The Primadonna Wears Zara

I GOT OFF THE TAXI AND STRUT through the wide and bright hallways of the Galerías mall feeling like I was not the cheerful and friendly person everyone seems to like, but like my true no-fucks-giving delusional self. When I walk, don’t simply walk. I was wearing my favorite ripped light-blue skinny-jeans that showcase the shape of my ass, a black sweater, and faux-leather ankle boots. The beat of empowering pop music was playing in my ears from my rose-gold colored iPhone. As I was approaching the store I worship as if it was my mothership, I feel like I’m walking on air in these halls that seem more like a catwalk than square meters to circulate. And then I see it, those four letters that I’m willing to open my wallet for and pay tribute to heavens: ZARA. My parade has not come to and end, I’ve just begun (having my fun) [Britney Spears reference].

pri·ma don·na
[pree-muh donuh, prim-uh; Italian pree-mah dawn-nah]

  1. a very temperamental person with an inflated view of their own talent or importance.
  2. a temperamental person; a person who takes adulation and privileged treatment as a right and reacts with petulance to criticism or inconvenience.

Primadonna girl / Fill the void up, with Celluloid / Take a picture, I’m with the boys / Get what I want ’cause I ask for it / Not because I’m really that deserving of it (Primadonna, Marina & The Diamonds)

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Trying on clothes at Zara.

Look What You Made Me Do

(Look What You Made Me Do, Taylor Swift)

I strut and stride, picking up pieces of clothing I need to fill the void, not in my closet, but in my hollow life. When I go on a shopping spree is not because I have money; it’s because I’m depressed and wishing to die. Shopping sprees pull me out of reality and put Charlie in a box where he cannot bother me with pain and insecurities for as many hours as the shopping spree lasts. I’m left delusional with a fantasy worthy of a Hollywood movie scene. It feels good, it smells good, it’s so bright, the music is new and trendy, everything is beautiful and new, so everything is good in the world, but most importantly, I feel am who I really am. I see my almost naked, skinny, fit body, in those multi-directional floor-to-ceiling mirrors and I like what I see. I look me in the eye and I can’t help thinking I am perfectly good-looking and just a few more pounds and muscle from being smoking hot.

V is for Vanity / Every time I look at me / I turn myself on yeah / I turn myself on yeah (Vanity, Christina Aguilera)

I spend more than 30 minutes each time I go in and out of the dressing room. Trying on pants, and shirts, and sweaters, and jackets, and shoes, but most of all, contemplating my beautiful face and my body in all those mirrors. Taking selfies and deciding what will I take, and what will I leave behind with a little piece of my heart. It’s exhaustingly hard to decide what my tiny budget will allow me take home with me.

I want all my clothes designer / I want someone else to buy ‘em / If I cannot get it right now / I don’t want it / I don’t want it / I don’t want it at all (I Don’t Want It At All, Kim Petras)

“I will take this, and this, and this. And…do you have more of those in my size at the back in the warehouse?” I ask while I keep doing the math in my phone’s calculator. I realize I will have to give up one of those pieces and I only have one or two seconds to decide because the cashier — who’s seen me there for the last two years every time there is a sale — has started scanning the barcodes. “Hmmm, not this one, only those two” I said. “Take $13 from this card, $20 from this card, and I will pay the difference in cash,” I shamelessly uttered with confidence while a male customer next to me stares in awe and curiosity on who I was, and I loved it. I walked out exhausted and thirsty thinking that whoever said shopping is not an actual sport is seriously disturbed (Legally Blonde reference), and off I go to another store. Once again, strutting in a delusional cloud, aloof to reality.

Step into the room like it’s a catwalk… / Look at me now / I feel on top of the world / In my / Fashion (Fashion!, Lady Gaga)

I cannot afford this fantasy every Sunday. Most days I fantasize about getting hit by a black Mercedes on my way out of the mall. The mall is the temple where I worship all the material things that are out of my reach. Is the temple where I go buy things that will make my life look much more appealing to my very own eyes. I can’t think of a more appropriate place to die.

