Adapting to Life as an Expat in London

I might as well own up to it. I made a mistake and blew my chance to get a job at a very, very nice company.. Despite the blow to my ego, they did say the result was witty and ingenious, so I’m going to post it here.  Learning from the experience etc etc. Read more



The gothic-lettered sign outside says the house is called Marisol, but it doesn’t look like a Marisol to you. If anything, it looks like a Morticia. It’s the type of house that, if it went to house highschool, all the other houses would steer clear of, different enough but too scary to bully. This house would carry a knife in its backpack. It would not be small.

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Six Years Later; Or: It Really Does Get Better.

I decided to re-start this blog as a place where I could exercise a bit of my writing skills because I want to start doing some freelance content writing, and I haven’t actually written anything in… maybe a year, bit more.

I wish I had a comprehensible excuse for the inactivity, but the truth is this: writing has always been my escape, and lately I don’t really need to escape. I’m good. I’m happy. It feels weird to think that.

It’s funny that I opened this blog six years ago now, which whoa. Didn’t think it had been that long. You can go down and read the first (and, lol, only) post on this blog, and I actually think it’s an interesting discovery to see how much I’ve changed over the last six years.

Six years ago when I started this blog and made that post, I was a recent university graduate in Argentina, with a job i despised, and a budding sense of loss which eventually snowballed into a pretty savage depression. I still remember starkly feeling the way I did then–to quote Jane Eyre: poor, obscure, plain, and little.

It took me a while to realize that I am no bird and no net ensnares me. I still struggle with that some days; those days are an exhausting uphill battle. But they are increasingly few and far between, and more often than not I can catch the disaster in the distance and derail it in time.

This sort of self-awareness is something I was not capable of six years ago. The therapy I have gone through allowed me to begin the process of unpeeling myself and my identity from my family and my circumstances.

My family, my circumstances, and what those combined translated into in the shape of expectations, had a huge impact on the erosion of a self-esteem which had always been, admittedly, shockingly low. I couldn’t tell you why that always was, because for all of the issues, glaring and subtle, in our little family unit, my parents and sisters were always supportive and loving of me. It was everyone else around me, I felt, that judged me and found me wanting.

I think that’s the biggest change I notice in myself. The shift of my attention from the thoughts of others to the awareness of myself and my own feelings, independent, standalone, and complete even in solitude.

Reading that post from six years ago made me feel like looking into the past from the top of a rocky mountain. It hasn’t been easy, getting up here.

Most people don’t understand why Jane Eyre is my favorite book. It’s not the window into an era different from ours, or the prose, or the thought of a complicated Victorian romance riddled with issues and secrets.

It’s that Jane is a human being, with an independent will, which she is exerting now to leave.

I don’t attend pity parties

I was traveling in the subway today with my sister on our way to a tattoo parlor. We’re getting the same tat, but not becase we’re sisters, and certainly not because we’re similar. It just sits well with both of us and feels right. The lettering is going to be different, but anyway I’m getting sidetracked.

The point is the following.  My sister is tall and thin and she dyed her hair a firy red that sits well with her fiery personality. She has long legs and wears long jeans and bold black-leather, wood-sole boots. She has enough character to make a tornado fall back and whimper.

Honestly I felt like the comical side-kick. I was wearing  jeans and velcro-chucks and a blue coat, and my hair is brown and straight (but not straight enough to be cool, mind). I think I kind of understand how Robin felt next to Batman. Also, this is the reason I almost always feel uncomfortable going anywhere with my sister, who I admire.

But I’m not in the mood for pity party. I’m just annoyed. I’m annoyed I’m always looking around and trying to figure out what’s wrong with me that’s nto wrong with anyone else. To my left my sister reads her huge-ass Arturo Perez Reverte book, ‘The Siege’.  To my right this anonymous girl has the most amazing long blonde hair and coolest coat. And she’s so pretty.

I’m so sick of always wishin I was someone else. I live in daydreams and navigate the present thinking of what the future could be if only I was like this. I wish I was taller, thinner, prettier, wittier, that i had more spine and wasn’t asthmatic, that I didn’t jave to wear glasses so my eyes didn’t look rat-like small. And the glasses are cute–I like them. But that’s not the point.

I love it when you tell this to someone and they tell you, so change. So, fuck you. It’s not a bloody switch, wanker (wanker, I love that curse word so much). I can’t pull down a string and *pop* I’m cool. I’m shy and distrustful and I spend more time in my head or in books than anyone righfully should. Most of the time I feel OK about msyelf, with occasional patches of ‘oh, ok, I look pretty right now’ but mostly long stretches of  ‘I need to stop eating… forever’.

And here’s my sister, with her fiery everything, and here I am with my brown hair and my brown eyes and my chucks.

Don’t you guys ever get tired of wishing?