Things I do when reality is different from my expectations. Case 1: Write an email draft. Or "Who will fill my fridge while my fridge is filling my heart?"

The more depressed I am, the more I write. The more depressed I am, the more I read (re-read, re-do, undo). Pibe 2 - Depression 0.

Buenos Aires is cold and sneezy. I came home pretty tired and starving. The fridge was completely empty except for a rotten pumpkin, half an avocado and an old bowl of rice and beans. I understood how my fridge was a reflection of my heart: rotten, half eaten and forgotten. I settled for a delivery and had to ask for two main courses because they had a minimum charge. While I waited for my Katsudon and my fried noodles, I went over a couple of emails. The book I'm reading was on the rooftop and I was too lazy and too hungry to go two floors up.  I ended up looking at the draft folder. Not-so-surprisingly a 93.5 % of the emails on that folder were to myself. 

I found one under the "you can suck my dick" subject that I thought I'd share with you.

"I invited him over and he said no. Fine, I thought. If he doesn't want to come to this party (of two, of course, because a party can't be any other thing than two people sharing an intimacy beneath a thick dawn comforter, or on top of it, or tangled in it like spaghetti on a fork, or even without a thick dawn comforter or even without a real intimacy… but a party can't be any other thing than two people. Yes, a party can't be any other thing than two people even if there's other two people's in the same party room)... I'll send the party his way. I opened the safari browser and went to my twitter account. I got distracted for 87 seconds reading 37 tweets (it's unbelieveable how many tweets can squeeze in 87 seconds). Then I did my little evil and twitted to 321 followers  (and anyone that would look for the TT #party  #NYC #JulianCasablancas #TheStrokes): "#Party #NOW #TheStrokes #BROOKLYN #NYC hosted at #JulianCasablancas apartment! 18 Pineapple st. apt #4! bring your friend's friends and their friends too! ". I thought it was wrong . I thought it was okey because he doesn't have a twitter or a Facebook account. The most interesting people I've met don't have twitter or Facebook accounts. The most stupid neither. It seems to me that having them is a quality of the mediocre."

Disclaimer- The posting of stories, commentaries, reports, documents and links on this site does not in any way, shape or form, implied or otherwise, necessarily express, suggest or confirm the authenticity of them.

Ps. No. I'm not fucking Julian Casablancas.

Disclaimer 2- The posting of stories, commentaries, reports, documents and links on the PS of this site does not in any way, shape or form, implied or otherwise, necessarily express, suggest or confirm the authenticity of them.

Chapter 4: When you share your beach towel with 60 people.

So this past Monday we all celebrated Memorial Day (which is actually kind of a sad date since we're supposed to be remembering fallen soldiers, but F that! let's get drunk and not remember shit!) and I decided to check out a very inviting daytime event (love those!) taking place at the beach in 41st and Collins.


Artist (and totally cool friendly dude) Misael Soto made this towel of ginormous magnitude, and layed it on the sand inviting everyone to celebrate "communal transcendence above the conditioning of capitalism", as well as eating arroz con pollo and drinking your poison of choice (which hopefully it's not Four Loko). 


So there I went, wearing a badass swimsuit with my most valuable friends; iPod and Book, expecting well... I had no idea what I could run myself into except a huge-ass towel.


The event was insanely fun, met a bunch of great people that make Miami worth living in, ate fresh watermelon and took some pictures with my brand new camera.


And then 90s teen played, which was a very pleasant surprise (and makes miami worth living in).

Get your SPF ready East Coast; the Towel is coming to you soon! Yahoo!

Ridiculously Early Birthday Wish List.

If there's something my birthdays will never be remembered by, is presents. I know it sounds kind of sad, but please do not pity me, I bet your mom does not know how to make a strawberry short cake like mine does. No, no, seriously. She doesn't.

So thanks to the wonders of the Internet and 5 cans of Coke Zero that kept me up all night (so apparently I'm not immune to caffeine, go figure!) , I was able to craft one ridiculously pricy, ridiculously early birthday wish list.

So here it goes.

These shoes from To Be Announced.

The Quine Tapes by The Velvet Underground.

This wallpaper on my wall.

This one on another wall.

This Prada S/S 2012 bag.

This pretzel-shaped float. 

This for breakfast.

This for lunch.

These sunglasses from A Morir. 

These notebooks. 

This DVD.

The entire S/S 2012 collection by Lesya Paramonova. 

And last but definitely not least, the Asian Hello Kitty thingy to make your food look creepy as fuck. Cause hey, nothing says "Happy Birthday" like a wiener with a cat face in it! 

Happy birthday to me!

Chapter 1. B side.

Belle told me to post this photo.

So you're young and hot and damned and conflicted. Half gloria. Half Anthony. Half adult. Half a 6 year old kid. Half vegetarian (and by that I mean that half a meal a day is vegetarian). And one day you find yourself starting a blog, making your more random thoughts public… when you swear that there's nothing more precious than anonymity - the power of doing whatever you feel like doing without being noticed for that-.

So (again) you ask yourself: -why do I (we) write a blog? Why do I write at all? The answer that comes to my mind is "i write for the hell of it" and I think thats the most beautiful reason to do anything. But that's a lie. I had a boyfriend for the past 5 years. It felt like 10 or only a month and 23 days depending from which conversation we're looking at this matter. i used to read a lot when I was a kid. I used to write 18 lines for every 98 pages I read. When I started dating my ex i stopped reading. I stopped writing. I stopped doing basically anything that was not loving him. I realized that love distracts me from everything else. What I enjoy the most abut reading is underlining (yeah, I wrote this in thousand emails) finding pieces of me in the text . And I realized that everything i'm always looking for is love (a boyfriend, a platonic love, a puppy to rub his belly, a beach, a rain or 27 pieces of my favorite sushi). During 5 years reading and writing felt redundant. But now I have to read about love again, now I have to write about love again, and now I have to stare at a page in a book in the subway again(while my mind gets distracted by all kinds of hot stupidity i have around).

