Love is One Hell of a Drug.

I took a physics course this semester and I was pretty much lost the entire time but one concept really intrigued me: Newton's law of universal gravitation. The law states that two bodies of mass in this universe exerts an attractive force on one another. Somehow, I've come to apply this to daily human interaction and attraction. About two months ago, my friend and I went to Jackson Heights, got stoned, walked through this Hispanic venue and ate at a Colombian restaurant. It was awesome. My eyes were glazed in weed and the street lamps and signs were so vibrant that I could feel them shaking in color. That night, I was able to remember parts of my childhood that I thought I had forgotten about. Like the restaurant my father once took me to when I was younger, where the walls were made of thin wooden panels and the seats inside the booths were made out of leather, red and plump. I don't know why remembering this meant so much to me but it did. The next day I texted my friend and thanked him for taking me on the "high" tour of Jackson Heights. We've been friends for more than 10 years and always felt that my relationship and love for him was strictly platonic but that night, I could finally describe the physical force that kept us so close. I felt it in my core, where point blankly, is behind the deep center of my chest and the soul that was intangible, had density inside my body. I remember texting him and saying that our relationship isn't chemistry, it's physics. He was confused but I tried to explain that no matter what happened between our friendship, the universe will bring us together. So I began to think, is this how love works? Does this explain the kinetics of two soul mates, meeting for the first time?

I brought the idea up to my best friend who couldn't quite understand the concept, my sister, who completely disagreed with me for the sake of disagreeing and used it as a conversation on a first date with this guy, who surprisingly didn't run away and leave me with the bill.

Wow. Really Danessa?  You just insinuated  to this guy (that you just met) that you two are soul mates .Great job conductor. You sure do know how to drive this date off a bridge.

Interestingly enough, he remained silent and nodded as he tried to digest the idea. Then, with a pensive look he said that I might of  physically explained what love really is and for a second, I felt my chest pulse.

Dassit.

So I've decided. I'm getting rid of my colored contacts.

Forreal ma? That ain't yo real eyes? --Nah B. My natural eyes are black, like strong, hot, mean coffee. And they're beautiful.

My life runs by the seasons. I hate routine. I need consistent change or else I get very bored. I don't have a set "style" and I like to try on different things. I've chopped off my hair twice on impulse because I can't bear to always look the same. I don't know how long its been but I started wearing green contacts a few years ago. Not because I didn't like my natural eye color but because I wanted to try something different. I saw it more as an accessory than anything else. I personally liked the way they looked so I ordered prescription lenses and haven't gone back to clear lenses ever since. Every once in awhile, I get asked if those are "my real eyes". I mean, I understand that they're referring to the eye color but it's a stupid fucking question. What the fuck? Do they look like bionic eyes to you? There's really no point in lying so I answer truthfully and say that they're contacts. Usually I get the whole "Oh really, well they look real. Even though it's fake, it still look nice though" and it kind of annoys me. Niggah be real and say you're disappointed. It never really bothered me though until more recently, when I started being asked more frequently and then it got me thinking,

Wait a minute. What's wrong with my natural eye color? 

Green, blue, hazel and pretty much every non-black shade of eye color is seen as beautiful, setting a high standard for ideal facial features, but what if our western conception of beauty is everything that is non-black period? I may be going on a limb here but on behalf of minorities, maybe this is why we hate ourselves. Every time we dye our hair blond or put on a fresh pair of color contacts, maybe there is something inside telling us that we are not beautiful in our own shade; in our own curls. We don't set a definition. We comply to the notion of "white beauty" by unwillingly masking our very distinctions and in the end, when we're standing, carrying every conception of western beauty; barley scratching the standard, we are nothing but imitations. Let me tell you something, that fucking hurts.

Fuck.That.Shit.

My dark eyes are beautiful because they are dark as the tree bark of papa's plantation, because they are dark as the humid-Dominican night sky, because they are dark as a cup of  Bustelo, waking my mother in the morning, because they are dark as the sap that falls out the platanos and dark as they are ripe.

