(I'm sad. Very sad. I finished my class today, and now I don't have any more school. Why am I never sad when I finish a chapter in a book but everytime I finish a chapeter in my life I get sad. I want to read the chapted another time. When I read books, I'm excited to get to the next chapter and see what happens. Maybe it's because I don't like to say goodbye. But it's okay. I know that I'll have other adventures. But I like this adventure. . .I want a little more time. Please?)
So, like I said, shool is finished and I'm moving on. Next stop: ISLA PASCUA!! Which I'm definitely not complaining about. Plus I met a guy from Brazil who will be there at the same time and he seems pretty book. (That wasn't a typo.) So that will be fun.
But before I depart, there are a couple more things that I want to talk about that have no unifying theme besides the fact that I want to talk about them.
The first is something I'm gravely concerned about. I was looking through some photo albums with my family here, and all the photos had the natural progression of time and style, I could see the 70s, the 80s, the 90s, and the . . . uhh. . . past ten years (what do you call those?), which means. . . THEY CHOSE TO RETURN TO THE 80s! It's not that they're just 20 years behind and 20 years from now they will be where the rest of the world (overgeneralizing, I know) is today. No, that's not it all all. They chose the 80s. I don't understand. Maybe it's the contamination. It must be affecting their decision making ability.
I mean, I've improved a bit. I've become desensitized to the mullets and rat tails, but I still can't shake the dissappointment I feel when I see a poptentially attractive guy, and it gives me hope for the country, and he turns his head. . . and I see it. Coming off the back of his head it a dreadded rat tail, the thickness of my thumb, trailing down his back. Why would you do that? Or when I see little boys with it, maybe 4 or 5 years old, but the rat tail is already pretty long, you have to know that the parents started that thing early. It's a shame.
Another thing: male nose piercinhgs. I'm not talking about the bull piercing, I'm talking about the girly, side of the nose piercing. I know this is infultrating the US as well, and eventually it will become normal, but for now I am still uneasy about it. "But Lila, that is sexist and hypocritical," you might be saying. This may be so, but until women and men get paid the same amount for the same job, I retain my right to dislike male nose piercings.
I guess this ties into my favorite thing that I've read in all of Santiago. It was at a museum in the description of a very old facemask, and it said (translated):
The red face, disfigured head shape, and cross eyes represented the ideal beauty of the time.
No, I'm not joking. Times change. Beauty ideals change. I guess you just have to go with it.
Something unrealted that I wanted to talk about: my walking. I've always been told I walk slow. I'll feel like I'm walking at a perfectly normal pace, but practically everyone will be flying by me on the street. Wind rushes by my face as little old ladies speed by. (Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but barely). Every morning I had to walk 67 miles from the metro to my school (believe me, it feels that long when it's cold), and during that time, I've discovered something. I don't walk slow, I walk small. (Which, admittedly, results in me walking slowly). While other peoples' steps were always 1.75-2 squares, mine were a consistent 1.5. I attribute it to my short legs. And for that I blame my mom's side of the family. So if you ever complain about me walking slowly, that's discrimination against short legged people. So think twice. (Sorry about all the parentesies in this paragraph. I went a little crazy.)
More unrelated news: I'm incredibly jealous of Matilda. Last night I sat for 10 minutes in my bed, my heater inches away from my face, staring at my verb book across the room trying to make it hover over my direction. Matilda wouldn't have had to get out of the warmish bed into the freezing cold to get the book. I mean, sure, she grew up in a verbally abusive home with a family that didn't love her, went to a school rulled by fear and a tyrant of a principal, and carried adoption papers around with her since she was tall enough to use the xereox. . . but she could move things with here eyes.
I went to a Christmas in July party. It was fun.
Also, I can tango now.
I'm going salsa dancing tonight. So excited!!!
I can't find duct tape anywhere here.
Books are really, really expensive. I feel like that's dumb.
All the cigarettes have pictures of premie babies or babies whose mothers´smoked and now they're hooked up to tubes and stuff. It doesn't stop anyone from smoking.
Can I bring coco leaves back to the US? Probably. . . if they don't know I have them.
What's that disease called when you just start bleeding randomly? Oh wait, I think I'm thinking of that thing when you can't stop bleeding because you're blood doesn't clott. Anyways, I keep bleeding. It's weird. Yesterday I looked down while I was on the metro and my finger was all red and gross. What the heck? Luckily I had a batman band aid.
Okay, I'm freezing and my fingers are purple. I need to put on my gloves, which means I need to stop typing.
Bye. Love you.
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