A Thousand Words

Cigarette ashes spread all over the paved streets.

Flashing lights set on billboards atop hypnotizing and prominent skyscrapers.

Taxi cabs and seemingly obtrusive mass of pedestrians rush past in an assorted chaos.

…

There she was.

Just a speck of unnoticeable dust in a pile of overpowering grains of sand.

You could see the dirt-strung leather strap that barely covered the curves of her breasts.

A scrap of cheap cloth made up the barely-there skirt, displaying a pair of what in other circumstances would be killer legs, but at that moment exhibited an almost invisible display of stretch marks from having grown up too fast.

Tasteless red ink tinted her lips, displaying a mouth that had been chastised and rebuked for a better part of her life.

Sunken blue eyes that should have sparked with a certain entrancing gleam just laid back in pure surrender.

There used to be passion in those eyes.

There used to be dreams and hopes for an indescribable future, endless goals, and a never-ending resolution.

But that unending resolution came to an unexpected halt.

Selling her body for money, respect drifted out the window along with other useless scraps of debris.

Just as the seemingly tied-up love for life ran off in speeds that reached places unknown, never found again.

She had succumbed to the world of heroine, useless promises, and selfish wants.

And look where that got her.


A hand clutches my arm.


I turn away from the painting.


“Honey, it’s just a painting, New York in all its amazing, star-lit glory. No need to drift into cardiac arrest.”

She starts dragging me away, my imagination being hauled along with me.

A pictures is worth a thousand words.

I make it worth more.

Priceless Thoughts

A penny for your thoughts.

Really?

Are our thoughts that relatively cheap?

Personally, I think I’d value my thoughts to be worth more than the overall yearly income of the average American citizen.

Maybe people would take into consideration the high-standard price I set for my thoughts if we lived in a world where you could actually pay to know another person’s internal thinking.

But we don’t.

And no matter how much you may wish on a shooting star or pray to God that you know what a certain-someone thinks about you, you will never know.

Depressing, isn’t it.

But there is one dilemma that has been plaguing me all week (or for the past fifteen years of existence), and it is the following:

Do I really want to know what people are thinking?

There will be times when the current object of your affection seems to be unaware of your presence on earth, and you would like to verify that fact in order to be sure of where you stand.

Which in that case, would be nowhere.

Sorry.

Or maybe you’d like to have an inner look into what those Ivy League interviewers thought about you, or what your in-laws really say when they’re not communicating in French (which completely excludes you from the conversation.)

I, personally, I have no other regard for that special would-be possibility if not for the ability to read a guy’s mind (Particularly one of certain importance to my interest).

Simply put, I am teenage girl just like all the rest.

I like boys.

If anything, that should satisfy you completely just by clarifying the unlikelihood of finding me someday in a random alley-way instigating several unmentionable acts with the female specimen. Be thankful.

So of course I sometimes wonder what that certain guy is thinking about me or if he is even thinking about me at all.

But what about the random people you just want to assure yourself feel highly towards you?

Maybe the one person you thought you could trust thinks you’re an invaluable scum who reads books for fun and therefore should go hide an isolated cave for the rest of her lackluster life.

Would you really like to find out that out of all the people you were so happy with, the majority really wanted to have your ass fried on a stick?

What about it regarding you? Would you like your every little secret, lust, and hidden shame to be poured out to anyone who had enough money to buy your most hidden, prized possessions? Your thoughts?

Even if the responses are positive and everyone seems to be who they really are, what would be the point?

What would be the fun if you could pin point every little think a person thought of you from the start?

How would you even learn to overcome those certain things and grow to meet them?

Maybe I’m not making any sense.

Maybe this sounded all the more better in my head.

Maybe that special guy does return those feelings, or maybe he barely notices me all. But why classify everything into perfect slots?

Why take the fun out of waiting for him to call, or waiting for the acceptation to that University, why take away the fun in life?

So bearing in mind that our mind--our thoughts--- is the only thing that we can truly keep for ourselves, why wish for the chance to break those apart just because of our selfish need for other’s approval or admiration?

Thoughts are private. Thoughts are spontaneity.

A penny?

Thoughts are priceless.

Traffic: An Earth-shattering Delay

I hate traffic.

Just like I hate the blaring white screen of the Word document blinding my corneas at the moment. But, oh well.

