The Importance of Being Earnest

Dear Person Who Has Decided To Read This,

Since you’re giving me the opportunity to blow your mind with my highly, critically-acclaimed Oscar worthy blog, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, and I’m going to consider you a friend. Cause I only associate myself with really cool ass, intelligent, rad ass people, and the fact you’re even reading this just proves you’re probably all of that.

Congrats. We are now friends.

From reading my delicate nonsense, you’ll probably get to know me in such a close manner that eventually you’ll want to be friends in real life.

(if that’s the case, go ahead and slide into my DMs via twitter. I want all the friends I can get. Or if you’re a really cute boy with a British accent and a trust fund. Go ahead and slide in there too.)

And if that’s not the case, and from reading this you gather that I’m actually kinda lame, that’s okay too. This is a judgement-free zone, people!

note: how dare you

Now. I think in all works, there is an importance for honesty.

How can I prove myself as an authentic, genuine, real person, if I’m not honest about all matters? Honesty is something very delicate, because while one may claim they desire the truth, deep down, we all know that the truth can be painful. And it hurts. It hurts a lot.

But shit, that means you gotta be honest as well. Am I too cheesy? Am I boring? Do you beg to differ? Well go ahead and let me know. That’s what the comment section is for. (That, and, if someone comments, I’ll probably feel like I’m not talking to myself, because to be forreal, I’m probably writing to an empty stadium. But hey, just in case there are people who read this, you are the goat* I love you and I hope all your dreams come true)

Personally, I think it’s very brave. How many of us really want to expose our deepest thoughts, strongest desires and concerns for the world to see? It’s rare. It’s rare because we’re afraid. We’re afraid of rejection, we’re afraid to let people in, afraid of their possible disapproval.

In other words, putting out a blog for the world to see might be one of the worst ideas a young, independent Latina lady such as I might have in this modern age. Y’all, this shit is going on the internet. My boss could read this someday, and think “why the frick did I hire this person?” my future husband might read this (actually it’s not a “might”, it’s a “will”, cause whoever I marry WILL read my shit) and probably think, “I married a weirdo.”

Just in case my future husband is reading this: shit wussup baby, how you doin, ily witcho fine ass self, keep doing you. see you in the future, papi.

Nevertheless, honesty is the key in all functions, so I shall present myself in the rawest way possible.

Y’all, I’ve got dreams. Big ones. I don’t even call them ‘dreams’ cause nowadays I have them in a post-it sticky note mentally filed under, “SHIT I GOTTA DO SOMEDAY”

They vary, they change, they dissolve, they bolden (is that even a word, “bolden”?) They’re inexplicably colourful. Sometimes I joke with myself that I have a new dream every other day!

I want to travel the world on a caravan, I want to bathe elephants in Malaysia, I want to meditate with monks in India, I want to swim with sea turtles (I almost put down ‘sharks’ but to be frank—I’m too chicken for that) I want to help teach people from all sorts of backgrounds how to speak a new language, I want to sit down in a café with Lana del Rey and talk about the how the universe was created (okay, that one might be a bit far out, but still! It’s definitely one of my fondest).

Like I said, they change. Sometimes I want to travel the world on a boat instead of a bus, sometimes I want to swim with dolphins instead of turtles (I still rep the sharks though) and sometimes my sticky note gets lost in translation among thousands of other notes piled in my head.

One dream never changes— writing.

Y’all. I am IN LOVE with writing. Yeah yeah yeah, I know, I’m that girl.

Hear me out tho.

I remember when I was ten years old, I hand wrote my first novel. Calling it a full book would be a bit of exaggeration, but it had chapters, it had a title, a plot, and it even had a fore note! (Sadly, the title wasn’t too imaginative, I’m almost embarrassed to share it with you) But I was so proud of my little fictional work of art. My father told me it was silly and that I should focus on more important things, so my discouraged ass ten-year-old self chucked that book into my garage, where it was eventually lost in the sea of junk we keep in there.

