How much?
I ask because I'm fairly certain I sold mine a while ago.

Admittedly, I drank some away;

admittedly, I gave each of those boys a piece;

truly, there’s a part in each of these poems,

and my father carries a bit

in his jacket pocket

but I shouldn't mention it.

I never seem to explain to anyone
how sometimes the matters of eternity keep me awake at night,
It's not the fear of hell or the hope of heaven
it's more of the question on everything that remains.

Eternity feels like your second bottle of beer
on a hot summer night
 just before it makes you feel bloated;

when it feels like a pit in your stomach.

So far and so long are short.

—L.

there was a pretty song on the radio

it made me happy how a single note hits the low tone and then comes back

like my moods and my socks

it is acceptable that a kid has imaginary friends when little

people stop liking the idea when the kid becomes a grownup

and disagrees with his imaginary friend and they fight

they call it schizophrenia and kill it because it's dangerous

i don't agree with gender rolls or

t.v. shows that reveal the truth behind magic tricks

zoos or old ladies that make you uncross your legs at church

or 50 cent coins that look like 10 cent ones

i wish i was sleepy enough

my knees are cold at night because i wear shorts

i can't wear pants to sleep because i get too hot

weather's weird on april

we won't stop until somebody calls the cops and even then

we'll start again and just pretend 

that nothing ever happened

L.

Hello, handsome single gentleman. This is I, miss Loretta Rivera's common sense. I address to you, just to give you a quick tip about getting it going with my owner.

She's a fucking idiot. Honestly.

She won't EVER have a single clue about your interest on her. It won't even cross her mind because she is a complete moron.

If you ever feel the slight intention to approach her in a romantic way, please, feel free to direct this exact words to her:

“Young lady, I want to let you know that I am ATTRACTED TO YOU AND THAT I LIKE YOU BECAUSE OF REASONS. THIS IS ME HITTING ON YOU. You are a nice human and I would be interested in being your human-partner-thingy.”

That will give this dumb fuck a clue.
YOU ARE WELCOME.
—LorettaRm's common sense.

Dear [insert name here],

I'm writing this complaint letter because we just had an exciting conversation via facebook chat where you decided to tell me that you actually knew I used to have a big crush on you. I laughed it off because, obviously, we're "friends" now (which you certainly made clear a couple of years ago when you rejected me in one of the most humiliating ways I've ever been rejected by a significant other). 

As you said in our conversation, you happen to like my "new self" more. You said that I had overcome the person that you didn't like years ago and now I've become somewhat "desirable". I tried to take this as a compliment; one coming from -what I considered at the moment- someone not-so-good communicating in the typed way. You said you "might even" want to date me now.

So here I am, sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor, trying to figure out what you meant by this. I immediately thought about the -almost- hundred books I've read since you decided not to have any kind of sentimental relationship with my "old self", the trips I've done, people I've met, experiences I had... I've quite grown; yes, you might be right! I'm a whole new person now!

And then, you type, after a minute or so: "Physically." Oh no, you just did not... You... Oh.

*Cracks knuckles* 

Let me break it down for you.

You decided to not only put aside every single thing I've achieved in a relatively short amount of time, you decided to objectify my person as something that can only be improved in a physical way. I am disgusted by the idea of a person this incredibly superficial. Not only you had not spoken directly to me in the last years but you apparently believe that I can just turn on my feelings towards you -or possibly anyone who addresses a kind word about my looks to myself- in any single moment you consider proper.

I don't think any member of my audience feels like reading our full conversation. Plus, I think I've already stated the fact that you are a filthy and dickheaded piece of shit person.

But now, I have the need to address my words to any fellow reader who has ever been into any situation of this kind -may it be an offended one or an offensor-.

Nowadays, physical change is very easy to achieve. Anyone with access to enough information, willpower or with a prosper economic intake can change their looks. I'm not only talking about weight, fellows: You can change clothes, hairstyles, skin color, facial features, expressions, erase age lines, improve body mass, tone muscles, BLAH, BLAH. May it be surgical or the oldschool sweating-your-ass-on-a-crowded-gym way

So, why judge people based on looks when you can judge them by so many other things that are actually important!?

John Green, in his famous novel, Paper Towns wrote:

“That's always seemed so ridiculous to me, that people want to be around someone because they're pretty. It's like picking your breakfast cereals based on color instead of taste.”

And here I am, inside that same situation now. 

I might have lost some weight, I might have gotten rid of ugly glasses and braces and uglyduckling-ed myself out of an annoying puberty but I'm still the same person I was years ago. I still like to sing in the shower and drink coffee like crazy and am called Loretta Rivera and wear mismatched socks. 

You might have not liked me before, but I'm pretty sure that being "pretty" won't make my presence any more or less welcome in the lifes of people who have known me. 

I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN THIS LORETTA, FOR FUCKS SAKE. 

You can stare at a beautiful person; touch, squeeze, kiss, have sexual encounters with a beautiful person. That does not mean that you will enjoy the company of this beautiful person. Yes, your boyfriend is "fuckable", great, screw the shit outta him, kid, I wish you enjoy it. But when he talks...

Is he like this or like this?

You might want to consider this before ever going into any sort of relationship with a person. This person will meet your parents. This person will answer the phone at your house. This person is the person your friends are going to beg you to please, not bring to their birthday party and you will have to explain why.

