a little story

I said I would write a story,

Not sure if it would be a happy or sad one but I promised I would.

Its late at night and I am drinking again. Not sure if its to escape reality or to destress while reading and dissecting articles of our impending economical doom.

I keep thinking of piggies, so perhaps its appropriate I create a short story and metaphor.

So there was once a piggy. Short, round, a baby. Offspring of prize-winning swine – fine is not an adjective to describe this domesticated animal.

This piggy grew, and my, what a beast he became! Huge, robust. A meaty contender. A fearsome and awesome hog. The farmer fed him what he could, but the pig always wanted more. He had to have his own pen, unshared, because with his size he easily would kill any other piggies that tried to munch on the slaw allotted.

The farmer thought him to be magnificent enough to take to a county fair, perhaps win a prize.

So the farmer had his 2 children usher the beast into a portable trailer. Unfortunately, the farmer underestimated the power of the hog and this animal then trampled and killed his 2 children.

The hog did not go to the fair. It did not win any prizes.

Its consumption did not bring him a life of breeding for him, or comfort. Instead, the farmer decided to kill the beast and use the carnage to feed the town, no charge.

This 1,000 pound pig who would not cease to eat, who would not share, shared the same fate as all the rest of the pigs. Death, consumption. Perhaps there was more joy and celebration in the death of the other pigs before him, but this huge pig was not missed nor celebrated.

And thats what I think of the elite.

You can monopolize, consume, take advantage of the hand that feeds you.

But you will die the same death as us, and you will not be missed. Your half-assed philanthropy will not save you, and no one will shed a tear. Your children are part of the elite, so their emotions and feelings are worthless in the grand scheme of things.

I truly don’t think there is anything wholesome or good that can come from your allotted money.

My suggestion to you is to give it away for free.

Ask for nothing in return.

Give, to strangers, to beautiful young girls, to non-profits, to organizations abroad, to individuals who don’t necessarily share their story.

You don’t need all that money.

You are more than fine with half of it.

Give it to brown people, to black people, to communities that know how to speak and understand the Earth and Universe in ways that you’ve only read about.

Send to me, a Goddess,

Send,

give it away.

I made you rich.

rosario

No eres santo, ni yo una creyente

Pero me encuentro otra noche arrodillada ante ti.

Mi fantasia es la siguiente:

Estoy a gata por ti, mi manos y rodillas plantadas en el piso liso, frio

Mi ojos hacia el piso, tus pies enfrente de mi.

Aunque yo nunca te he hecho algún mal;

Me pienso Maria Magdalena, deseando brotar lagrimas por ti y usar estas mismas para limpiar tus hermosos pies de tez transluciente

Tu me das incitas a besarlos, sin alzar mi mirada.

Siento si te miro, me quemo

Me alzas la cabeza con un solo dedo, diciéndome que me arrodille, que te reza

mis manos libres para poder frotarlas sobre mi deseo mas carnal, la razón di mis delirios madrugadoras.

Mi boca diciendo lo mucho que te amo, sin decir alguna palabra.

Señor,

que me has hecho

que no encuentro salvación contigo

Me envicias, me enloqueces,

Mas te frequento, mas te pienso.

Matame con una sola mirada.

Compadecete de mi, mirarme con tus ojos verde colór miel,

humillame, avergüénzame

pero permítame pederme y ahogarme dentro del mar de tu mirada.

Tus pestañas, dos cascadas

pesadas

cayéndose, y tapando el tesoro que son tus ojos.

Me siento como Moctezuma, confiado y convencido que eres Dios.

Estoy consciente que tal vez serás mi muerte, mi fín.

Prefiero mil veces que el final de mi historia sea una hermosa tragedia, que morir sin sentir ninguna emoción vivida.

‘who Understands This Love” – Galy Galiano

“She, she says that she loves me

She then later says that she hates me,

She wakes up happy

And the next day she’s upset.

Complacent, indifferent,

Who understands this love?

She, she is very beautiful its true.

She, she is a mystery

I love her with all her defects,

For me, everything is perfect when we are in bed

Who understands this love?

Who understands this love

With everything and for everything,

she is like this

But with everything and for everything,

I love her.

I like seeing her enraged, oh at me

When she turns her back to me, and walks

She makes me lose my mind;

As her dress clings,

She dominates me.

I can’t spend a day without seeing her

I am happy by her side,

She changes everything,

She becomes owner of everything,

With her love.

Who understands this love?

I like seeing her angry; I later make her laugh and she kisses me.

With her caresses she drives me wild,

And with her slights that affect me,

I let her be!

I only want her to live with me,

for this love to be forever.

Because she is my life and my death,

that is what makes her so different.

Who understands this love?

Who understands?”


One of my favorite salsa songs, I think Latino men can be submissive when in love, if not all men.

I think true love makes us all submit, even just a little. For a fleeting moment.

piedras: melancholia

When I reflect upon my life, I always try to see it from the perspective of an outside force.