Maybe it’s just the rush. The need to get somewhere and the uncontrollable urge to bypass the red blinking lights of fellow cars and make head for your destination.

Maybe it’s the dizzying emptiness in your stomach that makes you see red and feel like a hammer has permanently pounded on your skull.

Maybe it’s how you imagine getting out of the car, passing the unending line of motionless vehicles, and flying away to freedom.

You can’t control traffic. You are bound by the abruptness with which it appears in your life and the effect it has on you.

It is the irritation of being so close to a certain place or moment, and you have to be constrained by a stupid obstacle called bumper-to-bumper traffic.

You can’t help but feel the irritated, helpless, restlessness that crawls up your skin at the sudden barrier keeping you from reaching your goal.

That’s when the emotions kick in: Fury, disappointment, renouncement. The need you had to reaching something being interrupted.

Maybe this isn’t the best example, but life is a game of Shoots & Ladders, where obstacles and fall-downs are the embodiment of it all.

But, just like traffic, you always get to your designated point. No matter how long it takes, whether the delay was earth-shattering or the minimalist of sorts, whether your car breaks down in the process, you get there.

So this started out as me ranting about traffic after I ate a soup at Crepes&Waffles that created massive destruction in my stomach and a nauseating emptiness in me, and how endless traffic did not help the situation and made me feel all the more miserable.

But I ended up taking a profound detour into the bottomless depths of how traffic relates to perseverance in everyday life.

See? So I’m not just a ball of sarcasm and fluff all wrapped up into one dense un-surfaced ball. It turns out, there’s actually more to me than that.

Or at least I like to think so.

My mom would be so proud.

I Came Out of The Cougar Closet

You can’t help but feel special when a random eight-year old boy tells you you’re pretty.

No, I do not have a disgusting pedophile-induced fetish for eight-year old boys. And when I do decide to embrace my cougar ways, I’ll be on my way to thirty dating a hot twenty –year old surfer model-type with the IQ of fish, but with drool-worthy washboard abs.

Haha. Joke.

Anyway, no matter the circumstances, you can’t deny that if someone compliments you out of nowhere, a certain drift of specialness won’t race up your spine and say, “YES! Finally my out-of-this-world beauty is acknowledged.”

Or, “YES! I got someone of the male specimen to give me a second look!”

If the normal reaction in your case is most likely the latter, remember that everyone is beautiful and only you can be the judge of what beauty really means to you.

But you can also be happy because someone thinks you’re pretty!

Shallow, superficial, obnoxious?

I prefer happy, positive, and appreciative.

And yet shallowness does come up in this situation, but there are times in life when you have to be free and let your arrogant, greedy sides emerge.

And appreciating a comment is anything if not being gracious to an affable compliment.

It’s common courtesy to accept the fact that you are physically gifted.

That last one sounded so funny, I’m going to keep it for time-sakes of my originality. (Spare the cynical laughs).

So here I am, walking towards the bus, heading to the haven I call my home, and away from the paper-wasting world conundrum called school, when out of nowhere this cute little boy with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, randomly pops up in front of me, and says, “Hi, you’re really pretty.”

And that’s when I fainted of pure bliss and went to heaven.

Kidding. Geez, what do you think of me?

“You’re really cute too, cutie,” I said, and that was that.

This is a story that will go down in history, down from generation to generation about how a cute little eight year old that will probably grow up to be a world-renown player, came up to me that Wednesday afternoon and made my day.

History text books through-out the world, be ready to have my name stamped across your tree-wasting existence, narrating that eventful evening when my life changed for the better and I learned to appreciate the human race.

Plus, I learned a very interesting new rule for life.

Life Lesson #2:

When the time comes and we cease to await the day that guys will stop being narcissistic ass-wipes whose only goal in life is to try and get into our pants, get a cute single-digit aged cutie to wipe that frown off your face and tell you you are a hot piece of respected and admired woman.

Life will never be the same again.

Michelangelo and Floating Gay Men

I try so hard to make it go away
But my attraction to men I know will never fade
I know I am weird, my mom makes that clear
And so do the guys on the streets, who keep calling me queer

I reach out to you
But you’re slipping from my grasp
I know you make me drool
But do I make you gasp?

