Caballitos

(Pacemakers calls me. We talk about her transfer to Cal-State East Bay. Conversation moves on to Facebook and everything that goes on there)
Pacemaker: So, we were looking at your pictures, and we saw one *Cousin* tagged of you... tell me WHY did you have a black eye?!
Me: What the hell are you talking about? I've never taken a photo with a black eye. (internally) And what the fuck do you mean by "we?" Do you sit at home and round everyone up to stare at my Facebook photos?
Pacemaker: *Cousin*'s birthday party, where you're wearing a blue dress. Your right eye is black.

Upon closer inspection... I DO have a black eye (I'm the very happy child in blue, staring at the fiery candles)!
And the story comes back to me... even if I was a three year old at the time of the incident, and I'm now 25, I remember how that all went down.

Back in the day, we'd throw birthday parties at the park. Right now, the name of the park escapes me... I just remember it was my favorite because:
1. It had ducks you could feed... even if those birds were pushy little bastards that were often taller than you and would peck the hell out of you if there was no adult supervision.
2. It had a little choo-coo that wasn't very "little." You could walk into the different cabooses, sit inside with your friends... and it was pretty fun... until too many little piglets got on and pissed all over the train... and by "piglets," I mean "stupid dirty kids."
3. It had "horse" swings.

This last reason was my absolute favorite. I had (well, still sort of do) a thing for horses.
The seat part of the swing was a plastic pony, like the kind they have outside K-Marts on the Merry-Go-Rounds... and it was held by this metal bar that you had to push back and forth in order to get air. Know what I'm talking about, or was I the only ghetto kid with such weirdo swings? I don't even know if they still exist, it has been so long.

Anyway, one day at one of these parties, my "babysitter' aka slightly older cousin, was in charge of taking me to the various park attractions. This cousin was... a fucking moron, to explain it as best I can.
She wanted to go to the giant curly slide, which I was terrified of (that shit hurt my butt... it was metal, and I was forced to wear dresses to all these park parties... ideal for slides, right?), and I wanted to ride the pony swing.
Babysitter agreed to take me to the swings... but only after getting on the monster slide. I agreed.
I didn't ride the monster slide, I just waited for her at the bottom.
Finally, it was time to go to the swings!
As we were walking, the other kids from the party started running towards the area our parents had set up shop.
"Piñata!"
Change of plans, AnoMALIE, were going to the piñata.
I was mad... and started dragging my feet.
We were right at the swings... why not swing a little? Screw the piñata.

Babysitter ran, and I stood still to scream at her... in the middle of the 4-pony-holding swing set.
I remember looking to my right, towards the swings, and all I can see is this huge ass in acid-washed jeans coming right at my face... like in slow-motion.
I remember feeling my body lift... then Bam!

Black.

I wake up cradled in my mom's arms... making eye-contact with a green-eyed cousin that was staring me right in the face.
"She's awake!!"
I look around, and all the little kids were eating cake... they take a look at me, then proceed to chit chat and eat cake.
I stare at my mom, she smiles, and I start to bawl.
I felt stupid... how long was I out for? and why the fuck is no one caring?! I'm hurt! And this creepy-green-eyed idiot girl doesn't quit staring at me! and I couldn't see out of my right eye.

Turns out, this one lady was on the pony swing with her whatever-month-old, the moment my babysitter abandons me. As I'm clumsily making my way past the swings, I stand still. Acid-washed-jeans Lady realizes this, but she can't stop because of the momentum of her massive ass.
She hit me as she was swinging back, and I flew in the air... according to those present.
I landed unconscious, so the lady picked me up from the floor and started asking around for my parents... because, once again, my dickhead of a babysitter had run off to hit a fucking piñata.
Once the lady found my mom, she apologized repeatedly. They laid me on a table, and they all decided I was perfectly fine... even if my body was limp... but I guess I had a pulse, so everything was cool.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I received my first black eye, and only concussion.

Crazy how I remember so much of it... had I not seen the photo, I would have kept thinking it was all a dream or something.

And yes... I'd take another plastic-pony to the face if it meant I could ride that fucking swing one more time.

Tasty

I've never had a nickname that sticks for too long.
Today, my friends have found me a new one, that I hope follows in this tradition:
Sabrosa.

No, not because I look good (Sabrosa means "tasty" in Spanish, the feminized version. Thus, like any good Spanish word, it serves well for double-entendre purposes... construction worker double-entendre), but because I have such a hissy fit when I hear the Univision futbol announcer pronounce Portugal's Simao Sabrosa's name.
The man literally has an orgasm each time he has to say "sAHHHbrOHHHsAHHH."
There is no way you can convince me that man hasn't busted a nut saying it...
It annoys the shit out of me.
He's just one of those damn people that won't let a joke go. Someone laughs, and we're all doomed. He beats it to death until someone gets the urge to go strangle the moron.

So, people know this irritation of mine, and now they're spamming the hell out of my phone with "Sabrosa" texts.
Makes me giggle, but I just hope no one hears them call me this in public... 'cause I'm as tasty as battery acid.

Yet another thing I have to thank the World Cup for (ah! but there are positives! It gives me an excuse to talk to Darcy. And we all know how pre-teen I turn with that subject. I won't lie, I've clapped like a retarded seal a couple of times already. I'm lame, I know, shut up... I can't help it... I'm a girl... and it's Darcy, come on! That's the one dude I allow myself to get retarded over... he's so legit... and dreamy, and funny, and smart, and... Ok, I'll shut up now).
Thanks, man.

She's a nice lady!

All this World Cup brouhaha has made me forget one thing: come Friday afternoon, I must entertain 9 boys... until Monday.
Like I said, I love having my guy friends, they're a blast... we just run into problems when they want me to show them the Vegas experience. That damn Hangover movie doesn't make this shit any easier. I'm not going to help them find a tiger, and I refuse to partake in card-counting (do I know how to do it? Yeah, my high school calculus teacher taught all of us how to do this... just for the hell of it, don't think he was some sort of thug. He was a sweet, adorably shy Catholic-school boy who would blush each time a girl would ask him a question... awww, I feel all warm and fuzzy thinking about him).
I have a huge connection at "The World's Largest Strip Club," which I've never taken advantage of because... why the fuck do I want to go to a strip club? But, for these boys, it appears I'm going to have to do it. Nine 22 year-olds... and me... they better not get any ideas.

They also want to go club hopping... which... I'm just too tired and old for that.
I mean, been there, done that. I hate the stupid hip-hop that appears to be invading the club scene... what the hell happened to techno and all that good stuff with a deep baseline? Oh, yeah, that's right, people can't dance for shit so they opt for the head-bobbing, gangsta thing to California Love (don't get me wrong, I LOVE that song, but how the fuck am I expected to dance to it without a drink in my hand? I can't! One needs a drink in one's hand and the other hand free to point to the sky and sway from side to side. And honestly, I'm sick and tired of the one clumsy bitch who always spills her drink on me because she can't even do THAT properly). But, the kiddies want me to party with them... and I do feel a little honored that they'd want to spend some time with me.

Now I have to clean the house, and have my car ready... to welcome the boys.
Barf.

