SCARY STORIES

CHAPTER 1

All they wanted to do was buy some fruit, a maté cup,and maybe some of that weird milk that comes in boxes. They never knew what was waiting for them on the second level of the grocery store. And by the time they did, it was too late.

The sight was repulsive; dozens of slimy purple-brown bodies, dangling in someone's wretched idea of an "artistic fashion." But that wasn't all.

 

Sometimes, things that are seen cannot easily be forgotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Once I was an innocent theatre. People loved me. Every night they filled my seats and shivered with anticipation when my red curtains drew open to reveal fantastic scenes and characters. I was popular. I was appreciated. I was ALIVE.

 

But one day they stopped coming. The spotlights flickered out and the laughter faded away.

 

Cold, dark, and empty.

 

Years passed and I slowly became accustomed to my desolate state. But I could never shake off the memories of my former glory.

 

Then I met Doctor Herbelschlein.

 

He offered me a chance at a new life, at heights previously unattained, at glowing, glittering majesty.

 

"It won't hurt much," he assured me. "Just some cosmetic work-- a little pick-me-up after your years away." But it would be more painful than I knew.

 

 

Herbelschlein went to work with a scalpel, carving off my aged features. Over the horrific scars he plastered and painted until I was unrecognizable. Better, one might say, than before.

 

He resurrected my curtains, staining them red with our pain and triumph.

 

Then, the biggest change: he ripped the velvet seats from my floor. Each chair screamed horrifically as its nerves unraveled and snapped. Like pulling teeth.

 

I cannot describe the pain and the emptiness I felt afterwards, as I surveyed the cavernous space made even more lonely by the absence of a thousand padded seats.

 

In that moment, I knew I would never again know the joy of an audience.

 

 

 Herbelschlein ran his hand lovingly along the ornate curves of my railings. As if he knew my worries-- indeed, as if he could see into the most secret parts of my mind-- he whispered to me, "Don't worry your pretty little head. They will come back. We will fill you with something much more precious than frivolous stage shows. We will fill you with books. And they will come."

 

And they did. 

 

 

 

 



 CHAPTER 3

 

Do you know what it's like to lose the one you love most? To spend every moment of every waking hour searching crowds of faces for that one face-- knowing all the while that you'll never find it?

 

Now I do.

 

They called it a Botanical Garden, but I call it torture. Dozens of eyes followed me as I walked the wooded paths. But I knew none of them were Your eyes. I felt lithe, silky bodies slide under my fingers-- but none of them strike me with an electric jolt born of passion. The way You did.

 

 

Without you, a cage of desperation closed around me. It kept me preserved from passersby, but it also hardened me.

 

Only you held the key that unlocked my true person. Now I am wandering without direction, seeking the shape of your face among the marble statues and knotted trees.

I stop suddenly near an abandoned greenhouse.

I feel something. There is something here.

An energy, you could call it; an aura, a sensation. A knowing.

You are nearby.

I step towards the metal carcass of the building and a shiver runs up my spine. I am not wrong. It feels like you.

At the door, I close my fingers around rust and dirt. This frame is fragile. The way I am fragile without you. I put my lips to the door-- there is an empty space where a glass panel once was.

I call for you.

"Here kitty kitty kitty! *kissing noises*"

A flash of color; I only have time to inhale once, a breath filled with hope and desperation...

.... and you are there.

 

 

 

 These stories dramatically and exaggeratedly retold by yours truly. Don't take anything in this post at 100% face value. You have been disclaimed. Please continue on. Nothing more to see here.

 



 

The Art of Not Being Alone

Friends are a difficult thing when you don’t have them.

For a period of time last year, I had this crisis of identity in which I tried to decide whether I was an introvert or an extrovert. For some reason it was really important to me to KNOW which “camp” I belonged in; to KNOW who I “really was.” And it was hard to base that off the two solid pieces of information I had:

      1. I love people, and

      2. I hate making friends.

Making friends is HAAAAARRRRRRD. First of all, you have to get off the Internet and leave your room, when it would be much safer and more comfortable inside. Then you have to find someone, butt into their life, and make them care about you. I don’t really know how it feels to be on the receiving end of Forceful Friendship. But I know it’s not nice to be the Forcer.