I am attracted to you
You gorgeous piece of man meat
I swear I will not attack you
Unless you keep running away from me

I would not be scared
If anything, I would be ecstatic
If a man like me showed me he cared
Instead of getting weird and acting so damn spastic

I’ll make you love me
Even if it means me floating on a cloud in my birthday suit to display
And you’ll reach out to hold me
Because I really don’t care that you’re not gay.



: I couldn't help myself.

Hardbacks on Life

down by the sea,
where you drown your scars
you'll see and old man
drenched in the salt of the ages.

He'll sing you a song
of long suffering.
Names of sinners and saints
entangled within pretty lies.

He'll try to whisper
Ugly truths at you
while his face takes on
a malevolent glaze
bloods thicker than water,
people don't change their ways.

But his book is senile.
His heart hardened by the years.
Make sure you apprise
at the top of your lungs
the truths that you believe

fuck family,
family is who you chose
heritage is relative
and mothers kill their babies.

people don't change
and maybe
maybe he's right.


- unknown

(My friend has all this deep stuff and god knows where she get's it all from. But, oh well. I Love it)

Sparkling is Sexy

Twilight.

Oh, I can just feel my heart beat and my lungs constrict whenever I see the barest hint of that ivory-skinned, stone-built, ethereal and dream-like being known as every girl’s inner fantasy.

Just like I can’t help daydreams popping into my mind and let myself be swallowed up by the entirety of what is and will always be ‘Edward Cullen.’

Not.

Just pretending that I even care a bit whatsoever for that so called ‘gorgeous vampire’ makes me gag, as in bile rising in my throat and a burning fire making its way down my entire being. I am totally serious.

Maybe there was a time when I found the whole ‘Twilight’ scenario pretty enthralling and had to have my mom practically yank me from my bed to come eat breakfast instead of stay basking in the sweet glory of what was once the amazing Twilight book series. And it still is. Book-wise, I mean.

The thing is, now that they decided to make a movie for the less literate sort, instead of having regular fans that praise its awesomeness every once in a while, there’s a stampede of annoyingly frilly teenage girls shrieking their guts out for a guy that drinks blood and werewolf that smells like expired goat cheese and BO. Yeah, I understand the attraction.

Okay, maybe I am being a bit judgmental, considering the exact same thing happened with Harry Potter, but the people that transformed that book into a movie actually had some freaking taste.

Harry Potter is one of those cases in which both the movie and the books are truly amazing and perfectly in seem with each other.

Was it so hard for the twilight directors to make an effort and make at least a moderately good film?

Since when is an over-dramatic script with a girl that has to ask her own boyfriend in this husky, pleading (“Oh, it breaks my heart. Sigh.”) voice to, “Just one question. Kiss me?” Well. We know the world has come to an end when a girl has to ask her own boyfriend to give her a kiss on her birthday.

What about the fact that the guy sparkles in the sun? In the book they make it seem as if this powerful aura wraps him in its brightness and builds around him like a bright, vivid display of his pure power. In the movie, all they can manage is to sprinkle an overboard amount of store-bought glitter and dump it on his body and then let the sun bathe him while he looks like a butterfly that just sprouted tiny sparkly wings. One word: Gay.

I’m sorry if the story of a guy that has a perpetual wince on his face and seems constipated about ninety-nine percent of the time, and a girl who has independence issues and can’t hold back her over-developed teenage hormones for the barest hint of a second (for former stated unattractive guy, no less) doesn’t appeal to me.

Then again, maybe it also has to do with spending seven dollars on a movie ticket, only to have your ears ringing from possible deafness because the people----and by people I mean, psycho, love-struck obsessed teenage girls with their minds clearly unhinged and unbelievable vocal chords----can’t seem to keep quiet whenever a half-naked guy appears on screen.

And how can you even do that when professional make-up artists had to draw the abs on the so called “Hot, dangerous, sultry vampire”? Their actions seriously make me rethink the values of the female race.

So here we have a wacked-up movie with over-the-top dialogue, annoying characters that sparkle and brood and whine, and even worse fans that cry, and weep, and shriek until their voices run out.

Please explain to me how this became the number one movie competing with way better hollywood productions with actual talent?

Please tell me how vampires that look like gay buttercups are somehow considered hot?