Worst part? One of the boys is MGH's brother.
:(
That's the best way I can describe it.
I tell you, just when I'm cool with the process of moving on (I'm finally talking to dudes without feeling bummed. I mean, a word from Darcy is once again making me smile like a dumbass... like back in the good ol' days when I'd bump into him and I'd just stand and stare without saying much, only smiling until my cheeks hurt each time. Of course, he doesn't know he makes me smile like a moron, I keep that shit to myself), something comes along and stirs shit up.

The moment his name is dropped, I come back home (unless it's accidental, of course, since he does share his name with a certain, popular plumber).
This also applies if I hear one of them quote that fucking Hangover movie.

Busted dreams n ankles

HEARRRRRRRTBREAK!

Ok, not so bad. I was pissed more than anything. I acquired a meanass headache... and somehow injured my left ankle... ??
Too much screaming, too much jumping, I suppose.
All in all, I'm proud of my little guys... except that dumbass Osorio. When all the young guns were sharp, alert, and speedy, he was aloof... and cost us some plays, not to mention that fucking goal.
Ok, no talk of the goals, 'cause I get upset (except when we talk about the third goal, Tevez's REAL goal. Now THAT was masterfully done... a thing of beauty).

Anyway, I'm glad to be Mexican. We find a reason to party over anything.
This time it was a "We're alright... FUCK 'EM UP, GERMANY!!" party.

Of course, everyone gets drunk, the heartbreak returns, and then we start sharing current heartbreak problems over some Vicente Fernandez jams. Next thing you know, I'm tearing up, sharing certain text messages I saved on my phone, and asking people "What is SO wrong with me?!"

...not that I really did that...
I mean, it's just hypothetical....
because I never get drunk... and I never cry.

I'm glad this is all in the past.

I have to go ice my injury now, messed-up ankles are no joke.
("Hot-blooded": for when you refuse to be called "stupid")

Going south

Wow. My stroll down Bitter Lane is only getting worse.
And tomorrow...
regardless of the outcome, let it be known: I love you, Mexico!!
Unless the players give up... that's when the squad pisses me off.
That defeatist attitude is what keeps all of us down and unable to achieve greatness... I include myself in this because I'm guilty of it myself.
No one ever gets in my way... I'm always my own worst enemy, my worst critic.
Shit, I actually appreciate people doubting me. It has driven me to accomplish everything I've ever done.
High school graduation, college graduation, science major... all that good stuff. I have someone else to thank for doubting me enough to spark that vindictive side in me.

So... I hope the Mexican soccer squad has that drive.
A enseñarles quienes son los papas de los pollitos, cabrones!

Rhymes with BAGS

I dreamt Mr. Darcy had taken up smoking.
I've never been so distressed. Yeah, I know, how lame of me, but smoking is the biggest deal breaker... I don't care how hot the guy is. Sure, I have friends who smoke, but I met them when they were already smokers. If a friend takes up smoking after meeting me, I tend to keep my distance.
It baffles me how such a stupid, gross addiction would be taken up by anyone nowadays, knowing the damaging effects to both the smoker and the people around him/her.

Anyway, back to the dream.
Darcy got along perfectly with my most annoying friend... which didn't make matters any better.
They would complete each other's sentences, and Darcy would use this fake, annoying voice, which freaked me out.
"Don't say that, weirdo! And why are you using that voice?!"
While I gave both my friend and Darcy a ride, they sat in the back and talked dirty to each other... did I mention my annoying friend is a dude?

This is the type of shit I've been dealing with this week-- weird, vivid dreams involving people I know.

What the hell is going on in my head? ... but I have to admit: even after all the smoking, flirting, and weird-vocalization... it was nice to see Darcy, even if it was only a dream.
I blame yesterday's poem.

Thief

Te robaría tus pensamientos y tus mas perversas fantasías,
para cumplirlas una a una hasta que no pudieras mas de placer.
Finalmente robaría tu aliento, tu reloj y tu tiempo; tu cordura y tu silencio.
Robaría de tu futuro tu muerte, para que nunca te encuentre,
Y en la eternidad contigo vivir por siempre.

Had this been said in English, I would have scoffed.
Reading it in Spanish, it made me smile... then get sad.
Of course.

Calle De La Amargura, like always. It appears I have a permanent residence there.

Base of the Pyramid

(I walk into the kitchen while my parents are finishing their fillet mignon. I go into the pantry, pull out some cereal, then pour myself a bowl)

Dad: What are you eating?!
Me: Cereal... ?
Dad: So... tell me again what you're having for dinner.
Me: ... Honey Bunches of Oats... ??
Dad: What is wrong with you?!

Maybe I shouldn't show Daddy my track marks just yet...
(I don't have any. It's sarcasm, ok? I've been having shit luck as of recently when it comes to my sarcastic remarks... people around me aren't taking too kindly to it. I would try to change that about me, but then it wouldn't be me)

Che boludos!

I found a sound I hate more than my mom's mariachi scream: my sister's disgusted scream.

Today, it was Little Sister who woke me up with her stupid sound effect when Uruguay scored.
It also didn't help that today, of all days, these ladies decided to make strawberry pancakes. The aroma had me on the verge of waking up...  it was at that weird stage where I'm still sort of sleeping, but I'm starting to become aware of my surrounding, so then they start playing a creepy role in my dreams. Giant strawberries were chasing me in the dream prior to being woken up.

Anyway, back to soccer: although Mexico passed to the next round, once again, the heart-breaking task of taking us out of the Cup is left up to the Argentinians.

Come Saturday (or is it Sunday? I'm too distraught to think clearly) I'm sure I'll be a very dejected girl... and I'll be full of rage.

Like today, what the fuck was that, Mexico? I try so damn hard to keep people from hating on the team... and just when I'm about to convert some into believers, Mexico goes off and plays like a bunch of little bitches. Makes me almost throw up bile from all this anger.

Damn it, I'm so upset. 

I hope the weekend takes its time to get here. I'm not too eager to ruin my weekend like that.

P.S. I better not listen to that Uruguayan accent today... that sucker will get punched. Argentinians will get punched regardless if they speak or not, 'cause they never fail to be annoying.

Pub D

I wasn't planning on watching the Portugal game. I had made the decision last night, since it was 3AM and I was barely getting into bed. I was going to sleep until 11 AM, in time for the Spain game... not any time earlier.

Wish not granted.
I woke up at 5 in the morning to my mom doing her damn mariachi scream... then her knocking at my door.

"ARE YOU WATCHING THE GAME?! You can sleep in peace now... they're 2-0, Portugal has it in the bag!"

Thanks mom... I'll try.

Curiosity killed the cat, however, and I turned on my television.
I planned on watching the rest of the game in my room, but after hearing the rest of the family in the living room, and remembering that the TV there is four times the size of mine (i.e. better view of Cristiano Ronaldo. You're retarded if you think I'd pass that up), I decided I was going to get a little decent and head out there.

In the middle of putting on a t-shirt, mom runs in and opens the door on me.

"AAAAAJUUUUAAAAA!"

"What the fuck, Mom?! I''m changing!"

"Another one!"

"I don't care!"

The woman was more excited about the damn game than I was.
I was irritated, but then more goals came... and of course... there was an abundance of Cristiano smiles... and poof! all my anger/irritation vanished.
Then I started feeling bad for the NKoreans. It was a freakin' massacre.