 

There are friendships that you just fall into. These are very pleasant. They often occur at communally transitional points in life, such as the first year of college. Dude, NOBODY knows what they’re doing then; you’re all on the same level—alone. Maybe a little bit lost. But excited. Opposites attract, but mutual loneliness attracts WAY HARDER. (Attractional examples: Walt to Jesse. Garfield to lasagna. Me to poor life choices. My brother’s right thumb to the B-button.)

 

It’s a different story when you walk into a world where everyone else has already settled, and you’re the only unmagnetized iron scrap left. All poles are occupied; you’re stuck floating in a sad little lonely vortex of Buzzfeed and ice cream.

That’s when you freaking MAKE THEM BE YOUR FRIEND IF IT KILLS YOU OR THEM but hopefully not them because that would most likely be considered a felony.

So here are some Rules I’m Making Up On the Spot for How to Make Friends in a Hard-to-Make-Friends Place:

 

1.       Ignore the language barrier. It’s better to sound dumb than to hide and never talk to anyone because you’re afraid you’ll sound dumb. First of all, you might speak the language better than you think. Second, the recipient of your Friendship might be more willing than you think. And third, if you really are unintelligible, it’s not the first time I’ve seen non-language dependent friendships happen. In Costa Rica I knew this French kid who arrived not speaking a lick of Spanish or English… but he brought his ukulele and some mime and got along juuuuust fine. (People loved that dude, I swear) It was his attitude of friendship, not his grasp of the language, that really built relationships.

2.       Don’t hide. I try to make it a point to force myself out of my room into some public place at least a couple times a day, even though it’s sometimes awkward and weird (like me). I have a sense that soon I will be arriving at the cusp of Friendesperation. For those who are naturally gifted with a pleasant social presence, please let me explain what Friendesperation looks like:

                                                                      also spanish.

3. Don't spend too much time livin' it up in your native language. I made this mistake in Costa Rica, and now I wish I had ditched the English (Internet, TV, books) for the sake of wild Spanish adventures. While having my roommate here in Argentina ROCKS MY CALCETINES OFF, I can't forget that learning Spanish is one of my main reasons for being here. (Full disclosure: I've been speaking a lot of English. But unlike in Costa Rica, I've also been speaking and listening to a lot of Spanish. Soooooo I like to think it balances out heh heh.)

My impromptu list is complete! Three is the perfect number for a list, as I always say. I also always say a lot of other things, like "HOLY BUTTS!" and "What street are we on?" and "See? That dog's not neutered either."

Interesting List of Ten Things I Did Today:
1. Got fingerprinted to make sure I don't have a criminal record in Argentina
2. Got bit by like a million mosquitoes (or the same one a million times) because I leave my window open
3. Had my first class! "Folklore." It's a toughie.
4. Bought a small tin of aromatic tea from my new favorite cafe
5. JUST KILLED THE FREAKING MOSQUITO HAHAHAHAHAHA
6. Was sad when no one commented on my Grumpycat sweatshirt :'(
7. Walked many miles. Like probably at least six miles. We walk everywhere.
8. ALMOST rode an antique elevator but then we were "in a hurry" and had to go *sob sob sob* you were right, Rachel.... but we have to go back for that elevator
9. Pet a stray cat at the Recoleta Cemetery... again *fistpump*
10. WOKE UP AT 6:40 AM

And the standard sign-off:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Dead People Oh Yeaaaahhhhhh

I made a new friend who is, surprisingly, not a dead person. (I say this because perhaps the title of this post has confused you.) She is another American student staying in our dorm and I will call her by nickname, not because I am trying to protect her identity, but becuase nicknames are way funner than real names. She looks MYSTERIOUSLY like Kristen Stewart (like it's freaky similar) so I will call her Kristen Stewart Who Blinks A Normal Amount (KSWBaNA for short). Anyway, we had an adventure today which did not include this:

 

Yea verily, beauty aboundeth

 

 

No, our adventure was to a strange and wonderful place called El Cementerio de la Recoleta. Or maybe that's just what I call it. (Bee tee dubs, I don't know how to make my computer stop aligning things to the middle of the page. So that's the haps on that.)

