Romania + Argentina = NO

Funniest pick-up line anyone has ever thrown my way:
Guy: So... I have a question for you. What's your name again?
Me: AnoMALIE.
Guy: Ok, I thought so. This may sound weird, but are you Romanian?
Me: Uhm... no... not that I'm aware of.
Guy: No? Well, still... you have a very beautiful name.
Me: (internally) Well... that's a first. (spoken) Thanks.

What makes someone think I'm Romanian? I don't know... I think my features are distinctly hispanic-y... but maybe that's just me?

Porn-tastic Latina pose, although I skimped on the cleavage

Screams "Romanian," right?

Poor guy gets points though... for still trying to talk to me after seeing I had my "bored bitch" face on.
Obviously it wasn't because I was bored, but I'm still... all flustered over writing statements of purpose. I spend the majority of my time re-editing my shit in my head, constantly trying to come up with interesting sentences (I've re-edited my "I was supposed to go to Med school" opening line about four times. Still not happy with it, clearly).

These two gay dudes totally weren't my fans...
Oh, I should probably clarify this all went down at a Halloween costume party where I was a Notre Dame football player ("Play like a chick today," since those boys are fuckin' up this season and playing like girls, not champions. I was going to be a Cowboy's football player, but I do not own a single piece of Cowboy's paraphernalia)-- explains the "eye black" on my cheeks.
Anyway, back to the gay guys, they hated me. They called me boring because during my turn on "Apples to Apples" I chose "poison ivy" as opposed to "Brad Pitt" and some other guys for the "organic" subject. My reasoning was "well, technically, I'm a biologist... so..." I was their fucking pony the rest of the night.

Then sitting directly to my right was the guy who thought I was Romanian... and by directly, I mean "He was on me." His leg was resting on my leg, then his foot was on my foot, then his hand found his way to my (outer) thigh.
Um... o...k... you do know your own leg works just as well when it comes to resting your hand, right?
He was handsome, with freakishly light blue eyes, fine features... and he was an English teacher, but he had one giant flaw:
He was wearing an Argentina soccer jersey.
Giant fuck up right there, homie. I'm starting to hate Cristiano Ronaldo because he rocks a Real Madrid jersey-- regular dudes in Argentina jerseys run worse luck.
Plus... I think he was gay. What dude likes a chick wearing a football jersey and eye black?
Did I remove his hand? Nah. I did remove myself for a while, then returned to move my seat a little closer to my friend (guy dressed like a sexy female gypsy, so I doubt that helped)... but English Teacher found a way to scoot close to me and rest his knee into my leg once again. I just gave up and let him keep invading my bubble. At least he wasn't going for my boob, or even my inner thigh.

While I don't mind the male attention... I can't really react to it, either.
My brain was saying "HANDSOME! He has blue eyes, AnoMALIE, BLUE EYES! He's sorta smart and all over you! GO! Touch him back, idiot! At least flirt, for fucks sake!" but my body (and heart) was like "Eh. Thanks. But who cares?" up until my brain decided to give up.

Hooray for self-sabotage!
Then again, he was wearing an Argentina jersey... there has to be something wrong there... right?

Ay-eye-I!

My sister is out with her gang of friends, kick-starting her weekend-long Halloween festivities.
Mom just returned home from a night out with one of her BFFs.
This morning, Rafa left for a week in Seoul and then some place in Japan.
Dad returned from church at around 10 PM after being out since 5 in the afternoon.
How did I spend my Friday night, the weekend of Halloween?
Still fucking around with school applications, preparing statements of purpose, reviewing manuscripts... and debating how I should fucking kill myself.

This day has sucked from the moment I opened my eyes... up until now, when I feel my eyes are starting to cross uncontrollably.
Oh! And I also have a sweet-ass cut on my right eyelid from where my "eyebrow tech" cut me with some scissors because she looked away as she was trimming my brow. That was a nice surprise.

So to recap: I'm depressed, cross-eyed, and with a right eyelid that looks like someone socked me in the face with some brass knuckles.
All on a Friday night.
La vita è bella.

Reality bites

Sometimes... reality sucks so bad, you just have to invent your own.

When I was little, my favorite store was Mervyns. Since the age of about five, I can remember my favorite section being the home section.
I could stand there for hours, imagining myself a life where I could own the stuff there.
I'd select silverware, towels, place mats, plates, and even mugs quite enthusiastically. What would it be like to have these things? 
Then I'd go to the bedroom area, and get totally lost in my day-dream. I'd touch the mattresses, sit on each one. I'd imagine what comforters and sheets I'd use on my bed. I would hug pillows to see how soft they could be.
I would have a girly room... with lots and lots of pillows. I'd throw myself on my bed after a long day at school... my friends could come over, hang out in my room without interruption... we could finally have a slumber party. We'd stay up late, giggling and laughing. 
I imagined owning a room.
It was my favorite thing to do.

Then I'd go home to my reality: the small living room, the television, and the couch. Come night-time, Sister and I would have to set up our sleeping area. We would remove two sheets and two pillows from Rafa's bed to bring them to the living room. The pillows were a different size and color. One pillow case was white with grey clovers, the other was green with pink stripes. One sheet was white with pink rosebuds, the other was white with brown squares.
Sister and I would sleep on top of the white with brown-squares sheet, and cover ourselves with the pink rosebud sheet. Sister would sleep on the green pillow, I would sleep on the grey-clovers.
Sister and I would hug, close our eyes... and squeeze the other when she'd be startled by an outside noise.
That was our routine... that was our reality.

While "Catfish" didn't relate to this exactly, I definitely understand why anyone would want to invent their own world.

Watching this film bummed me the fuck out.

Pen(deja)sativa

So... I'm starting to suspect my nonchalance and blatant disregard for fun is becoming increasingly evident to just about anyone around me.

October's AnoMALIE (WTF am I doing with my upper lip?)

Maybe just a little... maybe?

I randomly found that photo in an album of about 230... and while I hate to admit it, it's the one that probably best captures my demeanor/behavior/feelings of the last month.
What I could have possibly been thinking:
*Yeah... you just chose to tell the wrong story, buddy.
*Why am I here, again?
*Uff... you're fuckin' up!
*I could have been playing poker right now...
*So... the mean is the... and the mode... wait... isn't that the median? And then there's standard deviation... Oh, standard deviation...
*I could be sleeping right now.
*Why do I even fucking try?
*I should probably look into this oral fixation of mine...
*I feel a cold-sore coming on... don't... scratch... lip.
*That. Fucking. Bitch.
*I wonder what they'd do if I just started crying riiiiight.... now.
* Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
But I'd put money on:
*This is THE last time I hang out with chicks! Kiiiill meeee nowwww.

My apologies if I've ever made this face around you. I rarely notice when I do it.

Come November, I'll try to be more cheerful, although that's a long shot, since I'll be crying about Grad School applications and NaNoWriMo.
Yeah, I'm trying that shit. No, I'm not on drugs... although I probably should be.

To Get Her

One of my most dreaded assignments in college was a twenty page research proposal for Evolution.
I remember being scared as fuck because:
1) The professor was intimidating as hell. He had a really strong Spanish accent, which only helped to spread more terror in my heart, since his tone sounded more like my angry Mom. I did not want to disappoint this man.
2) The proposal was worth 30 percent of my final grade.
3) What the fuck was I going to try to research that would take up a minimum of twenty pages to explain?

After a near panic attack, I finally decided to focus on the aspect of monogamy amongst animals. My argument was something along the lines of:
Why does the (scientific name of a certain Falcon that exhibits monogamous behavior) chose monogamy?
Something like that.
It was hard as shit to find any freakin' animal that is exclusively monogamous, and not losing focus was also difficult (I continuously found data relating to how slutty some birds could be. That shit would shift my attention entirely. I still remember how there's a femlae bird out there that purposely makes three or four males think they're the father of her young... just so there will never be a lack for food. How fucking ingenious is that?! Sounds like a couple of humans I know...).
Results?
This bird was monogamous because it helped them raise stronger young that would ultimately reach adulthood. It was less costly to do that as opposed to just hittin' it and quittin' it with as many females as possible, hoping the babies would be raised right by their mom, so to speak (haaaa! It was so difficult to use proper terminology for that. My rough draft was sprinkled with ghetto-talk which made the professor call me in to his office to go have a talk with him. The man was genuinely concerned).
I aced it.

