Monday, February 28, 2011


It's your last day being 25, how did you spend it, AnoMALIE?
I was curled up in my bed, in the fetal position, and drinking tea... fighting the urge to vomit. Then, once I noticed that wasn't working, I just knelt by the toilet and began to pray to the porcelain god.

Right now I'm feeling recovered enough to type. I still feel that familiar pain in my stomach... and the thought of food makes me gag. I also have a massive headache.

I'm convinced my body wants nothing more but to die.

It has taken me about five hours to type this.
This shit is not fun at all.
While this may fall under the TMI category, let me just say: tamales are the most difficult things to vomit. Not even spaghetti is this much of a pain. Puta masa. To add insult to injury, the tamal was one of jalapeño slices with cheese. It's spicy as fuck... and the cheese is... ok, now I really am getting vulgar.

I just want to go to bed... even if it means I'm going to wake up 26 years old.

Sunday, February 27, 2011


Todavia me haces temblar.
Todavia me hace maldecir el tiempo.

I was expecting anything at the party. Anything.
I had my best poker face (sorry, had to use it. But I have a free card here, since I really AM a poker player), ready to deal with "Why aren't you part of the bridal party?" questions. They were handed at me, at various times throughout the party. I dealt with it all quite easily... even with a stupid smile across my face.

But I wasn't ready for one person... a person I bumped into at the party:
(So many fucking Ivan's in my life... you'd think I hail from Russian)

I can remember liking him since I was about five.
He's about... seven years older than me, so my memories of him are just... me admiring him, and him thinking I'm a quiet little girl.
He's related to Bride-to-Be from her Dad's side, I'm related to her from her Mom's side, so I'd always bump into him at family parties... and I'd always shy away or turn beet red each time I'd have to say hello.
I spent all of grade school like that. I'd mumble a "Hello," and run away as quickly as possible.
He's probably the one guy I liked the most, but was also the most painfully shy of... because I found him so freakishly good-looking.
And he'd always be... not patronizing, exactly... but he would dismiss me as "Tony's little cousin" (Bride-to-be's older brother)... or so I thought.

The moment came when I turned 15.
I was ready to come clean to him about my feelings... shit, I was ready to ask the guy out.
But like everything else in my life, the timing was just off.
I saw him at my cousin's quinceañera, and just as he was going to ask me to dance, Dad abruptly ended my party time and decided it was time for us to go home.
It was like a movie: I saw Ivan talk to Tony, look over at me, smile... and as he was making his way through the crowd towards me, my heart started to race as I desperately looked for a place to look away like the stupid, coy girl I am.
Then I saw Dad stand up and do the one-hand-in-left-pocket-in-search-for-car-keys and the snap-fingers-point-to-the-door-with-other-hand move which is his "Let's get outta here!" move.
I was heart-broken, and only frowned at Ivan.

The next time I bumped into him, they gave me the bad news that he was in a relationship.
I always hoped it would go sour... but it didn't.
One time, when I bumped into him at Dad's work, I said hello and practically ran back to my car. Ivan blushed and speed-walked into Dad's work.
Outside, Mom talked to Tony (oh yeah, he was there because he worked for Dad) and laughed over how I've always had a crush on Ivan, so I get all awkward around him. Tony's response?
Just look at the way HE gets... it's mutual.

Fuck my life.

Ivan was married in '03, and I was invited to his wedding. It was difficult to act as if I didn't care... and even more difficult to play it off in front of Tony... because he knew what was up.

I proceeded to live my life with as little interaction with Ivan as possible.

All family events where I run the risk of bumping into him are events I dread.
If he's ever there, I try VERY hard to have an excuse not to touch him.
Oh, I have an injured shoulder.
Oh, my wrist is dislocated... it hurts when I shake hands.
I'm all vomit-y today... it's not safe to squeeze me.
Your wife is right there... I can see images of my own homicide when I look into her eyes... so I'll just stand over here and wave.
For the most part, I've been successful. I even managed to avoid hugging him last year during the funeral of his grandmother (that is SO fucked up, I know, but... it had to be done. People are vulnerable during the death of a loved one... I didn't want an excuse for squeezing and more sentimental attachment).
But I'm not so detached when it comes to his baby. I can't help but caress the little girl when I see her, or smile at her... or call her "pretty girl." She's a little screaming monster... but I just... I can't ignore the baby.

It's not that I love the guy or anything... but... he's kind of like... a first love of sorts.
I see him and I can't help but feel that kick to my stomach.
You didn't wait for me... you couldn't wait for me... you never told me anything.
I could have been happy with him... could have.

Yesterday I noticed it was a mutual sentiment... the remorse, that is.
Could have.
I didn't notice he was sitting down in a couch where his mother was facing me. He was surrounded by a small, standing crowd of relatives I'm cool with... so like a well placed trap, I stumbled into it.
I walked over, and before I could act like I hadn't seen him, he stood up and smiled down at me (he's about 6'3" so looking up at him is a must for my 5'8" self).
Him: Hey AnoMALIE! How are you?
Me: ... heh...y...
Ah, fuck!

Before I knew it, he was hugging me.
I tried doing that Christian hug thing... where they side hug and move on... but no, he... held me. That's the best way I can describe it.
I felt his arms get tighter, and I tried moving out of the hug, but he held me still, against my will. And I stood there, letting him squeeze me... completely immobilized.
He inhaled near my ear.
Him: It has been a long time since I last saw you.
Me: Yeah... it's been a minute.
Him: Never a good thing.
Me: Yeah...
I had dropped my left arm by now, and patted his back with my right hand.
I felt light-headed and I wanted to cry... sobs included.

When he finally released me, I looked away from him and acted busy with his mom.
He walked away to "grab a beer" and we spent the rest of the night avoiding each other (well, I did. He'd try to catch up to me when I'd be making line for some tacos... then I'd act as if the cheese appetizers three rooms away were calling out to me. I'd also very strategically position myself so the columns of the house would be blocking me from his view).
Where was his wife? Working. How are they doing? Rocky. They've separated a few times.

I'm not saying his marriage is on the rocks because of me, hell no. That shit has had issues from day one.
I'm just saying... there's a real feeling of... loss between us.
There's this sense of melancholy.
He knows I liked him a lot. He knows his presence would fuck me up. He knows I was just waiting for him to make a move.
You will never know what could have been. You let me slip away. 

I would have waited for him as long as it took. I held on to the hope up until the day of his marriage.

The moment he said "I do," was the moment the hope died.
Now all that can ever happen is that longing hug. That awkward exchange of pleasantries where I nearly lose my cool as the tears build in my eyes.

I try to play it cool, honest I do... but the sadness accumulates, along with my anger, and I lose whatever stability I had garnered over the years.