It is a GIGANTORMOUS aboveground cemetery FILLED with elaborate mausoleums. Because pictures are approximately  five times more awesome than just words (proven in a study in 2004), I will provide some happenin' photos from our wild journey along with commentary, which will be fun to write and possibly really annoying to read.

 

AND NOW

WITH A LITTLE FURTHER ADO

I PRESENT TO YOU

(DRUMROLL PLEASE)

THAT WAS THE ADO NOW THERE IS NO FURTHER ADO

 

El Cementerio de la Recoleta

P.S. I'm pretty sure you can click on the pictures to make them bigger

 

cat+ tombstone MMMM WOW lookadat juxtapose SO FANCY such photo skillz WOW

 

                                          Hallo welcome to Coffin how can i dead you

 

 who would even architect this what

 

 

 

he knows what's up.

 

 

mi amor Raquel y KSWBaNA jes' bein byootiful laydeez

 

 

 

whoopsies you almost got to see my luscious booty. just missed out

 

very fantasts

 

"I'm not looking at the camera. It's way cooler when you don't look at the camera."

 

 

view from above. Specifically, view from the patio of a McDonald's.

 

Sarah, what EXACTLY does this remind you of? I KNOW YOU KNOW

 

 CASUAAAAAAAAL

 

 

LITERALLY this is a pile of coffins stacked in a hole in the ground.

 

"Guyyyyys death isn't funny stop iiiit GUYYYYSSSS"

 

Me: *runs out of ideas*

Me: Rachel, make a caption for this picture.

Rachel: *scoffs* I'm not writing your blog.

 

 

cemeteries YAAAAAYYY

 

 

 

 And of course, the prerequisite pictures of Evita's grave. Surprisingly, it's not on a main thoroughfare and it's by no means fancier or more exquisite than the other mausoleums. If you're amongst the uninitiated (you heathen), Evita was the wife of Argentine dictator Juan Peron. She was known for advocating for the workers and the poor of the country and is still HIGHLY revered (note the flowers on the door)... in fact, two teenage boys crossed themselves as they passed in front of her grave.

My reason for visiting her grave was much more deep and spiritual: Madonna played Evita in the movie version of the musical. How could I NOT visit the grave of a famous person when I'm in the neighborhood? (eff why eye, this cemetery is about half a mile from our dorm.) CELEBRITY BY ASSOCIATION

 

 

JUST A FEW MORE I SWEAR

 

 

 

don't forgeeeet

 

 

i think the guy buried here was named astronauto

 

profesh

 

 Why Does This Mausoleum Have an Empty Chair in it Who Do They Think is Going to Use That Thing Oh My Sweet Goodness I'm Glad This Place Closes Before Dark

 

 

SWEET DREAMS

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pics or it Didn't Happen

Dis is probably gonna be a long one. Also it will have a lot of pictures, if I can get my computer to do it. It may be a challenge, as I am a technological dumbohead.... If you like photos of beautiful young girls frolicking in Argentina and also photos of me, you will like this post. If not, SUCK IT UP YOU SOUL-DRAINING MONSTER. The rest of us will enjoy it, thank you very much.

On Tuesday morning, the day of my departure, I woke up incredibly anxious. In fact, I think there may have been a small black hole developing somewhere between my kidneys; I thought to myself, "How is is POSSIBLE that I could have looked forward to this day for more than a year? There is NOTHING that can come out of this trip but bad things." For the better part of three days I had been feeling sick to my stomach... but I decided to put one foot in front of the other, to walk through my fears. As the things I was (and am) scared of floated up in front of my eyes, I told them, "You're not real. And if you are-- well, we'll figure that out later. But I'M DOING THIS."

So, footstep by scary footstep, I found myself traveling from the Grand Rapids airport through Chicago, to Miami, and then to BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA.

