Pilot post

Hello, earthlings who might stumble upon my page (because no mythical beast will check it out just yet due to its lack of awesomeness, which shall be fixed soon!). This is the start of a legend, who is to be called...um...Camila. But you can call me CAZAM! Ok. I just invented that. Nobody calls me that. Just call me by my name (I plan on changing it). So...it's a school night. I ditched the plan gym with my friends (you really thought blogging was my original plan?), because I had just eaten, and if I pressure my digestive system, things will just turn out the wrong way. But I tell people I didn't go because I already have a toned body. You see, I don't need a cranky instructor and a sweaty environment to work out like most people do. I have my own routine. Monday, I walk to and from school. With my feet. And its more than 100 muscles. Then Tuesday, I teach my friends tennis, since I'm what you would call a "natural" and love to follow green, furry objects desperately like a disoriented dog (You should have seen the face of the school's tennis teacher when I offered. Something ranging between Chicken-wingy and a whole spiritual experience, with sound effects). I also sing and play the Accordion during this day. This last activity has exposed me to nicknames such as Buffy and gym limb (I can't say my classmates have fine-or for that matter-humor at all. Surprisingly enough, I laugh). Wednesdays are black Wednesdays to me. I attend a meeting where honor students are scolded and constantly nagged (go ahead and assume I'm an honor student. Because I am. How else would I get to experience and tell these juicy details?), to the point I wish I'm outside, which is only worse because it usually rains Wednesdays here, and I'm not precisely fond of rain (it's like weather and our adviser have a secret conspiracy against me. He's like the weather man. He looks old enough to be so at least). But all clouds have a silver lining...yeah. I actually enjoy being scolded. You see; I'm an overachiever. I have marks in my body to prove it. If you were to see my ring finger (in my right hand) right now, you'd be able to decipher a strange mass in its upper part (looks like Johnny Depp to me), that I like to call a "birthmark" to avoid potential teasing. Nah. Who can I fool while being I.B? It's...It's a ca...a ca...a callus. There's just something about that word that doesn't go with my personality. So Thursday, I head to choir and fidget around with my friends for a while after, and Friday I head to tennis class again, and then I plan something totally out of the ordinary for my Friday (notice the word "plan"). It is sacred. I will name my first daughter after it. I'll have my first kiss on a Friday night. I even like Rebecca's Friday! (A blinding, deafening and powerful love indeed). Once I broke into the local kindergarten with a friend of my childhood and his brother and some other third person I cannot remember in this instant, and played with all the ultra awesome gadgets they left outside back then, when it was a kindergarten. It's now a miniature school for people who want to learn arts, such as knitting Wayuú rucksacks and learning German. We call it Kashikai. Everything in this place has a Wayuú name. It's the language local indigenous people use to communicate. I don't know what most of them mean. Yet. Within my many dreams lies that of learning that language. I have an English teacher that learned how to say "hurry up with your work" specifically to harass us, but wait for it...IN A DIFFERENT LANGUAGE. He must feel the power rising through his veins as he outdoes us with his perfect pronunciation and hypnotizes us with his complementary face that lurks between a constipated duck and a mad mole. He's awesome. So, getting back to the kindergarten ground violation, to resume; it was locked, but we completely ignored the sealed door indicating no people were allowed and flew ourselves over the fence to play with toys. I felt like a daredevil. It was a life-changing experience. The thing is, we couldn't go out as easily, and since we live in a closed camp (I swear I saw eyes in a bush), we had to wait almost 3 hours until the coast was clear and the light posts were turned off. Somehow, we actually believe it was going to be easier to get out during the night. Point to come across; I defied society's locks and rules as a toddler and lived to tell) *sheds a tear*. Weekends...I'll leave for another post. 