I tried staying awake for the Chile game, but once I saw the goal, I went back to my room, into bed, and left the TV on.
When I woke up again, I saw the Spain game was about to start, so I dashed for the living room.
I had not realized my sister's friends dropped by to watch the game, turning the living room into... pretty much a pub.
I skipped into the living room... barefoot, in my mismatched pajamas (black wife beater with "patch-work" shorts that shouldn't even be considered shorts- I've seen underwear bigger than that. But it's hot, give me a fuckin' break)... with my hair all fucked up... and last night's mascara making beautiful raccoon patches around my eyes.
Sweet.

I lost my hearing, felt my face get hot, and excused myself, self-banished to my room for the remainder of the game.
That will teach me a lesson about running freely in my house in shitty pajamas!
Good thing Spain won (although they could have scored more than twice. Missed penalty, Villa... really?!), or else... I'd be thinking about moving to the other side of the world, and deleting my FB for good.

Now Mexico tomorrow.
Uff.
Please, make it a winner, boys!!

Pops

"When I was little, my biggest dream was to one morning, eat two eggs, a slice of bread, and a whole glass of milk."

As a kid, Dad would have one egg once a week for breakfast. Most of the time, he would have to share a slice of sweet bread with his sister, and drink coffee with the tiniest drip of milk, on a "good day."

"At school, three of my friends and I would share half a kilo of tortillas. We would trade days where one of us would be responsible to bring the salt shaker. We'd sit by the big mulberry tree during lunch and eat salt-tacos."

Daddy was one of the poorest kids in his tiny town. He remembers hearing about other kids putting butter on their "salt tacos" and thinking "Shit... how much money do their dads make to afford butter?!"

"Every Christmas, I'd ask Baby Jesus for a bike. I promised I would share it with my brother... but it never happened. Not a single year. I knew he brought toys on Christmas only because my neighbors would wake up, run outside, and play with their new toys that morning. Their laughter would wake me up... and I'd see them from my door, playing with their new bike, or sporting their new shoes, or whatever."

His neighbors were rich. They weren't mean, per se, they were just naive, and didn't know other people were less fortunate.

"One day, a friend caught me shaking off the dandruff from my hair. He tried making fun. My response? One day... all those flecks of dandruff you see coming off my hair, will be bills... hundred dollar bills."

Ambitious, driven Daddy.
"I had one serious girlfriend once I came to Las Vegas. She was my best friend's sister... I love her, and I really wanted to marry her. I dumped her after I overheard an argument she was having with her mother. 'What does he have to offer you?! He's just a mechanic! A poor, Mexican, bastard!' A couple of months later, I went to her wedding. I sat in the back row, hoping she would back out. Once she said 'Yes,' I promised myself I'd NEVER stop working until I became rich. No one would ever belittle me again." "Did you cry, Daddy... when she said yes?" "I walked out... went to my favorite bar, and got shitfaced."

I often fight with my dad, but God, do I love that man.
I used to resent him as a kid, because he was never around. Whenever we were lucky enough to have him home, we had to stay quiet, and let him sleep... he only had a couple of hours before the beginning of his second work shift.
He often brags about money... which drives me insane... but I step back, and think of his childhood.

We might have had a rough start, but Daddy kept his word.
I might no have seen him often, but we never had the huge needs he once had as a child... and Santa always visited us... up until my baby sis was 13 years old.
Now? I can't even begin to describe the amazing wishes he has made come true for my siblings and I.
Sure, Daddy wasn't much of a nurturer... a grizzly bear might have been able to take better care of us (case and point, the photos below. I know I've used them before... but Jesus Christ... I still can't get over where he placed those seat belts on us- his own kids! They were over-the-shoulder SEAT BELTS, how does that translate to "around the belly" and especially "AROUND THE NECK?!" hahaha):

But... he has gone above and beyond when it comes to providing.

He's my daddy, mi papiringo... mi papirrin... mi amorsototote!

He makes me laugh until my stomach hurts by simply picking up pen and paper, and doodling for me (such a HORRIBLE artist, with freakish attention to detail, if that makes sense).
His optimistic, kind, heart gives me hope for humanity.

I love you, Dad. You're an incredible person. Thank you.

Puuuuma!

Damn you, Cameroon! Way to make me sad!
I really like that little team. Shoot, I like the entire country.

Short story (I said I wouldn't mention anything that went down in Paris, but this is pertinent):

When we arrived in Paris, it was well past 12AM, and we still had a long train-ride to that piece of shit city of Sarcelles.
On our way to the metro, EVERY SINGLE French person we'd ask for help was a useless asshole.
It was pouring outside, it was cold, we were lost, and no matter how fucking hard we tried to communicate, they'd be fucking jerks who said bullshit about not understanding our accent (motherfuckers. They're the ONLY people I'm a cunt to when it comes to accents. You say your goddamn Rs around me! You hear me? What's that? I can't understand... that accent, it's garbage).
Of course, I'm a sentimental idiot, so after maybe the fifth asshole to treat us like shit came around, I couldn't take it any more, and I started to cry.

We're girls! We're nice girls! We're trying! Is it so fucking hard to be nice and help out?!

In the middle of my crying, I saw a huge M, figured "metro" and we moved on over to the metro.
We struggled our way to our designated area (more asshole-ery from the French. More crying from my behalf), and waited for the train. By the time we reached the waiting area, all three of us were mean-looking bitches ready to fight, and still, these two black guys in suits stood up, and offered us their seats.

"Sillez-vous, mademoiselles"

My friend was confused and wouldn't sit until I translated.
The guy started speaking to us in English.

Guy: You girls are tourists?
Friend: Yeah. Sorry I gave you attitude. We're just... people have been so mean here.
Guy: Where are you headed?
We bust out the map.
Guy: Umm...
Shows friend. They start talking amongst themselves.
Guy: Why?
Sister: Because that's where we're staying.
Guy: Yeah... but why?
Sister: Because that was the only place with rooms available.
Train comes, guy and his friend sit next to us on the train.
Guy: Look, I'm not going to sugar coat it- you guys are going to a... a not so-safe place.
Friend, sister, and I look at each other. I'm PISSED. My sister waited until the last second to book the room in Paris, and now we were going to a fucking ghetto. Thanks!
Me: Oh my God...
Guy: The place you're going isn't too close. I'm going to take you.
We thank him... and again, start crying. This guy was being so nice.
We proceed to introduce ourselves, and we find out the guys are from Cameroon. My response? Oh! Like Samuel Eto'o!
And BAM! Friendship.
The two friends would talk amongst themselves, especially when Edmund (that turned out to be the nicest one's name) started telling us why Sarcelles was so weird. I may not speak French to perfection, but I understand everything they say.
Edmund's Friend: Don't say that. You'll scare the girls!
Edmund: What? I'm just telling them the truth! A couple of young, nice girls walking alone to their hotel in the middle of a cold, rainy night. Would you let your sisters do that?
The rest of the riders would smile, being a little nicer to us now.

When we finally reached our stop, Edmund's friend went to the East, while Edmund started walking with us to the West.
We walked 6 blocks. All the while, Edmund helped with the heaviest bag, and gave us history lessons. Then he apologized for the French.
Edmund: You see... they see you're American, and well... they don't have a problem with you, directly, but they're not happy with the policies of your president. French are funny people.
Me: Well, they're funny people I now HATE.
Edmund: Don't say that. Paris is one of the greatest cities in the world. It's gorgeous. Just... go to your room, sleep, in the morning freshen up, and get ready to give it a second chance. You'll love it.

