"You waited long for 21"

I have a loyal, feral attraction for Colombians. They are charismatic and happy and unforgettably inviting and colorful in their language and style and ever so willing to defend their cultural icons, exports, songs, literary talent. When I say that they are visitors from a superior world, nobody believes me. I admit that my convictions may be mildly degrading to the anonymous majority, but I insist on associating their beauty with that of mythical gods. Why? Why all the subjective accolades? They have a special attitude, a giant's splendor, simply put: Colombia is rare and extraordinary.

Well, the previous paragraph is magnificently out of orbit with my next point. I've been reading past entries( since I lost all initiative to do anything productive with my uncertain life) and I have to say that I tragically surrendered to emotive writing this year. Of course, writing is exemplary of much of the wretched sentimentality inherit to all life experiences, but I'd like to resume writing emphatically boring entries about the (disputable) importance of socializing. In other words, recapture my social life.

I acknowledge being alive in a conventional sense, that I'm a masochist, a lawful citizen by social obligation, an ungrateful daughter. Ordinarily, I would curse the world and would want to escape from it. It's just that now, my repressed 21 year old self is demanding excitement and love and life and a conclusive end to my lifeless and loveless self-imprisonment. I also acknowledge, despite my own disciplined demonstrations of denial, that I self-sabotage. I don't have valid reasons for the habit of ruining myself. It's irritating. I am irritated.