I might not be living la dolce vita inside this bubble, but I certainly live la vie en rose. —Charlie

Instagram is my shrine. I always found it tacky to post dressing room pictures; pictures with clothes I would probably not buy. In my new private Instagram account, where I keep a strict total of zero followers, I thought I could post these pictures now — even with sale labels hanging off the clothes. “Why don’t you have any followers on Instagram,” asked my Snapchat friend. “If I send you a request, will you ignore it?” he added. “I will accept it,” I said. A minute later he texted: “You have lots of good pictures there — I stole a quote from you and used it as a caption in my first post,” he said. “What quote?” I asked. “…I might not be living la dolce vita inside this bubble, but I certainly live la vie en rose. It’s just that picture has those vibes” he replied. It was a line I wrote in my Rebel In Sheep’s Clothing post. “I don’t know if I feel flattered or ripped off. I didn’t know this line could stand on it’s own. I always think of my essays as one whole thing. It’s like this was my album and you only downloaded my single,” I replied. “It touched me, like, for real,” he replied back.

When I’m not thinking about dying, I look forward to a day when I’m wrinkly and shaky, gazing at my old Instagram account with all of these pictures of when I was depressed, troubled, and lonely, but skinny, young, and beautiful — if only in these highly edited pictures in the VSCO and Adobe’s Lightroom apps — looking at the camera like life belongs to me or like I am solid. Take away the colors, the lighting, and my signature gaze with a smirk, and all you will see is a broken young man.

You don’t / Have to / Like me / Anymore / I got money now / I don’t care / What you say / About me / Anymore / I got money now (I Got Money Now, P!nk)

I’ve reached a copious level of narcissism that is exhilarating and delusional at times. This has led me to develop certain traits in my personality that were dormant until recently, as I did not have the means to unapologetically bring them to surface before (when I was ugly and couldn’t find any clothes that fitted me). I’ve become hostile, and I’ve enjoyed it and played with it as a child plays with their new toy on Christmas. What is left of you when you’ve grown up and know exactly who you are and realize you have absolutely nothing to give a fuck for, and find yourself loveless and under-appreciated? To be hostile, perhaps?

It might sound like I’m an unapologetic bitch / But sometimes you know I gotta call it like it is (Unapologetic Bitch, Madonna)

“Save my number and text me,” said a neighbor that has been texting me for months on Grindr. A few weeks ago, I finally accepted to hang out with him. He had been so persistent for so long, and since I’m afraid to get killed walking down the street due to the political crisis going on in this country — it sounds surreal to say so, but you would only need to read international news to find out I am not exaggerating — that I thought it would be very convenient to have a close neighbor to have sex with. He took me out to a Spanish restaurant nearby and we ended up hooking up at my place. I enjoyed it until he started snoring like an hibernating cave man in the middle of the night. He was much older than me. The oldest guy I’ve ever hooked up with. I didn’t like him enough to see him again.

“Save your number? What for?” I replied in the hooking app. “I don’t like texting unless the other person has something to say. You’ve texted me the same thing over and over. Constant greetings.” I continued. He took a few minutes to reply with a rather lengthy paragraph stating he had done nothing to deserve such hostility on my behalf. “I’m not being hostile, I’m only stating what’s true,” I replied and he immediately blocked me. I was deliberately being brutally honest, and I was playing with my new toy: hostility.

Love me, hate me / Say what you want about me / But all of the boys and all of the girls / Are begging to / F.U.C.K. me (If U Seek Amy, Britney Spears)

“Charlie, I need to ask you for a favor,” texted me an acquaintance through Whatsapp the other day. “We’re not even friends,” I immediately replied and I could feel the horns coming off my head as I found this so ridiculously satisfying.

There’s a friend I haven’t heard of in a while, and as out of character as it was, I decided to text her and say hi. I’m not one to reach out to anyone, and after this, I was sorry I did. “Got a new job?” I asked. She did not say hi and went straight to text me this: “Turns up my sister had a seizure and she’s at the hospital. I will look for a new job in August,” I was certainly not interested in hearing bad news, so I replied with: “I wanted to say hi. Take care.”

And I can’t help the hysterical laughs when a guy asks me if I speak Spanish on Grindr. “It depends. Have a pic?” I reply. They naively proceed to send me a picture, and if I don’t find them good-looking enough, I say: “I don’t speak Spanish.”

