Linda Ronstadt

Hay otro color mas negro quel color de mis pesares?

SI ESTAS CANSADO DE IR A LA ESCUEEELLLAAA,
Y TIENES PROBLEMAS POR NO TENER CARTILLAAAA
OLVIDATE DE TODO POR UN MOMENTO Y QUE VIVA EL ROCK AND ROLL!

SI TIENES GANAS DE COMPRARTE ROPA NUEVAAA
Y NO PUEDES HACERLO POR FALTA DE DINEROOOO
OLVIDATE DE TODO POR UN MOMENTO Y QUE VIVA EL ROCK & ROLL!!

Que chinguen sus putas madres y que viva El Tri cabrones!

My Idea of Fun is Killing Everyone.

I'm taking baby steps towards getting better. Hence, BABY STEPS. But at least its something! I thank the good Lord that he has blessed me with such charisma and optimism, I've been told that someone else in my position would have already committed suicide. Sadly, only the recognition keeps me going, so I must be selfish as hell.

God bless you all!

One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure

Morgan moves back to the familiar charms of his fiery days when he still felt something. No longer. Morgan's like a slave. Three feet of paper and a family of four. Morgan wonders why his wife is so slow. Blames his wife for his slow love. He shakes his head in dissapointment as he climbs into bed. Grits his teeth as he moves between the sheets. Morgan feels like a sudden insane laughter when he sees.
EXCELLENT!
He doesn't sleep much on account of a terrible pain in his head; sometimes he sits up in the loft late at night reading from a book of children stories.
Now listen! Well I'm not trying to question your decision. In my opinion you've made an excellent choice! I don't want to put the doubt in your mind because in my head you're just one excellent choice!
Jaws no ordinary sucking harder, sagging eyelids and pocked cheeks. Intelligent, the television buzzes and crackles and preaches. Morgan feels like his family have made a conscious effort to cause him misery. His taste buds have deserted, sneaking away from his wife's cooking. Morgan dreads the family meal, clenching one hand under the table. The bland wall hangings nod at the food in recognition. They are far too familiar with one another. Morgan's work for minimum wage is no comfort whatsoever.
He thinks about the items that have sapped his money over the years: shoe polish, oven cleaner, vacuum bags, sugar substitute. A pathetic collection of unwanted gifts and dream-sapping commerce. Any creative reserves once stored are long gone. Morgan seethes at the realization he has given his children too much of the little he has. Morgan wishes his family dead.

Aww! Well listen, now I'm not trying to alter your opinion. I'm so happy that you've finally found your voice! I don't want to put the doubt in your mind because in my head you're just an excellent choice.
Lacking imagination, and full of despair, Morgan turns tail and leaves without a word.
The door shuts compliantly as he moves outside. Morgan crunches down the path with regular, driven feet, pushing through the grey clouds escaping his mouth. Approaching the train tracks, he sighs, lays flat across the line, and shuts his eyes.
Well done, sir! Well done, sir! WELL DONE!

I figured that after a couple years of sob stories, cheesy jokes and limitless exaggeration, you'd all get tired of reading my damn stupid fatherfucking blog. It wasn't enough? As it turns out, my ratings are only suspiciously high when I blog about life's depressions and the many whips to the back that I receive from trying to get by. So there you go, an exclusive look into the literary mind of Alicia Flores. We all need some sort of escapism!

Spiffy.

Nobody knows who Lon Chaney is.

As you all know (and if you don't know me well, now you know), every three to five weekends or so I have to have a day to myself in which I indulge into the creepy world of old horror films. I'll sit there in my jammies, most likely all day, with a big bowl of fruit and bags under my beautiful green eyes the size of Alabama staring at the television screen in awe of man's imagination of the paranormal. Today was supposed to be that day, however the video store is rapidly running out of 1940's and back black and white films on dvd. If I had a VHS like all the cool kids do these days, I could enjoy life in the midst and realms of haunted mansions, mummies, Dracula and blood. However, I must sit on my stupid computer and watch all these films online. Damn it all. Since I'm not in the mood to look up anything I have to start progressing to the 1950's era of colored films. NOOOOO! :( (Reference to Alberto: "I've seen it all!")

Aquimamatcayoti (stubborness)

My views of your views. If you were into rock music at one point in your life, you've most likely experienced harassment from hardcore fans who would constantly get on your ass about being a "poser". Let's say you hear a song on the radio once and you like it, you download that song on your iPod and you go crazy singing it 24/7. A fan of that particular song (see, this only works if the song is under any rock genre) will ask you if you know who the artist is and you'll respond. Then, they nail you down about the complete history of that artist and songs from a billion years ago and songs that aren't necessarily popular. You obviously look like a total douche standing there with your WTF face and now you're known as a poser. MORAL OF THE STORY, DON'T CALL YOURSELF A FAN IF YOU'RE NOT REALLY INTO IT OR ELSE HARDCORE FANS WILL SPIT AT YOU AND LABEL YOU.