You didn't wait for me. You didn't wait for me. You didn't wait for me.
Too late. Too late. Too late.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Crock... pots

I once again have chola eyebrows:
Wicked arch.
Not too long ago, my eyebrow lady was giving me thick, middle-eastern metrosexual eyebrows,
Is that Oscar the Grouch?!
Well, there has to be SOME relation there, right?
and now it appears she realized I'm actually a Mexican girl... and she gave me the eyebrows Mexican-American girls are given in movies.
smoking's bad... mmmkay?
Chola... or rockabilly? I could fall under either category
You have NO IDEA how many of my childhood drawings depict this. No. Idea.
These girls are fuckin' G!
Just another "Happy Birthday Weekend, AnoMALIE!" moment.
(I'll get a big "702" tattoo across my stomach to help me embrace my new look)

I'm celebrating my last weekend of being 25 by going to a bachelorette party... no, no, it's not that... it's a "bridal party."
I went shopping for the damn thing last night, since the party is this afternoon.
I almost had a fucking heart attack when I checked out the gift registry.
I knew Bed Bath and Beyond was a little pricey (one of the two places the bride is registered)... but Macy's (the other place she's registered)... that place... I was literally screaming as I scrolled down the list (I was in my room, making the selection before heading out to the store. Something told me I was going to be fighting the urge to strangle something while looking over the list, so I preferred to be in the comfort of my room where people couldn't see/hear me flipping out).
Think I'm exaggerating?
Check this out.
And this.
Oh boy, look at this (this one ALMOST made me spill my hot tea all over my lap)!

But the winner was this one.
There was shit like a $120 electric razor, $90 fondue sets, $170 "touch screen" crock pot (crock of mother fucking shit, if you ask me. WHAT THE FUCK is that about?! Calm the fuck down, Wolfgang Puck!), $200 pressure cooker, TWO $140 juicers (REALLY?! REALLY?! You drink that much natural juice? You DON'T fool me with that bullshit! Go to Jamba Juice, asshole!).
You know what... fuck it. I'll link it here.
The somewhat logical, sane registry at BBandB.
And the absolutely preposterous, full of fucking shit registry at Macy's.
Don't just check out the item's price... but also the QUANTITY.

I think you all can figure out this lovely cousin's personality based on her list.
Am I the only one who finds it frivolous and outrageous?
With kitchen appliances that expensive... I'm assuming Hubert Keller and Iron Chef Bobby Flay ain't got shit on her.
Or she thinks she's freakin' Beyonce... getting married to Jay-Z.

I can see when you can demand shit of that price when you're a celebrity or member of some aristocratic family... when you've been raised accustomed to such luxurious items (a seventy-dollar trash can?? Really?! That's just... my brain nearly explodes with that. And people wonder why they're in debt... maybe if you quit spending 70-fucking-dollars on a motherfucking TRASHCAN!). But... none of us were. Our parents were illegal immigrants who worked their way up the ladder after decades of backbreaking labor. All our shit came from the Swap Meet... quit acting like your sensitive skin knows about thread count.

Ok... so that ruined my Friday night. I was furious.
Mom got her the $200 set of pots (I won't take credit for that. All I did was show Mom the registry and help her decide which would be the better buy in the long run. 200 dollars for a set of 13 pots is quite reasonable, if you ask me).

Now all I have to do is kill my Saturday by attending this party later today.
Hopefully by then, I won't be cynical and angry over my cousin's gift registry.
Hopefully... since I still went to bed cursing $70 trashcans, and I woke up mocking $120 juicers.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Applicant? OH! You mean ME!

Goooooood morning, AnoMALIE!!

Dear Applicant,
Your application for admission to the Graduate School for Fall 2011 has been given careful consideration by the field of English Language and Literature.  I'm very sorry to say that we have not been able to admit you to the MFA graduate program in English at Cornell.

This was a very difficult decision.  We received hundreds of applications for a very few places in the program, and so we had to turn down a number of very talented people with very impressive records, many of whom no doubt will go on to distinguished careers. We wish you all success in yours.      

Samantha Zacher,
Director of Graduate Studies
Associate Professor

I woke up around 10 in the morning and saw that message in my inbox.

Suddenly, my shitty attitude makes sense.
Why must I be so psychic?
Although... it wouldn't take a psychic to figure that out.

I could be more upset about this (I'm just your normal "sort-of-bummed" that any sort of rejection inflicts on a person)... but I'm not. Remember, the New York schools were my "what-the-fuck-ever" schools. I don't dig the weather... or the cost of living out there... and I strongly believe in my mantra of "The West Coast is the BEST coast." And who the fuck wants to live in Ithaca? (now I'm just starting to sound like a bitter ex-girlfriend. I NEVER loved you! I hated your haircut! Your laugh is STUPID! AND YOUR DICK IS TINY! FUCK YOU! OH! And the word is SUPPOSEDLY, you imbecile!)

The part that makes me feel bad is the time my recommenders had to waste on their letters. Sorry guys! I'll still steal you a silver sports car when I have the chance!

So umm... yeah... I think this concludes my Friday post.

Thursday, February 24, 2011


No teeeeeengo inspiracióoooon!

Bueno, siempre hay alguien quien me inspire, pero por ahora, no se de que hablar... por lo tanto, hablare en Español... quizá eso me ayude.

Ummm... nope, didn't help.

Health still sucks balls.
I'm getting back on that insomniac track. I've gone to bed at four in the morning for the last few days.
I haven't had a good meal in a bit... I don't know what's up with that... but I don't realize I haven't eaten anything until it's about 9PM. Although I did have breakfast today... so it wasn't that bad. I believe I'll start wearing a bracelet similar to the "Do not resuscitate" band, but this one will be a "If I have dark circles under my eyes, or I just look sad, FEED ME!" bracelet. Got that? Force feed me (now I'm beginning to understand why Mom did that to me when I was a kid. I'd be stupid and starve myself for no apparent reason other than "I forgot...")!
I heard sad news today that had me moping around.
Oh, speaking of which, I must make a retraction about that murder story.
It appears PuppyKiller did not kill Ivan. Ivan was stabbed 14 times, the dagger being left still stabbed in his heart. His throat WAS slit... but there was no blood on the scene.
PuppyKiller is presumed dead, because he was one of Ivan's good friends... and is suspected to have been present when the killing went down. They're now looking for his dead body to surface soon...

Horrible. Just horrible.

There, is that 100 words? I'm not feeling too great to continue any further.
I'm mentally, emotionally, and physically drained for today.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011


So... it appears that little motherfucker I killed the other day (the spider) ended up being the goddamned Spider Emperor or some shit...
I made some spider community VERY angry by killing their damn leader.
My foot injury turned out to be not one... not two... or three... but FIVE spider bites to my fucking left foot.
FIVE. On one foot. The bastards bit THROUGH my sock... and raped the fuck out of my foot.
My right foot was bitten twice.