Ooh, look what you made me do / Look what you made me do / Look what you just made me do / Look what you just made me (Look What You Made Me Do, Taylor Swift)

Yes. I’ve become a vain petty person. “Watch out for the Regina George in sheep’s clothing,” tweeted Katy Perry a few years ago, probably referring to Taylor Swift. Gone are the days when I so desperately needed a friend, someone to rely on, and trust. I did about everything in the hopes they would eventually consider me worthy of their friendship. They were all better looking, more successful, and much more cooler than me — or at least they seemed they were back then — and considered me lesser and called me stupid to my face. Gone are the days when I so deeply and desperately wanted someone to notice me and think I was worthy of their love and affection.

When I’m not lost in delusions of narcissism or in fantasy-land, I have no choice but to be Charlie again. I walk in every morning to work with a big smile on my face, saying hi to everyone, asking them how they are, complimenting them, helping them, making them feel good in any way I can. This is not the same hostile person I love and adore. This is the face of the brand that is Charlie. As soon as I walk out of that building at 3 p.m. I put my ear-pods on, I play the latest hot song, and I get back to being the corporation being the brand: cold and self-absorbed. And it feels good.

I’m a cool girl / Ice cold / I roll my eyes at you, boy (Cool Girl, Tove Lo)

I am not a hypocrite. I don’t have a personality disorder — other than depression and anxiety — I’m just a troubled Gemini. We all have different coping mechanisms. Gemini have multiple personalities. Do the math. I no longer suffer fools in the hopes a connection blooms. It’s a new era. It’s Charlie 2.0, bitch! (Britney Spears reference)

Get Mine, Get Yours

(Get Mine Get Yours, Christina Aguilera)

My life revolves around two things: looking good and having sex. It would be glamorous if it wasn’t a coping mechanism to deal with loneliness and sadness. I once was a shy and ugly skinny guy who had a boyfriend to love him because he didn’t love himself. It’s another world now. I show off more than a peacock trying to pair. I’m in love with myself. Yes. This acne-free face and skinny little fit body, and perky-outgoing personality have given more things than I thought possible ten years ago. 

People look at me now. Not because of who I really am, but because of the way I look. “You look like a mannequin. All your clothes fit you perfectly,” someone said. “Charlie always looks perfectly put together,” they’ve said. All nice compliments about my appearance, except for one or two that irritate the hell out of me: “where did you buy those shoes?” and “how much was it?”

Little do they know that all these shoes and all these trendy clothes are just mere products of depression and a credit card bill that keeps my mind so busy, that I do not have the kind of time to feel sad. I may want to die, but nothing really matters when I look in the mirror and I like what I see.

We’re just beautiful people with beautiful problems, yeah / Beautiful problems, God knows we’ve got them / But we gotta try, lie-la-lie / Every day and night, lie-la-lie (Beautiful People Beautiful Problems, Lana Del Rey)

I’m no longer ugly-ducking, I’m a mother-fucking swan (at least in my life’s context). I’ve aged so well. I look much better than my 22-year-old friend who recently gained lots of weight. Last year I was invited to a modeling audition, for a beer commercial, I think. A modeling agent saw me in a bar one night in February, and gave me their card. I never went to that audition; I thought I was too skinny for a beer commercial. I’ve hooked up with not one, but several guys that I believed were way out of my league, and the best part is I have not ever reached out to them, they come looking for me. They are really gorgeous men with beautiful faces and perfect smoking hot bodies; one of them turned out to be famous.

Love’s like a runway but which one do I love more / No emotional baggage / Just big bags filled with Dior / Love’s like a runway so what’s all the fussing for / Let’s stop chasing those boys and shop some more (Labels Or Love, Fergie)

One day this guy added me on Snapchat. I had no idea who he was because I simply do not watch the news, let alone read newspapers. Apparently he had my number saved in his contacts; to this day I’ve never asked him how. After a couple of weeks of texting and sexting, and jerking off on video-calls, he asked me if he could come to my place. It was a Sunday, so I was off all day. I had to go to the mini-market down the street to get condoms while he was on his way. He got here at the same time I was coming back. He parked, but he didn’t come out of his car. My first thought was that he didn’t like what he saw and wanted to leave — it has never happened to me, but it could with a guy this gorgeous. He sent me a message saying to go in and leave the door open for him to go in after. I didn’t know what to think, but I decided to honor his request. The moment I saw him coming through the garage door of the place I rent, I almost thought I was having a sex dream. He was just stunning, like a model from a magazine (he was, kind of).

