The Chicano Diaries

Journal writing

Handsome Devil

There were no more seats left for me to sit down at church. So I hung out in the back part, where they had the bathrooms and the endless sound of annoying rug rats screaming and running, and their parents persistently trying to shush them. They were never successful at that.

I had seen this girl, she stood along the corridor leaning against the wall, as though she had been in heat. She was provoking every man that walked past by her. Those dark brown eyes tantalizing sinners. She had a tight shirt that exposed her round youthful body. Her face was ghetto, like a local hood-rat, yes she was cute. Suddenly I realized how ironic that scene was. I didn’t know how to fathom it all, a young gazelle promoting promiscuity, I was not engaged in the word, I wasn’t listening, my eyes kept yearning for her. Such a sinner I was, human too. I knew moments later a “vato” would go and hit on her, and so it happened. He was bald and chubby, he wore a checkered long sleeve shirt (like most do).

Something that Ive always wanted to do is give a letter to a girl I feel attracted to, I want to go up to a nice pretty girl and tell her “I think you’ve dropped this” and reach into her where she has no choice but to take the folded paper. She will see some writings and become curious, she will read the paper the stranger has given her and she will never see him again, only to admire the paper that has been given to her as a gift. A thank you to say im glad you were pretty enough for me to write about. Yes that’s just what i’ll do. That way I can have my revenge.

The story of a pauper

I knew she had been an angel, and she liked me, I just couldn’t believe it. A pauper like myself had no chance with a princess like her. She had velvet curly hair, her body was like the goddess Athena (I don’t say that too often about girls). Her cheeks had a bright pink coat powder she adorned herself with. Her skin was of natural beauty, it was as smooth as a succeeding storm on a mountain peak. She was exactly a year older than me, we had shared the same birthdays. But I don’t think that’s why I will never her forget her, it must have been her interest towards me and her marvelous beauty. How had I been so lucky for her to even notice me?

I remember driving by one time, when class was canceled for our religious studies on the weekend. She had been walking on the street and I simply drove past her (I was still too young to drive, my grandma had been driving), once again she had noticed me. She broke out with a smile, my heart felt furious because I knew I could only see and not touch. Damn hormones. This other time we had been at church and the guy next to her turns around and tells me “Hey man, she likes you”. I had been obstruct, I didn’t know what to do, let alone everyone else was staring, I felt much abashed. I just sat there like a taciturn beggar, I didn’t know how to communicate at that moment so I simply just sat there and felt awkward. For some reason I felt comfort in my own misery, never going up to her and just talk to her and carry a normal conversation, it must have been impossible for me to do so back then. I was somewhat anti-social but nothing too weird out of the ordinary. Had it been culture assimilation my friends? Perhaps that, but surely im glad I had met an angel whose wings had been torn off.

You check out girls too

I kept looking at my co-workers eyes, watching her pupils with scrutiny to see if they would dilate. And they did. And I would answer her blank minded at the things she would tell me. And I would simply stare at her hazel green eyes, lost in oblivion, ignoring what she was telling me and admiring her focus. Sometimes I think she would do the same. I would speak to her, waiting for a response, telling her things that are usually told in trifle moments, but she too would nod and wait for me to elaborate on more things. I would catch her alone and the excitement would spring up. I was always looking forward to these moments because we would jokingly play about some things. I would put my hands on her phone telling her to get back to work playfully and I would grab her hand for some moments and feel the violent butterflies riot in my stomachs knot. I know she feels the same way, when she has her hands on the clipboard she would not mind touching my hand either. This other time I had put her debit card in her pocket and patted at her thigh wondering what she would do. She simply pretended nothing happened. I remember how she would flaunt her hair covering her face from me as she would write her daily reports, and I would just admire her wavy black hair, it was an elegant feature of her. She has not had a man in many years and im wondering why she hasn’t risked anything with me. I visit her from time to time at her place, and her son. And I take my son and we both enjoy each others company. I think of many things when I am there, and I behave very well mind you. I would not provoke such things at her home, unless she would be ready. A sign would be helpful but I guess that’s why I had been a virgin all throughout high school, I was just a too damn nice of a guy.

