Debbienho !

I drew an Indian woman. Oh. I rephrase: I attempted drawing an Indian woman. (For my self-esteem’s sake, her name is [conspicuously] withheld.) I was excited, brimming with vim right down to the tips of my toes. I had a new sketchbook, and most of my pencils were obedient. I was mastering shading and blending, lightening and darkening, making wisps and block lines. There was nothing I could not do. I could conquer the world! The annoying ‘Small girls are young’ had never been this true . Halfway through the right eye, I wanted to give up. How I did not, is a complete miracle. It may be a while before I draw again. 

I’ve fallen out of love with telenovelas. I’m not sure why. Maybe I grew up, and decided they weren’t very realistic. Or I grew old, and knew I would not be bothered with emotional roller-coasters I had no control over. It could be that I grew tired, of names like Dalmonella and Escondida de la Contravez, which conveniently missed my birth certificate. Whichever it is, I’m not part of the gang of giggly girls who revel in post-show analysis, and I don’t miss the days I moped in a corner because ECG had visited at the time Rosalinda was due to air.  This…hypothesis, does not, at all, stop me from enjoying telenovela music. Word! Some songs from these three-hundred-and-ninety-two-episode-long television shows (not counting the moments of absentmindedness which cause the television channel to repeat some episodes, and the breaks to show football matches, which make telenovelas four-hundred-and-seventy-two-episode-long shows) seem to hit me hard on some soft spot, and ambush me with