I'm Going to be a Terrible Mother

I don't plan on having any kids anytime soon but I do admit that sometimes when I have to babysit or look after someone, I get excited. I call it "Mommy training". Acknowledging that I am a adult, in her mid- twenties, living in her prime and incredibly selfish, I feel like I need to mentally prepare myself for the day I give my mind away. This weekend I'm looking after my friend's daughter Sofia. She's ten years old, adorable and super smart. Best of all, because her mother only cooks organic and/or minimally processed meals, she looks like a normal ten year old and not a ten year old stuck in an eighteen year old body. Jesus, have you seen these tweens lately? Just take away their privilege of speaking and you'll have women before you. That's why the more I hang with Sofia, the more I realize that she is exactly how I want my daughter to be. I honestly could just kidnap her, preserve my vagina, skip through the terrible twos, threes ,fours, fives, sixes etc... and raise her in this critical moment of womanhood. Though I will admit that raising a teenage daughter is fucking terrifying, especially with their hormones exploding everywhere. I think that's why when teenagers go through puberty, mothers go through menopause. It's like they suck all the hormones out of the room until you see it popping in their acne, voices and their swelling, gender defying regions. God, if you exist, please help me raise my children to have morals and manners so that they become productive members of our society. In other words, please send me nerds. If you can't, it's okay I'll train them. I still have my Super Nintendo , N64, GameCube, some Batman comics, Nova specials and a recording of Discovery Channel's "How The Universe Works". I got this.

My mother recently mentioned how extremely happy and proud she was of  my sister and I and  how we turned out to be. I would of taken her pride more seriously but the reality is, she's just proud that my sister and I got through college without getting pregnant. Want to know an effective way of practicing abstinence? Grow up with a mother that constantly reminds you that you are investment, promises to denounce you if you ever got pregnant and (my favorite part) randomly hold string "virginity tests" as soon as you start dating.

Yup. I just said virginity test. Not the logical (and convenient) pregnancy test. That would have been just too normal.

So what the fuck is a string virginity test? It's when a crazy old fashion woman (probably from the Caribbean) takes a string, measures your neck with it, asks you hold the string with your teeth and then tries to see if the loop goes past your head. If it does, it means you are not a virgin. I can not make this up. Google this shit.

A special note to my future boyfriend/husband regarding my complicated sex drive: I am so,so sorry. 

Will I do this to my daughter? Abso-fucking-lutley. Again, have you seen these fucking tweens lately? If I'm going to invest all my time into someone that is practically the miniature version of myself, I expect her to succeed in the things that I didn't. I'm trying to build a legacy here.

A special note to my future daughter: I am not god. If you think free will applies to you, it doesn't. Now go reset your Super Nintendo and start Super Mario World  all over again. This time you will beat the game with all 96 exits and without a single tear in your eye.

Damn, Getting Old Sucks

My grandmother returned from DR on Tuesday. It's nice having her around but ever since my grandfather passed, she's starves for attention. The first week, she's usually happy, satisfied with her sleeping arrangements and verbal about living improvements (e.g running hot water, no blackouts) but then she starts feeling sick, or dizzy rather  and spends the majority of the day rocking her chair in the living room counting the hours with the programs on Univision. Don't mean to go on a tangent here but I swear, about 99% of people who watch Univision are either widowed,old and/or both. I don't understand why most of the women on Spanish programming dress in revealing  attire when the majority of their viewers don't even remember having a libido.  Seriously, the women are ridiculously attractive for no reason. Where the hell do they find them? Is there a town in Mexico that genetically breeds them for Novelas and news stations ? That being said, I refuse to watch Primer Impacto. Why? Because the last time I checked, I dont remember wanting any titis with my news.

Girl I know you have some fine apples, but how am I supposed to pay attention to this terror alert when your lovelies are screaming borders with their cleavage. Do me a favor and button up your shirt.