                                                    (Don't get excited yet, this is just Chicago)
                                                                      (That dimple tho)

One of the highlights of my viaje:
By the time I flew into Miami it was already dark, so I got to see the city lit up from above. It looked 10000% like a game of Pac Man-- the streetlights were the little yellow dots he eats, and they were all arranged in weird rows and angles. This is the best picture I got, though:

P.S. the Starbucks barista in Miami did some wild interpreting of my name:

                                                                        WUT



When I landed at Ezeiza Airport in Buenos Aires, I was attacked by muggy, warm air. I say attacked because I was wearing flannel pajama pants (Gotta be comf in dose airports donchaknow). I stood at the wrong luggage carousel for about fifteen minutes before finding my suitcase and had to ask the young, attractive immigrations officer to repeat himself a jillion times, but at least customs was easy. Here's how it went (but in Spanish):

Me: Do I put everything on the coneyor belt?
Customs Officer: Yes.
Me: *puts purse, backpack, suitcase, jackets on belt*
Scanner: *scan scan scan*
Me: *walks around to other side of scanner*
Me: *picks up purse, backpack, suitcase, jackets*
Me: Do I, like, have to talk to someone?
Customs Officer: *gives me a vaguely suspicios look* Why?
Me: Uh, I mean, I thought, uh..... am I just... done?
Customs Officer: Yes. Welcome to Argentina. You'll enjoy yourself.

My official, pre-arranged pickup person never came to get me at the airport. Long story short: hitched a ride. Yusssssss.

My dorm, or residencia, is a mystery in itself. Rachel spent most of the first day indoors because-- get this-- she didn't know how to leave the building. Laugh, go ahead, but you would also get lost... Mostly because it is LITERALLY a secret hideout-- you enter through a parking garage. There is no sign for the dorm. Just this:

                                                                    NO ONE KNOWS

Since it's such a mystery, many of the exchange students entered through the wrong place. One girl went through the elementary school; one through the church; I came in through the old folks' home. (Can I say that? Is that Politically Correct?) All the buildings on this side of the block are connected and affiliated and it seems like they're used to getting confused foreigners knocking on their doors, because we all got escorted to the right place in the end.

And what a place it is! The words! I have none! That's a lie! I have a few!

For the most part, the rooms are arranged around one of two courtyards. There is a first floor and a second floor, and on both the courtyard is surrounded by windows. Much of the time the windows are open, so it's kind of like being outside while you're inside. It's hard to describe, hence, PICTURES.

 

The hallways between our rooms and the courtyard

 

Rachel's attractive courtyard

                                        My courtyard. What do they do here?   
                                      Slaughter goats?

The ceiling in my room is at least fifteen feet tall, and the doors are pretty sizeable too. Not to mention, my key is, like, OLD-SCHOOL, YO.

 

For some reason it makes me feel French

 

Anyway, a couple more detallitos before I move on:
A housekeeper cleans my room every day. Thus, this will undoubtedly be the most clean period of my entire life. The dorm serves me breakfast (chunks of bread) but I receive a stipend of about 250 U.S. dollars for the rest of my meals. You think that's a lot? Well:

 

$26???? For a burger meal????

JUST KIDDING I TRICKED ALL OF YOU HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I'M LAUGHING UPROARIOUSLY AND JUST GENERALLY HAVING A GOOD TIME AT YOUR EXPENSE

I was terribly frightened about the "ridiculously high prices" for a bit too, but it turns out that Argentines use the same dollar sign we do, just to signify their peso. Right now, a U.S. dollar is about 8 pesos. I'll let someone do the math to figure out how much that burger costs because my brain is dumb. (Mr. Huggins? I know you're reading this. This one's on you.)

OMGGGGG THIS POST IS GETTING SO LONG I'M SORRY PLEASE FORGIVE ME BUT KEEP READING

So anyway, this food stipend means that I will likely be eating out A LOT. I've been in Argentina for less that 72 hours, and I've already dined at five different restaurants. BOUT TO BE RUL FAT  PHATTT
Also, a final cultural note: Argentines don't usually eat dinner until 8 at night. And if they go out to par-tay, the day might not end until 3 or 4 in the morning. I'm all for staying up late, but I usually just lurk around in my room on the interwebs... vat a homebody I am.

Also there's a cat here and I named her Baskin because she always lays in the sun (GET IT DO YOU GET IT)

The end. I will post again vurry soon because I have had many adventures already. Go ahead and block me if my plethora of posts is annoying, but I will never forgive you. LOLZ JK SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN