Ni yo, Viviana...

Solitude. Loneliness. Unhappiness. How ungrateful I have been to my constant companion! Anger. Sadness. Depression. How can I not appreciate you for brinigng me such woe? Nunca serás nada, Viviana, porque tu no eres nada, sólo polvo como dicen. That's not true! I am a writer. Si, ¡una que no puede ni terminar una novela! But that's not fair! Writing a piece like that is very painful! ¡Maldita melancólica de mierda! ¿No tienes amigos? ¿No tienes a quien te escuche? Ni tus proios padres te pueden soportar. Y tu hermana...ella sólo habla contigo para tenerte a su lado. ¡Enfréntalo, mi amor! Estás más sola que el número uno. That may be true but as soon as I get into college all of that will change. I'll be able to be myself there. I'll start over! ¡Porfa-fucking-vor! ¿Con el 1500 que scastes en el SAT tu piensas entrar a Yale? Estarás soñando, querida. Nunca te escaparás de aquí mi vida. Nadie te quiere. Mira a tu ex... Mucho hizo que te cogió pena y se quedó contigo por un rato pero después de nueve meses contigo (a el le parecieron 10, ¿te acuerdas?) no te pudo soportar más. Y aquel que tu pensabas que podrías chichar para pasarla bien...ni ese feosio de mierda te quiere a ti, canto de nymphomaniática. Tu, pila de mierda, estás completamente sola. Y tu pensabas que por lo menos me tenías a mi de tu lado.. ¡Ha! Ni en tus sueños, imbécil. Te jodistes canto de quedá. Ah y una cosita más: nunca lo vas a tener; mejor quitatelo de tu mente ahora como hubieras hecho hace dos años. ¡Adios, pendeja!

The Party Upstairs

Funny how I'm all alone, yet they are all together. I am an involuntary solitary. My friends? They don't know the real me. I try, I really do, to let myself be known to them, but, all in vain. Just a slight revealing makes them distant and ignorant. All in all, my "friends" are not my real friends, since they know me not. Thinking truthfully, I'd rather them not know who I am. I am a failed writer, a philosopher - a thinker. I am not nearly as what I ought to be. I never finish any projects. I fancy myself smart, yet I feel like a fail class compared to those who truly are smart by nature. I am confused. I am alone.

There is a party upstairs. All I hear are people laughing and talking, loudly. I think back at all the opportunities I had to be like one of those people who enjoy life and then I regret not making friends with the popular crowd, not accepting to hang out with them or go to parties with them simply because I thought I was above them. Am I? Let's see: They have fun, they are faithful friends, they enjoy life; I, on the other hand, don't have fun, do not have loyal friends, and I do not enjoy life. Who's winning here? The "philosophical writer" or the popular air-head? I think we all came to the same conclusion here. Lonely bitter me has achieved nothing in this miserable life, while they have achieved life and friendship. The party is upstairs; I am downstairs.