Friday, December 31, 2010

Con musica

I find it only fitting to end the year with music.

The song which will forever remind me of 2010:

Unlike the year it represents, I love it. I'll smile EACH time this song comes on the radio.

Honorable mention goes to:

That shit gets ANYONE motivated during a tough half-hour ab session... and yeah... it doesn't help that I'm a HARDCORE sucker for Pitbull. This is WAY better in Spanish... but I was too rushed/lazy (and still severely mindfucked after watching "Inception" for the first time earlier today) to look for it. Now put up with trying to decipher what she's trying to say... I swear even I have problems.

2011 WILL be good to me.

Thursday, December 30, 2010


Last two days of 2010.
"Let's make this our year" was the first text I received in 2010. It was from both Pacemaker and Lau.
"Something tells me this year isn't going to be so great. But I hope it really does become your year" I wrote back.

While 2010 was no where near as shitty and unbearable as 2009, it was the year that dragged on. It felt as if I had to move through molasses to get anywhere. Everything went in slow-motion.

Luckily, no one died... I think... I mean, no one near and dear to me. There were close calls, but nothing overly devastating like '09 when my two remaining grandparents passed away.
I'd do the whole month-by-month recap like every year, but honestly, I can't remember much of what went down.
The major stories of 2010 for me were the following:
The disintegration, the death of the MGH-AnoMALIE unstoppable duo.
Way to start the year.
Visiting him back in February just felt like a goodbye... and it was. While I had fun, there was an inexplicable sense of melancholy.
As we stood on the tallest hill we could find in San Francisco, we stared at the city below... lighting up the otherwise very dark night. We stood next to each other in complete silence, and after a couple of minutes, I turned to him.
This place will forever own my heart... but I could never live here.
That weekend he met Olive Oyl... and I was done. Whatever we may have ever been... died.
On my last night of my Bay Stay, MGH was furious as he sat in the living room by himself. No one could cheer him up, immediately walking out of the room and leaving him alone to pout on his sofa. I went over to him and sat down, hugged him, and laid down so my head rested on his lap, with my eyes looking directly up at him.
What can I do? Please don't be mad. Seeing you like this makes me sad.
His breathing slowed down, his jaw and fists unclenched, and he started playing with my hair... completely relaxed.
The day I broke the news to him about not even being able to stay friends with him, he used that line on me. It had the opposite effect.

That was painful... very painful.

My raping of the GRE and the process of Grad School applications.
With no more MGH to lower my IQ and make me act like a dumbass teenaged girl, I had to move on. It was the most difficult decision ever... because I hate admitting when I'm wrong, accepting my mistakes, and I especially hate asking for help. Call it pride, if you will. But once my world crashed on that horrible month of March, I had to go and ask for help... from my guru, my adopted grandfather. I didn't have to tell him a word, he immediately knew I was messed up and heartbroken... and he gave me the (unsolicited, but much appreciated) advice:
"Remember... Elvis didn't go to the crowds, the crowds came to Elvis. Girls don't go to the boys... the boys will come looking for the girls."
Words I now live by.
He also told me I "looked like a writer from the moment you walked into class that first day. You and Mr. Darcy. You guys have that look down: Anti-social. Private. Neurotic." Only that man can call me "neurotic" and I'll take it as a compliment.
Anyway, I decided, with his help, that I would follow my heart and apply to grad school... for creative writing.
I spent the time studying on and off from April to October, when I took the GRE and showed it who was boss (me!).
Now I'm in the middle of the application process. Which is fun and scary and somewhat overwhelming. I didn't experience the process (of looking up schools and applying) as an undergrad, due to my strict parents forcing me to stay in Vegas, so this is huge for me.

World Cup frenzy.
Speaking of Darcy, he made a reappearance in my life during this awesome time where the world stops and only lives soccer for a month. The best event ever created: the World Cup. Way to bring back the smile to my face. My circuitry was rewired to happy and normal... sort of.
It was a weird time because I just remember being close to turning into a zombie from June to July. The game times were wack, Mom kept startling me awake at four in the morning with her screams of "GOOOOOOOL!!" and I had Darcy once again making me laugh and (unbeknownst to him) reminding me what life was like pre-MGH.
Just like when my grandpa died back in '09, Darcy just randomly popped back up and made me smile during a shitty time (the weirdest is still, by far, the day of my grandpa's burial. I was home after burying Gramps, vomiting, crying, and barely lucid. I remember being on-line, trying to keep my mind off the pain in my stomach--and heart-- when I noticed Darcy wrote me a comment. I don't remember what he said, I just remember smiling, and for the moment, I didn't vomit or cry... I was just... trying to be me... and all I could think was "Dude, Darcy... you're so fucking awesome. Thank you." I'll appreciate that forever, even if he didn't do it on purpose). Darcy will always hold a special place in my heart. I don't know how or why it happens, but he just... his timing is perfect. He probably never liked me, he probably hardly remembers who I am, but he's still... a motherfucking badass. Guy could become a serial killer, and I'd still sit there and admire whatever the fuck he does, he's that legit.

Definitely the one thing I'll look back on most fondly for the year 2010... besides the ass-kicking I handed the GRE, of course.

Apocalyptic Hometown.
Things were just... out of hand this summer. It was heartbreaking and terrifying to see how the cartel violence has escalated in Mexico. The news agencies only cover some of what is going on... so much more is kept secret, and THAT'S what makes anyone shit bricks once he/she is in the country. It really did feel like I was in a horror flick... seeing dead bodies disposed of on the side of the road like I had often seen dead cattle all the other summers I had headed down to Hometown.
While Hometown continues to be a different planet for me, it is now different in a negative sense. What was once a peaceful getaway, so detached from the real world, is now... violent, bloody, unruly and forgotten by the real world.
I still get chills down my spine when I see an SUV with limo-tint windows roll by me. I can still envision what an AK47 looks like as I stared down the... is it barrel? I still see it... and I still feel that anxiety overpower my heart. Just one pull of the trigger... and... bam, game over, AnoMALIE.
I will not step foot in Hometown until things return to some normalcy... because we all know things will never be "normal" again.

Fun time... depressing time, like everything in my life. This gets a special mention because this week and a half vacation was a riot. Yeah, some speed bumps along the way, but I have never laughed so much, or felt so much love. I slept on the hardwood floor for my entire stay (my poor hips were FUCKED up by the time I got home), and shared a shower with seven other people (who would use my fucking razor! Pigs...), but I would do it again if I could. The weather was dreamy, the people were sweet, and the shenanigans were unforgettable.

JC coming clean.
This was unexpected... well, apparently only for me, since it seems the rest of the world was able to pick up on JC feelings for me. I bumped into this photo yesterday, actually, that best sums it up (my cluelessness and his... admiration?):
Umm... ok... ?
Facebook showed it to me as I was on, minding my own business. The photo appeared on the sidebar, you know, where it does that creeper thing that it shows you some of your friend's photos. At first I dismissed it thinking it was Darcy's profile pic, because it's eerily similar, but the glare started irritating my eyes and I looked closer.
It was me... and it wasn't in one of my albums... but in JC's.
It was from my first ever visit to the boys in the bay, two years ago. I swear I was never made aware of JC's paparazzi moment... and finding it yesterday made me feel like a cunt.
Here I am complaining how no one ever likes me and blah blah blah, and then I see JC was going around sneaking photos of me during some of my happiest moments (although at this particular time I was a little sickened, since the sea lions-- while terribly cute-- smelled like shit. The place was beyond fetid). What kind of dumb retard doesn't understand what that is about? I'm so, so sorry JC.