We walked up to my room and I could feel my mouth getting dry. He sat on my bed in his tiny little shorts and that perfect muscular body, and my mouth was as dry as a dessert — I guess I was more intimiated than horny. It had never happened to me. When he kissed me it was like I was the only man in the world. He lay on my bed and removed his shorts to show a pair of sexy white briefs covering a bulge that was about to burst. This was the most perfect body I ever had the privilege of doing everything I wanted to do with it, except my mouth was so dry it was hard for me to suck that heavenly cock, and the moment he put a bottle of poppers on my nose, I was doomed.

I didn’t realize that I never sniffed poppers when I was a top, and so I didn’t remember it would make me lose my erection. There I was: I had one of the most beautiful men in the country naked in my bed with his legs up waiting to feel my penis inside his ass, and I had half an erection. It’s a good thing I’m good in other things and that he also is versatile. It was not a complete let down. I think we both enjoyed the long time we were talking naked in my bed afterwards, more than the less than perfect sex we had. Just last week, I found out who he is, and I can’t wait to see him again and make it up to him.

Can you put your hands on my waistline / Want your skin up against mine / Move my hips to the baseline / Let me get mine, you get yours (Get Mine Get Yours, Christina Aguilera)

I’ve become a Samantha. I was a teenager when Sex & The City was airing during primetime in HBO, and I always thought of me to be a Charlotte: a woman looking for traditional love with Prince Charming. I grew up to become more of a Carrie in my twenties: an imperfect woman looking for love in all the wrong men. Now in my thirties, I see things how they really are: it’s all about sex and money. I want sex all day, every day; if possible. And when I’m not looking for sex it’s because I’m busy working for a direct deposit to pay my credit card bills every 15 days. I’m a Samantha: an empowered woman looking for sex, and sex only. No strings attached. She wants their bodies. Not their hearts.

…I just discovered / Imagination’s taking over / Another day without a lover / The more I come to understand / The touch of my hand (Touch Of My Hand, Britney Spears)

But I’m feeling lonely. Half the year has passed and I hadn’t realize I haven’t felt lonely since early January. Everything was almost perfectly fine two months ago before five or eight teenagers stole my iPhone in the middle of the day because the country is falling to pieces. In moments like these I wish I didn’t live alone, I wish I wasn’t alone, and to be brutally honest and putting my ego aside, I wish I had a man in my life right now.

 “…I asked him if he had gotten her pregnant at the time, and he denied it. We cleared things up and we made up, but things are going sour again. He hasn’t texted me all day. He used to send me pictures and let me know everything he was doing at all times,” I heard my coworker say to another as I was sitting next to her to ask her if I could borrow her phone to make a quick call.

I was sitting at the same spot earlier in the morning when a very handsome guy stared at me as he was walking into the building. I’ve seen him many times there, but I don’t know who he is. He works in a different department. I purposely stared back at him to seize the opportunity in case he was checking me out. The moment he disappeared behind the door closing on his back, I immediately imagined for a second what it would be like if that handsome stranger were my boyfriend, how comforted I would feel, and how much more meaningful my life would be. I felt even lonelier when I snapped back to reality a second later.

“Can I please borrow your phone really quick?” I said while I was thinking how much her life has changed since she met her boyfriend on Tinder after I advised her to download it to make it easier to find men to hook up with. She was totally fine and carefree back then, only a few weeks ago. Now, her life is full of drama worthy of a Mexican soap-opera, and probably 15 pounds bigger. As I was dialing the phone number on her phone, I thought to myself: “This is exactly what I needed to hear,” and by the time I was finishing my phone call 20 seconds later, I renewed my bow to myself to not screw up my life and hurt myself by getting in a relationship, and instead remain happily single and hooking up with hot guys.

Boys, they’re dime a dozen / Boys they doin’ nothing / For me any longer (Boys, Sky Ferreira)

A few weeks ago, I saw a guy from afar at the park. I didn’t see him close enough but I remember thinking he looked very handsome, and somewhat familiar. A few days later, I saw him again at the park, but this time I noticed he looked at me, not once, but twice. He looked back to see me as he was walking ahead. And by the end of the week, I was sitting under a three at the park, drinking a Frappuccino, as I usually do on Sundays, and I saw him again from afar. I recognized him this time, and to my surprise he took a break from his walk to say hi. “Hi! I’ve seen you here before, but I didn’t recognize you until now,” I said. I met him on Grindr a few months ago. We instantly liked each other back then, and we even video-chatted a couple of times, but for some mysterious reason he ended up texting me to say he wanted to focus in other stuff instead of dating. I wasn’t thinking about dating him at the time, I just wanted to have sex, and it seemed he did not like that. Focus in other things is one of the most tired poor excuses out there, so I just let him be and never texted him again.

