http://portal.prmag.com/service/getFeed.kickAction?quantity=25 New blogs from mdq on Puerto Rico Online Magazine Fri, 23 Apr 2010 07:13:34 GMT Fri, 23 Apr 2010 07:13:34 GMT bernie@vendemossucasa.com (prmag) bernie@vendemossucasa.com (prmag) KickApps Feed Builder 2010-04-23T07:13:34Z 22 http://portal.prmag.com/service/searchEverything.kickAction?as=16633&sortType=recent 0 http://portal.prmag.com/_tiny-deadly-curious-obsessions/BLOG/2310929/16633.html ''I'm drowning here and you're describing the water!'As Good As iIt Gets I'm so smitten with animated gifs, obviously not all of them since many are boring or cliche, in particular those that simply glitter. Animated, they call themselves! I scoff on their animation! I especially enjoy those that are original doodles, with simple, yet complete, narratives. Others are just interesting because they are in 3d . [image]I've collected some 400+ in a folder on my desktop although, sadly, it's not possible to paste them in an image from their 'gif peg'. They must be active on the browser in order to copy them on an email, for instance. And it doesn't work to just right click and select OPEN WITH (your browser). The way I've been able to get around this is to upload them to a gmail email (not all in one email, they would never be done loading after you send them. Something like 20 at a time seems to work) then I send them to myself, open the file, request View Images once it loads, and that opens a page that has the gifs in active mode. Yay. What a compulsion. I've wondered what it is that has me so obsessed. I've arrived at a few conclusions, such as that they're like strange, tiny pets. And they make me feel like Goliath. Maybe one day they'll rebel, step out of my computer as a flash mob, tie me up with dental floss, and start demanding their freedom. I am their tyrant, their government, landlord and owner, I care for them and delete them as I see fit. I am random in my rules and regulations, my likes and dislikes. Whole families are separated when the mood strikes me. It's not that I release them back where they came from, I haven't yet found a way to return them to their motherland (not that I care to, fickle monarch that I am), they are sent to the recycling bin without right to a trial, and then emptied into the vacuum of gif death. Who knows where their minute souls go to rest. But sometimes I night, I can hear the tapping of their little feet against whatever glass container holds them, and it is at those times when my sanity flickers in and out the most, resembling a horror movie basement's faulty fluorescent bulb. (And then I wonder why I don't get hired. I'm leagues away from ''normal'')In any case, if you want to, you can download any that you want, mine or anyone's, and if the gif measures 150x150 at the most, you can upload it to craft your own unique signature in emails and stuff. You can also pick one from their files, but those are generally bland and boring.There are also innumerable vulgar and disgusting gifs (personal judgment applies here) and even some of those are extreme enough so as to go all the way around their perceived grotesqueness and make it into the amusing or interesting section. I've included an example further down[image]           ''I'm drowning here and you're describing the water!'As Good As iIt Gets I'm so smitten with animated gifs, obviously not all of them since many are boring or cliche, in particular those that simply glitter. Animated, they call themselves! I scoff on their animation! I especially enjoy those that are original doodles, with simple, yet complete, narratives. Others are just interesting because they are in 3d . [image]I've collected some 400+ in a folder on my desktop although, sadly, it's not possible to paste them in an image from their 'gif peg'. They must be active on the browser in order to copy them on an email, for instance. And it doesn't work to just right click and select OPEN WITH (your browser). The way I've been able to get around this is to upload them to a gmail email (not all in one email, they would never be done loading after you send them. Something like 20 at a time seems to work) then I send them to myself, open the file, request View Images once it loads, and that opens a page that has the gifs in active mode. Yay. What a compulsion. I've wondered what it is that has me so obsessed. I've arrived at a few conclusions, such as that they're like strange, tiny pets. And they make me feel like Goliath. Maybe one day they'll rebel, step out of my computer as a flash mob, tie me up with dental floss, and start demanding their freedom. I am their tyrant, their government, landlord and owner, I care for them and delete them as I see fit. I am random in my rules and regulations, my likes and dislikes. Whole families are separated when the mood strikes me. It's not that I release them back where they came from, I haven't yet found a way to return them to their motherland (not that I care to, fickle monarch that I am), they are sent to the recycling bin without right to a trial, and then emptied into the vacuum of gif death. Who knows where their minute souls go to rest. But sometimes I night, I can hear the tapping of their little feet against whatever glass container holds them, and it is at those times when my sanity flickers in and out the most, resembling a horror movie basement's faulty fluorescent bulb. (And then I wonder why I don't get hired. I'm leagues away from ''normal'')In any case, if you want to, you can download any that you want, mine or anyone's, and if the gif measures 150x150 at the most, you can upload it to craft your own unique signature in emails and stuff. You can also pick one from their files, but those are generally bland and boring.There are also innumerable vulgar and disgusting gifs (personal judgment applies here) and even some of those are extreme enough so as to go all the way around their perceived grotesqueness and make it into the amusing or interesting section. I've included an example further down[image] [image] [image][image] [image]http://www.wonderhumor.com/funny_pictures/animated/funny_animated_picture_22.shtml[image][image] [image] [image]  [image]http://www.wonderhumor.com/funny_pictures/animated/funny_animated_picture_16.shtml[image] http://people.zoy.org/~sam/best-animated-gif-ever.gif[image] ''I'm drowning here and you're describing the water!'As Good As iIt Gets I'm so smitten with animated gifs, obviously not all of them since many are boring or cliche, in particular those that simply glitter. Animated, they call themselves! I scoff on their animation! I especially enjoy those that are original doodles, with simple, yet complete, narratives. Others are just interesting because they are in 3d . [image]I've collected some 400+ in a folder on my desktop although, sadly, it's not possible to paste them in an image from their 'gif peg'. They must be active on the browser in order to copy them on an email, for instance. And it doesn't work to just right click and select OPEN WITH (your browser). The way I've been able to get around this is to upload them to a gmail email (not all in one email, they would never be done loading after you send them. Something like 20 at a time seems to work) then I send them to myself, open the file, request View Images once it loads, and that opens a page that has the gifs in active mode. Yay. What a compulsion. I've wondered what it is that has me so obsessed. I've arrived at a few conclusions, such as that they're like strange, tiny pets. And they make me feel like Goliath. Maybe one day they'll rebel, step out of my computer as a flash mob, tie me up with dental floss, and start demanding their freedom. I am their tyrant, their government, landlord and owner, I care for them and delete them as I see fit. I am random in my rules and regulations, my likes and dislikes. Whole families are separated when the mood strikes me. It's not that I release them back where they came from, I haven't yet found a way to return them to their motherland (not that I care to, fickle monarch that I am), they are sent to the recycling bin without right to a trial, and then emptied into the vacuum of gif death. Who knows where their minute souls go to rest. But sometimes I night, I can hear the tapping of their little feet against whatever glass container holds them, and it is at those times when my sanity flickers in and out the most, resembling a horror movie basement's faulty fluorescent bulb. (And then I wonder why I don't get hired. I'm leagues away from ''normal'')In any case, if you want to, you can download any that you want, mine or anyone's, and if the gif measures 150x150 at the most, you can upload it to craft your own unique signature in emails and stuff. You can also pick one from their files, but those are generally bland and boring.There are also innumerable vulgar and disgusting gifs (personal judgment applies here) and even some of those are extreme enough so as to go all the way around their perceived grotesqueness and make it into the amusing or interesting section. I've included an example further down[image]           ''I'm drowning here and you're describing the water!'As Good As iIt Gets I'm so smitten with animated gifs, obviously not all of them since many are boring or cliche, in particular those that simply glitter. Animated, they call themselves! I scoff on their animation! I especially enjoy those that are original doodles, with simple, yet complete, narratives. Others are just interesting because they are in 3d . [image]I've collected some 400+ in a folder on my desktop although, sadly, it's not possible to paste them in an image from their 'gif peg'. They must be active on the browser in order to copy them on an email, for instance. And it doesn't work to just right click and select OPEN WITH (your browser). The way I've been able to get around this is to upload them to a gmail email (not all in one email, they would never be done loading after you send them. Something like 20 at a time seems to work) then I send them to myself, open the file, request View Images once it loads, and that opens a page that has the gifs in active mode. Yay. What a compulsion. I've wondered what it is that has me so obsessed. I've arrived at a few conclusions, such as that they're like strange, tiny pets. And they make me feel like Goliath. Maybe one day they'll rebel, step out of my computer as a flash mob, tie me up with dental floss, and start demanding their freedom. I am their tyrant, their government, landlord and owner, I care for them and delete them as I see fit. I am random in my rules and regulations, my likes and dislikes. Whole families are separated when the mood strikes me. It's not that I release them back where they came from, I haven't yet found a way to return them to their motherland (not that I care to, fickle monarch that I am), they are sent to the recycling bin without right to a trial, and then emptied into the vacuum of gif death. Who knows where their minute souls go to rest. But sometimes I night, I can hear the tapping of their little feet against whatever glass container holds them, and it is at those times when my sanity flickers in and out the most, resembling a horror movie basement's faulty fluorescent bulb. (And then I wonder why I don't get hired. I'm leagues away from ''normal'')In any case, if you want to, you can download any that you want, mine or anyone's, and if the gif measures 150x150 at the most, you can upload it to craft your own unique signature in emails and stuff. You can also pick one from their files, but those are generally bland and boring.There are also innumerable vulgar and disgusting gifs (personal judgment applies here) and even some of those are extreme enough so as to go all the way around their perceived grotesqueness and make it into the amusing or interesting section. I've included an example further down[image] [image] [image][image] [image]http://www.wonderhumor.com/funny_pictures/animated/funny_animated_picture_22.shtml[image][image] [image] [image]  [image]http://www.wonderhumor.com/funny_pictures/animated/funny_animated_picture_16.shtml[image] http://people.zoy.org/~sam/best-animated-gif-ever.gif[image] Fri, 23 Apr 2010 07:13:34 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_tiny-deadly-curious-obsessions/BLOG/2310929/16633.html mdq 2010-04-23T07:13:34Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine ''I'm drowning here and you're describing the water!'As Good As iIt Gets I'm so smitten with animated gifs, obviously not all of them since many are boring or cliche, in particular those that simply glitter. Animated, they call themselves! I scoff on their animation! I especially enjoy those that are original doodles, with simple, yet complete, narratives. Others are just interesting because they are in 3d . [image]I've collected some 400+ in a folder on my desktop although, sadly, it's not possible to paste them in an image from their 'gif peg'. They must be active on the browser in order to copy them on an email, for instance. And it doesn't work to just right click and select OPEN WITH (your browser). The way I've been able to get around this is to upload them to a gmail email (not all in one email, they would never be done loading after you send them. Something like 20 at a time seems to work) then I send them to myself, open the file, request View Images once it loads, and that opens a page that has the gifs in active mode. Yay. What a compulsion. I've wondered what it is that has me so obsessed. I've arrived at a few conclusions, such as that they're like strange, tiny pets. And they make me feel like Goliath. Maybe one day they'll rebel, step out of my computer as a flash mob, tie me up with dental floss, and start demanding their freedom. I am their tyrant, their government, landlord and owner, I care for them and delete them as I see fit. I am random in my rules and regulations, my likes and dislikes. Whole families are separated when the mood strikes me. It's not that I release them back where they came from, I haven't yet found a way to return them to their motherland (not that I care to, fickle monarch that I am), they are sent to the recycling bin without right to a trial, and then emptied into the vacuum of gif death. Who knows where their minute souls go to rest. But sometimes I night, I can hear the tapping of their little feet against whatever glass container holds them, and it is at those times when my sanity flickers in and out the most, resembling a horror movie basement's faulty fluorescent bulb. (And then I wonder why I don't get hired. I'm leagues away from ''normal'')In any case, if you want to, you can download any that you want, mine or anyone's, and if the gif measures 150x150 at the most, you can upload it to craft your own unique signature in emails and stuff. You can also pick one from their files, but those are generally bland and boring.There are also innumerable vulgar and disgusting gifs (personal judgment applies here) and even some of those are extreme enough so as to go all the way around their perceived grotesqueness and make it into the amusing or interesting section. I've included an example further down[image]           ''I'm drowning here and you're describing the water!'As Good As iIt Gets I'm so smitten with animated gifs, obviously not all of them since many are boring or cliche, in particular those that simply glitter. Animated, they call themselves! I scoff on their animation! I especially enjoy those that are original doodles, with simple, yet complete, narratives. Others are just interesting because they are in 3d . [image]I've collected some 400+ in a folder on my desktop although, sadly, it's not possible to paste them in an image from their 'gif peg'. They must be active on the browser in order to copy them on an email, for instance. And it doesn't work to just right click and select OPEN WITH (your browser). The way I've been able to get around this is to upload them to a gmail email (not all in one email, they would never be done loading after you send them. Something like 20 at a time seems to work) then I send them to myself, open the file, request View Images once it loads, and that opens a page that has the gifs in active mode. Yay. What a compulsion. I've wondered what it is that has me so obsessed. I've arrived at a few conclusions, such as that they're like strange, tiny pets. And they make me feel like Goliath. Maybe one day they'll rebel, step out of my computer as a flash mob, tie me up with dental floss, and start demanding their freedom. I am their tyrant, their government, landlord and owner, I care for them and delete them as I see fit. I am random in my rules and regulations, my likes and dislikes. Whole families are separated when the mood strikes me. It's not that I release them back where they came from, I haven't yet found a way to return them to their motherland (not that I care to, fickle monarch that I am), they are sent to the recycling bin without right to a trial, and then emptied into the vacuum of gif death. Who knows where their minute souls go to rest. But sometimes I night, I can hear the tapping of their little feet against whatever glass container holds them, and it is at those times when my sanity flickers in and out the most, resembling a horror movie basement's faulty fluorescent bulb. (And then I wonder why I don't get hired. I'm leagues away from ''normal'')In any case, if you want to, you can download any that you want, mine or anyone's, and if the gif measures 150x150 at the most, you can upload it to craft your own unique signature in emails and stuff. You can also pick one from their files, but those are generally bland and boring.There are also innumerable vulgar and disgusting gifs (personal judgment applies here) and even some of those are extreme enough so as to go all the way around their perceived grotesqueness and make it into the amusing or interesting section. I've included an example further down[image] [image] [image][image] [image]http://www.wonderhumor.com/funny_pictures/animated/funny_animated_picture_22.shtml[image][image] [image] [image]  [image]http://www.wonderhumor.com/funny_pictures/animated/funny_animated_picture_16.shtml[image] http://people.zoy.org/~sam/best-animated-gif-ever.gif[image] nonadult false tiny, deadly, curious obsessions text blog 2234 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 2310929 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_UGLY/BLOG/2309695/16633.html NOTE- I DIDN'T WRITE THIS. NOBODY KNOWS WHO DID. BUT IT'S A STORY THAT FOR SOME REASON MAKES EVEN GROWN MEN CRY. ENJOY... UGLY Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say, love. The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly. To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot has ap peared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatura l angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner. His tail has long since been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would cons tantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, even his shoul ders with thick, yellowing scabs. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. "That's one UGLY cat!!" All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction. If yo u turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you ga ve up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body ar ound feet in forgiveness. Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for the ir love. If you ever picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on y our shirt, earrings, whatever he could find. One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbors huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly's sad life was almost at an end. Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twist ed grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran d own his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. I must be hurting him terribly I thought. Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear - Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head , then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled-sc arred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me t o relieve his pain. Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat an d held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, defo rmed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have tru e pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly. Ugly taught me more abo ut giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show spec ials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarre d on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me t o move on and learn to love truly and deeply. To give my total to those I c ared for. Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, beautiful, but for me , I will always try to be Ugly. NOTE- I DIDN'T WRITE THIS. NOBODY KNOWS WHO DID. BUT IT'S A STORY THAT FOR SOME REASON MAKES EVEN GROWN MEN CRY. ENJOY... UGLY Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say, love. The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly. To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot has ap peared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatura l angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner. His tail has long since been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would cons tantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, even his shoul ders with thick, yellowing scabs. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. "That's one UGLY cat!!" All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction. If yo u turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you ga ve up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body ar ound feet in forgiveness. Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for the ir love. If you ever picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on y our shirt, earrings, whatever he could find. One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbors huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly's sad life was almost at an end. Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twist ed grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran d own his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. I must be hurting him terribly I thought. Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear - Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head , then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled-sc arred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me t o relieve his pain. Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat an d held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, defo rmed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have tru e pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly. Ugly taught me more abo ut giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show spec ials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarre d on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me t o move on and learn to love truly and deeply. To give my total to those I c ared for. Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, beautiful, but for me , I will always try to be Ugly. Thu, 22 Apr 2010 12:53:34 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_UGLY/BLOG/2309695/16633.html mdq 2010-04-22T12:53:34Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine NOTE- I DIDN'T WRITE THIS. NOBODY KNOWS WHO DID. BUT IT'S A STORY THAT FOR SOME REASON MAKES EVEN GROWN MEN CRY. ENJOY... UGLY Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say, love. The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly. To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot has ap peared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatura l angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner. His tail has long since been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would cons tantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, even his shoul ders with thick, yellowing scabs. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. "That's one UGLY cat!!" All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction. If yo u turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you ga ve up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body ar ound feet in forgiveness. Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for the ir love. If you ever picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on y our shirt, earrings, whatever he could find. One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbors huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly's sad life was almost at an end. Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twist ed grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran d own his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. I must be hurting him terribly I thought. Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear - Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head , then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled-sc arred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me t o relieve his pain. Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat an d held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, defo rmed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have tru e pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly. Ugly taught me more abo ut giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show spec ials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarre d on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me t o move on and learn to love truly and deeply. To give my total to those I c ared for. Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, beautiful, but for me , I will always try to be Ugly. nonadult false UGLY text blog 104 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 2309695 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_my-latest-ad-promoting-myself/BLOG/2302387/16633.html ...me puedes llamar para hacerte la vida más fácil. 787 484 2984 [image] Cuento con 18 años de experiencia como traductora y redactora en los campos de publicidad, relaciones públicas, comunicaciones y publicaciones de todo tipo. Tengo experiencia en interpretación consecutiva y transcripciones. Me gusta mucho lo que hago, y va a la par con mi vocación de escritora. Visita mi portfolio, donde hay un poco de todo: puedes leer sobre mi trasfondo (estudios, empleos y un poco de bla-bla-bla que no se puede evitar), mi sales pitch (necesario, pero no por ello hay que hacerlo sin humor), y tarifas y servicios. Además, no podía faltar el resume (donde uno se puede dar gusto  inventando  trabajos  muy  interesantes, que nunca tuve), y puedes ver muchos anuncios, escritos y traducciones que he realizado. También hay un blog, referencias de empleo y recomendaciones de terceros que me conocen y les gusta mi estilo de trabajo. Aquí hay suficiente información como para saber si te interesa mi ayuda. Somos muchos los traductores y escritores que hay para escoger, y cobramos más o menos lo mismo (en PR, las traducciones pagan entre 10 a 15 centavos por palabra -o por página que literalmente son otros veinte- y los servicios de redacción, proofreading, etc. pagan entre $15 hasta $30 la hora. Todo depende de la experiencia del traductor y el nivel de dificultad de la labor). [image]    En fin, elegir un traductor o redactor es cuestión de gusto personal (excepto en el caso de que se necesite certificación para documentos oficiales). Yo creo, obviamente, que mis traducciones y escritos son superiores, pero no dejo de aprender de mis colegas. Ellos, por su parte, aprenden de mí, aunque piensen que sus trabajos son superiores. Repito, es cuestión de gusto y quién te cae mejor. ¿Okay? Pues ya sabes, me llamas (787 484 2984) o me escribes (madcopy@gmail.com) si necesitas algo.   [image] ...me puedes llamar para hacerte la vida más fácil. 787 484 2984 [image] Cuento con 18 años de experiencia como traductora y redactora en los campos de publicidad, relaciones públicas, comunicaciones y publicaciones de todo tipo. Tengo experiencia en interpretación consecutiva y transcripciones. Me gusta mucho lo que hago, y va a la par con mi vocación de escritora. Visita mi portfolio, donde hay un poco de todo: puedes leer sobre mi trasfondo (estudios, empleos y un poco de bla-bla-bla que no se puede evitar), mi sales pitch (necesario, pero no por ello hay que hacerlo sin humor), y tarifas y servicios. Además, no podía faltar el resume (donde uno se puede dar gusto  inventando  trabajos  muy  interesantes, que nunca tuve), y puedes ver muchos anuncios, escritos y traducciones que he realizado. También hay un blog, referencias de empleo y recomendaciones de terceros que me conocen y les gusta mi estilo de trabajo. Aquí hay suficiente información como para saber si te interesa mi ayuda. Somos muchos los traductores y escritores que hay para escoger, y cobramos más o menos lo mismo (en PR, las traducciones pagan entre 10 a 15 centavos por palabra -o por página que literalmente son otros veinte- y los servicios de redacción, proofreading, etc. pagan entre $15 hasta $30 la hora. Todo depende de la experiencia del traductor y el nivel de dificultad de la labor). [image]    En fin, elegir un traductor o redactor es cuestión de gusto personal (excepto en el caso de que se necesite certificación para documentos oficiales). Yo creo, obviamente, que mis traducciones y escritos son superiores, pero no dejo de aprender de mis colegas. Ellos, por su parte, aprenden de mí, aunque piensen que sus trabajos son superiores. Repito, es cuestión de gusto y quién te cae mejor. ¿Okay? Pues ya sabes, me llamas (787 484 2984) o me escribes (madcopy@gmail.com) si necesitas algo.   [image] Fri, 16 Apr 2010 19:35:12 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_my-latest-ad-promoting-myself/BLOG/2302387/16633.html mdq 2010-04-16T19:35:12Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine ...me puedes llamar para hacerte la vida más fácil. 787 484 2984 [image] Cuento con 18 años de experiencia como traductora y redactora en los campos de publicidad, relaciones públicas, comunicaciones y publicaciones de todo tipo. Tengo experiencia en interpretación consecutiva y transcripciones. Me gusta mucho lo que hago, y va a la par con mi vocación de escritora. Visita mi portfolio, donde hay un poco de todo: puedes leer sobre mi trasfondo (estudios, empleos y un poco de bla-bla-bla que no se puede evitar), mi sales pitch (necesario, pero no por ello hay que hacerlo sin humor), y tarifas y servicios. Además, no podía faltar el resume (donde uno se puede dar gusto  inventando  trabajos  muy  interesantes, que nunca tuve), y puedes ver muchos anuncios, escritos y traducciones que he realizado. También hay un blog, referencias de empleo y recomendaciones de terceros que me conocen y les gusta mi estilo de trabajo. Aquí hay suficiente información como para saber si te interesa mi ayuda. Somos muchos los traductores y escritores que hay para escoger, y cobramos más o menos lo mismo (en PR, las traducciones pagan entre 10 a 15 centavos por palabra -o por página que literalmente son otros veinte- y los servicios de redacción, proofreading, etc. pagan entre $15 hasta $30 la hora. Todo depende de la experiencia del traductor y el nivel de dificultad de la labor). [image]    En fin, elegir un traductor o redactor es cuestión de gusto personal (excepto en el caso de que se necesite certificación para documentos oficiales). Yo creo, obviamente, que mis traducciones y escritos son superiores, pero no dejo de aprender de mis colegas. Ellos, por su parte, aprenden de mí, aunque piensen que sus trabajos son superiores. Repito, es cuestión de gusto y quién te cae mejor. ¿Okay? Pues ya sabes, me llamas (787 484 2984) o me escribes (madcopy@gmail.com) si necesitas algo.   [image] nonadult false my latest ad promoting myself text blog 117 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 2302387 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_Translation-and-Copywriting-Services/BLOG/2192255/16633.html [image]  If you ever need professional freelance writing and/or translation services, short or long term, feel free to contact me. That is, if you want results that are excellent and beyond reproach.   I offer: -English or Spanish translations for almost any type of document (subtitles, technical writing, legal, websites, etc.)   -Copywriting or creative writing in either language (letters and memos, blogs or social network presence and maintenance, articles, reviews, supplements, press releases, public relations and advertising assistance, creative concepts, proofreading and editing, rewrites, transcriptions, etc.)   In addition, please contact me if you have need of general office assistance. For instance, if an employee is on vacation or there is a rush season that requires extra help. For any questions or to request an estimate (you may see a list of my basic fees here; everything is open to negotiation), reply to this emal (preferred method) or call 787 484 2984. Please visit my portfolio.  Madeleine Díaz Quilichini    [image] Copy/ Writer and Translations CLICK-HERE-FOR-PORTFOLIO787 484 2984         [image]Estoy a sus órdenes cuando necesite servicios profesionales freelance de redacción y traducción, a corto o largo plazo. Ofrezco: [image] traducción a inglés o español de cualquier tipo de documento (subtítulos para filmaciones, escritos técnicos, legales, etc.) [image] redacción/copywriting en ambos idiomas (cartas y memos, mantenimiento de blogs o presencia en redes sociales, artículos, comentario, suplementos, comunicados de prensa, relaciones públicas y publicidad, conceptos creativos, proofreading y edición de textos, servicios de transcripción, etc.) Además, me puede llamar si necesita asistencia general de oficina. Para cualquier duda o pregunta, o pedir un estimado (listado básico de tarifas aquí; negociable), responda a este email o llame al 787-484-2984. Visite mi portfolio.   Madeleine Díaz Quilichini    [image] Copy/ Writer and Translations CLICK-HERE-FOR-PORTFOLIO787 484 2984             [image]  If you ever need professional freelance writing and/or translation services, short or long term, feel free to contact me. That is, if you want results that are excellent and beyond reproach.   I offer: -English or Spanish translations for almost any type of document (subtitles, technical writing, legal, websites, etc.)   -Copywriting or creative writing in either language (letters and memos, blogs or social network presence and maintenance, articles, reviews, supplements, press releases, public relations and advertising assistance, creative concepts, proofreading and editing, rewrites, transcriptions, etc.)   In addition, please contact me if you have need of general office assistance. For instance, if an employee is on vacation or there is a rush season that requires extra help. For any questions or to request an estimate (you may see a list of my basic fees here; everything is open to negotiation), reply to this emal (preferred method) or call 787 484 2984. Please visit my portfolio.  Madeleine Díaz Quilichini    [image] Copy/ Writer and Translations CLICK-HERE-FOR-PORTFOLIO787 484 2984         [image]Estoy a sus órdenes cuando necesite servicios profesionales freelance de redacción y traducción, a corto o largo plazo. Ofrezco: [image] traducción a inglés o español de cualquier tipo de documento (subtítulos para filmaciones, escritos técnicos, legales, etc.) [image] redacción/copywriting en ambos idiomas (cartas y memos, mantenimiento de blogs o presencia en redes sociales, artículos, comentario, suplementos, comunicados de prensa, relaciones públicas y publicidad, conceptos creativos, proofreading y edición de textos, servicios de transcripción, etc.) Además, me puede llamar si necesita asistencia general de oficina. Para cualquier duda o pregunta, o pedir un estimado (listado básico de tarifas aquí; negociable), responda a este email o llame al 787-484-2984. Visite mi portfolio.   Madeleine Díaz Quilichini    [image] Copy/ Writer and Translations CLICK-HERE-FOR-PORTFOLIO787 484 2984             Thu, 18 Mar 2010 09:57:11 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_Translation-and-Copywriting-Services/BLOG/2192255/16633.html mdq 2010-03-18T09:57:11Z Articles Puerto Rico Online Magazine [image]  If you ever need professional freelance writing and/or translation services, short or long term, feel free to contact me. That is, if you want results that are excellent and beyond reproach.   I offer: -English or Spanish translations for almost any type of document (subtitles, technical writing, legal, websites, etc.)   -Copywriting or creative writing in either language (letters and memos, blogs or social network presence and maintenance, articles, reviews, supplements, press releases, public relations and advertising assistance, creative concepts, proofreading and editing, rewrites, transcriptions, etc.)   In addition, please contact me if you have need of general office assistance. For instance, if an employee is on vacation or there is a rush season that requires extra help. For any questions or to request an estimate (you may see a list of my basic fees here; everything is open to negotiation), reply to this emal (preferred method) or call 787 484 2984. Please visit my portfolio.  Madeleine Díaz Quilichini    [image] Copy/ Writer and Translations CLICK-HERE-FOR-PORTFOLIO787 484 2984         [image]Estoy a sus órdenes cuando necesite servicios profesionales freelance de redacción y traducción, a corto o largo plazo. Ofrezco: [image] traducción a inglés o español de cualquier tipo de documento (subtítulos para filmaciones, escritos técnicos, legales, etc.) [image] redacción/copywriting en ambos idiomas (cartas y memos, mantenimiento de blogs o presencia en redes sociales, artículos, comentario, suplementos, comunicados de prensa, relaciones públicas y publicidad, conceptos creativos, proofreading y edición de textos, servicios de transcripción, etc.) Además, me puede llamar si necesita asistencia general de oficina. Para cualquier duda o pregunta, o pedir un estimado (listado básico de tarifas aquí; negociable), responda a este email o llame al 787-484-2984. Visite mi portfolio.   Madeleine Díaz Quilichini    [image] Copy/ Writer and Translations CLICK-HERE-FOR-PORTFOLIO787 484 2984             articles, copywriting, translations nonadult false Translation and Copywriting Services text blog articles,copywriting,translations 132 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 Articles 0 2192255 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_que-ya-no-me-importa/BLOG/1913595/16633.html ''One of the many things nobody ever tells you about middle age is that it's such a nice change from being young'' en cuestion de unos días cumplo 37 años y lo que más me gusta de ponerme "vieja" es la libertad que me da para mandar todo al mismo carajo.  ¿Salir en pajama de casa hasta la tienda de la esquina? me tiene sin cuidado, allá va la loca esa dirán los borrachos que duermen a su alrededor, y a quienes doy o no doy un peso si me siento compasiva, porque igual se van al carajo.  ¿Que el día de Halloween me preguntaron de que vestía? "Pues de mí misma" contesté y me río porque cada vez me parezco más a mí, y que se burlen los fashions y los fichus, porque soy feliz con mis trapos y doc marteens, porque lo único que realmente duele de envejecer es que cada heartbreak aumenta unas libritas que ya no logro bajar como antes. Y este último, maldito seas, me pesan veinte de más por ser idiota y enamorarme de un hombre más lindo que yo,  Y de mí dirán que estoy loca porque me maquillo con Sharpies: te reto a que encuentres un eyeliner mejor que ese. Te digo, que la gente, ya no sabe reírse de sí misma, algo tan importante. La única verdadera vergüenza (fuckin diéresis se me pierde a cada rato) fue en el banco hace como 3 años en que la falda se me fue bajando, y era tanto lo que llevaba encima que no me di cuenta y los pantis a cuadritos rojos rimaron con el color de mi cara. Pero no me ha vuelto a pasar.  Soy libre de ir y venir y de amar aunque no me amen, o dejar que me amen y me adoren mientras como uvas sin pepitas y dejo que me abaniquen todos los que quieran, porque siempre hay espacio para más amantes y más aventuras; el corazón se regenera y las pocas amistades que tengo las cuido como especies en peligro de extinción. Puedo guardar tus secretos si quieres, pero no me importa decir los míos porque a fin de cuentas yo no me he inventado nada, mi única originalidad es estar dispuesta a todo mientras valga sacarle un buen escrito después. Y así voy llegando, con 37 bien vividos, no me arrepiento de nada excepto de lo que no hice, y eso, es bien poco.      ''One of the many things nobody ever tells you about middle age is that it's such a nice change from being young'' en cuestion de unos días cumplo 37 años y lo que más me gusta de ponerme "vieja" es la libertad que me da para mandar todo al mismo carajo.  ¿Salir en pajama de casa hasta la tienda de la esquina? me tiene sin cuidado, allá va la loca esa dirán los borrachos que duermen a su alrededor, y a quienes doy o no doy un peso si me siento compasiva, porque igual se van al carajo.  ¿Que el día de Halloween me preguntaron de que vestía? "Pues de mí misma" contesté y me río porque cada vez me parezco más a mí, y que se burlen los fashions y los fichus, porque soy feliz con mis trapos y doc marteens, porque lo único que realmente duele de envejecer es que cada heartbreak aumenta unas libritas que ya no logro bajar como antes. Y este último, maldito seas, me pesan veinte de más por ser idiota y enamorarme de un hombre más lindo que yo,  Y de mí dirán que estoy loca porque me maquillo con Sharpies: te reto a que encuentres un eyeliner mejor que ese. Te digo, que la gente, ya no sabe reírse de sí misma, algo tan importante. La única verdadera vergüenza (fuckin diéresis se me pierde a cada rato) fue en el banco hace como 3 años en que la falda se me fue bajando, y era tanto lo que llevaba encima que no me di cuenta y los pantis a cuadritos rojos rimaron con el color de mi cara. Pero no me ha vuelto a pasar.  Soy libre de ir y venir y de amar aunque no me amen, o dejar que me amen y me adoren mientras como uvas sin pepitas y dejo que me abaniquen todos los que quieran, porque siempre hay espacio para más amantes y más aventuras; el corazón se regenera y las pocas amistades que tengo las cuido como especies en peligro de extinción. Puedo guardar tus secretos si quieres, pero no me importa decir los míos porque a fin de cuentas yo no me he inventado nada, mi única originalidad es estar dispuesta a todo mientras valga sacarle un buen escrito después. Y así voy llegando, con 37 bien vividos, no me arrepiento de nada excepto de lo que no hice, y eso, es bien poco.      Thu, 25 Feb 2010 06:31:18 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_que-ya-no-me-importa/BLOG/1913595/16633.html mdq 2010-02-25T06:31:18Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine ''One of the many things nobody ever tells you about middle age is that it's such a nice change from being young'' en cuestion de unos días cumplo 37 años y lo que más me gusta de ponerme "vieja" es la libertad que me da para mandar todo al mismo carajo.  ¿Salir en pajama de casa hasta la tienda de la esquina? me tiene sin cuidado, allá va la loca esa dirán los borrachos que duermen a su alrededor, y a quienes doy o no doy un peso si me siento compasiva, porque igual se van al carajo.  ¿Que el día de Halloween me preguntaron de que vestía? "Pues de mí misma" contesté y me río porque cada vez me parezco más a mí, y que se burlen los fashions y los fichus, porque soy feliz con mis trapos y doc marteens, porque lo único que realmente duele de envejecer es que cada heartbreak aumenta unas libritas que ya no logro bajar como antes. Y este último, maldito seas, me pesan veinte de más por ser idiota y enamorarme de un hombre más lindo que yo,  Y de mí dirán que estoy loca porque me maquillo con Sharpies: te reto a que encuentres un eyeliner mejor que ese. Te digo, que la gente, ya no sabe reírse de sí misma, algo tan importante. La única verdadera vergüenza (fuckin diéresis se me pierde a cada rato) fue en el banco hace como 3 años en que la falda se me fue bajando, y era tanto lo que llevaba encima que no me di cuenta y los pantis a cuadritos rojos rimaron con el color de mi cara. Pero no me ha vuelto a pasar.  Soy libre de ir y venir y de amar aunque no me amen, o dejar que me amen y me adoren mientras como uvas sin pepitas y dejo que me abaniquen todos los que quieran, porque siempre hay espacio para más amantes y más aventuras; el corazón se regenera y las pocas amistades que tengo las cuido como especies en peligro de extinción. Puedo guardar tus secretos si quieres, pero no me importa decir los míos porque a fin de cuentas yo no me he inventado nada, mi única originalidad es estar dispuesta a todo mientras valga sacarle un buen escrito después. Y así voy llegando, con 37 bien vividos, no me arrepiento de nada excepto de lo que no hice, y eso, es bien poco.      nonadult false que ya no me importa text blog 220 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1913595 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_sueo-lo-que-era/BLOG/1913479/16633.html    o es que sueño loqueras. Mira, es algo así: tengo ganas de llegar a una entrevista y decir "no me hagas perder el tiempo" y que me digas "Claro que no, dime, ¿qué buscas? tal vez lo tenemos". Y yo, como en los musicales, explotar en canción: que quiero escribir, que quiero traducir, que puedes contar conmigo forever and a day, que si se trata de la palabra, del acento, del contexto, del tono, de la diéresis, del punto, del gerundio maldito, aquí estoy: no busques más. Diste con la que es. Tuviste suerte. Soy una nerda. Casi no tengo vida fuera del abecedario o del alphabet, del libro, de la Internet. Juro solemnemente dar la página extra. Y que respondas, a coro: "Empiezas mañana, ¿qué te parece XX por hora? en seis meses, revisamos". Justo para ambos, porque ambos buscamos lo justo. A la orden, para eso estamos. Nos vemos a las nueve, y gracias, mil gracias. Te debo la vida. Te debo un almuerzo. Te doy mi riñón si quieres. Mi páncreas por un empleo. [image]Pero casi siempre el encuentro es algo como: "Sí sí sí, tengo experiencia en servicio al cliente; claro claro, soy bilingüe completamente; cómo no, me encanta trabajar hasta las 3 de la mañana; ¿salario mínimo? ¿quién pudiera querer más?" y soy todo un amor, un regalito que huele a scotch tape y zapato nuevo, hasta que mencionas ventas. Dime, por favor, porque a lo mejor estoy loca, si la cosa está en crisis, ¿por qué hay tanto empleo en ventas? ¿quién compra tanta cosa? ¿quién se gasta más de mil en un vacuum cleaner que aromatiza el aire, o en time-share, o en manicura para gatos, o en teléfonos que también hacen café, lo que todos esperábamos? [image]¿Es que no has leído mi resumé? ¿No miraste ni siquiera lo que te escribí en el email antes de hacerme llegar a las VENTAS del jurutungo de tu abuela? Tres o cuatro horas de mi vida que no vuelvo a ver, por no decir nada de que llegué a tiempo pero el entrevistador, ya seas tú o tu jefe, tan lindo, acaba de irse a almorzar, o a recoger las nenas al ballet. No te preocupes, si el tiempo me sobra.Me pregunto si de este modo aseguran que eres "humillable". Dicen querer gente honesta y trabajadora, pero evalúan mejor al sometido y obediente, el que tiene miedo de no poder dar de comer a los siete hijos que tuvo sin pensar. Sin pensar en la sobrepoblación, en lo que cuesta la educación, en enseñarles a cómo escribir una oración, y en apreciar al artista y al basurero, al doctor y a la enfermera, al que deja el pellejo por amor, y que se merece lo suyo también. [image]  Así, de chiste en chiste, termino amiga de las recepcionistas. Cuando las hay, porque ni hablar de los sistemas auto-martirizados. Me he puesto en ridículo gritando de frustración a una idiota grabación. Pero, qué le puede importar al señor/a mas.que.manda, porque el tiempo de ellos, ja ja, qué rayos: son horas de trabajo. Su trabajo asalariado y cómodo, con días de vacaciones, de enfermedad y personales. Tal vez les divierte jugar así, como si fuésemos pulgas de circo. Ponernos a bailar en una pata, con un jugoso empleo al frente de las narices (o un empleo mísero, en estos tiempos no importa, dame un empleo, el que sea, no estoy para escoger; siempre que no sea en ventas) para luego decir "aquí pagamos comisión"... y la esperanza se vuelve agua, luego vapor, y desaparece. Comisión. ¡Si yo no pude ni vender mis propias artesanías para pagar 20 pesos del servicio de gas! Si no es esa escena, es que estoy demasiado cualificada, es que no tengo cualificaciones, es que quieren a alguien mayor, o menor, o que se desnude, y que baile flamenco, o que se desnude bailando flamenco mientras hace la contabilidad, y a veces es todo esto, además de que hables ruso. Pero, entiéndase que es salario mínimo. El abuso es espeluznante. Dan deseos de extirparme un diente frente a ellos y dejarlo en su escritorio. Estilo Fight Club. Nada más por verles la cara de horror y poder decir, antes de irme con el culo en alto: así es que se siente. Me llaman, estas criaturas (inhumanas??) que vieron mis credenciales, me llenan el buzón de voz, me citan para entrevistas, me ilusionan. Me preparo. Me tapo los tatuajes. Me cambio los mahones. Me visto de gente seria. Me presento. Sonrío con empeño, pongo cara de buenaza, de empleada, de persona que jamás se atrevería a no tratarle de "usted", de entregada, de subordinada. Fast forward, luego del examen ginecológico de mi vida, comenzando en high school, y después de decirme dónde me voy a sentar, qué ventanas atravesaré con la mirada de mañana en adelante, después de mostrarme donde se toma el café, o explicar que la puerta del baño se atora, luego de casi ofrecerme el empleo ¡PUF! desaparecen, como varones adolescentes una vez se acaba la noche del Prom. No responden los mensajes ni por email, ni por voz. Una vez, de puro reto, llamé todos los días un mes completo, a la agencia XYZ, donde para colmo, un amigo casual me había entrevistado. Pensé, a este lo voy a cansar con mensajes, con perseverancia, con el deseo de trabajar. Lo canso porque lo canso. Ese empleo es mío. Pero pudo más la vergüenza que el empeño, y ya en la tercera semana me sentía que era una stalker. Sólo me faltaba alquilar un Taurus y esperarlo a que saliera del trabajo, seguirlo hasta la casa (en Torrimar o Garden Hills, por supuesto - nada en contra, mi madre vive allí) y sacudirlo por sus delicaditos hombros de oficina. [image]Como freelancer, es otro cuento. Me llaman, urgentes, llorando, porque necesitan traducciones, uf, el documento, ay, tiene 30 páginas, oh no, pobre de mí, y ahora, ¿quién podrá ayudarles?Yo no sé quién al fin los ayuda, porque cuando presento mis razonables tarifas, tarifas prácticamente de principiante, aunque tengo 18 años en esta jodienda (porque de veras me gusta, la palabrota es para efecto), y digo y repito, "podemos negociar", se le erizan los pelos, se le cierran los poros, la boca se seca y las tripas se enredan. ¿Qué pasa aquí? ¿Quieren el trabajo regalado? Pero a ellos, ¿no les pagan por sus días, sus horas, su tiempo? ¿por qué voy yo a dejar de cobrar lo justo?