Thursday, January 31, 2008

License to *fill in blank*

So... I am now an old lady.

God... that's so upsetting.
At least now, they won't give me so much shit at concerts/clubs thinking I have some sort of fake ID.

Let's inspect the differences between young, teenaged AnoMALIE (Why do I suddenly feel sad realizing I'm no longer a teen?!?!) up top, and the OLD, 4-years later, college graduate AnoMALIE to your right:

- The hair.
Boy... was it messed up for the '04 picture!
I was so frazzled... so irritated.
Ok, I'll confess... I failed the first time I tried... and this second time I was so nervous... and disheartened, that I didn't give a shit about the way my hair looked for this damn test (I thought I was going to fail, anyway).
The first time, I had some paranoid, 9-months pregnant cabrona that was so fucking panic-y.

Bitch, if you're so worried about getting in a wreck, why the fuck are you still doing this job? Why don't you play it safe and stay at a counter? Not in a car with... teenaged drivers. You only make us increasingly nervous with the added fear of killing an unborn baby, Einsten.
She failed EVERYONE that day. How do I know? The lady that passed me told me so.

"You shouldn't feel so bad. Lindsay failed everyone"
Who the fuck is Lindsay?
"...the lady who failed you yesterday."
"Oh... the lady who said I supposedly hit the barrel with my back tire?"
"Yeah, she's just been a little nervous... and grumpy. But she had her baby today, so everything's going to go back to normal."
Yeah... right.

Anyway... my hair was nasty that day... I passed... so I had to grin and bear it (funny, since in the picture, my face was so... relieved-looking with the weakest smiled imaginable) for the cameraman.
The new one though... my hair looks pimp. It's sleek and nice, if only it werent for that pesky little strand of bangs that didn't want to cooperate and decided to slide forward.

- The eyebrows.
Goodness... the atrocity that those '04 eyebrows were!
Don't they make me look mean? Sheesh.
My '08 brows though... I'm pretty happy with them. They make me look calm-ish, right?
Good thing they weren't my usual thick ones, huh, Travelindin? I threaded them thin just for you (I lie, the lady that did them yesterday was so intimidating, I just said "Uhh... just... whatever you think looks nice..." and she did that. Mom's SO happy with them... like if they were on her own face).

- My ears
Both pictures... they're still fucked up and hella retarded looking.
I hate my ears.

- The camera's proximity to my face
Why the hell is it so zoomed in on the new one? Ew. Too. Much. Face.

- The restrictions
2004 AnoMALIE had no restrictions... now... I'm a foureyes that has a restriction. Shit. I'm old.

What I realized while standing in line at the DMV, is that each time I'm going to have to renew my picture, it'll be in the winter... so I'll have some bulky ass sweater on. Booo!
Also... I was tempted to change my height to 5'9"... just for shits and giggles... because we all know AnoMALIE is but a measly 5'8," I'm such a dwarf.

But hey... at least I now have an old-person driver's license... all horizontal like... and without that damn yellow bar that screams at people "I'm not legally allowed to consume alcohol yet!!"

This is the life.


To celebrate me waking up early to go to the DMV, I went to work with Mom.
From there, we went to buy suff for work at Sam's Club... and got to enjoy the perks of being a "Business Member."
You get to shop a whopping 3 hours before the general plebes... or I mean, members.
It's eerily quiet in there with only business owners crawling all over the place.

Anyway, when we got back to work to stock the place up with our newly purchased items, Mom freaks out:
"I forgot the Ding Dongs, AnoMALIE! I forgot the Ding Dongs!!"
"How could we forget about the Ding Dongs, AnoMALIE?"
"I don't know... I wouldn't know anything about ding dongs..."

I didn't pay attention to what I had said... until my 28-year-old cousin, who works there, started to laugh (I told you I was gifted when it came to that type of shit).

I guess I win "understatement of the month" award.
(although... histologically/biologically, I know plenty about "ding dongs." Some of the proper tissue names still reverberate in my head from time to time... out of the blue, obviously... but still. I know plenty... just not... in that other sense)

Wednesday, January 30, 2008


I'm such a girl.

I love it when strangers of the opposite sex compliment me... as long as it's polite, that is (and the guy isn't some old perverted man like that dude from target last year).

The randomness and good nature of it just lightened up my day...
even if it was only to compliment my hoodie... and to chat a little about the awesomeness of Notre Dame.

Now, want an example of compliments from strangers that I most certainly don't enjoy?
Check out this conversation I had with some dude a couple of years back... he was around 38, supposedly. Anyway:

greekchicago: GOD are you gorgeousssssssssss
greekchicago: love that face
greekchicago: what if a guy
[Me]: thanks, that's very nice
greekchicago: would do anything you wished
greekchicago: ANYTHING
[Me]: he'd get me through med school
greekchicago: OK
greekchicago: is the U of Chicago OK?
[Me]: i actually thought about that school
[Me]: but i was just kidding
greekchicago: well it is all yours if you want
greekchicago: I would do anything for you
[Me]: i don't need a... i guess the word for a dude like that is suggar daddy
greekchicago: I mean it you are perfect
greekchicago: I was thinking SLAVE
[Me]: ha
[Me]: i wouldn't do that to a person
greekchicago: every goddess should have a slave
greekchicago: I would do anything to be your slave
greekchicago: you are amazinggggggggg
[Me]: aww, i guess that would be true... in mythology... but not with me. I'm human.
(I've never blocked someone so quickly in my life... even if he did think I was "gorgeousssssssssss" and "amazinggggggggg." That's just creepy shit to tell a regular girl you've never spoken to before. I was more creeped out because he was this lawyer... who looked so proper... and then goes off and talks about wanting to be my slave. WTF? People never cease to amaze me)

God... I laughed pretty hard when I found that stashed in my saved mail... haha.
Needless to say, I won't be stepping foot in Chicago unless I'm accompanied by two other people.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

The camera ruined it...

The camera on my phone sucks dick (not literally).

I hadn't been up to Mt. Charleston since... I think it was 2005... I think.


At least I got out of the house... and I'm glad I have such good friends.

I'm miserable, you guys... plain fucking miserable.
I need the daily grind of school... I'm unhappy without it.

Pet Peeve number 1274857 and 1274858:
- When a guy sits too close to me at the gym... then proceeds to grunt like a caveman for the entire hour... or he uses MY equipment. That BUGGGGGGGGGGGGs me!
- Never ending text messages from people outside verizon!!!!!!!

Monday, January 28, 2008

Old Ladies

While I know I'm klutzy, I'm always amused to find myself being seriously ditzy.

(Yesterday afternoon, I was hula-hooping while listening to my i-pod in one ear, and the Spanish news with the other. They were showing an adorable old lady skydiving... and mentioned something about her 100th birthday)

Me: (talking to the television) Oh my God! That lady's a hundred?!
Mom: (coming from the kitchen) Barbara Bush?
Me: Oh my God! Barbara Bush is a hundred?!
Mom: Barbara Bush?!

(Mom nods in the direction of the television)

Me: She's a hundred...
Mom: Barbara Bush is a hundred?!

(We both look at the television, bewildered)

Me: No, that little old lady's celebrating her 100th birthday by sky diving...
Mom: Oh... ok.
Me: Barbara Bush's one hundred?
Mom: Not that I know of... I thought the old lady sky diving was Barbara Bush.
Me: Ok... so Barbara Bush is not one hundred?
Mom: No.

(For a second there, I felt like my life was a sham)

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I hold a biology degree (ok, so it hasn't come in the mail just yet, but I KNOW I did get all my shit done and it should come in the mail some time this... year).

Sunday, January 27, 2008

OG-EBT Differentiation

Yesterday, EBT came over to fix this little problem:
Mom wasn't home, and Dad was... being his hypochondriac-self.
Dad would leave me alone with EBT for half-hour intervals... while he "did stuff."