Because truly, no one else’s perspective matters. I no longer question “why” I went through or go through things. I just accept my challenges and blessings as they present themselves.

Also really grateful I haven’t been married/had the need to and that I have no kids.


I’ve learned to wash my clothes on rocks since as early as I can remember, probably 10 years old I started to really get the knack of it and at 17, I was pretty skilled.

At 17, I had already made friends with other indigenous and mestizo girls my age from my grandparent’s village. My cousin, them, and I would go as a group together down to the riverbank, hauling either a sack or cart-full of laundry as we walked down the unpaved roads.

We’d be laughing, joking about, well, teenage girl things. Our favorite time to go was about an hour or two before dusk. We knew they’d be almost no “Ama de casas” during the early evenings, meaning we could be free to talk about what we please without fear of being eavesdropped.

I didn’t care about others hearing my conversations, but then again I didn’t live there year-round and being a USC gave me a pass on many things that would be considered offensive if done by others.

The Sun never seems to want to go away when you’re near the equator, I’m glad there are parts on Earth that relatively unscathed by European bull shit.

Our favorite parts of the banks are were the water was the calmest and not so deep. Out of our group of 3-5 girls, only another girl and myself could swim. Both her and I were able to dive into the deeps of the river and find the best rocks to throw and scrub our dirty clothes on.

I recall diving and finding the perfect slab, a bit porous, but not overly so, just enough to be abrasive. I’d grab the slab with both my hands, wiggling it around, and prying it up from the sandy bottom without disturbing the water or bottom too much. Its hard for me to imagine that I actually could go longer than 2 minutes under water while making an extraneous effort to lift a 20 pound slab of rock stuck in clay and sand. It was no deeper than 10-12 feet underwater, but my cousin and the other girls were afraid of the current.

I’d usually help my cousin and dive one for her as well, but sometimes she was a bitch and it was sweet revenge to see her wash her clothes on a not so perfect rock or a boulder.

The best slab should be about 2-3 feet long and wide.

We’d place them against the roots of a tree if the river was overgrown or against a boulder, ensuring ourselves it was sturdy before continuing with our task. Optimal condition is when the river is a little overflowing, enough that the water is at or just above our knees.

  1. Hardest articles should be washed first, as to not tire yourself too quickly. Things such as jeans or towels. (if you were lucky though, your parents owned a small plug in washer for towels and blankets)
  2. You submerge the article of clothing completely, or you had a little bowl to use to scoop up water from the river to pour over the clothes.
  3. All about arm strength, baby. You sprinkle laundry detergent over your clothes and use every muscle in your arm to froth the article back and forth, flipping it over after your done with one side.
  4. Once it is all frothy and suddy, you can either submerge it in the water or use the bowl again.
  5. You twist and squeeze the article until it is barely dripping any water and you throw it into a clean large bucket, sack, or cart.

Maybe some will argue that this is polluting, but I’ll counter argue that polluting is when governments allow transnational corporations to use these same rivers to dump their waste.

If I ever went in the mornings, it was with my grandmother. It was like, a communal event to wash your clothes in the river in the mornings. Almost every woman in town would be there, if she wasn’t there already yesterday. Some would be done with their laundry for the day, sitting at the high banks breast feeding their baby or catching up with a friend or sister. Some women, mostly the older ones, would go shirtless or completely sans-bra. It was a safe place, free of judgement. No men. The only males there, if any, were under 5 years of age.

Matriarchal.

I never experienced anything as similar to that, and I don’t think I ever will again.

I can thank transnational corporations (again), narcos, and politics for that.

Hate men, mostly white, rich men. You ruin everything. I enjoy ruining your cookie-cut life.

06/04 – “Xica da silva”

Vanilla life has been kicking my ass the past 10 days, and I have a 6 day vanilla work day coming up u_u but it does end with 3-day weekend. Most likely will take a technology detox on Catalina Island.


Surprise, surprise. I got back with my ex.

We spent the last weekend fucking, and when we weren’t messing around we were out in nature, cooking, or watching movies. I’ll add that -I- fucked him first the night before I let his silly cock slip inside me again ❤

We talked the day after Father’s Day and put everything on the table. I don’t ask for much, but expect a lot. If that makes sense. I didn’t compromise (I’m not at fault lol), but he did.

Its upsetting to realize that I am profusely in love with this middle-age, capitalist white man. I used to be anti-white in my teens till probably 20; very Chicanx, a self-proclaimed socialist and vocal about issues in the brown community until my abusive ex broke me lol. I wouldn’t even engage with white bois unless it was to humiliate them.

I think in part why I am so enamored by him is because by learning about him, I learn somewhat more about white American culture. As a rule of thumb, I am indifferent towards all new white Americans that I meet. I think the brown narrative default is to hate them, but personally, they don’t deserve that much passion from my part.

I don’t even hate Trump supporters. I just have no respect for them.