Needless to say, yesterday I was MISERABLE AS FUCK!
I was so miserable and paranoid, I asked my sister if I could sleep in her room... since the spiders probably wouldn't be able to find me there.
I went to bed around four in the morning, 'cause I swear I felt spiders crawling all over me.
It was terrible sleep... but in the morning, I was relieved to see my foot was less swollen (oh God, I seriously pondered taking a photo of my foot... but I was TOO grossed out by it... I still get goosebumps when I think about it). My sister was pretty upset, though... she woke up with a spider bite on the inside of her right elbow.
What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck do you wear to attract spiders, you freak?! Look what they did to me!
Ooooopsies. She was wearing a hoodie, mind you, when she got bitten.

Still, after all this, I said "Fuck you, foot! I'm still working out, you piece of shit! Fuck the pain!" and I went off to lift to my little heart's content.
Well, I was good, up until the clean and pressing. With six more to go, I started getting tunnel vision, and the music started to sound further away (and I was lifting weak-sauce weight, so this freaked me out).
I tried shaking it off, but half way through some tricep push-ups, I went all... weak... and I couldn't move an inch further because I could feel the puke fighting (and beating) my cardiac sphincter. I felt light headed, and took a ten minute break (a fucking eternity!). I finally called it quits when it came to the lunges. They felt HORRIBLE! Others asked me if I was ok, because I looked like a ghost.
I'm ok... it's just the Proactiv... it's fucking with my pigmentation and turning me into a white girl.
Before getting in my car, I did what is second nature to me, and I barfed next to my car's back tire.
A sweet little forget-me-not for the driver who was going to take my spot.

After vomiting, I felt refreshed... sure, my breath smelled like shit, but I was back to hearing and feeling.
I felt so fantastic, I went off and played photographer with my buddy's band (after showering and brushing my teeth, of course).

My day grew instantly better when I was given this little guy:
He looks so friendly! AND smart!
He doesn't have a name yet. So far, all I know is that I want to make some sort of name amalgamation between Albert Camus and... some other philosopher... not sure who the other person will be. So right now, he's just Albert.

Anyway, hanging out with the BFF and her band made me feel better, and completely forget about my stupid foot.
My favorites?
It has an eerie feel... and I LOVE it!
It was between this one and the one with the gnome :)
I like the feel of this one, too
And many more, but I don't want to be over here like one of those annoying mothers who constantly show photos of their kids to anyone who will look.

I was too busy snapping photos of the guys to remember about my swollen foot.

Notice what's missing from my day?
I kiiiind of forgot to eat.
Is that what spider venom does to a person? Suppress hunger? Some suckers might want to try this out.

Oh, and now, before going to bed, I checked out my foot, and bam! ALL BETTER. Yeah, the middle toe is still slightly swollen, but my entire foot is back to its normal color.
Take that, spiders! Your fucking venom ain't shit! Look at me, only growing more immune to your shit! FUCK YOU!

All right... ok... I'm better now. I had to get that out of my system. I officially LOATHE (not to be confused with FEAR. I don't fear those fuckers. I just hate them and I will NEVER do anything to attempt to save/conserve them. Burn in hell, spiders... except tarantulas... I like those. They're precious) spiders with ALL of my SOUL.

Ok, I need to go to bed... I'm fucked up.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

-1 Golden Ticket

Note to self #2475839485:
The wall will ALWAYS be stronger than your foot. Please refrain from kicking it, you animal.

I woke up with my left foot feeling heavy.
I removed my sock (so I sleep with socks on. My extremities run a little colder than normal people. I'm kind of a reptile when it comes to that shit. Sue me) and saw what was up.
What I thought was a harmless kick to my hallway's wall, turned out to be a huge injury to my middle toe. I fucked it up AGAIN, almost exactly a year to the day of when it first happened.
This time, however, it was a legit accident. I did not do it out of rage like last time... I was just being a clumsy idiot.

Sweet injury to have, exactly a week before my birthday.
I'll be limping around... looking extra pathetic for my birthday.

OH! (Each time I see that, first thought in my head is Alcohol? Hydroxyl groups are more important than exclamations in my book) Talking about birthday and being pathetic:
It's official, I WILL NOT take part in the mega, hyper awesome festivity that will be the introduction of the Euro Movement to the world.
The stupid thing is actually my cousin's 30th birthday party.
His group of friends did that whole... european alter ego bullshit. He keeps mentioning his "debut" on March... I think twelfth... but he marks it in roman numerals... fucking Superbowl style and shit.
He keeps asking "Will YOU make the cut?"

And nope... it appears I didn't.
My sister did, though.
She was acting like fucking Charlie and his goddamn golden ticket.

I was offended for a few hours.
Then I dusted it off.

It's shit like that which gives me the drive needed to get shit done.
The moment someone is mean to me is the moment my spite levels rise and I SWEAR to succeed at whatever it is this fuck underestimates me on.
In this case, it appears I'm not cool enough (or subservient enough... not sure here). Also, I supposed he's still too pissed at me for that fucking Twitter comment I made on astrology and how people should back the fuck up when criticizing me... because I DO have a science degree, so OF COURSE I understand astrology is FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES.

Ok, so yeah, I'm not cool enough and there isn't much he can get out of me (like he usually gets from chicks. They usually aid in him making connections with important males because these chicks can lure them into his circle by fucking them or whatever... not that my sister does that... but she does lure boys to come hither because she's a lovely, pretty girl with equally pretty/prissy friends).

SO... motherfucker, I'm gonna make you regret that for ever and ever... and I'm gonna love Every. Fucking. Second.

"If you even dream of beating me you'd better wake up and apologize."
His famous last words to me about a month ago. I never "dreamt" of "beating" him... but sucka, now that you intentionally snubbed me... oooooooo! I will MORE THAN GLADLY beat the fucking shit out of you AT YOUR OWN GAME.
Nothing I love MORE than bustin' egos, homeboy.

Thanks for the motivation. I needed that kick in the ass.

P.S. How 'bout you or any ONE of your stupid, arrogant friends VISIT a REAL european country to see what that lifestyle's about. It's like me throwing a Bollywood themed birthday bash... when all I know about that shit is what I've watched on a fucking soap opera. Get the fuck out of here with that bullshit.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Wish numero tres

Last night I remembered I forgot to wish on the eleventh day. So I wonder... is it too late to make a wish now? You know, for the month of February.
So far, my January wishes haven't come true. The wish for 1/1/11 might take a while... so I won't hold my breath for that one just yet.
I'll have to wait until April to see if my January 11th wish comes true.

Fuck it, I'll wish right now.
I'll let Chuck Palahniuk speak for me on this one (sorry Mooney, I had to steal it):
I find it fitting for the month, so... I'll go with it.
I just want to tweak it a tad bit... because I sense that degree of need might be a little too stifling for my liking... but as long as it is a mutual addiction, I'd be cool with it.
Although... if the guy is James Franco... I can't say I'd be too bothered by any sort of psychotic, deeply needy behavior he'd show towards me... as long as he SWORE never to sing to me... EVER. Mmmm... James Franco... (what is it with me and Jewish guys?)