And if someone wants to be in a relationship with you just because they find you goodlooking but you can tell they don't know a single thing about who you really are, maybe you should let slip in any conversation that you don't know how to properly wipe your ass and you might need some lessons. This maybe a hint for not-so-bright ones.

You're more than a number on a scale, a bunch of makeup, clothes, trends. You're a person. Cultivate yourself as one. Nourish your body, your soul. Allow yourself to feel. Don't be a superficial dickhead and DFTBA.

-LorettaRm.

PS. Sorry for the cursing and any personal offense. Excepto tú. Tú sabes quién eres. Pendejo.

No sé cómo puede correr alguien con esta suerte.

¿A qué hora escogí el boleto del sorteo que me iba a poner en ese lugar, en esa situación, de aquella forma? Un regalo, un accidente, lo que sea, lo que quisiera yo que fuera.

La suerte de estar en la vida de aquel muchacho de cabello largo y lentes rallados y doblados por las peleas y las borracheras, el de la diabetes crónica y los hábitos alimenticios desordenados y las historias de guerra antes de dormir y los buenos discos en las carreteras.

La suerte de no vivir en ninguna parte, de ser nómada y ser feliz y de los trámites escolares sencillos y de las bibliotecas escolares robadas y de los cafés de gasolinera por las carreteras y las temperaturas menguantes de los puntos cardinales del país.

La suerte de libros buenos que te llevan a libros buenos y libros malos que te llevan a libros mejores y de los malos hábitos y del insomnio horrible y del olor a madera y a cobija lavada.

La suerte de los besos azarosos y las personas extraordinaria y las personas ordinarias y los besos malos y los besos buenos y el perder personas y ganar amigos y perder desconocidos y querer conocernos y noches en vela y risas y roces y más que roces que no son importantes o menos que roces que importan muchísimo.

Y los sueños lúcidos y las millas corriendo hasta que sienta que es suficiente y las recetas y las especias y las margaritas en el cabello y los malos whiskys.

La mala suerte de la ingenuidad y la pereza y los tragos amargos y los sueños malos y las malas amistades. Los golpes y las cortadas y las lágrimas y las pérdidas para siempre; la de fe, la de esperanza, la de otros tiempos.

De conocer a la mejor persona del mundo y conocerlo completamente y arruinar parte de su libertad poniéndole responsabilidades que no merecía y quererlo con todo el ser y aspirar a ser tan fuerte y sonreír una última sonrisa para un tiempo que debió haber durando más.

De darle la oportunidad a quien no podría merecerla. De creer en las personas pero no creer en sí y de leer mucho el mismo poema en voz alta y entender cosas diferentes cada vez.

De saber que algo estoy haciendo mal, de no querer saber qué.

De la buena suerte y la mala suerte y las expresiones que uso para expresar cosas en las que no creo y los amores y los desamores y los ratones de los dientes y los tyops y las calorías negativas.

Y los posts malos en mi blog pendejo.

Then she grabbed his hand and for the first time in a long time, he left it there, inside her grip. He let her caress his knuckles and felt the rings on her fingers. 

"I'm better now," she said.

"That's good." He replied, still not facing her.

"How about you?" she asked, in a low voice.

He hesitated.

"Dunno. Guess so."

"You can't not know."

"Well... I'm okay with you, and that's a lot more that what I've had for a while."

She kept holding his hand for a little longer, until it got sweaty and she had to let go to wipe the sweat in her pants and then took his hand again.

"I want to make you happy," she replied.

"I want to let you, I just don't know what to do or how," he looked at her eyes, his eyes tired, his gaze sad but the look was pleading. She pushed a strand of hair away from her forehead and sighed.

"I don't know if I can make you happy, but I can keep holding your hand for as long as you feel comfortable with, and that's a start."

He then looked at their hands, still together.

"Your hand is soft."

"Thanks."

He gripped hers a little tighter. The trace of a smile drew on her lips.

"I like it here," he said.

"The parking lot?"

"No," he intertwined his fingers with hers. "Here."

She kept smiling.

"I'm glad."

They grew quiet for a while.

"Uhhm... Can we get another pretzel?"

"If that makes you happy."

"I guess it might."

And so they did.

No es mi día, no es mi semana, no es mi mes, no es mi año. Estoy seguro de que tampoco es mi vida.

Sé que no he escrito aquí en mucho tiempo, pero no he dejado de escribir. Lamentablemente a veces siento que lo que escribo se vuelve tan personal que no quiero que nadie más lo lea. He estado escribiendo verdades crudas y el dejarlas ir sería como abrir un clóset desordenado delante de un publico con O.C.Ds.

Estoy cambiando mi vida poco a poco, o por lo menos lo estoy intentando. No es fácil. Hay puntos suaves que todavía no puedo tocar. Detalles de los que no quiero hablar; como si cuidaras la cortadita de papel de que no se toque con nada que pueda hacer que arda.

No sé si estoy bien. Ya no quiero pensar en eso. Es como dormirte sobre tu mano y despertar con el brazo entumecido; lo puedes mover y pellizcar sin sentir nada. Como si no fuera tu brazo. Como si fuera el de alguien más y tu solo tuvieras que llevarlo. 

No nos podemos cansar de llevarnos a nosotros mismos, ¿verdad?

¿Ya estoy divagando? Bueno, supongo que yo siempre estoy divagando.

-LorettaRm.