We’ve been listening to lots of Venezuelan radio stations over the weekend, and I feel strangely homesick. Like I want to go home and at the same time I really really don’t. This is a picture of my room back in Venezuela, the room I grew up in and plastered with posters of Blink 182 and Green Day, as well as random photos that made up a gigantic mood board of the person I wanted to be (read: an ambitious non-smoking New Yorker with Converse sneakers surgically attached to my feet, writing articles for feminist websites and owning my own apartment before the age of 25). I guess your teenage walls can’t really predict your future. Especially when they have oversized pictures of Mark Hoppus in his swimming trunks.
I don’t sleep there anymore, not even when I go back, and someday those posters will go down and I might not even visit that room anymore. But it was mine for a while, or at least those walls were, which is more than I can say for anything in my present life.
But those naked baby photos are all totally me.