¿Después de endeudarme hasta las tetas para ir a un college de alta reputación, que me costó no quieras saber cuánto, y convertir mis ojos en un par de huevos fritos de tanto estudiar? ¿Y le vas a dar a tu sobrino la traducción? ¿Para después darte cuenta que mis servicios valen lo que digo, y más, porque soy experta en lo que hago? ¿y tu sobrinito no sabe ni que la "o" sólo se acentúa entre números? Mientras tanto, yo, yendo a casa de mami a saquear los estantes, buscando cereal, yogurt, galletas ritz, tupperwares de arroz y pollo guisado, porque no tengo ni con qué ir al supermercado. Porque en supermax no me aceptan traducciones ni poemitas como paga. Porque aún no se puede comprar nada con la cara linda, como dice la estrofa aquella de aquel poeta "beat" en su poema sobre América. Aparte de advertir, que estamos vivos, pero nuestra sociedad enferma ha llegado a lo podrido.      o es que sueño loqueras. Mira, es algo así: tengo ganas de llegar a una entrevista y decir "no me hagas perder el tiempo" y que me digas "Claro que no, dime, ¿qué buscas? tal vez lo tenemos". Y yo, como en los musicales, explotar en canción: que quiero escribir, que quiero traducir, que puedes contar conmigo forever and a day, que si se trata de la palabra, del acento, del contexto, del tono, de la diéresis, del punto, del gerundio maldito, aquí estoy: no busques más. Diste con la que es. Tuviste suerte. Soy una nerda. Casi no tengo vida fuera del abecedario o del alphabet, del libro, de la Internet. Juro solemnemente dar la página extra. Y que respondas, a coro: "Empiezas mañana, ¿qué te parece XX por hora? en seis meses, revisamos". Justo para ambos, porque ambos buscamos lo justo. A la orden, para eso estamos. Nos vemos a las nueve, y gracias, mil gracias. Te debo la vida. Te debo un almuerzo. Te doy mi riñón si quieres. Mi páncreas por un empleo. [image]Pero casi siempre el encuentro es algo como: "Sí sí sí, tengo experiencia en servicio al cliente; claro claro, soy bilingüe completamente; cómo no, me encanta trabajar hasta las 3 de la mañana; ¿salario mínimo? ¿quién pudiera querer más?" y soy todo un amor, un regalito que huele a scotch tape y zapato nuevo, hasta que mencionas ventas. Dime, por favor, porque a lo mejor estoy loca, si la cosa está en crisis, ¿por qué hay tanto empleo en ventas? ¿quién compra tanta cosa? ¿quién se gasta más de mil en un vacuum cleaner que aromatiza el aire, o en time-share, o en manicura para gatos, o en teléfonos que también hacen café, lo que todos esperábamos? [image]¿Es que no has leído mi resumé? ¿No miraste ni siquiera lo que te escribí en el email antes de hacerme llegar a las VENTAS del jurutungo de tu abuela? Tres o cuatro horas de mi vida que no vuelvo a ver, por no decir nada de que llegué a tiempo pero el entrevistador, ya seas tú o tu jefe, tan lindo, acaba de irse a almorzar, o a recoger las nenas al ballet. No te preocupes, si el tiempo me sobra.Me pregunto si de este modo aseguran que eres "humillable". Dicen querer gente honesta y trabajadora, pero evalúan mejor al sometido y obediente, el que tiene miedo de no poder dar de comer a los siete hijos que tuvo sin pensar. Sin pensar en la sobrepoblación, en lo que cuesta la educación, en enseñarles a cómo escribir una oración, y en apreciar al artista y al basurero, al doctor y a la enfermera, al que deja el pellejo por amor, y que se merece lo suyo también. [image]  Así, de chiste en chiste, termino amiga de las recepcionistas. Cuando las hay, porque ni hablar de los sistemas auto-martirizados. Me he puesto en ridículo gritando de frustración a una idiota grabación. Pero, qué le puede importar al señor/a mas.que.manda, porque el tiempo de ellos, ja ja, qué rayos: son horas de trabajo. Su trabajo asalariado y cómodo, con días de vacaciones, de enfermedad y personales. Tal vez les divierte jugar así, como si fuésemos pulgas de circo. Ponernos a bailar en una pata, con un jugoso empleo al frente de las narices (o un empleo mísero, en estos tiempos no importa, dame un empleo, el que sea, no estoy para escoger; siempre que no sea en ventas) para luego decir "aquí pagamos comisión"... y la esperanza se vuelve agua, luego vapor, y desaparece. Comisión. ¡Si yo no pude ni vender mis propias artesanías para pagar 20 pesos del servicio de gas! Si no es esa escena, es que estoy demasiado cualificada, es que no tengo cualificaciones, es que quieren a alguien mayor, o menor, o que se desnude, y que baile flamenco, o que se desnude bailando flamenco mientras hace la contabilidad, y a veces es todo esto, además de que hables ruso. Pero, entiéndase que es salario mínimo. El abuso es espeluznante. Dan deseos de extirparme un diente frente a ellos y dejarlo en su escritorio. Estilo Fight Club. Nada más por verles la cara de horror y poder decir, antes de irme con el culo en alto: así es que se siente. Me llaman, estas criaturas (inhumanas??) que vieron mis credenciales, me llenan el buzón de voz, me citan para entrevistas, me ilusionan. Me preparo. Me tapo los tatuajes. Me cambio los mahones. Me visto de gente seria. Me presento. Sonrío con empeño, pongo cara de buenaza, de empleada, de persona que jamás se atrevería a no tratarle de "usted", de entregada, de subordinada. Fast forward, luego del examen ginecológico de mi vida, comenzando en high school, y después de decirme dónde me voy a sentar, qué ventanas atravesaré con la mirada de mañana en adelante, después de mostrarme donde se toma el café, o explicar que la puerta del baño se atora, luego de casi ofrecerme el empleo ¡PUF! desaparecen, como varones adolescentes una vez se acaba la noche del Prom. No responden los mensajes ni por email, ni por voz. Una vez, de puro reto, llamé todos los días un mes completo, a la agencia XYZ, donde para colmo, un amigo casual me había entrevistado. Pensé, a este lo voy a cansar con mensajes, con perseverancia, con el deseo de trabajar. Lo canso porque lo canso. Ese empleo es mío. Pero pudo más la vergüenza que el empeño, y ya en la tercera semana me sentía que era una stalker. Sólo me faltaba alquilar un Taurus y esperarlo a que saliera del trabajo, seguirlo hasta la casa (en Torrimar o Garden Hills, por supuesto - nada en contra, mi madre vive allí) y sacudirlo por sus delicaditos hombros de oficina. [image]Como freelancer, es otro cuento. Me llaman, urgentes, llorando, porque necesitan traducciones, uf, el documento, ay, tiene 30 páginas, oh no, pobre de mí, y ahora, ¿quién podrá ayudarles?Yo no sé quién al fin los ayuda, porque cuando presento mis razonables tarifas, tarifas prácticamente de principiante, aunque tengo 18 años en esta jodienda (porque de veras me gusta, la palabrota es para efecto), y digo y repito, "podemos negociar", se le erizan los pelos, se le cierran los poros, la boca se seca y las tripas se enredan. ¿Qué pasa aquí? ¿Quieren el trabajo regalado? Pero a ellos, ¿no les pagan por sus días, sus horas, su tiempo? ¿por qué voy yo a dejar de cobrar lo justo?¿Después de endeudarme hasta las tetas para ir a un college de alta reputación, que me costó no quieras saber cuánto, y convertir mis ojos en un par de huevos fritos de tanto estudiar? ¿Y le vas a dar a tu sobrino la traducción? ¿Para después darte cuenta que mis servicios valen lo que digo, y más, porque soy experta en lo que hago? ¿y tu sobrinito no sabe ni que la "o" sólo se acentúa entre números? Mientras tanto, yo, yendo a casa de mami a saquear los estantes, buscando cereal, yogurt, galletas ritz, tupperwares de arroz y pollo guisado, porque no tengo ni con qué ir al supermercado. Porque en supermax no me aceptan traducciones ni poemitas como paga. Porque aún no se puede comprar nada con la cara linda, como dice la estrofa aquella de aquel poeta "beat" en su poema sobre América. Aparte de advertir, que estamos vivos, pero nuestra sociedad enferma ha llegado a lo podrido.   Thu, 25 Feb 2010 06:25:38 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_sueo-lo-que-era/BLOG/1913479/16633.html mdq 2010-02-25T06:25:38Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine    o es que sueño loqueras. Mira, es algo así: tengo ganas de llegar a una entrevista y decir "no me hagas perder el tiempo" y que me digas "Claro que no, dime, ¿qué buscas? tal vez lo tenemos". Y yo, como en los musicales, explotar en canción: que quiero escribir, que quiero traducir, que puedes contar conmigo forever and a day, que si se trata de la palabra, del acento, del contexto, del tono, de la diéresis, del punto, del gerundio maldito, aquí estoy: no busques más. Diste con la que es. Tuviste suerte. Soy una nerda. Casi no tengo vida fuera del abecedario o del alphabet, del libro, de la Internet. Juro solemnemente dar la página extra. Y que respondas, a coro: "Empiezas mañana, ¿qué te parece XX por hora? en seis meses, revisamos". Justo para ambos, porque ambos buscamos lo justo. A la orden, para eso estamos. Nos vemos a las nueve, y gracias, mil gracias. Te debo la vida. Te debo un almuerzo. Te doy mi riñón si quieres. Mi páncreas por un empleo. [image]Pero casi siempre el encuentro es algo como: "Sí sí sí, tengo experiencia en servicio al cliente; claro claro, soy bilingüe completamente; cómo no, me encanta trabajar hasta las 3 de la mañana; ¿salario mínimo? ¿quién pudiera querer más?" y soy todo un amor, un regalito que huele a scotch tape y zapato nuevo, hasta que mencionas ventas. Dime, por favor, porque a lo mejor estoy loca, si la cosa está en crisis, ¿por qué hay tanto empleo en ventas? ¿quién compra tanta cosa? ¿quién se gasta más de mil en un vacuum cleaner que aromatiza el aire, o en time-share, o en manicura para gatos, o en teléfonos que también hacen café, lo que todos esperábamos? [image]¿Es que no has leído mi resumé? ¿No miraste ni siquiera lo que te escribí en el email antes de hacerme llegar a las VENTAS del jurutungo de tu abuela? Tres o cuatro horas de mi vida que no vuelvo a ver, por no decir nada de que llegué a tiempo pero el entrevistador, ya seas tú o tu jefe, tan lindo, acaba de irse a almorzar, o a recoger las nenas al ballet. No te preocupes, si el tiempo me sobra.Me pregunto si de este modo aseguran que eres "humillable". Dicen querer gente honesta y trabajadora, pero evalúan mejor al sometido y obediente, el que tiene miedo de no poder dar de comer a los siete hijos que tuvo sin pensar. Sin pensar en la sobrepoblación, en lo que cuesta la educación, en enseñarles a cómo escribir una oración, y en apreciar al artista y al basurero, al doctor y a la enfermera, al que deja el pellejo por amor, y que se merece lo suyo también. [image]  Así, de chiste en chiste, termino amiga de las recepcionistas. Cuando las hay, porque ni hablar de los sistemas auto-martirizados. Me he puesto en ridículo gritando de frustración a una idiota grabación. Pero, qué le puede importar al señor/a mas.que.manda, porque el tiempo de ellos, ja ja, qué rayos: son horas de trabajo. Su trabajo asalariado y cómodo, con días de vacaciones, de enfermedad y personales. Tal vez les divierte jugar así, como si fuésemos pulgas de circo. Ponernos a bailar en una pata, con un jugoso empleo al frente de las narices (o un empleo mísero, en estos tiempos no importa, dame un empleo, el que sea, no estoy para escoger; siempre que no sea en ventas) para luego decir "aquí pagamos comisión"... y la esperanza se vuelve agua, luego vapor, y desaparece. Comisión. ¡Si yo no pude ni vender mis propias artesanías para pagar 20 pesos del servicio de gas! Si no es esa escena, es que estoy demasiado cualificada, es que no tengo cualificaciones, es que quieren a alguien mayor, o menor, o que se desnude, y que baile flamenco, o que se desnude bailando flamenco mientras hace la contabilidad, y a veces es todo esto, además de que hables ruso. Pero, entiéndase que es salario mínimo. El abuso es espeluznante. Dan deseos de extirparme un diente frente a ellos y dejarlo en su escritorio. Estilo Fight Club. Nada más por verles la cara de horror y poder decir, antes de irme con el culo en alto: así es que se siente. Me llaman, estas criaturas (inhumanas??) que vieron mis credenciales, me llenan el buzón de voz, me citan para entrevistas, me ilusionan. Me preparo. Me tapo los tatuajes. Me cambio los mahones. Me visto de gente seria. Me presento. Sonrío con empeño, pongo cara de buenaza, de empleada, de persona que jamás se atrevería a no tratarle de "usted", de entregada, de subordinada. Fast forward, luego del examen ginecológico de mi vida, comenzando en high school, y después de decirme dónde me voy a sentar, qué ventanas atravesaré con la mirada de mañana en adelante, después de mostrarme donde se toma el café, o explicar que la puerta del baño se atora, luego de casi ofrecerme el empleo ¡PUF! desaparecen, como varones adolescentes una vez se acaba la noche del Prom. No responden los mensajes ni por email, ni por voz. Una vez, de puro reto, llamé todos los días un mes completo, a la agencia XYZ, donde para colmo, un amigo casual me había entrevistado. Pensé, a este lo voy a cansar con mensajes, con perseverancia, con el deseo de trabajar. Lo canso porque lo canso. Ese empleo es mío. Pero pudo más la vergüenza que el empeño, y ya en la tercera semana me sentía que era una stalker. Sólo me faltaba alquilar un Taurus y esperarlo a que saliera del trabajo, seguirlo hasta la casa (en Torrimar o Garden Hills, por supuesto - nada en contra, mi madre vive allí) y sacudirlo por sus delicaditos hombros de oficina. [image]Como freelancer, es otro cuento. Me llaman, urgentes, llorando, porque necesitan traducciones, uf, el documento, ay, tiene 30 páginas, oh no, pobre de mí, y ahora, ¿quién podrá ayudarles?Yo no sé quién al fin los ayuda, porque cuando presento mis razonables tarifas, tarifas prácticamente de principiante, aunque tengo 18 años en esta jodienda (porque de veras me gusta, la palabrota es para efecto), y digo y repito, "podemos negociar", se le erizan los pelos, se le cierran los poros, la boca se seca y las tripas se enredan. ¿Qué pasa aquí? ¿Quieren el trabajo regalado? Pero a ellos, ¿no les pagan por sus días, sus horas, su tiempo? ¿por qué voy yo a dejar de cobrar lo justo?¿Después de endeudarme hasta las tetas para ir a un college de alta reputación, que me costó no quieras saber cuánto, y convertir mis ojos en un par de huevos fritos de tanto estudiar? ¿Y le vas a dar a tu sobrino la traducción? ¿Para después darte cuenta que mis servicios valen lo que digo, y más, porque soy experta en lo que hago? ¿y tu sobrinito no sabe ni que la "o" sólo se acentúa entre números? Mientras tanto, yo, yendo a casa de mami a saquear los estantes, buscando cereal, yogurt, galletas ritz, tupperwares de arroz y pollo guisado, porque no tengo ni con qué ir al supermercado. Porque en supermax no me aceptan traducciones ni poemitas como paga. Porque aún no se puede comprar nada con la cara linda, como dice la estrofa aquella de aquel poeta "beat" en su poema sobre América. Aparte de advertir, que estamos vivos, pero nuestra sociedad enferma ha llegado a lo podrido.   nonadult false sueño lo que era text blog 266 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1913479 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_Codependence-anger/BLOG/1905844/16633.html   with tears I greet the new year. Didn't mean for that to rhyme.                   How did I come to be this fat pathetic bitch girlfriend, exactly what you think of me, it bears fruit that tastes of bitter tar and bile, I am destroyed, quartered, my skin peeled off, strip by strip, strips of me cling to everything, like, you can find pieces of me in the fridge, under the bed, on those impossible to remove dust bunnies on the broom's bristles and my weapon of choice is a safety pin, I defend myself with safety pins, everywhere. I pin my clothes to my underwear, pin myself to this existence, because a razor and a tubful of warm water have never seemed so delicious, I hate you with the hate of centuries, of generations of women who were before, I hate me, I hate this pathetic excuse of a relationship, I hate the child I haven't had, and now I hope to never have, your diabolical spawn, and if it turns out I'm pregnant, I'll wait until the fifth month to abort it, and I will kill you in that small vindictive petty way, I hate that you've never wiped away one of my tears, just one, just to know what it tastes like, who are you, where is he, who used to ask me to collect my sweat in a jar to drink it later, you used to admire everything, every thing, every single thing I was but am no more, because it died, you killed it, and I ask, what is this, who are you, who am I, what is this, what is this, what is this, because, should this be love, god help us, there is no point at all. Can't remember what I fell in love with, this, my worst nightmare, to see the person I loved deformed by the strength of my aversion, revulsion, scorn, spite, pain, rancor, repugnance, I abhor with all the horror of my heart, you repel me, diabolical being, I detest you, abominable creature. How have we arrived at this, sick, toxic, dead relation-sinking-ship, how did it get to this point, when you threatened to hit me- the last green shoots for hope finally died, and I hate you for killing my love, I never knew how much it hurts to fall out of love, I HATE YOU for teaching me this, I did not need to learn, I HATE YOU comes out of my mouth the way I LOVE YOU used to, and I am, again, a screaming desperate child starving for something that might resemble protection, refuge, a haven, I HATE YOU, (nothing provides relief, I want the courage to take it all back, the years, the wasted love, my god, the money!!!! I want my key back, I want to walk out, I want my heart back, I want to heal and mend it, I want you to die, motherfucker, I want to kill you with my bare fuckin hands) and then beg you to please please please show some compassion. All this, of course, after cooking two hours - the front door opens, cloven hooves step in, all 6'2'' inches of plutonium, yellow cake, death, hiroshima and chernobyl reborn in human shape, and a pretty one at that, how unfair it is, the distribution of beauty, so now, death is here and look at me!! with my lively ridiculous grin, girls are taught to smile at the beast, at the dragon, at the wolf, at satan himself if he came over and said ''let's go see a movie''. I smile, dressed up, like a good little bitch, and say hello, How are.... and you spit in my face, fling false accusation, disgust pouring out, snakes, frogs, more maggots, sliming over my nice clean tanktop with the push up bra beneath although, at this point, what used to be breasts have withered down to humilliated unloved tumors, I can't even look at myself anymore, or you, your perfectly long yet manly curls of blonde-red hair, the robert plant look, or bon jovi, or whatever name your stupid fan base is giving you this week the strut, the cock's proud gait, death is here and oh my, i used to want to fuck you until I died, now I just want you to fuck off and die  We know this, you and I, the resentment is larger than our combined weight, larger than our hearts, there is no mending, it is broken beyond repair. Maggots come out of its mouth, the mouth opens to say, to form words, to tell you about, resolutions: Truly believe in clean slates and on the third day, today, already considered piercing your back with a knife while you lay on my bed, soiling everything, such soil murders whatever sprouts, your mere presence stunts its growth, there lives in you an evilness, an old demon dwells behind the sweet handome face I've come to hate, with a hatred that's worse than cancer, you hide the cancer, camouflaged behind a facade of quietude, serenity, it sits just out of sight of your face, with features that were the incarnation of meaning, of reason, love and tenderness, but now you rape my sensibilities, your eyes, so charming and sparkling three years ago, now bring me to the point of ire and madness, pure insanity, I hate you with a hate reserved for pedophiles and terrorists let me sleep, you say, go away, you say, you brought this on yourself, you say vomit and vomit it is, for breakfast and lunch, you say shit, and for dinner, shit warmed over, you say, drop to the floor, beg, and I crawl, you hand out misery like its candy on halloween, in steady almost cheerful amounts, with side orders of cruelty or boredom, or silent treatment, removal of my friend, partner, extirpation of love, abandonment. I give as good as I get and it pleases me to see your misery, your pain, glad to see you pinned down like a bug, knowing this is your doing, fucking moron, inbred dickhead.  Not the usual rant today. This will smell like dead meat, forcing a gag reflex, this has been poisoned, dying an agonizing slow death, and putrefying while clinging to life. Please stop reading now, this won't be funny or clever or hopeful. I'm at my wit's end, have trapped myself inside this solitary cell, and then flushed the key down the toilet, like everything in my life, all the shit, all down the toilet. There is no hope.   with tears I greet the new year. Didn't mean for that to rhyme.                   