Victim

by Andrew Boryga

“Me cago en tu madre.” He looked over at me. “Never be like that, Javi.”

“Ese tipo, he’s got no chance. Tú sabes? He goes around feeling sorry for himself instead of taking shit into his own hands. Entiendes? You can never live like that. You don’t feel sorry for yourself. Si te caes, te levantas. Así es. That’s how I live my life. That’s how you need to live yours.”

disgust and “severe mental fatigue” from a Colombian girl who said she was constantly asked about Pablo Escobar by everyone. (I held in the fact that he was my only reference point for the country, and that I probably would have asked her about him, too.)

lmaooo

You should know this: I really did care about her. I really did, at some point, imagine a future for us together. I could see it all at one point, until I couldn’t anymore. The dissolution of that takes time. It doesn’t happen overnight. It’s hard to even pinpoint exactly where it goes bad. To dissect, like a losing baseball game, which errors, which pitches ultimately made the difference in the final

I felt like a dominatrix. I felt as if my ancestors, who had cleaned buildings and chopped sugarcane, were cheering me on from the afterlife. Pa’lante, niño! Pa’que tú lo sepas.