It’s amazing how our parents can influence us with their encouragement/disapproval, huh? Let me take a moment right here, right now, for all of the internet to witness my following vow: echem

I, Tabbatha Valeria Sorrosa-Morales

vow, that if my future spawn decides to pursue something, I shall back them up no matter how lame it is. (But c’mon guys, no future child of mine is gonna be lame. I’mma be raising some mega rad, enlightened, kind ass mofos.)

Writing has always been an outlet for myself, so I started a journal. Cause who really wants to hear an eighteen year old grown ass child bitch about life out loud? (Unfortunately I can’t say “private journal” because my siblings would sneak into my room and read it, smh)

I haven’t had many friends in this life (is that hard to believe? heehee), but my pen has always shown me infinite patience and my paper has been the most discreet of listeners. I love to write, about ideas about places, about stories, about memories.

Listen, if you haven’t ever kept a journal, boyyyyy you are missing out. Aside from the occasional phone call yelling “Tabatha, get your ass home, you’re going to explain this to me” I get from my mother when she decides to read my shit, it’s pretty great.

I recommend you to try it. I started out by filling out a few sentences about my day, which escalated to paragraphs, which lead to pages. It’s always beautiful going back to my journals from 2014 and seeing how different I am, how many new cuss words I’ve learned, you know? It’s always interesting reading about my own past experiences and realizing how much they’ve inspired a change in myself. I want to remember everything, the good, the bad, the happiest moments, the ones that broke my heart. Every experience, every detail, have lead me to becoming the person I am today. Why wouldn’t I want to remember them?

One of my biggest, strongest, most chimerical dreams is to write a book, and have it published. I want to share my thoughts with the world, I want to create a new world for my readers, I want to channel all my energy into something that can be passed on to others. This world is so beautiful; why should I keep everything I have to myself? Why should good things be hidden?

If at this moment you’re thinking, “pshh, that’ll never happen.” I want you to leave this page, because those are bad vibes and I ain’t got a need for that. And shame on you for being Negative Nina, because if you keep thinking that way, you’ll have a hard time keeping your chin up.

In the name of being honest, I don’t even know if it’ll happen soon. But isn’t that splendid? Isn’t that far out? I have no idea, which is what makes it fun. How boring would it be if I knew what’s going to happen in the future? How boring and predictable. I can’t have “boring” or “predictable” in my life. Nope. No way. You only get ONE life, so might as well add as much colour to it as possible.

Someday, you’ll be walking past a Barnes and Nobles, and you’ll see a book with my name at the top. Or at the bottom. I’m not picky. I’m just waiting for that day. It may be a year from now, it may be many years from now, but it’ll be beautiful and I hope you’ll be proud.

and if you’re not proud, that’s okay. You ain’t gotta be. Know why? Cause I bet that rad ass ten year old me who got told writing was a waste of time would be. And that’s all the validation I really need anyways. Well, from her and from Lana Del Rey. If Lana told me she didn’t like my book I’d probably cry.

P.S – due to the importance of being earnest, the title of that book I wrote eight years ago was “The Story of a Girl”

I know. Laaaaame.

Where was my imagination? My future one will make up for this unoriginal title, I promise.

your friend, (I put ‘friend’ cause we’re friends now. And if you don’t wanna be friends then too bad, you stuck with me!)




*Goat: slang for Greatest Of All Time




Dear friends,

These days I find myself with samples of free time. When I’m not at school, or working, or painting, or napping (because naps are very important) I’m sitting in a café inside Barnes and Nobles.

Most of the time I read, or I study. But on some occasions, I observe.

Nothing major, just simply watching the movements going on around me.

Sometimes I’ll notice a woman on her laptop, furiously typing away. Perhaps she has a deadline and she left the office for a change of scenery. I respect that. Maybe she’s sending someone an angry email. Who knows. Maybe she was lurking, and got lost in the sauce. Found some shit she didn’t like, and now she’s mad. Happens to the best of us.

fun fact: I’m a grade A lurker (my contact services and information are below) and without exaggeration, NINE TIMES OUT OF TEN, my punk ass usually ends up getting my own feelings hurt from the stuff I’ll find. Lurking should come with a warning sign. Say what you might say, it’s an art.)