Seriously, WTF is up with that? They won't let me go to the damn library with some guys, yet they'll leave me unattended for hours with another.

Whenever Dad would be in the kitchen with both of us, he'd throw these really suggestive glances at both of us.
I was sure he was going to mention something when EBT and I, very innocently, began to talk about the 5 summer weddings that'll take place this year in "Hometown."
EBT and I were talking about how crazy it was that 5 chicks were getting married in a matter of 3 weeks (and how creepy it was that 3 of them are his first-cousins... leaving him to be one of three people left to get married in his entire family), then about how we think we'll never get married (not to each other, but just... in general).
I had to throw Dad my best "DDDDDDON'T YOU SAY A WORD, DAD!" stare.

Aside from talking about the weddings... we didn't really say much. We had this very awkward silence thing going on. He'd be working on the floor, I'd be acting very interested in the Winter X-Games and whether or not Lindsey Jacobellis would fuck it all up again this year (she didn't).

We did have a few other memorable exchanges, like:

EBT: So... how are you enjoying your time away from school?
Me: It's weird...
EBT: What are you now?
Me: I'm... not really anything... I just got a degree...
EBT: Yeah, but in Mexico, when you finish a degree you're considered to be, well, that.
Me: Oh... well... I guess that makes me... a biologist. (internally) Oh my God, that sounds so fucking cool.

We smiled. I smiled because I liked the sound of that... he smiled because I'm sure I made a very stupid face, and of course, because I was so hesitant to admit I am a "biologist."

EBT: So, AnoMALIE, do you like going to Mexico, AnoMALIE?
Me: Yeah. I love it.
EBT: If you could pick one place to hang out all summer, where would it be? Hometown (which is tiny), Santiago (which is the nearest "large" city), or T* (nearest "little city" which is also the municipality "Hometown" belongs to)?
Me: Eww... Santiago? No. No way... I love Hometown.
He looked pleasantly surprised.

EBT: Really? I'd imagine you would say Santiago... with its party scene... the park... the fair...
Me: Oh, don't get me wrong, I love all that, and I do participate in it when I go... but overall, I prefer to just stay in Hometown... it's... relaxing.
EBT: That, it is... So... what do you plan on doing with your degree?
Me: I don't know... I'm just...
EBT: Did you like messing with chemicals... learning about elements?
Me: Yeah... I loved that stuff.
EBT: When I was in school, I had to take two semesters of that, and I hated it! I just couldn't learn the stuff... maybe it was the professor... maybe it was the experiments... I just couldn't learn that stuff... every other subject I understood perfectly.
I smiled.

EBT: Yeah... and that's why now you have me here, an illegal, working on tile, right? What good did school do for me?

That last little exchange made me feel sad for him.
The most I could do was smile like a dumb ass and say something to the effect of "Nah... don't say that..."

This made me notice the marked difference between EBT and Obnoxious Guy (not even considering that EBT and I once had a "thing," and OG and I had nothing more than a middle-school-FRIENDSHIP, where he'd ignore my 6th-grade ass each time his dumb ass 8th grade peers were around):

EBT's pretty humble... and he's crazy smart (regardless of the fact that he now works on floors with a degree in business administration). Also, when I talk to him, I learn new phrases (in Spanish, of course). He's very respectful of the girls he is in company of... and when he greets the opposite sex (you know, how it's customary with Latinos... with a hug and kiss), he doesn't go over the line in his... touchy-feely-ness (the most I'll get is a squeeze to the shoulder... or an "air kiss").

Obnoxious Guy never STFU, he's cocky like a mother..., he constantly COMPLAINS, he is constantly trying to shove his way into my personal life ("So, any boyfriends?" "So, what kind of guys do you like?" "So, are you ready for marriage?" "Why don't you have a boyfriend?" "WHAT KIND OF GUYS DO YOU LIKE?" "Do you want a boyfriend?"), he thows not-so-subtle hints that he wants to hook-up, and when we greet (goddamn, he too is a Latino) he straight up gropes me and presses my chest tightly against his (I tell myself he's like Lennie Small and can't measure his own strength... that, or he wants to save me the money/hassle of a monthly breast-health check-up).

Maybe all Obnoxious Guy needs is a little extra time... maybe when he's 28, he'll learn to be a little less pushy/annoying... and just be a friend like EBT... who understands that NO means NO.

Who the hell am I kidding... OG will never change.

P.S. Boy, did I piss him off last night because I didn't want to go to the movies. But, whatever... I've already been called a cunt... I kind of already lost my sensitivity to the word.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Root of my problems

I've been having a recurring dream lately.

While the people in the dream tend to change, the location doesn't.
It's a lake... hidden by some New England-y forest. I follow a winding river to this hidden lake... and in the process, spend it playing around with whoever is with me for that dream.
I laugh a lot in the dream... and I feel this... very weird joy (like, I feel my chest is going to explode because I'm so happy. I know that sounds weird... but that's the best I can do).
Once I get to the lake, we all (now that I think about it, the only girl I've ever seen in these dreams, besides me, is Little Sister) get in and do things like cliff dive (others do that. I've never ever ever been a fan of diving. Never ever ever) or just float on our backs (I don't mind doing that).

Then I wake up and feel... sorrow, for days.

This dream has shown up so often now, that I'm starting to see it as a nightmare.
It's thanks to that dream that I woke up this morning at 6 AM and couldn't go back to bed... even after having only slept for three hours.

I'm blaming it on how irritated/irate I became yesterday after hearing something that really upset me (I'd be lying if I said I didn't cry yesterday when I found out what happened and what was said). I was planning on talking in depth about this problem... but fuck that. I'm tired of always having to mediate some sort of argument on my journal/blog... and if not that, then I have to "Defend" myself for, well, being myself.
I'm sick of it.
Don't like what I have to say? Then click that nice little X on the upper right hand corner of your screen.
It is as simple as that.
(I had originally written something very... scathing... but erased it, since I've decided to squash this little problem. The important thing here is that people tried to make the guy understand he was wrong... and I feel good knowing strangers defended me. So, with that said... God Bless, weird guy that gets easily offended and misinterprets things, I forgive any bad intentions/ill-will you had towards me. Like my mom says "Que haiga un tonto y no dos." I hope you learn to be a little less misogynistic, it does the body good).

It's either that issue that's giving me this horrible nightmare... or Body Pump's new "cool-down" song.
What song is it?
Hurt, by new mommy, X-tina.

Seems like it was yesterday when I saw your face
You told me how proud you were but I walked away
If only I knew what I know today

I would hold you in my arms
I would take the pain away
Thank you for all you've done
Forgive all your mistakes
There's nothing I wouldn't do
To hear your voice again
Sometimes I want to call you but I know you won't be there

I'm sorry for blaming you for everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself by hurting you
Some days I feel broke inside but I won't admit
Sometimes I just want to hide 'cause it's you I miss
You know it's so hard to say goodbye when it comes to this

Would you tell me I was wrong?
Would you help me understand?
Are you looking down upon me?
Are you proud of who I am?
There's nothing I wouldn't do
To have just one more chance
To look into your eyes and see you looking back

Who the hell thought that was going to be a good song to have a final stretch to... after enduring 50 minutes of nothing but techno remixes?
Silly Body Pump creators...
I think I burn some serious calories in my efforts to keep from crying my ass off during that song.

Friday, January 25, 2008

Morning Glory

What a fantastic way to start the day, wouldn't you say?

I don't usually look out the window when I wake up, but I saw it was pretty dark for 11 AM.
I like seeing dark clouds on cloudy mornings (ok, so I like clouds), so I walked over to the window in my sister's room and that was the first thing I saw.
Holy cow! The Strip's on fire!