Please tell me how to completely destroy this treacherous, earth-shattering mayhem that has caused the complete discovery that the female gender is an infuriating, hopeless case.

We are officially doomed.

Chocolate Fugitive

I can’t help it if I like chocolate.

I mean, who in their straight mind would ever have the audacity to not vast in the smooth, sweet, everlasting current of pure genius that makes up a chocolate and all its profound glory? I know, I sound like I’m directing a sermon, but in this case it’s only mandatory.

So you can understand how absolutely pissed off I was when my oh-so-loving dad decided to abstain me from enjoying it as just a tiny, repeat tiny, morning snack.

Picture me, minding my own business, opening the awaiting refrigerator, reaching in for the only chance at pure bliss… when my dad decides to coincidentally pass by.

I, being the all-knowing daughter that I am, try (key word: TRY) to discreetly hide the muffin behind my back, but my timing was unfortunately too late…(plus, I had crumbs all over my mouth so my attempts would have otherwise been futile).

“ISABELLA GARCES!! WTF are you doing?!” He didn’t really curse, but I can’t think of another way to truly bring his fury onto writing without doing so.

Okay, see, my dad is in pure reality, diabetic. So now you understand his reasons for his antagonism towards anything sugar-related (due to his fear for my unbecoming fate of being diabetic as well), and won’t wrongfully infer him to be a narcissistic father whose sole purpose in life is to starve his children. Just to get that cleared up.

That is why I knew to hide the confection from him the moment he stepped into my line of vision. I know him all too well.

And apparently, he knows me enough too, considering when I tried walking past him with a simple, high-pitched, “Nothing,” all the while hiding my hands from his all-too-observant eagle eyes, he didn’t for the barest hint of a second believe me.

That is when chaos erupted.

Here is my dad, red creeping all over his face, his eyes bulging out of their eye sockets, sweat basically running down his forehead, yelling at me to stop eating the amazing creation in my hand (not in those words, exactly) and to stop walking at that exact instant.

Here I am, fury burning through my whole being, my eyes burning holes into my dad, as I quickly waddle out of the room with my dad yelling behind me, and not helping myself from screaming, “WHY DO YOU CARE?” And then quickly regretting my words (which would undoubtedly lead to the unbecoming future of my dad getting even angrier) and resorting to say, “IM NOT GONNA EAT IT!!” All the while still running up the stairs, the chocolate muffin still in my hand, probably proving my stated notion as false.

During this whole scenario, my sister is right there, cracking up, looking back and forth as if she’s watching a freaking tennis match. I can’t help being mad considering she had eaten the other scone, without managing to get caught, and here I was: a fugitive escaping a death sentence.

It ended up with me taking a few (amazing, forbidden) bites while up in my bedroom, and going back downstairs and when asked by my dad, “Show it to me,” I forcefully confirmed the evidence by quickly giving him sight of the left-over scone, and resorting to put it back in the refrigerator, my dad watching in all his triumphant glory.

Safe to say it ended peacefully, my dad and I laughing about it hours after (repeat: HOURS…a loss like that takes time to recuperate from).

Of course, I failed to mention I went back to finish it off more tactfully when I was sure my dad was sleeping and there was no chance of getting caught.

Yes. I am, in fact…a rebel.

Beware.

Mirror, Mirror: Unearthing Facades

I just read this book Beastly by Alex Flinn in which, let’s just get to the point here, there’s this magic mirror.

Not magic mirror as in Sleeping Beauty (or is it Snow White?) where the witch/queen talks to the mirror and it tells her, “You’re the most gorgeous, sexy, divine woman I’ve ever seen and I can predict men will come crawling on all fours to get to you,” or “You are a horrendous piece of cracked metal and look like you just got ran over by a meteorite and got dumped by the ‘love of your life’.”

Nope. Not at all.

This is a mirror which you tell it a name of someone that just happens to cross your mind, and the mirror shows you in all its five-inch glory what the person is doing at that precise moment… (I know. Perfect for a serial stalker…not the point, though).

What I’m getting to is, what would you give to see what the so-called celebrities, the stereotyped loners, the gorgeous playboys, your next door neighbor, your secret (or not-so-secret crush): what they all do when nobody’s watching…

In clearer terms: Who are they for real?