Now work your magic, 11-11 (I won't hold my breath for this one either).

Now I'm off to distract the (annoying, space-invading) ladies at the gym with my unconventional manicure color choices (neon purple with black french tip. Oh yeah)... hopefully during the clean and press (that'll teach you to stand so close to me, dickhead).
Is douche-y-ness contagious? I think so...
My hands are dry as FUCK! Goddamn Proactiv...
(look at that job! I'm a fucking artist!)

Sunday, February 20, 2011


Nothing lets you know you're going to have a shitty day quite like a spider bite at nine in the morning.

I woke up by a sharp stinging sensation a little above my left knee. My hand was on its way to the knee before I knew what the hell was going on. My body seems to know when it's going to have to handle stupid arachnids with a taste for AnoMALIE blood.
Anyway, once my hand reached for my knee, I felt the little motherfucker under my pants, biting me.
I crushed the little bastard for a good minute... just grinding its mushy body between my fingers and pajama pants... hoping he wouldn't spring back into action... how can I be sure he hasn't been exposed to some awesome mutagen?
Fuck... do I really want to see what my leg looks like?
After the minute was up, I decided I had to check out the damage... and remove those fucking pants. I mean, what if that damn spider had his spider friends... or family... crawling all over the pants, getting ready to avenge their loved one's death?
I looked, and not only was there one bite... I had TWO. The larger bite being the one where I managed to murder the stupid intruder.

Someone has to explain this phenomenon to me.
WHY in the hell am I such spider bait? Am I destined to be the female version of Spiderman (SpiderWOman... yeah, ok)?
Mom gets all angry at me Do your fucking bed, AnoMALIE! Shake the fucking thing once in a while! But it's like... MOM! I clean my fucking covers so often, most of the designs on the sheets and pillow cases are ERASED! What more can I do? Douse myself in RAID every night? Grandpa did that once... and we all know how that turned out. Plus... it has been proven repeatedly that regardless of what house I sleep at, or what bed I'm in/on... if there's a fucking spider anywhere in the vicinity, the bitch finds me and bites me. Actually, I don't have to be sleeping... I can be sitting down, enjoying a night of COD or whatever the fuck, and next thing anyone knows, I'm yelping and reaching for my leg... or arm... or neck... Where the FUCK did that spider come from?! Clean your fucking house, pig! (JK, I never say that. I just yelp, cuss a little, then proceed with the mindless activity)

Those two bites mark the fourth on THAT leg in the last six months (yeah, I keep track).

The day only improved once I had an argument over contraceptives with Mom.
I mentioned how this new priest of ours is... he's a funny man... but he is often SO wrong on the things he tells the congregation. I told her how I damn near spoke up last night over the misinformation he was giving the congregation.
Last week he elicited the same reaction from me, when his sermon revolved around respecting our elders/parents. I'm not against respecting my elders/parents, that's a trait that was beaten into me as a kid (literally)... my problem arose when he mentioned how things go sour when we turn against our parents.
"There we have what is going on with Egypt. The president was... like their father... for so long... and then his children turned on him... and now... we have... all that... problem."
Me: Their DAD?! Ok, he was kinda like YOU (Mom), but that motherfucker was a DICTATOR! Not a DAD! What is this man telling these people?!
Mom: Good thing you didn't speak up! He knows you're my daughter.

Anyway, this time the issue was the ten commandments.
I was fine with what he was saying. He was on "Thou shall not kill."
He was mentioning how we not only kill people in the obvious bang-bang, stab-stab way... but that we can also kill people with some of the vicious things we may say about them.
Ok, good point. Keep going. I need to be out by 6:30 on the dot, sir.
Then he went on to how we kill people with contraceptives.
How WOMEN kill with their contraceptives (not MEN. He made no mention of condoms. So no enlightenment there. But of course, since this guy is A TAD BIT misogynistic, I'm sure he'd work that into being a woman's fault somehow).
It's obvious God isn't happy with this... since women get... cancers... bleed to death... all of that, all thanks to taking those contraceptives.
What kind of contraceptive is he talking about? Asbestos-coated wire hangers?! 
Those pills KILL any child the woman may be carrying in her womb! She is KILLING HER CHILD! She forces the child out of her!

I've had this argument with people before... my own family members. They don't seem to comprehend the basics of the Pill and proceed to divulge misinformation as truth.
But this priest... he takes the cake!
He was on this very retarded diatribe against the basics of MENSTRUATION, that at one point (once my head started to hurt from shaking in disapproval for so long and so violently) I distracted myself by counting how many of MY "children" I have "murdered."
In this priest's eyes, I have killed 164 of my babies... I'm actually killing one right now.
No, I've never taken the morning after pill (which is NOT murder, if you ask me)... much less had an actual abortion (hell, I haven't even FUCKED and I'm already a killer? I just can't fucking win!). No, no, this man was making women believe EACH TIME we menstruate, we kill one of our potential kids.
I sat there calculating how many times I've menstruated in my life (TMI? I don't give a fuck! I'm making a point here!), and came up with my exact number.
Eat your heart out, Ted Bundy! I beat you by at least sixty.
Anyway, I argued over how WRONG it is of this guy, in so much power, to freak women out like that.
Mom told me I should watch my mouth... 'cause I was borderline blaspheming.
Like I've said before, I love my religion... when SMART people rule over me... but other times... it just makes me want to rip my hair out... and claw certain people's eyes out... regardless of what title they may hold (Oh man... I'm so sorry, God... but sometimes people make me SO angry!)

Believe it or not, my day got EVEN BETTER!
Mom told me who the mystery killer from yesterday's murder (or was it two days ago?) of Ivan. Remember this guy? Bingo. There you go. You have your killer.
Proves my point that I'm not a coldhearted cunt. My strong dislike/repulsion for this guy was justified (and not just because he killed puppies for fun).
I'm glad I only called him a retard that one time... "Fucking Asshole!" might have gotten me a new corbata (slitting of the throat, with the victim's tongue being pulled out of the slit--made to resemble a men's tie--while he/she bleeds to death, remember?).

This also proves that only fucking PSYCHOS are attracted to me.
... And people wonder why I refuse to get in a relationship... pfffffft!

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Abre la caja

Abre la caja. 
Saca la flor.
Eres mi amor.

I don't have much difficulty remembering all the occasions people were mean to me. Those memories still haunt me, obviously.
However, every single time a person has been kind to me, or made me smile, has remained in my memory even more brightly. They're the memories I rush back to whenever I try to get out of the darkness I often feel.

