Spring is here, I smell it in the fire.

I love March!
Not only do I celebrate my birthday in March (which... isn't so great now that I'm getting older... it's kind of sad, actually), but Spring time comes around the corner. While Vegas spring is not as awesome as Spring time in North Cal, it's pretty damn sweet. The unbearable heat still hasn't hit the city, and there are days when there's a slight breeze and it doesn't feel so bad to breathe.

I don't suffer from allergies, unless mulberry trees are doing their best to pollinate around me... which is true in the case of the food court (is it a food court?) at UNLV by the Sidewalk Cafe. I dodge that shit like the plague during the Spring. Aside from that, I have a blast around pollen (Haaaa! I have to, there are 10 fruit trees and 10 palm trees in my back yard thanks to my yokel parents. j/k. Silly me, Mexicans can't be yokels)

Anyway, when spring (is it capitalized? I won't capitalize in this case just to spice things up--I've been watching WAY too much Rachel Ray) rolls around my family gets in the habit of throwing little barbecues. I don't typically enjoy these things, since I have an irrational, semi-fear of fire (well, it's not that irrational. My siblings have almost burnt down the house not once, but twice) and I'm not a huge fan of meat (except on Fridays during Lent. The devil tries his best to tempt my weak soul and meat looks especially good to me then).

Well, this fear of mine only increases when I see who's in charge of the grill. Mom handles it most the time... and I'm not scared in those instances because she knows how to handle fire. However, if my father is ever left in charge, I tend to hang out by the fire extinguisher... or I just hook up the hose to the nearest faucet and keep that near the grill.

Also, I wouldn't be so scared if my parents grilled on our normal grill:
To the left, exhibit A: Notice the DIRT. Is it obvious enough that my folks don't use that shit, or what?

No, no. My dad has befriended some crazy man... who swears up and down by this thing:
To the right, exhibit B: Weirdest, scariest grill in the universe that my dad received as a gift from Crazy Man.

Now... seriously... the flames on that bad boy get enormous. I'm really shocked the neighbors haven't called the fire department yet.
It also screams out: HOBO! I can just imagine a pack of vagrants huddled around this thing in the winter just to keep warm.

Regardless of what I think, my family sure loves "grilling" aka burning our meat here (talk about burning, today we were all looking at that fire that broke out in the "wetlands." It was pretty sad. Sure put a damper on our little BBQ day). They have a blast, eat a lot... drink... dance... scream (Yeah. Scream...either while arguing or just being musical... if that's at all possible to imagine. Oh! Like Mariachis!) and then leave us to clean the place up.
Now, after all this day's activities, I'm tired and smell like ash.
Just another wonderful spring day.

But I guess I don't mind. As long as I have this little guy to smile at me (and eating some of the paper plates liter-bug cousins leave behind):

Ugly, dirty dog... his enormous smile makes me forget how dirty and scary he is... and I just wanna hug the little monster.

Talking about smiles!!
I've been running an experiment on myself over the past few months and it isn't until recently that I've noticed results.

I've been known to suffer a lot from chapped lips ("Ew, gross!" Yeah, shut up, I know). I've had the problem since... I don't know... I was born? I get nervous a lot, and as a way of coping, I tend to tear the hell out of my fingers. When those are in too much pain, I tend to go after my lips. They're such a huge canvas... I tend to get a little out of control and there comes the problem. I also lick my lips like nobody's business (but NEVER while checking someone out. NEVER).
So, after much aggravation with constantly touching my rough lips and... no, I take it back, I wont go into further, disgusting details. I just wondered what it'd feel like to regularly have soft lips (dumb, I know... but I only have soft lips a couple of times a year, when the weather's just right).
On New Years I made the resolutions of:
1)Not picking at my lips
2)Saturating my lips with Vaseline on a daily basis, at all times... just not when going to school. I can back off a little there.

Now, I went drastic with Vaseline because that shit's quite disgusting. It tastes like... well, petroleum. Nothing like the Bath & Body Works Raspberry lip balm I buy and then proceed to lick off, which only exacerbates the problem. It would force me to quit licking my bottom lip.

You see that! I mean, that has "OUCH!" written all over! I had to do something, especially since I often found myself saying "Shut up! Don't make me laugh! I'll bleed!" (I feel like a chick on those ProActive commercials right now. Vaseline should pick me up as a spokesperson. "Try it, it tastes like shit, but man, does it get the job done!")

I've been applying Vaseline for over... 2 months now and while I started off rocky (licking my lips a couple of times only to be met by one of the most wretched tastes I've come to know), but I now have normal-looking lips (you know, like a freakin' human), worthy of Maybelline commercials (riiight). Now if only this damn Listerine Whitening worked a little faster... and I wouldn't be so paranoid about using brightly colored lipstick (I claim to look like a hooker... I just can't get that out of my head. You try growing up in the hood and tell me if seeing hoes at your bus stop corner on a daily basis doesn't mess you up).

Aww... that last picture sure looks porntastic (Maybe it's all that Vaseline... saying that so often makes me think of Lisa Simpson). I shall try not doing that again... if only I could remember what I was thinking during the picture (probably "This is fucking retarded and I don't wanna smile") . And on the first picture... I was whistling... not blowing a kiss like all those emo girls on Myspace. I don't blow kisses... unless it's Tyson and I don't wanna go outside to get tackled by him.
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