So I rushed to the kitchen to get a better look.
You can't see it in the picture, but from the kitchen, you could even see the flames gushing out of the Monte Carlo.
Yeah, the news had a better view of the blaze, but I'm cool being that far away from a fire.

This brings me back to some time around... 1994, when they were still building The Stratosphere. Mom, siblings, and I were in Mexico, but Dad stayed here... and sometime between June and August, the scaffolding on the Stratosphere caught on fire.
From what I hear, it was one of the creepiest things ever.
Since we lived about two blocks away from the damn thing, I'm sure everyone in our neighborhood was wetting their pants.

My siblings once again miss out on witnessing a casino fire... but not I.
I finally saw one.
Yey... hooray... what a life.


Yesterday, when I called Obnoxious Guy to make sure he was going to show up to kickboxing, our conversation went a little like this:
OG: Oh... we were actually going to go kickboxing??
Me: ... yeah. ?!?!
OG: Well... you called at the last second... so I'm not going.
Me: ??!??! Huh? I thought it was agreed we'd just meet at the gym. I didn't know I was supposed to confirm and all that shit days in advance.
OG: Why don't we just go to the movies on Saturday?
Me: (internally) Goddamn! Stop it!!! (spoken) Well... I have to (internally) think fast! (spoken) Take my dad to the optometrist... go to yoga... then church...
OG: Late at night?
Me: (internally) Fuck you, cocksucker... I am NOT about to go to the movies late at night with you. (spoken) Well, until 8... but I don't want to watch any movies that are out. What... are you gonna go watch Cloverfiled?
OG: No.
Me: Well, too bad... that's the only movie I want to watch that's out right now. (LIE!!)
OG: You wanna watch Cloverfiled, we'll watch Cloverfield.
Me: I'll see what I can do... I'll call you tomorrow to "confirm" if I'm going.

Am I calling? Hell no. The most he'll get is a text saying "dude, I can't."
Then I'll pray to God he never contacts me again... and if he does, it'll be simple as me not answering or writing back.
Fuck that.
He took annoying to a whole new level.

P.S. To anyone who thinks I'm treating him badly: I don't give a shit. You're not in my position. I'm sure you're probably more patient than I am... but when I don't like someone, I just don't fucking like someone. The spark is either there, or it is not. In my case, it most definitely is not... and it repulses me that a guy I once saw as a cousin/close relative is now trying to go after me in that sense. When I see a guy doesn't desist, I just grow to hate and abhor the guy... I don't give a shit how "good" of a person he may be in other senses.
So, suck it, if you think I'm being too harsh on the guy. Take him, if you want him so badly.
(reason behind this shpeel? Yesterday someone criticized me for the way I treated Obnoxious Guy... and it really, really irritated me).

Thursday, January 24, 2008

A New Prohibition

My dad "prohibited" jalapeños today.
He also prohibited tomatoes.
... and chicken (?!?!?)
... and onions.

Because they "irritate the sites of his biopsies."

Three biopsies that were done in his gut...
back in November.

Now I know where I get my hypochondria from.
As far as the prohibition goes...
Hell no.
No. No. NO.
No. No. No. Not gonna happen.
No one takes away my jalapeños.
I'm not going to pay for someone else's inability to control themselves around food.

Little Sister... whenever you feel sad and homesick over there... just... read the type of shit I'm going through over here... then slap yourself for being so silly.

Me estan volviendo loca!!

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Do it wit u

I should have known it was a bad idea.
I hate myself for being so damn nice (I know, sometimes I don't come off as a nice girl, but in all reality, I'm too fucking polite sometimes).

I only agreed to hanging out with Obnoxious Guy because I (very idiotically) thought it would end his fucking nagging of "We need to hang out!!"

Fuck, dude, if I've come up with an excuse not to hang out with you for the past year, get the fucking hint.

Anyway... on Sunday, I was nice enough to accompany him to his favorite restaurant (Cheesecake Factory... even thinking about it sends chills down my spine... ew) where I had the sickest (in a bad way) chopped salad of my life.
Since I was ignoring my food, I was forced to hold a conversation with him.

We laughed about the old days... I even took little jabs at him, reminding him of how he'd wear Dolphin shorts when he was around 11... and how he'd refer to his legs as "piernas" (Spanish for legs... but generally--with Mexicans-- used when referring to women...), how he'd throw a hissy fit if he ever got his "piernas" scratched, how he once got bitten by our neighbor's dog smack dab in the middle of his gut... where I even saw some fat fly out of the dog's mouth. The list goes on... I mean, we ghetto kids have crazy little stories that can be embarrassing as all hell once we leave the ghetto.

He did bring up marriage... he tried to make it seem like he was joking, but I straight up said "Dude, I'm never getting married... fuck that. If I ever do that stupid shit, I'll be well past 26." Then he asked me how old I was (bitch, we went to middle school together, how the fuck are you going to tell me you don't know how old I am?).

I was doing everything in my power to be... unattractive to any guy, in that way. But somehow, it wasn't regestering in his brain.

I thought he got the hint of me not wanting anything to do with him in that sense after all my indirect "you're-so-gay!" remarks... even when I agreed for him to be my gym buddy from time to time, by telling him about my kickboxing class where all the men there are gay (he fucking agreed to come along! WTF was going on here?).
He kept me engaged in conversation at the parking lot for around 40 minutes... even after I told him I had somewhere else to be in a couple of minutes.

Of course, I was being nice...
I turned especially stupid once he called me a "Humble... down to earth... low-maintenance... chill person."
I don't know if anyone has ever called me "down to earth" or "low-maintenance" in my entire life.

Chill person? Ok, buddy... I guess I won't ever be rude to you...

He then proceeded to tell me I used "big words" in my sentences.

Really? I do? That's a shocker... especially since I'm constantly dropping the F-bomb in my speech... which I'm sure relegates me to... just a little above sailor status.

So, here we were, in the parking garage talking stuff. Agreeing to working out together sometimes. This is where I made the enormous mistake (remember, I was stupefied by the fact that someone had called me low-maintenance, down to earth, chill person) of calling him my "new gym buddy."

This leads me to last night.
Around 10:30 PM he calls me.
I ignore the call.
Fuck that, you must be special for me to answer the phone to your call past 9 PM (usually these people I've already told that it's cool to do that).
Then around 11:30 PM he sends me this text:


N*99@ wha??

I tried not to trip.
But I was so... irritated (ok, I was a little angry. Especially since I've told this fucker time and time again that I'm over my text messaging limit for carriers outside Verizon... even to his face... all this month. WTF! I'm going to fucking bill his home and tell him he better pay me if he plans on wasting my text messages with idiotic texts that I certainly don't appreciate).
Seriously, guys, would you really say something like that to your sister (his text to me about the sweating)? Girls, if your brother sent you something like that... wouldn't you just... slightly vomit in your own mouth?

I never gave him the go-ahead to joke around with me like that.
I have never flirted with him... not even by using damn little emoticons on e-mails/text messages (hence why I rarely ever use them).
I'm curt and concise when I have conversations with him.
Yes, there are guys I banter with in that manner... but you see, I actually like those guys... I don't indirectly call them gay to their face... and I definitely don't ignore them for a year.

Pshh... he's just lucky he didn't say that to me in person... I would have slapped the mustache straight off his upper lip (he has a fucking mustache! A mustache!!! God, I feel so dirty).

Little Sister, I feel so fucking gross... you had a point in being rude to him.
Ew, ew, ewwwwwwww!

Further Edit:
Thanks to the inability of a particular person to read and comprehend at a proper level for his age group (23), I have decided to remove the photograph of Obnoxious Guy. I don't want to further distress this male role model of society.