Anyway, this has also been the way I see human interaction. I often wonder why I expect monogamy from a dude, when it's... sort of counterintuitive, at least on the dude's part, to stay with only one person. Considering the gestation period of a human baby and all that shit... why waste your time with only one girl? Go fuck a ton of chicks that are willing to have you, and be the happy animal you were meant to be. Spread those babies worldwide, sweet-thang.
...
...
But when it's a person you love? A woman and a man you thought loved each other so "truly and deeply," they had stayed together long enough to make anyone believe it was the real deal.
Why is it so devastating to find out one was cheated on? Why do I have the urge to hug and console the poor woman... and punch, kick, and spit at the cheating son of a bitch?

I guess this is the part that makes me a human and not just an animal.
The feelings involved.

I don't know, I'm not making sense right now.
I'm just sad, and confused, and angry... I'm not too rational.
All I know is that I'm that much reluctant to ever get involved with anyone... to believe in anyone.

Love to hate me

Gaaarghhhh! The Case of the 5th Grade Hater is happening all over again!
No, people aren't stealing my drawings and trying to pass them off as their own... I haven't drawn in a while, so they have no material to jack.
No... people are instead stealing my photos and not giving me credit.
Fun.

I don't know what it is about me and my shit, but people have a tendency to hate it once they learn I'm the creator. They're fine when they are shown anything I make anonymously, but once they know I did it, they sure as hell don't bite their tongue to criticize my work until they beat any desire to live right out of me.
I don't like how you give your drawings big foreheads.
You could have done with a little less profanity... I hate the way you structure your sentences, it's very sophomoric.
Why is this blurry?
Why the fuck don't you pose me in the middle of the picture? You like chopping my body off and placing me in the bottom left corner of all your photos!

Seriously... do people get paid to fucking criticize me?

First, my drawings fell victim to harsh critiques and eventual copyright infringement ("Don't even compare my stuff to hers. Mine is WAYYY better" is probably the most hurtful to me).
My writing fell victim to plagiarism a few years later (I made the stupid mistake of posting some of my work on a forum. I started noticing how one person in particular started stealing my voice and my stories. That is seriously the creepiest feeling ever. It's identity theft at its worst, if you ask me. It baffles me, since supposedly so many people hate the way I write. They go out of their way to tell me my shit's awkward and profane and then you have someone trying to steal it. It's worse than a troll).
Now it's my "photography."

I don't feel I'm an expert, and I admit I fuck up often... but I love it.
I hell of appreciate photography and other's ability to capture beauty with a click of a button. I don't hesitate to tell others when I dig their work, because I'm being honest in letting them know I enjoy their creativity.
I don't mind constructive criticism when it comes to my photos. Tell me how it could have been better, and I'll even appreciate it... even if I'm just snapping photos as a hobby, not a job.
But when people go out of their way to hate on my stuff? Dude, what the hell is that about?

My latest encounter with this shit has been happening in the last month-- the time I've had with my lovely little EOS (the camera, ok).
There have been numerous photos that have been stolen from my albums recently. Many have been used as profile pictures for others... and the shit that irks me is that I'm given ZERO credit for them, not even a "thank you." They don't comment, they just steal it. Yo, if you wanted it so bad, you could have at least given me a heads-up. I'll gladly give you shit when you ask for it. The thiefs get complimented on the work and he/she says jackshit (and strangely enough, the number of people complimenting has been ridiculously high. It's such a freaking joke. Thanks, Life, you're awesome). Every. Single. Time.
One person has gone so far as to make his own album using ONLY my photos.
???? Seriously, idiot?
And when confronted, his excuse was "Shut up. They're not even good to begin with. They're blurry as fuck."
?!?!
Motherfucker's lucky he lives in Oakland and that's too far for me to personally go over to his house, with a baseball bat, to beat the shit out of his kneecaps and smash every single one of his fingers.

Recently, this other idiot kid told me:

just cause you know how to hold a camera and edit your pictures with photoshop DOES NOT make you a photographer.

Wait... what? Any person who takes a photo is technically a photographer. And if you were trying to say "professional," then no, I never claimed to be a professional. I take photos... when I feel like it... and I don't use photo shop beyond the resizing feature... so you can just lick my clit, you stupid little twat.
That comment didn't "hurt" my feelings... it made me want to hold this kid's head underwater for a couple of seconds... especially since he's only 14. I'd be doing society a solid by straightening out this little fuck.

Last night I finally had my fill of "Take AnoMALIE's shit and give her zero credit."
My cousin, C, same chick I wrote about yesterday, changed her profile to a photo I took of her at her wedding. It's her and her husband, smiling.
Well, on her page, people were thinking the photo was professional and totally loving it, giving it compliments left and right.
C corrected everyone by saying the photo wasn't professional.
Thank you... now can you... maybe drop my name? You know... maybe be a little proud of me?
They asked who took the photo.
Finally!
Her response?
I don't know, I just took it from some tagged picture and posted it.
?!?
Really? Ok. 
This really irritated me, so I finally spoke up.
I felt safe about butting-in because I knew the girl asking (it's the girl who stood in front of me for the professional photo at the bachelorette party. The idiot in the shorts). I wrote:
Sorry to butt in, but I had to. To answer your questions, I took the photo. 
The response? Crickets.
Not a damn word!
Grrrraarggghhh!!

Like I said, people love my shit up until they find out I'm the person behind it.
It is so easy to hate me...
how could I put this shit up for good use? There has to be one, right?

Amor, amor, amor

Love's a funny (often times hell of fucked up) thing. In the last 24 hours, these three people have made me either jealous, angry, or laugh with their story.

First, the story of the cousin whose wedding I was a bridesmaid for two weeks ago. I'll call her C.
She makes me jealous, sort of, but in a good way. The Story of C:

C turns 25 today.
She had been on her honeymoon until yesterday. A bunch of us rushed to congratulate her for her birthday... and, well, to get the story on her honeymoon... come on, we ARE Mexican girls.
This was her response:
Thank you for ur wishes gals! it's such a wonderful feeling to wake up next to the person you love! i waited for this a long time and it was all worth it!!

To put all this into perspective, she met her now-husband when she was 15.
These two lovebirds dated on and off from May 5th, 2001, until the day they got married... October 9th, 2010.
LONG ass courtship where he made her cry quite often. He'd keep asking to bang her, but C was too much of a romantic, and also of the "wait until marriage" kind. This would be the sole reason for their bickering, and constant break ups.
He'd go off and bang other chicks while he'd be on a "break" from C. We always knew when this was going on because my cousin's eyelids would be swollen for months. Poor girl cried a lot.
My cousin, with her saint-like patience/love, waited for him and forgave everything.

it's such a wonderful feeling to wake up next to the person you love! i waited for this a long time and it was all worth it!!

And now you have that ^. So much happiness.
It actually warms my heart, in all seriousness. It makes me... smile. I'm glad this sort of love story (well, more like finale to a love story, because the whole cheating and crying part sucks) exists for at least one person. It's cute... and corny... but... very sweet. I'm very happy for her.