How did I come to be this fat pathetic bitch girlfriend, exactly what you think of me, it bears fruit that tastes of bitter tar and bile, I am destroyed, quartered, my skin peeled off, strip by strip, strips of me cling to everything, like, you can find pieces of me in the fridge, under the bed, on those impossible to remove dust bunnies on the broom's bristles and my weapon of choice is a safety pin, I defend myself with safety pins, everywhere. I pin my clothes to my underwear, pin myself to this existence, because a razor and a tubful of warm water have never seemed so delicious, I hate you with the hate of centuries, of generations of women who were before, I hate me, I hate this pathetic excuse of a relationship, I hate the child I haven't had, and now I hope to never have, your diabolical spawn, and if it turns out I'm pregnant, I'll wait until the fifth month to abort it, and I will kill you in that small vindictive petty way, I hate that you've never wiped away one of my tears, just one, just to know what it tastes like, who are you, where is he, who used to ask me to collect my sweat in a jar to drink it later, you used to admire everything, every thing, every single thing I was but am no more, because it died, you killed it, and I ask, what is this, who are you, who am I, what is this, what is this, what is this, because, should this be love, god help us, there is no point at all. Can't remember what I fell in love with, this, my worst nightmare, to see the person I loved deformed by the strength of my aversion, revulsion, scorn, spite, pain, rancor, repugnance, I abhor with all the horror of my heart, you repel me, diabolical being, I detest you, abominable creature. How have we arrived at this, sick, toxic, dead relation-sinking-ship, how did it get to this point, when you threatened to hit me- the last green shoots for hope finally died, and I hate you for killing my love, I never knew how much it hurts to fall out of love, I HATE YOU for teaching me this, I did not need to learn, I HATE YOU comes out of my mouth the way I LOVE YOU used to, and I am, again, a screaming desperate child starving for something that might resemble protection, refuge, a haven, I HATE YOU, (nothing provides relief, I want the courage to take it all back, the years, the wasted love, my god, the money!!!! I want my key back, I want to walk out, I want my heart back, I want to heal and mend it, I want you to die, motherfucker, I want to kill you with my bare fuckin hands) and then beg you to please please please show some compassion. All this, of course, after cooking two hours - the front door opens, cloven hooves step in, all 6'2'' inches of plutonium, yellow cake, death, hiroshima and chernobyl reborn in human shape, and a pretty one at that, how unfair it is, the distribution of beauty, so now, death is here and look at me!! with my lively ridiculous grin, girls are taught to smile at the beast, at the dragon, at the wolf, at satan himself if he came over and said ''let's go see a movie''. I smile, dressed up, like a good little bitch, and say hello, How are.... and you spit in my face, fling false accusation, disgust pouring out, snakes, frogs, more maggots, sliming over my nice clean tanktop with the push up bra beneath although, at this point, what used to be breasts have withered down to humilliated unloved tumors, I can't even look at myself anymore, or you, your perfectly long yet manly curls of blonde-red hair, the robert plant look, or bon jovi, or whatever name your stupid fan base is giving you this week the strut, the cock's proud gait, death is here and oh my, i used to want to fuck you until I died, now I just want you to fuck off and die  We know this, you and I, the resentment is larger than our combined weight, larger than our hearts, there is no mending, it is broken beyond repair. Maggots come out of its mouth, the mouth opens to say, to form words, to tell you about, resolutions: Truly believe in clean slates and on the third day, today, already considered piercing your back with a knife while you lay on my bed, soiling everything, such soil murders whatever sprouts, your mere presence stunts its growth, there lives in you an evilness, an old demon dwells behind the sweet handome face I've come to hate, with a hatred that's worse than cancer, you hide the cancer, camouflaged behind a facade of quietude, serenity, it sits just out of sight of your face, with features that were the incarnation of meaning, of reason, love and tenderness, but now you rape my sensibilities, your eyes, so charming and sparkling three years ago, now bring me to the point of ire and madness, pure insanity, I hate you with a hate reserved for pedophiles and terrorists let me sleep, you say, go away, you say, you brought this on yourself, you say vomit and vomit it is, for breakfast and lunch, you say shit, and for dinner, shit warmed over, you say, drop to the floor, beg, and I crawl, you hand out misery like its candy on halloween, in steady almost cheerful amounts, with side orders of cruelty or boredom, or silent treatment, removal of my friend, partner, extirpation of love, abandonment. I give as good as I get and it pleases me to see your misery, your pain, glad to see you pinned down like a bug, knowing this is your doing, fucking moron, inbred dickhead.  Not the usual rant today. This will smell like dead meat, forcing a gag reflex, this has been poisoned, dying an agonizing slow death, and putrefying while clinging to life. Please stop reading now, this won't be funny or clever or hopeful. I'm at my wit's end, have trapped myself inside this solitary cell, and then flushed the key down the toilet, like everything in my life, all the shit, all down the toilet. There is no hope. Wed, 24 Feb 2010 23:37:08 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_Codependence-anger/BLOG/1905844/16633.html mdq 2010-02-24T23:37:08Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine   with tears I greet the new year. Didn't mean for that to rhyme.                   How did I come to be this fat pathetic bitch girlfriend, exactly what you think of me, it bears fruit that tastes of bitter tar and bile, I am destroyed, quartered, my skin peeled off, strip by strip, strips of me cling to everything, like, you can find pieces of me in the fridge, under the bed, on those impossible to remove dust bunnies on the broom's bristles and my weapon of choice is a safety pin, I defend myself with safety pins, everywhere. I pin my clothes to my underwear, pin myself to this existence, because a razor and a tubful of warm water have never seemed so delicious, I hate you with the hate of centuries, of generations of women who were before, I hate me, I hate this pathetic excuse of a relationship, I hate the child I haven't had, and now I hope to never have, your diabolical spawn, and if it turns out I'm pregnant, I'll wait until the fifth month to abort it, and I will kill you in that small vindictive petty way, I hate that you've never wiped away one of my tears, just one, just to know what it tastes like, who are you, where is he, who used to ask me to collect my sweat in a jar to drink it later, you used to admire everything, every thing, every single thing I was but am no more, because it died, you killed it, and I ask, what is this, who are you, who am I, what is this, what is this, what is this, because, should this be love, god help us, there is no point at all. Can't remember what I fell in love with, this, my worst nightmare, to see the person I loved deformed by the strength of my aversion, revulsion, scorn, spite, pain, rancor, repugnance, I abhor with all the horror of my heart, you repel me, diabolical being, I detest you, abominable creature. How have we arrived at this, sick, toxic, dead relation-sinking-ship, how did it get to this point, when you threatened to hit me- the last green shoots for hope finally died, and I hate you for killing my love, I never knew how much it hurts to fall out of love, I HATE YOU for teaching me this, I did not need to learn, I HATE YOU comes out of my mouth the way I LOVE YOU used to, and I am, again, a screaming desperate child starving for something that might resemble protection, refuge, a haven, I HATE YOU, (nothing provides relief, I want the courage to take it all back, the years, the wasted love, my god, the money!!!! I want my key back, I want to walk out, I want my heart back, I want to heal and mend it, I want you to die, motherfucker, I want to kill you with my bare fuckin hands) and then beg you to please please please show some compassion. All this, of course, after cooking two hours - the front door opens, cloven hooves step in, all 6'2'' inches of plutonium, yellow cake, death, hiroshima and chernobyl reborn in human shape, and a pretty one at that, how unfair it is, the distribution of beauty, so now, death is here and look at me!! with my lively ridiculous grin, girls are taught to smile at the beast, at the dragon, at the wolf, at satan himself if he came over and said ''let's go see a movie''. I smile, dressed up, like a good little bitch, and say hello, How are.... and you spit in my face, fling false accusation, disgust pouring out, snakes, frogs, more maggots, sliming over my nice clean tanktop with the push up bra beneath although, at this point, what used to be breasts have withered down to humilliated unloved tumors, I can't even look at myself anymore, or you, your perfectly long yet manly curls of blonde-red hair, the robert plant look, or bon jovi, or whatever name your stupid fan base is giving you this week the strut, the cock's proud gait, death is here and oh my, i used to want to fuck you until I died, now I just want you to fuck off and die  We know this, you and I, the resentment is larger than our combined weight, larger than our hearts, there is no mending, it is broken beyond repair. Maggots come out of its mouth, the mouth opens to say, to form words, to tell you about, resolutions: Truly believe in clean slates and on the third day, today, already considered piercing your back with a knife while you lay on my bed, soiling everything, such soil murders whatever sprouts, your mere presence stunts its growth, there lives in you an evilness, an old demon dwells behind the sweet handome face I've come to hate, with a hatred that's worse than cancer, you hide the cancer, camouflaged behind a facade of quietude, serenity, it sits just out of sight of your face, with features that were the incarnation of meaning, of reason, love and tenderness, but now you rape my sensibilities, your eyes, so charming and sparkling three years ago, now bring me to the point of ire and madness, pure insanity, I hate you with a hate reserved for pedophiles and terrorists let me sleep, you say, go away, you say, you brought this on yourself, you say vomit and vomit it is, for breakfast and lunch, you say shit, and for dinner, shit warmed over, you say, drop to the floor, beg, and I crawl, you hand out misery like its candy on halloween, in steady almost cheerful amounts, with side orders of cruelty or boredom, or silent treatment, removal of my friend, partner, extirpation of love, abandonment. I give as good as I get and it pleases me to see your misery, your pain, glad to see you pinned down like a bug, knowing this is your doing, fucking moron, inbred dickhead.  Not the usual rant today. This will smell like dead meat, forcing a gag reflex, this has been poisoned, dying an agonizing slow death, and putrefying while clinging to life. Please stop reading now, this won't be funny or clever or hopeful. I'm at my wit's end, have trapped myself inside this solitary cell, and then flushed the key down the toilet, like everything in my life, all the shit, all down the toilet. There is no hope. nonadult false Codependence, anger text blog 149 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1905844 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_another-rant/BLOG/1905805/16633.html  The heat, I could cook a chicken under each armpit and roast a turkey between my legs. I could take it all off while walking to my corporate job and still feel encased in a thin sheet of Hefty garbage bag plastics. The smell of the streets intoxicates, sweat, vomit, excessive perfume, cheap or expensive after shave, it's all the same; we walk, almost defeated, oppressed. Why won't the government do something about the temperature! As we turn into a cement patio, soon to be hosed down island-wide, somebody somewhere should propose a move, move the whole fuckin island, somewhere less inelegant, where one can dress in the morning and still look fresh an hour later, not like a wet bathroom mat with smeared mascara.  The drivers are, as usual, the worst. No pity, it's too hot for pity, and the local insanity gets more catastrophic every summer - more accidents, more shootings, more of all the awful, nothing good to report. A drunk young man crashed into my car from behind, destroying all hope that the worst year of my life was improving. The alcohol fumes smelled of waste and sadness in the blue steam of the night. A front upper tooth was missing from my mouth and I cried and cried and cried and looked for it, looked with the deluded notion that it would be possible to Krazy Glue it on until a dentist could be seen. The drunk boy was taken away in cuffs. And I went to a job interview the following morning with the broken piece of my life, front and center, for all to see and stare and wonder. No, I didn't get the job simply for being brave and showing up like a battered girlfriend. Battered. There's a word. My tempura life, I'm fried beyond recognition even though a fake tooth promptly appeared. Root canal digging shards of white pain up to the final nerve of the brain stem, and, fuck it, I don't care, it's still unfinished a month later because I can't stand anymore pain. And then, a month and a half goes by.  And the heat is even worse now. And the car body shop owner flirts with me, made me curious, said yes to dinner at his house. A house like an oven turned to low; the fare? fried plaintains, fried dominican sausage. The shirtless host, spotted with unsightly tufts of tight curlies all over the chest and belly, what was I thinking? Oh god, oh gods, we'll we, ever, any of us, understand what another wants, expects, hopes for, and try to please? In his balcony after the refreshing meal I smoked some six cigarettes, waiting for the right moment good night.  Fail to see what made me curious once. The eyes? eyes like an occult expert, like a dark witch doctor, but the eyes aren't enough, not enough, you see. I hate with the hate of the hopeless and helpless. Tired. So tired from anger, that internal combustion burning all the gladness, all the soothing, turned to cinders, broken like a tooth, dying from the heat, and requesting secretly for a magic stroke to happen, a stroke, a stroke, my kingdom for a stroke, or a heart attack, or why didn't the drunkard hit my driver's door instead, and land me in a coma, where I could lose weight without trying, six months or so, wake up in december to headline news: PR cooling, record lows, the roses are blooming, and there's frost in the mornings...  The heat, I could cook a chicken under each armpit and roast a turkey between my legs. I could take it all off while walking to my corporate job and still feel encased in a thin sheet of Hefty garbage bag plastics. The smell of the streets intoxicates, sweat, vomit, excessive perfume, cheap or expensive after shave, it's all the same; we walk, almost defeated, oppressed. Why won't the government do something about the temperature! As we turn into a cement patio, soon to be hosed down island-wide, somebody somewhere should propose a move, move the whole fuckin island, somewhere less inelegant, where one can dress in the morning and still look fresh an hour later, not like a wet bathroom mat with smeared mascara.  The drivers are, as usual, the worst. No pity, it's too hot for pity, and the local insanity gets more catastrophic every summer - more accidents, more shootings, more of all the awful, nothing good to report. A drunk young man crashed into my car from behind, destroying all hope that the worst year of my life was improving. The alcohol fumes smelled of waste and sadness in the blue steam of the night. A front upper tooth was missing from my mouth and I cried and cried and cried and looked for it, looked with the deluded notion that it would be possible to Krazy Glue it on until a dentist could be seen. The drunk boy was taken away in cuffs. And I went to a job interview the following morning with the broken piece of my life, front and center, for all to see and stare and wonder. No, I didn't get the job simply for being brave and showing up like a battered girlfriend. Battered. There's a word. My tempura life, I'm fried beyond recognition even though a fake tooth promptly appeared. Root canal digging shards of white pain up to the final nerve of the brain stem, and, fuck it, I don't care, it's still unfinished a month later because I can't stand anymore pain. And then, a month and a half goes by.  And the heat is even worse now. And the car body shop owner flirts with me, made me curious, said yes to dinner at his house. A house like an oven turned to low; the fare? fried plaintains, fried dominican sausage. The shirtless host, spotted with unsightly tufts of tight curlies all over the chest and belly, what was I thinking? Oh god, oh gods, we'll we, ever, any of us, understand what another wants, expects, hopes for, and try to please? In his balcony after the refreshing meal I smoked some six cigarettes, waiting for the right moment good night.  Fail to see what made me curious once. The eyes? eyes like an occult expert, like a dark witch doctor, but the eyes aren't enough, not enough, you see. I hate with the hate of the hopeless and helpless. Tired. So tired from anger, that internal combustion burning all the gladness, all the soothing, turned to cinders, broken like a tooth, dying from the heat, and requesting secretly for a magic stroke to happen, a stroke, a stroke, my kingdom for a stroke, or a heart attack, or why didn't the drunkard hit my driver's door instead, and land me in a coma, where I could lose weight without trying, six months or so, wake up in december to headline news: PR cooling, record lows, the roses are blooming, and there's frost in the mornings... Wed, 24 Feb 2010 23:35:37 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_another-rant/BLOG/1905805/16633.html mdq 2010-02-24T23:35:37Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine  The heat, I could cook a chicken under each armpit and roast a turkey between my legs. I could take it all off while walking to my corporate job and still feel encased in a thin sheet of Hefty garbage bag plastics. The smell of the streets intoxicates, sweat, vomit, excessive perfume, cheap or expensive after shave, it's all the same; we walk, almost defeated, oppressed. Why won't the government do something about the temperature! As we turn into a cement patio, soon to be hosed down island-wide, somebody somewhere should propose a move, move the whole fuckin island, somewhere less inelegant, where one can dress in the morning and still look fresh an hour later, not like a wet bathroom mat with smeared mascara.  The drivers are, as usual, the worst. No pity, it's too hot for pity, and the local insanity gets more catastrophic every summer - more accidents, more shootings, more of all the awful, nothing good to report. A drunk young man crashed into my car from behind, destroying all hope that the worst year of my life was improving. The alcohol fumes smelled of waste and sadness in the blue steam of the night. A front upper tooth was missing from my mouth and I cried and cried and cried and looked for it, looked with the deluded notion that it would be possible to Krazy Glue it on until a dentist could be seen. The drunk boy was taken away in cuffs. And I went to a job interview the following morning with the broken piece of my life, front and center, for all to see and stare and wonder. No, I didn't get the job simply for being brave and showing up like a battered girlfriend. Battered. There's a word. My tempura life, I'm fried beyond recognition even though a fake tooth promptly appeared. Root canal digging shards of white pain up to the final nerve of the brain stem, and, fuck it, I don't care, it's still unfinished a month later because I can't stand anymore pain. And then, a month and a half goes by.  And the heat is even worse now. And the car body shop owner flirts with me, made me curious, said yes to dinner at his house. A house like an oven turned to low; the fare? fried plaintains, fried dominican sausage. The shirtless host, spotted with unsightly tufts of tight curlies all over the chest and belly, what was I thinking? Oh god, oh gods, we'll we, ever, any of us, understand what another wants, expects, hopes for, and try to please? In his balcony after the refreshing meal I smoked some six cigarettes, waiting for the right moment good night.  Fail to see what made me curious once. The eyes? eyes like an occult expert, like a dark witch doctor, but the eyes aren't enough, not enough, you see. I hate with the hate of the hopeless and helpless. Tired. So tired from anger, that internal combustion burning all the gladness, all the soothing, turned to cinders, broken like a tooth, dying from the heat, and requesting secretly for a magic stroke to happen, a stroke, a stroke, my kingdom for a stroke, or a heart attack, or why didn't the drunkard hit my driver's door instead, and land me in a coma, where I could lose weight without trying, six months or so, wake up in december to headline news: PR cooling, record lows, the roses are blooming, and there's frost in the mornings... nonadult false another rant text blog 141 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1905805 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_some-kind-of-pain/BLOG/1905791/16633.html You are so beautiful, the word beautiful is jealous of you. But I'm sick of being your 6th favorite thing. Even your Volkswagen bus is better rated than me, spending more time with you every time it breaks down, and all the money you put into it. In fact, with all the breaking down I seem to be doing, it's a wonder you haven't bought me a spark plug even. But then again, I don't have that enticing motor oil blended with old sweat smell. Remember when we first met at that Caribe Hilton N.A. convention? I looked to the ceiling and whispered "well done!" to whatever higher power had brought you for me. It's like I'd designed you myself. In addition to all the usual virile markers, the square jaw and broad upper back and deep set eyes, there were also the tattoos to consider...it's been three years and I still haven't stopped being obsessed by your beauty. Yes, yes, "whatever you hold also holds you" and, let me say this as gently as possible, I've never been lonelier than these seasons I've spent with you. You're from the sun, Leo lover, and I get a heat rash on hot days. The dermatologist explained it. When we came back from the Steps' Festival in Vieques, after my first relapse, and I was covered in a red and angry-looking rash, you still wouldn't believe I wasn't being whiny about the heat. I can't stand around your light anymore, my branches are dying. I hate that you are prettier than me, and I hate that your hair is naturally red and healthier than mine, and I hate that I am not your favorite thing. But it was okay for a while, I covered it with money; I threw money towards whatever hurdles we encountered, and showed you sushi and Indian, bought you with my finesse and wealth and even bought a battery for your Volky bus that time after someone stole it. "They stole the battery and forgot to take all the change on the dashboard," and you laughed because, well, we know junkies, right? That's why we're in N.A., so we won't be doing all those humiliating things again. Because the bottom was so bottomless. I feel broken, it's like having a twisted ankle all over, a migraine in my stomach, and my heart is pumping tar. It was perfect for a while there, with the money from my cushy job, and the threesome with C., which was a gift I wanted to give you even though I hated it when you called her "mami", and all the fantasies we shared. But now I've been unemployed 5 months, and I've gained 20 pounds, and it's just not so much fun coming over and dealing with me and my depression, right? And you have to be so careful because you've been clean 9 years and I keep relapsing, and that's just something we all frown upon. This hurts like a pulled tooth, and I feel emptied out and undermined, and every single N.A. meeting contains some idiot who wants to ask how you are and how we're doing because a number of them can't wait to sink they're rotting teeth into you, or me for that matter. Although, like I said, you're prettier, and our second threesome, the one with B., was such a sad thing because it was like you guys were having sex through me, and how could you not tell I was dying of loneliness with one and a half dicks fucking me? Denial denial denial, oh Marcos, and yet you're so sweet! Everyone says so, "he's such a good guy, you guys make such a beautiful couple" and I covered myself with beautiful tattoos as well, because I'd always wanted to and you seemed to come as a sign that it was allowed, and now I'm simply a painted girl who is constantly checking her purse because something feels missing. I wish I were your one, Marcos, or at least your two. I came to you sweetly, with my heart in my hands and now I can't even recognize what the fuck this is you've handed me back, but it stinks of infection and gangrene and loss. And that's all I have to say for now...for now. You are so beautiful, the word beautiful is jealous of you. But I'm sick of being your 6th favorite thing. Even your Volkswagen bus is better rated than me, spending more time with you every time it breaks down, and all the money you put