Now, let us all pray for those who have learning disabilities... it must be tough, and terribly traumatizing to be the only one in your group unable to understand a word of what the "grown ups" are saying.
(In all seriousness, I do hope for the best with those who have difficulty learning).
However, if you're going to go as far as calling a complete stranger a cunt, you might as well be kind enough to say it to her face.

I'm sure you'd come out of it a champ, imbecile... oh, oh, wait, let me put it in terminology... I mean, "words" that you'll understand: loser.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

MY pizza

Yesterday, a grown ass woman threw a bona fide tantrum thanks to me.

Now, I had nothing to do with it... or at least, I did nothing to incite the lady's irritation (I was on my best behavior, seriously... I wasn't even cussing).
No, I was just being me.

I went out for lunch with a buddy, and ordered the same thing I ordered the last time I went to CPK (kiwi lemonade and that one mango tandoori pizza).
I was listening to my friend as she was de-stressing about her bitch ex-roommates (she has a knack for picking HORRIBLE girls as roommates) and all the mean shit they did to her.
So, I was kind of letting my pizza sit there as I attentively listened to my poor friend.

Next thing you know, the woman sitting to my right starts complaining to her waiter.

I did see she was scowling at her plate of food.
Then I hear her:
What is she having?!
I want that!! I want what she has right there!!

So I looked over at her, and noticed she was pointing at me.

Gee, thanks... I'm flattered, lady.

Next thing you know, there's this hubbub between the lady, her girlfriend/partner, their child, their waiter, the manager, and my waiter.

Umm... ok... did I do something wrong here?

They kept coming over to my table and looking at my pizza... trying to figure out what I had ordered... all the while, not going through the trouble of asking me what I was having.
I just sat there and looked at them, my chin resting on my right hand.

Does anyone want to solve this ruckus and just ask me? I'm nice enough to tell you.

Then I figured what the problem was...
The lady wanted MY pizza...
Not a pizza like mine... but the pizza that was sitting in front of me... untouched because I had been too busy listening to my friend.
I guess they were telling her that they couldn't do that... and they took about five minutes to convince her to just take one home when she finished her meal... on the house (lucky bitch. I know I'll do that next time).

Now I know.
Next time I go out to lunch with a friend, first thing I will do upon receiving my food will be to lick the hell out of it.

Monday, January 21, 2008

No more drawing for me!

So, I had never noticed this, but yesterday, it was brought to my attention that what I drew a few years back (ok, when I posted it on here, I altered some things to it since I had originally drawn the girl back in '03. Styles change, one must keep up) has a slight resemblance to Midori from Guitar Hero.
Hmm... if they took my sketch and turned it into a video game character without my consent... someone has a lot of explaining to do...

God, it's like I'm reliving 5th grade again.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Zapatito Blanco, Zapatito Azul...

Contrary to popular belief, I have not spent my entire week playing Guitar Hero.
Ok, I have played it every day... but I haven't spent all day playing.

Yesterday, I ventured out to the mall for a couple of hours.
Mooney way even kind enough to take on Little Sister duties.
She helped me pick out some nice underwear... that was not overloaded with so much damn pink (WTF was up with that cashier trying to sell me those horrible panties that looked like they belonged... as crocheted old lady table top protectors?).

After that... we decided to check out Hot Topic, a store I haven't been to in a couple of months, if not years.
There, I fell in love with a pair of shoes... and I purchased them.... for $4.99.
Right up my alley, right?
Well... do you notice something?
I didn't notice this until late last night, when I was trying them on.
What was this?
Well... the left shoe is 2 fucking sizes smaller.
As I was trying to shove my foot in the left shoe... I kept thinking
WTF? This is a 10? Where? China?!
Then I looked... and sure enough, it was an 8.

Now, if I would have purchased them at regular price, I could return them and demand my 5 dollars back...
But it says sales on them are "final."
So... I'm fucked.

Now I'm terrified to tell Mom.
She's so mean when it comes to this type of shit...
even when I'm cheated out of a penny she'll flip...
If I show her that one shoe is dramatically smaller than the other, the fact that I couldn't catch the discrepancy while at the store will surely make Mom go off on me.

So... I guess... I'm going to tough it out... and learn to appreciate the old Chinese custom of feet binding.

Monday, January 14, 2008

5 stars

So I 5-starred all the songs on medium...
...even that Slayer bastard of a song "Raining Blood."

I miss school.

Now, onto something totally random and off-topic:
For those of you who didn't believe me about this guy, here are some pictures depicting exactly what type of shit I have to deal with: (Boy... aren't we proud?)(Is it me, or does Silvester Stallone look waaayy better holding one of those... even at the ripe old age of 50-60-whatever... on Rambo... mmm... Rambo....)(Funnn!!--not-- Look at those poor children! All they do is play Banda music for tips... and these guys submit them to a gun show... poor kids)(This picture inspires ire more than anything... especially since one of those nimrods is my first cousin. Good thing the dumbass grew up)(He thinks he owns the world just because his dad has an escalade.... on lease)(I added this just because I think it's funny--no, not in the "let me ridicule you" way, but in the "haha, cute" way--... and hardcore stereotypical of what people think Mexicans do on their free-time... but oddly enough... I too enjoy this... sort of... from a safe distance)

And just because I think it's hilarious (hey, don't add me on myspace if you don't want me to have an opinion on your pictures)
I love the kid as a friend... I mean, when he's cool with someone, he's cool with someone. I sure as hell wouldn't like to be on his bad side (hence why I edited his face. I value my life despite how depressed I've become over the last week).
However... I don't agree with what he does for a living... which is obvious, right? And the whole "Let me look tough holding this gun in front of the camera" just doesn't swing with me... who the hell does he think he is? Zé Pequeno?
Anyway... just thought I'd show ya'll what kind of shit I have to deal with... and why it's so imperative for me to come up with quick excuses to not date a guy.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

The return of the JAMMF

Prime example of why I don't want to marry a Latino:
(Phone rings, it says it's unavailable. Typically, I'd never answer, but since Little Sister and Older Brother are overseas, whenever they call, it says the same thing. So I answer in case it's one of them)

Me: Hello!
Unknown person: Buenas tardes, estoy llamando de *Survey group* haciendo una encuesta sobre productos que usan las amas de casa (Good afternoon, I'm calling from *survey group* doing a survey on products housewives use)
Me: Oh...
Male Telemarketer: Se encuentra la señora de la casa? (Is the lady of the house there?)
Me: No.
Male Telemarketer: Entonces... se encuentra el señor, El Jefe, de la casa? (Well then, is the man, the boss, of the house there?)


Fuck that. There is no "El Jefe" in my house. FUCK THAT.
I fucking despise machismo... with a goddamn passion.
The day I hear my boyfriend/husband/etc.etc. refer to himself as "El Jefe" in comparison to me, I'm fucking knocking his teeth out with an elbow to the mouth.

Talking about what I hate in guys:

Last night JAMMF came up to me after church.
I saw him eyeing me as I stood outside, waiting for mom to come out of the sacristy (aka room where the people who help out in church go to get ready or grab the blessed goods).
I've seen him around quite often, and I point him out to as many people as I can, calling him:
"The fucking jackass who screamed at me in church because I was LOOKING at my phone."

I think it has gone to his head, thinking I'm pointing him out as a hottie or something (OH PLEASE! As if the fucking scowl and glare I toss his way could say anything but "I fucking hope you get in a nasty car accident where battery acid lands on your smug little face and disfigures you more than you already are, bitch!").
Yes, he's well-dressed... but that only makes him a well-dressed jackass motherfucker. Nothing more.