He walked us to our hotel, we hugged him, and he started walking back to the train station... his suit soaking wet, and his briefcase over his head as his only protection from the rain.

Edmund walked away like a fuckin' cowboy into the sunset... except everything ass-backwards.

And that's why I love Cameroon.
And hate France (although there's wayyy more horror stories concerning that shithole that made me loathe the place).

Mind readers

You know what's weird? Me giving my sister dating advice.

The girl has always been far more popular, much prettier, and much luckier in the romance department than I, so I was a little surprised when she walked in my room and asked for help.

Sister: Should I just confront him and ask him what the deal is?
Me: I'm not a guy, but I'm sure over 80 percent HATE being considered mind-readers. Their clueless-ness is not an act... more than half the time they really don't know what the fuck is going on.
Sister: So I'm not being clingy/needy by letting him know that I like him more than a friend and that I want to know where we stand.
Me: No. Trust me... tell the guy. And if he tells you what you don't want to hear, be cordial about it. You don't have to stay friends... that hurts, and based on our personality, we can't really handle that shit. But always be nice to the dude when you see him. After all, he's part of your circle of friends,  no need to make shit awkward.

Am I sure I gave her the best advice? Hell no. I have no clue. I only said what I've tried.
In my life, I have always told the guy I like how I feel. Well, I can't say always, because I have kept my trap shut with one or two (oddly enough, dudes I've really, really liked. I've opted to spare them the awkward "I'm flattered, but..." conversation), but the majority of guys, yeah, I have.

Every single time, it has ended in disaster (HA! The stories I've collected! I'm going to write a book on it some time. Heartbreaking, weird, and funny. Never heart-warming, but we can't have it all. I'm fine once I can laugh about it... which takes a few years, but it comes eventually)... but, I guess you can say I've been glad to get it off my chest.
I'm the kind of idiot who needs someone to grab me by the face and spell shit out for me.

AnoMALIE! IT. IS. NOT. GONNA. WORK.. MOVE ON!

^That kind of shit. Once that happens, I shake the dirt off my freshly-skidded knees, shake hands, and walk away... then I spend months writing dark poetry in my diary and doodling eyes all over the place. Ok, not really with the dark poetry... I just put Muse's "Falling Away With You" on loop until I no longer cry at any point during the song... but the eyes, yes, I do that (I'm clueless as to why I do it, but I find it sort of alleviating). Guess how I got over the whole MGH fiasco?

Anyway, I hope the kid gets her issues sorted. While I wouldn't mind having help in raising all my cats when I get old, I'd be devastated if the aid comes in the form of my equally-single baby sister.

Fightin' Irish

Drunk by 1PM.
Carne Asadas everywhere.
Mariachi music blasting.
Devastated French people.

Heaven... simply heaven.

I'm having a ball making fun of all my Mexican friends who talked trash about Mexico.
Suddenly, after this game, they are all either Chicharito or Cuauhtemoc fans.
Prior to this, they'd bitch about 'temoc being too old (even if he brings experience to such a young squad. That little hunchback gives the team such an unbelievable boost in morale when he comes in), Chicharito being a girl (girl or not, that kid was signed by Man U. A Mexican at Old Trafford!), and how "Mexico should stick to what they're good at: novelas and drug dealing!"

Now, they "knew all along Mexico was gonna kill it."
Get the fuck out of here.
But whatever... one must learn to live with bandwagon-ers. I'm too stoked about Mexico kicking France's ass to care too much.
Not only do I have beef with that country for personal reasons (Paris 2008, which I never fully explained on here and now I refuse to because the memories still upset me), but their squad is the most intensely hated squad on my list.
They weren't legit in getting into the World Cup in the first place... that Henry hand was bullshit.
I'd like to think my boys avenged the Irish, with whom I sympathize because my family's Irish in spirit: Notre Dame, baby!

You're welcome, Ireland. I just wish we could all get drunk and make fun of France together!

Sure enough

It hasn't been a week, and I'm already moody/mean as all hell.
I walk around like a zombie... I respond with monosyllabic grunts when shaking/nodding my head seems like too laborious a task, and I curl up on the bed/sofa/floor and fall asleep within minutes during random times of the day.
Then tomorrow... ugh. I'm so scared for the Mexico-France game, I've decided not to watch. Instead, I'm going to run at the gym with my headphones on until the damn match is over.
I'm going to look up the game's result in the same fashion I'd look up my biochemistry/molecular biology/mammalian physiology exam scores: with fear, on an empty stomach, and with lots of tissues... ready to bawl my ass off... and if I'm lucky enough to be home alone, I'm going to scream.

This is fucking torture. Good thing it only comes around once every four years.
(Oh man... and today's Spain game... I could not... I was... living-dead girl, man. I didn't cry because I was too shocked)

P.S. If I hear a Ke$ha song one more time... I'm going to look up that bitch's address, drive to her house, ring her doorbell, and punch her in her throat. Bitch can't sing... if I want to hear a drunk sorority girl mumble, I'll just drop by Maryland and Harmon, shit.

TL

So, that movie "Good Luck Chuck," I've never seen it all the way through, but from what I've gathered before losing interest, I can pretty much relate.
I like a dude, maybe date him (or in most cases, I just chill with him... he doesn't dig me, but I totally dig him, so in order to still be in his presence, I'll be his friend and listen to all his stories as I feel my heart break little by little--melodramatic, much?), all the while, no other chick digs him... but as soon as I really start liking the guy, he gets all popular, and I get ditched.
If I sort-of dated him, his next chick becomes his wife.
Rad.

I've been thinking of this all day because:

1) I'm SO sick of seeing more than half the chicks on my FB list say something about CRonaldo being their "baby daddy."
Most of the time, these girls are well under the age of 19... so their vocab is often quite limited.
It drove me crazy today, since he played, and that was all anyone was talking about.
No, I'm not saying it's thanks to me liking him back in '04 that his fame skyrocketed exponentially- I'm saying I had the eye back in '04 to see him and think "Holy cow... this guy is going to be gorgeous in the next couple of years."
Sure enough, girls wet their panties when they see him, even if it's just him diving on the field- they love it (hey, I'm guilty of it too. I love it as much as the next girl... although there's a lot of eye-rolling and cussing going on when I see it).

2) The dude who introduced me to my love, creative writing, got married over the weekend.
We didn't date... it was this weird little tango bullshit we pulled when I was a college freshman. He was my English teacher my first semester... and things just got weird from there for the next year.
He was hilarious, sarcastic, witty, smart, only five years older than I, and he had the most killer blue eyes ever... ever! He liked me because he said I had a weird writing style he had never seen before (which, to this day, I don't understand what makes my style so weird), but he liked very much-- I made him laugh when he had to grade the numerous English 101 papers while still hungover on Sunday afternoons. I made him smile, and he appreciated it.
Anyway, I like him, he liked me, we hung out often since we both spent freakishly long hours in school (and he was new in town, I was one of the first to extend a hand in friendship), and we got into talking about his MFA in creative writing (among other things... like retarded seals and Ralph Wiggum)... and that was how I learned CW was out there.
The summer before my sophomore year, everything collapsed in the relationship, he found himself a chick he made his real girlfriend, and the damage was done. I was already enrolled for the fall semester in CW, I was going to leave to Mexico for the summer, and I thought fuck it, I'm already on board with this shit, I'll just try not to bump into him in the hallways... and I'll try not to think of him as I write my stories (huge failure. Something about him always made an appearance in my stories, always).
I showed up to class that first day of fall '04 semester, and I was smitten. Write what's on my mind, and get credit for it? And you say you like it? Oh. My. God. Thank you!