It's hard to look at my grandmother now and see her somewhat peaceful after last seeing her six months ago at my grandfathers memorial. I expected her to be super emotional but when the ceremony was over she starting yelling at my grandfathers picture, which was the centerpiece of the living room. She screamed at his smiling face saying how much she missed him, how he left her alone and now has no desire to live. She then turned to me and said, "Danessa , I'm alone in this world. I have no mother or father and now, no husband". My eyes were already swelling but at that point, the tears came down and I held her and told her it wasn't true.

If there is anything that I learned after losing both of my grandfather's (both sides) and grandmother (father's side)   in the same year, is that grandparents are like wisdom teeth; sometimes you're born with them, sometimes you're not but eventually, they have to come out. All at once or one at a time. 

I miss visiting my grandparents (father side) on the weekends. They had a one bedroom apartment in Spanish Harlem and my parents, sister and I would visit on Sundays, play Russian roulette with my grandmothers cooking and stayed until the 6 o clock news came on Univision. We didn't do much. I pretty much napped in my grandparents room or talked to my sister and laid on their bed until dinner was ready. 

My aunt is the only person living in the apartment now. I went to visit her recently and the apartment felt hollow even though the furniture hadn't move. 

Musicals Have Got Me Feeling All Sappy

You know what's awesome about being single? Dreaming about prince charming. And I'm not referring to a regular, chivalrous guy. I'm talking about  your cookie-cut, Disney prince charming; a man that is symmetrically handsome, takes part in some royal legacy and an incredible vocalist that has no shame breaking into song.

Some women would say that it isn't healthy to have idealistic expectations of men because the idea of  "prince charming" isn't realistic. I would tell those women to kiss my clean, powdered and proper butt. I'm going to find him.

For the past couple of months, my friend has insisted that I watch Phantom of the Opera. Being that I love musicals and finally had sometime, I watched it with her this weekend. We started watching it around 2 o clock in the morning and I was pretty tired but found myself strangely engaged, almost like in a trance. Every time the Phantom sang, I could feel the hairs standing; praising on top of my arms. After listening to the album on loop for the past 4 days, its official. I'm in love. There is something about the way the actor sings that makes me feel so...tingly! I close my eyes and almost feel the vibrations of his voice, caressing the side of my neck and it's like an injection of passion being pumped into my veins. If you're feeling queasy from all the sappy language, feel free to vomit here.

Am I being dramatic? NO. Listen to the album. If you don't feel  like being kidnapped by a masked man  that is half sociopath, half Frankenstein then my friend, there is clearly something wrong with you.

In all honesty, I rarely swoon over men. Especially good looking men. I don't like giving them the satisfaction. There are a few celebrity exceptions of course. Joseph Gordon Levitt and Robert Downey Jr. I'm not going to lie, if I saw them in a bar I'd be all over that. There would be no hesitation and in that moment, becoming a rapist might seem just. Eh, but those are just celebrities.  I'll probably never meet them unless you're Joseph Godon Levitt reading this ( Robert Downey Jr, I know that you're married. I'm just getting over it), then...hello, I think we should meet. Talk over a glass of wine? I can show you how pretty awesome I am. I'll bring my extensive collection of Pokemon cards-dammit I've already said too much...

There are pretty much two things that will make me swoon. A good singing voice and really good cologne. That's it. I could care less about looks, job, pastime and drug history. Sure, I guess they're nice to have but I'm talking about that first instant of attraction; the feeling of an invisible magnet pulling you towards someone as you physically restrain yourself from looking too obvious.

If I could sing a love song with a man without it feeling weird, forced and in-genuine, I think that moment would be it.

I'm Sorry

When I'm in a public restroom and I hear someone in the near by stall fart, sometimes I want to break out of  the verbal silence and tell them that its okay.

Dude I know you were holding your butt cheeks together but one of the gases slipped out. Don't worry its totally cool.  I wont silently judge you when you come out to wash your hands.