If you're meticulous enough, you'll see the lack of the word car, or sophisticated vehicle, or a 1970's Volkswagen beetle (between which I see no difference in term significance), and you'll be surprised, since throughout your teens (07 or more) those are the only words you've heard conjugated with with the words succeed and achieve. Well, if you were in front of me, you'd see the indifferent expression in my face. I am not near as shallow. Even when it comes to cars, I'd rather stay humble and modest. So when I don't walk, which is rarely, I ride the one and only futuristic vehicle in my life. Thee bike, or as I like to call it bycyclone. It's called PePe, after my infancy friend's surname and mine. Her's is a rather moving story. She was my neighbor since the 1st grade (the same year in their school in their time Rhett and Link became friends! *pats herself in the back for being such a loyal mythical beast*), and we spent much time together. We sold our brother's junk, like their model cars, which I grew to appreciate further in my life in the form of collectionable cabs from around the world, and with a little influence from History Channel, ate junk ourselves, such as gummy worms (the acid, daredevil type since I'm such a daredevil), while watching movies (which is not easy if the gummy worms are just above your stomach's tolerance of acid, resulting in your dedication of the next half hour of Sharks to lying over your aching belly cursing like a young child would do. Ouch. Mother of pearl, Sacré bleu, fe-fi-fo! My tummy's killing me!), and learned how to ride a bike. Which brings me back to the present (Now I get my second English teacher's comment about my syntaxis and my structure and what not. I like to see myself as a free-mind, writing like those authors [*FIRST PARENTHINCEPTION, DETAIL WITHIN A DETAIL, EYE WITHIN AN EYE!* Jose Saramago.] who write whatever comes to their mind. I'd have to have a very organized thought thread though, but I'm working on it. Actually, I want to be a writer when I grow up (ha-ha. I love how people still ask Juniors what they want to do when they grow up, specially those tall ones. I'm a bit goofy that way). But, not finishing my friend's story yet, she moved to France and we never really spoke again. It has been more than 5 years. If I were to be unoccupied to have time to calculate the exact time, it would be 7 years, 6 months and some days...O.K 5 days. But who's counting?) I recently congratulated her for her 16th birthday with a customized e-letter. Well, it was a picture edited in picnik, which doesn't lessen the intention! But I frankly took time in doing it. I miss her, and though we continuously (not continuously enough) remind ourselves how much we miss each other and wish to meet soon (preferably in France, since she says Bordeaux is beautiful, and she already knows Colombia, frankly better than I do, if we were to measure our knowledge in the amount of places we have visited during our lifetime). I believe it's going to happen. We'll be reunited and it will feel so good. What makes it even more difficult for her to come to Colombia, (not to speak about his brother [who looks more handsome than he did  in his puberty years], is his father. He was the reason they moved to France. I was devastated and cried a whole morning, which does result in dehydration to the point where you actually need something to drink...water. He left with their maid. I prefer the name assistant. Much more progressive. But, still his maid, he cheated her wife with her, which resulted in divorce, and the happy couple moving to Miami, or some opposite place I don't remember. But why does this influence her travelling to Colombia, you might ask? Her father simply demands a visit from her first. But she does not want to see them together, which is understandable. I would recur to one of these two strategic decisions. One, make my female friend in Colombia fake a fatal disease, which by turn would make her demand her assistance, overpowering her father for various reasons. Two, simply ignore my father overall and ask for a private jet for Christmas. Yeah, that way it's a win-win. 

Despite all of these problems presented to both of us that don't allow us to visit each other, (my problems are obvious), I'm sure we'll succeed soon. Meanwhile, I'm stuck here in the golden bubble of the camp that I call home, reading books as if my life depended on it, talking with weird people and discovering who I am. Sooo mythical. In a good way. Always a good way. 

Writing always betrays me in the way that when I start, I don't want to stop. That when I start, my mind explores paths that were unshaken long ago. That when I start, I have to readjust all of my schedule. That when I start, my mind never stops. That when I start, I think about all sorts of things.

So, as I said, it's a school night. I don't want to embrace my zombie nature even more by cultivating unnecessary circles under my eyes.

Until the next post.

The video; I dare you not to laugh. It'll leave you *aaahhhhoooahh* for sure.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDCxv3PH-hQ