Now for a less heartwarming story, story that pissed me off and chased away the warm, happy feelings I got from C's story, The story of F:

F is the guy who has been wearing my patience very, very thin.
He's the guy who has been having problems with his girlfriend, and the guy who continues to spam the fuck out of my twitter feed with all of his goddamned heart-break-related tweets. 20-whatever tweets IN A ROW with either some weak-ass heartbreak lyric, "Fuck it, I give up," and the increasingly common "I FUCKING HATE LIARS!" line.
I wake up wanting to shoot myself after seeing all the notifications on my phone (the other day, in efforts to just delete them all without having to read them, I made the huge mistake of pressing "delete all," which ended up deleting everything in my inbox... including all of my MGH messages that... well, I had saved and meant a lot to me. I was furious)

Well, the other day these two bickering lovebirds called it off, and made their break-up "Facebook official."
In person, when he was still just fighting with the broad, I let him know how I really felt:
Look, dude, don't take this the wrong way... but I never liked her. She was fake, she was rude, and she was uptight. At least, that was how she treated me when I met her.
Big mistake. The guy chewed me out and defended her.
The dude who has self-proclaimed himself as my "brother" because he's my REAL brother's BFF chewed me out at a party because I told him the truth about the bitch that was currently destroying his heart (and more importantly, his fucking dignity).
Alright, bitch, you don't want to hear reason, that's all on you. Keep slitting your wrists over this dumb cunt. Just quit TELLING ME ABOUT IT each fucking chance you get.
I could have been my usual, irascible self, and screamed right back, but I've been there. All of my friends told me MGH was bad for me. Multiple people told me to get over him, because he was an asshole... but there I'd be, excusing his behavior and hoping he'd one day change.
Mooney: The guy's making out with another bitch in the bathroom while you sit here in the living room!!! GET OVER HIM!! He. Is. A. Jerk.
Me: But... he's drunk... and that dumb bitch is a fucking slut! I'm gonna kick her ass!
Mooney: ?!?!? Whatever, AnoMALIE... whatever.
I sort of sympathize-- so I stayed quiet.

This leads me to what happened this morning.
These were the tweets I woke up to:
-I don't understand how someone who meant everything to you can move on just like that.. W a click of a button.
-Realizing the person you once loved moved on a lot quicker then you is a horrible feeling. It just means they never cared
-I wouldn't even wish these feelings on my worst enemy..
-I guess it's officially over.....
-I let the little things get to me.. And Cause of that I've lost it all

ENOUGH!
Quit groveling! Or at least get yourself a motherfucking diary!
I'll give you a day... shit, I'll give you a week to write solely about your lost love every two fucking minutes. But a fucking month? Come the fuck on! Do something else! Go out... get drunk... party... draw... write... do something other than tweet repetitive lamentations... or just go hide in a cave like I did.

I replied to his second tweet:
or that they had another person waiting on the sideline. Real talk.
I never use "Real talk," but I had to use his vernacular in hopes of getting it through his thick skull.
Once again, it proved to be a bad idea. F got PISSED, but this time, so did I.

The bitch had another guy waiting. She said you were stifling her because you would see her twice a week? You drove every single weekend to Rancho Cucamonga to spend the weekend with her and she thought that was stifling? Come the fuck on! I'm only stating the obvious. She met a dude she wanted to date but she was still dating you, so she picked a fight with you to break up and still manage to place the blame on you! Come on, now! Open your eyes, bro. Be happy I'm not accusing her of cheating. I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt and making the assumption she had some sort of decency of not fucking the guy while still attached to you.

And so now we're not speaking.
Yey, hooray!

Finally, the last story. The Story of Sis:

She finally ended her thing with her ex that wasn't really an ex. Of course, things didn't end amicably.
This last week, Sister had been texting the guy and noticed he wasn't responding.
Dude, I have a feeling ArgentineFriend threw me under the bus...
Why would ArgentineFriend try to throw her under the bus? Because she's trying to hook up with Sister'sEx's best friend (a guy who is already dating someone else).

Yesterday, Sister'sBFF invited her out because she had something "urgent" to tell her.
Turns out Sister'sEx called Sister'sBFF to "ask if Sister ever talked about him to the rest of us."
It appears ArgentineFriend told Sister'sEx that Sister still cries about him and has strong feelings for him. She also told him how my sister thinks he's seeing a certain girl she noticed on his Facebook... which he's not.
I'm not entirely sure how the story goes, since it's HELL of convoluted right now, gist of it is: Sister'sEx thinks Sister is a stalker ex-girlfriend now. He hasn't responded to any of her texts because he "doesn't want to give her the wrong idea." He "doesn't want her to think he's leading her on."
Needless to say, my sister is livid.
Who the fuck does this motherfucker think he is?! I'm not stalking him! I just saw this dumb bitch comment him, I don't like her, and I told ONE person-- ArgentineFriend, because we happened to be talking about sleazy cunts at the moment.
He thinks I'm stuck on him? How big is his fucking head?! Lead me on? Calm your ass down, Brad Pitt!

She drank the night away, and of course, she woke me up once she came home to tell me the story.

So, there you have it: deep love, betrayed love, and stalker love.
I'm glad I'm just bitter and abrasive.

Her-Ps

Of fucking course I wake up with a cold sore smack-dab in the middle of my bastard bottom lip.
Fuck, maaaaan!

I'd like to take this moment to thank my brother: Hey, keep making out with sloppy bitches in bars, I don't care... just QUIT DRINKING OUT OF OTHER PEOPLE'S WATER BOTTLES!

I guess shit could be worse... I could have suffered this outbreak on Tuesday... which... is probably why I'm suffering from this outbreak in the first place.
As if that's not enough, because we all know Life goes a little overboard when it decides to dick around with me, I have a huge pimple on the right side of my jawline. It's magnificent.

I can already imagine what my life will be like if I do go to grad school.

Someone just shoot me already.

Learning process

Today marks my parents' 28th wedding anniversary. Pretty commendable, since I can't even keep a dude's attention for 28 minutes.
It's insane to think my parents would put up with each other for so long, considering they're so different from each other.

Mom's secret?
"Find a guy who loves you. You'll learn to love back... or at least love the babies he will one day give you."
Uh... no, Mom, I beg to differ. I'm not letting ANYONE near my cookie box unless I like them... a lot, and not because I signed a piece of paper saying I was going to stay bonded to him until one of us dies.
"Do you think I loved your father when I married him? He was fat-- I never had a fat boyfriend IN MY LIFE. He was THE ONLY Protestant in the entire town-- I was THE most Catholic girl in town. He was old... who the hell wants an old guy?"
... ??? Wow.
"Hear me out. I wasn't your father's love either. He hated short girls and only dated fair-skinned girls."
What the fuck?! What are you trying to do here?! It's NOT working!
"We had both had our fair share of 'loves.' We had both been hurt by that 'love.' And that's when we both got real. He realized he wanted a hardworking girl who would one day teach his kids good values... and cook and clean for him. I wanted a guy who would have no addictions, especially not drinking. He would also be loyal... and have some sort of faith, unlike the wild animals from Hometown who claim to be Catholic but never step foot in church after making their first communion. Anyway, the moment he showed up in town, he asked around town for a girl with those qualities, they all referred me, I checked out his qualities, and I accepted."
How... not sweet.

This revelation was shared when I was about twenty, I think. Had she told me all this shit at a younger age, I'm sure I would have been more devastated... I mean, come on, I grew up watching shit like The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast. I think all little kids like to think of their parents "meeting cute." Mom would be walking in a crowded street, Dad bumps into her, makes her drop all the shit in her hands, they make eye-contact as they both reach for the spilled bread/papers/flower/etc and an instant connection is made-- they each think the other is the most beautiful creature they've ever seen (or at least like Mooney's parents: Her mom and my mom were BFFs. Mooney's mom had always had a crush on my Mom's brother. She would admire him from afar and see how he'd date girl after girl. One day he realized he liked her, they dated, then got married. I'd fucking kill for that to happen to me... or not. I wouldn't become a felon over a dude).
Not:
Mom sitting in the tail-gate of a truck as she gossips with a gaggle of girls. Dad, the lone ranger, walks up to the gaggle with Mom's old neighbor.
Mom: Who's this old fatass trying to holler?
Dad: This midget is the chick you've been telling me about? Is this a joke?
True story, folks.