Yea I know. Its been weeks since my last post and I'm writing about farting? FUCK YEA.
I'll break the myth right now, women fart. Women fart and they fart a lot. Oh yea and when they do, sometimes it stinks too. You know what's really annoying though? The fact that this is common knowledge. Something you learn while sitting on carpet with your entire class during reading time in kindergarten.

Being a woman, it kind of sucks that you have to pretend that you don't perform the most humane act of our existence. One time, while working for this cash advance company, one of my co-workers mentioned how much he hated girls farting and then bragged how his current girlfriend never farted in front of him. All I kept thinking was that if you stuck a board in between her butt cheeks, she'd probably break it, in half and it would be so precise you would of sworn it went thorough a chain saw. After holding in her fart for three years, she must of had buns of steel. That's impressive. That being said, among all other things, I'm kind of a snob about farting...it needs to be done right.

Okay so before I lose you, here's what I mean. Like with most things, there's a way to release our bodily fluids and gases properly in public like covering your mouth before you sneeze and burp. What I'm trying to introduce to you is the idea of a "fart etiquette". I mean it sort of already exists but it's never talked about. When I'm with my friends, I'm pretty cool about farting. I don't mind if they do it in front of me...unless it sounds like a whoopee cushion. Then we have a problem. Here's the thing about loud farts, if they're not followed by an apology, it rude and obnoxious. Point. Blank. Period. So you're probably upset. What about the first three paragraphs and its implementation of our freedom of farting? Relax dude. You can still fart when and wherever you want. All I'm saying is to control your fart's noise level and if you can't, at least apologize. Nobody wants to smell the digested version of your two-day-old pasta.

Freedom

If I could balance physics, I would fly my body into the eye of a hurricane. I could only imagine what it would be like to feel a cool, soft air, breaking onto my skin as I plunge forward, with my head struggling, pointing north, like the arrow of a compass. I would encounter rain and then it would stop. Rain. Then stop as the winds pick up and blow fast against my face. I would let it wave me like oceans ;wave me like flags. I want to conquer the air that is free in vertical direction and become a limitless pride.

The Ashtray

When I took a poetry workshop as an undergrad, I remember reading this poem about how we will eventually forget everything, even the most memorable events no matter how good or bad.  There was this section about 9/11 and how we'll forget about that too. In some sense , I think them poem is right. Every year on its anniversary , 9/11 is less significant with decreased press coverage every year. For the first time in 12 years, 9/11 felt like a normal day for me. I didn't have any flashbacks or anxiety of an impending attack. It was almost like nothing ever happened, like if my childhood was normal and scarless . A week ago, I watched a documentary that showed news clips of the first few hours after the terrorist attacks. After all these years, I thought I grown some immunity but when I saw people jumping out of the towers, I completely lost it and I was a confused, anxious, mortified, 12 year old girl in the 8th grade, contemplating my steps on my way to school.  For a few seconds, that moment was raw as it was 12 years ago when I stared at the tv silent, holding a full plate of breakfast in my right hand. The documentary played an audio clip of someone stuck in the towers, moments before the tower collapsed. He was talking to the 911 dispatcher and I could barley make out the words but he rambled something about the windows.   You could hear his voice trembling;mid-panting, mid- panicking, foreshadowing what came next. Loud crackles immediately overwhelmed the background as the panels ripped from the ceiling. Almost on cue, the film began to play a visual clip of the falling towers  in sync with the audio and the man screamed and gurgled. It was so loud that it became as dense as the metal bending behind him and even though it only lasted about two seconds, the milliseconds of the audio played even longer in my mind. I  placed my hands in front of my face and yelled, I can't, I can't . I started crying and the guy I was dating placed a hand behind my back and told me it was okay. He apologized for the film, saying that he didn't know I was going to react the way I did. I told him that I didn't know either. When I remembered how the towers fell, I pictured my mothers cigarettes, lighted and standing upright, burning slowly in levels and though they appeared to be standing on their on, I knew that somewhere two fingers held them in place.