And yeah. That's pretty much it as far as 2010 goes.
I won't be too sad to see it go... besides the fact that once it goes, it means I'm three months closer to being a year older, which... God.
I'll look back--not so fondly-- on 2010 as the Molasses Year.
Adios, motherfucker.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010


Know I love you if I do the following, (some of them even without being asked):
  • Cook for you.
  • Give you a pedicure.
  • Give you my gmail address.
  • Download Google Chrome at your insistence, even after I hear you cuss out GC for crashing on you for the third time in half an hour.
  • Look up football scores for you.
  • Watch Notre Dame basketball with you.
  • Play Donkey Kong Country Returns until I lose all feeling on both thumbs, and have to be asked to calm down repeatedly after going on an obscene diatribe against Diddy Kong.
  • Allow you to bite the top of my head... a la "Animal Planet." (Fucking weirdo)
  • Allow you to tackle me without punching your face or kicking your balls.
  • Hand you my car keys after 11PM.
  • Allow you to cough in my presence... in my direction.
  • Allow you to think you know more than I do when it comes to Rock en Español only because you have Bajofondo in your iPod and I don't (Get out of here).
  • Accompany you to sing along to Too $hort, at the top of my lungs, in front of Mom. Not only that, but I also allow you to insinuate I'd EVER be part of Too $hort's "stable" (GET OUTTA HERE!).

Having my brother over for the last... almost two weeks was great... even if I had to break his heart on his third day of vacation. I feel satisfied knowing I liberated him from the ghost of Alo. He can finally start the healing process and move the fuck on.
I love him. And I appreciate his ability to make us go back to these days (when I was still taller than him, ha!):
Little jerk was so happy because he was going to punch me shortly after. 
Makes me want to replace his Kindle (poor guy was more devastated over forgetting his Kindle on the plane than he was over the love of his life marrying a possessive, rich psychopath). But I'm broke.

It's crazy how desperately we try to hold on to as many minutes together as possible... when back in the day, all I wanted to do was convince my parents to send him to boarding school.

I hate goodbyes.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010


Ah, man, I had something awesome happen today, but I have no time to type it and vent.
Let's just say I was floored and am now angry I can't share it.
Hopefully I have time tomorrow.

Then again, tomorrow's my brother's last full day with us... so that might be tricky... since I tend to get all sentimental and clingy, spending my last few hours with him nearly attached at the hip.

I'm going to miss that jackass.

Monday, December 27, 2010


Boys with blue eyes still mesmerize me... even if the boy's my friend's 20-year-old little brother.
That's fucking dangerous... but hey, anything to get me to leave the Darcy issue alone (you know, that whole thing with his indifference while I melt like a dumbshit popsicle. I'm resorting to pinching myself and saying "stop it, you fucking dumbass" each time my mind wanders off and thinks of him. I'm getting some mean-ass bruises and people are starting to wonder if I suffer from Tourette's).

Remember how I claimed that I'm at my best, art-wise, when I'm miserable and depressed?
It appears I've lost my touch.
I started off with shit like this that I'd doodle because I had grid-paper and exasperating calculus homework:
Then my skill deteriorated to this, back when I was bummed out in Spain, looking through a bridal magazine:

I might have been watching an alien movie at the same time
And now we have shit like this:
those are chairs...
Ok, that last one I drew a while back as I was attempting to explain something real quick.
But right now I really am having a horrible time trying to draw. It's IMPOSSIBLE. I draw an eye and lose interest, proceeding to erase everything.
I sit with my sketchbook in hand for hours, I listen to music... and still, nothing.
It's like someone chopped off one of my arms, and broke all the fingers on the remaining hand, and then gouged out one of my eyes so my depth perception would suffer.

I guess it only works when I'm on the verge of stabbing myself as I work out a proton NMR.

At least I have one thing to look forward to once I enter Grad School.
Inspiration! Come back to me! What's the point in being emo, but unable to draw?

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Dog piss

Favorite "Merry Christmas" text received yesterday:
Unknown Number: Merry Christmas to u and your new fam!!!
Me: New fam? Thank you?

I was tempted to post it on FB, to ask what dumbass was responsible, but I opted against it... because too many people get offended when I'm irritated and posting on FB. I'll eventually find out when I bump into him/her in the future... then I'm going to karate chop his throat, or yank her hair if it's a girl... which I'm leaning towards, since I really, really suspect this dickhead is a chick from my Dad's side of the family.

Anyway, onto today's shit:
In Mexico (or at least, with Mexicans in my part of the country), to say you're having a shitty day, or shitty luck, you say a dog pissed on you... or that all you need for your shitty day to be complete is for a dog to piss on you.
I'm guilty of using this expression... but today, well, see for yourself:
And I'm so nice to that stupid little bitch. That's my left leg, btw. 
Needless to say, my day has been shit-tastic.

The day started at 5:30AM for me... and it dragged the fuck on until I was able to take a nap at 9AM.
I was woken up at 10AM by a text message from my sister.
Do you wanna be in D's wedding? She asked me if you would be upset if you weren't in it

Fucking retard (D, not my sister).
It PISSES me off that this girl is STILL contacting my sister instead of going directly to me... the bitch is my cousin. COME ON! It's a motherfucking text! How hard is that?!
And then she goes and acts like this is all a secret... thinking my sister hasn't informed me that she's going to be part of D's wedding, that she has known this for at least a month... D thinks I'm oblivious to it? I live with my sister, retard. I talk to her EVERY. DAY. I know what underwear she's wearing... come the fuck on.
I'm also angry because this perfectly exemplifies why I hate apologies.
It takes people MONTHS to realize they've been fucked up to me. They realize that oh fuck... ok... maybe that was a little jacked on my behalf. Ehhhh, I'll just apologize. She'll be ok. It's AnoMALIE, she always forgives.
So I say FUCK. THAT. SHIT. Upset me, and trust me, I'll let you know. I'll take your fucking apology and wipe my ass with it. Enough is enough. People trample me because they think an apology will fix the embarrassment and lowered sense of self-worth inflicted on me. I have a very, very low level of self-esteem--mainly demolished thanks to family like D who go above and beyond the call of duty to let me know how horribly undesirable and imperfect I am-- it doesn't take much to knock me off my feet and into the fucking abyss of self-loathing.
I don't know, maybe I'm not making sense and I'm just being an incoherent angry slob right now, I mean, I did get pissed on by a bastard dog today--and on my favorite pair of pants-- so maybe I'm a little on the belligerent side.
But I will say this: I'm not going to be nice.
SO, as a way to really, REALLY be a cunt, I'm going to go to this wedding and look TERRIBLY miserable... shit, I might let a couple of people "accidentally" find me crying in the bathroom.
18 couples... and I'm the only cousin missing because D didn't even bother to ask me. It's damn hard looking happy at this thing. I'm sorry you had to see me like this, guys... I came to the bathroom when I couldn't take it any more.
That shit's gonna look reeeeal nice.

This shit had me worked up all day... enough that it frustrated me to tears... mainly because I know all this shit I'm saying right now, I'm really not gonna do. I really am too nice. I'm just going to sit there with my parents, and plaster that damn fucking stupid smile I always show to the world, trying to convince everyone that I was just born with sad eyes, so they should only pay attention to the shy smile on my face.
Will I cry in the bathroom? Probably, but in the privacy of a stall.
It really, really sucks to be... overlooked like this, especially when it's not the first time it happens. But I guess I can look on the bright side: at least this time I wasn't told I wasn't "hot enough" to be in the wedding like that one time D's brother told me back in '05 for his wedding. Now that shit fucked me up, especially when I saw he wasn't kidding. Then he went off and told everyone I told him I didn't want to be part of it. People were approaching me the entire night saying "Damn, AnoMALIE, what's wrong with you? EVERYONE was in the wedding except you. Look at how much fun your cousins are having being part of the wedding (oh boy, where they! They were hammered half an hour into the reception. Every one of them). You really missed out. You should try being less shy. Join the crowd." It was hard keeping a straight face when I'd hear that sort of shit... so I'd just shrug to keep from speaking and having my voice betray me. Doing that is SO hard, and I certainly don't enjoy it.

Who knows... I'm working on going abroad around the time of the wedding, to avoid being in the damn country. BCN fixes everything... and I won't have to listen to family and give fake explanations and act nonchalantly.