into it. In fact, with all the breaking down I seem to be doing, it's a wonder you haven't bought me a spark plug even. But then again, I don't have that enticing motor oil blended with old sweat smell. Remember when we first met at that Caribe Hilton N.A. convention? I looked to the ceiling and whispered "well done!" to whatever higher power had brought you for me. It's like I'd designed you myself. In addition to all the usual virile markers, the square jaw and broad upper back and deep set eyes, there were also the tattoos to consider...it's been three years and I still haven't stopped being obsessed by your beauty. Yes, yes, "whatever you hold also holds you" and, let me say this as gently as possible, I've never been lonelier than these seasons I've spent with you. You're from the sun, Leo lover, and I get a heat rash on hot days. The dermatologist explained it. When we came back from the Steps' Festival in Vieques, after my first relapse, and I was covered in a red and angry-looking rash, you still wouldn't believe I wasn't being whiny about the heat. I can't stand around your light anymore, my branches are dying. I hate that you are prettier than me, and I hate that your hair is naturally red and healthier than mine, and I hate that I am not your favorite thing. But it was okay for a while, I covered it with money; I threw money towards whatever hurdles we encountered, and showed you sushi and Indian, bought you with my finesse and wealth and even bought a battery for your Volky bus that time after someone stole it. "They stole the battery and forgot to take all the change on the dashboard," and you laughed because, well, we know junkies, right? That's why we're in N.A., so we won't be doing all those humiliating things again. Because the bottom was so bottomless. I feel broken, it's like having a twisted ankle all over, a migraine in my stomach, and my heart is pumping tar. It was perfect for a while there, with the money from my cushy job, and the threesome with C., which was a gift I wanted to give you even though I hated it when you called her "mami", and all the fantasies we shared. But now I've been unemployed 5 months, and I've gained 20 pounds, and it's just not so much fun coming over and dealing with me and my depression, right? And you have to be so careful because you've been clean 9 years and I keep relapsing, and that's just something we all frown upon. This hurts like a pulled tooth, and I feel emptied out and undermined, and every single N.A. meeting contains some idiot who wants to ask how you are and how we're doing because a number of them can't wait to sink they're rotting teeth into you, or me for that matter. Although, like I said, you're prettier, and our second threesome, the one with B., was such a sad thing because it was like you guys were having sex through me, and how could you not tell I was dying of loneliness with one and a half dicks fucking me? Denial denial denial, oh Marcos, and yet you're so sweet! Everyone says so, "he's such a good guy, you guys make such a beautiful couple" and I covered myself with beautiful tattoos as well, because I'd always wanted to and you seemed to come as a sign that it was allowed, and now I'm simply a painted girl who is constantly checking her purse because something feels missing. I wish I were your one, Marcos, or at least your two. I came to you sweetly, with my heart in my hands and now I can't even recognize what the fuck this is you've handed me back, but it stinks of infection and gangrene and loss. And that's all I have to say for now...for now. Wed, 24 Feb 2010 23:34:57 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_some-kind-of-pain/BLOG/1905791/16633.html mdq 2010-02-24T23:34:57Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine You are so beautiful, the word beautiful is jealous of you. But I'm sick of being your 6th favorite thing. Even your Volkswagen bus is better rated than me, spending more time with you every time it breaks down, and all the money you put into it. In fact, with all the breaking down I seem to be doing, it's a wonder you haven't bought me a spark plug even. But then again, I don't have that enticing motor oil blended with old sweat smell. Remember when we first met at that Caribe Hilton N.A. convention? I looked to the ceiling and whispered "well done!" to whatever higher power had brought you for me. It's like I'd designed you myself. In addition to all the usual virile markers, the square jaw and broad upper back and deep set eyes, there were also the tattoos to consider...it's been three years and I still haven't stopped being obsessed by your beauty. Yes, yes, "whatever you hold also holds you" and, let me say this as gently as possible, I've never been lonelier than these seasons I've spent with you. You're from the sun, Leo lover, and I get a heat rash on hot days. The dermatologist explained it. When we came back from the Steps' Festival in Vieques, after my first relapse, and I was covered in a red and angry-looking rash, you still wouldn't believe I wasn't being whiny about the heat. I can't stand around your light anymore, my branches are dying. I hate that you are prettier than me, and I hate that your hair is naturally red and healthier than mine, and I hate that I am not your favorite thing. But it was okay for a while, I covered it with money; I threw money towards whatever hurdles we encountered, and showed you sushi and Indian, bought you with my finesse and wealth and even bought a battery for your Volky bus that time after someone stole it. "They stole the battery and forgot to take all the change on the dashboard," and you laughed because, well, we know junkies, right? That's why we're in N.A., so we won't be doing all those humiliating things again. Because the bottom was so bottomless. I feel broken, it's like having a twisted ankle all over, a migraine in my stomach, and my heart is pumping tar. It was perfect for a while there, with the money from my cushy job, and the threesome with C., which was a gift I wanted to give you even though I hated it when you called her "mami", and all the fantasies we shared. But now I've been unemployed 5 months, and I've gained 20 pounds, and it's just not so much fun coming over and dealing with me and my depression, right? And you have to be so careful because you've been clean 9 years and I keep relapsing, and that's just something we all frown upon. This hurts like a pulled tooth, and I feel emptied out and undermined, and every single N.A. meeting contains some idiot who wants to ask how you are and how we're doing because a number of them can't wait to sink they're rotting teeth into you, or me for that matter. Although, like I said, you're prettier, and our second threesome, the one with B., was such a sad thing because it was like you guys were having sex through me, and how could you not tell I was dying of loneliness with one and a half dicks fucking me? Denial denial denial, oh Marcos, and yet you're so sweet! Everyone says so, "he's such a good guy, you guys make such a beautiful couple" and I covered myself with beautiful tattoos as well, because I'd always wanted to and you seemed to come as a sign that it was allowed, and now I'm simply a painted girl who is constantly checking her purse because something feels missing. I wish I were your one, Marcos, or at least your two. I came to you sweetly, with my heart in my hands and now I can't even recognize what the fuck this is you've handed me back, but it stinks of infection and gangrene and loss. And that's all I have to say for now...for now. nonadult false some kind of pain text blog 151 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1905791 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_hotels-and-inns-in-San-Juan-Metro-my-opinion/BLOG/1888501/16633.html I like to research, so I put together a little package of hotels and links worth looking at.... Hotels or bed and breakfasts: some basic hotels near my area if luxury (or rather, what passes for), Casinos and big name hotels are not a huge concern, there is one hotel near where I live in Miramar (centrical area to Old San Juan, Condado, Isla Verde, the cool places) called Hotel Olimpo Court, It's like having a spare bachelor's apartment sort of place. It doesn't feel like a hotel. No luxuries, but clean and comfortable. I've stayed there. And it rests on top of one of the BEST restaurants in Puerto Rico, El Chayote. The hotel seems to be a hit with visitors from the Bahamas and other neighboring islands. It is right across a gothic church that I will mention in the following hotel entry. These three hotels in Miramar are walking distance (10 minutes) from my apartment The Miramar, very nice, suitable, clean, feels like a hotel (unlike Olimpo) and it has two interesting neighbors- one is this old school hotel called Las Américas which I would never recommend to non-anthropologists (I always imagine it as a mafia/sniper hotel, but I used it during my early days with marcos before moving out of my mom's house, yet again) but nevertheless, it is a wonder, Las Americas Hotel, great for photographing. It was built in the 30s and must be seen. It's a beautiful ruin. Then, the other neighbor is a true to form gothic church, which I have never seen the inside of, nor even open to the public and, rumor has it, there are black masses held in there. Cool gargoyles. I love stuff like that, myth and lore and urban legends. The trusty Marriott in Miramar, sans Casino, in Miramar, business oriented but comfy and clean and basic, for people who are not vacationing within a hotel, as so many are prone to do (that's not traveling!) In Old San Juan there is also the hotel Milano, friendly and, last I checked, not too expensive. Small, but suitable. In Old San Juan there are many choices, including a Howard Johnsons, I'm only including the ones I have stepped into. Now, for the real treats... There is the renouned The Gallery Inn, in Old San Juan, the owner is a sculptor, the inn is very very artistic, a piece of art in itself Hotel Da House, no words do justice to this hotel, art, crazy beautiful, a bit smallish, worth it. I loved it, very doll-house like, but in a tasteful modern eclectic way. Two others in Old San Juan (these two within the link are excellent, the only problem with old san juan is traffic- if you are thinking of renting a car, you might want to bring some valium) There is The Water Club in Isla Verde (certain areas are already considered Carolina), this is a very beautiful hotel. If Madonna came to visit, she would probably stay here, the Cervantes Hotel or the Gallery Inn, or even maybe Da House, if her ego fits... More choices, just in case... Casa del caribe in Condado (never been) other inns  Most hotels in Ocean Park (an extension of Condado. Heck, it's all near) per se are very gay friendly (but not exclusive, feel free to ask when and if you call). However, Hosteria del Mar is pretty to visit and eat there, but I wouldn't trust my stay to them...they lie. They ruined my wedding night, wanted to charge me for it anyway, and I blame them for the subsequent divorce. They are liars. And the rooms are, or were a mess, had to request a room change twice. And that's not even the aforementioned wedding fiasco. If it were my decision I would choose either El Convento in Old San Juan, for the beauty, or The Gallery Inn for the balcony (so I can smoke my marlboro lights in peace and solitude where no one will be bothered) and the art.  In Condado, hmmmm, there is this hotel El Consulado, that looks interesting, but I couldn't find any worthwhile link to it and it was closed for a while, so you'd have to call. I do think it's open.... not to be confused with le consulat, which seems nice and inexpensive, but unexciting  I've left many choices out, the very cool Normandie, the Caribe Hilton (a destination in itself), the Conrad (the beds alone make it worthwhile, clouds weep with envy), La Concha which is very very nice and at its best because it recently reopened after a hundred years of remodeling....  If I screwed up the links here and there, the name of the hotel + in puerto rico should get you the right link I like to research, so I put together a little package of hotels and links worth looking at.... Hotels or bed and breakfasts: some basic hotels near my area if luxury (or rather, what passes for), Casinos and big name hotels are not a huge concern, there is one hotel near where I live in Miramar (centrical area to Old San Juan, Condado, Isla Verde, the cool places) called Hotel Olimpo Court, It's like having a spare bachelor's apartment sort of place. It doesn't feel like a hotel. No luxuries, but clean and comfortable. I've stayed there. And it rests on top of one of the BEST restaurants in Puerto Rico, El Chayote. The hotel seems to be a hit with visitors from the Bahamas and other neighboring islands. It is right across a gothic church that I will mention in the following hotel entry. These three hotels in Miramar are walking distance (10 minutes) from my apartment The Miramar, very nice, suitable, clean, feels like a hotel (unlike Olimpo) and it has two interesting neighbors- one is this old school hotel called Las Américas which I would never recommend to non-anthropologists (I always imagine it as a mafia/sniper hotel, but I used it during my early days with marcos before moving out of my mom's house, yet again) but nevertheless, it is a wonder, Las Americas Hotel, great for photographing. It was built in the 30s and must be seen. It's a beautiful ruin. Then, the other neighbor is a true to form gothic church, which I have never seen the inside of, nor even open to the public and, rumor has it, there are black masses held in there. Cool gargoyles. I love stuff like that, myth and lore and urban legends. The trusty Marriott in Miramar, sans Casino, in Miramar, business oriented but comfy and clean and basic, for people who are not vacationing within a hotel, as so many are prone to do (that's not traveling!) In Old San Juan there is also the hotel Milano, friendly and, last I checked, not too expensive. Small, but suitable. In Old San Juan there are many choices, including a Howard Johnsons, I'm only including the ones I have stepped into. Now, for the real treats... There is the renouned The Gallery Inn, in Old San Juan, the owner is a sculptor, the inn is very very artistic, a piece of art in itself Hotel Da House, no words do justice to this hotel, art, crazy beautiful, a bit smallish, worth it. I loved it, very doll-house like, but in a tasteful modern eclectic way. Two others in Old San Juan (these two within the link are excellent, the only problem with old san juan is traffic- if you are thinking of renting a car, you might want to bring some valium) There is The Water Club in Isla Verde (certain areas are already considered Carolina), this is a very beautiful hotel. If Madonna came to visit, she would probably stay here, the Cervantes Hotel or the Gallery Inn, or even maybe Da House, if her ego fits... More choices, just in case... Casa del caribe in Condado (never been) other inns  Most hotels in Ocean Park (an extension of Condado. Heck, it's all near) per se are very gay friendly (but not exclusive, feel free to ask when and if you call). However, Hosteria del Mar is pretty to visit and eat there, but I wouldn't trust my stay to them...they lie. They ruined my wedding night, wanted to charge me for it anyway, and I blame them for the subsequent divorce. They are liars. And the rooms are, or were a mess, had to request a room change twice. And that's not even the aforementioned wedding fiasco. If it were my decision I would choose either El Convento in Old San Juan, for the beauty, or The Gallery Inn for the balcony (so I can smoke my marlboro lights in peace and solitude where no one will be bothered) and the art.  In Condado, hmmmm, there is this hotel El Consulado, that looks interesting, but I couldn't find any worthwhile link to it and it was closed for a while, so you'd have to call. I do think it's open.... not to be confused with le consulat, which seems nice and inexpensive, but unexciting  I've left many choices out, the very cool Normandie, the Caribe Hilton (a destination in itself), the Conrad (the beds alone make it worthwhile, clouds weep with envy), La Concha which is very very nice and at its best because it recently reopened after a hundred years of remodeling....  If I screwed up the links here and there, the name of the hotel + in puerto rico should get you the right link Wed, 24 Feb 2010 07:25:44 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_hotels-and-inns-in-San-Juan-Metro-my-opinion/BLOG/1888501/16633.html mdq 2010-02-24T07:25:44Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine I like to research, so I put together a little package of hotels and links worth looking at.... Hotels or bed and breakfasts: some basic hotels near my area if luxury (or rather, what passes for), Casinos and big name hotels are not a huge concern, there is one hotel near where I live in Miramar (centrical area to Old San Juan, Condado, Isla Verde, the cool places) called Hotel Olimpo Court, It's like having a spare bachelor's apartment sort of place. It doesn't feel like a hotel. No luxuries, but clean and comfortable. I've stayed there. And it rests on top of one of the BEST restaurants in Puerto Rico, El Chayote. The hotel seems to be a hit with visitors from the Bahamas and other neighboring islands. It is right across a gothic church that I will mention in the following hotel entry. These three hotels in Miramar are walking distance (10 minutes) from my apartment The Miramar, very nice, suitable, clean, feels like a hotel (unlike Olimpo) and it has two interesting neighbors- one is this old school hotel called Las Américas which I would never recommend to non-anthropologists (I always imagine it as a mafia/sniper hotel, but I used it during my early days with marcos before moving out of my mom's house, yet again) but nevertheless, it is a wonder, Las Americas Hotel, great for photographing. It was built in the 30s and must be seen. It's a beautiful ruin. Then, the other neighbor is a true to form gothic church, which I have never seen the inside of, nor even open to the public and, rumor has it, there are black masses held in there. Cool gargoyles. I love stuff like that, myth and lore and urban legends. The trusty Marriott in Miramar, sans Casino, in Miramar, business oriented but comfy and clean and basic, for people who are not vacationing within a hotel, as so many are prone to do (that's not traveling!) In Old San Juan there is also the hotel Milano, friendly and, last I checked, not too expensive. Small, but suitable. In Old San Juan there are many choices, including a Howard Johnsons, I'm only including the ones I have stepped into. Now, for the real treats... There is the renouned The Gallery Inn, in Old San Juan, the owner is a sculptor, the inn is very very artistic, a piece of art in itself Hotel Da House, no words do justice to this hotel, art, crazy beautiful, a bit smallish, worth it. I loved it, very doll-house like, but in a tasteful modern eclectic way. Two others in Old San Juan (these two within the link are excellent, the only problem with old san juan is traffic- if you are thinking of renting a car, you might want to bring some valium) There is The Water Club in Isla Verde (certain areas are already considered Carolina), this is a very beautiful hotel. If Madonna came to visit, she would probably stay here, the Cervantes Hotel or the Gallery Inn, or even maybe Da House, if her ego fits... More choices, just in case... Casa del caribe in Condado (never been) other inns  Most hotels in Ocean Park (an extension of Condado. Heck, it's all near) per se are very gay friendly (but not exclusive, feel free to ask when and if you call). However, Hosteria del Mar is pretty to visit and eat there, but I wouldn't trust my stay to them...they lie. They ruined my wedding night, wanted to charge me for it anyway, and I blame them for the subsequent divorce. They are liars. And the rooms are, or were a mess, had to request a room change twice. And that's not even the aforementioned wedding fiasco. If it were my decision I would choose either El Convento in Old San Juan, for the beauty, or The Gallery Inn for the balcony (so I can smoke my marlboro lights in peace and solitude where no one will be bothered) and the art.  In Condado, hmmmm, there is this hotel El Consulado, that looks interesting, but I couldn't find any worthwhile link to it and it was closed for a while, so you'd have to call. I do think it's open.... not to be confused with le consulat, which seems nice and inexpensive, but unexciting  I've left many choices out, the very cool Normandie, the Caribe Hilton (a destination in itself), the Conrad (the beds alone make it worthwhile, clouds weep with envy), La Concha which is very very nice and at its best because it recently reopened after a hundred years of remodeling....  If I screwed up the links here and there, the name of the hotel + in puerto rico should get you the right link hotels, opinion, vacation nonadult false hotels and inns in San Juan Metro, my opinion text blog hotels,opinion,vacation 308 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1888501 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_one-small-step-for-monkey/BLOG/1875956/16633.html First I wrote, space monkey. Enter. And then, related searches came up with “choking game”, wtf? Oh right! Because the first monkey in space, Albert, died of suffocation during the trip. Moving on- back to the monkeys, in space. Go Wiki, and the absurdity of it all is…enough to LOL: Numerous monkeys were launched into space prior to humans. Three countries in particular were in cahoots and at the top of their game: France, Soviet Union/Russia and the United States. The monkeys were drugged before lift-off so, really, their journey? Who knows? A good time was had by all. Except Albert. And he was high anyway, so let’s not be too sad. Other monkeys died later on in the name of space flight and knowledge and science. But Albert was first, in 1948, so 2010 maeks the… the, hmm… ah-ha! the 62nd year of monkeys in space!  May they die no more  First I wrote, space monkey. Enter. And then, related searches came up with “choking game”, wtf? Oh right! Because the first monkey in space, Albert, died of suffocation during the trip. Moving on- back to the monkeys, in space. Go Wiki, and the absurdity of it all is…enough to LOL: Numerous monkeys were launched into space prior to humans. Three countries in particular were in cahoots and at the top of their game: France, Soviet Union/Russia and the United States. The monkeys were drugged before lift-off so, really, their journey? Who knows? A good time was had by all. Except Albert. And he was high anyway, so let’s not be too sad. Other monkeys died later on in the name of space flight and knowledge and science. But Albert was first, in 1948, so 2010 maeks the… the, hmm… ah-ha! the 62nd year of monkeys in space!  May they die no more  Thu, 18 Feb 2010 08:22:58 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_one-small-step-for-monkey/BLOG/1875956/16633.html mdq 2010-02-18T08:22:58Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine First I wrote, space monkey. Enter. And then, related searches came up with “choking game”, wtf? Oh right! Because the first monkey in space, Albert, died of suffocation during the trip. Moving on- back to the monkeys, in space. Go Wiki, and the absurdity of it all is…enough to LOL: Numerous monkeys were launched into space prior to humans. Three countries in particular were in cahoots and at the top of their game: France, Soviet Union/Russia and the United States. The monkeys were drugged before lift-off so, really, their journey? Who knows? A good time was had by all. Except Albert. And he was high anyway, so let’s not be too sad. Other monkeys died later on in the name of space flight and knowledge and science. But Albert was first, in 1948, so 2010 maeks the… the, hmm… ah-ha! the 62nd year of monkeys in space!  