On the Axis

It wasn't until I spoke to a friend of mine the other day when I realized that Fall is the beginning period for most things.  The equinoxes are transition periods between warmer and colder weather and essentially the beginning of change. As the the earth transitions to a new found balance, I find it hard for it not to affect us emotionally and physically. Come to think of it, when I ended my last relationship, it was right before spring and I remember feeling a snap in my brain, almost as if it was being leveled. It was the first time that I said to myself, I deserved to be loved. Now I think most of us can agree and say that we deserve to be loved but for me, it was more of an observation than a belief. Three years prior to ending our relationship, we struggled with communication, maintaining interest and when I found out he cheated on me two years ago (wow, feels pretty good to admit this) I felt like it was all my fault, like if I wasn't good looking enough to withstand his sexual preference.

I didn't know any better back then so we decided to stick it out and work on our relationship. We actually had a great year together until he admitted one day that he wasn't sure about his feelings for me. I think I might of twitched a little....what? That was the first time that I realized that my bullshit-o-meter had a limit...and it was toppling. 

After 8 years of putting up with our bullshit (mostly yours) you still have to think about being in love with me? Go fuck yourself asshole, literally. If you want some definition in your left arm, I suggest switching your jerk-off hand, otherwise try not catch asthma after I leave you in the fucking dust...

I didn't say any of that but trust me, when my throat itches I know it's the burden. I still feel the words bouncing in lung space. As frustrated as I was, the idea of being single was pretty exciting. Nerve wrecking but exciting. This may sound a little sad, but I've only been in one relationship. I couldn't get over the fact that I was 24 and had nothing to compare good sex to. Talk about your quarter-life crisis.

Break ups are hard...or maybe I assumed them to be. I think I might of  used my last relationship as a security blanket. Shit, he might of too..but it doesn't matter. It wasn't too long till I found myself craving new skin and when I did, I gave myself a good pat on the back.

And here I am, back at the equinox. Counting the orange leaves like sheep. I often feel tired and overwhelmed balancing karate, school, work and social life but like the axis, my mind is leveled. I find it hard to be sad or upset for a long period of time and when I do, it's usually hormonal. It's strange, I couldn't be more happier in my life. 

Read This Post With a Grain of Salt

Apparently, I think I'm perfect and better than everyone. Maybe that's true.

Like most people, I have insecurities, maybe more than others. I'm a perfectionist and strive to be the best at everything that I do. Within the last year or so, I've gotten better but I've always been extremely hard on myself, especially when I don't stand out. I'm not saying that I like to be the center of attention...ok that's a lie. Sometimes I do. I'm a woman and admit that sometimes my self-worth and esteem is tied into the amount of attention that I receive. In order to feel satisfied with my wardrobe choice and/or remain sane for an entire day, I need to get hit on at least once or else I think 3 things:

1. I gained weight
2. I look like a man (I have big arms and don't like to expose the "guns")
3. I became ugly and like a sickness, it's incurable.

At this point, you can think whatever your want. I wont get offended just just don't tell me. I'm using this entry like a therapy session and  I need to get this negativity out like phlegm. So what's the negativity? Yesterday I got into a argument with the guy I'm dating. We were talking and tip-toeing around religion. I should of known better. Religion is like the grenade of conversations. I mentioned how my uncle and his family were evangelists and how they've seen some pretty crazy things, like people getting possessed and stuff. He mentioned that the  religion sounded like a cult and that he thought they were all lunatics. I knew that he was referring to evangelists in general but it still applied to my family so I got offended. I didn't say anything and carried on the conversation. He mentioned how the church he used to go, everyone would stand and hold candles and he felt that it was a fire hazard because everyone was crammed together. I think he called them fucking crazy or something but mind you he's from Long Island, so he's saying this with a Long Island accent and it sounded pretty aggressive. I told him that I thought he was being a bit harsh and judge mental. He blew up. He said that he was tired of me calling him judge mental and that I disagree with him for the sake of disagreeing. He then said I was condescending, judge mental, insensitive, naive, and I thought I was perfect. The strange thing was, it didn't offend me at all. Like at all. It was his tone that really irked me; that heavy, male, aggressive, Long Island accent. Even though he's pretty smart, I can't help but associate him with an ignorant meat head.

