Coming from a humble background as the child of militant farmers from Nicaragua where I learned to catch bull sharks with a wiggle of the toe, the United States has provided me with the opportunities to pursue my passions of stabilizing peace, commercializing the religious sector, profiting from the outsourcing of small businesses, and trafficking drugs — mostly cocaine — through multiple breast-implant surgeries. I look damn good with my AK-47 strapped to my side. It compliments my skin tone.
After a brief stint in rehabilitation triggered by the burst of the cocaine balloons in my chest (I know, this seems achingly similar to the plot line of “Sin Senos no hay Paraíso,” but it’s more common than you think), the accounts I had set up in the Caymans turned out to be in Nigeria funding the son of the deposed king after he emailed me personally asking for help. I’ve considerably reevaluated my life, especially since my stocks in the revitalization of Beanie Babies plummeted.
I’m now a graduate student in English, teacher of first-year Composition, cat owner, wine fanatic (mostly because of the tingly feelings after a bottle or three), and budding author. We’ll see how that works out.
Graduate school and teaching entitled peers -- because the majority of them are my age or older -- leaves me with a few options to deal with my stress: alcoholism or writing. I choose both.
No one has written on Ava Maura's wall.
No one has written on Ava Maura's wall.