As a kid, I can honestly say adults were more responsible for making me cry than making me smile.
But there was one kid... well, I call him a kid now, since I'm 25 and anyone below the age of 25 is a kid to me... he was about 16 or 17... he'd take the time out of his day to make my seven-year-old self smile.
He was my grandpa's peon. No one would hire him because he was an out-of-towner... and Hometown people have always been weary of those people. Grandpa, however, aways took pity on those travelers and gave them work at his farm.
This guy, Ivan, had become Grandpa's right hand man. He'd be responsible for driving Grandpa around, and once the work hours were over, Grandpa would let him take the truck and drive around to find himself a girlfriend.
I'd often see Ivan, since back then, we spent more time at Grandpa's place than our own, 'cause Mom's a huge scaredy-cat and hates being alone.
Back then, all us little kids would play in the bed of Grandpa's truck, because that's where his dogs would chill.
Anyway, whenever Ivan would come down from his house to meet up with Gramps, he'd bump into us and start chatting us up.
I'd be the shy kid, in the corner furthest away from him, petting the dogs, not saying a word. He'd move back to where I was, and each day, he'd try and make me smile.
He'd give me pointers on what to say to the boys I liked... or he'd "share" a secret with me... like telling me which girls he liked, then he'd tell me what a hard time they were giving him.
I thought he was cute... but obviously, he was way older than me, so it was one of those platonic things. He knew it, but he was always very nice to me, and would treat me like his baby sister.

One particular day, I was mad at my siblings and cousins for being assholes because they tattled on me for not eating breakfast (sometimes, I just don't feel like eating... and this always pisses people off. I don't get it), which made my grandparents scream at me, and Mom force-feed me.
I was outside, crying while playing with some kittens, when Ivan came over to me with his hands held together as if he was holding something small in them.
He told me to "open the box." Abre la caja.
I acted as if I was unlocking it with an imaginary key.
He opened his hands like a book.
"Take out the flower." Saca la flor.
I looked at his empty hands... but acted as if I was picking up a flower.
"You're my love." Eres mi amor.
I blushed. He smiled and wiped the tears from my eyes.
I smiled immediately... a bashful smile, but it did make me forget about all the fuckery going on around me.

I believe that was the last summer he worked for Grandpa, since he moved to the U.S. and we lost track of him.
It was probably 2006 when he was back in Hometown, deported for drug trafficking.
When I saw him again, he was a hardened criminal.
He had a new nickname, "Chiquilin," something similar to "tiny" but a name given to him as an oxymoron, just like the actor Tommy "Tiny" Lister.
Everyone was scared of him... because he was a beast. He could (and would) fight two guys at a time, and he'd still have the strength to fight two more.
He'd fight dirty, too... he'd break bottles and cut people... that sort of shit.
People were told to avoid him, because random shit would set him off.
Since I live three houses away from the town's Cantina, I'm forced to bump into all the drunks of town before getting home.

Although I had lovely memories of Ivan, I was scared of seeing him now. Once I did bump into him, he knew who I was... and was very nice to me... but it was obvious this guy was... bad.
That made me sad. He clearly had a good heart as a teenager... but it was destroyed sometime between 1992-2006.
Still... as crazy and ruthless as he may have become, he cried when my grandpa and grandma died in '07 and '09, respectively. Anyone who cared that much for my family is... well, appreciated.

Today we got a phone call telling us Ivan had been killed last night.
He was walking home, when in a dark corner, someone sprang up from behind him and slit his throat (I can't believe this sort of shit is going down in Hometown... it's incomprehensible). No one heard anything... someone just found his dead body in the morning.

Now, I can remember him as the heartless psycho who would beat people nearly to death over something as simple as an accidental "dirty look"... or I can remember that guy who would make me smile with silly rhymes.

Me quedo con la flor.

Friday, February 18, 2011


Reason #56729 why I hate girls. Imagine this scenario:

You have Friend A, Friend B, Babe (person YOU'RE fooling around with), and You.

Friend A is crazy. That's a motherfucking fact. She has said and done things to trouble more than FIVE people.
Still... crazy people need friends too. Plus, she's not the dangerous type of crazy... well, as in, physically dangerous. She can do much damage with her words, that too has been proven, but physically, a fifth grader can take her down.
Friend A said some shit that makes YOU seem crazy to others. She connives her way into fucking shit up between you and Babe (and she sneaks in and proceeds to go out on dates with him once he drops you like a hot potato).
Babe drops you, thinking you're batshit crazy... and you're left crying for a few weeks... not to mention permanently scarred and insecure of yourself. Wait... maybe I am... really crazy?

Friend B picks you up from the dumps Babe placed you in. She takes you out and helps you party off your shitty mood. Now, you've had your differences with Friend B that go back to your High School days... when you were a little chubby and uncool to boot because your parents were hard-headed immigrants who try raising you like they were raised back in the old country... in this new country, where ideas just clash.
Still with me?
Ok, you forgive Friend B in college, because... well, you were just being stupid kids back when she went around talking shit about your chubby self... and now, as semi-adults, you're cool.
Friend B, however, is adamant about you kicking Friend A to the curb. She eggs you on when you start (drunkenly) talking a bit of shit about Friend A.
Ohhh!! Tell HotBartenderFriendAHasACrushOn how she asked you to look up GirlHe'sSecretlyBanging in your middle school yearbook!
I didn't even know that girl went to my middle school! But when FriendA told me to do it, yep, there she was. CRAZY! HOW DOES SHE KNOW THAT?! CRAZY BITCH!
YEAH!!! Now tell him about the time...

Time passes, you've completely cut off Friend A from your life (except she's still there... ever-present on Facebook)... and more of your old friends are as well... because hey, Friend A is "ONE CRAZY BITCH!"
Now your reputation is slowly being rebuilt from the ruins Friend A made of it. People are once again giving you credit. You are once again being invited to Latin Nights at Blue Martini with the good ol' gang. They're once again spotting you drinks. Babe is once again hugging you for any reason, and making out with you each time he gets you tipsy with the vodka-waters he feeds you throughout the night.

Friend A is completely lonely... and somewhat suicidal. No clubbing for her.
Her FB status updates are getting increasingly depressing. More people start mocking her and noticing what a nutjob this chick is... all of this being discussed over martinis and Rock en Español.

Finally... she posts a status that has lyrics that reach your core.
You LIKE the status.
Friend A texts you within five minutes.
"I want my friend back. I really need to talk to you. I miss you. I don't know what to do. My mom was recently diagnosed with lupus, and now... things are crumbling right now. I need someone to talk to."
Fuck... you think. This bitch is crazy and she did me dirty... she made Babe dump me and FEAR me for a minute. But... she's in trouble... she's hurting... we all fuck up sometime. FUCK!
Friend B CALLS you (who the hell CALLS nowadays?).
You: What?
FriendB: What the fuck are you doing "liking" Friend A's status?! Do you know how that makes you look?!
You: What? I liked her status. What's the big deal? I don't think that's an issue.
FriendB: What is Babe going to think? And (list of Blue Martini/Nightclub friends)?!
You: I don't give a fuck what they think. I did what I wanted to do. Plus, she needs me right now.
You: I'm not going to become her BFF. I'm just going to hear her out. Her mom has lupus!
FriendB: You better think of how that's going to make you look before you go anywhere with her. Remember what she did to you!
You: That was months ago! I'm not above forgiving. We won't be close, but I'm going to give her some of my support.