However, as fucked up as this may seem, they make shit work. As disenchanting as it may be, I think their practical way of looking at marriage is what has helped them last so long. They tolerate and respect each other, which is always appreciated by my siblings and I.
I'm glad they took their promise seriously, because I'd be unconsolable if their marriage would fall apart. They may not be madly in love with each other... or have showed each other much affection throughout their marriage... but they're each other's friend.
Mom helps Dad realize when people are taking advantage of his softie-ass-- often times fighting his battles-- and Dad let's Mom know when she's being a stone-hearted, scary witch (Oh my God... what is it with me and my very backhanded "laudatory" entries?) often apologizing for her curt behavior with others.
They're complimentary like that.

Can I make this formula work for me? No way in hell. I let my heart rule my head and that's why everything ends up in a fiery, bloody wreck-- metaphorically. I yearn for boys who could never love me-- no matter how hard I try to get them to even like me-- and I self-sabotage when shit is working out. Plus, the dudes who really like me are... well, there's something always seriously wrong with them (he's either crazy, or a machista, or really dumb), there's no way I'd ever get near them. While it sounds shallow as hell to say that... I just CAN'T get myself to like them... which is why I sort of understand guy after guy after guy who dumps me for the intellectually inferior, fake-tittied, blonde chick who gives great head... but is clearly more attractive than me.
It's a part of (MY) life. I've accepted it, kind of like how my parents accepted not to follow their heart, but their head. It doesn't make us euphoric, but it gets shit done (or in my case, it allows me to wake up in the mornings).

Yeah... I'm not feeling too good, or well (I was just lectured on this shit, and let me tell you: I DON'T GIVE A FUCK. I speak Spanish, give me a fucking break. Ok, add angry to my list, now).

Distinctly unlikable

My first semester of college almost didn't happen.
I had horrible drama my senior year of high school with my very racist counselor who made me believe he sent my transcript to UNLV, but lo and behold, he hadn't. I wasn't made aware until I took my chemistry placement exam and the lady at the registrar told me there was no record of me.
I got that shit fixed (after sending my transcript a total of three times to the damn school).

That was it as far as my whole application experience went.
My parents didn't give me permission to apply anywhere else. I would just sit at home and see school after school, packet after packet try to contact me.
I don't know why you even open those things, when we all know the only school you're going to is UNLV.
Yeah... but I just... wanted to see what Notre Dame had to say.
(I still use my Princeton postcard as a bookmark)
My friends would wonder why I needed my parent's approval, but come on, they're my parents... they were the ones who would ultimately pay for my tuition, housing, etc.

Well, now it's a different story.
I'm finally experiencing the whole jittery business that is the application process.
And it's fun!!
Ok... not really. My eyes are killing me and this bizarre sense of dread is overtaking me.
Worst of all, I'm actually shooting for UNLV. Like... I really want to go there.

I'm sure the moment I tell my friends and family they'll have a cow over it... that, or think I couldn't cut it for more "prestigious" schools. Would I like to go to Stanford? Yes, yes I would... but their CW program-- while stipend-- does not give you a degree at the end of the two years. It's... eh. Plus, the program doesn't take you abroad. UNLV does.
SO... hello UNLV.

What will I do if UNLV doesn't take me? I don't quite know. I might go crazy... I'm not sure (as if I have some sort of control over that bullshit). I might just get married to the first jackass that asks and let that be the end of my story. That seems like the more plausible outcome.

ANYWAY, this whole application thing requires me to go through all my old manuscripts. Most schools are asking for 25 pages of fiction, which usually means 2 stories for me.
I have... 21 manuscripts. I'm not sure if that's the final count, or if I have seven more missing somewhere. I don't remember if I took creative writing three or four times. If it was only three times, then yeah, all my stories are there. I just know that I once made a count of how many words I wrote, and the total came out to over 90k, really close to 91. A lot of words to go though, but I must... unless I want to start from scratch and write a new one (NOT gonna happen).

Going through the stories is making me both really happy and miserable at the same time... although sadness seems to be the governing sentiment.
I re-read what the professor wrote at the end of my stories and chose from that (poor man... I made him sad). The first manuscripts I've read are the ones he commented as "This one's very touching... but, the end made me really sad." You know that shit's a winner.
Some of these stories I have no recollection of ever writing, but others... while they have yet to make me cry, I've found myself frowning on various occasions.
Jesus... I have issues! And not too many people are fond of said issues. The one time I actually had more than one person (Kelley) read my shit, I came out of it a loser. Everyone hated my stuff.
Although I remember most comments made about my stories, the comment I remember most (besides one other guy in there who pissed me off because he said "I just couldn't get into it because of how many times you would say 'Got.' It was jarring at times," This coming from an imbecile who would say "like" at least EIGHT times in one sentence, I kid you not. I'd end class wondering how a pencil hadn't found its way into my ear) is Darcy's comment:
I don't really like... stories that are... sentimental.
Oh... Ok... (internally) So you didn't even read them? Oh no.
I wasn't sure what sucked more, that comment, or the fact that the rest of the class was tearing my shit up (figuratively speaking. I complained about this to my professor and he thought the jerks were literally ripping the pages apart. Imagine that. I would have burst into sobs had that actually occurred! First to hear Darcy say he didn't like them, then see the rest of class ripping up the pages? I would have jumped out the window-- thought that often ran through my mind, since class was on the top floor of the building. It's a weird thing of mine, I can't help but wonder shit like that when I look out windows of tall buildings. So... if I jumped out right here, would I survive? What if that tree caught my fall? God, it'd be so awesome if things worked out like in Super Mario... jumping from canopy to canopy. How fun. Ew, what would by body look like after falling to the precipice? Nasty).

All this makes me freak out. If I couldn't make two of the eight (or ten. I forget) people in class to dig my shit, what makes me think anyone will. You know?
While I have a distinctive voice, it's an entirely different thing to have an appealing voice.

Goddamn, I've managed to make myself sad. I better stop now.

Some shitty number

Mom walks into my room, hands me the phone, I don't grab it.

Mom: Brother's calling.
Me: What does he want?
Mom: He wants to know your GRE scores.
Me: No.
Mom: He says if you don't want to tell, then it means you sucked.
Me: Give me that phone! Hello?
Bro: So... how'd you do?
Me: Nigga, I'm not telling you.
Bro: That means you did a shitty job.
Me: No, actually, I didn't. I kicked some nice ass.
Bro: Then what was your score?
Me: What was yours?
Bro: I did kind of shitty. I mean, my math part was alright... that was a 780. I'm embarrassed of my verbal. That was a piece of shit.
Me: (internally) Oh yeah, I got him here! (spoken) What'd you get? (I was *this* close to gloating)
Bro: It was some shitty number like... 590 or something like that. Fucking retarded.
Me: What the fuck? Are you kidding me?
Bro: What you get?
Me: Not a 780 on the math, that's for sure.
Bro: What about your verbal?
Me: Not bad... I got a... 620 (LIE)
Bro: Oh yeah? Nice. You have some pretty solid scores there. Congratulations.

Asshole. Killing my buzz (who needs rejection letters, when you have a brother attending grad school at Princeton? Dick head).

... 590 a "retarded" verbal score... fucking jerk.

Get Real, Exam!

So I used up all the allotted time for the sections on the GRE.
As expected, I had hideous writer's block for the writing portion. I had to dig deep and go way back to my AP History days... and I finally said "Fuck this shit, let's GO!" and just typed away.
The verbal and quantitive portions? I KILLED!
At the moment of getting the scores, it didn't really register. I saw the numbers and I was like "Is... that... good?" I mean, can you blame me? I had given this goddamned test my all. My brain went to mush the moment I pressed "Proceed" for the last time.
I came home, checked out my previous scores versus the ones I saw on the screen at the test center... and fuuuuck. I did fucking awesome.

I did do ONE major fuck up... and that was when it asked me about sending my scores to the UNDERGRAD school. Oooooops. Oh well. We'll see what's good.