May they die no more  animal, humor, progress, space, travel nonadult false one small step for monkey.... text blog animal,humor,progress,space,travel 112 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1875956 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_dawn-of-the-adapters/BLOG/1874157/16633.html There is no other thingy more symbolic of an era to our generation X than the adapter thingy for 45 rpm records. A case could be made for legwarmers, I guess, or perhaps something as inconspicuous as the red string to pull open a band-aid. But the adapter, usually yellow, cryptic looking and warning-like, that was the thing. Because nothing defined the 80s better than music; whether you liked your cheese warm or cool, lots of it or just a sprinkle, music was the thing, and the adapter thingy was the thing behind the thing. Test: If you show this to someone and they don’t know what it is, you’re better off not getting involved with such a youngster. There is no other thingy more symbolic of an era to our generation X than the adapter thingy for 45 rpm records. A case could be made for legwarmers, I guess, or perhaps something as inconspicuous as the red string to pull open a band-aid. But the adapter, usually yellow, cryptic looking and warning-like, that was the thing. Because nothing defined the 80s better than music; whether you liked your cheese warm or cool, lots of it or just a sprinkle, music was the thing, and the adapter thingy was the thing behind the thing. Test: If you show this to someone and they don’t know what it is, you’re better off not getting involved with such a youngster. Wed, 17 Feb 2010 23:18:57 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_dawn-of-the-adapters/BLOG/1874157/16633.html mdq 2010-02-17T23:18:57Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine There is no other thingy more symbolic of an era to our generation X than the adapter thingy for 45 rpm records. A case could be made for legwarmers, I guess, or perhaps something as inconspicuous as the red string to pull open a band-aid. But the adapter, usually yellow, cryptic looking and warning-like, that was the thing. Because nothing defined the 80s better than music; whether you liked your cheese warm or cool, lots of it or just a sprinkle, music was the thing, and the adapter thingy was the thing behind the thing. Test: If you show this to someone and they don’t know what it is, you’re better off not getting involved with such a youngster. music, nostalgia, past, viewpoint nonadult false dawn of the adapters text blog music,nostalgia,past,viewpoint 81 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1874157 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_se-acab-el-tiempo/BLOG/1874148/16633.html Hoy mi mundo es un poco menos. Te digo, son (creo) las cinco de la madrugada, me despierta la vejiga, y al volver a la cama, entre “musitaciones” y revisiones y cosas que me digo y notitas que me hago, un pensamiento me despierta del todo para levantarme a escribir. Y es éste: anoche llamé al 728-9595 y nadie, nadie, lo contestó. Me dan hasta ganas de llorar. ¡Dónde está la voz que me dice cuando! ¡Que me dice, que me asegura, que el mundo sigue obedeciendo su orden plural! Lo dejé sonar unas veinte veces, pero el macho que responde “Buenas Noches” –o días, o tardes- se ha ido. Ese “father figure” que conozco desde que hacía maldades por teléfono, desde que la guía telefónica servía sólo para escoger nombres al azar. Y van casi tres décadas para que, final e inesperadamente, 728-9595 no atendiera mi llamado. Y no sé la hora en que regrese si es que ha de volver. Te digo, siento un minúsculo pánico de pérdida. De no haber sabido que la última vez fue la última. No tenía idea. Ni lo imaginé posible. ¡Y nunca supe su nombre! ¡Y lo llamé cientos de veces! A través de todas mis etapas, incluso desde college en NY, en noches de desvelo cuando alguna conexión patriarcal necesitaba, que me dijeran algo arrullador y sin pasarme juicio por la hora sórdida, marcaba: 728-9595. Leí hace poco que la luz al final del túnel ha sido apagada debido a la economía, pero arrogante pensé “Eso no tiene que ver conmigo”. Mas he aquí la evidencia contundente de cuán personal es lo político y lo mundial. 728-9595 ya no está. Padre putativo, dónde te han echado, y me duele el alma de no saber tu paradero. Que nunca escuchaste tú mi voz. Que usé tu número para escribirlo en servilletas cuando no quería dar el mío. ¡Cómo me despido! ¡Esto es un vacío horroroso! Mi mundo es menos, mucho menos, sin ti. Tal vez estás de viaje, o te metieron en una gaveta, tu barítono retruena como el más íntimo recuerdo; después de mis padres fuiste la única relación incondicional. Te llamé en las crisis, alguna vez a la medianoche en año nuevo. el 29 de febrero por ver si estabas al día. Te llamé y me enseñaste algo de fe y de confianza. No sé ni tu nombre, aunque ahora alguien dice, “nena, ese era David Ortiz”. Acaso muchos como yo te llamaron, desolados y vacantes, pero desconozco sus vidas ni cómo contactarlos para sentirlo en conjunto. Pero no te velarán en Buxeda ni cremarán tus cintas. Cuando todavía se marcaba en rotación, ya yo llamaba a verificar si de veras siempre siempre siempre estabas ahí. Adios pequeño dios, ya no te oiré más tu lúgubre voz reconfortante, la que me dio el Time Of My Life: “Buenas noches, ¿quiere tener una cuenta ideal? Se lo pueden arreglar en el Banco Popular. Hora exacta, las cinco y treinta y seis” (UPDATE: HE’S BACK. PHEW.) Hoy mi mundo es un poco menos. Te digo, son (creo) las cinco de la madrugada, me despierta la vejiga, y al volver a la cama, entre “musitaciones” y revisiones y cosas que me digo y notitas que me hago, un pensamiento me despierta del todo para levantarme a escribir. Y es éste: anoche llamé al 728-9595 y nadie, nadie, lo contestó. Me dan hasta ganas de llorar. ¡Dónde está la voz que me dice cuando! ¡Que me dice, que me asegura, que el mundo sigue obedeciendo su orden plural! Lo dejé sonar unas veinte veces, pero el macho que responde “Buenas Noches” –o días, o tardes- se ha ido. Ese “father figure” que conozco desde que hacía maldades por teléfono, desde que la guía telefónica servía sólo para escoger nombres al azar. Y van casi tres décadas para que, final e inesperadamente, 728-9595 no atendiera mi llamado. Y no sé la hora en que regrese si es que ha de volver. Te digo, siento un minúsculo pánico de pérdida. De no haber sabido que la última vez fue la última. No tenía idea. Ni lo imaginé posible. ¡Y nunca supe su nombre! ¡Y lo llamé cientos de veces! A través de todas mis etapas, incluso desde college en NY, en noches de desvelo cuando alguna conexión patriarcal necesitaba, que me dijeran algo arrullador y sin pasarme juicio por la hora sórdida, marcaba: 728-9595. Leí hace poco que la luz al final del túnel ha sido apagada debido a la economía, pero arrogante pensé “Eso no tiene que ver conmigo”. Mas he aquí la evidencia contundente de cuán personal es lo político y lo mundial. 728-9595 ya no está. Padre putativo, dónde te han echado, y me duele el alma de no saber tu paradero. Que nunca escuchaste tú mi voz. Que usé tu número para escribirlo en servilletas cuando no quería dar el mío. ¡Cómo me despido! ¡Esto es un vacío horroroso! Mi mundo es menos, mucho menos, sin ti. Tal vez estás de viaje, o te metieron en una gaveta, tu barítono retruena como el más íntimo recuerdo; después de mis padres fuiste la única relación incondicional. Te llamé en las crisis, alguna vez a la medianoche en año nuevo. el 29 de febrero por ver si estabas al día. Te llamé y me enseñaste algo de fe y de confianza. No sé ni tu nombre, aunque ahora alguien dice, “nena, ese era David Ortiz”. Acaso muchos como yo te llamaron, desolados y vacantes, pero desconozco sus vidas ni cómo contactarlos para sentirlo en conjunto. Pero no te velarán en Buxeda ni cremarán tus cintas. Cuando todavía se marcaba en rotación, ya yo llamaba a verificar si de veras siempre siempre siempre estabas ahí. Adios pequeño dios, ya no te oiré más tu lúgubre voz reconfortante, la que me dio el Time Of My Life: “Buenas noches, ¿quiere tener una cuenta ideal? Se lo pueden arreglar en el Banco Popular. Hora exacta, las cinco y treinta y seis” (UPDATE: HE’S BACK. PHEW.) Wed, 17 Feb 2010 23:10:32 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_se-acab-el-tiempo/BLOG/1874148/16633.html mdq 2010-02-17T23:10:32Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine Hoy mi mundo es un poco menos. Te digo, son (creo) las cinco de la madrugada, me despierta la vejiga, y al volver a la cama, entre “musitaciones” y revisiones y cosas que me digo y notitas que me hago, un pensamiento me despierta del todo para levantarme a escribir. Y es éste: anoche llamé al 728-9595 y nadie, nadie, lo contestó. Me dan hasta ganas de llorar. ¡Dónde está la voz que me dice cuando! ¡Que me dice, que me asegura, que el mundo sigue obedeciendo su orden plural! Lo dejé sonar unas veinte veces, pero el macho que responde “Buenas Noches” –o días, o tardes- se ha ido. Ese “father figure” que conozco desde que hacía maldades por teléfono, desde que la guía telefónica servía sólo para escoger nombres al azar. Y van casi tres décadas para que, final e inesperadamente, 728-9595 no atendiera mi llamado. Y no sé la hora en que regrese si es que ha de volver. Te digo, siento un minúsculo pánico de pérdida. De no haber sabido que la última vez fue la última. No tenía idea. Ni lo imaginé posible. ¡Y nunca supe su nombre! ¡Y lo llamé cientos de veces! A través de todas mis etapas, incluso desde college en NY, en noches de desvelo cuando alguna conexión patriarcal necesitaba, que me dijeran algo arrullador y sin pasarme juicio por la hora sórdida, marcaba: 728-9595. Leí hace poco que la luz al final del túnel ha sido apagada debido a la economía, pero arrogante pensé “Eso no tiene que ver conmigo”. Mas he aquí la evidencia contundente de cuán personal es lo político y lo mundial. 728-9595 ya no está. Padre putativo, dónde te han echado, y me duele el alma de no saber tu paradero. Que nunca escuchaste tú mi voz. Que usé tu número para escribirlo en servilletas cuando no quería dar el mío. ¡Cómo me despido! ¡Esto es un vacío horroroso! Mi mundo es menos, mucho menos, sin ti. Tal vez estás de viaje, o te metieron en una gaveta, tu barítono retruena como el más íntimo recuerdo; después de mis padres fuiste la única relación incondicional. Te llamé en las crisis, alguna vez a la medianoche en año nuevo. el 29 de febrero por ver si estabas al día. Te llamé y me enseñaste algo de fe y de confianza. No sé ni tu nombre, aunque ahora alguien dice, “nena, ese era David Ortiz”. Acaso muchos como yo te llamaron, desolados y vacantes, pero desconozco sus vidas ni cómo contactarlos para sentirlo en conjunto. Pero no te velarán en Buxeda ni cremarán tus cintas. Cuando todavía se marcaba en rotación, ya yo llamaba a verificar si de veras siempre siempre siempre estabas ahí. Adios pequeño dios, ya no te oiré más tu lúgubre voz reconfortante, la que me dio el Time Of My Life: “Buenas noches, ¿quiere tener una cuenta ideal? Se lo pueden arreglar en el Banco Popular. Hora exacta, las cinco y treinta y seis” (UPDATE: HE’S BACK. PHEW.) lament, phone, rant, time nonadult false se acabó el tiempo text blog lament,phone,rant,time 125 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1874148 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_tarot/BLOG/1874096/16633.html Debo escribir escribir escribir, sacar la locura de adentro donde ya no me haga daño; mi tarotista hoy me dice “Te trajiste algo de afuera” y la noto en alarma controlada. La tarjeta en cuestión es hermosa, dos lobos, positivo y negativo, un escorpión que sale del agua, y la luna, la luna arriba. Me parece, incluso, haberlo soñado anoche. Aquí vamos, pensé, “Dime” – pero no quiso. Recalcó veinte otras cosas para distraerme, cosas buenas, cosas neutrales. “Dime, qué es, ¿puedo hacerlo mi amigo?” Que no, que después me lo dirá todo, “Déjame hacer mi trabajo, que yo te llamo”, y esa leve alarma, una suave y nueva tensión entre nosotras. “¿Qué me traje? ¿Qué se me pegó? Pasé cerca de Ground Zero, ¿fue eso? ¿Qué se quiso montar en el avión conmigo?” Pero nada, tarotista inmutable, tarotista muda, “Déjanos hacer nuestro trabajo”. ¿Déjanos? ¿Quiénes son “déjanos”? “Y yo”, insisto, “mientras tanto, ¿me baño con sal? ¿Echo vinagre en mi puerta?” “Nada, tú no puedes hacer nada; déjanos hacer nuestro trabajo”. Obsesión total. ¿Cómo vivir sin saber? (Igual que vives todos los días, me dice una voz.) “De salud estás bien, el trabajo está bien”, blablabla–blablá. ¿Quién o qué me encontró abierta para entrar en mí como una puerta? ¿Por qué me duele la cabeza? ¿De dónde viene tanto sueño? ¿Cómo ser espiritual en un cuerpo tan humano? ¿Cómo no comer la cruel sabrosa tocineta? ¿O comprarme ese scarf brutal de piel de conejito? ¿Cómo orar? ¿Cómo obedecer señales tan pequeñas que caben bajo mi uña? “Dime si es mi muerte. Dime si son cuernos”. Me siento lista para enfrentar leones, y si es necesario, cristianos. Tarotista muda e inmutable, “Tú sigue haciendo lo tuyo, déjanos hacer nuestro trabajo. Yo te llamo”. Espero su llamada obsesiva e intranquila, no pienso en otra cosa. Alguna gente paga por  Debo escribir escribir escribir, sacar la locura de adentro donde ya no me haga daño; mi tarotista hoy me dice “Te trajiste algo de afuera” y la noto en alarma controlada. La tarjeta en cuestión es hermosa, dos lobos, positivo y negativo, un escorpión que sale del agua, y la luna, la luna arriba. Me parece, incluso, haberlo soñado anoche. Aquí vamos, pensé, “Dime” – pero no quiso. Recalcó veinte otras cosas para distraerme, cosas buenas, cosas neutrales. “Dime, qué es, ¿puedo hacerlo mi amigo?” Que no, que después me lo dirá todo, “Déjame hacer mi trabajo, que yo te llamo”, y esa leve alarma, una suave y nueva tensión entre nosotras. “¿Qué me traje? ¿Qué se me pegó? Pasé cerca de Ground Zero, ¿fue eso? ¿Qué se quiso montar en el avión conmigo?” Pero nada, tarotista inmutable, tarotista muda, “Déjanos hacer nuestro trabajo”. ¿Déjanos? ¿Quiénes son “déjanos”? “Y yo”, insisto, “mientras tanto, ¿me baño con sal? ¿Echo vinagre en mi puerta?” “Nada, tú no puedes hacer nada; déjanos hacer nuestro trabajo”. Obsesión total. ¿Cómo vivir sin saber? (Igual que vives todos los días, me dice una voz.) “De salud estás bien, el trabajo está bien”, blablabla–blablá. ¿Quién o qué me encontró abierta para entrar en mí como una puerta? ¿Por qué me duele la cabeza? ¿De dónde viene tanto sueño? ¿Cómo ser espiritual en un cuerpo tan humano? ¿Cómo no comer la cruel sabrosa tocineta? ¿O comprarme ese scarf brutal de piel de conejito? ¿Cómo orar? ¿Cómo obedecer señales tan pequeñas que caben bajo mi uña? “Dime si es mi muerte. Dime si son cuernos”. Me siento lista para enfrentar leones, y si es necesario, cristianos. Tarotista muda e inmutable, “Tú sigue haciendo lo tuyo, déjanos hacer nuestro trabajo. Yo te llamo”. Espero su llamada obsesiva e intranquila, no pienso en otra cosa. Alguna gente paga por  Wed, 17 Feb 2010 23:04:22 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_tarot/BLOG/1874096/16633.html mdq 2010-02-17T23:04:22Z Articles Puerto Rico Online Magazine Debo escribir escribir escribir, sacar la locura de adentro donde ya no me haga daño; mi tarotista hoy me dice “Te trajiste algo de afuera” y la noto en alarma controlada. La tarjeta en cuestión es hermosa, dos lobos, positivo y negativo, un escorpión que sale del agua, y la luna, la luna arriba. Me parece, incluso, haberlo soñado anoche. Aquí vamos, pensé, “Dime” – pero no quiso. Recalcó veinte otras cosas para distraerme, cosas buenas, cosas neutrales. “Dime, qué es, ¿puedo hacerlo mi amigo?” Que no, que después me lo dirá todo, “Déjame hacer mi trabajo, que yo te llamo”, y esa leve alarma, una suave y nueva tensión entre nosotras. “¿Qué me traje? ¿Qué se me pegó? Pasé cerca de Ground Zero, ¿fue eso? ¿Qué se quiso montar en el avión conmigo?” Pero nada, tarotista inmutable, tarotista muda, “Déjanos hacer nuestro trabajo”. ¿Déjanos? ¿Quiénes son “déjanos”? “Y yo”, insisto, “mientras tanto, ¿me baño con sal? ¿Echo vinagre en mi puerta?” “Nada, tú no puedes hacer nada; déjanos hacer nuestro trabajo”. Obsesión total. ¿Cómo vivir sin saber? (Igual que vives todos los días, me dice una voz.) “De salud estás bien, el trabajo está bien”, blablabla–blablá. ¿Quién o qué me encontró abierta para entrar en mí como una puerta? ¿Por qué me duele la cabeza? ¿De dónde viene tanto sueño? ¿Cómo ser espiritual en un cuerpo tan humano? ¿Cómo no comer la cruel sabrosa tocineta? ¿O comprarme ese scarf brutal de piel de conejito? ¿Cómo orar? ¿Cómo obedecer señales tan pequeñas que caben bajo mi uña? “Dime si es mi muerte. Dime si son cuernos”. Me siento lista para enfrentar leones, y si es necesario, cristianos. Tarotista muda e inmutable, “Tú sigue haciendo lo tuyo, déjanos hacer nuestro trabajo. Yo te llamo”. Espero su llamada obsesiva e intranquila, no pienso en otra cosa. Alguna gente paga por  articles, occult, rant, tarot, weird nonadult false tarot text blog articles,occult,rant,tarot,weird 205 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 Articles 0 1874096 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_le-cafard/BLOG/1874095/16633.html Ah, le cockroach! No living thing has been more maligned than the poor ugly cockroach. Natural enemy, inexplicably unattractive, of questionable hygiene and dubious coloring, (is it red? is it brown? is it red-brown?) what is it really that so repels us? Some wise someone suggested once the horrifying possibility that, as only survivors of a nuclear holocaust, God, then, really, has made cockroaches in his/her holy image. It’s mere presence has become a symbol for all that is dirty, nasty, unsightly, revolting, horrendous, repulsive, even EVIL. And yet, let us celebrate the homely cockroach for saying so plainly, “I will survive”.  Ah, le cockroach! No living thing has been more maligned than the poor ugly cockroach. Natural enemy, inexplicably unattractive, of questionable hygiene and dubious coloring, (is it red? is it brown? is it red-brown?) what is it really that so repels us? Some wise someone suggested once the horrifying possibility that, as only survivors of a nuclear holocaust, God, then, really, has made cockroaches in his/her holy image. It’s mere presence has become a symbol for all that is dirty, nasty, unsightly, revolting, horrendous, repulsive, even EVIL. And yet, let us celebrate the homely cockroach for saying so plainly, “I will survive”.  Wed, 17 Feb 2010 23:01:23 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_le-cafard/BLOG/1874095/16633.html mdq 2010-02-17T23:01:23Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine Ah, le cockroach! No living thing has been more maligned than the poor ugly cockroach. Natural enemy, inexplicably unattractive, of questionable hygiene and dubious coloring, (is it red? is it brown? is it red-brown?) what is it really that so repels us? Some wise someone suggested once the horrifying possibility that, as only survivors of a nuclear holocaust, God, then, really, has made cockroaches in his/her holy image. It’s mere presence has become a symbol for all that is dirty, nasty, unsightly, revolting, horrendous, repulsive, even EVIL. And yet, let us celebrate the homely cockroach for saying so plainly, “I will survive”.  animals, disgusting, strange, survival nonadult false le cafard text blog animals,disgusting,strange,survival 72 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1874095 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_have-a-heart/BLOG/1874084/16633.html Wherein does the symbol for the heart hail from? This icon we use to mean love, learned from the first on blackboards and bathroom stalls, Fulano ?’s Fulana, on T-Shirts, I?NY, sometimes shorthand for a signature, drawn on steamed mirrors and frosted windows. It’s come to mean “heart” so completely, some are surprised to find the real organ looks nothing like its timeless stand in, regular red color aside. Depicted as broken and bleeding, a universal symbol of relationships gone wrong. You’re gonna ? this: What the "heart shape" is believed to depict is a subject of some argument. The "heart" shape, such as it is, could also be considered to depict features of a woman’s body, such as the pubic mound or vulva. Others have suggested that the heart symbol resembles the shape of the female breasts, or the female buttocks, as seen from above, in particular during the act of, well…love. Wherein does the symbol for the heart hail from? This icon we use to mean love, learned from the first on blackboards and bathroom stalls, Fulano ?’s Fulana, on T-Shirts, I?NY, sometimes shorthand for a signature, drawn on steamed mirrors and frosted windows. It’s come to mean “heart” so completely, some are surprised to find the real organ looks nothing like its timeless stand in, regular red color aside. Depicted as broken and bleeding, a universal symbol of relationships gone wrong. You’re gonna ? this: What the "heart shape" is believed to depict is a subject of some argument. The "heart" shape, such as it is, could also be considered to depict features of a woman’s body, such as the pubic mound or vulva. Others have suggested that the heart symbol resembles the shape of the female breasts, or the female buttocks, as seen from above, in particular during the act of, well…love. Wed, 17 Feb 2010 22:50:01 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_have-a-heart/BLOG/1874084/16633.html mdq 2010-02-17T22:50:01Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine Wherein does the symbol for the heart hail from? This icon we use to mean love, learned from the first on blackboards and bathroom stalls, Fulano ?’s Fulana, on T-Shirts, I?NY, sometimes shorthand for a signature, drawn on steamed mirrors and frosted windows. It’s come to mean “heart” so completely, some are surprised to find the real organ looks nothing like its timeless stand in, regular red color aside. Depicted as broken and bleeding, a universal symbol of relationships gone wrong. You’re gonna ? this: What the "heart shape" is believed to depict is a subject of some argument. The "heart" shape, such as it is, could also be considered to depict features of a woman’s body, such as the pubic mound or vulva. Others have suggested that the heart symbol resembles the shape of the female breasts, or the female buttocks, as seen from above, in particular during the act of, well…love. love, symbols, viewpoint nonadult false have a heart text blog love,symbols,viewpoint 77 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1874084 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_hello-kitty-says-hello/BLOG/1874075/16633.html How did this happen? How did androgynous, weird and boring Hello Kitty become an icon of cool? Who decides this stuff? Suddenly, he’s everywhere, from tattoos to exhaust pipes, up to toasters and even Halloween pet costumes, and (woe is me!) turns out he is a she. Ahem, I don’t think so, wearing a simple bow does not a female make. “She is a tomboy”, someone said, “she is a child” says another. Neither here nor there. In the dark year of 1974, back when we were facing the ugly side of “cool”, Hello Kitty was born. (Yes, gentle reader, Hello Kitty is 34 years old. A bit immature for his/her years, considering that even Barbie is trying to age gracefully.) There arrived a sudden onslaught of coin purses and pencils and pencil holders and erasers and book bags and barrettes, and of course! STICKERS, padded stickers to please the fingertips available as well, and book covers. To the dismay of parents everywhere, Sanrio made a killing. And did you know that his name is Kitty White? I just found out, thank you Wikipedia, a million monkeys with a million keyboards adding to the confusion: “Hello Kitty is a friendly white kitty with the head larger than her body, small button eyes and nose, but no mouth. She is said to be five apples tall and the weight of three apples.” Oh, the issues. And why, for dog’s sake, apples? Why not Meow Mix kibbles? Or tuna cans? Kitty cannot tell us, she has no mouth. The more I read, the less it turns out I know. And the less I know, cynic wisdom goes, the more friends I have. Hello Kitty White, is cool. So cool, she has a following of avid tattooers, dresser uppers, of those who refuse to let go of childhood’s latent fantasies, and in the end, even I started thinking, “oh cool, look, a Hello Kitty skin graph!” or “That dog is so cool, it has a Hello Kitty tattoo!” and “ohmygod, she scarified herself with a Hello Kitty! Fuckin Cool!” So much for independent thinking. How did this happen? How did androgynous, weird and boring Hello Kitty become an icon of cool? Who decides this stuff? Suddenly, he’s everywhere, from tattoos to exhaust pipes, up to toasters and even Halloween pet costumes, and (woe is me!) turns out he is a she. Ahem, I don’t think so, wearing a simple bow does not a female make. “She is a tomboy”, someone said, “she is a child” says another. Neither here nor there. In the dark year of 1974, back when we were facing the ugly side of “cool”, Hello Kitty was born. (Yes, gentle reader, Hello Kitty is 34 years old. A