Ok... now... who's the crazy one here?

Too much estrogen. I'm giving myself a headache.

God bless straight men... I don't know how they handle that shit.
(Let me clarify, MY female friends are AWESOME. I only have ONE sort-of-crazy friend... and I see her sparingly... when I don't have enough crazy in my life...)

Thursday, February 17, 2011


I spent the day randomly smiling to myself. I'd remember the part of yesterday's book which impacted me most as a kid, and the smile would just creep up on me:
"I contemplated, for instance, jostling the blind on the street; and from the secret, unexpected joy this gave me I recognized how much of my soul loathed them; I planned to puncture the tires of invalids' vehicles, to go and shout 'lousy proletarian' under the scaffoldings on which laborers were working, to slap infants in the subway. I dreamed of all that and did none of it, or if I did something of the sort, I have forgotten it."
Then I'd feel guilty. But then I'd smile again.
Man oh man... I'm a horrible person! But imagine the reaction that would incite!

I'd calm myself down by remembering some of my new favorite lines:
"Then it was that the thought of death burst into my daily life. I would measure the years separating me from my end. I would look for examples of men my age who were already dead. And I was tormented by the thought that I might not have time to accomplish my task. What task? I have no idea."
That sobered me up real quick.
Not that I think of people who are already dead (although JC harassed me about this over the summer. "You're 25? Damn... well... be careful when you reach 27... you know that infamous little club... although you'd be in pretty cool company." I'd tell him I was turning 27 in 2012... you know... when so many people think the world's going to end. Coincidence? ::shudder::), but I really have dealt with that issue where I sit there and contemplate how many years are left of my life. I've been fascinated by that thought since I turned nine. I remember sitting on my living room sofa, staring out the window, drifting into space... thinking "Wow... just think... death is... now closer." Just the thoughts a nine-year-old should be having at her birthday party.

ANYWAY. Wanna hear a funny story?
Sister was mailing some chocolates, peanut butter, and Gobstoppers/Nerds to one of her friends who is living in Manchester (England), when the stoic postman (is that what you call the people who work at the post office?) asked her why she was sending so much junk food. D explained she was sending the goodies (45 bucks worth. That's how much that bullshit cost to mail out. We didn't even do that shit for my brother. My sister got me and my smuggling of jalapeño peppers, poor Rafa didn't get shit... although I did give him £100 which he later used to win a pub crawl... evens out, right?) to her friend who was homesick. Then Sister went off on how she was homesick when she lived in Bilbao so she wanted to do her friend this favor.
That's when the postman (fuck it, that's what I'm calling him) got all excited and explained how his wife was from there. Their conversation was animated, describing different areas in exact detail... they were both really happy.
D swore she had just made a new friend, but just as the lovely exchange was going to end... it all went sour.
Sister was signing the last of the paperwork, and she had to write the date. Instead of asking the postman for the date, she did what is second nature to all of us: she clicked her phone to see the date.
Her homescreen wallpaper?
Mmm... and it's kosher!
"Your wallpaper is inappropriate."

He resumed his snooty European persona, quickly turning his nose up in the air and looking away from D... and D lost her new friend.

ALMOST had him, damn it... almost!

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Dropping bombs

Weird day.
First, I woke up from a horrible nightmare which consisted of the end of the world coming in the form of a flood mixed with atomic bombs being dropped. There was a lot of running and screaming. I thought I was going to wake up with a sore throat from screaming "Tyson!" so desperately (seriously, brain? The world is ending violently and the only thing I can think of is my poor dog? Wow).
There was a hero in my dream: Joe Gordon-Levitt.
Bizarre, considering how small the guy is... but hey, it wasn't so bad to have that guy telling me to shut the fuck up and keep moving.
I woke up after my cousin (in the dream) screamed "THEY'RE GONNA DROP THE BOMBS!"
I woke up damn near crying... but with a newfound love for JGL.

That was my morning.

My afternoon consisted of fighting with the wind that was rocking the fuck out of my car. Then the stupid drivers from out of town. Then the stupid rain... that was dirty because of the crazy wind... so it was like mud being slung at my car.

Anyway, then a friend of mine proposed to me.
Well, let me explain.
We're BFFs. He's the one with whom I went to BWWs not too long ago and he left me for the mean BBW at the bar.
We've gone through that weird roller-coaster thing certain friends go through. First, he liked me all through middle school... but I didn't get into asian boys until high school... but by then, we didn't go to school together. We reconnected in college, where I got a crush on him, but he didn't like me like that. That's where we turned into "siblings."
Now, after college, he seems to have lost his damn mind and he likes me again. I don't.
Anyway, he's recently reconnected with Catholicism, and apparently this has also made him reevaluate me as a female.
Him: There aren't very many girl like you out there anymore... I had underestimated the difficulty of finding a good, practicing Catholic girl.
Me: Well, it's not like guys give a fuck about it now.
Him: I do.
::screeching tires::
Wait... hold up... this is weird. What?
He then went off and complimented me some more (I didn't have the heart to tell him that I'm not really into Catholic men because I find them... kindaaaa scary).
He asked me if I was seeing anyone.
Nah. I'm not. I'm recovering from a severely butchered heart.
He then joked about how funny it'd be if we did the "if not married by 30" friend pact... where we'd marry each other.
I'd be a terrible wife. And that would be incest, bro.
Well, I tried.
He then asked me to be his sponsor for his upcoming confirmation.
You do understand once I agree, we can no longer marry, right? You can't marry your Godmother ;)
I thought about it. That's why I asked you to marry me first ;)
Yeah. Ok. Twiiiilight zone.
Looks like I got myself a new godson... a 25 year old godson.

I ended my day by getting a phone call from Pacemaker.

Pacemaker: So, how was your Valentine's Day, lady?
Me: Eh.
Pacemaker: Ooooh. Do I sense bitterness?
Me: Nah.
Pacemaker: Resentment?
Me: Nah. More like... indifference. But I WILL feel resentment if you keep calling me "lady!"

The fact that that girl has my love life as a top priority is quite disconcerting. I'm sure the concept she has of it is quite... negative. I should live up to it.
I contemplated whether or not to let her in on my marriage proposal... but I'm sure she would have slapped me through the phone.
Then I contemplated telling her about my relationship with MGH, aka her little cousin, and how my past bitterness and resentment was largely due to his treatment of me... but I passed on that one too... that would have been too huge a bomb. I'd probably still be on the phone right now and it would probably be all over the internet by tomorrow morning:
AnoMALIE: Pedophile! (which would be incorrect, because he was totally legal by the time we started messing around. But this girl is that scandalous)
Ahh, and while we're on that subject (of me liking minors... no, of liking my juniors, more like it), over the last few weeks, I have developed the most intense crush on Alex Pettyfer. That twenty-year-old is absolutely GORGEOUS. Curse you, television!