Grad schools I finally decided on? NYU, Boston U, UNLV, and Cornell. Well, those were the ones I so arrogantly chose to receive my scores... and that's because Columbia doesn't require GRE scores. What can I say? I'm a pompous little bitch... up until reality comes on over and slaps the shit out of me to put me in check.

All in all, I'm quite hopeful UNLV will take me... they have to, damn it!

But... at least all this shit is now out of the way. I can be brain-dead all I want from now on.
Welcome to the new and not-improved AnoMALIE. Yeah, the grade-school AnoMALIE that doesn't give a shit about using large, complex words or correct grammar.
Hello, invented words and ebonics.
...
Ok... not that either.
But I really won't give that much of a shit any more. And this whole "writing something every day" deal? Pshh... it can kiss my ass (not really. I actually enjoy it. However, I won't have that same sense of urgency I've had for the last few months-- MONTHS! That's crazy).

Deuces, I'm out!

Bi-polar, I know

In 17 hours, I take my GRE.

I'M FUCKING STOKED!

I'm ready, so ready.
But uh... I still have to research schools.

Yes, I know... I take procrastination to a whole new level.

I'm really, really excited though. Is that normal?
(watch, tomorrow my entry's gonna be all WHY DO I HAVE TO BE SUCH A RETARD?! I hate myself! Oh... please no. I thought I was finally over my self-loathing stage... ok, back to being excited!!)

Sentada

This is why I hate being angry at people for too long. This story has been killing me for the last week, it wasn't until today that I finally got cleared to talk about it. Here I go:

While at Chicago, I spent the majority of the time there pissed at my godson's mom, i.e. my first cousin (I'll refer to her as NC) I see as an aunt or older sister.
Many of her choices aggravated me (like her love for falcon talons for fake nails. Motherfucking atrocious), and her conversation wouldn't help (she's not the sharpest tool in the shed, so to speak).
On our last day in town, I didn't even want to say goodbye to her because she had decided to spend the entire morning and afternoon at the mall. I gave her a weak hug before getting in the car to go off to the airport, and once in the car, I told my sister "Well, at least she made it easy for me not to miss her ass. I'm not going to be seeing that idiot in a long minute."

Well... since we're talking about me, it's obvious Life was going to be like "Oh, really, AnoMALIE? You wanna be resentful? Well, check this out, bitch."

Hmm... I don't know how to start this part. It's serious. And frightening. I still haven't fully wrapped my head around it.
So... let me mention how we couldn't get a hold of them (NC and her mom--my aunt) when we called Mexico to see how their bus trip from Chicago to DGO went. This was odd, since we're always one of the first to hear from them.
They were supposed to arrive on Tuesday the 5th of this month, but we still hadn't heard from either one. However, that Friday, NC's mother-in-law called my cell. This lady is also MGH's grandma (I know, it's a weird web. Totally typical of Mexicans, sorry), so I didn't think it was too weird (she's my number one fan and calls me on occasion to chat).
However, she had a weird message for me. She asked me if we had been in the bay sometime that week. I said no, and thought nothing of it. She then goes
That's what I thought... but when I came home today, this is the message that was on my answering machine.
She played the message.
*MGH'sGrandma*, it's *MyMom*, I'm calling because I'm going to drop by.
Jesus Christ... that's my mom!
Isn't that weird? I came home and that was the only new message.

My mom doesn't have MGH'sGrandma's number, she has never called her house.
But there was her voice, loud and clear, on the answering machine.
She sounded upset... kind of like how she sounded when she called to tell us her dad had died back in 2007.
I laughed, and asked her if she wanted to talk to my mom and see what was up. Once mom heard the message, she freaked out. Then she became quiet... and left the room, only answering monosyllabically to MGH'sGrandma.
What was going on? No idea how the message got on the answering machine. Mom never called, but it was, indeed her voice. This led to MGH'sGrandma to tell Mom of a creepy coincidence that was currently going on. Turns out two men on the bus had attempted to kidnap NC and my aunt.
MGH'sGrandma thought Mom had called to talk about that. She hadn't, but thanks for the information?

Ok, so there ends that creepy story. The entire week was spent trying to figure out what had gone wrong... why these people had tried to kidnap NC. We theorized that these men must have known who she was, and hence, tried to carry out some sort of vendetta against her (see, her husband used to be... his brother was at one point the most powerful... "leader").

Well, we finally got a hold of both my aunt and NC today, and they both told us what occurred.
It made my blood run cold.
Turns out NC was being her usual, not-so-bright self when she walked in the bus. She looked around, trying to see if she recognized anyone. She says she didn't, so she just went to take her seat.
It was then when she noticed the guys sitting in front of her say " Do you think she recognized you?" But she thought nothing of it.
A little further into the ride, in the middle of her praying (she prays A LOT. She always has a rosary in her hand... and I mean, I've accused her on multiple occasions of being fanatical) she began to hear what was really going on... those two men were planning her death.
Look, we'll get them off at (tiny town where the bus makes a stop that is about four hours away from Hometown. It's up in the mountains, highly inaccessible for the most part). We'll get those six down.
But the Mom will start screaming and call too much attention.
We'll get her off too. We won't kill her, though. We'll just take away all of her belonging and abandon her and that other older lady and drive away. We'll kill the first five and those old hags will just be abandoned in the middle of nowhere. 
NC says they were picking people at random, except for her.
That bitch has been praying the entire ride. Should we make her kneel, like the rest of them, when we kill her?
No. She's going to die sitting down.

I can only imagine the anguish she was in, listening to these beasts whisper.
The malice in these people... astonishes me. How can someone "human" think like this? Go about committing shit like this out of the fucking blue, just because they can? It sickens me.

Anyway, she had to sit there... and listen some more. They were constantly on their cell phones, and when they reached Dallas, two other couples joined the ride (the two original men had entered the bus with their wives). They were a total of eight accomplices... on a full bus... a total of 56 people.

Once they reached the stop (on Mexico's side) where they were supposed to carry out the plan, NC forced my aunt to stay on the bus.
If you want to live, you're going to stay on this fucking bus. Piss your pants if you must.
My aunt was confused, but she listened to NC.
Only NC, my aunt, and an old man sitting in front of the bad guys stayed on the bus. The old man was quivering... he too had been listening to the conversations these men were having.

Everyone boarded the bus and they continued on their way.
Suddenly, about ten minutes later, they were stopped. A random military checkpoint blocked their way.
The bus driver allowed the people to get off the bus, and this is when NC made her move.
NC went to the bathroom, and went in a stall with my aunt. She told her what was going on.
They're going to kill me. Now, you're going to have to be brave, Mom... we're going to have to walk as inconspicuously as possible towards the soldiers. If these guys are going to kill me, I'd rather have it happen to me out in the open, as I try to make my way to safety... and not in some abandoned house where they said they keep all the victims sequestered.
And so, holding hands, they walked toward the soldiers without looking towards the bus.
NC told the soldiers what was going on.
The soldiers made all the men get off the bus (since apparently women are off-limits... ?!?!!!) and searched them. None had weapons (bad guys gave the guns to their girls, obviously), soldiers had no other choice but to allow them back on the bus.
The only person they suspected was the poor old man who sat there quivering... poor man.
NC and my aunt refused to get back on the bus, and the soldiers kept them safe. They made up some lie about my aunt feeling deathly ill and not being able to travel any further.
The bus left. NC finally broke down into uncontrollable sobs and bewildered screams.

NC and my aunt were then escorted all the way home (four hours after being left by the bus) by a soldier dressed as a civilian. On their way home, they heard a breaking news story: the bus heading to Hometown had been held up. Two were dead, two were missing.

... now... I... don't know what to say.
I don't like action flicks... and to think it can happen in real life... ??? I never thought my family would ever have to experience anything like that. It's not fun, or funny... or entertaining.
I do know first-hand how horrible the conditions are in Mexico, I mean, I did see a dead man in the middle of the road this summer as I sat in the front of the bus.
I've had an AK47 pointed at my face.
I've seen Zetas patrol the streets of my once peaceful town.
I know guys involved in the drug war... but... I just... this is all so senseless. And think such evil exists... baffles me... it scares me... like NOTHING else has EVER done.