I really need to go to a batting cage and just smash those fucking balls (ha... that sentence made me laugh).

Sorry guys, I'm sad, angry, and irritated. I get sentimental and write stupid shit I could never say out-loud... since I'm AnoMALIE: the nice, quiet, sweet, forgiving, stupid girl.

I fucking hate people.

Saturday, December 25, 2010


Well, there was no iPod, much less a Darcy, under the tree this morning. Maybe because there was no tree to begin with... just that nativity scene... but still.
I am getting a PS3 though...
Yeah. I didn't know I was such a gamer, either.
It's mainly for the blue ray capacity, but... if we can play games on it as well, well... fuck it, bring it. Looks like someone's going to be learning how to shoot people for Black Ops or some shit.

I was excited about being able to use one of my gifts today, but it turns out my GIANT fucking head impedes my use of it. Story of my life. You'd think I'd be smarter with the size of my skull.

I also have an ulcer... a stuffed one :)
Kelley gave me a "stuffed animal" that is actually a "stuffed bacteria" (Helicobacter pylori).
Me: Oh my God! Is this flagella right here?!
Kelley: That's what I was thinking...
Me: Awww! How cute! I love it!
M: Only you guys would understand a gift like that. You nerds.
And she's right, only Kelley and I would get it.
We'd sit in so many science classes drawing cartoons of the various subjects we'd be learning... well... besides in O-chem and biochem. Our doodles usually consisted of drawing unhappy stick figures with guns saying "WTF?!" for those four semesters.
When learning the histology of the penis (in a cross-section view), we'd sit there and draw the cross-section and name it "Cartman" (hey, the resemblance is uncanny!)... and then draw Kyle and Stan.
It's how we survived (by fucking around in class and making jokes of everything). So of course I'm fond of it (the ulcer plush toy).

Then we have Pacemakers fucked up gifts... which I actually do like. I wound up using most of them, and discovered that bastard pore-reducing mask works magic. It's quite terrifying. I was hoping I'd never get into being such a girly girl, but it appears I've been suckered into yet another girly habit.
It's gonna be hard to keep up.

That's all for Christmas.
Not much spirit?
Pacemaker asked me-- quite angrily, I must say-- what the hell was up with my family and our (lack of) tradition.
Pacemaker: What the fuck are you guys? Fucking Jehovah's Witnesses?! You're definitely not Catholic!
Me: No, we are... we totally drink like Catholics.

I thought back to the last year I was a "believer" of Santa (not really Santa. Mom told me he was Baby Jesus' biatch. So I was all about Baby Jesus):

December of 1994, I was nine, and for the last two years a couple of classmates had been douchebags trying to convince me of Santa's non-existence.
I had first heard of Santa not being real from my "babysitter," you know, the dumb bitch responsible for my first (plastic-pony-swing-induced) concussion, when I was about four... I came home crying and told Mom, then Mom got all up in Babysitter's face and damn near fought her, so Babysitter had to take it back.
Anyway, this year--1994-- I asked for the most impossible shit.
My parents, huh? Alright... this will teach them to lie to ME.
Dear Santa, this year I would like:
In my head, violins were like, 600 dollars.
Since I've been a vindictive little cunt for the majority of my life, I thought I'd get them back this way.

I had suspected my douchebag classmates to be telling the truth, since that summer Rafa and I found a couple of our old Santa Letters in Mom and Dad's condom drawer.
Yeah... we messed with that drawer... to punish the other, of course. We first started playing with that drawer when Rafa started throwing Dad's underwear at me when we'd fight in the bedroom. We were having this massive underwear-fight when we suddenly ran out of underwear.
We desperately looked in the drawer for more underwear, but what did we find instead? An opened box of condoms... blue Trojans... I still remember (it was a blue box with the silhouette of a man and a woman staring at each other as the sun set, I believe).
Grossest discovery ever.
Little Sister walked in at that moment, grabbed a condom, removed the condom from the wrapper, pranced over to the living room (where Dad was watching television) -- blowing into the condom-- while asking "Papi, que es esto?! (Daddy, what is this?!) A balloon? Why is it wet? It makes it harder to blow!"

Rafa and I stayed in the bedroom, because (aside from knowing our ass was gonna get kicked for fucking around with the condom drawer) we noticed that under the Trojan box were our Santa Letters.
It was a distressing time... because we didn't know what to be appalled by most: Mom and Dad having sex, Little Sister embarrassing Dad in the living room, or Mom and Dad possibly being Santa.

We put everything away and set our plan of asking for the most preposterous shit imaginable.

Then came Christmas.
I woke up that morning, and what did I see near my shoes (that was our style. Fuck stockings), under the Christmas tree? A violin.
Oh my God! He's real!!
Just when I had regained my faith, Mom called Rafa and me into the kitchen, and told us the truth.
(Rafa's devastation was worse than mine. He looked like they had just told him Santa had been gunned down by the mafia)

And that was my last "real" Christmas.

Merry Christmas, guys.

Friday, December 24, 2010

drinking n' toilets

Note to self #465792:
Don't blog while drunk.

Having a family full of bartenders... in a house with a giant selection of liquor... is never good.
Actually, I take that back, it's fucking great.
One cousin in particular is quite fond of me (he thinks I'm awesome for some reason), so he indulges me in my scotch addiction.
This time, all I had to do was reenact the Ron Burgundy scene where he says the "I love scotch. Scotchy, scotch, scotch. Here it goes down, down into my belly" line.
He then proceeded to hand me shots of expensive tequila (which I forgot the name. But it was the smoothest, most delicious tequila ever. I had my underage cousins admiring me for not making a face or coughing after drinking... little did they know, I couldn't even feel the tequila, so there was no reason to make a face). Once I felt my face getting hot, I cut myself off.
Mmmm... to be drunk at a family member's posada. Scaring the children... nah, it wasn't that bad. I was calm and observing the shenanigans of buzzed cousins, while being buzzed myself.
Then I came home and blogged about what was most present in my mind (it's kind of hard not to think of him while sober, much less when there's alcohol in my system).
Sorry about that.

Round two is up tonight.
That's why I'm blogging right now... to avoid any further outbursts of... whatever that was.
At least I didn't get on Facebook, right? Don't wanna be on there dedicating any fucking Mariah Carey songs or anything.
Mr. MackieBook is staying locked in the closet tonight.
Hopefully I don't have some sort of verbal outburst at the family party (since I'm prone to doing things of that nature), at least nothing along the lines of "All I want for Christmas is DARCY!"

Merry Christmas... eve? May you guys get all you wish for (well, the more attainable shit. Don't go off wishing for ponies like yours truly over here... so stupid) and more (there goes my stupid optimistic side).
I woke up this morning realizing what I really want (you know, the attainable shit): a new motherfucking iPod! I dropped mine in the (CLEAN!) toilet this morning. I was devastated.


Thursday, December 23, 2010

Maybe if I close my eyes.

Con las dos manos, el me agarró la cabeza, y me besó. 
Me gustó... pero solo porque imagine que era otra persona.

I closed my eyes and found myself wishing it was someone else.
It made my heart skip a beat for a second... and then I was sad the rest of the night.

I try, but no one matches up. My head tells me to move along and accept the guys who give me attention... but my heart isn't letting me... well, my head's involved there too, since it provides the mental block.
They might be taller, they might be more built, they might have the most amazing nose I've ever seen (this guy tonight had the most beautifully shaped nose. I stared at it for at least three minutes. From the left, from the right, from the top, from the bottom... up the nostrils. It was glorious), but it just doesn't matter. It's not him. But he never... you never... you guys barely even talked. He never gave you a reason to think there was even a chance. There should be no reason for this silliness. No reason for your stubbornness. I agree, but I can't convince my brain or heart otherwise. I haven't met someone that strikingly attractive to me since. I don't know why, but something about him just... owns me. You're wasting your time, AnoMALIE. More than likely. But if the guy doesn't make me feel like Darcy, then I just don't care.