bit immature for his/her years, considering that even Barbie is trying to age gracefully.) There arrived a sudden onslaught of coin purses and pencils and pencil holders and erasers and book bags and barrettes, and of course! STICKERS, padded stickers to please the fingertips available as well, and book covers. To the dismay of parents everywhere, Sanrio made a killing. And did you know that his name is Kitty White? I just found out, thank you Wikipedia, a million monkeys with a million keyboards adding to the confusion: “Hello Kitty is a friendly white kitty with the head larger than her body, small button eyes and nose, but no mouth. She is said to be five apples tall and the weight of three apples.” Oh, the issues. And why, for dog’s sake, apples? Why not Meow Mix kibbles? Or tuna cans? Kitty cannot tell us, she has no mouth. The more I read, the less it turns out I know. And the less I know, cynic wisdom goes, the more friends I have. Hello Kitty White, is cool. So cool, she has a following of avid tattooers, dresser uppers, of those who refuse to let go of childhood’s latent fantasies, and in the end, even I started thinking, “oh cool, look, a Hello Kitty skin graph!” or “That dog is so cool, it has a Hello Kitty tattoo!” and “ohmygod, she scarified herself with a Hello Kitty! Fuckin Cool!” So much for independent thinking. Wed, 17 Feb 2010 22:43:05 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_hello-kitty-says-hello/BLOG/1874075/16633.html mdq 2010-02-17T22:43:05Z Articles Puerto Rico Online Magazine How did this happen? How did androgynous, weird and boring Hello Kitty become an icon of cool? Who decides this stuff? Suddenly, he’s everywhere, from tattoos to exhaust pipes, up to toasters and even Halloween pet costumes, and (woe is me!) turns out he is a she. Ahem, I don’t think so, wearing a simple bow does not a female make. “She is a tomboy”, someone said, “she is a child” says another. Neither here nor there. In the dark year of 1974, back when we were facing the ugly side of “cool”, Hello Kitty was born. (Yes, gentle reader, Hello Kitty is 34 years old. A bit immature for his/her years, considering that even Barbie is trying to age gracefully.) There arrived a sudden onslaught of coin purses and pencils and pencil holders and erasers and book bags and barrettes, and of course! STICKERS, padded stickers to please the fingertips available as well, and book covers. To the dismay of parents everywhere, Sanrio made a killing. And did you know that his name is Kitty White? I just found out, thank you Wikipedia, a million monkeys with a million keyboards adding to the confusion: “Hello Kitty is a friendly white kitty with the head larger than her body, small button eyes and nose, but no mouth. She is said to be five apples tall and the weight of three apples.” Oh, the issues. And why, for dog’s sake, apples? Why not Meow Mix kibbles? Or tuna cans? Kitty cannot tell us, she has no mouth. The more I read, the less it turns out I know. And the less I know, cynic wisdom goes, the more friends I have. Hello Kitty White, is cool. So cool, she has a following of avid tattooers, dresser uppers, of those who refuse to let go of childhood’s latent fantasies, and in the end, even I started thinking, “oh cool, look, a Hello Kitty skin graph!” or “That dog is so cool, it has a Hello Kitty tattoo!” and “ohmygod, she scarified herself with a Hello Kitty! Fuckin Cool!” So much for independent thinking. articles, fashion, hello, kitty, rant, tattoos, viewpoint nonadult false hello kitty says hello text blog articles,fashion,hello,kitty,rant,tattoos,viewpoint 162 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 Articles 0 1874075 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_Stuff-for-you-since-no-one-else-will-get-you-what-you-really-want/BLOG/1630061/16633.html Normally I don't care about fashion, or looking at fashion, or being in fashion. I don't even like shopping! yes, some women don't care for it. However, someone sent me a link that, because of the word "geek", I decided to check out. (It's not that I'm a geek, because I'm not, even though I spend my half-life here in the internet instead of going to sleep, but that doesn't make me a geek, that makes me obsessive.) The only sections I was interested in - because I am, after all, a girl - were purses (the bigger the better), shoes (I'll tell you what's up with women and shoes in a second) and one watch (i'd rather not wear one or know what time it is, reminds me too much of TS Eliot's line "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons") and one piece of jewelry, if it can be called jewelry as such, when nobody wears jewels any more. They're all in some foreign crown in a museum, or Trump has bought them all for his girlfriends, or whatever. I didn't really care for the travel insurance, or the baseball hats, but please, be my guest. These are all blog-style links that, according to the copy, are updated on a daily basis with the latest stuff to render teeny-fashion-hearts aflutter directly from fashion avenue. Oh, and the reason women love shoes so much? they don't stop fitting if (and when) we gain weight. And also because Barbie had such cool shoes. All of us wanted to wear them, but they were just so little! [image]Aren't they the coolest thing ever? I could sprinkle them on my corn-flakes, that's how cute they are. Anyway, there was a lot, A LOT, of stuff to like in these Blogs (did I mention they offer daily updates, news and reviews on all your fashion and insurance needs? Good.) But all things being equal, some things are more equal than others, and here are samples of some stuff I would love to have the money to buy, so I could have something under my.... kitchen sink, on Christmas morning. Exhibit A, shoes I would KILL for. Kill. Murder. Really. And then take off with your shoes. Let someone else have your wallet. [image]I am aware these are not the shoes you imagine when you think of sexy, go get'im shoes, but I could make it work. Exhibit B and C, the diametrically opposite shoes of exhibit A. I don't even know if these two pairs could handle being in the same closet. They are arch-enemies, even a fashion-ignorant person such as me can see one of them would have to go. [image][image]The rhyming purse (or combining purse, or accompanying purse) can be found in the pursesection, page 2. Next item, Exhibit C.... see for your self... it will explain itself better than I can [image]A ring. Yes. If I ever feel the irritating need to get married again, this will be the ring to seal the deal. At least I will honestly know what I got myself into. All those nice and classy platinum bands, or gold and diamond rings, all that fancy-schmancy stuff, just blinds you to the fact that soon enough you're going to want to gauge each other's eyes out, and this ring would go a long way towards, 1- being a reminder of the reality of marriage, 2- get the deed done. Nuff said. Next up, the watch-me watch by ed hardy. [image]yes, his stuff has trivialized the real tattoo culture and it saddens and maddens me, but it doesn't make this watch any less pretty. And finally, the piece du resistance, the purses! There were a lot of more normal ones, of course, but, do you really think I would promote those? Look at all this fun. Oh, the things I could carry...in my clutch bag (for kleenex and lipstick) [image]and this next one would be PERFECT to keep my diary in, so my boyfriends will stop reading it. (Three bf's have done this already. What is it with you guys? Aren't you the ones who want us to respect your privacy so much?) Anyway, here it is: [image]And this next one, wow: [image]so there you have it. Some cool stuff to buy yourself this merry little christmas. Go crazy. Normally I don't care about fashion, or looking at fashion, or being in fashion. I don't even like shopping! yes, some women don't care for it. However, someone sent me a link that, because of the word "geek", I decided to check out. (It's not that I'm a geek, because I'm not, even though I spend my half-life here in the internet instead of going to sleep, but that doesn't make me a geek, that makes me obsessive.) The only sections I was interested in - because I am, after all, a girl - were purses (the bigger the better), shoes (I'll tell you what's up with women and shoes in a second) and one watch (i'd rather not wear one or know what time it is, reminds me too much of TS Eliot's line "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons") and one piece of jewelry, if it can be called jewelry as such, when nobody wears jewels any more. They're all in some foreign crown in a museum, or Trump has bought them all for his girlfriends, or whatever. I didn't really care for the travel insurance, or the baseball hats, but please, be my guest. These are all blog-style links that, according to the copy, are updated on a daily basis with the latest stuff to render teeny-fashion-hearts aflutter directly from fashion avenue. Oh, and the reason women love shoes so much? they don't stop fitting if (and when) we gain weight. And also because Barbie had such cool shoes. All of us wanted to wear them, but they were just so little! [image]Aren't they the coolest thing ever? I could sprinkle them on my corn-flakes, that's how cute they are. Anyway, there was a lot, A LOT, of stuff to like in these Blogs (did I mention they offer daily updates, news and reviews on all your fashion and insurance needs? Good.) But all things being equal, some things are more equal than others, and here are samples of some stuff I would love to have the money to buy, so I could have something under my.... kitchen sink, on Christmas morning. Exhibit A, shoes I would KILL for. Kill. Murder. Really. And then take off with your shoes. Let someone else have your wallet. [image]I am aware these are not the shoes you imagine when you think of sexy, go get'im shoes, but I could make it work. Exhibit B and C, the diametrically opposite shoes of exhibit A. I don't even know if these two pairs could handle being in the same closet. They are arch-enemies, even a fashion-ignorant person such as me can see one of them would have to go. [image][image]The rhyming purse (or combining purse, or accompanying purse) can be found in the pursesection, page 2. Next item, Exhibit C.... see for your self... it will explain itself better than I can [image]A ring. Yes. If I ever feel the irritating need to get married again, this will be the ring to seal the deal. At least I will honestly know what I got myself into. All those nice and classy platinum bands, or gold and diamond rings, all that fancy-schmancy stuff, just blinds you to the fact that soon enough you're going to want to gauge each other's eyes out, and this ring would go a long way towards, 1- being a reminder of the reality of marriage, 2- get the deed done. Nuff said. Next up, the watch-me watch by ed hardy. [image]yes, his stuff has trivialized the real tattoo culture and it saddens and maddens me, but it doesn't make this watch any less pretty. And finally, the piece du resistance, the purses! There were a lot of more normal ones, of course, but, do you really think I would promote those? Look at all this fun. Oh, the things I could carry...in my clutch bag (for kleenex and lipstick) [image]and this next one would be PERFECT to keep my diary in, so my boyfriends will stop reading it. (Three bf's have done this already. What is it with you guys? Aren't you the ones who want us to respect your privacy so much?) Anyway, here it is: [image]And this next one, wow: [image]so there you have it. Some cool stuff to buy yourself this merry little christmas. Go crazy. Mon, 21 Dec 2009 11:35:19 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_Stuff-for-you-since-no-one-else-will-get-you-what-you-really-want/BLOG/1630061/16633.html mdq 2009-12-21T11:35:19Z Puerto Rico Online Magazine Normally I don't care about fashion, or looking at fashion, or being in fashion. I don't even like shopping! yes, some women don't care for it. However, someone sent me a link that, because of the word "geek", I decided to check out. (It's not that I'm a geek, because I'm not, even though I spend my half-life here in the internet instead of going to sleep, but that doesn't make me a geek, that makes me obsessive.) The only sections I was interested in - because I am, after all, a girl - were purses (the bigger the better), shoes (I'll tell you what's up with women and shoes in a second) and one watch (i'd rather not wear one or know what time it is, reminds me too much of TS Eliot's line "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons") and one piece of jewelry, if it can be called jewelry as such, when nobody wears jewels any more. They're all in some foreign crown in a museum, or Trump has bought them all for his girlfriends, or whatever. I didn't really care for the travel insurance, or the baseball hats, but please, be my guest. These are all blog-style links that, according to the copy, are updated on a daily basis with the latest stuff to render teeny-fashion-hearts aflutter directly from fashion avenue. Oh, and the reason women love shoes so much? they don't stop fitting if (and when) we gain weight. And also because Barbie had such cool shoes. All of us wanted to wear them, but they were just so little! [image]Aren't they the coolest thing ever? I could sprinkle them on my corn-flakes, that's how cute they are. Anyway, there was a lot, A LOT, of stuff to like in these Blogs (did I mention they offer daily updates, news and reviews on all your fashion and insurance needs? Good.) But all things being equal, some things are more equal than others, and here are samples of some stuff I would love to have the money to buy, so I could have something under my.... kitchen sink, on Christmas morning. Exhibit A, shoes I would KILL for. Kill. Murder. Really. And then take off with your shoes. Let someone else have your wallet. [image]I am aware these are not the shoes you imagine when you think of sexy, go get'im shoes, but I could make it work. Exhibit B and C, the diametrically opposite shoes of exhibit A. I don't even know if these two pairs could handle being in the same closet. They are arch-enemies, even a fashion-ignorant person such as me can see one of them would have to go. [image][image]The rhyming purse (or combining purse, or accompanying purse) can be found in the pursesection, page 2. Next item, Exhibit C.... see for your self... it will explain itself better than I can [image]A ring. Yes. If I ever feel the irritating need to get married again, this will be the ring to seal the deal. At least I will honestly know what I got myself into. All those nice and classy platinum bands, or gold and diamond rings, all that fancy-schmancy stuff, just blinds you to the fact that soon enough you're going to want to gauge each other's eyes out, and this ring would go a long way towards, 1- being a reminder of the reality of marriage, 2- get the deed done. Nuff said. Next up, the watch-me watch by ed hardy. [image]yes, his stuff has trivialized the real tattoo culture and it saddens and maddens me, but it doesn't make this watch any less pretty. And finally, the piece du resistance, the purses! There were a lot of more normal ones, of course, but, do you really think I would promote those? Look at all this fun. Oh, the things I could carry...in my clutch bag (for kleenex and lipstick) [image]and this next one would be PERFECT to keep my diary in, so my boyfriends will stop reading it. (Three bf's have done this already. What is it with you guys? Aren't you the ones who want us to respect your privacy so much?) Anyway, here it is: [image]And this next one, wow: [image]so there you have it. Some cool stuff to buy yourself this merry little christmas. Go crazy. geekstuff, promo nonadult false Stuff for you, since no one else will get you what you really want text blog geekstuff,promo 122 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1630061 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_un-nene-que-llora-y-afuera-que-llueve/BLOG/1610745/16633.html more of my stuff   It's raining bipolarly, like the way the kid next door cries sometimes, screeching to the very limit of his lillyputian strength (he IS annoying but very effective, one of the notable "galillos" of his time) with a sudden downturn to an almost gentle moan and croon, and then, BAM! AGAIN! The castle's walls shake from the sheer force of the fury in his cry! It is, yes, it is, very, very, annoying. And yet it satisfies somehow, cathartic perhaps. Someone gets to scream and scream and scream and this child will simply never stop his lament; I believe he brings heartache with him from another life, or another dimension, and THAT'S how it rains today, with ache, just so... the pitter patter of a serious "llovizna" with fat drops plaf plaf plaffing down to the ground where they don't know your name, down to the carhoods and rooftops and patios, and WHAM! a serious serious end-game, a veritable bullet-proof Great Wall of China drops down from a deadly wound, up inside the inner organs of the atmosphere... water is blood, our blood 90 percent water, the Earth has kept the very same same amount of water, this is the water that was here millions and millions of antedeluvian years ago, not end of the world rain, but worse, the rain of a world being born (I want to smack that neighbor's kid one dry backhand across the upper lip, want to see his nose bleed, want to know what the FUCK he cries about, what the fuckity fuck is always happening inside him, and how come he doesn't get aborted this very minute, that kid is the exact argument for mandatory sterilization) and is that what makes the screams so unbearable, the anguish of coming into being and feeling the full weight of the hell about to be unleashed.... ----Man, I wanted to write something else, I wanted to tell you about these two awesome movies, heart-stoppers, the first was PARANORMAL ACTIVITY (in theaters) and then this, this....the words just fall short, but say it's a foreign Madness-Mutilation-Horror film called MARTYRS, for which I have no precedent, none, at all. (Remember I told you in an email??? "he visto una pelicula de horror que, honestamente no sé si es buena, o es que me tocó botones, pero estoy pasmá. "Martyrs", es francesa, tan inocente entre los new releases. En resumen Martyrs, es como tres en una. No soporto verla de nuevo. Este tipo de horror no es del sobrenatural exactamente, es como asylum-insanity-horror, The Thing That Should Not Be horror, me gustaría que alguien la viera y me dijera si es tan astounding o tan sólo me tocó una llaga... un balance de horror y elegancia "... And I'm a fan of horror, the real stuff, the horrid horror, the kind that you make some adjustments for, changing your behavior after, a whole new relationship with routine because routine was another life, back when you still were safe at home with or without your parents, alone or with a sibling, but some movies call for changes, changing your bed-frame for instance, a bedframe with ABSOLUTELY NO SPACE underneath. Never again a space under your mattress, not after Poltergeist, no feet of yours are going to face that shadow dimension ever. Ever times Infinite times infinite. So I did want to talk and drink the coffee and the tea, and smoke the cigarette, and talk of nothing with lots of wordy-words for a while... (did you go under the bed?)  more of my stuff   It's raining bipolarly, like the way the kid next door cries sometimes, screeching to the very limit of his lillyputian strength (he IS annoying but very effective, one of the notable "galillos" of his time) with a sudden downturn to an almost gentle moan and croon, and then, BAM! AGAIN! The castle's walls shake from the sheer force of the fury in his cry! It is, yes, it is, very, very, annoying. And yet it satisfies somehow, cathartic perhaps. Someone gets to scream and scream and scream and this child will simply never stop his lament; I believe he brings heartache with him from another life, or another dimension, and THAT'S how it rains today, with ache, just so... the pitter patter of a serious "llovizna" with fat drops plaf plaf plaffing down to the ground where they don't know your name, down to the carhoods and rooftops and patios, and WHAM! a serious serious end-game, a veritable bullet-proof Great Wall of China drops down from a deadly wound, up inside the inner organs of the atmosphere... water is blood, our blood 90 percent water, the Earth has kept the very same same amount of water, this is the water that was here millions and millions of antedeluvian years ago, not end of the world rain, but worse, the rain of a world being born (I want to smack that neighbor's kid one dry backhand across the upper lip, want to see his nose bleed, want to know what the FUCK he cries about, what the fuckity fuck is always happening inside him, and how come he doesn't get aborted this very minute, that kid is the exact argument for mandatory sterilization) and is that what makes the screams so unbearable, the anguish of coming into being and feeling the full weight of the hell about to be unleashed.... ----Man, I wanted to write something else, I wanted to tell you about these two awesome movies, heart-stoppers, the first was PARANORMAL ACTIVITY (in theaters) and then this, this....the words just fall short, but say it's a foreign Madness-Mutilation-Horror film called MARTYRS, for which I have no precedent, none, at all. (Remember I told you in an email??? "he visto una pelicula de horror que, honestamente no sé si es buena, o es que me tocó botones, pero estoy pasmá. "Martyrs", es francesa, tan inocente entre los new releases. En resumen Martyrs, es como tres en una. No soporto verla de nuevo. Este tipo de horror no es del sobrenatural exactamente, es como asylum-insanity-horror, The Thing That Should Not Be horror, me gustaría que alguien la viera y me dijera si es tan astounding o tan sólo me tocó una llaga... un balance de horror y elegancia "... And I'm a fan of horror, the real stuff, the horrid horror, the kind that you make some adjustments for, changing your behavior after, a whole new relationship with routine because routine was another life, back when you still were safe at home with or without your parents, alone or with a sibling, but some movies call for changes, changing your bed-frame for instance, a bedframe with ABSOLUTELY NO SPACE underneath. Never again a space under your mattress, not after Poltergeist, no feet of yours are going to face that shadow dimension ever. Ever times Infinite times infinite. So I did want to talk and drink the coffee and the tea, and smoke the cigarette, and talk of nothing with lots of wordy-words for a while... (did you go under the bed?)  