 So (again, again)… here we go.

Word of the Day.

Oh, by the way, word of the day: Pussyfuck. (poos- ee fuhk) 


It's an insult. 

Girl Crush vol.1

Before I start typing my first ever "Girl Crush" post, I believe it is necessary to previously state that this is not my lame way of saying "I'm gay"(the day I announce my gayness to the world, at least I'm gonna have the decency to write it on cookies with Betty Crocker vanilla icing and give them to each and every passerby), but it is more of a recollection of images of these girls whose beauty makes me wanna run back to my mom's uterus and stay there until I'm reborn again.

This time is Abbey Lee Kershaw, shot by Hedi Slimane (who should come back to Dior ASAP! seriously, do come back).

Yeah.
So this is my non-homosexual homage to this beautiful Australian creature. Now I'm off to a slumber party with my friends from the cheerleader squad, we're gonna pillow fight in our underwear and feed each other strawberries and whipped cream. Maybe in slow motion. See ya later.

Chapter 3: When you dye your hair a color your parents disapprove of, yet again.

It gets to a point in life in which some problematic events only have two possible solutions:

a) get tattoo
b) dye hair*

And since the rest of body area uncovered by ink that I believe tattoo-appropiate is already booked for something that is meaningful/aesthetically beautiful/makes moderate sense one drunk night, solution b is always applicable and more affordable than option a (unless you're in jail, of course, which, in that case, none of the options will have a significant impact on your problems. yeah. you're fucked.)

So I decided to go for this neon orange color.

14 dollars and a road trip to Sally's Beauty Supply later, I was able to make this short non-HD video with my modest iMovie skills showing the results.

 

*Disclaimer: The solutions presented above will by no means solve your problematic events, but they might improve your conditions to effectively design a plan that eventually will. Hopefully.

Chapter 2: When you pretend to be a New York Times editor and people buy it.

So this friend asked me to go see his band play at the Miami Art Walk this past saturday.
Wait! Did I just type the words "Miami" and "Art" in the same sentence? Well apparently I did. Basically, Art Walk is your source for really cool (and not so cool) art pieces, live music, semi-gourmet food trucks and overall well dressed people (and your usual South Beach immigrates).

I got there wearing exquisite velvet flared pants and very uncomfortable platforms, and just before the band started playing, this bitchy New York Times editor with a sort of like kind of russian accent took over my body and decided to pay a visit to a few of the open galleries waiting to be victimized.

She went inside with out-of-nowhere imperturbable confidence and the dialogue that followed was pretty much something like:

- Fake Russian New York Times Editor: Hello. My name is Fabiana Silberstein. I have been sent here to do research on the art scene in Miami, because frankly, everybody thinks there is no such thing.

(killer silence)

- Guy Who Worked At The Gallery: Oh... oh, okay, uhm... yeah, hi, how are you?

- Fake Russian New York Times Editor: Good. Can you tell me who is in charge of this gallery? 

- Guy Who Worked At The Gallery: Yeah, uhm... he's not here right now.

- FRNYTE: And when will he be here? I do not have a lot of time. 

(the silence allowed the FRNYTE to hear the GWWATG's heartbeats)

- GWWATG: Yeah, uhm, well... I can show you around if you'd like.

- FRNYTE: Yes. Tell me about what makes your gallery different. And the pricing of your pieces. 

GWWATG proceeded to obey the FRNYTE until she was no longer able to hold the need to burst into   roars of Cruella de Vil laughter and the real Fabiana walked out with brochures in hand and a RSVP'd seat in Hell.

So yeah, I'm an asshole.

And then, Jacuzzi Boys played.

All photos via Beached Miami.


Footnote: GWWATG, if you happen to read this someday, do e-mail me violently stating how much of an immature imbecile I am, and then I'll buy you dinner.

Chapter 1: When you decide to join yet another web-based platform.

So you're young and hot (at least creepy unfamiliar dudes that really enjoy your profile pictures seem to think so) and you wander around looking for something you just don't seem to quite figure out what the hell it is.

So you spend your days and nights listening to the Rolling Stones (mixed with some less sophisticated things by The Artist Known as The Spice Girls), smoking way too much (for a person that's supposed to be quitting) and rambling on and on about... well... things you just can't figure out what the hell they are.

So for some reason you're yet to discover, you get to the conclusion that the missing factor is love.

And what better way to find love than to dress as slutty as your closet allows you to be (American Apparel slutty, not Guess slutty, geez!) , take one of the zillion taxis (please call it a taxi, never, EVER, call it a "cab") that invade the city and head over to that grimy, vodka-and-vomit infused joint you call your second home and shake your hot body (at least creepy unfamiliar dudes that comment on your profile pictures seem to think so) to Crystal Castles.

And then, you start a blog.

So this is me, starting a blog.

I'm a 24 year old girl... woman... (let's just go with "human being") who went to bed one day at age 19 and woke up the next morning at age 24 (metaphorically speaking, fortunately I wasn't in a coma for 5 years) and whose life is reigned by the three S's: Seinfeld, Sushi, and Stones.

Counting on the fact that is 5:09 on a weekday (and I do work tomorrow) I guess it's not the time (not the place) to be writing my first novel. So I'll try to keep my posts a tad shorter. I promise. Then again, I'm not the best promise keeper so don't trust me on that one.

Uhm. Yeah.