When it’s a Friday night, does the Maxim's Top Hottest Male actor choose to stay home with his nephew watching cartoons and playing in the back yard instead of going to some crazy Hollywood after-party?

Is it true the supposedly ‘perfect’ million-dollar teenage actress rarely drinks? Or is that all proven false when you see her using up the secret stash hidden at the bottom of the concealer in the close confines of her bedroom?

Does that guy that seems like a jerk everyday in the school hallway really like to tease, hug his mom, and tell her how beautiful she is?

Is that girl you’ve had your eye on, you know, the one with the straight-A’s, the gorgeous looks, and the killer body, not all she seems? That may be when you sneak a peak of her making out in the janitor’s closet with the ass/jock senior.

These may all sound pretty stupid. But I can’t help the curiosity that builds up in me whenever I see someone remotely interesting. Or someone you might not even spare a second glance to.


For example, in the book the guy is looking up girls in Myspace (don’t ask), whose profiles clearly state they are, indeed girls:

You know, the typical, “I love long walks on the beach, I go to UCLA and love the dorms, skinny-dipping, flat stomachs, etc,ect.”

So Kyle, the guy, says to the mirror

“Show me Stardancer112.” (The girl stated above)…and the mirror shows him a forty year old woman…right.

After trolling around some more he came up with several ‘teenage girls’ that really turned out to be, and I qoute:

“
- A forty-something housewife who asked for a naked picture
- An old guy
- A ten year old girl
- A police officer
"

They all said they were his age and female…

So maybe if you really don’t care about the true lives of some the hottest guys in school or are not interested in getting a “Jessica Alba” personal EXCLUSIVE, it could atleast be useful to protect yourself from internet stalkers and lurking pedophiles.

Either way, effective it is.

So forgive me for wanting to see past a person’s put-up façade and see them for who they truly are and what they go through… when they think no one’s watching.

Think of it as a personal experiment: Who are they really?

Don’t say I didn’t leave you with the hope that you had your own personal mirror: to see the truth, the facts concealed, the lies revealed…

So now, when I try to end world hunger and global warming, I’ll go ahead and unearth the secret recipe for the vital construction of this mind-blowing creation…until then, I’ll put it first on my Christmas list.

I love you, Santa

Unmistakable Talent

I never really finished Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson.

That would probably be because I’m not very into deep, emotional, ‘heartbreaking’ books.

And, I’m sorry if this beginning:

“It is my first morning of high school. I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.”

failed to keep me hooked.

But, rather letting that tiny ineffective encounter with her writing for the second time (Prom was pretty good, actually) go, I came across this quote in her book Wintergirls, which seriously made me cringe (not at her writing) , all the while realizing this woman has some serious talent:

"Why? You want to know why?

Step into a tanning booth and fry yourself for two or three days. After our skin bubbles and peels off, roll in coarse salt, then pull on long underwear woven from spun glass and razor wire. Over that goes your regular clothes, as long as they are tight.

Smoke gunpowder and go to school to jump through hoops, sit up and beg, roll over on command. Listen to the whispers that curl inside your head at night, calling you ugly and fat and stupid and bitch and whore and worst of all "a disappointment." Puke and starve and cut and drink because you don't want to feel any of this. Puke and starve and cut and drink because you need the anesthetic and it works. For a while. But then the anesthetic turns into poison and by then it's too late because you are mainlining it now, straight to your soul. It is rotting you and you can't stop.

Look in a mirror and find a ghost. Hear every heartbeat scream that everysinglething is wrong with you.

"Why?" is the wrong question.

Ask "Why not?' "

Maybe it’s just her way with wrapping words together so they flow in a creepy and yet artistic way.

Creepy in the way that I really will try to postpone the day I have to fry in what people call a tanning booth (but ‘baking oven’ fits the term SO much better) and having my flesh stripped from my body leaving me dreadfully naked.

Artistic in the way she describes getting struck on crack, snorting a grating amount of cocaine, and piercing yourself with needles stuffed with heroine all the while dealing with today’s idiot human race constantly shattering and breaking down the wall you have worked so hard to put up.

Eerie in the way she says that:
- constantly heaving out your stomach
- repudiating the only source of energy to the haven of your body
- and assuming the role of burning your liver by tolerating the smolder of alchohol down your throat

Helps relieve the pain, if only for a second.