So I've been thinking a lot about this. Maybe I've been subconsciously condescending because I refuse to agree with someone who speaks like that. Come to think of it, if he said " I don't give a fuck who you are, if you harm an innocent animal, you deserve to go to jail" , I think I would find a way to disagree with it even though its essentially within the same moral values that I have.

I'm pretty sensitive so I'm pretty shocked that it didn't bother me when he pretty much said I was a snob. In some aspects it was like, I know...and? I'm not sure how I feel about accepting that. Is this the type of person that I want to be? Someone who judges the shit out of everything, everyone and know that I'm still above them/it? I kind of do. Is that fucked up? Growing up, I was extremely shy. I avoided attention and never participated in class. Blending in became a skill. I never thought anything that I said or did was good enough and to save myself from the embarrassment, I did everything that I could to not be called out. I didn't want to stand out. 

Growing up, I had really low self esteem. I didn't think I was pretty or average looking. I identified myself as being ugly. One of my most painful memories is rubbing Pond cream on my face while sobbing hoping that it would make me beautiful...man that's fucking depressing. I try to remember that on a 5 year interval. When I went to high school, I was towards the end of puberty ( I developed pretty young). I started getting attention from the boys in class or some of the older students. I remember being confused at first. Why are they "psssting" at me? Eventually I realized that I was attractive, became an attention whore and it was all down hill from there. Being recognized gave me a feeling of self worth and purpose, as if I had reason.

Don't worry. I found other things that made me feel more than the last number of pi. Since I was younger, I've always been facisnated by the weather, especially hurricanes and ocean climate. I'm trying to get my masters in atmospheric science and I hope to go into research but even if I change my mind in the future (brace yourself this is going to sound super hippi-esh), I know that my main purpose in life is to make a difference in the world. I think I might of been a tree in my past life or a leaf wedged into a rock for millions of years. When I dig my toes into the ground, I feel a connection that goes beyond gravity.

Okay, where the fuck the I'm going with this. This is the part where the therapist willgesture with his/her head, lets wrap this up. 

Holding a Sweaty Gi

A few weeks ago, I started taking karate classes again. My knuckles are bleeding, my knees are squeaking and I contemplate standing up after sitting down. Ahh...it's good to be back.

I've been inconsistent with karate since I stopped training in Kyukoshin two years ago. I trained with friends, studied Oyama karate and kickboxing for awhile but it was like going to the gym; sweating without passion.

I yearned for discipline. My friend and I signed up at a Kyukoshin school near grand central. Between work, school and karate, I'm physically and emotionally exhausted but my life feels balanced. 

When I earned my black belt three years ago, it didn't feel right. When I came home after being an uchi deshi, it still didn't feel right. Wearing a white belt again makes me feel like I've been born again. this time without the fear of learning. I feel like I've been reincarnated. My white belt is simple, thin and easy to fold. On the right side, my name is written in Japanese with a black sharpie marker. Unlike my black belt, it is perfect. I'm in love.

When I come home and pull my gi out of the bag, the smell of salt is overwhelming. My gi is completely wet but it does not drip. It feels drained. I air it out on a hanger in the middle of the living room. Until the next class, I pass by it like a work of art. My mother gets upset trying to find new places to hang it when guests come over. Eh...I don't have any shame showcasing my pure passion.

Train Rides

I don't know what I'll do without long train rides. For most , living in the city makes transportation a lot easier, especially if you work in Manhattan. I live in the heart of midtown, about a 1/2 block away from the C and E train. I have to admit, its a pretty convenient spot to live in if your stumbling home from a bar at 4am. Through out my entire my life, its taken me about 30 minutes on average to get to any point in the city. Being that I have some form of OCD (totally undiagnosed) that causes me to change into three outfits before leaving the house, its nice that I can rely on the trains being so close to my house but I crave long train rides.

