In my room at the Hotel Continental a thousand miles from nowhere, I heard the bulky, beefy breathing of the herds. Cattle furnished my new clothes: my coat of limp, chestnut-colored suede, my sharp shoes that hurt my toes. A false fin de siecle decorum snored over Buenos Aires, lost in the pampas and run by the barracks. Old strong men denied apotheosis, bankrupt, on horseback, welded to their horses, moved white marble rearing moon-shaped hooves, to strike the country down. Romantic military sculpture waved sabers over Dickensian architecture, laconic squads patrolled the blanks left by the invisible poor. All day I read about newspaper coup d’états of the leaden, internecine generals— lumps of dough on the chessboard—and never saw their countermarching tanks. Along the sunlit cypress walks of the Republican Martyrs’ graveyard, hundreds of one-room Roman temples hugged their neo-classical catafalques. Literal commemorative
I’ve been a bisexual since a very young age. I am B in the LGBT. I also know what it feels like to be attracted to someone of the same sex and not being accepted for it. When I was 8 my first love was a neighbour, a blond girl named Ingrid. I visited her many times on my bicycle, to bring her gifts, until her mother asked me to stop and Ingrid was suspiciously not around anymore every time I came by. At school, I would be rejected by groups of girls for being different and too boyish. In retrospect I’m glad things like that happened. It meant I would turn towards the more interesting people with better values, better life stories - and more often than not, better music taste. http://jehnnybeth.tumblr.com/post/146327166534/i-am-b-in-lgbt