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  • Patricia

    Patricia

    Majority of my friends call me Trish, I guess you could call me that too. I'm a transcriptions editor with a really messed up body clock and never ending affinity for films, food and written words. I like street art, sweets, neutrals and monochromes, sushi, window seats, golf carts and lazy weekends.

    Some of the things that completely preoccupy me are my fixation with the now defunct The Civil Wars and their beautiful art of sadness, Oh Sehun, sleeping, CSS and HTML, @iameden, and those damn hypnotizing Tasty videos. Top country in my travel bucketlist? Iceland. But the one that will always have my heart? Hong Kong.

    This Is How You Lose Her


    (by Junot Diaz)

    "You try every trick in the book to keep her. You write her letters. You drive her to work. You quote Neruda. 


    You compose a mass e-mail disowning all your sucias. You block their e-mails. You change your phone number. 

    You stop drinking. 

    You stop smoking. 

    You claim you’re a sex addict and start attending meetings. You blame your father. You blame your mother. You blame the patriarchy. You blame Santo Domingo. You find a therapist. 

    You cancel your Facebook. You give her the passwords to all your e-mail accounts. You start taking salsa classes like you always swore you would so that the two of you could dance together. You claim that you were sick, you claim that you were weak—It was the book! It was the pressure!— and 

    every hour like clockwork you say that 
    you’re 
    so 
    so 
    sorry. 

    You try it all, but one day she will simply sit up in bed and say, No more, and, Ya, and you will have to move from the Harlem apartment that you two have shared. 

    You consider not going. 
    You consider a squat protest. 
    In fact, you say won’t go. 

    But in the end 

    you do."


    (by Junot Diaz)

    "You try every trick in the book to keep her. You write her letters. You drive her to work. You quote Neruda. 


    You compose a mass e-mail disowning all your sucias. You block their e-mails. You change your phone number. 

    You stop drinking. 

    You stop smoking. 

    You claim you’re a sex addict and start attending meetings. You blame your father. You blame your mother. You blame the patriarchy. You blame Santo Domingo. You find a therapist. 

    You cancel your Facebook. You give her the passwords to all your e-mail accounts. You start taking salsa classes like you always swore you would so that the two of you could dance together. You claim that you were sick, you claim that you were weak—It was the book! It was the pressure!— and 

    every hour like clockwork you say that 
    you’re 
    so 
    so 
    sorry. 

    You try it all, but one day she will simply sit up in bed and say, No more, and, Ya, and you will have to move from the Harlem apartment that you two have shared. 

    You consider not going. 
    You consider a squat protest. 
    In fact, you say won’t go. 

    But in the end 

    you do."

    . Sunday, July 21, 2013 .

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