But our conversation at the park was so good, and I found out we had so much in common — not to mention he is really handsome and totally my type — that I went there the following Sunday hopping to see him again, and I did, and once again the conversation was incredible and I liked him much more than before. I genuinely liked a guy for the first time in two years. I was suddenly thinking this guy might be the one I used to be looking for all along. I was into a man not only for sex, and I couldn’t believe how quickly and drastically my perspective changed from one day to the other, but when you know, you know. To my disappointment, he never texted me.

…Boys, they just make me mad / All the little things that you do / Ain’t gonna make me sad / Then I saw one lookin’ / At me from afar / Then I knew it was you / All along (Boys, Sky Ferreira)

I skipped the park on the third Sunday. I thought this was way too much, too soon, for my own good. Turns up men are predictable: we all want what we don’t have. He texted me the next day. I was already falling asleep on Monday night, but when I saw his name on my phone, I knew it was game on. We had long conversations on Whatsapp, for three nights in a row. They were very revealing and deep conversations to get to know each other. It was not the run-of-the-mill chit-chat I’m used to. It was real talk. And the best and most incredibly exciting part was when we explicitly said we like each other. This was surreal, and too good to be true. It all ended when he saw something he did not like in my Instagram. He never said what it was when I asked, “I need to go to sleep. Can we talk about this tomorrow?” he texted me on Thursday night. And just like Houdini, he vanished.

I am not one to go after a man, ever, but I believe this guy and I could be something really special and worthwhile, so I went against my ego and I texted him again on Saturday night. It was run-of-the-mill chit-chat, and so I didn’t even bother to say bye or good night. That was it. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but I’m pretty sure it was destroyed as quickly as this chance at love stupid silly old me thought I had.

Don’t blame me, love made me crazy / If it doesn’t, you ain’t doin’ it right / Lord, save me, my drug is my baby / I’d be usin’ for the rest of my life (Don’t Blame Me, Taylor Swift)

I’m a Samantha nowadays. I used to be a Charlotte. But I think deep down I’m a regular Carrie. Love still makes me crazy. It’s a pattern: men dazzle with me when they meet me, but the honeymoon dies as quickly as their cellphones battery does. It’s an enigma to me. They soon see something in me that they don’t like. I think it’s just me: my unwavering honesty about who I am and what I am about, the unusual little things that make me me, my intricate personality — or in plain English: they realize I am as vapid as a Ken doll and they do not want to deal with my personality disorders. Who could blame them? I could very well ruin their lives.

I come with scars, I come with more than enough / Of those things that you don’t think you want / If you wanna love me / You got to love every little part of me (Every Little Part Of Me, Kylie Minogue)

High By The Beach

(High By The Beach, Lana Del Rey)

I went back to the floor after my lunch break. I don’t remember chewing or swallowing my food. I was so angry and feeling like I was a piece of garbage. As I walked down the hallway I was hopping to find no one. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to hold a poker face any longer, or for how long I would continue holding the sea of tears trapped behind my eyes. I was not Charlie at the moment. I was crazy melodramatic Carlos. I did not want to be nice and friendly, let alone fake a smile. I managed to walk pass the guy from Human Resources. I convinced him I didn’t see him because my eyes were glued to the floor. But he insisted. “Charlie! How you doing?” He yelled as he was already halfway down the stairs. “Oh! Hi! I’m doing well. How are you?” I replied with the same enthusiasm I would show if everything were fine. 

It works that way in any situation. I may want to die, I may want to feel I want to kill everyone, but as soon as an innocent person talks to me, it’s like a switch goes off in my brain and turns on the persona I’ve worked so hard to become: Charlie.

When I was 20 years old and I got my first job, as a Graphic Designer, I walked in every time without uttering any greetings, not even good morning. I was still an angry teenager and I was not there to make friends. The owner of the hotel where I worked at, a high society lady, got wind of this behavior and she kindly explained to me why it was important to at least say hi. Her argument was very convincing, though I don’t remember it because it was eclipsed by her closing statement. She cringed and said: “…And why do you wear so much brown? It’s not a good color on you. It makes you look depressing and dull. Brown is an ugly color already.”

