Burritonization Of The Brain | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

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Maybe I should try a tradition to begin this, since the following is a rotten process of a communication-dogma I-invented-dunno-why. This is edited: actually that past sentence was the last I wrote. Here I go. Dear Lord of the bilinguals (and plus), send some help to your daughter who has been living in three languages for years but has been trying-to-speak-only-one for the past four months. Is this about losing my English or my Spanish? No, it’s not. Because there was me saying thank you to the security guard in Copacabana. There I was, not remembering certain words in Portuguese and by consequence there was everyone around evil-laughing at my face. Or when I spoke for an hour using a word in Spanish that I could swear existed in my native language. Here’s the shit this is about: my feelings are on a strike against my confusion. By themselves they chose which language to be in and I did go with the flow. But not anymore. I have now decided it is my job to organize them. So we’re in a crisis. And I’m losing. Because I have absolutely no control. I’m puta at the fact I sometimes don’t feel satisfied with the way I'm telling a story, not angry. Puta. Got it? To me, people me irritando are not ironically querida, they’re sweetie. Tendeu? And sweetie-pie I do not have munchies, I have larica. I’m not smoking weed. I’m smoking um fininho. Um baseado. Um dois. By the way I’m going to take this opportunity to beg the United Statians: learn how to call marijuana correctly. Please call it “based on.” Call it “the little thin”. Call it “a two”. As I was saying, this is about me mixing everything in an attempt to put things in order. During this journey it seems like I have a million different ways of feeling and seeing my own life and emotions. I’m not meanwhile. I’m not por enquanto. I’m mientras. I’m not falling in love again. I’m not enamorada. I’m fudida. You see? I feel like the ingredients of my emotional-recipe are not matching. Basically my brain is now a burrito. I hate burrito. Never understood the concept. Why cheese on top of beans rolled in a dough? Please, why!!!!!!!!! Important to mention: I deeply respect it culturally. That being written, I just figured out one thing, there’s a mission I need to accomplish in the next couple of thoughts: respecting the burrito process of my brain. Which means being at peace with the Union Of Feelings who are now enjoying a latino meal. Maybe that’s a good start. It’s lunch time for these tired workers inside me. From now on I’m embracing (or trying to) the burritoning-revolution of myself. I love when I figure things out mientras escrevendo. Y nada más.