Lorena. 20. Texas State University.
In love with NYC and Spain.
Feminist, liberal, Latina.
Afraid of heights // Adore the sky
Like FC Barcelona, books, politics, maps, flowers, etc.
That's all for now.
Personal posts and stuff.
DINNER IS COMING. (Part 2)
Emilia Clarke for Marie Claire Magazine, May 2014
If a guy calls you princess in a condescending manner assert your newly appointed royal status and have him beheaded.
HE HANDED THAT SHIT TO HIMMMMM
Farrakhan does not fear man. Amen.
I think this make the 10th time ive reblogged this
I think we still live in a culture that assumes that men are single by choice and women are single because no one wants them.
It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.
Gabriel García Márquez (RIP April 17, 2014)
Bio: Born on March 6, 1928, writer Gabriel García Márquez grew up listening to family tales. After college, he became a journalist. His work introduced readers to magical realism, which combines fact and fantasy. His novels Cien años de soledad (One Hundred Years of Solitude) and El amor en los tiempos del cólera (Love in the Time of Cholera) have drawn worldwide audiences. He won a Nobel Prize in 1982. 
- The highly political Marquez has long been a friend of Cuban president Fidel Castro. 
- He claims that he wrote the book “One Hundred Years of Solitude” barricaded in his study in Mexico, after receiving a vision. One day, while he and his wife and children were in their car driving to Acapulco, he saw that he “had to tell [his] story the way his grandmother used to tell hers, and that [he] was to start from that afternoon in which a father took his child to discover ice.” He made an abrupt U-turn on the highway, the car never made it to Acapulco, and he locked himself in his study. Fifteen months later, he emerged with the manuscript, only to meet his wife holding a stack of bills. They traded papers, and she put the manuscript in the mail to his publisher. 
- He has a yellow rose or tulip on his writing desk each day. 
- When he was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer, he gamely declared to the world that the disease was an “enormous stroke of luck” because it finally forced him to write his memoirs. 
[He stumbled on the last step, but he got up at once. “He even took care to brush off the dirt that was stuck to his guts,” my Aunt Wene told me.] Then he went into his house through the back door that had been open since six and fell on his face in the kitchen.
[And she, with a sad smile—which was already a smile of surrender to the impossible, the unreachable—said: “Yet you won’t remember anything during the day.” And she put her hands back over the lamp, her features darkened by a bitter cloud.] “You’re the only man who doesn’t remember anything of what he’s dreamed after he wakes up.
from Eyes of a Blue Dog (short story)
Only then did she understand that three thousand years had passed since the day she had had a desire to eat the first orange.
from Eva is Inside Her Cat (short story)
Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.