Another day on the metro bus

“Dun-Nun” and out came my card from the digital reader. What I am about to tell you next will be most sad of things. I had gazed down the long corridor of the bus lane. Depression. The colors had seemed a monotonous gray, even in the faces of the people. I walked with bold steps, expressionless- the mirrors in the eyes I had seen. Here and there I would see a really cute girl every now and then, that must have some of the highlights riding the local metro bus (the only actually). Everyone seldom spoke, and some would glance a short look onto you, then hide away in their own reverie. I felt dead in the inside I didnt feel so much to enlighten others, though I am a very cordial individual mind you. So I conformed to the socialization and behaviors accepted riding the bus- sit down and shutup! I remember keeping a journal and writing about it, how I must have missed the jogging headlines on the bus stating its destination was at the end of the earth and simply I would believe it. I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs and scream that were all dead, but I was dead too, keeping to myself, writing by myself, what a creeper they must say, thought of course. It was rare to see these miserable people crack a smile even to save their own life.

It was full, people were caving in like immigrants in a safe house. Now we were really getting to know each other. You were aware of peoples odor and had no choice but to listen to their mundane conversations. It was my luck though, a pretty good highlight of my day I may add. She had no choice but to stand hanging on to the metal bar right in front of me as I sat serenely sometimes crossing a glance or two at her and her at me, talking with our eyes. I had a keen inference she was going to the local college because she was equipped with a backpack and there were other bands of students as well. There was this moment where the bus usually takes peoples faces backward and forward, or side to side, like dummies that we were. This one moment she had leaned towards me and those supple breasts my friends presented themselves to me by accident, ripe and erect they were. I felt a flurry of sexual arousal that I could not help but feel. She had pierced my eyes at that moment, meek and humble they were. I felt desire. She gazed at me from above like a goddess looking down onto mortals. Only someone as myself would be lucky enough to stare at her in awe in this situation. She was ripe and young, plum, what a plus I may say. When she had left her stop, I wrote about her, I knew I was. It hit me, still dead in the inside, how were not allowed to tell other people how we feel, or simply to tell them that we just lust them. Our eyes cry for help, and our mouths are sewn shut.

You dance by yourself too

She threw herself at me and left a potent smell of perfume I became I attracted to. I noticed her smooth blonde hair, her white frosty skin, moving away from me. With her back moving towards me moments later, I did not shy away once inch from where I had stood. She was somewhat shorter than me, and plum. I let her nice bosoms sink into me which only lasted a few seconds. So she wants to dance I thought. She retreated herself again. Then I saw that her girlfriend snatched her with opening arms and clung to her like a child who bears a stuffed animal.Her girlfriend had been just as pretty as she was and my intuition told me that she had gotten a little jealous. I felt chemistry but so much angst at the same time, wondering a plethora of end results that lead to nowhere, thinking too much about it would have left me sober, so I continued to dance the night away.

Your a miserable writer too

I believe that the real writers are miserable individuals.Why else would they fantasize about worlds and people that are non existent. Escapism. It comforts their insecurity and their lust for power. Because in the real world they are probably desperate, blood-thirsty people who want the simple things in life. But those simple things are not tangible to them.

What am I talking about exactly?

I’ll give you an example. I was at the store buying groceries. ¬†As I was walking I kept peering at some of the aisles. I had passed aisle 5, then on to 4, then to 3 and it was on aisle 2 that I had slowed my pace. I didn’t turn into the aisle because it seemed crowded. I wasn’t sure if I was going to write about the pretty girl I had seen but I had definitely wanted to try and catch her eyes at that moment.

I had seen her busying herself with her cart. Her body was facing towards me so when her eyes traveled from the ground up, she had seen me stare at her, and she stared at me as well. We never broke our reverie among each other until I was no more to her ( I kept walking past the aisles). I remember she had glasses on, it made her eyes curious, and her dark tone black hair that made her attraction flawless.