanted to leave. For not telling me I was never enough, and letting me torture myself trying to figure that out alone. For letting me guess. For making me start talking about what you should have told me the first day. For not even having the courage to dump me, and letting me help you do it, as some kind of favour.
I needed to let that out, I needed to tell that to a figurative someone (that's just me, reading what I write) and stop swallowing it down, pretending I wasn't angry, pretending I didn't wan't to beat the shit out of you. And I did, I did for this long, but I'm not keeping this. I'm not keeping all this crap because it's yours to keep.
I never kept my feelings to myself, I would tell the good and the bad. But with you I kept them, trying to be a "better person" or whatever fuckery I was thinking, just smiling and telling you it was okay. I told myself it was okay too, and I wouldn't even cry in my room, alone. I wouldn't even talk to a friend, I wouldn't even let me think about it. And it burned, never telling anyone I was hurt. But I'm forgetting that too. I'm forgetting that I hated myself while being with you, I was what I always dreaded: the well-behaved, limited girl who would only speak if someone wanted to hear, wouldn't say words like "fart" and would always have perfect hair. I'm not a stupid, random normal girl that you met at a party and is as original as a fucking fork. I'm more than that and I always knew, but I decided to forget that for a while. But I'm remembering now, I'm going back to me, and instead, I'm forgetting this fragment of my life that wasn't worth two seconds of my time, and it's staying in between brackets forever. I'm forgetting the fact that for the first time, some guy I wasn't even in love with, some guy I had nothing special with, some guy that was bearly smarter than a monkey, didn't feel anything special either. For the first time, the other person wouldn't care either.
So that's what saves me; it's just pride. I was never sad, I was never disappointed. I was just angry. Fucking furious.
But I'm not now. I'm forgetting it. I hope you can forget it too, it's a lot easier because you abandonned it first, and I think you must be over it by now; not me (you were never into me), but the way you behaved. I don't think anyone in this planet deserves to be cared about so little, that doesn't even deserve to be dumped. To be told why. To be told SOMETHING. Not even a stranger. But that's your shit, and as I said, I hope you can forget it. I don't think you ever realised or ever will, but if you do, I hope you can forget it. Because it's lame, it's sad to be so weak and selfish. And even if I had been the crappiest person in the world with you, which I know I wasn't, you could have been better. Too much work, I guess. Hope you never get smart enough to understand this, but if you do, I hope you forget it.
I'm never telling you this. I'm never exploding in your face. You will never see the unbearable anger I used to hold. I don't think I should ever let you see anything else of me, not even my worst side.
I'm not keeping it either. I'm not writing about it anymore, but not because of self-control. Because I'm throwing this shit away.
The best of luck from me to you. Hope your life gets as special as your dull, boring normality and your limited, affectedly elitist brain allows it to. No hard feelings or, actually, no feelings whatsoever. I hope you become, for me, the most irrelevant human being on the face of earth, just as you should have been from the beginning since I always knew you were less interesting than a cricket match. But you will be now, because it never took me long to forget about you, but I still remembered how angry you made me feel. And I'm forgetting it too.
1/11/2012
Amo los días de lluvia y a su vez me deprimen, es el paralelismo psicocósmico del dolor que siempre me revive, porque es el dolor lo que me lleva a escribir, lo que me hace pensar, lo que me hace volver.
Es irónico que en todo lo hermoso haya un poco de tristeza, que las historias de amor son más lindas incompletas y que belleza es lo que se escapa de las manos, lo que vive un segundo en el cuerpo y se escapa irremplazable.
Escribir con dolor y admirar lo que duele es como mirar al sol; sé que los ojos al final duelen, pero no puedo dejar de mirarlo. Es lo mismo que perseguir el amor que lastima; inútil proponerse abandonarlo porque ese amor nunca termina, vuelve en los días de lluvia como todo lo triste y todo lo hermoso.
También es verdad que el amor sin dolor es amor mediocre, que el amor es amor cuando es como un adolescente, cuando duele hasta en los huesos y siempre está latente, pero es amor sin dudas y sin grises, sin preguntas, sin matices.
Ahora es parte de crecer recibir al dolor como un viejo amigo, dejarlo reposar en mi cabeza y transportarlo hasta mis dedos, que se vuelva parte de una estabilidad poco bienvenida, porque yo no elegí crecer.
Nunca elegí encontrar paz, perderme la euforia y perder las ganas. No elegí dejar de ser la que se enamora en menos de un segundo, la que se ríe a los gritos y llora minutos después. El cambio que llaman progreso, el cambio que llaman "madurar" llegó así de inesperado, y sin que fuera un proceso, de repente me volví un poco más escéptica, un poco menos ingenua, un poco más equilibrada, un poco menos loca. Un poco más "grande".
Hoy lamentablemente no me quiero enamorar, no quiero perder, no quiero ganar, no quiero sentir que alguien es tan poderoso como para sacarme una sonrisa o como para hacerme llorar. Me cansé de la fragilidad y de dejarme subir sabiendo que en cualquier momento puedo tocar fondo. Por ahora necesito a mis pies en el piso.
Es irónico que en todo lo hermoso haya un poco de tristeza, que las historias de amor son más lindas incompletas y que belleza es lo que se escapa de las manos, lo que vive un segundo en el cuerpo y se escapa irremplazable.
Escribir con dolor y admirar lo que duele es como mirar al sol; sé que los ojos al final duelen, pero no puedo dejar de mirarlo. Es lo mismo que perseguir el amor que lastima; inútil proponerse abandonarlo porque ese amor nunca termina, vuelve en los días de lluvia como todo lo triste y todo lo hermoso.
También es verdad que el amor sin dolor es amor mediocre, que el amor es amor cuando es como un adolescente, cuando duele hasta en los huesos y siempre está latente, pero es amor sin dudas y sin grises, sin preguntas, sin matices.
Ahora es parte de crecer recibir al dolor como un viejo amigo, dejarlo reposar en mi cabeza y transportarlo hasta mis dedos, que se vuelva parte de una estabilidad poco bienvenida, porque yo no elegí crecer.
Nunca elegí encontrar paz, perderme la euforia y perder las ganas. No elegí dejar de ser la que se enamora en menos de un segundo, la que se ríe a los gritos y llora minutos después. El cambio que llaman progreso, el cambio que llaman "madurar" llegó así de inesperado, y sin que fuera un proceso, de repente me volví un poco más escéptica, un poco menos ingenua, un poco más equilibrada, un poco menos loca. Un poco más "grande".
Hoy lamentablemente no me quiero enamorar, no quiero perder, no quiero ganar, no quiero sentir que alguien es tan poderoso como para sacarme una sonrisa o como para hacerme llorar. Me cansé de la fragilidad y de dejarme subir sabiendo que en cualquier momento puedo tocar fondo. Por ahora necesito a mis pies en el piso.
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