Since that day, I’ve consider it part of my job to greet every single person, every single day of work, and I learned this works wonders. People become more welcoming and cooperative because they feel they matter to you. But most importantly: I’ve never purchased a brown piece of clothing ever again. Her critique made me realize brown is the color of poverty.

Back to the melodramatic scene: when I got to my cubicle, I took my stuff and told a supervisor to tell my manager I left for personal reasons. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked. “No,” I said as I was walking away. 

I got a rejection letter earlier in the morning. For the third time in 8 months, I was not selected to occupy a management position. “I deserved to get this job.” I told my manager with absolute confidence and poise. “I was better than Subject A and Subject B the first time I applied, and I am certainly better than many people who applied this time around.” Her only job was to hand me the letter Human Resources and upper management sent, but she was kind enough to hear me vent. “This is it for me. I will not ever apply again.” At that point I was still poised and adamant. But when she started to give me a pet talk encouraging me to not give up, I just couldn’t continue pretending I was perfectly fine, and tears fell down my cheeks. For me to cry in public means I’ve been deeply hurt and am devastated.

I felt humiliated. Like a king stripped off his kingdom. But when I walked out that building, I looked damn good, and I strode with my head held high because I will be back to see these people who refuse to see me in a crown.

Bite my tongue, bide my time / Wearing a warning sign / Wait ’til the world is mine / You should see me in a crown (You Should See Me In A Crown, Billie Eilish)

I had some messages when I got home. “Would you like to go out on a date?” texted me a guy I’ve been talking with for the last two days. I met him on a certain dating app for gay men, of course. He said he saw me from afar at the mall the other day, so I thought if he’s already seen me in person and feels attracted to me, it might be worth it. So we met at a coffee shop I rarely visit at the mall. He was much hotter in person. We sat at the table to have our drinks and he says: “You are a bottom.” We met five minutes ago and he was already telling me what I was, because I suppose he knows me better than I know myself and he knows I am a bottom, not versatile, as I had told him I was, two days ago on Grindr. I know I am not as masculine as most gay guys, but this was absurd. I was not talkative, I wasn’t even trying. I waited for him to finish his cappuccino and I said: “Let’s go.” “Where are we going now?” he asked. “I’m going home,” I said. I had plenty of rejection for one day. Plenty of indicators telling me I am not good enough.

You ain’t got me sussed yet / You’re not even close / Baby, it’s the one thing / That I hate the most (Can’t Pin Me Down, Marina & The Diamonds)

I escaped the desolation of my room for a while by going to the park. It was getting dark and starting to rain. I didn’t want to go home and be alone. I have not been this sad and this depressed since my first boyfriend died in a car accident five years ago around Christmas. I feel like the game is over. I told myself this was going to be the last time I tried. This is the last time. I will not go to work tomorrow. When I get back I will do a good job, because I cannot be mediocre, but I will not be coming back with the best interest in this job. Too much I let it become too close to me. Too personal. It’s just a job, and it’s time to see it like one. This is not MY job; it’s only a job. 

Yes. Rejection is a part of life. But it takes a whole new meaning when rejection is all you know. When people tell you to your face that you are this, and not that, or when they sent you letters saying to try again next time because you are not good enough for them, you can’t help but wonder what are you doing in this world, and why should you live another day. I simply cannot win. Every year feels like that time in P.E. when I convinced myself I could not possibly be the last one to be chosen by my classmates to join their basketball team. Sadly, I was right: I was not the last one getting picked; I was just never picked. All my peers stared at me with a combination of pity and pettiness. Those were the good old days, because I did not care. I wasn’t interested in being accepted or being one of them. I knew one day I would be someone. Sadly, I was wrong.

I can take rejection. I take it surprisingly well when it’s delivered with kindness. But the universe seems to forget that my body is not immune to the passage of time. I don’t have too much time left to make it.

Your moment will run out ‘cause of your sex chromosome / I know it’s all messed up how our society all thinks (What You Waiting For, Gwen Stefani)

In days like these, I wish to retire to a farm and live a simple life. I wish I had someone to come home to and hug. All these people are going home back to their love ones, family, or friends. I’m going back to my room to deal with this pain alone, I thought when I was walking out of the park. In days like these, I just wanna go get drunk by the beach in San Juan Del Sur, like I did exactly a year ago, and the world was beautiful, exciting, and promising. Today it’s nothing but shambles.