I do hate the Eurocentric values that were forced upon us, and the patriarchy. The darker her skin, the more value I place on Her views and desires.

Race doesn’t even exist, its all social constructs created by men and the Catholic Church.

The whites wipe out races, animals, and ecosystems… how do you not deserve to be punished lol. White women have furthered racist rhetoric throughout history, so when it comes to the topic of feminism I don’t really care what they have to say unless they are speaking on behalf of Brown and Black womxn to reach a larger audience.

I do love my boyfriend though, because he is always willing to learn. He has said very insensitive things, but only because no one told him he was wrong and luckily he now has me to make him a better human being 🙂


Currently, I’m contemplating whether to add a minor or double major to my degree. I’m taking summer classes, working, and still have to study for the LSAT! I probably won’t be able to take the LSAT until 2022 it seems like at this rate. I wonder what its like to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth sometimes.

— H

walt whitman

Este es mi diario, de los amores de mi vida y mis mas íntimos deseos.

Aspiro poder escribir versos hermosos y impactante, para compartirlos y enseñar que bonito se siente amar y adorar.

Yo no quise venir a este mundo, no fue mi decision.

Pero al fin al cabo estoy aquí.

Creci en tierras calientes, entre el Sur de California y la Península de Yucatan. He visto al hombre mas humilde, y al hombre con mas poder y dinero que tiempo.

La vida me ha quitado todo, y me ha dado todo.

En mi corazón, se que voy en camino al éxito.

Quisiera compartir mi jornada con ustedes, para que vean como crezco y obtengo mis metas. Aveces siento que tengo el favor del universo, porque ya me ha enseñado lo mas feo de la vida. Ahora me falta ver lo mas hermoso.

El poeta Americano, Walt Whitman, escribió el libro “Leaves of Grass” durante el transcurso de su vida. Muchos veneran a este libro como su autobiografía.

Gracias Walt, porque usted me ha inspirado y usted me da ánimos en escribir casi todos los días.

Yo se que su libro era una obra viviente, siempre mejorando hasta que usted estaba satisfecho; o el día de su muerte.

En mi mente, hay miles de imágenes y memorias que reservo.

Unas buenas, que me traen alegría o placer; otras que me dan miedo y rabia.

Mi vida no es como los de los demás. Y por eso lo relato. Necesito recordarme que yo sufri y gane mi estancia, sino me hare una malagradecida. Y eso repugno.

rome

you are my downfall, I hate to admit it.

what is it about you that brings me to my knees? Figuratively though, because I never let my legs touch the floor when I’m pleasing you.

My balance surprises you sometimes. Leaves you breathless, maybe?

It would be so much better if you didn’t know what you do to me…but a dumb man you are not, even though I lovingly call you my dummy.

I refused to cry for you, or over you, and I held it in for months. One night, it all burst through the stronghold and I cried senselessly, realizing and accepting that you did not love me with the same intensity that I loved you. How foolish I am, for falling in love with you.

I am seeing you today,

and I have to admit I am a little nervous.

As strong as I know I am, you are my downfall.

You are the spear that pierces through me and brings me down. My final blow.

I am not sure what will happen after today.

It feels almost as if this affair was a complicated game of chess.

I am unsure how I was able to get this far. Pure luck, most likely, as that tends to be the foundation of all my successes. Because I don’t know anything about this game, I played it cool. But I had you fooled though, in the first half, enough to make you nervous and believe that I did.

now its me who’s nervous, I have no counsel. but god, do I love a challenge and the adrenaline of having everything on the line.

reina

I love it when your balls are completely vulnerable for me.

2 almost-oval balls encased a fragile sack of pink flesh.

I love squeezing them while I’m sitting on your face. I like it when you jump and enjoy feeling you wince while you’re ceremoniously munching away at my pussy.

You eat me out with desperation every time I induce pain.

I love it!

I ❤ watching your cock throb and thrust helplessly in the air while I’m sitting on my throne and leaning back on your headboard. I like playing with your precum, gently pressing my index finger on the tip of your cock, and lifting it up with your clear wetness clinging on

Sometimes, I’ll suck your cock and squeeze your balls, while im riding your face. Depending on my mood. I enjoy seeing your toes curl for me.

Feeling you gasp for air beneath me.

licking and eating away. ravenous for me.

“Your face is my forever throne; your mouth and tongue, slaves to my Pussy.”

Con cariño,

Tu Diosa.

blue

I used to be afraid of looking into a set of blue eyes. They used to intimidate me. I found them frightening, and not beautiful. Whenever I had to meet their gaze, I couldn’t help but think afterward how many women and men saw blue before their downfall.

I won’t lower my own eyes out of fear anymore. I have realized my black eyes are more intimidating than any shade of sky.

They say eyes are the window to the soul.

The clarity in yours cannot occult the pureness of your heart.

Your sweetness oozes out.

Blue isn’t scary anymore.

especially when they’re gazing up at me.

Niño. Puppy.