Anyway, as I stood outside in the semi-cold in my poorly chosen outfit (I was so excited about Manchester's 6-0 win yesterday, I wore my jersey... that cold, cold jersey), and standing next to my aunt, the midget approached me in his dumb little trench coat and we had the following exchange (in Spanish, of course, but I roughly translated it):

JAMMF: Excuse me.
(I look over to make sure he's the one talking)
Aunt: Yes?
( I roll my eyes and look away... as in... I turn my head so much to the side, the midget's practically having a conversation with my neck)
JAMMF: I was wondering, is she your daughter?
Me: (internally) Oh, what, bitch, are you going to complain about me to my aunt, pussy?
Aunt: No, she's my niece, her Mom's over there.
(Points to Mom, who is busy talking to church members who are curious about the free English classes she talked about during the announcements after mass)
JAMMF: Oh, well, I was wondering if you ladies would like to join our youth group and family group... to help out in church and everything...
(I turn to face him, I see he's smiling, and his stupid ass dimples make me want to slap them right off his face. I also notice that he's very close to me... and that I'm an entire head taller than him. So I look down at him, without moving my head just rolling my eyes down to meet his. I give him the most fake smile--one where I don't even show my teeth-- and I slowly --but firmly-- shake my head no... almost blurting out, "Fuck. no.")
Aunt: Oh, sorry, ::nervous giggle:: but she doesn't like doing that kind of stuff.
(Aunt pats my back, trying to lighten my condescending demeanor. It doesn't help. I just say "Nope," and turn my head as far away from him as possible)
JAMMF: Oh, what a shame... pretty girls are always like that. What can one do?

I nearly vomited (flattery gets you nowhere with me), but I was too angry to do so.
I looked over at him, giving him The Best Glare Ever, and my aunt asked me what the hell my problem was.
Me: He's a bitch.
I told her the story... how I remember it was in October because I'm still furious that he was such a fucking prick to me and almost made me cry in church.

I guess I was a little too loud... and I guess JAMMF's friends saw me give The Best Glare Ever, because next thing you know, the dumb bastards are all in a circle, talking and occasionally looking in my direction... like some lame-ass, football huddle where they gossip rather than talk strategic plays to get to the end zone.

My brother's giant (she's about 5'10") 15-year-old goddaughter came up to me after she heard what the sissies were saying (since she helps around church and is an altar girl, she managed to infiltrate the huddle).

However, she's a very blunt, and funny girl.
She made things all better when she said:

Surprise, surprise, they're talking about you... but what do you expect? They're a bunch of beaners!
She looked over to the huddle of sissies as she finished her sentence.

God bless giant 15-year-olds.
They say things so humorously, you almost forget almost any other person would get punched for it (she's Mexican, so I guess she feels free to use the expression. She'll say that about anyone... and I asked her who wasn't a beaner, and her response? "Us." O...K.).

But... whatever... I don't care.
I can take care of myself... why else do you think I've been lifting? (Actually, I've been lifting just in case I need to punch some suckas at the football match in March. But hey, if I need to use 'em to punch some suckas after church, I don't mind)

Come and get me, bitches (and those guns are only going to get bigger... oooo-rahh!! haha... You know I'm kidding, right? I can't even flex properly, much less get "guns.").

Saturday, January 12, 2008

Cleaning Lady

I hate fitting into stereotypes, but recently, I've really stuck to one that I especially hate:
Mexicans make good cleaning ladies.

I've spent the better of the last 3 days cleaning my side of the house (that's right, not just my room... but the entire wing that now belongs to me since Brother and Sister are gone having a blast in expensive ass Europe).
Sure, I took a break on Thursday for a while, since I went to go watch that one ABBA musical (as guilty as this makes me feel, I liked it... umm... kind of... a lot. I came out singing. Luckily, it left me after a day, but now I have an ABBA CD in my car... I listen to it on my way to the gym. Lame, I know... but they bring back some good memories of my childhood in Mexico).

I clean while my mom plays Guitar Hero.
If anyone that has rhythm would be playing GH, I wouldn't mind as it would provide nice music to clean along to... but my mom... oh man!
I'm convinced Mom is the WORST instrument player in the universe.
Absolute worst.
I love Mom to pieces and everything, but my God! She's terrible!
She nearly breaks the little guitar as she hammers away at the buttons... and I feel this horrible pain in my gut... knowing she's going to break my controller.
She has a baaaaaaaad sense of pace... and as hard as I try, I can't beat it into her (seriously, I slap along to it. Granted, I don't slap her, I'm not that barbaric, but I do--and have-- slapped almost every part of my body).
Mom, it's "one-two-three, one-two-three!" Not "one.... two.. three. Onetwo.. three."
I fear my thighs will start to bleed if I slap them one more time to help mom keep the beat.

For a music lover, she's... very bad... very, very bad.
And then she goes off and works on the same song for hours.
If I hear "Black Magic Woman" one more time, I'm going to punch a hole through the television... I've had enough of that damn song on Easy.
Same goes for "Slow Ride." I think I can do that song with my back turned to the television... I've had to slap the beat to that one far too many times.

Anyway, as I hear Mom butcher the beginning to Black Magic Woman for the fortieth time (and then fight the urge to stab myself with the nearest, sharpest, object), I sit in the hall that connect Little Sister's room to mine.
Every other area is clean (except my room... that thing is still a hazard no one is allowed in besides me), all I have to clean is this: (you see those bags down there? All trash... mainly boxes and old nail polish, that I've cleaned out of the top drawers--fuck me if that's not the correct term... what the fuck do I know about homes and the English language?-- I have yet to clean the bottom cabinets, and I'm so scared)
And I'll tell ya what, I'm having a bitch of a time.
How the hell... why the hell did we let it get so damn sloppy?
I feel like I should submit that photo to an "I Spy" book publisher.
The most random shit can be found in that mess (Seriously, what the hell is an Airplane Pilot Snoopy Christmas ornament doing there?).
It's so disgusting, and super DUPER embarrassing.
There are things there that we've been hoarding since 1999.
I was 14! Little Sister was 11/12... and it shows:

I've found dozens of these note cards in the drawers closest to Little Sister's room... all in her handwriting.
She has recipes, games... poems... notes... a ton of crap just written there.

I've found enough makeup to start my own Broadway show...
I have about 100 hair ties... and 1000 bobby pins.
Headbands that Madonna would have murdered for back in the 80's...
And some very... umm... interesting jewelry/makeup I used back in the day when I was in my Raver phase (thank God that's over...).

I also lost a ton of things found in the third, upper drawer due to a bad blue-eyeshadow-incident. I guess it broke... and all the powdery stuff spilled over the contents of the drawer. Most of the stuff had to go... and the blue won't leave the actual drawer. Mimi from The Drew Carey Show would have killed for that eye-shadow that went to waste in my drawer.

As long as I'm Mexican, this type of thing will never happen again...

Thursday, January 10, 2008


So it's only been a day since my siblings left me to be an only-child in America (they now call me the Europe-less Sister... that sucks balls), and I've already gotten offers to be adopted.

I feel the love!

No, they won't be my parents, they'll be my adoptive siblings (come on now, I'm Mexican... I can't live without having someone to fight with or scream at... then make-up with by eating beef-jerky while watching the other one play video games. Ok, correction, I can't live in Las Vegas without someone to do all that. When I'm alone in Mexico or any United States state that isn't Nevada, I do fucking fantastic).

The offers have been nice, and from people I've known forever (one offer was creepy as shit though. It was from this guy I haven't spoken to since I graduated high school... and he sent me a text at 11 in the morning yesterday offering to be my adoptive brother without me saying anything about it first. The way he puts things, I think he may want to turn incestuous on me... the gross bastard. I still agreed for him to be my lunch partner... what a fucking bad idea... but hey, it's food, right? I tend to forget to eat when I'm sad, anyway. Like yesterday, I only had a breakfast burrito... and liquids the rest of the day. I didn't catch myself doing that until after coming home from the gym and feeling light-headed and seeing I was pale as all hell. And today, I've only eaten one oatmeal cookie and my daily vitamin with OJ).