I can’t survive / If this is all that’s real / All I wanna do is get high by the beach / Get high by the beach / Get high (High By The Beach, Lana Del Rey)

This morning I was finishing this essay, and I got a text message from a coworker I rarely talk with. She asked me if I came to work to today. “Why you ask?” I replied. “Because I heard you quit,” she said. Did my manager spill the tea? Did someone overheard my conversation with my manager? I don’t know, but I am disgusted that my business is being discussed and taken out of context in my workplace, especially because there is nothing I hate the most in this world than being the subject of fuss. I don’t even like people looking at me, let alone being the hot topic of the day. Someone please send receipts to Wendy Williams.

Everybody’s talking all these stuff about me / Why don’t they just let me live? / I don’t need permission / Make me own decisions / That’s my prerogative (My Prerogative, Britney Spears)

Can’t Pin Me Down

(Can’t Pin Me Down, Marina & The Diamonds)

One way or another, I am never what people expect me to be. In my life I’ve pleased one person. I loved him and I believed he deserved what he wanted from me. It didn’t end up well. As a result I became the selfish egomaniac I am now. My father is lucky enough to have a second chance to hopefully have the son he never had, when he adopted a boy with his new wife a couple of years ago. My mother and my sister are best friends and go to church together. My ex-boyfriend rests in peace. And then there is everyone else, including the men I’ve met. I’m so sorry to all, but I am not going to do as anyone pleases, ever. I am not going to mold my persona to fit the expectations of someone else, unless it benefits me directly, as Charlie has proven to do so.

“It’s like, it’s like, all of my life, everyone has always told me, ‘You’re a shoe! You’re a shoe, you’re a shoe, you’re a shoe!’ And today I just stopped and I said, ‘What if I don’t wanna be a shoe? What if I wanna be a—a purse, y’know? Or a—or a hat!” —Rachel (The One Where Monica Gets a Roommate, Friends)

When I start to feel comfortable with a new acquaintance, they also start feeling comfortable telling who I should be, and what I should like. From my religious beliefs, to my taste in music, to my sexual role, to my unbreakable devotion and worshipping of Madonna and Britney Spears. 

“That’s not music,” they’ve said, “She has never even earned a diamond album, why you worship her so much?” they’ve asked. Or what about that time an acquaintance said I was uncultivated because I didn’t read books? Or very recently when I was also accused of being a lesser uncultivated Nicaraguan because as I put it: “I don’t like poetry and I fucking hate Ruben Dario. Every time we had to read his books at school, I never read them. Every time teachers mentioned his fucking name, it was like nails on a chalkboard,” “You’re uncultivated — he said — Shame on you that a foreigner like me has to come to your country and teach you.” Of course, this person is a poet wanna-be, and his poems sound a little too familiar.

I don’t want friends who question and challenge my preferences, and expect me to justify or defend my opinions. Why can’t people understand that I am me, and I like what I like, and that I have absolutely no desire in having popular opinions, or being an intellectual, or being a—a sheep. They see I’m vapid, because that’s all they bother to see. They see the tip of the iceberg, and it gives them the confidence to say “you are…” long before they give me the chance to strip me, or get closer to see beyond the glossy millennial pink colored surface.

I am never gonna give you anything you expect / You think I’m like the others / Boy, you need to get your eyes checked, checked (Can’t Pin Me Down, Marina & The Diamonds)

I am yet to learn what it feels like to be loved by someone for who I truly am: stripped off make-up, clothes, and layers of multiple personalities and defense mechanisms; and not for the personas I create and what they expect from me. I am alone because I simply refuse to take bullshit from anyone. No friend, no man, and no job are worth re-evaluating who I am. It took me 30 years to love myself this much, and I will not let adversity take that away from me. It’s my prerogative.

Sorry you can’t define me / Sorry I break the mold / Sorry that I speak my mind / Sorry don’t do what I’m told / Sorry if I don’t fake it / Sorry I come too real / Sorry if I ain’t perfect / Sorry I don’t give a— / Sorry I ain’t a diva / Sorry I just know what I want (Stripped, Christina Aguilera)