I always laughed at NC for all the praying she does. When we were in Chicago, I criticized her for kneeling so much to the point where she now has an extreme case or arthritis on her knees... we all laughed at her for it.
This bitch is CRAZY! Quit being SO fanatical! Where does all this praying get you?
To think someone would be so perverse to think... to kill her depriving her of... kneeling? Like... someone that evil really exists?

Before hanging up, she said one last thing:
Tia, when I sat there on the bus... trying to stay cool... to stay calm... thinking I was going to die... all I could think was... I really love you guys. I love my kids. I love my parents. I love my family. I really love you... I really love AnoMALIE and LittleSister. I just... I wanted one more chance to hug my kids... to hug you guys. I... really love you guys.

Jesus Christ.
I'm at a loss for words.
So much guilt. So much fear. So much awe.
No se que decir... solo... Dios es grande.

Girls strike again

Dear insecure girls with boyfriends:

Chill the fuck out.
Just because your man has a dick doesn't mean I'm actively seeking to get anywhere near his cock.
Just because YOU like your boyfriend's dick does not mean I'm going to like it. Calm your hating-asses down.
So I have eyes... please forgive me if they just so happen to wander anywhere near your boyfriend. I'm just trying to entertain myself at a party full of drunk people... and your dude, well, can you blame me for looking over when he coughed into his shot of Jack and got it all over his eye? I do say, you got yourself a winner right there, buddy.

I'm quiet and calm, I only observe... I'm not even interested in striking up a conversation, so fear not, my dear imbecile, I'm in no way trying to seduce your man.
These tits? Girl, I can't do anything about them. I was (un)lucky enough to be born like this. I'd wear a sports bra if that would put an end to the problem, but that just garners me a different kind of attention... that of lesbians, and well, they can get very aggressive. So... I just wear them proudly Look! I got these for free! And they're squishy! I feel no need to apologize for them, so blow me, bitch.
Plus, I dress rather conservatively... sometimes tomboy-ishly. I didn't know a flannel shirt with rolled up sleeves would prove to be such provocative attire. My bad, for that I do apologize.
These lips? I heard something about them looking like... I think they said something along the lines of "I bet she gives great head." I would bet the whole "girls with big lips give great head" thing to be a myth... although they kind of seem cushiony. Still, I wouldn't know, I don't have a penis to test how big lips feel on it, and I've never given head to hear any sort of feedback, so... ?? My only advice there is for you to get better at playing with your guy's cock... I'm sure he won't find the need to wonder what my dick-sucking abilities are, and will quit staring at my lips instead of yours.

I'm single, I'm sort of smart, and kind of funny... nowhere in there do I consider myself attractive... so... shhhh, slow down. No need to dog me, no need to "shield" your man from me... you don't even need to waste your energy verbally "warning" me. It's obvious when a guy's taken, and I respect it.
I don't chase after single guys... single guys I've dug for years... no need to suspect I'll chase after a taken dude I met five minutes ago.
We straight?
K.

AnoMALIE

P.S. If a fight is what you're looking for, trust me, I'm more than willing to indulge you with one. I'm always game to make a cunt bleed. If my explanation doesn't work for you, know I'm available to rearrange your face in a heart beat. I may look like a bitch, but the way I throw down will only prove to you that I AM.

Being Accountable

You know, in the many years I've had this blog, I've never dedicated an entire entry to my best friend.
Something always tells me I'm repeating myself when I'm about to start writing. But I just checked, and no, the most I did was write two sentences apologizing for waiting an extra day to wish her a happy birthday.
Well...
I'm a little worn out by all the studying... which in turn makes me very sentimental, and I'm rarely sentimental (ha!) so I feel it's the right time to make an entry dedicated to my best friend in the whole wide world:
Ms. Kelley... aka Chase.

This girl... I don't know where to begin. She is, seriously, the most amazing person on Earth.
I have no idea what I did to deserve such an incredible person for a best friend. Of the few times we've ever had a problem, I've always been the dumb cunt at fault. I don't know how she still agrees to stick around and attempt to make me a better person.
She is the smartest person I've ever met... it's thanks to her that I graduated high school AND college. I have yet to meet someone who can score higher than her on an exam (someone who does it legitimately. None of this cheating bullshit for which our class was notorious. I did do a little better than she did in Histology lab... but that was because we spent too much of our time chatting about America's Next Top Model and my fascination over our TA's huge ass... and she was also busy giving me lessons on slang terms used for sexual acts... I mean, back then I didn't even know what a "Pearl Necklace" was. THAT'S how difficult I made the task for the poor girl. This was all too distracting for my friend). Kelley's a badass, motherfuckin' genius! :)

Not only do I have to thank her for helping me with the academic aspect of my life (and the fact that I even know how to speak English. My English prior to meeting her was ghetto-tastic, not refined whatsoever), but it's also thanks to her that I retained a lot of my sanity.

Very typical of Kelley, she is constantly encouraging me to follow my heart, not what every other person expects out of me. I discovered my love for writing thanks to her (yeah, that one ex-professor guy piqued my interest in the class, but Kelley was the one to register first and convinced me it would be a fun project), and she helped me understand that it was fine to stick with artsy stuff, even if my parents thought it was a stupid hobby.
You like writing? You're great at it, do it! You like drawing? You do pretty work, DO IT! You like photography? I like your photography, do it!
I feel horrible that she has to be there like my Mom, gently nudging me to move on. It must get annoying.
Not only does she dish out the advice, but she follows it. She loves music, and while I would have given up on it two weeks after starting, she has stuck to it since junior year of high school. She loves singing, composing, and playing instruments... and there she is, getting gigs and getting over her initial sort-of-stage fright. AND all this considering she was a "science nerd" right along with me.

She makes me laugh... hard. She doesn't go for the easy laugh, either, I have to sit there and think. She's super clever, and doesn't get exasperated by my SUPER slow nature... ever... not once... like, sometimes I wonder if she's even human, she has so much patience.
We have too many inside jokes, they're scribbled all over my high school and college notes. They're doodles, one-liners... lyrics... cartoon-strips... you name it, it's somewhere on our notes.
BE ACCOUNTABLE, SHANNA!!
:)

She's also my accomplice when it comes to my crushes.
She doesn't get irritated by my gushing, she claps like a retarded seal right along with me.
I BUMPED INTO MR. DARCY ON MY WAY TO *insert location here* TODAY!!!

Yay! :) Did you talk to him?

Yeah, but I was an idiot.

Oh, AnoMALIE... 
Each time my heart gets crushed, my incessant boo-hoo stories don't bug her-- she hears me out then takes me out to clear my mind.
It's over... MGH and I
I'm sorry :( Wanna go hiking?
My favorite is when she randomly sends me e-mails concerning my celebrity crushes ("I think he's your soul-mate" and then a link concerning James Franco... or Cristiano Ronaldo). Those make me smile.
She allows me to turn into a squealing twelve-year old girl.

She knows every single one of my secrets, and she doesn't judge me... ever.
She goes about her life, wears whatever she feels like wearing, does whatever she feels like doing, and she doesn't give a fuck what others might think of her... while still being friendly to the jerkoff talking shit. She has tried to pass this along to me, but I'm far too irascible. I'll bite a person's head off if they so much as insinuate anything negative about me... that, or cry, both of which get me nowhere and in a shitty mood quick.

But above all, I've always been awed by her incredible strength.
I still remember the day I called her, somewhat irritated with my calculus homework, our senior year of high school. I had skipped school for senior ditch day, 03-03-03, but remembered Kelley was going to go to class. I called her that afternoon and remember thinking her voice sounded weird. When I asked, her response was simple: Well... my mom died. 
She went to school the day her mom died... a day when nearly NO senior attended, went through the motions, and had me calling her that afternoon. Instead of telling me to fuck off-- which I think anybody else would, and rightfully so-- she was right there, helping me with a mundane related-rates homework question. When I asked if she wanted me to stop and give her time to herself, her response was "No, I want to keep busy. I need to keep busy."
We both sat there sniffling and trying to iron out my problem, MY problem.

