Mi pesadilla es siempre el optimismo: me duermo débil, sueño que soy fuerte,pero el futuro aguarda. Es un abismo. No me lo digan cuando me despierte.







Fani.18. México. Comunista.
Reblogged from proletarianinstinct  558 notas

falafel-faerie:

don’t listen when people tell you not to be sad. sadness is valid. sadness is real. sadness is painful. pain is something that demands to be felt. suppressing sadness is unhealthy. let sadness flow through you. you are real. your feelings are valid. don’t ever feel guilty for feeling sadness.

Reblogged from proletarianinstinct  7 972 notas
Why do you hate the john green thing? Just curious.
Anónimo

whitegirlsaintshit:

because fuck john green

  • he’s creepy as fuck. he does this weird thing where he fetishizes nerdy girls and shit. and it’s very fucking creepy to characterize young women when you’re, like, 40. and misogynistic. all the girls in the books are supposed to be these cutesy ass bookworm bitches that are lowkey sexy and probably wanna do shit like ride dick to a white-washed blues song. i’m not with it. and there’s nothing wrong with that, but when you look down on other women, or female-identifying people, you’re a piece of shit.
  • all of his characters are pretentious as fuck. what fucking teenager with cancer takes a cigarette out and walks around with it in between his lips without smoking it? like, if you’re going to go through this whole spiel about metaphors and shit, you can cancel that, because you literally just paid for… nevermind. nawl. fuck it.
  • all his books seem like a damn (500) days of summer, perks of being a wallflower, twilight ass mashup. anyone can predict what the fuck is going to happen by looking at the damn cover. some whiny ass white boy living in a boring world finds a white girl with the Emma Watson haircut reading a book or some shit and she has something unique about her (i don’t know, something that’s wild ableist and insensitive to write in a book, say, cancer), and he falls in love with her, instantly puttin her on a pedestal. they listen to the smiths and scoff at people who play Migos, call themselves misanthropes, run through the city and eat deli sandwiches in the park, then kiss in an alleyway. somewhere in the book, green will trash the girl (maybe she moves, or she dies, or something), and then the boy moves on with wispy eyes and a hard stare with a cigarette tucked behind his ear that he never lights.
  • he’s one of those pseudo-intellectual assholes that thinks that people with a certain kind of smarts are better than those who aren’t seen as conventionally smart (conventionally smart meaning the “white” kind of smart: perfectly enunciated words, coiled up, reading a book while pushing a pair of glasses up their nose, and containing a lot of angst about the world around them because everyone is “devolving into an idiot”)
  • plus, he’s just a ugly nerdass and i don’t care for him or any of his damn work to be on my dashboard. go read something better. fuck that christmas lights in your bedroom ass nigga.

Nunca hice nada distinto de escribir, pero no tengo vocación ni virtud de narrador, ignoro por completo las leyes de la composición dramática, y si me he embarcado en esta empresa es porque confío en la luz de lo mucho que he leído en la vida. Dicho en romance crudo, soy un cabo de raza sin méritos ni brillo, que no tendría nada que legar a sus sobrevivientes de no haber sido por los hechos que me dispongo a referir como pueda en esta memoria de mi grande amor. By Memorias de mis putas tristes, Gabriel García Márquez (via entreletrasycafeina)