Leave it to me to get upset by a random, unexpected kiss from a dude.

God bless Glen Taite.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Россию Roulette

Con mi té de manzanilla en mano, admiro la mañana nublada, llovisnosa.  Las torres tapadas por la neblina, las calles empapadas, charcos por doquier... y lo unico que cruza por mi mente: Pensará tanto en mi como yo en él?
Que cursi, ya sé, pero no lo puedo evitar.

JC decided to drop by a day early.
Right after finishing up yesterday's post, I looked over at my phone and noticed I had a missed call from JC, plus a new voicemail message.
He was in Vegas.
I went off and started Cinderella-ing shit... I broke a couple of fingernails in the process (that shit hurts, ok. Plus, it immediately messes up my mood: $#@!$% this is why I HATE cleaning!! <-- I went to confessionals on Monday and I'm trying REALLY hard not to be too vulgar... at least until Christmas [but Liga/BPL soccer and UNLV basketball games are excluded]. Although... when I told the priest about my cussing problem--twice-- he just laughed at me, damn near high-fived me. It was the priest who forgot to turn off his mic that one time and wound up saying "Fuck you!" to one of the altar boys once they were "backstage." That guy's pretty legit. BTW, nice tangent, AnoMALIE).

I was angry at first. Doing shit so short notice isn't one of my favorite things in the world... especially when two strangers are going to be brought to my house.
But whatever... JC has always been awesome to me when I visit him in SF or Mexico, so I'll reciprocate.

I was a little on the jerk-side because I got back to him at 6PM. I watched the entire UNLV/Kansas basketball game... and then I went out to meet up with him at the strip.
JC greeted me with an enormous hug and an "I've missed you SO much! It's really great to see you!" and I responded with a "Yeah. Sure. It's only been five months." I walked over to his two friends, introduced myself, and so began my duty as tour-guide for the billionth time in my life.
I did become a tourist at one tiny point of the night, and that was when we went to check out The Cosmopolitan.
JC and sweet little Lisa
I busted out my cellphone and tweeted a couple of photos (it's quite ritzy up in there. I want that damn chandelier).
I loved looking at Lisa's face as she admired the city. There would be awe, happiness, and sadness... it was heart-breakingly sweet.
JC: I bet you're jealous you can't enjoy the city like the rest of us.
Me: No, I can. I mean, I'm a little jaded right now, but just let me leave the city for a week, and upon my return, the moment I see the lights my heart starts to race. This is my home. I love it.

As much as I enjoyed showing these kids around, I was suffering. I wore ankle-socks with boots (because I was originally going to wear some Vans slip-ons, but seeing how it was raining, I VERY STUPIDLY went for the first boots I found in my closet, and didn't bother to grab decent socks. I can be so freaking retarded sometimes)... and let's just say that was a bloody mistake. Literally.
By the time the kids took pity on me, I was limping around and my boots were fucked by the water on the street and the blood from my ankles. It was gross.

We drove through the neighborhood to show Lisa the Christmas lights, and upon reaching our door-step, she very shyly asked "Where are your Christmas lights?"
Me: We're Muslim. Can't you tell?
I smiled, of course, 'cause the moment she walked in the house, she saw the three-foot tall nativity scene in the living room (my mom is such a crazed fan sometimes. I can't really hang out in the living-room 'cause the statues scare me a little. They always have. The three-foot tall cows and donkeys are cool... but the three kings are CREEPY, I fear they're going to start moving the moment I look away).
Anyway, we ended the night... hmmm... let's bet before I move on.
A hundred bucks if you can guess how we ended the night.
Errrr! Wrong.

The night ended with:
Drinking hot tea...
while watching...

I tolerate it, I still giggle with it... but FUCK! ENOUGH!
I didn't say that, of course, since that would be rude. Instead, I just sat in the kitchen and drew.
JC took a seat next to me and we talked about Lisa.
Me: She's adorable. She is totally in love with you.
JC: ... yeah.
Me: She puts up with your mean jokes, she lets you take her anywhere... the way she looks at you... she came all the way from Russia... come on, why can't you give her a shot?
JC: It's... I can't.
Me: I doubt any girl will ever love you like that. You'd make her life if you were just a little responsive.
JC: It's not that simple.
He gave me that "bitch, you know what I'm sayin'" look.
Me: You're my little brother, cabron.

My heart hurt for Lisa the entire time.
She was really nice and really shy. Being a shy, quiet girl myself, it was hard not to get endeared.
She very shyly handed me some Russian chocolates when she entered the house:
CHOCOLATE! Way to win my approval, homegirl!
She then presented my mom with this really cool honey-bread of some sort:
It has a bee on it! <3
She gave us the name, but I can't pronounce it, much less write it. But it was all from her hometown, and her way of thanking us. So thoughtful.
Her thoughtfulness won her my sympathy, so when she would cock her head to the side when she'd look at JC, or a smile would always make its way across her face whenever he spoke, I felt like I was watching a really sad foreign film. My heart would break.
No, Russian version of Amelie! Don't do this to yourself! You're only gonna get hurt by falling more for this boy.
She totally idolizes him.
I saw a lot of me in the little things she did in regards to JC, so my heart went out to the poor girl.
You're wasting your time... you know it... but you keep doing it. Just like I did with his brother. Speedy recovery to you once he completely obliterates your heart.

Unrequited love sucks dick.
Screw not being vulgar. I'm angry.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

From Russia, without love

Last night JC called me.
It was 10:30 PM, I had spent the evening hanging out with Mom's siblings, and we had just talked about JC's family at the gathering. Some shady shit happened to his family in Mexico yesterday, so I thought that's what the call was about. I answered immediately.

Me: What up?
JC: Heyyyy! Guess where I am.
Me: I don't know... last time we played this game your motherfucking ass went to Argentina on a whim. Jerk.
JC: I'm in LA... actually, Rancho Cucamonga, to be precise.
Me: Oh, that's only a couple of hours away. Cool. Why?
JC: My friend Lisa came to visit me. You know Lisa. Say "Hi," Lisa.
Lisa: Hi?
Me: (internally) Who the fuck is Lisa? (spoken) Ummm... hi?
JC: You remember Lisa.
Me: Who?
JC: My Russian friend. From Russia. I stayed with her when I went in March.
JC: So I'm showing her around... and I was wondering... if it's not too much to ask... if... you guys are free on Wednesday?
Me: Umm... I'm pretty sure I am. Why?
JC: Well... I want to show her around Vegas... and... I'm a guy... so I thought maybe you girls would know where to take her better than I do.
Me: Oh! Ok. For sure.
JC: ... and... well... we didn't plan this, so we haven't booked a hotel...
Me: (internally) Aww, fuck! Here we go... (spoken) Well... if you wanna stay with me... you can. Just that Rafa's in town, so we have one less bedroom available.
JC: Thank you! That's what I was looking for!

So... looks like I'm going to be cleaning the house today.
Fucking awesome.
What is it with these boys and their lack of... good judgement?
The main reason why I didn't turn him down was because I know that poor Lisa girl's story.
She's the one who first met him (and fell in love with him) in France the summer of '09, spent two weeks showing JC around Moscow this March, and towards the end of his stay, she straight up asked him (teary-eyed) "JC, why can't you love me?"
I felt my heart get crushed for her when JC told me the story.
How's that for some twisted-ass bullshit? She likes him, but he doesn't like her, he likes me, but I don't like him... and I like... NO ONE in that triangle. Fuck that.

