Random Channel Surfing

I turn 28 next Tuesday. That's two years closer to 30 and 10 years further away from the age I was when I graduated high school. What this tells me is that I'm old. And not a cool old like 87 or 110, but the "responsible" old. The old that should have her shit together. The past few birthdays have been really good. Gone are the days when I would fret over the fact I was turning a year older. Gone are the days when I would miss my youth. I don't miss my youth. I feel grateful that I got to live another year; feel grateful that I got to experience a few really amazing things my 27th year; feel grateful that I got to meet some incredible people; feel grateful that I got to befriend people who taught me about myself and helped me see things in a fresh perspective. I know what you're thinking; you're probably reading this and shaking your head, saying, "But Marcela, you just wrote that you don't have your shit together. That implies that you'

I think I project a very innocent and young persona. Short. Fresh-faced. Sweet voice. More people mistake me for a teenager than an adult. I'm pushing thirty and I continue getting carded at bars, theatres, liquor stores, etc. It would be flattering if it wasn't for the fact that people usually assume I am teenager (teenagers included) and have been making this awful assumption for years . I've even had people at restaurants ask me if I wanted a kid's menu (granted, this happened when I was in my early 20s, but still !). So I'm excited because I think getting a tattoo will be like chipping away at some of the varnish or polish I have; I won't  be  as innocent; I won't project such a young persona. I'll feel like I do those days I wear lacy underwear and a matching bra: bold . I'm excited to get this visual representation of me: a typewriter with the quote, Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. I'm excited because I've wa

I can pretend that you love me. I can imagine you walking next to me. I can picture you kissing our children goodnight. I can see, in my mind’s eye, the expression in your eyes when you propose. I have a very vivid imagination. So vivid. So vivid it often tricks me into believing — nay, assuming — that what I dream in my wake state is my reality. I have a very vivid imagination. I wish I could pretend it away. I wish I preferred reality to my own imaginings. I wish I wasn’t haunted by what I picture before I fall asleep. I wish I couldn’t visualize the way I do. But I can and I do. I have a very vivid imagination. It’s something I have to contend with.

Foolish because I've yet to learn how to temper my expectations and hopes. Exposed because I know everyone can see how earnestly I feel. I don't half-ass my feelings and, while I'm (mostly) proud of this trait, moments like this one make me feel naked. Every blemish, every scar, every curve, every ripple exposed. And it all makes sense now, more than it did a few months ago, at least. The foolish girl with the foolish heart -- so naive and inexperienced -- never saw it coming. I'm about to lose more than I gambled and I'm terrified because I don't have a winning hand. I can't bluff. I have a huge tell. This is why I don't play cards! I felt the resistance so keenly and, yet, I pushed. Like the delusional fool I am, I convinced myself that this was it. That I was ready. And that's what hurts the most: the realization that I don't know myself well enough in the end.

I'm reading this book by Rainbow Rowell called Attachments and it's about this guy who works at a newspaper and monitors the journalists' emails and through the process of monitoring email, he inadvertently falls in love with a film critic who works there because he thinks she's charming and nice and funny, and he accidentally learns (by reading her email...) that she finds him physically attractive and that she refers to him as "My Cute Guy" (McG for short) whenever she talks about him to her bestie, and, as I'm reading this novel, I'm seeing so much of my relationship with Nicole on paper. Because the film critic, Beth, and her best friend, Jennifer, are loyal to one another and are candid and loving and respectful, and it's making me appreciate my friendship with my own best friend all the more. It's making me giggle at the ridiculous names we would give to the cute boys we'd regularly see (but never had the guts to actually talk to...),

Answer: No. Especially when you have not made any plans and are, therefore, free as a bird to do as you wish! I can sleep, people. SLEEP. Maybe I'll do some reading. Or I might binge-watch Parks and Recreation , Almost Human , or the last few episodes of Suits. Hell, I can get a little crazy and do some bar-hopping --- nah. That doesn't sound as fun. Anyway, the weekend is at my disposal to do whatever I choose. I can organize my closet! I can alphabetize my books! I can finally get around do doing that DIY project I pinned a few months ago! I can do whatever I want and I am not obligated to get out of my PJs and interact with other humans. Life is good. (Though admittedly a bit boring.)

The plumber came by yesterday and fixed the leaky faucet in my bathroom. I used to lie awake in bed, listening to the drip -- drip -- drip . I obsessed over it. Knew its rhythm. Allowed it to lull me to sleep every night. The faucet wasn't always broken; it took months for it to break. I could see that it was weakening over time, yes, but it broke all at once one day and, really, there was nothing I could do to fix it. It was a nuisance. Constant, unavoidable, and a pain. It was audible; it kept me up. How could I sleep when there was a constant noise not even one room away? I tried to ignore it most nights, cranked up the music as I read, or put in a movie to drown out the drip -- drip -- drip . Nothing worked; it always made it through somehow and it always kept me up. It became part of my routine, this noise. I anticipated hearing it at night, needed it to go to sleep. I started worrying that if I were to get it fixed, sleep would be impossible for me. I resisted for months,

Those moments where something obscure and hidden finally comes to light? Where something is as crystal as a drop of water? I'm having one of those. And you know what I'm realizing? That everything that has led me to this point just proves how I've let some pretty awful, problematic, and poisonous opinions from outside influences poison my own perceptions of self. Now that I've realized this, I'm finding it easier to let go. I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.

And to these songs I have this to say: Ah .

It's an awful realization when you realize that people don't always say what they mean. They may be the most honest person on the planet, but under some misguided attempt to not hurt you, they feed you lies, earnestly believing that they are shielding you from the reality of the situation. And with every poisonous lie you uncover, it's like a fresh puncture wound from a viper's sting. You feel weak, blind, and the poison of these lies courses through your veins; the pain spreading through your body with every thum-thump of your heart. It's an awful realization when you realize that people don't always speak from their hearts. They speak in morse code and you, untrained and ignorant, cannot read between the lines. You can't decipher the meaning behind their words; you blink in confusion with every syllable they utter; every beat, every syllable adding to your confusion. The cacophony of bee-beeps  overwhelming all other senses, overwhelming you until