Amazing in the way that she gets the message across that something we see every day in desperate teenagers and inconsolable runway models is actually as bad as it sounds.

She makes you feel the pain, sense the dread, undergo the agony….


With only a couple of words:

Now THAT’s talent.

Blowdryers and Curling Irons= Power

What is it about hairdressers that gives them total control over the fate of what you call your hair? It’s like no matter how many times you tell them you want it cut THIS short and not THAT short, they seemingly end up going against your wishes in a battle for complete domination over the dead skin cells taking up your scalp.

They say their work is a form of art. No one can tell them what to do or what looks right, because they have an inquisitive insight to the ‘Do’s and Dont’s’ of hairdos installed inside their brain. They just know. ‘Know’ in the sense that they can take whatever unruly measures to permanently damage your already non-attractive hair.

So when you think about it, it would never really be wise to piss off a hair stylist. It would be like throwing digitized bombs at Batman and then having him go all ninja-star on your ass, pardon the French. The comparison is anything if not a corresponding assessment. In Batman’s case, getting on his bad side could seriously damage your life, if not terminate it or leave you suffering with the perpetual after-effects of his massive fist in your gut; Not pretty, but completely plausible.

Irritating a hairstylist, at the risk of sounding misguided, could also be the cause of your eventual downfall and doom in a similar and creepier way.

They start doing something you don’t like and you actually have the indecency to complain? Strike One. See something you don’t like and do the Helen Keller, witnessing the massacre and abolition of your hair silently with no pleas for mercy? Strike Two. (Might as well give up, you are already doomed). Suggest they start brushing at the bottom and not at the top to help the tangles (Or mention they should get a hair job too) and actually question their credibility and natural qualities? DING DING DING! Strike Three.

This all leads to the undeniable: These people have the power to make you look as if you have a bird's-nest implanted in your head, like a raccoon tail has suddenly made way and sprouted from your skull, or worse, they have the power to dictate your future by making sure you never get a pick-up-line, or a phone call from the opposite sex again.

So yes: Those cute little hairdressers with blow-dryers and curling irons as their only source of income? They’re a powerful sort. So take my advice and a draw on the following,

Vital life-lesson # 1:
- Never piss off a hairdresser…EVER.

Meet: The Daydreamer

I can never really shut up. It seems as if the part of my brain specifically designed to say, "HEY, shut up! You're embarrasing yourself!” fails to function or was never really there in the first place.

I feel as if that’s introduction enough, and suffice to say what I wanted to get through to all you (or lack thereof) wondering readers: which, blatantly put is:

My mind tends to wonder…A LOT.

I’m the type of girl that seemingly drifts off into space during Spanish class because she’s too busy daydreaming of how she will come to meet that one guy like Lord Blackmoore in The Season by Sarah McLean or all the male protagonists in all the Nora Roberts novels (YES, I have indeed read all of her books... sue me). Or I just blank off in an attempt to picture myself ruling the world, renewing our over-carbonized atmosphere, and making sure people like Hitler and Chavez never reproduce…
that last one may sound evil in its own twisted way, but, really, it would be for the greater common good.

Unfortunately, those images in my head are purely figments and hopes in my over-indulged imagination and will never come upon to my eager reality. So I have all these things to complain about such as:

- Why the reasoning behind my obsession with fictional guys and not those that actually exist is actually pretty standard

- How being nice for the barest hint of a second will undoubtedly leave you with a love-struck Asian following your every move

- Why Suzanne Collins should hurry the hell up and publish the third book in the Hunger Games, because if I don’t know what happens with Katniss soon, I’ll jump off a bridge and die…haha…joke… Suicidal, I am not.

- Why I should develop psychic powers so the next time someone decides they want to go ahead and steal my phone (BLACKBERRY, nonetheless), I can instantly know when they are going to do it and be like, “Hey YOU! Yes, YOU: the repulsive, sticky-fingered, immoral, depraved, idiotic, sorry excuse for a human being with the hideous haircut!” And then I'll resort to pummeling him with my shoe…Oh, If only.

Either way, I think enough’s said to be able to intelligently infer how it’s going to be like from now on.

Think of it as: Random Thoughts meets Blog Posts, in a revolution to unleash the Chaos that is my mind. God Knows I could never Control it.