So... fellow Lonely-Hearts Club member, I'll totally clean my house for you and show you the city.
JC's sleeping on the couch in the cold-ass family room.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Cielo Rojo

I had some of the best sleep ever last night.
I can't remember any of last night's dreams but one:
I was walking in a forest, a snowy one... I think it was Yellowstone, since I had watched a Nature program right before going to bed which talked about the animals at Yellowstone (FYI- it acquired "National Park" status on March 1st, 1872. Yet another reason why my birthday is THE shit) and how they handle winter. Knowing this, let's just assume this forest in my dream was Yellowstone.
So, I'm walking, admiring the sights. It wasn't cold, but I could still see my breath in front of me. The sky was pink, the trees were black... the feel was very Tim-Burton-y, but not in a creepy way, if that makes any sense.
As I made my way through the forest, I saw a clearing. The closer I got to the clearing, the more I realized what it was: a skating rink.
Don't ask me how, but I somehow acquired skates and I proceeded to hit the ice. The rink was suddenly packed with strangers enjoying their time, and I kept minding my own business, trying out shit like pirouettes (which I have tried in real life and totally ate shit. I can handle getting from point A to point B in ice skates... as long as I don't try to get all fancy). For some reason, this made me happy. I was smiling the entire time, and time was going in slow-motion.
Once I had my fill, I walked out of the rink.
Just as I was going to head back in the direction of the forest, I become startled when I feel someone gently tug on my left arm.
It was Mr. Darcy (what is it with him always scaring the shit out of me in dreams in order to get my attention?).
This is where the dream goes mute.
I smile, he smiles. We quietly walk towards a hill overlooking the rink... and just sit there, taking turns to "smoke" as we breathe out and pretend we're holding a cigarette. When we get sick of that, I rest my head on his shoulder, and we continue to stare at the rink-- all under a pink sky.

Then Rafa walked into my room and tugged on my foot to wake me up... that asshole.
I can never enjoy a dream for too long without someone killing it for me. I can dream about getting abducted by aliens for what feels like an eternity, but when it comes to having pleasant dreams where I feel at peace, some jerkoff has to wake me up.

Anyway. Yes, Rafa's back home. When we were driving back home from the airport yesterday, the first words out of his mouth were:
So... any news? Anyone pregnant? Married? Dead?
Sister and I made eye-contact through the rear-view mirror and I just shot her my DON'T! look.
I blurted:
Uncle is having surgery on Thursday. He has a tumor in his lung. Mom tell you that?
That was the first bit of news that came to mind besides ALO'S MARRIED!!

I'm still working on making him laugh for now.
After being so rudely woken up by him, I went out to the kitchen to have breakfast with him.
As I was preparing my cereal ('cause that's how I do. Fuck cooking in the morning!), Rafa started doing his usual, annoying thing where he asks me stupid questions.
He does this thing where he acts like a baby, asking really stupid questions in an even stupider voice (don't ask me why, he just does. He's weird).
Rafa: *NicknameIHATE* when's the last time you shot somebody?
Me: Uh... never.
Rafa: When's the last time you got twiiiisted?
Me: By the way, idiot, you do know what that means, right? I'm over here admitting to getting high and drunk all thanks to your dumb ass!
Rafa: No, that's "twisted," I say "twiiiiiisted."
Me: Same thing, retard.
Rafa: *NicknameIHATE* when's the last time you pooped your pants?
Me: Um, I think you're confusing me for YOU.

This made Rafa laugh... and we went on a stroll down Memory Lane.

Rafa: Fuckin' Carlos (our elementary school janitor). I still remember, and have nightmares about him closing the door on me right before I got in the bathroom and I was like "NOOOOO!" and he laughed... I should have screamed "I'M GONNA SHIT MY PANTS!"
Me: HAHAHA! See, around here, you're the only one who has ever shit his pants.
Rafa: Then in middle school I remember HATING to go to the bathrooms in Fremont because there was never any toilet paper. But this day... I think it was music class, I was sitting there and I just shot my arm up in the air and I was like "fuck it, I HAVE TO GO! NO, REALLY, I HAVE TO GO!" There was no escaping it, so I ran into the bathroom and I had no time to check if the stall I went into had toilet paper. I HAD TO GO.
Me: Gross.
Rafa: Once I was done, I noticed there wasn't any toilet paper...
Me: NO! So what the fuck did you do?!
Rafa: I used my hand! What else was I going to do?
(I began to gag on my cereal with the mental image)
Rafa: When I was done, I went to go wash my hand,
(I gag some more)
(By this time, I'm on my knees, on the floor, laughing so hard I'm crying... but at the same time I'm gagging, on the verge of puking out my cereal)
Rafa: I stood there violently scrubbing at my hand as I ran the water. I was SO lucky no one walked in on me at that moment. I had to practice walking into class like everything was cool.
Sister then chimed in with a story of one of her first-grade classmates who shit his pants as he sat in his chair. Sister was sitting next to him and became traumatized after she saw how the boy's back and chair got covered in shit.
(I narrowly escape vomiting this time)
Sister: Now we know what type of legislation you'll pass when you're president.
Rafa: I'll champion school reform where it will be mandatory for ALL schools to have an abundance of toilet paper, and to have working soap dispensers that will ALWAYS be filled. I'll call it, "The Flu-Men-See-Oh Bill" (name of Sister's unfortunate classmate).

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what my siblings and I talk about on a rainy Monday morning.
I had missed having a brother.

Sunday, December 19, 2010


Last night was hilarious.
A lot of the entertainment was provided by the only-weds of the group.
It felt good knowing I'm not the only person irritated by Musketeer's behavior with his now wife.
It's not that I hate PDA (sure, I'm not a fan, but I'm fine with couples holding hands... and kissing hi or bye. That's understandable), but Musketeer and GagaHater fucking abuse of the privilege.
Back rubs? Constant whispers and lip-locks? Baby talk? ...BABY TALK?! Not the "let's procreate!" talk... but... "let me try to make my voice ear-piercingly shrill while I act like a 3-year-old" type baby-talk. That shit should be illegal for anyone above 3 years of age.
They're also glued at the vagina.
You spend 24 hours of the day together-- I don't doubt you even accompany each other to the toilet-- it's OK if you part for a couple of minutes for game time.
GagaHater: I'll miiiiss youuuuu!
Musketeer: Aww, baby, I'll meee-us youuu tooooo! (this guy graduated magna cum laude... I would have never imagined him doing this)
Me (at Musketeer): You're leaving?! (I hadn't been paying attention, I was too entranced by the "cinnamon-y deliciousness" to notice anything in my surroundings. Plus, when it comes to this pair, I have selective hearing and tend to block out most of the conversations they have with one another)
Musketeer: We have to be across from each other in order to play Taboo.
Me:... O... K.

Alright, so I've been playing board-games/party games with these guys for quite a while now. I'm Mexican... we don't really... to kill time, we spent our time fighting as little kids, and as adults we drink and play drinking-games... so I'm not the best "clean" party game player. It's pretty much new to me (only game I ever played was LIFE, where we'd all cheat to get the maximum number of children. That's all I really remember... and not wanting to get the split-level house. That ruined my game and would make me pout out of the room. I DON'T want that shitty house! I want the white picket-fence!)... but this pair LOVES it.
So, this time it was decided we play Taboo.
I know better than to be anywhere near Musketeer, since I've been on the receiving-end of one too many crazed stares from GagaHater when she sees me approach Musketeer.
Relax. If I wanted his nuts, I would have gone after them when I first met him six years ago. You're good.
However, since I've never played the game, Musketeer volunteers to coach me through it.
We play the game, my partner (M) and I lose, of course, 'cause we're equally absent-minded (and controlled by the "cinnamon-y deliciousness" to be too concerned).
The ones beasting were Kelley and her boyfriend. Something that appeared to bother GagaHater... and things just started getting heated from there. Competition was on.
The mood did a turn once an awkwardly HILARIOUS scenario between GagaHater and Musketeer took place:
GagaHater was in charge of giving Musketeer the clues on the other side of the room. I was sitting next to Musketeer as he guessed.
GagaHater: Oooo! I was this when you first met me...
Musketeer: Young? Underage?
GagaHater gives a crazed stare.
GagHater: COME ON! WHAT was I when we FIRST MET?!
Musketeer: I don't know... what kind of clue is that?
GagaHater: We've gone over this! I was THIS when we first met!
Musketeer: Ignorant??? STUPID?!?
GagaHater: NO!! (tosses sand-timer over with one hand, buzzer with the other) I WAS INNOCENT! INNOCENT!!!