She has a look of determination set in her expression. If she was peeping around, she found what she was looking for and she ain’t having it. I feel for you, girl. Whatever it is, whoever he is, I know this woman is out for blood. I’m rooting for you, Brenda.

Maybe it’s a young man and a young woman on a date.

Those are special, because you can tell a lot about people by their body language. The couple across the room are sitting face to face, leaning towards each other, open palms, relaxed posture. I bet they like each other a lot. He’s telling some sort of story; she’s laughing like he just said the funniest thing ever (Calm down there, Becky). Occasionally he’ll take a swig of coffee, but really I think it’s just for show, because she hasn’t really touched her’s either.

They look like they’re having a good time, and that makes me happy. I bet when she goes home tonight, she’ll replay the mental image of him using his hands to conjure images in the air, fit for his narrative. And when he goes to bed, he’ll picture her blushing and laughing. They look so into each other. sigh. Been there, young grasshoppers, you’ve got a big one coming for ya. I’m having a hard time not staring, because they look sweet. And cause they’re really loud. I really hope they don’t turn in my direction, because I don’t want them to think I’m judging them or anything.

(However, if they did turn to look at me, I’d probably just be like, “I’m not creeping, you young Romeo and Juliet, I’m just a lonely independent Latina sipping on coffee and minding my own business.” And then they’d probably go back to throwing their obvious attraction for each other in front of the rest of us single, independent folks in that coffee place. How dare they.)

Best of luck to the two of them.

My favorite, however, is the person who sits alone with their book. It’s so fascinating. When they’re in their own little world, nothing to distract them. In this moment, there is an elder man beside me, drinking his tea and reading a book. I can’t see the title but he seems to be engulfed by the novel. You can tell by the facial expressions he makes as he changes pages. Sometimes he’ll put his hand under his chin and furrows his eyebrows like he’s confused. Other moments he’ll relax his arms and fold his legs like he’s pleased. He has a scar on his left cheekbone. I wonder where he got it. There’s a story behind everything. Sometimes they’re funny, sometimes they’re heartbreaking. Scars are proof of moments that happened, whether out of recklessness or bravery, that story came with strings.

I don’t pretend to be wise,  but lately I’ve been observing the things that go on around me with a little more intensity.

We pass other people in this life, without knowing their story. It’s amazing. Do you ever walk by someone and wonder what they’re like? I mean, everyone has tales and memories and ideas and troubles. Don’t you ever wonder what they are? I look at people and I think.

Not in a mean way, just out of curiousity. I wonder what their first kiss was like and what their biggest dreams are and what they plan on achieving in the next couple of days. I wonder if they’ve ever had their heart broken, or if they broke someone else’s. How did it affect them? How did they get through it? I wonder if they like their job, if they’re happy in their marriage. I wonder what kind of music they dance to in front of their mirror, what their ambition is, what they think about.

Sadly, I’ll probably never see any of these strangers again. Because once they leave this coffee shop, I’ll forget their faces, and we may never cross paths again. To someone, they might just be an extra character in the background of their life, sipping on coffee or cleaning the tables. But to someone else, that person is a friend, a daughter/son, a lover, an enemy. There is not one person in this world that hasn’t experienced some sort of pain. I think about this a lot.

The older I get, the more I see people as a combination of others I’ve met before them. Someone’s voice might remind me of his. Someone’s laugh might take me back to another time, another place, another moment.

My advice to you is this: go to a coffee shop. Sit. Observe. Watch the world around you. Take it in. Notice the couple in front of you. Notice the elderly gentleman beside you. Breath it in. Live in that moment. Let’s view others not as strangers, but as people, with their own stories.

In other words, as my high school teacher, Mrs. Hayes, would’ve said, “Damn Millenial™, put your phone down every now and then!”

I’ll always wonder what people see when they look at me. Who do they think about? What place do they get taken back to? Was it someone they loved? Someone they knew once upon a time? Someone they’d rather never think about again?

I suppose I’ll never know