My train rides are pretty short and only allow me to think about how I want to strangle the person leaning on the pole. Serioulsly how inconsiderate is you? Its rush hour and nobody wants to train surf at 9 am. Why the fuck are you leaning agaisnt the pole asshole? 

As train rides get longer, neighborhoods get scarier and most people unmount right on the ghetto borderline of the city. When I finally get to sit, I start to dive into real thoughts. Not the ones where I think about my outfit for the weekend but the kinds that are hidden and brewing some where in the black swirly pits of my brain; the fetus of a great idea.

Humidity and PMS: Miserable but Justified

Ahem.

I have something to admit.

I know that it's difficult to share a small space with me.

My mood swings depend on the day's humidity and/or point in time in my menstrual cycle. It's like a pendulum.

Future note for the next person sharing a room with me : When it comes to avoiding things that would make a typical person irritable, with me, there is nothing you can do. I am a full blown diva; there are specific things you will need to do and/or say to stay on my do-not-shank side.

Currently I share an office with my co-worker, who in time, became a pretty good friend of mine. We share a lot of the same interests. We have similar taste in music. She likes Sailor Moon. I really couldn't ask for a better office-mate so is wrong that sometimes I just want to close a blind in front of her face?

Yea, I really don't want to hear about another deal that you found in your spam email. Night night, face.

Most of the time, I really don't mind hearing about good deals. Who doesn't like a good deal? But she multi-tasks a lot of the time. She's one of those people that can't tell you a story without reading 3 emails, filling out an expense report and learning another language all at the same time.

Hey Stephanie! How was your weekend?

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....

What's for lunch?

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....

Any plans for the holidays?

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....

I'm going to feast on your flesh and suck on your corpse until it' is crimson black. Cool?

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....

It's not that bad all the time. It just happens to be a humid day in the city.

I don't have patience for tourists and their fascination with skyscrapers. I get it. It looks like a fucking penis but why can't they be considerate like the creepos in front of the porn shop? Yo tourists, do me a favor. Try to get horny on the side of the street. Not in the fucking middle, during rush hour within the vicinity of Times Square. Why? Because I'm competing in a personal race and I need to get to my destination earlier than I did yesterday . You're ruining my momentum. Stop getting in the fucking way. If I could, I would clothesline a family of tourists. Kids, babies, seniors, strollers, pregnant women and all. Would I feel guilty? Nope.

Clothesline a family of tourists...Check

Why I Shouldn't be a Film Director

So here I am , at the Malverne train station in Long Island, trying to be non chalant and casual sitting on a bench after realizing that my bra strap has completely snapped. It's a gorgeous day and the men are mowing and cleaning up the grass. They appear now more frequently as I awkwardly try to sit up so that the cups on the bra still cover my breast. You see, it's pretty chilly, I would say chillier than most days and I am wearing a thin white shirt that falls right off the shoulders. I have about an hour until my train arrives which is an hour for me to find a public restroom to fix this thing but everything in this town is super local. Yes, super local. Not even a Starbucks in sight and everything is closed either because they are too busy frolicking in the flowers or because its fucking Monday and people don't casually around looking for coffee at 11am in Malverne. I'm pretty sure the men working by the grass know the deal under my shirt. Oh god, I hope they don't think I'm a hooker. Not to pull the racist card but  besides the red bricks on the ground, I'm the only tanned thing in this town. The guy I'm dating happens to live in Malverne and never met anyone Dominican before me so when he tried to make racist jokes about my ethnicity, he kept bringing it back to sombreros and "arriba arriba" , which I thought was his attempt to be sarcastic but when he couldn't move pass on what seemed like Speedy Gonzales references, I knew he didn't have a clue about Dominican culture. Oh god, they probably think I'm a Mexican prostitute.