All thanks to this guy, who is now married to that chick he started dating after me (see, full-circle with my story. High-five!), introducing me to the art.
I helped him find his "true love," and he helped me find mine (writing. We all know I will forever be fucked up in the romance department. Boys don't like me).

Hear yee, Arachnids

Dear Spiders:
I don't get it.
I'm nice to you... very nice. Each time I bump into one of you, whether it be in the wilderness or in my bathtub, I spare your life. I don't get all annoying and scream for someone to kill you.
I often admire you when you catch bugs in your webs... so those too are usually off-limits when I bump into them (well, sorry, I do get rid of them when they're in my house. Is that what this is all about? You're angry 'cause I wreck your home you've made inside my home?).
So, I'd like to know:
Why the fuck are you so fond of biting me?! Not only does it hurt, but it leaves scars.
I've been stupid enough to put up with the multiple bites to my arm and occasional knee bite, but now... now you've crossed the line.
Inner thigh? Really?!
Not cool. It hurts, and adds an extra paranoia I really didn't need in my life right about now.
That being said, I officially declare war.
Fuck you.
Next 8-legged creature to cross my path gets killed; daddy-long-legs, brown recluse (even if that shit is not indigenous to the area), or tarantula (applies now, since I believe I'm going to Mexico next month. Stupid, I know, but I can't help it), you're getting stomped. No mercy.

Dueces,
AnoMALIE

Dinner

(Dad walks in on my mother and I as we watch the Serbia- Ghana match)
Dad: Que vaz hacer de comer? (What are you gonna cook?)
Mom: Son las 8 de la manyana... (It's 8 in the morning...)
Dad: Dije de comer, no almorzar. En la tarde! (I said lunch--in Spanish it has a weird little, double meaning--, not breakfast. In the afternoon!)
Mom: Nigga Please! Estoy viendo el Mundial. No puedo pensar en otra cosa (Nigga please! I'm watching the World Cup. I can't think about anything else)

Glad to know she has learned a thing or two from me... I thought she was a goner after that one time I tried teaching her how to multiply negatives.

3 Ts

At first, I was proud of any high school graduate, but after 10 years of going through the motions, it's getting pretty painful.
I've gone to 4 high school graduation parties in just the last two days.
The parties are best described with the 3 Ts:
1. Tacos
2. Tequila
and
3. Talking.

The tacos are awesome... especially when that trustee Taquero Man is hired.
Then it hurts like hell after a couple of hours.
Putos taquitos de Al Pastor and Carne Asada! So good... but ahhhhh! I feel like a baby alien is ripping apart my intestines with a ninja star.

And the tequila... no lie, my mom has been drunk these last two days (such a fucking pain. She's up at the crack of dawn watching the World Cup games and once someone scores, she starts doing her gayass Mexican Mariachi scream that only sounds like someone broke in the house and is trying to slit her throat... it's fucking alarming to wake up to that shit, I tell you). I've been DD, with my shit-tastic night vision... and get this! I have been driving my mom's car, which is fine... except that motherfucker's speedometer is NONFUNCTIONAL.
The little lady better not keep this up.

And finally the talking. The talking!!
My mom will never shut her trap at these parties ("OMG, you're *Mom*'s daughter?! How are you so quiet?!" Maybe... if she ever SHUTS UP!). Mom can have a conversation with a rock! So, when there's ladies she knows at these shindigs, she forces me to sit with her and listen to their conversations. Since these conversations revolve around the old days, or upcoming weddings, I'm usually bored with nothing to do. I can people watch for only so long before I start giving people the wrong impression.
I swear to God, that bitch looks at me again, I'm gonna beat a bitch up! Tryyyy it! At least I'll be entertained.
Hey, don't move... don't move... but I think AnoMALIE's checking me out. She's been doing it all day. Babe, you're 17 (or in today's case, 42... which was... I puked in my mouth when he tried hollering. Then he kept walking back and forth past me and inching closer until he finally rubbed up against me and I looked him in the eyes and gave him my best disgusted look. That shit DOES NOT fly with me), why would I be giving you the eye? I already knew how to divide by the time you were born (or in the old man's case, he was already jacking off to photos of Sasha Montenegro, or whoever the fuck was popular back then, by the time I was born), that means NO.

Yeah, I know, I complain a lot... and it always seems like I'm doing a ton of shit I don't feel like doing, but what can I say? If I like you, you can probably get me to lick a New York sidewalk.
I care that much.

Ah, to be Mexican!

Way to make an impact!

My brother has officially beaten me to stardom.
Ok, I never aimed for stardom- I shy away from anything that resembles attention.
But anyway, my brother made it on international television today by appearing in the background of a Spanish news show syndicated in the US and numerous Latin American countries (Primer Impacto).

He's spending the summer in South Africa, interning at the US embassy, and so, he gets to do the most unbelievable shit!
While last summer he spent it in DC being one of Hillary Clinton's secretaries (at one point being responsible for divulging the news of MJ's death to news groups), this summer he lives in Durban and gets to travel to multiple World Cup matches. Lucky bastard!

Anyway, he's rocking a white US soccer team jersey... the only dude with a US jersey, actually, and he's also drinking this huge Heineken. Luckily, he's not making an ass of himself... he just looks like hes really enjoying that beer (until the very end, before it cuts off... he makes a horrible thiz face).
Being his nearly-twin sister (ok, not really, he's a year and a half older than me, but we're still pretty in synch), I can tell he's thinking "Oh my God... I'm really here!" because that's his "Oh my God... I'm really here!" face (the last frame). Here are some stills from the video: 

Anyway, I was having a relatively shitty day, and this tiny action made me giggle from 3 in the afternoon until... I'm still smiling!

I love my brother... he's so fucking awesome!

"Just an army boy," HA!

I'm sorry, sleepy time!

For the last couple of weeks, I've been trying to adjust my natural sleeping schedule.
It has been rough, and I am never happy about waking up at any time prior to 10AM.
I've managed to train my body to get up at 8 in the morning, considering I go to bed at 3 in the morning.
That was the best I could do.
Now, the day finally came, and I never made it to waking up at 6... at least, not with a smile on my face or the desire to be nice to people.

Why am I doing this?
Because the damn World Cup is in South Africa.
But I guess it could be worse, like that time it was held in Korea. Those were the most miserable times of my life.

Anyway, the games start tomorrow and my Mexican lovelies get to play the opener.
6AM.
Nice.

So, I apologize ahead of time...
for he next month is going to be a rough one for me. But, LET'S DO THIS!

 Go Mexico! Go Spain! Go Portugal! USA... well, don't be total dicks, k?

My room looks like a fucking embassy.