I'm selfish, mean, catty, and ungrateful when it comes to my treatment of my best friend.
I screamed at her on multiple occasions during lab times. I said some mean, straight up heart-less shit to her that she obviously never deserved. I made her cry when all she ever did for me was try to keep me from crying.
If it weren't for her, I'm sure I'd be someone far worse.

We're quirky together, and while most of the people in my life would advise me to grow up and be more structured, more serious... less awkward and weird, she allows me to be me.
I like weird patterns, improper jokes, cussing, drawing, writing, laughing, and skinny, dorky boys.
She gets me. She knows me. She accepts me.
She's the best human being I've ever come across.
She's my best friend.

Happy 25th, Kelley :)
I never say this enough, but I love you like a sister. I don't know where I'd be without you.

I wish I could write

I have a giant problem.
Back when I took my MCAT, I killed on the written portion of the exam. I knocked all three essays out of the park and scored in the top 10 percentile. The writing just came naturally to me, and that was considering I was just lounging in my chair and jotting down whatever the hell popped into my head (hence why I talked about Britney Spears and Starbucks).
I did not practice writing for the exam. At all.

This time around, with all this damn studying for the GRE-- a test I find much more mediocre than the MCAT (sorry for sounding snooty, but the level required for the math portion is a joke)-- I'm having a shit time coming up with my essays.
I mean, I'm sitting there in front of the computer screen and slipping into a coma.
Analyze what? Take... a side? Huh? OMG, was that a spider?!
For all 45 minutes. It's quite sickening.

You know, the more I think of it, the more I feel this whole "write something each day" thing to have been a bad idea.

Five days, AnoMALIE, FIVE DAYS!

23

Alright, here's my second post for the day. It's going to consist of more cheating, since it's going to be last night in pictures (God, forgive me. I'm just really tired and stressed and I still need to study and I have no time to bother with actual entries. Those shits require actual thought put behind it and I'm in no condition to do so. It's difficult to be clever and "punny" when my mood is so shot)

I couldn't help myself, and I caved. I purchased the hot pink shoes I fell in love with last month. But I let the birthday girl wear them (i.e. Little Sister took them from my closet and I opted against getting her in a chokehold until she tapped out because it was, after all, her birthday celebration).

Moment I stepped in the lounge, I was given champagne... and while I typically hate it, this one was tasty. I never knew how easily this shit buzzes a person.

Had to sober up somehow before the guests arrived. I hate Jamon Serrano. 

More drinking and some Spanish music to get the party started.

At midnight, it was time to celebrate Baby Sister's real birthday. She's no longer such a baby :(

Something tells me this guy might be a little violent with his girls... like maybe... I feel sorry for anyone who ever thinks about giving him head... just sayin'.

Then people started smoking and tried getting me in on the action. "Sorry dudes, I stopped that shit at 23. I take care of my lungs." Are you starting to understand why I was stuck with photographer duty for the night?

I also used my skill to catch minors at the bar. JK, she was no minor, she too was a birthday girl... a 21st birthday girl. She pretty much embodied my mood for the night. "I need a motherfucking drink! And get rugby off the screen! Weren't we just watching the highlights from the Spanish League?!"

Then I drove home and fell asleep like an old lady.

But in all honesty, and keeping true to this week's celebration of "I love my sister week" (no, seriously, it is), I love my sister. We fight... she makes me cry, I reciprocate... but I also defend the hell out of her. Anyone hurts her and I immediately go out for blood, ask anyone. I've done it multiple times... I even flew up to Spain to put her roommates in check the moment she told me they made her cry.
She holds my hand when I'm upset... she cries with me when I don't know what to do... and she hugs me when I'm lost.
No matter how old she gets, she'll always be that little creature I once saw my mom holding inside of our Jeep on a rainy October afternoon. I was busy being a brat, running away from my babysitter... playing under the hole in the porch with my brother, taking turns on who would run under the water. The world seemed to stop the moment I saw the black Jeep make its way into our driveway... and Rafa and I froze in place, watching the car park... and Mom hop out holding a pink blanket. Baby Sister was home.

I love you, sister.

Breaking up is hard to do

Is it considered cheating if I update the next day? What if I update two times in one day? I'll try to redeem myself tomorrow by doing that.
For now, I'll just leave you with a little something I overheard tonight:

"Breaking up with her was hard, homie... she sucked my balls."

... like I said, I may not participate in the activity, but I take notes every day.

A much more traumatic exchange was had between my brother's BFF and I, it went a little like this:
BrosBFF: So this chick wouldn't leave your brother alone. I normally wouldn't cockblock like this, but this bitch was ugly.
Me: Is it common for strippers to be that annoying? (the story involved these fine gentlemen moving Saturday's party from the wedding to the Sapphire, where apparently--surprise, surprise-- my brother was drunk and disorderly)
BroBFF: Well... see... I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but fuck it-- See, when we met her, I told her your brother had a huge ass dick.
Me: Uh... yeah, dude, totally should have filtered that.

I'm getting that bastard back soon... by diving into detail when it comes to describing the insertion and removal of tampons. That'll teach him to give me hideous mental images.

AWKWARD!

At Saturday's wedding, my sister and I bumped into the jackass who wouldn't leave me alone back in '08.
Now, I know back then I was greatly aggravated by the guy, but being that I consider myself an adult, I decided I'd say hello to him. I did not attempt to hug him, much less kiss him... I didn't even try to shake his hand. I stopped walking the moment I stood directly in front of him, made eye-contact, and said hello as I smiled.
Me: Hey. How are you? It HAS been two years.
Him: AWKWARD!!!
(five seconds of silence pass. I just stare at him and my cousin who is walking next to him)
Me: ??? Umm... ok? Bye?
I walked away... then my sister and I began to laugh.

I probably wouldn't have found it so funny, had he not been so loud. And I found it funny, because rather than be embarrassed by his dis, I felt sorry for him. Everyone standing by the bar (because that's where it all went down. He was walking to the bathroom as I was getting a drink) stared at him and asked me what was wrong with him (another thing-- why try to dis me in front of my family, when you're the stranger in the pack? Horrible decision-making skills, son).
Is that guy crazy?
Dude, I didn't think so... but he might just be. Either that, or the poor guy has Tourette's.

Then I remembered, this same guy once caused me some internet drama with a complete stranger. I had originally written it down on here, but after taking a few breaths and counting to 50, I opted against posting it. Instead, I saved it and would read it every once in a while when I'd need a laugh.
So I came home and re-read my old post.
I now feel enough time has passed for me to feel safe about posting it... to remember some good times.

Here's the entry I so aptly titled "An Example of How Most Men are Retards" (due to the fact that the title to the stranger's little manifesto was "An example of how most women are cunts") back in May of '08. Enjoy:

HEY EVERYBODY!!! I'm famous!!

Ok, no I'm not... but, if you google my blog address, you'll come up with the little rant that one guy had in regards to this entry of mine.

Now you can see with your very own eyes how distressed my words made him.
AND you get to see what he looks like!
AAAAAAAAAND!!!
If you really love me, you'll be childish enough to talk shit to him!! (I kid! That would just blow this drama way out of proportion... plus... after getting a good look at him... aren't you a little creeped out to start any sort of shit with him? Yeah, fuck that. I'll just do that from the safety of my own blog, thank you very much.)

Haha.
God, it almost makes me squeal with glee to think I have a dude hating on me... so much so, that he puts it on his own blog for the world to see, all because of the ire I inspire!

Let's dissect his entry (things in green parentheses will be inserts by moi):

Have a look at this:

http://anomalie153.blogspot.com/ (All right, here's my first complaint. First off, why the fuck not direct your readers to the exact post where I'm talking shit? Rookies... sheesh!)