The entire room broke into a roar of laughter... except for GagaHater. She was livid. Once we caught on to GagaHater's lack of entertainment, we became awkwardly quiet.

After that, GagaHater spent the time whining to Musketeer about wanting to go home as the rest of the room would shoot looks of "I know... I wanna laugh too!"

And that is what makes things for me fantastically memorable. I'm so mean.

As for Christmas with the family, it's going to go more like this:

(Oh, Jimmy... I don't mind fucking up my sleeping pattern for you. You know how to make me smile)

I'll be drinking at the party hosted by Dad's side of the family out of sheer misery.
Drinking at the M-side of the family's party will be 100 percent joyous.

No games will be played at either. That would get ugly.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Quien soy?

I really have lost the will to live.
Last night I turned down a free concert to one of my favorite artists, Juanes.
Me: Just record when he sings "Difícil." I'll be happy with that.
Sister: ... Alright.
Of course, knowing how my luck works, it should come as no surprise to learn Juanes did not sing that song last night.

Anyway, I shouldn't say I've "lost the will to live," that's too fucking harsh, but I am bummed.
Bro flies in tomorrow and we're having anxiety attacks wondering how the fuck we're gonna break the horrible news to him... the horrible news concerning Alo's marriage (we confirmed that she did, in fact, get married before she left for Switzerland. That fucking idiot).
I've been trying really hard to make him laugh these last few weeks... but damn it... I know this nigga's gonna be fucked up for Christmas.
Then I put myself in his shoes, and I get upset.
I'll sit there and listen to my favorite (but sad) songs and find myself crying.
Then I'll find the corresponding music video, and I'll cry even more.
ESPECIALLY after finding the video to the most beautiful song in the universe, Eres (you are):

Eres lo que mas quiero en este mundo, eso eres.
Mi pensamiento mas profundo, también eres.
Tan sólo dime lo que hago, aquí me tienes.
Eres, cuando despierto lo primero, eso eres.
Lo que a mi vida le hace falta si no vienes,
Lo único, preciosa, que mi mente habita hoy.
Qué mas puedo decirte? Tal vez puedo mentirte sin razón,
pero lo que hoy siento es que sin ti estoy muerto,
pues eres lo que mas quiero en este mundo, eso eres.
Eres el tiempo que comparto, eso eres.
Lo que la gente promete cuando se quiere.
Mi salvación, mi esperanza, y mi fe.
Soy el que quererte quiere como nadie, soy,
el que te llevaría el sustento día a día, día a día.
El que por ti daría la vida, ese soy.
Aquí estoy a tu lado, y espero aquí sentado, hasta el final.
No te has imaginado lo que por ti he esperado, 
pues eres lo que yo amo en este mundo, eso eres. 
Cada minuto en lo que pienso, eso eres. 
Lo que más cuido en este mundo, eso eres.
("You can't imaging how long I've waited for you. Well, you are what I love in this world, that's what you are. What I think of ever minute, that's what you are. What I take most care of in this world, that's what you are" THAT'S SO RAFA AND ALO! That shit just stabs my heart)

I had never seen the video until just now... and it gave me chills. Why? Because that boy is SO me... as in, I was the awkward, quiet, lonely, shy kid who just doodled in class while quietly admiring that one classmate.
The way they played with color in that video... fucking SOUL-CRUSHING... but I can relate, more than I'd like.
It makes me sad.
But I do believe it's now my favorite music video (in other words, watch the fucking video). It spoke to me, and it stayed true to the message the lyrics try to convey. Even a person who doesn't speak Spanish would get the point. Sublime lyrics, music, and video. Eaaa, Tacuberos!
If anyone can describe who I really am, it's Cafe Tacuba and their weird/touching/funny/sad/upbeat/dark music/videos... 'cause thats what I am, even if not everyone gets to see all the different aspects... luckily.

See, that's how shit moves from Rafa's heart-breaking situation, to me just being sad about my own shit.
I went ahead and found the video to CT's song that currently best describes me, Esta Vez (this time):

De pronto ya no se que pasa en mi.
De pronto ya no se quien soy.
De pronto ya no reconozco nada de lo que un día fui.
Hoy me pregunto que cambio dentro de mi.
Hoy me pregunto a donde voy.
Tal vez no existen las respuestas para lo que intento resolver.
Esta vez vengo buscando el corazón.
Esta vez lo intentare otra vez.
Esta vez ni más yo tratare de hacerlo bien,
si la vida me regala otra oportunidad.
De pronto ya no se que pasa en mi.
De pronto ya no se quien soy.
Tal vez no existen las respuestas para lo que intento resolver.
Esta vez no quiero otra ilusión.
Esta vez lo intentare otra vez.
Esta vez ni más yo tratare de hacerte bien,
si la vida me regala otra oportunidad.

Props to the guy who can run through the desert barefoot... that shit keeps me form crying, since I'm too busy imagining how much that shit must hurt.
Anyway, the lyrics ("Suddenly I don't know what's going on inside me. Suddenly, I don'y know who I am. Suddenly I don't recognize anything of what I once was." I've caught myself thinking that quite often) and feel (don't act like you've never wanted to break shit in a burning building)... they get me. While the video doesn't grab me like "Eres," I can relate to that sense of regret in this video.
If only I had one more try... one more chance... I'd do better this time.

Hmm... I've managed to make myself sad. I quit, I don't like this game.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Kinda always knew

Ladies and gentlemen, today, I became an adult.
I made peace with Olive Oyl. Like... legit peace. Like... "we're FB friends and I didn't stalk her photos or wall posts" (and I never will. It's true I'm over the disintegration of the whole "MGH/AnoMALIE thing," but I still don't want to sit there and wade through a never-ending stash of photos between the new lovebirds. That's just creepy stalker shit) peace.

I'm... over it.
I'm awed by this. Completely.
It only took me... what? Nine months? Not bad. And I've never befriended the chick I've lost to before. I was friends with a girl who stole away the "love of my young life" back in high school... but that was before she went ahead and fucked him (which led to him knocking her up). We were cool up until that happened.
So... this is new to me.

I can be nice.
I'm scared.
What kind of... weak-ass, pussy shit is this?
Yo... I really am going to heaven, for real.

Weirdest thing of all? I spoke to MGH, and again, I didn't feel that familiar pang in my heart, the palpitations, the tears building... I was good. It was as if I was speaking to a little cousin... kind of, except I felt nothing. This time, I didn't even feel anger.
That's kind of scary. I think my wish for being unable to feel anything is finally coming true... after 20 years of praying for it.

You guys... I think I can no longer feel... I think I just killed my heart!
Should I be panicking... or should we celebrate this?

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Kittens and Kisses

Last night was weird.
I had a bunch of strangely cute dreams...
after I had a terrifying dream where planes were falling from the sky and into my backyard. That shit wasn't cool.

My brain then decided to compensate me for my pain and suffering, so it then had me dream about kittens.
The kittens weren't trying to claw my eyes out, they weren't dying and covered in maggots... they were just... being cute kittens finding their way into my front yard in Mexico and wanting to get petted.
I don't even like cats... but only a monster doesn't like sweet little kitties (although the asshole kitties who hiss at you can go to hell. I don't like those).

After feeling all... peaceful from playing with kittens, my brain then gave me the best parting gift.
This entire scene played in my mind right before I woke up:

I woke up singing "SHA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA, my-oh-myyy look like dee boy too shy, ain't gonna kiss dee girrrl!" (shit, and people wondered why I couldn't get out of ESL classes. What kind of English skill is that to teach a four year old Mexican girl? But... it is a damn cute song... every male should be forced to listen to it at least once... with a transcript in hand)

I had a smile on my face the rest of the day... even during my usually maddening kickboxing class where I never lack a reason to elbow a bitch in the face.