Ah, yes, and just for shits 'n giggles, here's my deluded bracket:

Crazy? Just a little.

Always the bridesmaid... because I'm STUPID

Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Como burra al trigo ('Like a donkey to wheat" I guess it doesn't translate so well, unless you grew up in Nebraska or something, surrounded by farms. I also think of donkeys eating corn or... grass... not really wheat, but hey, I didn't come up with the saying), I stomp on over to what hurts me:
I have agreed to bridesmaid duty... again.

I will have 14 bridesmaid dresses after this... 14! (Fuck "27 Dresses." My shit is real!)
I collect those babies like an avid wedding aficionado.
But in all reality, I'm usually quite upset by the end of the night... which eventually turns to rage when that all-knowing/probably already drunk asshole comes by and tries to cheer me up with that stupid line:

It's OK, one day... you'll find your other half.

Get the fuck out of here.
Wanna know why I'm sitting here, alone at the corner table, with this death-grip on the closest sharp object?  
-This dress. 
It's unbelievably overpriced and ill-fitting. I wouldn't wear it in a Pretty in Pink re-make. Thanks for forcing me to rock it for 14 hours.
-The music selection.
Please, just take me to the circus next time... at least I might see a monkey in a cute little outfit doing a much better job holding down a beat.
-The photos.
OMG! The photos! No, don't worry, my face only starts to hurt after 24 hours of fake-smiling. Crows-feet? Nah, they don't scare me.
-The older people giving me life advice.
Oh God! That's always nice! I'm always game to be told how to turn myself into a better catch for a dude from Hometown. Sorry I got that degree, by the way... I know it now lowers my chances of getting snagged by someone from Hometown... I mean, who the hell wants a smart girl? I'm sorry I liked science and inadvertently turned into a nerd. My bad.
Did I mention this fucking dress is retarded?!
Oh, and that line dancing.
Awesome. Keep it up. Really. I love it. Reminds me of that color-by-numbers thing we had in kindergarten, used to teach us how to color AND count... only now you're learning to "dance" and count. You guys don't look handicapped at all! Yes, that's right... keep clapping each time you get the step right. You Clap to your little heart's content! It's cool, I'll just sit here and ponder whether or not my ear canal will pose much resistance to this fork in my hand.

But... whatever. I'll let them keep thinking I'm devastated over my loneliness each time I'm forced to see the newly-wed couple slow dance to Shania Twain's "Still the One," even when it's for the fifth time that night.
I'll put up with this because-- zero sarcasm-- I sincerely love them.
Let's make some memories, people!

And two things totally off-topic:
1. "Porky Piggin' it" ?? Wow. If you do this, I want to meet you... but when you're not Porky Piggin' it. Why?! Why not just walk around completely naked? You little trickster, you.

2. I'm not usually into songs as repetitive as "The Only Exception" by Paramour... but that song is so fucking sad and relatable. I hate myself for loving it.
Guess what people are going to hear next time they see me...
"You... are... the only exception. You... Are"
And I'll try my hardest to make meaningful eye-contact the whole time... while holding a daisy near my face.
Yeah... No.

Oh, and a third: My overuse of ellipses is just reflective of the way I talk. Yes, I really do make that many... pauses... in my speech. Deal with it. I'm deep. Or just slow.

The Spaniard

Primaries are today and we're already fighting in this house.

Good ol' dad frustrates the shit out of the other four members of this household.
The lone republican.
It's not that we're all die-hard dems or anything... well, besides my brother, that guy is border-line commie... but Dad's part of the GOP because... he wants to prove he's not Mexican.

The man swears he's Spanish- not Mexican, Spanish!- aka "the classy Spanish speakers."
Sure, Dad, you're Spanish... but it was so long ago down your family line, it practically doesn't count since it was your great-grandfather who sailed to America and later shacked up with a native. I can't claim Spanish citizenship, thank you. Plus, the rest of your ancestors were Native Americans, so... slow your roll, Hernan Cortez.

He's also white... he looks "American," (I DETEST using that term for a person of the USA, while in the USA... but I won't get on my soapbox) so he turns his back on the darker Mexicans.
A misguided attempt to assimilate, if you ask me.
Love your new country, but don't hate your old one.

We fight because of the unbelievably racist shit he says when we bring up negative points of one candidate.
Me: Dad... that cunt is so uneducated, not to mention ridiculously biggoted! How the hell are you going to vote for her?
Dad: She's just doing what has to be done. Send those wetbacks back where they came from.
Me: WTF? Dad... you were a "wetback."
Dad: Correction- I walked the desert and crossed the border by TJ. I was not wet at any point. Plus, times have changed. I lucked out.

How the hell I'm related to that baseness... I do not know.

Thanks for the hoping?

Here are some gems I collected on Sunday and part of today, with Pacemaker- my "friend" who stayed over yesterday and left this afternoon.

(Sitting in my room. She comments on my "baller" status since I now have a MacBook Pro)
Me: So would you still be my friend if I were poor?
Pacemaker: Honestly,no... I don't think so. I find poor people... undesirable.
Me: (internally) Funny, rich people find you undesirable.

(Paying for the bill at Yardhouse)
Pacemaker: You girls wanna go buy a car?
(bust out her credit card)
Me: Oh wow, you also ave a 100k credit line?
Pacemaker: No, 15k!
Me: Who the fuck buys a car with only 15k?

(Pacemaker standing by my bedroom door, talking about her Vegas shenanigans as I lay in bed, studying some word associations)
Pacemaker: I hope one day, you have as much fun as I did.
Me: Hahahaha! I guess.
Pacemaker: No, AnoMALIE... I mean... it was... man... I hope one day you'll experience something that fun!
Me: (inernally) I live here...and as for fun, I spent a month in Europe with pretty much a blank check... you cannot fathom the amount of fun I partook in. (spoken) I guess... your version of fun is completely different to mine.

(Showing me photos on her phone. Stops on a recent photo of just her face)
Pacemaker: I love this photo... look at it!
(I look, but at the same time catch her staring at my chin... where I currently have a pimple growing and ruining my life-- sarcasm, ok... but it is bugging me)
Pacemaker: My skin is flawless! It's so awesome!
Me: (internally) You know what else is awesome? Having a chin... I love it! (I guess I should mention Pacemaker is pretty massive. Her head reminds me of a full-moon. Same color and everything)

(Finding our way out of the Aria, right in front of the sports-books, after Lakers lose game two to the Celtics. Very excited, and attractive dude starts approaching me, reaching for my shoulder. Pacemakers speeds up her pace and intercepts the touch, taking his hand)
RandomDude: Wooo!!
Pacemaker: Wooo!
RandomDude: Way to go, Celtics!! That win just made me bank! (flashes big wad of money and waves it at me)
Pacemaker: Well, good for you!!
(Cute guy and his gang walk away, hooting and hollering about their big win)
Me: Oh! That's why he was coming at me... I'm wearing a solid green shirt!
Pacemaker: So?
Me: Celtics... they're green... I look like a fan... get it?
Pacemaker: (rolls eyes) No... not at all. He was coming at me. I give off that party vibe, guys want to be near me.