P.S. I remembered why I stole The Fall... I DID like it that much in middle school... does that make me weird? I still like it now... does that make me weirder (I actually re-read that book over the course of yesterday and today. It had been a minute since I last partook in that activity... willingly)?

Tuesday, February 15, 2011


Using only the fingers on one hand, I can count how many things I've stolen in my life.

I've stolen:
1. A pack of water balloons that were shaped like the cartoon heads of animals.
I still remember they were different colors... and the animals that stick out most to me are a cat, a dog, and a mouse. They had faces painted on them.
I was about three, my brother was about four. Mom and Dad refused to buy us the pack... so I kept a look out while brother stuffed the baggie in his pant pocket.
Mom caught us playing with the balloons once we got home. She called us over to have a talk with Dad... and then they scared us into thinking DAD was going to go to jail because of what WE stole. Rafa and I started to cry and apologize repeatedly as we handed over the balloons.
What a fucking traumatic way to teach us a lesson... but I guess it was better than getting spanked... that shit always sucked.
You might think being three is too young for someone to remember... but trust me... I remember some of the weirdest shit... and this is certainly one of those lucky memories, because I've never felt SO guilty.
I'm sure it's partly to blame for my aversion of balloons. Blaaaaah!

2. Dark blue Wet n' Wild nail polish.
It was 99 cents, but Mom refused to buy it for me because "those dark color are only worn by Satanists!" A thought she firmly held until 2007, when I finally said "fuck it!" purchased some black nail polish, and applied it while waiting for a study session to begin.
Anyway, this day I was probably in 6th grade, Mom had forced me into accompanying her to the grocery store, I was feeling rebellious, and I grabbed the polish.
I was having severe bouts with my conscience as Mom continued to shop around. I'd take the nail polish out of my pocket and place it on a shelf... then I'd start walking away.
But I waaaaaant it! It looks like the night sky!
I'd end up walking back and shoving it back in my pocket.
My heart raced until I was safely sitting in Mom's Jeep and driving out of the Lucky's parking lot.
Once I came home, I realized I'd never be able to wear the polish without having to give Mom an explanation.
After much thought, a shitload of remorse, and the oncoming holidays, I decided to gift it to my then BFF.
She loved it... and I'd die a little more inside each time I'd see her wearing the shade.

Those were the only occasions I could recall ever stealing anything. I always felt too guilty about pocketing anything, especially since I caught on almost immediately that it was usually expected of me to be into stealing shit. Stupid workers would always be watching Mom and us like fucking hawks. They still do it whenever I enter any sotre, and it has to be one of my TOP pet peeves. It's repulsive.
Anyway, once I noticed that, I became hellbent on NEVER living up to that stereotype.

Steal only two minor things in my entire life? Not bad.

Then today I walked into D's room, and I saw a book.
Me: Oh wow... you, reading Albert Camus?
(I know it sounds snotty of me, but see, my sister only reads shit by Nicholas Sparks. It frustrates the FUCK out of me, especially once they make a new movie out of one of his books and she tries suckering me into watching it. Let me guess... someone DIES in it! God, it irritates me)
D: I found it stashed in your stuff... I decided to read it.
I looked at the book, confused as hell.
Me: The Fall? What the hell... I never purchased this!

I looked through the book... and found my middle school bookmark (yeah, I remember what it looked like. It had drawings of Bugs Bunny, Marvin the Martian, and the Tasmanian Devil. I chopped off the top cartoon in a fit of rage--what else is new?-- and would bite the bottom left end of the bookmark when I was bored)... then the stamp of my middle school in the back page of the book.
Fuck, man... I had a problem! I don't even remember jacking this shit. What middle schooler jacks an Albert Camus book? What kind of fucking weirdo does that?

So yeah, there you have it... balloons, nail polish... and Albert Camus.
Way to condemn myself.

Monday, February 14, 2011


Boys get the one on the left? Pfft! As if! FRIEND ZONE, muthafuckas!
Valentine's Day was my all-time favorite "holiday" my first couple of years in school.

I loved the class party, to be more precise.

Sure, writing up the Valentine cards sucked... and I was totally that girl who carefully picked out the cards I gave to the boys. None of this "I pick you" (the "choo-choo-choose you" episode on The Simpsons was totally lifted off my real-life experience. They should pay me royalties) "Will you be my Valentine?" bullshit. Guys got the "Happy Valentine's Day :)" or "You're a great friend!" cards. I kept the hearts and L-word at a minimum. My poor female friends would end up with the lovey-dovey shit. Sorry, girls!

Anyway, once the card thing was over, the fun would start. The cupcakes, the fruit punch, the candies, the music... I loved it.
Clearly, a fan of the dress.
I can't say I remember the kindergarten celebration, but I definitely remember first and second grade.

First grade was fantastic, because the teacher turned it into a Cinderella theme, where all the boys had to come to class in dress pants and dress shirts, and we girls had to spend the day in our prettiest dress.
Now, asking me to wear a dress has always elicited the same reaction: Fuck. For real? But it itches!
Basically the same way guys react when they're forced into wearing a suit, tie, and cufflinks. Is it really necessary? Can't you just imagine me looking good?
Sure, you look good in that shit, but I'd rather be wearing chucks, jeans, and a t-shirt. However, it happens... just to oblige the uptight fuckers... and because, ok, sometimes it feels good to check out how badass your calves have gotten after upping your incline on your morning jogs.
ANYWAY, back to my story: I was forced to wear my fluffiest dress. It was pastel pink, with silver, glittery, minuscule polka dots... and it had SO MUCH tulle. I couldn't run in it very well because my calves would always get poked by that bastard material, and I'd almost rip the damn dress off out of the anger it inspired (uh... yeah... anger management issues since forever).
However, I did it to oblige the teacher, and because a "winner" would come out of all of this. The winner would be the queen for the day.
So, considering how fucking competitive I am, I made that extra effort and put up with the pain... to be the motherfucking queen, damn it!
A "king" would be chosen in a similar fashion, and since I had a crush on a couple of boys in class (always. It's the only way I could ever really concentrate in class. There must be a cute guy in there or else I die of boredom), this only served as more of an incentive.
The king and queen were chosen first thing in the morning, and the moment I stepped foot in class, even the girls were like "Ohhhp! Give it to AnoMALIE! We'll just be her BFFs." And since I've always been nice, I was like "Cool! You'll all be little princesses who help me find my prince!" and we were all happy.
When the "king" was selected, it wasn't any of my crushes, but one of the only two boys who dressed up. The boy, David, was a tiny, shy boy (who, ironically enough, grew up to be a drag queen)... but since he was my good friend, he basically let me rule the class with an iron fist.
I spent the day having my gaggle of friends (all the girls in class) run after boys and attack them with kisses once caught. We shared a Coca-Cola-flavored Chapstick to paint our lips on the boys... and we spread our terror like that.
Luckily no one suffered from cold-sores... that would have sucked.