Although that wasn't the point of the story, it brings me to the point. Today I was talking to my handsomely scrumptious delicacy from above, otherwise known as Alberto Paredes, and he told me I was emo and possessed by demons because I didn't like his "happy music". He loves overplayed pop music that lacks any real meaning or thought. He insinuates that happy music is only music that makes you tap your foot and want to sing along like a little brainwashed idiot. He told me that a "good" rhythmic acoustic guitar and a steady beat changes his mood for the better. Then we had a cute little quarrel about the meaning of music (which wasn't much of a quarrel, it was degrading each other's music taste) and I came to realize that you, my dear Alberto, are just one of those happy-go-lucky-there-is-no-true-meaning-of-life kind of people. I like to go deep into the problem and resolve it, and 99% of the time it works for me. You're one of those people that prefer the simple band-aid that only covers cuts instead of the good ol' hydrogen peroxide that completely heals. That's my conclusion about our differences in music taste (excluding the oldies but goodies that we can't get enough of).
A song that has a relaxing beat to it and a singer that sings like everyone else out there is your definition of a happy song. Mine is the one consisting of a real meaning in lyrics, not one of the artist whose producer wrote the song for them like all pop artists, but one of the beat up soul who writes his songs in the back of an old van or behind a dumpster. The band whose singer is shitty because he has a drug problem; the one that noone helped and had a troubled childhood. The song with lyrics that tell the story of my life. The rhythm that to many expresses anger and demonetization, but to me expresses relief. In the end, to each his own, but as of now, let me understand your perception and don't lie to me if I got it right.
I find happiness in a well written rock song with the heavy guitar riffs, delicious bass licks, thunder-like drums beats and a voice that tells the truth instead of selling you the story of the Littlest Elf who lived happily ever after. The reason why I cringe at your "happy songs" is merely because I've honestly heard it before. I cringe because they're the "artists" who "become" "musicians" just to make money, win false pride and take home fancy trophies. I don't know, that's the way I look at it.

AND DON'T THINK I'M EMO CAUSE I LIKE A GOOD HEAVY SONG, I just happen to find the meaning in it that you obviously don't see.

Calm Like You

I finally got around to the things I've wanted to do for a while. Like finishing that short story I began in the summer (which turned out marvelously delishh), re-arranging my room and walking my dog for 3 hours. Yep, 3 hours. I also began to make my costume for International Week, I'm practicing my Nahuatl so I can talk to my grandmummy dear on Monday (it's her 93rd birthday!) and I have traded my depression for a strange, yet beautiful newly found serenity. I've been really quiet today and it feels nice. Silence is now my friend, not the eerie vibes I used to get.

My stories aren't as good as they used to be. While cleaning my room, I came across an old notebook of mine from 7th grade. DAMN. Now THAT'S how you write scary stories! I remember how my mind used to work; it was always about imagination and exaggeration. It was about making dull reality into extraordinary situations, deep life meanings and self reflexion. It's safe to say that I got back in touch with the creatively naive Alicia from a while back. Yayyyy for re-finding yourself!

I'm going to stop beating myself up for a little bit. Just for a little while. There isn't one person, NOT ONE, that has guided me, consoled me through these tough times or even cared to listen to what I really want to say. Nobody has been there for me, no one has tried to even lift a finger or to give me a useless word of advice at the very least. I know when you're trying to help and I have seen no effort FROM ANYONE. Nobody knows how to differentiate the solemn tones in my voice, nobody knows me well enough to know that something is wrong. I have to reveal my vulnerable side for anyone to even notice, I have to show physical distraught for people to take the time of day and say, "Oh shit you're crying, there must be something wrong." Fuck you.
Maybe it's my fault for not asking for help. Maybe it's my fault because I rely too much on self absorbed people who would totally show up at my funeral just to show up, maybe a cry a little and totally miss the point of my existence. Maybe my problems are a little too extreme and not just anyone can help me get through. A simple gesture of comfort would suffice. It would be nice for someone to lend me their shoulder to cry on. Thanks nobody, I appreciate you.
The Lord spoke to me tonight at church and made me realize that only he is to be trusted. He knows I was THIS close to giving up and picked me up off the floor while the rest of you were busy kicking me when I was down. He made me feel so valuable and gave me the abundant love that I have wasted on you. I forgive you. In all seriousness, I really do forgive you. You're ignorant and stupid but most of all, inexperienced, therefore I have to let go of my anger towards you, be the bigger person and move on. Life continues, things get better and worse, but God will never give you anything you can't handle. If you're living the luxurious life it's because you wouldn't last a day in mine. And if you're livin' like me, don't give up. There are so many things out there that God has prepared just for you.

*If you think this refers to you, it totally does. It refers to all animals known as human beings that consider themselves as my friends, acquaintances, or have ever spoken to me. Nobody escapes.

Bambina Italiane.

When there ain't no bloggin' for a few days, it means it's emo central at chez moi (my house, for y'all non Frenchies.) No more emo shieet on this or any blog, Imma stick to this whole "Alicia should shut the fuck up for once" rule that has been working out marvelously. Delishh > Marvelous. DELICACIES ALWAYS WIN! My poopy Chanchito is losing his little baby teeth and he's been real crazy lately, but he still chews that Poopy Chow with his little bare gums like nobody's business. I've been very into real creepster shit lately. I was listening to my fave Marilyn Manson song lass night and I fell asleep with my iPod on. I have some real creepster 1940's music in there and a song called "Jack the Ripper" by Screaming Lord Sutch was playing while I slept. It kept repeating. My bed was warm when I woke up, if you know what I mean...

My dream consisted of a black and white movie in which I was an actress and I was acting alongside demonized loved ones whom I will not specify. My only line was "I want some simple...blood" exactly the way it's said in the Koffin Kat's song "Mors Ex Supera". Actually, that was the name of the movie. Anyway, I'm going to end up profoundly confusing you if I continue with details, so basically the main point is that there were scary demons following me wherever I went and laughed menacingly and everything I said or did. I don't know about you, but that scared me shitless.

YAY FOR COMPLETELY PACKED SCHEDULES! I'm losing my friends D':
Fuck you, second semester.