Sierra

People, fun shoes, inappropriate jokes, randomness of all kinds, playing beer pong with hard-A, naps,laughing until my sides hurt, using my "outdoor voice" inside buildings, doing imitations of Super A, cussing at the wrong time then feeling awkward, words that look funny-like awkward, fuzzy things, spooning, soft teddy bears, comfortable couches and beds, old friends, lovers from past life times, comfy socks, toys, children's books in spanish, kittens, being an amateur bartender, speaking spanglish, dancing alone in my room, playing poker, watching bad horror films, dancing in the grocery store, burning CDs for my mom so she can be "cool", making jokes about my many friends and relatives, rambling on in list form like this, getting to know myself, fireworks, cramming like 10 people on my bed, interpretive dancing in public places, empowering other people to live their lives and celebrate their awesomeness, pillows, random acts and thoughts of all shapes, sizes, tastes and textures, the person who calls me to tell me the latest gossip, being authentic, being the 3rd wheel (not, I would rather be stuck in skybridge full of kidney punching little dogs). Most importantly, maybe you,maybe.Oh, and also, I like to think that certain songs and poems are actually about me/for me. I know this sounds crazy, but it is true. Here is an example of a poem that Pablo Neruda wrote about me, it has been translated for your reading enjoyment:From – Twenty Poems of Love I can write the saddest lines tonight./ Write for example: ‘The night is fractured/ and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’/The night wind turns in the sky and sings./ I can write the saddest lines tonight./ I loved her, sometimes she loved me too./On nights like these I held her in my arms./ I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky./She loved me, sometimes I loved her too./ How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes./I can write the saddest lines tonight./ To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her./Hear the vast night, vaster without her./ Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass./What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her./ The night is fractured and she is not with me./That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off,/ my soul is not content to have lost her./As though to reach her, my sight looks for her./ My heart looks for her: she is not with me/The same night whitens, in the same branches./ We, from that time, we are not the same./I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her./ My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her./Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses./ Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes./I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her./ Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long./Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,/ my soul is not content to have lost her./Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer,/ and these are the last lines I will write for her./-Pablo NerudaTrue story, I swear.I am also interested in shiny objects and helping my friends plan their lives now that we are supposed to be adults.