I know with what task each "sibling" will help me out (playing guitar hero, going to the movies, going to the gym, etc, etc), but I still don't have someone who will:
1) Eat sushi with me (noooooooooooo!!)
2) Gossip in Spanish about the jerks from Hometown (sister always did this when she came back from work. I'm going to cry now...)
3) Rough-house me
4) Kick me out of their room by screaming "Go to your own fucking room!! It's not my fault you don't have a television!!"
5) Go bra/underwear shopping with me (I make Little Sister pick out my stuff... she has an eye for nice underwear. I usually just go for whatever's closest to my hand. I've had countless bad experiences at VS, and I don't want to repeat them. I just have Little Sister sneak her way in and find me some nice garments)
6) Drive me to the mall on a whim
7) Go with me to get their eyebrows threaded (I'm addicted)
8) Let me borrow their lap top to steal wireless internet from the neighbors
(I guess it's no more Youtube for me, now. Lame ass dial-up internet)

I'm sure there are more... but those are the ones most urgent to me.

I'm so fucking bummed out, you guys.
(And to fucking kill it, I have to accompany Mom to see "Mama Mia" today. WTF. I hate musicals. HATE!)

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Hero indeed!

So it's official:
I'm the only *Dos Santos* kid still in the western hemisphere... shit... still in Vegas.

I was startled awake by Mom and Bro saying "Come on, are you coming or not?" and while I don't watch porn, my initial thought of the day was:
"Isn't the porn convention going on now?"
Then I remembered, before going to bed my brother made some joke about "Now don't you go alone to that porn convention!"
At least he didn't call me a stripper this time.

Anyway, and not following through with our threat, we took my brother to the airport at 7 in the morning.
Yesterday, in the midst of our anger tantrum, Mom and I said we were just going to drop Older Brother off at the curb because he was planning on doing that to Little Sister yesterday.
You heartless bastard! She's leaving us for the first time, and you want to drop her little ass at the airport with her two 50-pound bags, heavy ass carry-on and lap top at the curb? Yeah, she worked at the airport as TSA for two years and should be comfortable with that... but that shit's over. She's a baby for crying out loud!

He wanted to drop her at the curb because he was planning on going to the gym after that... as if it were some real emergency.
Guys can be such dicks sometimes.

Anyway, since I've been having a shitty week... with a total of maybe 6 hours of sleep in the last 60 hours or so... I felt like trash when I said I'd accompany Mom to the airport.

I had no make-up on... this very stupid pimple in the middle of my chin (I'm 22! Why the fuck am I still getting pimples?! However, if I must, I'll take pimples on the chin over getting them anywhere else, to tell you the truth), I wore my hair up (whatever I could grab. I also realized my bangs make me look trashy--now I know why Cousin/Hairdresser was so reluctant to cut me some), then slipped into a Notre Dame hoodie.
And looking like that... I got hit on by my brother's ticket agent.
Guys... who the fuck understands them? I dress up and I'm invisible. I look like shit, and they'll try and ask me out to dinner... ?

My brother turned over at me and asked "Was he talking to you??"
"Umm... who the fuck else was wearing a Notre Dame sweater, jackass?? Those 30-something-year old British guys in suits?"
It's sad when even your own family wonders "WTF was up with that? They're hitting on you?"
Whatever. Life goes on.

Anyway, we walked with Older Brother to the D gates and said our farewells.
I wasn't choked up at all... I'm actually still excited, since I'm pretty sure I'm going to be living with his ass (making his life a living hell) when I head over to London next month (next month!! Yey!).

His last words to me were:
Now, don't you go off playing too much Guitar Hero!!

Mine to him?
You go get me as much Manchester shit as possible!!

In all reality, I wanted to say back:
You kidding *****? I'm 5-starring on Medium! I'm not about to stop now!!

I've had that game for... today marks the 3rd day... and I've had to up the difficulty level because I was actually getting bored (I passed it on Easy in a couple of hours) to the point where I kind of wanted to return the game. But then I noticed that medium is eerily similar to the fingering done on the violin (shut up, I did not mean that in a dirty way. Stupid porn convention... it has me all messed up in the head), so I fell in love (especially with AFI's "Miss Murder," no pun intended, but I fucking kill with that song. Same goes for Weezer's "My Name is Jonas." I'm working on Metallica's "One" and Eric Johnson's "Cliffs of Dover" to kick some serious unsuspecting-people ass. Haha. Not. I'm too shy to play this game in front of others, regardless of how "good" or "badass" as I might be. It's a trait only my family will witness-- whether they want to or not).

Yes... I'm a badass.
(I do get dizzy though... sometimes I wonder if eventually I'll just drop to the floor and start to seizure. But regardless, I'm going to work on that bad boy until I can do a song with my back turned to the television. I promised Older Brother I was going to do that once he gets back in May)

That damn game is what's kept me from turning into a puddle of tears on my sister's bed.
Guitar Hero totally rescued my ass.

(Oh yeah, today at 9:45 AM, I also answered a phone call from Little Sister, who said to me "I'm in Madrid. It's nice weather out here! I'm about to go out with some girls for dinner. Oh yeah... and my roommate? HE'S HOT! So fucking... mmm... hot!" Thanks kid, give me even more reason to jump off a bridge, why don't ya?)

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Press the Brake

I just dropped Little Sister off at the airport.

Well, I carried her luggage, walked with her to check in, and left her at the C gates.

What kept me from crying?

No, not her cool deposition (she was far from it, actually. Her nose was red, her eyes were watery... Little Sister was doing the same thing, getting red in the face, that is), but the mistake she committed when we were looking for a parking spot.

She went in the wrong lot. We were trying to tell her to go to the short term lot, but somehow, "long term" looks identical to "short term" to her.

As we were getting to the... what's that called... the little arm that goes up and down... it's colored yellow with black stripes... it goes down to keep you from going in to a parking area, goes up when you get a ticket... well, that little bar was in the way, with the ticket machine to the left stating "please, grab a ticket."
Well, I guess Mom's far more discombobulated than any of us, and as she was reaching for the ticket, she bumped her head on the car door.
Somehow, she released the brake... so my car began to roll forward, towards the little arm/bar thing.
You know what Mom did next??
She tried grabbing the fucking ticket, that wasn't being released by the machine (if it were a human, I'm sure it would have been saying "What the fuck is your problem? If you plan on busting through the bar, I won't give you a fucking ticket").
As my car rolled forward... towards the yellow with black metal bar thing... she was trying. to reach for. the goddamn. ticket.


"Out of all things... you give more importance to grabbing a damn ticket than pressing the brake?! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

I know, aren't I the sweetest when in the face of danger?

Finally, she put the brake on, when my car was centimeters away from the bar (that would have made it the second time my poor Bambi gets crashed into some yellow bar... the poor car).

Anyway, it was 10 times funnier in person... of course, once the initial rage passes. Little Sister and I used it as a way to keep from crying.

I'm getting teary-eyed as we're going up the escalator to the C gates?
"Press the brake!!"

Little Sister's getting teary-eyed as Mom is giving her the blessing?
"Press the brake!"

Mom's getting watery-eyed as she's watching her baby girl walk toward the check point?
"Press the brake!"

Then I came home and had a mild freakout.
She'll be gone for 5 months...
Holy moly... my baby sister will be alone for (a little under) 5 months (because I will be there with her for two weeks, damn it!) on the other side of the hemisphere!

Monday, January 7, 2008


My sister's leaving me in about 18 hours...
My brother's got another... 36 hours or so.