Thank you, brain... you're pretty awesome sometimes.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Gifts "pore" you.

I received my first Christmas gift today.
A lovely, medium sized box was waiting for me on my doorstep when I returned home from the gym.
Since I'm relatively impatient when it comes to Christmas, I opened that shit up.
What was in it?
And This.
And This.
And This.
And This.
Oh, and This.
Let's not forget This.

Fifty bucks if you can correctly guess the thoughtful soul behind this.
Ok, fuck it, it was Pacemaker.
As if it weren't any more obvious.

I texted her the moment I finished looking through the box.

Me: Thanks?
Pacemaker: For?
Me: I got your gift today
Pacemaker: Oh! You're welcome!
Me: Pore-reducing? Eye-Alert? Really? WTF?
Pacemaker: Hey, I'm only look out for you

It's kind of short notice, so I'm hastily planning my gift to her.
So far, I have:
And This.
Maybe This.

It's called "friendship."
I reciprocate, buddy!

(In all reality, I understand she works at Kiehl's and that sort of thing is in the forefront for her. I do appreciate her going out of her way to get me the stuff, especially since I wasn't expecting it. It was kind of her to even think of me as she Christmas shopped... but damn... it was weird to catch the trend going on there. Now I know what she stares at when we hang out. Pore-Reducing... get the fuck outta here. And NO, I'm not actually getting her all that shit. I'm not that mean... plus, it's expensive! I just sent her a card that said "IOU. Redeemable in NYC... the actual city. For real." Needless to say, I'm avoiding the shops AT ALL costs once we're out there... don't want this chick redeeming her card in fucking Barneys or some shit. Jesus. She'd do that, too. Shit... I just gave this bitch a credit card, didn't I?)

I should have given her my wish-list:
- To be happy.

Hmm... somehow, I don't see her being able to fulfill that one for me... she didn't even pack the fucking peanut butter she had promised me earlier in the week.
Peanut butter would have definitely made me smile.
Or raspberries.
Or chocolate.
Or blueberries.
Or carne seca.
Or a dude wearing this shirt:

(that would produce a bitter-sweet smile... so he'd probably only get a thumbs-up from me. But this is definitely still better than pore-reducing cream)
Or Cristiano Ronaldo.
Come on, I'm easy!

Pore-reducing cream... pshhh!

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Enferma y delirando

I was a moribund cow yesterday, so I think my use of my monthly free pass for skipping a day of writing went to good use.
I had intended to update... but I wound up passing out half-way through my entry, as I watched Jimmy Fallon.
It all worked out for the best, though, because after going over it this morning, the post was quite depressing.
Note to self: Don't write while ill. Your entry will start resembling a suicide note.

Yesterday I woke up at five in the morning, unable to breathe because my bastard tonsils were so swollen. The swelling was so bad, I wound up gaging on the tonsils and proceeded to puke... bloody phlegm (hot, I know).
That hurt.
And it made me feel like I had tuberculosis.
I then took some Mexican tetracycline (Terramicina) that works miracles, and I fell asleep as I sucked on it. You must dissolve the pill with your own saliva, which takes about an hour... but since I passed out, it was in my mouth for five.
That felt good... especially when I noticed I couldn't taste shit because the damn Terramicina had numbed my tongue. At least it didn't discolor my teeth-- I've heard horror stories about that shit.

I then spent the day forcing myself to spit. Gurgling and all that shit. It itched and hurt at the same time... horribly exasperating.
What got me through the day? The Travel Channel.
I swear, I'm going to work for them some day... even if it's me just handing the camera crew water bottles. I'm doing it. (Another thing that got me through the day was thinking "I'll be motherfucking damned if I'm sick for this weekend. I gotta be great for Kelley's shindig, damn it! You can't control ME, body!")

Anyway, I spent the day in and out of consciousness... and I finally quit around 1:30AM or something like that. I sort of remember trying to work on my Portuguese sometime around my delirium. AND trying out Farsi. Which, of course, I quit. Fuck that... that language is hard as fuck! I just know I was pretty good at saying "good afternoon."
Who tries to learn languages while semi-unconscious? This idiot right here.

Still, my pain and suffering paid off, since I woke up feeling like a champion today.
No runny nose, perfect tonsils... and more Travel Channel.
I'm even shopping later on. Apparently, my sister can't shop without a companion, and so, I must suffer getting toted around H&M and all those other stores she digs (I can't complain about H&M. I find myself walking into the store just for memory's sake. I'll sit there and remember Bilbao as I stare at the shitty material the clothes is made of. Fucking store is my guilty pleasure, regardless of the shitty clothing with the shoddy stitching job... I still buy their shit).

Sunday, December 12, 2010

THE Best Number

Happy Sunday means "Day I catch up with my DVR."
In the process, I managed to find a quote I really liked. It made it on to my room's "dry-erase board of inspiration/pressing matters."
Best thing I've ever heard, I just had to jot it down.
Don't mind the bulimic's anthem in the corner there... I just get really, really motivated by Radiohead.

Parting thought of the day.
Sister gets shit like this:
Lucky bitch.

If I'm lucky enough to get a dude to tell me how he feels about me, it's in the form of a drunk,sleep-deprived late night phone call... in profanity-laden, slurred speech... where I'm referred to as "pendeja" or "bitch" the entire time.

That text message to Sister is... whoa.

I tell you, my sister has all the motherfucking luck in this household!
(Her response to the guy? "Cool." WOW)

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Fino, finito.

If you're not getting much play from your online profile, now is a great time to tap into your creative powers. Fire it up with cool facts, great pics and sweet stories. Rely on your ingenuity!
My horoscope for today.
"Cool facts, great pics and sweet stories?"
Umm... ok, first off, my only on-line profile is Facebook (I do still hold on to Myspace, but only for the blog posts... because some of them make me laugh. But I don't use it other than that). I don't have Facebook to try and hook up with anyone. Granted, I like/have liked a couple of my FB dude friends (like Darcy. But what girl wouldn't have her "Darcy" as a friend on FB?), but it's not like I'm actively seeking dates with random dudes on the damn thing (that's too damn lame, even for me). Hell no.  
It's just me letting my friends know what I'm up to... or quickly asking them something instead of texting or calling... or occasionally flirting with a cute friend.
The fact that I'm not "getting much play" from FB is no issue for me.

Fill it with cool facts, great pics, and sweet stories?
Great pics? Well, my photos are... eh. I have them as fond memories of great places I've been. Not many with my face in them, since I don't really enjoy photos, but I do like the pics on there.
Cool facts? Like... the fact that I was raised in the ghetto? That I used to play with the empty lighters of crack-addicts as a kid because I didn't know what they were for? Is that cool enough? Maybe the boring fact that I'm pretty badass on the violin? Some of my friends don't even know what a violin looks like. And I HATE getting into arguments over how classical music is BEAUTIFUL and ten times more superb than the bullshit most people listen to. Seriously. I get worked up even thinking about it. Justin Bieber (March 1st baby, sadly)? KE$HA (March 1st baby, again)?! Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi (March 4th baby. Almost a March 1s baby, almost), Bach (March 31st baby, but if it weren't for those 30 days, he'd be exactly 300 years older than me... which hey, fuck it, I'll claim him), Chopin (March 1st, finally. Coincidence? I think not! It's more than obvious that I chose the wrong career), motherfuckers! That's music! (So... looks like I'll keep the factoids to myself)
Sweet stories?
Hmmm... like... the one about my first ever pets? That must be sweet, right?
Ok, let's try:

As previously mentioned, I lived in the ghetto from the time I was born, until the last month of my 8th grade year. The "house" was small, and we barely had room for all five members of the family, so pets were out of the question (especially the pet my retarded ass wanted: a horse. Yeah, ok, I wasn't very bright).
My siblings and I spent our childhood begging for a dog... which of course, we never got (we did get Tyson, but I was 16 by then). We would have to settle for living in Mexico in the summers, where my mom's Dad always had a new puppy and a litter of kitties waiting for us to play with. He'd also let me play with his horses and the occasional colt that my favorite mare (Tony La Chivera! I loved that bitch. She was the shit. She hated everyone but me and my grandpa) would have (hence, why Mexico became my heart and soul. It gave me a world I would have otherwise never known existed. You know, a happy, semi-normal one...). Everyone noticed how much we liked, and wanted, pets.