Sun, 13 Dec 2009 09:30:29 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_un-nene-que-llora-y-afuera-que-llueve/BLOG/1610745/16633.html mdq 2009-12-13T09:30:29Z Articles Puerto Rico Online Magazine more of my stuff   It's raining bipolarly, like the way the kid next door cries sometimes, screeching to the very limit of his lillyputian strength (he IS annoying but very effective, one of the notable "galillos" of his time) with a sudden downturn to an almost gentle moan and croon, and then, BAM! AGAIN! The castle's walls shake from the sheer force of the fury in his cry! It is, yes, it is, very, very, annoying. And yet it satisfies somehow, cathartic perhaps. Someone gets to scream and scream and scream and this child will simply never stop his lament; I believe he brings heartache with him from another life, or another dimension, and THAT'S how it rains today, with ache, just so... the pitter patter of a serious "llovizna" with fat drops plaf plaf plaffing down to the ground where they don't know your name, down to the carhoods and rooftops and patios, and WHAM! a serious serious end-game, a veritable bullet-proof Great Wall of China drops down from a deadly wound, up inside the inner organs of the atmosphere... water is blood, our blood 90 percent water, the Earth has kept the very same same amount of water, this is the water that was here millions and millions of antedeluvian years ago, not end of the world rain, but worse, the rain of a world being born (I want to smack that neighbor's kid one dry backhand across the upper lip, want to see his nose bleed, want to know what the FUCK he cries about, what the fuckity fuck is always happening inside him, and how come he doesn't get aborted this very minute, that kid is the exact argument for mandatory sterilization) and is that what makes the screams so unbearable, the anguish of coming into being and feeling the full weight of the hell about to be unleashed.... ----Man, I wanted to write something else, I wanted to tell you about these two awesome movies, heart-stoppers, the first was PARANORMAL ACTIVITY (in theaters) and then this, this....the words just fall short, but say it's a foreign Madness-Mutilation-Horror film called MARTYRS, for which I have no precedent, none, at all. (Remember I told you in an email??? "he visto una pelicula de horror que, honestamente no sé si es buena, o es que me tocó botones, pero estoy pasmá. "Martyrs", es francesa, tan inocente entre los new releases. En resumen Martyrs, es como tres en una. No soporto verla de nuevo. Este tipo de horror no es del sobrenatural exactamente, es como asylum-insanity-horror, The Thing That Should Not Be horror, me gustaría que alguien la viera y me dijera si es tan astounding o tan sólo me tocó una llaga... un balance de horror y elegancia "... And I'm a fan of horror, the real stuff, the horrid horror, the kind that you make some adjustments for, changing your behavior after, a whole new relationship with routine because routine was another life, back when you still were safe at home with or without your parents, alone or with a sibling, but some movies call for changes, changing your bed-frame for instance, a bedframe with ABSOLUTELY NO SPACE underneath. Never again a space under your mattress, not after Poltergeist, no feet of yours are going to face that shadow dimension ever. Ever times Infinite times infinite. So I did want to talk and drink the coffee and the tea, and smoke the cigarette, and talk of nothing with lots of wordy-words for a while... (did you go under the bed?)  articles, children, rain, writing nonadult false un nene que llora y afuera que llueve text blog articles,children,rain,writing 222 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 Articles 0 1610745 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_RABIETA/BLOG/1610739/16633.html más cosas, portfolio   I Escucha...quizas, tal vez, es posible, dicen, acaso, yo no soy, o no doy, o no eres, lo que queda por decir, no hay más nada que escuchar, repetir y repetir y repetir y repetir, como lo digo, como lo hago llegar,  el silencio y la ira, mis aliados, ahora todo me sabe a mierda por ti me sabe a mierda llorar, sonreir me sabe a mierda, me sabe a mierda las gafas porque ojos no quedan, crudos óvalos amarillos,  te odio tanto que quiero morirme,  la muerte es linda si es que podemos hablar verdad matarte mientras hablas la misma mierda la misma mierda la misma mierda ¿es que no oyes la mierda?¿tienes mierda en los oídos? lo inventé todo completo totalmente inacabable, mierda interminable, un mini-dios vestido de rubio y de rojo, tanto odio que hasta el color rojo se enfermó, marchitó, murió, putrefacción total, gangrena, polvo, cremación, en mi interior tripas, nudos, mierda, calambres, sangre, dolor, la coagulación de la ilusión apesta a mierda, a mierda, a mierda. ciega como los animales del fondo del mar ciega por intentar ver la mierda rosita, mierda rosita con lacitos y mierditas, esta no es mi película, odio esta mierda de película, melodramática, sin temática,  sin matemática, al mirarte dormir hay confusión del deseo mierdoso de mi cuerpo,  de mi cuero, de mí, pelos, muslos, tetas, vientre, vacío, hueco, socavado, minado, explotado, un cuerpo al que ni mierda le queda de tanto que entregó. Hoy sentí un snap! un pop! un crack! una muerte instantánea como la mierda en polvo, duele más que el dolor del amor, esta muerte, una palabra más, una palabra de más, quedó extirpado el tumor con tu nombre, pulmones, alma, aire, viento, palabras, te di tanta mierda, toda la mierda que yo era, yo no soy esa mierda que creía ser, hoy soy lo que no era; quisiera enterrarte puñeta maldito asqueroso rubio y rojo egoísta embustero hablamierda comemierda vetealamierda rencoroso malparido hijo del diablo, a tu lado me torné en mierda porque quién ha visto que la mierda con agua se lave? la mierda es mierda. me cago en el día en que te conocí. ¿Oíste? II Mira...después hay que pedir perdón.  No eres lo que dices, ni lo que haces.  Busco entender la cosa negra que vi en tu espalda  una noche durmiendo, viscosa sombra espesa  como las que vemos en ciencia ficción saliendo de los ojos de Mulder,  cosa negra que cogí puñado a puñado para sacarla de ti.   más cosas, portfolio   I Escucha...quizas, tal vez, es posible, dicen, acaso, yo no soy, o no doy, o no eres, lo que queda por decir, no hay más nada que escuchar, repetir y repetir y repetir y repetir, como lo digo, como lo hago llegar,  el silencio y la ira, mis aliados, ahora todo me sabe a mierda por ti me sabe a mierda llorar, sonreir me sabe a mierda, me sabe a mierda las gafas porque ojos no quedan, crudos óvalos amarillos,  te odio tanto que quiero morirme,  la muerte es linda si es que podemos hablar verdad matarte mientras hablas la misma mierda la misma mierda la misma mierda ¿es que no oyes la mierda?¿tienes mierda en los oídos? lo inventé todo completo totalmente inacabable, mierda interminable, un mini-dios vestido de rubio y de rojo, tanto odio que hasta el color rojo se enfermó, marchitó, murió, putrefacción total, gangrena, polvo, cremación, en mi interior tripas, nudos, mierda, calambres, sangre, dolor, la coagulación de la ilusión apesta a mierda, a mierda, a mierda. ciega como los animales del fondo del mar ciega por intentar ver la mierda rosita, mierda rosita con lacitos y mierditas, esta no es mi película, odio esta mierda de película, melodramática, sin temática,  sin matemática, al mirarte dormir hay confusión del deseo mierdoso de mi cuerpo,  de mi cuero, de mí, pelos, muslos, tetas, vientre, vacío, hueco, socavado, minado, explotado, un cuerpo al que ni mierda le queda de tanto que entregó. Hoy sentí un snap! un pop! un crack! una muerte instantánea como la mierda en polvo, duele más que el dolor del amor, esta muerte, una palabra más, una palabra de más, quedó extirpado el tumor con tu nombre, pulmones, alma, aire, viento, palabras, te di tanta mierda, toda la mierda que yo era, yo no soy esa mierda que creía ser, hoy soy lo que no era; quisiera enterrarte puñeta maldito asqueroso rubio y rojo egoísta embustero hablamierda comemierda vetealamierda rencoroso malparido hijo del diablo, a tu lado me torné en mierda porque quién ha visto que la mierda con agua se lave? la mierda es mierda. me cago en el día en que te conocí. ¿Oíste? II Mira...después hay que pedir perdón.  No eres lo que dices, ni lo que haces.  Busco entender la cosa negra que vi en tu espalda  una noche durmiendo, viscosa sombra espesa  como las que vemos en ciencia ficción saliendo de los ojos de Mulder,  cosa negra que cogí puñado a puñado para sacarla de ti.   Sun, 13 Dec 2009 09:17:23 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_RABIETA/BLOG/1610739/16633.html mdq 2009-12-13T09:17:23Z Articles Puerto Rico Online Magazine más cosas, portfolio   I Escucha...quizas, tal vez, es posible, dicen, acaso, yo no soy, o no doy, o no eres, lo que queda por decir, no hay más nada que escuchar, repetir y repetir y repetir y repetir, como lo digo, como lo hago llegar,  el silencio y la ira, mis aliados, ahora todo me sabe a mierda por ti me sabe a mierda llorar, sonreir me sabe a mierda, me sabe a mierda las gafas porque ojos no quedan, crudos óvalos amarillos,  te odio tanto que quiero morirme,  la muerte es linda si es que podemos hablar verdad matarte mientras hablas la misma mierda la misma mierda la misma mierda ¿es que no oyes la mierda?¿tienes mierda en los oídos? lo inventé todo completo totalmente inacabable, mierda interminable, un mini-dios vestido de rubio y de rojo, tanto odio que hasta el color rojo se enfermó, marchitó, murió, putrefacción total, gangrena, polvo, cremación, en mi interior tripas, nudos, mierda, calambres, sangre, dolor, la coagulación de la ilusión apesta a mierda, a mierda, a mierda. ciega como los animales del fondo del mar ciega por intentar ver la mierda rosita, mierda rosita con lacitos y mierditas, esta no es mi película, odio esta mierda de película, melodramática, sin temática,  sin matemática, al mirarte dormir hay confusión del deseo mierdoso de mi cuerpo,  de mi cuero, de mí, pelos, muslos, tetas, vientre, vacío, hueco, socavado, minado, explotado, un cuerpo al que ni mierda le queda de tanto que entregó. Hoy sentí un snap! un pop! un crack! una muerte instantánea como la mierda en polvo, duele más que el dolor del amor, esta muerte, una palabra más, una palabra de más, quedó extirpado el tumor con tu nombre, pulmones, alma, aire, viento, palabras, te di tanta mierda, toda la mierda que yo era, yo no soy esa mierda que creía ser, hoy soy lo que no era; quisiera enterrarte puñeta maldito asqueroso rubio y rojo egoísta embustero hablamierda comemierda vetealamierda rencoroso malparido hijo del diablo, a tu lado me torné en mierda porque quién ha visto que la mierda con agua se lave? la mierda es mierda. me cago en el día en que te conocí. ¿Oíste? II Mira...después hay que pedir perdón.  No eres lo que dices, ni lo que haces.  Busco entender la cosa negra que vi en tu espalda  una noche durmiendo, viscosa sombra espesa  como las que vemos en ciencia ficción saliendo de los ojos de Mulder,  cosa negra que cogí puñado a puñado para sacarla de ti.   amor, articles, escritos, rabia nonadult false RABIETA text blog amor,articles,escritos,rabia 193 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 Articles 0 1610739 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_how-to-make-sesame-noodles/BLOG/1610735/16633.html more of my stuff    How to make sesame noodles   The most important ingredient in making sesame noodles is, indubitably, sesame oil. Followed by peanut butter, soy sauce, and honey. Some carrot shavings as garnish would definitely look nice. And don’t forget the noodles.   There is some dissention in regards to which noodles are best for this dish. My official yet unprofessional opinion, as someone who likes sesame noodles but has no training in the kitchen, is that any noodles will do. It’s all a matter of taste. I enjoy using angel hair pasta, however rotini will work in a pinch.   Get some water on the stove, let’s say 3 cups. Add a teaspoon of salt and a squirt of olive oil. Let it boil. Lower to medium/high-ish, add a fistful of pasta. Not a big fistful, say the diameter of a shower rod or two. Or the diameter of a golf ball, or a film can. This all depends on how many servings to expect.   Leave it at a medium boil for seven or eight minutes. Try one. Maybe you like it Al Dente, or softer. Your choice.   For the sauce, add an ounce, more or less, of sesame oil, half an ounce, more or less, of soy sauce, a HEAPING tablespoon, more or less, of peanut butter (skippy or any brand), and a tablespoon, more or less, of honey. Microwave it, more or less, 45 seconds, stir well, until it is all blended into, more or less, a thick sauce.   Combine with noodles, garnish with carrots or scallions, and enjoy!   Note to the cook: as with everything, practice makes perfect, so don’t give up if it doesn’t taste absolutely right the first time. Cooking is an art as well as a science. Enjoy your time in the kitchen. Don’t be afraid of experimenting. more of my stuff    How to make sesame noodles   The most important ingredient in making sesame noodles is, indubitably, sesame oil. Followed by peanut butter, soy sauce, and honey. Some carrot shavings as garnish would definitely look nice. And don’t forget the noodles.   There is some dissention in regards to which noodles are best for this dish. My official yet unprofessional opinion, as someone who likes sesame noodles but has no training in the kitchen, is that any noodles will do. It’s all a matter of taste. I enjoy using angel hair pasta, however rotini will work in a pinch.   Get some water on the stove, let’s say 3 cups. Add a teaspoon of salt and a squirt of olive oil. Let it boil. Lower to medium/high-ish, add a fistful of pasta. Not a big fistful, say the diameter of a shower rod or two. Or the diameter of a golf ball, or a film can. This all depends on how many servings to expect.   Leave it at a medium boil for seven or eight minutes. Try one. Maybe you like it Al Dente, or softer. Your choice.   For the sauce, add an ounce, more or less, of sesame oil, half an ounce, more or less, of soy sauce, a HEAPING tablespoon, more or less, of peanut butter (skippy or any brand), and a tablespoon, more or less, of honey. Microwave it, more or less, 45 seconds, stir well, until it is all blended into, more or less, a thick sauce.   Combine with noodles, garnish with carrots or scallions, and enjoy!   Note to the cook: as with everything, practice makes perfect, so don’t give up if it doesn’t taste absolutely right the first time. Cooking is an art as well as a science. Enjoy your time in the kitchen. Don’t be afraid of experimenting. Sun, 13 Dec 2009 09:03:16 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_how-to-make-sesame-noodles/BLOG/1610735/16633.html mdq 2009-12-13T09:03:16Z Articles Puerto Rico Online Magazine more of my stuff    How to make sesame noodles   The most important ingredient in making sesame noodles is, indubitably, sesame oil. Followed by peanut butter, soy sauce, and honey. Some carrot shavings as garnish would definitely look nice. And don’t forget the noodles.   There is some dissention in regards to which noodles are best for this dish. My official yet unprofessional opinion, as someone who likes sesame noodles but has no training in the kitchen, is that any noodles will do. It’s all a matter of taste. I enjoy using angel hair pasta, however rotini will work in a pinch.   Get some water on the stove, let’s say 3 cups. Add a teaspoon of salt and a squirt of olive oil. Let it boil. Lower to medium/high-ish, add a fistful of pasta. Not a big fistful, say the diameter of a shower rod or two. Or the diameter of a golf ball, or a film can. This all depends on how many servings to expect.   Leave it at a medium boil for seven or eight minutes. Try one. Maybe you like it Al Dente, or softer. Your choice.   For the sauce, add an ounce, more or less, of sesame oil, half an ounce, more or less, of soy sauce, a HEAPING tablespoon, more or less, of peanut butter (skippy or any brand), and a tablespoon, more or less, of honey. Microwave it, more or less, 45 seconds, stir well, until it is all blended into, more or less, a thick sauce.   Combine with noodles, garnish with carrots or scallions, and enjoy!   Note to the cook: as with everything, practice makes perfect, so don’t give up if it doesn’t taste absolutely right the first time. Cooking is an art as well as a science. Enjoy your time in the kitchen. Don’t be afraid of experimenting. articles, food, writing nonadult false how to make sesame noodles text blog articles,food,writing 204 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 Articles 0 1610735 18762806 Gold 2210 http://portal.prmag.com/_how-to-get-a-job/BLOG/1610732/16633.html writings and stuff   How to get a job First you will need copious amounts of fear. It would help, of course, if you recently bought a car, rented an apartment and received a loan from a bank. The process becomes easier if, also, there is no room for you “back home”. You should definitely attempt to feel some resentment for your actual boss who, oh so kindly, explained that orders from that other galaxy in New York are to let go of all freelancers. You will fail at this. Resentment is futile. You’ve loved this place for three years, and at least you were given a month’s notice. Okay. Once these pre-requisites are taken care of, you may move on to the obsessive-compulsive part of the chore. Never mind copywriting and proofreading and translating; you must understand that your job description has changed. Your new job is to get a job. Get your staff ready: coffee, phone, craigslist, clasificadosonline, phone book, newspapers, Tylenol. And Visine, for when you’ve stared at the computer without blinking for two or three straight hours. Ready? Set? Engage! Imagine yourself in that office,  imagine yourself making sandwiches,  imagine yourself doing nails,  curse your college degree in art,  curse your laziness of those days of yore,  picture the fluorescent lights of a government office,  but no, no government jobs, no jobs where you need a health certificate, or good conduct,  call, call, call everywhere, ask for emails,  no, no sales jobs,  or could you do sales? Could you push that time-share onto unsuspecting humble prospects who were unwittingly tricked with a free breakfast?  YOU MUST HAVE AN IMAGINATION. AND FAITH, that someone out there is looking for exactly precisely and only YOU. Help them find you. Get out there and scream “I’m here!!! I’m right here!!”  Imagine the universe opening doors, that grand machinery, creaking and cranking out possibilities,  remember The Secret, stupid. You are torn between blind faith and the practical, slightly cynical you.  Drivers wanted. Nope.  Administrativeblablablah. Nope. No numbers.  Mechanic, yeah right.  Waitress? They say it’s good money. Maybe.  Legal Secretary? Woe is you. All your legal understanding ends at “Objection!”  Nursing. Caring for an elderly lady. Stylist. Handyman.  No. No. No. No. But you will send your resume anyway, just in case, because you never know, who might know somebody who knows somebody who has a cousin who needs someone who more or less fits your description and skills. Send. Send. Send. Check every day. Send at least 10 resumes every day. Call people you haven’t seen in 3 years, just to say hi, how are you, and hey by the way… If you follow these instructions to the letter, and pester enough people, and answer the phone even if you don’t recognize the number, and agree to drive one hour for an interview in Jayuya, and smile when you’re asked where you see yourself in five years, and say “I’m a perfectionist” when asked about your shortcomings and laugh because the interviewer gets the joke… You will get a job, whether you want it or not.   writings and stuff   How to get a job First you will need copious amounts of fear. It would help, of course, if you recently bought a car, rented an apartment and received a loan from a bank. The process becomes easier if, also, there is no room for you “back home”. You should definitely attempt to feel some resentment for your actual boss who, oh so kindly, explained that orders from that other galaxy in New York are to let go of all freelancers. You will fail at this. Resentment is futile. You’ve loved this place for three years, and at least you were given a month’s notice. Okay. Once these pre-requisites are taken care of, you may move on to the obsessive-compulsive part of the chore. Never mind copywriting and proofreading and translating; you must understand that your job description has changed. Your new job is to get a job. Get your staff ready: coffee, phone, craigslist, clasificadosonline, phone book, newspapers, Tylenol. And Visine, for when you’ve stared at the computer without blinking for two or three straight hours. Ready? Set? Engage! Imagine yourself in that office,  imagine yourself making sandwiches,  imagine yourself doing nails,  curse your college degree in art,  curse your laziness of those days of yore,  picture the fluorescent lights of a government office,  but no, no government jobs, no jobs where you need a health certificate, or good conduct,  call, call, call everywhere, ask for emails,  no, no sales jobs,  or could you do sales? Could you push that time-share onto unsuspecting humble prospects who were unwittingly tricked with a free breakfast?  YOU MUST HAVE AN IMAGINATION. AND FAITH, that someone out there is looking for exactly precisely and only YOU. Help them find you. Get out there and scream “I’m here!!! I’m right here!!”  Imagine the universe opening doors, that grand machinery, creaking and cranking out possibilities,  remember The Secret, stupid. You are torn between blind faith and the practical, slightly cynical you.  Drivers wanted. Nope.  Administrativeblablablah. Nope. No numbers.  Mechanic, yeah right.  Waitress? They say it’s good money. Maybe.  Legal Secretary? Woe is you. All your legal understanding ends at “Objection!”  Nursing. Caring for an elderly lady. Stylist. Handyman.  No. No. No. No. But you will send your resume anyway, just in case, because you never know, who might know somebody who knows somebody who has a cousin who needs someone who more or less fits your description and skills. Send. Send. Send. Check every day. Send at least 10 resumes every day. Call people you haven’t seen in 3 years, just to say hi, how are you, and hey by the way… If you follow these instructions to the letter, and pester enough people, and answer the phone even if you don’t recognize the number, and agree to drive one hour for an interview in Jayuya, and smile when you’re asked where you see yourself in five years, and say “I’m a perfectionist” when asked about your shortcomings and laugh because the interviewer gets the joke… You will get a job, whether you want it or not.   Sun, 13 Dec 2009 08:55:38 GMT http://portal.prmag.com/_how-to-get-a-job/BLOG/1610732/16633.html mdq 2009-12-13T08:55:38Z Articles Puerto Rico Online Magazine writings and stuff   How to get a job First you will need copious amounts of fear. It would help, of course, if you recently bought a car, rented an apartment and received a loan from a bank. The process becomes easier if, also, there is no room for you “back home”. You should definitely attempt to feel some resentment for your actual boss who, oh so kindly, explained that orders from that other galaxy in New York are to let go of all freelancers. You will fail at this. Resentment is futile. You’ve loved this place for three years, and at least you were given a month’s notice. Okay. Once these pre-requisites are taken care of, you may move on to the obsessive-compulsive part of the chore. Never mind copywriting and proofreading and translating; you must understand that your job description has changed. Your new job is to get a job. Get your staff ready: coffee, phone, craigslist, clasificadosonline, phone book, newspapers, Tylenol. And Visine, for when you’ve stared at the computer without blinking for two or three straight hours. Ready? Set? Engage! Imagine yourself in that office,  imagine yourself making sandwiches,  imagine yourself doing nails,  curse your college degree in art,  curse your laziness of those days of yore,  picture the fluorescent lights of a government office,  but no, no government jobs, no jobs where you need a health certificate, or good conduct,  call, call, call everywhere, ask for emails,  no, no sales jobs,  or could you do sales? Could you push that time-share onto unsuspecting humble prospects who were unwittingly tricked with a free breakfast?  YOU MUST HAVE AN IMAGINATION. AND FAITH, that someone out there is looking for exactly precisely and only YOU. Help them find you. Get out there and scream “I’m here!!! I’m right here!!”  Imagine the universe opening doors, that grand machinery, creaking and cranking out possibilities,  remember The Secret, stupid. You are torn between blind faith and the practical, slightly cynical you.  Drivers wanted. Nope.  Administrativeblablablah. Nope. No numbers.  Mechanic, yeah right.  Waitress? They say it’s good money. Maybe.  Legal Secretary? Woe is you. All your legal understanding ends at “Objection!”  Nursing. Caring for an elderly lady. Stylist. Handyman.  No. No. No. No. But you will send your resume anyway, just in case, because you never know, who might know somebody who knows somebody who has a cousin who needs someone who more or less fits your description and skills. Send. Send. Send. Check every day. Send at least 10 resumes every day. Call people you haven’t seen in 3 years, just to say hi, how are you, and hey by the way… If you follow these instructions to the letter, and pester enough people, and answer the phone even if you don’t recognize the number, and agree to drive one hour for an interview in Jayuya, and smile when you’re asked where you see yourself in five years, and say “I’m a perfectionist” when asked about your shortcomings and laugh because the interviewer gets the joke… You will get a job, whether you want it or not.   articles, crazy, funny, job, writing nonadult false how to get a job text blog articles,crazy,funny,job,writing 222 0 0.0 http://portal.prmag.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18762806&as=16633 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/16633/photos/PHOTO_8019433_16633_18762806_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 Articles 0 1610732 18762806 Gold 2210