What's making me angry, though, is the fact that I find myself getting depressed at the thought of them leaving me.

Why the hell can't they be leaving me for, say, Kentucky? Nebraska? South Dakota? New Jersey?
Why the fuck London and Madrid?


I'll be sitting here... Las Vegas, Nevada... almost running over dipshit pedestrians... maybe going to a club full of hoighty-toighty tourists... getting pissed every time some old bitch tries to boss me around at the gym.

Fuck... my bro just came back from the store...
and after screaming at him earlier in the day for not taking me with him to sushi...
he still got me guitar hero.

I'm going to fucking cry.

I hate being a girl.

Sunday, January 6, 2008

Don't quit your day job, Bob Ross.

I keep getting the question:
So, AnoMALIE, what do you plan on doing now that you're out of school?

Or if the person's being a real asshole to me, he/she will say:
So, AnoMALIE, when are you getting a fucking real job?

To the latter, I say "Fuck you, eat a dick. Quit hating just because I don't have to get a job."
To the other question, it's usually a "I don't know? Relax?" with a shrug.

Since I got out of school, I really haven't "relaxed" much, since I've been on-and-off sick, and I'm annoyed with this whole issue with my dad (he's so paranoid... and he complains all the time... then he proceeds to make fun of Mom and Little Sister because he feels all "Biggest Loser" on us since he's dropped 35 pounds... so he'll harass Mom and Little Sister about how "fat" they are and how they look like trucks and that some day they're not going to walk out of the house, but will have to get rolled out of the house. That type of environment just pisses me off).

Anyway, when I do have down time, I find myself doodling.
But I can't even do that right.
I half ass all my drawings.
Ok, here's Example One:
It bugs me how I can't complete it, but each time I go to finish it off... I just stare at it... and then flip the page. There's so much shit wrong with it... I don't feel it's salvageable... but I don't want to erase it, because of all things, I like the neck and the forehead.
Godawful chin I gave that chick... just plain awful... and she could use longer eyebrows... you know... more towards the center. And look at that ear!! Boooooooooo!!

I find I draw shit similar to the above when I'm listening to music.

When I'm watching TV, I'll draw things similar to Example Two:
(isn't the potbelly sweet?? Why the hell I've taken to drawing a "pooch" on chicks is beyond me)
Tell me one thing, do you think, that maybe, quite possibly, the day I drew this, they were talking about TomKat?
That hair looks eerily similar to Katie Holmes' hair (let's not forget that vacant look in her eye)...
No wonder people look through my sketches and ask who I was drawing (One of my biggest pet peeves ever. No One!! The answer is always NO ONE!).

I need to quit watching Extra/The Insider/whatever else program while drawing. They contaminate my pool of thought.

P.S. and totally random/off-topic: Did you know if you chew Stride Gum with it's wrapper, the wrapper will dissolve? Shit, I just found out and... well... what a neat way to cut down on litter... I guess.

Saturday, January 5, 2008

Guilty Pleasure #45736

- I love the way my hair smells the day I get it cut.

I figure this may have a little to do with my recent addiction to getting my locks chopped off every other month.
I find myself running my fingers through my hair... shaking my head every thirty minutes... or just plain shoving the longer starnds under my nose, just to catch a wiff.

Next time I cut this bad boy, I'm askin Cousin/Hairdresser what type of alcohol/whatever the hell it is she uses... so I can put it in my shampoo.

P.S. I got bangs this time! Finally.

Friday, January 4, 2008

Jo-o-se, Can You See?

More proof I was born an idiot:

-As a kid, I cried whenever I heard/sang The Star Spangled Banner.

Dear God! I had totally forgotten about that until someone reminded me of it today.
I find this little factoid more embarrassing than the one about me peeing my pants back in first grade (come on... I was 6, shy, and polite... I didn't want to interrupt Reading Time, so I just held it in... until... I had the ugly accident in my shiny purple spandex).

Anyway, I might as well explain why I cried with the national anthem.
You see, I had a very young and impressionable mind... and each time I saw people singing along to the damn song (usually sporting events, because Mom was a huge sport's fan and would make us watch baseball, basketball, soccer, boxing, and the Olympic games since I can even remember) they would be crying.
Then, when I was old enough to use a dictionary (3rd grade) I looked up the words to the anthem.
Oh my God... no wonder people cry! This song's sad!!

So that explains why I'd cry each time I'd hear the song.

Now... the reason I'd cry when I'd sing the song is... stupid.
Back when I was too young to realize my voice was built more for doing shit like... herding cattle... I went through a phase where I really, very badly wanted to be a singer.
So I'd sing.
And sing.
And sing.
To the point where I'd have my parents annoyed and taking turns being in enclosed areas with me.
Dad once went as far as telling me (when I was about 5):
"Hey, AnoMALIE... who sings this song?"
"Los Bukis!!"
"Let's keep it that way!"

(I still remember the damn song and everything! "Tu Carcel," I was sitting in my parent's jeep, as we were on our way to Mooney's birthday party. I have to laugh each time I hear the song... just remembering the face I must have made when my dad clowned on me in front of my family)

Anyway, when I was in that phase, I had it in my head that somehow I'd become a singer (Jesus, I feel embarrassed admitting all this to the point where I'm getting a little light-headed), so I had to practice.
So I'd practice...
I'd get all dramatic when I sang a sad or angry song... I'd get bouncy/happy/annoying as fuck when it was a dance song (and let's not get into the shit I did when I fell in love with gangsta' rap back in 4th grade).

I thought singers made it big once they sang in the Super Bowl... or World Series... so I'd practice my National Anthem. That way, whenever I made it big, I'd impress everyone in the crowd and have them all crying once I finished... fists in the air, couple of ass-smacks, and all that good stuff.

Well... I did that shit for years ("practice," that is). From around first grade, when I was first introduced to the concept of having to say it first thing in the morning (I'd get watery eyed even when I had to "speak" it in class... I'd have to look down to keep from crying in front of my peers-- lame ass attempt, considering I did way more embarrassing shit that year), up until third grade.
Why did I stop "practicing" in third grade?
Because a neighbor caught me.

God, the humiliation.

How do you play off a red, runny nose, tears streaming down the face, rake in hand as you belt out "That our flaaaaaaaaag waaas stillll theeeeeerrrrrrreeeee!!!" (damn me and my damn dramatics!!)?
You can't, damn it, you can't!
I'm a cool cat (as in: calm, relaxed) and everything (or so I like to believe), but something like that you can't live down.

The neighbor smiled at me (I'm sure he was ready to pop, laughing hysterically), as I smiled back, and bolted for my front door.

Obviously the bastard told everyone he knew... the running joke became people asking me to sing when things went quiet during any conversation, and Mom made me join the church choir... a place I was stuck up until 5th grade.

Ask me to sing now, motherfuckers... ask me to sing now...
(And no! I don't cry with the Star Spangled Banner anymore... yes... I get choked up... but fuck you if you think I'll shed a tear!)

Thursday, January 3, 2008

I do this to myself.

I have a guess on why I'm not getting any better:
I don't fucking stay home and relax.

Chase told me yesterday... and instead of listening... I got up and hung out in the damn cold.


Well, I did hang out while there was sunshine... but I was in a dark movie theater laughing out loud to Juno.
Good stuff, that movie (although I got into a verbal altercation with a little dimwit friend of Little Sister's who posted a bulletin about how much Juno sucked and how people shouldn't go see it. It still angers me to think of the little imbecile).

After that, I hung out with AnoMALIE05, her boyfriend, her sister, my siblings, and a cousin (who has all of a sudden turned into a sumo jerk) at the newest outdoor mall that's about 5 minutes away from my house (when traffic isn't killer).
I had never been to California Pizza Kitchen, and they all made a huge deal about that place being so awesome and how much of an abomination it is that I haven't been (now seriously... you want me, of all people, to get addicted to that shit?)... so we went.