Anyway, back in the United States, Mooney had bunnies around the time I was a 6th grader. We'd go to her house at least once a week to play with the pet bunnies. I'm sure they felt sad over the fact that we were so eager to have pets... since we'd play outside with the poor things for freakin' hours.
Somehow, Mooney's Dad convinced Mom to allow us to each get a bunny. Male bunnies, so we wouldn't have to worry about being overrun by rabbits.
Rafa, Sister, and I chose our own rabbits. Rafa got a runty albino bunny, Sister got a giant white with light-brown bunny, and I got a medium white with black bunny. Apollo, Fino, and Coby, respectively.
Fino was a total bully, who would rape the other two rabbits at night and I'd have to wake up and squirt them with water. Apollo was a total bitch, who would just take it... actually, no, Apollo was hardcore gay (this was discovered one day we placed the rabbits with other rabbits. While Fino and Coby went for the females and humped them, Apollo went for the only other male in the bunch. The females loved Apollo and he hated them. Such a strange rabbit) and he enjoyed it. Coby, my rabbit, was a fighter. He was the only one who would bite back and all that shit... and he would never try humping any of the other rabbits.
While Fino was an asshole rapist with the rabbits, he was a total sweetheart with humans. He would give my sister and me "gifts" when we would allow the bunnies to run around in the backyard. He would seriously carry weird-shaped leaves and twigs to us and place them in our hand. It was hard to hold a grudge against him for harassing the other rabbits when he'd be the kindest, sweetest bunny to us. That big bastard.
Well, one day Fino got in a huge fight with Coby. He bit the hell out of my poor rabbit's back, and this made us angry.
Sister: Why's my rabbit such an asshole? I fucking hate him sometimes!

Mom and Dad had been carrying on a joke about how we needed to "enjoy the rabbits now. They're going to be on our dinner plate soon."
Whaaat? Never!
We always told them that day would never come. But this day, the day Coby was bitten, Sister was pissed... and she wanted something from Dad. I no longer remember why she was licking his ass... but she wanted something of value. So she told him:
"Daddy! You can eat my rabbit when he gets big enough!"
I remember looking at her like I would a monster.
You fucking bitch! That's like your fucking child!
And it was as if Fino knew. That nigga had just been betrayed, and he was never the same. He was genuinely sad, all lethargic and shit. Poor little guy.

Ok. So maybe a month passed, when Dad came home from work one beautifully sunny Saturday afternoon and told Mom:
"All right... I'm in the mood for some Rabbit. And *Sister's* rabbit is huge. Let's do it."
Mom and Dad then grabbed the rabbit cage and took it outside. They then proceeded to close the living-room curtains so we "wouldn't see."
Oh, brouhaha that ensued!
Sister started kicking and screaming.
I started crying and screaming.
And Rafa started to laugh.
What followed was... traumatizing.
Sister ran to the bedroom and bawled her ass off. Rafa peeked out the window the entire time, giving me a fucking narration of everything. I sat in the living-room sobbing so hard I'd almost barf.
Uncle had told Mom and Dad that one could kill the rabbits with a broomstick and one swift blow to the head... right behind the ears. In hindsight, he probably should have given them more precise directions.

I remember seeing Dad lift Fino by both his little ears... and Fino just stared back at me (Dear God, I'm already getting upset remembering all this). Then I see Dad whack the back of Fino's head. I screamed at him from inside the house while tapping the window, furiously.
And Fino didn't die! He just started kicking wildly.
Please stop, stop, stop!
I saw Dad go for another whack... and I just had to look away.
I could hear Dad keep hitting Fino... and Rafa's face was no longer amused.
Damn... my dad sucks. Poor Fino.
I kept screaming and sobbing.
And Rafa's face was just... you know, it's that face you make when all you're really thinking is "Man... that sucks." Then it quickly changed to surprise.
Rafa: Oh... my God... Fino isn't even dead!
I looked out once he said this.
Dad was holding down Fino, one hand on Fino's back, the other pulling his ears in the opposite direction... and Mom had the butchering knife in her hand.
I pounded on the wall as I saw when Mom made the first hack at the back of Fino's head. I saw the blood, the skin... his bone... and how Fino just... flopped around. God, it was awful.
Rafa pushed my head away from the window and closed the curtain.
Rafa: Shut up, dude. He's dead. They killed him. Can't do anything now.
I ran to the bedroom and accompanied my sister in the crying and wailing and punching of the wall.

Mom and Dad prepared the rabbit, placed it in the middle of the dinner table... and invited us to eat it.
Me: No, you fucking... murderous... animals! I hope you fucking... get sick!
Mom backhanded my mouth.
Me: You fucking ::uncontrollable sob:: monsters. I'll never forget this.

Mom and Dad showed some remorse later on... but the damage was done. They traumatized their kids, all because they were being stupid farmer hillbilly animals who craved rabbit... so they killed one of their kid's pets... for dinner. (Who the fuck does that... I mean, what person that does not live in a farm does that? MY BARBARIC PARENTS! That's who!)
All I can say is that I'm glad we're not Korean... I'd fucking have a heart-attack if they'd decide to have Tyson for dinner.

Hmmm... that wasn't a very sweet story, now, was it?
I may be a sweet girl... but it doesn't really translate to my memories... which probably has a lot to do with it.
Oh well. C'est ma vie.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Rainy SF night

Pacemaker: Ugh! AnoMALIE! I swear! Yesterday was horrible! First off, I was in the city (SF) and it was pouring.
Me: Aww. Well, it still looked pretty. I still envy you.
Photo I was referencing. This city can be engulfed by flames and I'll still think it's beautiful.
Pacemaker: No, it gets worse. AnoMALIE, I'm walking across the street when I feel this guy hit my bag. I swear I thought I was getting mugged. I got startled... tell me why my bag disintegrates and everything comes tumbling out. In the middle of the street. Directly in front of Neiman Marcus. I was mortified. I had my huge umbrella in one hand, my Starbucks in the other... and now I had this huge dilemma.
Pacemaker: So I had to try and rush to pick everything up with one hand before the light turned green... and I just kept looking at the cars like "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but my bag's a piece of shit." And I could just sense all these rich people thinking "Ugh... what's that hoodlum doing in our part of town?"
Pacemaker: So I gather my shit and rush to the nearest store for some shelter. What place was it? Neiman. And you remember what type of doors Neiman has?
Me: Those huge revolving ones?
Pacemaker: YES! So there you have me, drenched and with a ton of shit in my hands, trying to balance my coffee... so I keep nudging the door with my shoulder... then my jumbo umbrella... then I kick it... and finally, I just use my back. I was out of breath and exhausted when I walked to the nearest counter and asked for a bag for my shit. They were really nice, since they felt so sorry for me.
Pacemaker: I swear... this type of shit only happens to me... or you!
Me: No, had it happened to me, this is how shit would have gone down: My bag would have disintegrated just as a gust of wind would pick up, shit would fly, but not too far, just far enough to get me in the middle of the street... the dude really would have mugged me... then the streetlight would have turned green... and the poor guy behind the wheel of the car I'd be blocking would be James Franco... he'd get exasperated and start honking like a maniac, all while flicking me off... I would have started crying, my mascara would run, I'd spill the coffee all over my chest as I'd try pushing the revolving doors open, I'd break my umbrella while in the revolving door, I'd cut my foot as I'd step out of the revolving door, then, finally, I'd set-off the alarm as I'd walk into Neiman. Security would then search my suspected-of-theiving Mexican-ass and that's how I'd call it a day. And I wouldn't be granted a bag. THAT would happen to me.