Note: I'd normally rip into this guy but he's harmless and super sweet. 

Ehh, I guess it could be worst. It could be raining, 10 degrees cooler , and/or my nips could be so hard that they'd pop through my bra like instant popcorn. The men could be walking around and happen to find something to put their 'butter' on. I know, I'm pretty sick but I'm terrified of being raped. Plus, I live in the city. I know what's its like to be at a train station at 2 in the morning and feel a man stare at you for a second too long with his eyes half-opened. You know what they're thinking? RAPE. Its either that or they could be high out of their minds , frightened that they've seen a life-sized twix bar. Either way, I'm not a fucking twix bar and I refuse to get raped. 

I forgot the name of the movie, but wasnt there this film about a girl with a vagina that ate and/or slash dicks or something? And she couldn't have sex because her vagina would go zombie mode? I think it was a horror flick but I'd swear if it were up to me, I'd advertise it as a super hero movie.   Not sayin that I'd want a rabid vagina... okay so I'm totally saying that. I'm all for gender equality but lets face it here , when it comes to strength amongst men and women, it isnt a social issue, its a biological one. Besides women saying no,  there arent any real boundaries between men and sex.  Most species have natural defenses against their counterparts. Whats a women natural defense agaisnt men? Sorry, can't think of any. I'm pro-zombie vagina.

La Americana

Sometimes I have a hard time identifying myself as a Dominican. I mean it's not that hard. Both of my parents were born and raised there. My father barely speaks English and vapor rub was and continues to be the cure for all things. I love bachata and can't picture a life without Mangu and passion fruit so what the fuck am I talking about? Well I was raised in New York. Hell's Kitchen in fact, a neighborhood now known for it's night life, gay pride and or both and not for it's small immigrant population that got away with living in the middle of Manhattan with some sort of subsidized housing. Growing up, my father would blast bachata on the weekends and dance in the middle of our living room by himself with one hand on his stomach and the other up in the air. The cold Corona that stood on top of the T.V stand , slightly turned warmer and lighter as he consistently took sips; fueling his drunken solo-waltz. Every time white people passed by our window, their heads would turn, puzzled by sounds of the chichara, bongos and the single but fast plucking of the electric guitar. The smell of fried salami would consume and bring me in and out of the kitchen as I impatiently waited for my mom to finish cooking breakfast, as Frank Reyes belted out on my fathers stereo about wanting to return to the Island.

I consider myself to be pretty fluent in Spanish with the exception that I mispronounce a few words here and there. I'm trying to clean up my grammar and pronunciation by speaking Spanish to my parents a lot more but I can't help but feel foreign when I have trouble explaining how the Masters program works at City College. I'm pretty sure they're convinced that I'm doing my bachelors all over again.

I plan on living in the states for a long time but when I let my mind wander and restrain it from multitasking, I think about the coconuts on the top of the palm tree huddling like a group of hands; fingers fixed into the crevices and interlocking into a ten-finger fist, waiting to endure a strong but crisp wind from the glittering aqua green.

A Sad Hippie

It's funny how we think about our futures. How we envision ourselves; our lives, after we've accomplished and reached our career, academic and personal goals. Before the invisible finish line,  perspiration is nothing without inspiration. The sweat, the tears, the dry seasoned taste of our skins; the salt that is left lingering on our lips is nothing but flavor of passion.

When I think about my future, when I am no long churning like clockwork, I don't picture myself with a degree in hand . I try to picture myself lying flat on a beach eating spaghetti sandwiches while drinking jugo de chinola but I can only make the sand and nothing else. When I envision my 32 year old self, I see myself crouching in a off-white sweater right between two beige curtains that go softly go up and down like tides of milk. In front of me is a child but the gender still isn't clear and I'm laughing, probably something that the child is pointing to and I know that the air in this moment has no personal weight as I envision my lungs expanding, struggle-free.