There, not only did I have some of that pizza for the first time... but I also had chicken tandoori for the first time (the only Indian food I've ever had is Naan bread? And I that stuff was gooood!). I ordered a Mango Tandoori Chicken Pizza.
Everyone at the table was like:
"Dude... you fucked up by ordering that shit..."
"That doesn't sound good at all."
"Mango... on a pizza?"
"What the fuck is Tandoori?!"

Of course, being the only college graduate there (I'm totally being a jackass on purpose. I'm not this conceited... yet), I did it to school these plebes I call "friends and family."
What the fuck do they know about a good palate? Ordering shit like "Five cheeses and tomato... with smoked hickory bacon" or "The works." Pshhhh. That's for regular, blue collar people (AGAIN! I'm being a jackass on purpose!) who call up Pizza Hut, after working their nine to five, and along with that, order a six-pack of Pepsi (I ordered Kiwi Fresh Lemonade. Take that, plebes!).
I have taste, motherfuckers! (In all reality, I was just curious about tandoori chicken because a good friend of mine is addicted to the stuff. I wanted to see what the fuss was about... and plus, if I was going to pay 13 dollars for a personal-sized pizza, I might as well make it an exotic-ass pizza... not some... sausage and olives I can get at the Sidewalk Cafe for 5 bucks)

We all got our pizza, and of course, mine was the most fantastic of all. It was spicy but sweet at the same time... best fucking taste ever. Ever. And I have a slight suspicion my "pizza dough" was actually naan... mmmmmmm. And as for presentation, mine was the hottest (not literally... although, yeah, it took that prize as well) looking one there.

Anyway, the important thing about this is that before getting a table, we had to wait for 40 minutes... because supposedly we had "a big party," with only 7 people.
I'm pretty sure the 30 minutes we waited outside fucked me up real nice.

After the dinner... we went to AnoMALIE05's boyfriend's house-- where I befriended the chubbiest, fluffiest, smallest chihuahua that looked more like a chinchilla-- where I watched some pretty hot Filipinos play Rock Band first (I want that game so bad now), and then Fight Night (where the youngest boy playing got licked all over the front of his face as a diversion tactic because the damn 9-year-old kept kicking everyone's ass).
This all just made me realize:
Shit, dude, I love watching guys play video games... what the hell is wrong with me?

Now, I'm home... kind of sore in the joints... nose still running... eye not-so-watery... and my voice Phoebe-From-"Friends"-Singing-"Smelly Cat"-Sexy.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008


I started off the year by doing something I've never done.
Nice, right?
Here's some back story as to why I've never done it:

Time and time again I've mentioned how I'm a Mexican... how my mom's strict as all hell... and how I'm deathly afraid of upsetting Mom, because she has a wicked backhand.

Well... growing up, there were plenty of things we weren't allowed to do because they were either:
1) Going to conflict with our religion.
2) Going to get evil stares from the Mexicans of Parentals' hometown.
3) Going to become gossip fodder for the Mexicans of Parentals' hometown.
4) It was going to get us raped/killed.

-We couldn't go to slumber parties... because "I don't know those people... what if the Dad's a drunken idiot who likes to rape little children?!"
-We couldn't go to a classmate's home to work on group projects because "I don't know those people! What if the Dad's a serial killer and he rapes you, kills you, then drops your dead carcass in the desert so no one will ever find you?!"
-We weren't allowed to dress ourselves until we were 12-13 (old enough to rebel) because "I don't want people from Hometown to see you like that and think I'm an irresponsible mother!"
- We weren't allowed to celebrate Halloween because "That's the devil's holiday!"

And so on.

One of the rules that really irritated me, however (because really, I never really cared to go to any stranger's home to do homework since I'm anti-social, and I could give a shit about bonding with the girls at a slumber party because we'd bond over superficial, idiotic shit like "Oh my God! I wish I were born in the 60's! Look at John Travolta in Grease!! Hottie!!"), that rule was:
-You may paint your nails any color... ANY color... just not BLACK.

I confronted Mom over this plenty of times... for numerous years.
When I finally reached the ripe old age of 18, I thought "I'm just going to go to the store and buy myself some black nailpolish, damn it!"
Somehow, I'd forget... for four years.
I kept forgetting until two days ago, when Little Sister brought home some black nailpolish.

Now, I'm sick.
Yesterday, I spent most of my day dragging my ass from my sister's room, to the living room, and back.
I've had a horrible runny nose, my throat has me sounding like a bullfrog, and my damn right eye tears up every twenty minutes... to the point where I remind myself of a street mutt who always has that fucked up eye (you know what I'm talking about? That one dog that always has that smaller eye that looks diseased, so all the other street dogs fear him. Like that).
I can't go to the gym because my head starts pounding with loud noises or when I make too much of an effort.

So I sat at home... and painted my nails black for the first time ever.
I did a shit job... but they're all black.

That one goes to all the people who say "black nails were so two years ago." Suck it, bastards... I do what I want, as badly as I want.

I'm such a rebel.

In other news:
I found out yesterday that there will be 6 weddings this summer.
They're all chicks from Hometown and two of them are my age.
The other four are the biggest (let's not forget oldest) bitches ever, who are some of the most bitter females I've met in my life... so I hope getting married cheers their life a bit.
I'm usually not this ecstatic about weddings... especially when two of the brides are my age, but the fact that the four other chicks are getting married has me in a frenzy.
I just want to be in Mexico to see it all with my very own eyes.
I've never been that up close and personal to witchcraft before!

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

Welcoming 2008



Two thousand motherfucking eight!

That's crazy to me. I remember New Year's 1990.

How did I spend my New Year's Eve?

Sick as a dog.

I was supposed to go to my Dad's sister's house right after church (Right now, I'm giving nuns a run for their money. I've been to church 5 times in the last 8 days. Pope, proclaim me a living saint, right?), but right before leaving for church, I totally felt when the illness claimed me as yet another victim.

The thing worsened smack dab in the middle of mass.
I had to tell Mom to take me home instead of to the party... she decided to come along with.

I came home, got into my pajamas, and laid in bed until 11:50PM.
I managed to see the fireworks from the great location of our kitchen (I'm not being sarcastic here, we really do have a nice view of the strip from where we live), and then I went to bed.

Of course, before going to sleep, everyone in the house (bro wasn't there... that asshole didn't stumble drunk on home until 4:40 in the morning) tried to "fix" me and my sickness.
I love home remedies.
They're so damn useless.

My right eye has been extremely watery for the last month or so... so that was the first thing they tried to fix.
Put Vick's on it!!

So I did.
No, not directly on it (like they used to when we were little when it came to putting Vick's inside our nostrils. Maybe that's why my sense of smell sucks so bad), but on my right temple.

Then my right nostril started running.

Put Vick's on it!!
So they did.
No, not directly in it... but all around it.

Next, my throat was closing up.
Put Vick's on it!!

Just kidding. Instead, they gave me some sort of Mexican remedy that really does work miracles... well, if you take it in time.
(Did I take it in time?
Of course not, this is AnoMALIE we're talking about. I woke up this morning sounding like fucking Barry White... and hacking up a load of phlegm.)

I had a headache.

So I took Tylenol.

I don't know if it was all the bullshit they were doing to me, or what, but then I started to cry (mind you, I didn't have any sort of alcohol to celebrate this New Year).
So then it took a while to calm down.
It took a while for Sis and Mom to convince me 2008 won't suck so much balls... and that it's OK to get older.

My Peter Pan Complex is worsening by the minute.

I'm better now, obviously... and more determined to make 2008 a fan-fucking-tastic year.
Damn it! And it will be!!