2014-07-09 : 1 note
chilitoculiao said: holaaa, se que no me conoces. Soy maria jose, y estoy haciendo esta encuesta para mi tesis. Sería de mucha ayuda qu pudieras contestarla n.n. Aqui está el link: (los ptos estan entre parentesis para que la page no me lea el msje como spam) www(.)survio(.)com/survey/d/Y2W9N5A3K9P4C3H2J
Hola! Seguro, ahí respondí. Dejo el link acá por si algún seguidor mio se interesa en llenar el survey ahí. Cheers!
2014-06-17 : 6 notes
2014-06-16 : 3 notes
2014-06-03 : 2 notes
I was shot last friday in an armed robbery, five streets away from my house, on my left and right leg. I almost bled to death. I was taken to the hospital by a kind stranger from the military. I spent 24 hrs in the hospital. I still have the bullet lodged on my right leg, and it hurts, a lot. I was sent home this saturday morning, but, since the thugs who shot me are still roaming on my neighborhood, I had to leave my house to live with my sister and her boyfriend. Since then, I’ve been in a bed, slowly healing my bullet wounds. I won’t be able to walk for a couple of weeks, maybe a month. So there’s that! I’ll keep on working on my music and projects as much as I can. For those who already knew thanks for the kind words! And for the rest of you all, well, now you know.
2014-05-23 : 1 note
2014-05-14 : 2 notes
I just want to inform everyone that I don’t know where I’m going with this, as I’m writing this directly into Tumblr. But I will finish this, I promise.
3. First stop, the police headquarters. He went right into the reception desk. He stood in front of the lady clerk, while she purposedly ignored him. “Hello, I’m Normal Anderson, private eye. I’m here to see Chief Emmert Murray.” The lady clerk stared back at Anderson from head to toe: here was a badly dressed man, with sunken eyes and terrible hair, with his old fashioned hat in hand, smiling like an idiot. “Riiiiight. Do you have an appointment with Mr. Murray?” “Yeah, well, um, I’m an old buddy of his. Come on, ask him. Tell him it’s Normal.” The lady kind of looked at him for a couple of minutes, disapproving face, not a movement, but then she went back to what she was doing before, i.e. ignore him purposedly.
"This ain’t gonna work, let’s go home," whispered Betty to an already frustrated Anderson. "What," replied Anderson, "were you too busy doing nothing at all in our office? Because I could totally drop you back there, really.” The lady clerk stared back at Normal, very confused, almost scared. You see, from her point of view Normal was talking to himself, since Betty was a ghost and all that. Of course, Betty, as a supernatural being, had that magic ability to only show herself to whoever she wanted, or something like that, and she had learned to hide from most people after many a heart attacks happening to unexpecting poor souls. Normal, imagining what could have been happening in the clerk’s mind, diffused the situation by explaining, “oh no, I’m just talking with Betty here, my ghost friend and secretary…”
Normal Anderson sat in the sidewalk in front of the police station, his suit slightly torn from the fight with the police guards. “You should be glad they just thought you were messing around with that clerk,” said Betty, “because they could have totally thought that you are a complete lunatic, which, if you ask me, you are.” Normal Anderson put his hat back on and started walking. “Where are we going? Do you have another plan, detective?” Anderson turned into the corner, and stared up at the building to what he knew was Chief Murray’s office window. “Maybe,” said Normal.
2014-04-30 : 1 note
LAST MAN OF SOMETHING SOMETHING CITY BANK HEIST DEAD
MONEY STILL MISSING, ALSO
or something like that said the twenties style newspaper headline thing in the left hand of private inspector Normal Anderson, a cup of tea in the other. “Betty, did you see the headline today?” *screech*
Okay, let me stop here and declare that this may sound like a bunch of lies, but believe me this is completely factual: Betty was the name of a ghost— let me finish— a ghost secretary that lived inside the storage closet room in which Anderson ran his private eye joint, confined by the magic of a cursed raggedy doll from the 19th century. Moving on…
- “No, of course I did not see it, asshole,” she said, since she was the particular kind of ghost that mostly sees into her own ghoulish dimension, but that can still listen into (and kind of squint at) our world well enough.
- “Right, sorry. Well, it seems like they haven’t found the money from last week’s robbery yet,” continued Normal, “and there’s also a reward, a real nice one. I say, since we’ve been out of work for a while…”
- “Okay, let me stop you right there, Normal. We’ve been through this before: you’re not good at this detective thing. Let’s say we just don’t do anything again, ever, please?
- “Oh, come on, it will be fun! And if we get the money—”
- “If we get the money, I could get us a nice place, with more space, maybe some furniture, and stuff, for you to float around or whatever the hell you do when I’m not here. Wouldn’t that be nice, Betty?”
The doll twitched a bit, and then Betty’s right eye followed. Normal grinned at Betty while she deliberated. Betty exhaled, said “okay.” “Yes!” exclamed Normal, drinking the last sip of tea, and putting on his detective-related coat and hat. He put the doll inside one of coat’s inner pockets, and stepped outside the storage room into the morning sun.
2014-04-30 : 2 notes
I will write shitty noir fiction from now. This is part one of something or another.
1. The gunman body danced and twisted in the sidewalk, holding into trash cans, bus stops, street signs. Every step he gave into the concrete was followed by a explosion of blood, coming from the bullets that were fired into his body. Behind him, the policemen kept shooting and shooting— when would he decide to stop this contorted dancing? The gunman finally dropped his weapon. He stared at heavens, and the sky rotated from above him to the back of his head, and a pool of blood expanded from his mouth, nose, left ear, into the sidewalk, into the sewers. “What an awkward way to die,” he said to himself in a final, meta-referential thought. The policemen surrounded the body, “aaaand he’s dead”. Yes, he was dead. Of course he was! He had been dead for a long time: the bullets had been shot hours ago, so to speak, by the crime he commited; they just had finally met him, on that morning, on that street corner. And with that, the last robber from the latest heist at the giant bank of something something city was gone, done. But where was the money?