(Sister walks out of Yardhouse for a second to argue with her boyfriend over the phone. Pacemaker tries to get more information from me)
Pacemaker: So is he cute?
Me: I don't really know. He's nice... and really funny... she likes him... and that's all she tells me.
Pacemaker: Is he rich?
Me: He.. well, he owns a bakery.
Pacemaker: Oh snap... then who cares if he's cute... bakers can make good money.
Me: I guess. I just care for my guy to be funny... and smart... so they usually range in looks.
Pacemaker: Well, I only like douches. You know... the really hot guys with a good fashion sense that other guys tend to be jealous of. They take good care of themselves, shop at expensive stores... all that good stuff.
Me: Oh, you mean tools? I could care less for those "cute" guys.
Pacemaker: No need to tell me, it's more than obvious. You're lucky you're rich.
Me: (internally) WTF?

And my personal favorite:
(talking about Pacemaker's 1-10 "Beauty Meter" which is fucking retarded, considering NO ONE is a 10. Not even celebrities)
Pacemaker: MGH'sBrother is still upset about me calling him a seven.
Sister: Well, I mean, he is handsome. Seven might be a bit low.
Pacemaker: Seven is very high in my meter! I called my best friend a four! Now she had a reason to be upset... but hey, I don't lie.
Sister: What number am I?
Pacemaker: Seven! You're very pretty, LittleSister. AnoMALIE'S a five.
Me: (internally) When the fuck did I ask for my rating?!

How she left my house without a black eye is beyond me.
She was not being sarcastic at any time... and each time she seemed to come up with an increasingly hurtful jab for me.
She left me dumbfounded. Often times I'd consider talking back, but my head would be spinning so fast, I was too busy wondering what the fuck was going on.

Someone get me canonized... I'm a paaaaaaatient girl!!

silent for a reason

I should start my own series:
"I'm a very patient girl..."
and just go off on how I'm pushed to the edge by someone.
Here's what's pissing me off right now.

Las night, I get a text:
(3:40 AM)
"I'm soooooooo sorry, but the girls are leaving at 6:15 AM and they're going to leave me lonely and alone. Can one of you pick me up, or should I just get a taxi to your house?"

My friend sent the text to both my sister and I.
I didn't answer, since I put my phone on silent each night. Little sister, on the other hand, was awake and started texting back... at 5 in the morning.
Sister wakes me up at 5:30 and gets me in on the action... I had gone to bed at 3 in the morning, so I was not very happy. I put on a hat and head out with Little Sister anyway.
We both go to Caesar's Palace and pick up my friend.

We were thinking she's gonna be pissed at her hometown group... because I know I would be if my friends sprang it on me that I was going to have to leave the room by 6:15 AM at 3:40 in the morning.
Instead, she was demanding shit from us as if she were doing us a favor.
I was promised an angry friend... what the fuck?

I don't see where she gets the balls to act this way... she's the guest.
She didn't contact us all of Saturday, yet out of the blue she expects us to be ready for her entrance at 6 in the morning on a Sunday.

So here I am, 7 in the morning, wide awake... cursing at the fucking world.
Lucky for me Nadal's playing the French Open final at the time... if it weren't for that, I'd be cutting a bitch right about now.

Excess indeed

I hate hanging out with girls!

Out-of-towners think I can get a club hook-up in a heartbeat.
While they're sort of correct about this, it doesn't mean I enjoy it.
I hate bothering people for favors.
However, if I really like you, I'll ask around and get you some sort of connection at some club.

This weekend is a doozy. It's two different parties. One is composed of a mixed group of current and former Raiderettes. One of the more famous former Raiderettes is throwing her bachelorette party with her closest pals... 16 of them. Luckily, they're all very attractive, so no problem there... they're just slightly ghetto (come on, they're from Oakland) and somewhat egotistical divas.
The second party is the difficult one. It's composed of 12 grenades and 2 normal girls. The grenades are being so fucking difficult.
I had to work magic to convince my sister to convince her promoter friend to get them a table at TAO.
He did it... knowing one party would be composed of mostly grenades.

Friday afternoon, what happens?
Raiderettes get a table at Jet.
This doesn't upset me... I mean, Jet is more of their style, and they weren't entirely on board with TAO.

I visit the grenades later at night and what happens?

DeadliestGrenade: Raiderettes got a table at Jet?? Hey, what kind of hook up do you have at Rain?
Me: For when?
DG: Today. Let's just club hop from Rain, to Jet, to XS.
Me: Wait! WHAT?!
DG: Yeah, I hear Rain is nice. Then Lito can hook it up at XS instead of TAO. He said he could hook it up at XS
Me: ... for Sunday! Call Lito and see what he has to say about that. (internally) He is going to cuss the shit out of you.
(Call Lito)
DG: Hey, Lito... so we don't want to go to TAO anymore, how about you change our names from the TAO list to the XS list?
Lito: Are you fucking kidding me?! (Click)

Why is it always the fucking ugliest chick that is always the most delusional of the group?
XS on a Friday? With non-locals... that are GRENADES... into one of the hottest nightclubs in town for free? Homegirls, you aren't the Kardashian sisters... no one needs to do you favors.

I was livid by this point.
I don't know how these chicks can think they can flake on one promoter and still be on good terms... especially when you're in such a large party.

After seeing how these girls weren't going to change their mind, I left their room and headed home... anything to keep from smashing their face against the nearest concrete surface.

I feel horrible for guys... I can't imagine having to live with one of these mercurial beasts for the rest of my life... fuck that.

Oh, you're talking to me?

"You're always holding your boobs!"

After months of not being directly addressed by my really, really attractive kickboxing instructor, he finally approached me last night. As he held out his hands to have me reach them with my knees, he laughed and turned off his mic to say those sweet, sweet words.

What do I do? Smile like a horse... and rip the shit out of my lip.

I'm such a moron, but I can't help it. There has never been an occasion in my life where I've been able to keep my cool around a guy who makes my heart flutter.
I'll either:
1) Stand in admiration, in an absolutely creepy catatonic state,
2) Smile, smile, smile (with a smile reminiscent to Mr. Ed's)
or
3) become an absolute klutz and inflict physical harm upon myself.

This stage in my life should have been long gone by now, and it kind of is since the number of dudes this happens around is quite limited.
The kickboxing trainer gets this treatment because... well, he is one of the most attractive "real" people I know. I don't care what words he directs my way, as long as they're directed at me, my body will react accordingly... I will hurt myself.

So, guys, let it be known, if I stare at you quite vacantly, or don't say a word and only smile like a horse (or nod. I'll nod when I'm trying REALLY hard to appear normal) I'm awed by you.

If I manage to hurt myself in your presence... I probably want to have your babies... or not.

Silver Lining, AnoMALIE style

I have been relieved of my duties as Vegas tour guide for the weekend.
I'm still responsible for being a taxi, though.
Regardless, I'm happy about it.

(Last night, I get a text from my friend: "Call me if you're still awake." I follow the instructions)
Friend: So, you ready for me to get there?
Me: Yeah... but I have a confession to make...
Friend: ... what?
Me: I currently have the cold sore from hell..
Friend: Oh man, I'm sorry! I hope you're not putting toothpaste on it...
(like I said, I'm gullible... EVERYONE knows this. In this case, she knows of an 8th grade, toothpaste story that embarrasses the shit out of me to this day)
Me: No... I'm covering it with nail polish...
Friend: AnoMALIE!! WHAT THE HELL?!
Me: And so far, I've found black does the best job out of any color I've tried....
Friend: COLOR?! What the fuck, AnoMALIE?! I thought you were using clear nail polish! Fuck that, AnoMALIE! I'm not taking you out like that! You're banned from the weekend club hopping!