This guy is in love with her (Now how the fuck can you assert that from what I wrote? Do you personally know him? NO. Were you anywhere near the Cheesecake Factory while OG and I were interacting? I hope not. Do you even know me? Nope. How can you say HE'S IN LOVE WITH ME?! Jesus Christ, I bet you failed the reading comprehension part of your SATs.), and the best she can come up with is remorse for so much as giving him the time of day (what the fuck else am I supposed to feel? Are you telling me I should fall in love with him, even if I felt insestuous in doing so, only because he covered my 9 dollar chopped salad?), because it turned out to be a waste of her own (it wasn't a waste until he made me stand in the parking lot talking nonsense while I had two other people waiting for me that day... he didn't say ONE thing of importance as I stood there freezing my ass off and smelling car exhaust. He even insulted my sister as I stood there and heard him run at the mouth. I felt "remorse" because this little "hang out" made him assume it was cool to persue me "romantically" even after I told him REPEATEDLY that I was NOT looking for a relationship then, now, or in the future. That I saw him as a RELATIVE, nothing more).

Sorry ladies, we cant all measure up the standards of God's gift to men. (Yo, homie, it's "God's gift to women"... unless you're assuming I'm a man... and that we're gay together. And anyway, in my case, you don't have to measure up to the standard of "God's gift to women," just MY standards... you know... of NOT having a remote possibility of sharing one too many genes with me. Let's look at other gene pools, please)

Women have been, and continue to be, victims of the greatest of public abuses.

Men have been, and continue to be, victims of the greatest private abuses.

If any women are reading this, feel free to call me a douche or whatever makes you feel clever, but next time a guy like this calls you, try be human for a change.

(Shit, and he wrote that at 4 in the morning... AHAHAHA! I hope he had to take some Tums after that tantrum)

Vindictive... me? Nah.

punctuRED equilibrium

Oh last night...
Where do I start?
Ok, I won't recap the night, that's just painfully unnecessary to experience a second time. Let's just say I ended the night almost leaving for the ER instead of my house. Two things were wrong: my stomach and my head.

First, the stomach thing: I have no clue what made my stomach hurt so bad, but I blame the salmon of the night... or... I don't know. It was a sharp pain in my stomach that would make the tips of my fingers go numb. Go figure. I was almost in tears by the end of the night. Totally not fun.

Now the head thing: I ended the night with blood running down my neck. Sign of a good night, right? Not really. On my way out of the showroom, I was hugging and kissing people, saying goodbye, all the usual talkative-warm-Mexican-thing.
Well, suddenly, I felt a guy headlock me from behind... a short dude, because I had to bend backwards.
It was my (very drunk) cousin, and as he went for a kiss on my cheek, he managed to headbutt me in the process... right in the ear. I was wearing earrings that weren't my usual hoops, but rather studs, and I felt the metal end poke the shit out of the side of my head.
At the moment it all occurred, I just yelped a little and pushed my cousin off me, I didn't want to appear any more neurotic than I had the entire night due to my stomach pains (hey, you try being happy when you feel like the baby alien in your gut has turned into a ninja with full blown regalia). I didn't think to touch my ear or anything.
I finally grew a little more conscientious about my ear when I noticed a girl stare at my neck in what appeared to be horror. As I reached for my neck and back of my ear, I felt something warm. I brought my hand back to my face, and there it was-- blood. My entire hand was covered in blood... front and back. It was a disaster, and terribly embarrassing. The blood was oozing out of the fresh puncture wound (blood running all the way from the back of my ear down to my neck) my drunk cousin had made with his headbutt. Sexy.
I had to walk out of the casino with my hand glued to the back of my ear (not literally, but that would have been great).
The look on strangers' faces in and out of the casino were priceless.
WTF do Mexicans do at their weddings?!

Once I was home, I removed all makeup and changed into my PJs, making sure I photographed my misery:

My excitement is palpable, right?

(That one's for you, Mooney. Check out the locks-- damn near turned them into dreads. Putas marañas!)

Oh, and before I end, one final thing:
Know how I was prepared not to breathe the entire night? Well, that was a no go. It appears my freaking body is still dropping sizes or some shit... because my bastard dress kept slipping down. That shit was awesome (NOT!) when it came to dancing La Vibora de La Mar:

But at least I didn't fall (no, that's not my family. It's just some video I found on YouTube that best describes the shit you should expect out of this game).

1,2,3,4, I declare a thumb war

In many aspects, I'm pretty stereotypical Mexican-- I have long brown hair that I usually wear down or in a braid, dark brown eyes, I'm Catholic, I shoot straight double shots of tequila without flinching, I watch novelas (once in a while... if my favorite actors are in it, or there's a lot of fighting), I like to clean (when I'm in the mood), I have a mean punch that can knock a boy out (yes, I've tried), and I love mariachi (I love all Mexican music, just not Duranguense... that shit is ATROCIOUS).
However, I'm not too stereotypical in what matters: I can't cook for shit.

My culinary skills peaked at the age of ten, when I learned how to boil water. Sure, I can make huevos rancheros for breakfast... and french toast... and... basically, I'm really good with eggs (yeah, I did that on purpose).
I can make any type of burrito-- I'm a master... as long as someone else prepares the rice, beans... anything that requires messing with flames or blood.
No one can fuck with me when it comes to quesadillas, those are my specialty.
... And my Mexican cooking skills go to hell after that.
Fajitas? Mom does that. Carne asada? Mom does that too (my Dad... bless his heart... he can't handle that shit). Enchiladas? I tried... but... I don't like frying shit, it scares me when the oil flies everywhere. I panic if even the slightest drop finds its way onto my skin.
Rellenos, sopas, ceviche, mole, you name it... mom does it. It's no coincidence that my room is the furthest away from the kitchen.

Well... I don't know what came over me today, what the fuck possessed me to do this, but I decided I could handle chilaquiles.
At a glance, it's nothing too hard. It's basically enchiladas that look like a bomb went off on (hmmm, ending sentences with prepositions makes me uneasy). Cut up tortillas, chile colorado, grated cheese, and shredded chicken breast (well-seasoned with oregano and cumin... and diced onion).

How the hell did I fuck this up?
I imagine people would worry once the chicken enters the picture. How could they not? There are so many elements of danger in it.
First is the boiling of the chicken. If you guessed this, you would be wrong. Remember, boiling water is one of my proudest moments... so no problem there.
The shredding of the chicken? I used two forks and I was good.
The sauteing of the onion and chicken? I handled that well, since there wasn't much oil in the pan to begin with. Nothing jumped too high to send me into a shrieking frenzy.

No, no... I fucked up in the easiest part: the grating of the cheese. Task I've completed time and time again. This apparently gave me an overconfidence that nearly cost me my right thumb. Ok, it wasn't that bad, but I did cut the shit out of it.
I was trying to finish the piece of cheese, and halfway through the task, I felt the knuckle on my thumb go.
"FUCK! I CUT MYSELF!!"
Mom: Oh, AnoMALIE, I told you you didn't have to...

Since my blood seems to lack the proper amount of thrombin or some shit, the slightest cut produces a freakish amount of blood to gush out of my wounds. My body's freakin' scandalous. This was no exception-- I started to bleed like a hemophiliac.
I had to leave my chilaquiles unattended, apply pressure to my thumb, man-up to add hydrogen peroxide (only thing I really have in my drawer... scars be damned), then apply my Hello Kitty band-aid.  After all was fixed, I went back and finished making my food.
And of course they tasted like heaven. Did I tell the rest of the house what happened? No. I just told them to eat the food at their own risk... that should be enough, right?

Another stereotypical Mexicanism of mine? I don't go to the doctor until I'm fucking dying of something. I don't need no doctor, damn it!

I'm gonna look awesome for tomorrow's wedding... I'm going to have a nice bloody and bruised thumb to show off.
I'll apologize to my partner when I see him later today. Hopefully he refuses to touch my hand.