House on Mango Street activity

The Condo on La Rosa Lane


Every blunder, mistake, and mishap I’ve caused so far has always been me versus me. I used to find that the best way to move on is to drown my own thoughts in my music. And it almost always works. It makes me seem nonchalant, and It’s true that I am, or have been up until this point. I’m at that scary open gate where having the privilege of living in the moment is long gone. That part of me is like a box of dusty pictures locked in that untouched attic. The loss of this privilege almost feels like a weight lifted off of my shoulders, though. Being able to live in the moment is what caused me to ignore all of my problems. I find that the best way to move on is to leave all of it untitled, so only the numbers linger, and not the words.


Thinking is such a confusing concept. We think in all kinds of words, all kinds of languages. And what all these languages have in common is that they’re all noise and sounds we make with our mouths when we communicate. All these sounds we make in our heads and they bounce around like kids in a bouncy house, except that the kids never leave and they stay happy, yet bottled. And they say they’ll get bored and they want to leave, but you know it isn’t true so you keep them bottled. Once in a while you let a couple of them slip out of your bottle top, and when that happens, it almost always ends in an even tighter cap.

Bottle of Bubbles

Where we used to live, a bottle of bubbles was a fun yet dangerous form of entertainment, especially in the house. No blowing soap in the house said my mother, and that was the end of that, or so I thought. We came home with goodie bags and cake still on our faces. We ran up the stairs to our room to open them, filled with excitement. My sister didn’t get much in hers. A bouncy ball, a plastic yo-yo, and a hand stamp. I had the golden touch. Like my sister, I got a bouncy ball and a yo-yo, but the item most standing out was a bottle of bubbles. This was unheard of for both of us, and being the child I was, excitement most definitely got the best of me. I unscrewed the bottle and started blowing into the spoon with the hole in it. My sister was whining for me to hand it over and give her a turn, but as I heard the staggered, tired steps up the stairs, I rushed to hide the bottle and pop the bubbles. My mother walks in, and sees the bubbles everywhere. Like a bubble who doesn’t hesitate to pop, she doesn’t hesitate either.    


It makes me want to jump out the window and fly to where I can’t be seen or heard and I can sleep without being shaken awake by the sounds. I want to stop moving for a little, but when I force myself to keep moving I don’t notice the progress and decline I’m making, and how they’ll affect me later. I wonder what it all means and if any of it will be worth it and will anybody ever think this way or that way of me. It makes me wonder if in the end, will I be happy with the choices i’m making, the ones i’ve made and the ones i’ll make, and every time I think about all of these I always end with maxed volume and the pause button unpaused, and I wait and I wait and I wait.      



Perfection is more an illusion than some people make it out to be, and they stress it way too often. Being the perfect general human is about as possible as reaching the gold at the end of a rainbow. Perfection is too relevant, and it’s like a substitute for people who don’t want the big picture, people who want to keep looking at everything through a keyhole. While we stress pointless issues on others, stupid gossip, ignorant discrimination, we miss the fact that everything around us is fading. Our initially perfect environment is fading, in the pursuit of perfection.

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