I tried acting disappointed... but I was kind of bad at it, considering I couldn't stop laughing out loud.

I didn't tell her I remove the polish prior to heading out...
I'll just let her keep thinking I'm retarded and walk around the streets of Las Vegas with black nail polish slathered all over my bottom lip.

No dressing up for me this weekend... or make-up, or nearly fighting bitches because they spill their drink down my ass, and especially no cussing at painfully tall heels!

Thank you, Herpes Labialis... way to do me a solid.

Polished

Growing up, I always had to put up with shit about my lips.

At first, it was the little kid thing where they would taunt me about the lips whenever they wanted me to fuck up during some intense game of kickball, or four-square, or... I don't know... tag? Basically, any time my peers wanted to see me worked up, they'd bust out the "N***a lip!" and I'd freak out.

Middle school came around, more kids were exposed to porn... more kids became sexually active... and so, came the new taunting lines:
"Shit... how many guys do you blow?!" "Why don't you shut the fuck up and go blow some guys behind the portables?" "Bitch, I know how you got your kind of lips! By blowing... guys!" etc... middle school kids are underestimated when it comes to creativity.

High school came around, and by then I had heard it all, except that now I started getting that annoying "lick the lips, make eye-contact" move from dudes... which was... I'd rather be hearing people call me Ni*** Lip, really.

So, to sum it all up, I've never been a fan of my own lips.
And when they do shit like what I'm about to show, it becomes increasingly difficult to like them at all:

That black stuff... I'll give you ten bucks if you guess correctly.
No, I won't.
It's nail polish.
Yes.
Why? Because my crazy Mexican mother told me it works magic on cold sores (yes... I finally contracted those pieces of shit... from my fucking brother of all people. Stupid asshole drank straight out of MY gallon of water when he was suffering from an outbreak... fucking retard. He could have at least allowed me to contract the damn herpesvirus participating in some fine, drunken debauchery-- like he did-- but no, he left it up to a fucking plastic gallon of water... gaaaaaaaaah!). Since I'm naive, and extremely gullible, I'll try anything once, twice if I'm that clueless... so here you have me faithfully tending to my wound every four hours.
While it's unbelievably unsightly (not to mention embarrassing), I have to admit... that shit is working magic. I hear cold sores take about 2 weeks to heal? My bad boy is nearly gone after two days.

Unbelievable... so much shit going on in the world, and here I am, blogging about my lip issue. But hey, what can I do? I'm a chick... and this shit has been interfering with my life for two days too many.
I don't go out in public like that-- I've put off grocery shopping and voting because of it. However, I did go to the gym today (nail polish removed, of course!), but only managed to look like a major cunt who refused to smile or look up.

I will be forced to emerge from my cave tomorrow, though, in order to perform my civic duty and vote... then buy myself some raspberries... then go get nearly killed at kickboxing... then hang out at the airport for an hour as I wait for my friend to fly in... and finally, back to my cave... my lovely, nail-polish-smelling cave.

Woe is me... someone, please rip off my lips!

(But hey, at least Rafa Nadal has been making my self-enforced quarantine bearable. He's such a hoss)

NOvelas

My mom drives me apeshit.
The woman watches SEVEN soap operas in ONE day... SEVEN!
She monopolizes three televisions in the house, including mine, so I'm forced to relocate as she watches/records some ABSURD story of a drug lord, or pirate, or Moroccan whore... at all times of the day.

Back in the day, I confess I was a major telenovela fan. I'd rush home sometimes in order to make it in time for the afternoon soap that addressed some form of teenage angst- girls going to high school, getting pregnant, going through some sort of eating disorder, that kind of stuff.
But NEVER did I spend my entire day juggling seven soap operas.
WTF... if she's that interested in stories... she might as well listen to my shit. I swear, my life trumps any of her soap operas.

Want a story with pirates? Ok, my friend Lucky Soprano swears she's a pirate and, often times, tries to make me speak to her in "pirate."
Ni!!a, I have enough trouble juggling English, Spanish, French, and Portuguese in my head... shut the fuck up with this nonsense. You're not Johnny Depp, I'm not going to try and amuse you with my Arrrrgs, and I will definitely not be shivering your timbers.
And truth be told, I've had plenty of crushes on dudes with long hair. No, I don't get it either, it doesn't make sense, but it happens. I blame the 70's- which oddly enough, has plenty of that pirate-y look with the bandanas and all. You forced me to dig that decade, now suffer the consequences.
I've also dug "rebellious" boys I've so desperately wished could whisk me (your good girl) away, across the ocean, and towards the New World (although in my case, it's in the opposite direction, with Barcelona as my destination), like that idiot girl in your stupid pirate novela.
Oh, Ma! Me thinks I got yer pirates in me story!
However, I'm not too big on sailboats, or missing teeth... or hooks for hands... so... I'll have to work on that.

Story about a drug lord?
Umm... hello? WHY? We come from Durango... we travel to-and-from Durango every year. MGH's dad was the biggest DL of his time up until the day of his mistress' betrayal that lead to his murder, and MGH and his brother were given a bogus story about a car accident, since they were only about twelve when their father died. Ooo! Tragedy!
I have known MGH's dad's true story since I was ten, I was shown photos of his death shortly after it occurred... yet to this day, I still hide it from both MGH and his brother. How long can I keep that secret from them? Will they hate me once they find out... if they find out? Oooo! Drama!
I have spent a total of maybe 6 months at MGH's mansion in Mexico... put up with the strong paranoia ruling the family, having to walk in dimly lit rooms so as to not give away my exact location in the house. We wouldn't want a sniper mistakingly taking me out of this world just yet. Oooo! Adventure!
I've been in love with MGH, the man's son, for the last year! I went on trips with him... we spent nights together side by side... I almost moved in with him. Will I one day finally sleep with him? (Ouuuuch! The answer here is NO! I ultimately get my heart ripped out after he leaves me for a bland, Olive Oyl-looking-ass white girl who has NO clue about his family history... but hey, at least I don't get pregnant) Ooo! Romance!
and you'd still rather watch this damn fake soap opera?! I mean, the fucking list can continue, why listen to person X's invented life when a true story on DLs was almost part of your own?

And finally, a Moroccan whore.
Well... I have... Afghan friends... ?? No, they're not whores, but... I do have a minor crush on one of my friend's siblings. He too, like the lead character of the soap, is muslim... and I, well, I'm Catholic... but Jewish would have worked better here... although... I am technically, in part, ethnically Jewish.. so... hey! story right there! I also get confused for Lebanese, Pakistani, or Afghan while at my eyebrow threading place, I can easily make that work.
But I'm not a whore... and I'm not really down to turn into one in order to become entertaining. So... I guess that one must stay. At least you learn mini factoids about Islam and Moroccan culture... that's always a plus.

Madre mia, give me a couple of months... I'll give you plenty of stories to waste your time!
Now please surrender my television... Hell's Kitchen is on and I have things to learn! That Gordon Ramsay swears like a sailor, and I need to brush up on my skills.