Second grade is the other Valentine's Day party I remember.
God, how I fuckin' LOVED you!

I was excited because Mom had allowed me to volunteer the not only the fruit punch, but also some cookies. I had done the whole preparation thing the night before... the cards, getting the cookies and gallon of fruit punch for the class... all that.
Mom had driven me to school that day, so that I wouldn't have to carry all that bullshit to the bus stop.
As I was jumping out of the Jeep to rush to class, I felt a cold chill as I realized I had everthing... everything but my Lisa Frank trapper keeper.
Nooo! My homework!!!
(and we all know how I felt about homework)
Mom cussed, as is her custom, and told me not to go anywhere, to wait for her as she raced home to get me my stupid trapper keeper.
Sounded easy, however, there would always be a teacher watching to make sure no kids ditched in that area where Mom dropped me off (the back of school). The moment the teacher saw me idling away, she screamed at me and told me to get "in school." I went ahead and sat on the wooden bench in front of my class... and I fucking lost it. I was crying my ass off and my friends would come over and try to comfort me.
My mom is gonna be SO mad!
I sat there feeling like I had been punched in the gut each time I'd think of my angry mom.
After about, five minutes, I saw kids pointing and laughing their asses off.
My friend Teresa came over to me, covering her mouth because she was smirking, and said
"Your Mom is over there, looking for you."
I rushed to the back area of school... but saw Mom inside school, heading towards me... trapper keeper in hand... fuming mad... in her white long johns she had been wearing as she drove me to school.
Jesus Christ... I'm dead.
Mom handed me my shit, and gave me that "You are in SO MUCH TROUBLE, idiot!" look, then headed back towards her Jeep.
If that doesn't say "LOVE" I don't know what does. That's fucking love... even if she did virtually murder me with her stare.
Anyway, my day didn't end there...
Later that day, Teresa once again, came up to me and gave me some horrible news:
Judith is going around telling people your mom is ugly.
Judith was my supposed good friend... because we looked a lot alike, so our friendship sprang from there.
She was going around describing to people what had happened that day... and would go into detail describing my mom.

Now, I may talk a lot of shit about my mom... she might drive me crazy WAY too often, but NO ONE talks shit about MY mom. EVER.
So I immediately confronted Judith during recess, as she stood surrounded by about five other girls who were listening to her talk about my mom.
Me: So you ARE talking shit about my mom!
Judith: She's the one who came to school looking the way she did.
Me: SHE HAD TO BRING ME MY HOMEWORK! She didn't have time to change out of her pajamas!
Judith: Well, that was really hilarious.
OtherGirl: What are those marks on her face?
Me: What? What marks? You didn't even see my mom, bitch!
Judith: She has all those dark marks on her face... scattered everywhere.
Me: SO DO YOU, and you're eight!
Judith: But they don't make ME look ugly. Your mom is U-G-L-Y

And that was enough. I pulled Judith's hair and began pounding the hell out of her face.
No one stopped the fight, it just ended once Judith ran into our classroom.
When the teacher pulled us to the side, she asked us to describe what happened... the situation was mediated... and while I did get in trouble, she understood why I had gone off the deep end like that.

That day my friendship with Judith died, but hey... Mom learned to change into some decent clothes whenever she heads out of the house, regardless of the occasion.

Happy Valentine's Day, ladies and gentlemen.
(Look at that, I was not bitter whatsoever this year. Money!)

Sunday, February 13, 2011

SPARKLE, NOT "bling"

So I've been in a shit-tastic mood lately.
Twiggy suggested I'm like this because I miss my parents. I told her she couldn't be more incorrect. What she was saying was comparable to saying Russians miss Stalin... sure, there are a few out there who do miss the man, but for the most part, people are better off. Same here (sorry Mom and Dad... I still love you, though).
No, my sadness was brought about by the accumulation of the tiny things. Then the wack memories associated with many "small things."

Anyway, as promised, I tried cheering up.
Difficult task at first, considering I woke up to the sound of a stranger's voice.
(I swear, I better go to a cardiologist before my insurance expires next month)
Instead of going all ninja on the supposed intruder, I sat as still and quietly as possible in my bed (my entire body under the covers, of course).
As I slowed my breathing and cleared my head, I sat there trying to make out what he was saying.
How the fuck did this nigga get in my house without me noticing?
He was in my sister's room.
D!! (Fuck calling her "sister" all the time, it confuses me)
Then the front door opened, and I heard Sister's car drive off.
That sneaky little bitch.
I got up and sat in D's room. It reeked of drunk dude.
When D came home, about five minutes later, she was startled to see me.
D: How long have you been awake?
Me: A while.
D: Um... so... I got three texts at 3:30 in the morning. It was Lito. "I need your help." "Help me." "Please help me!" When I texted back, he told me he was too drunk to drive. He was at the Crazy Horse, and since it's only like, two minutes away from us, he knew I'd be the one closest to help him.
Me: Had someone mugged him or what?
D: No, he was just too drunk. Since he lives so far away (NE part of town, we're SW), he just wanted to know if he could just sleep it off at our house.
Me: Ok.
D: When I brought him home, I told him he was sleeping in Rafa's room... but when he walked in there, he turned into a baby and complained it was too cold and passed out in my room. So then I had to sleep in the cold room.

Lito would have stayed longer, but one of our cousins called and said she was dropping by, so D shooed Lito away. While normally I'm kind of uptight, and I'm sure this would make Mom have a stroke from being so furious, I see how she was just being a good friend. I would have done it too... so I agreed to help her out in the cleaning.
In the middle of cleaning, we saw he had bloodied D's pillow.
Drunk men... such a pain in the ass.

Anyway, I then decided to dress in bright colors, and I manicured my nails... with the one thing that makes girls smile: sparkles.
I now have the equivalent of Michael Jackson's silver glove slathered on my nails.

And that did it.

I'll always be that five year old kid at heart.
I'll hold off on making myself some macaroni jewelry... for now.

Saturday, February 12, 2011


Friend I'm most jealous of?
He's obsessed with this movie, and since it's his birthday, he got this.
He works at Pixar.
Is it obvious?

Talking about swans:
Back in the day, Mom would control my siblings and me by sitting us in front of the TV and making us watch the Disney Silly Symphony cartoons... where they'd show about four short cartoons in the matter of half an hour... I don't know if I'm making sense here.
Anyway, there were times when the Ugly Duckling would make the cut. This one:

I'd dread it. Not because I found it boring or offensive, but because I couldn't watch it without crying. I still get a little choked up, to tell you the truth. When he looks at his reflection... when even the decoy duck rejects him... Jesus Christ... how was this shit intended for children?
Obviously, I felt identified with the poor duckling... so I wouldn't be able to control myself and I'd bawl (body-shaking sobs included, ok) with every bad treatment the poor duckling encountered.
The more normal children, like my siblings, cousins, and kid neighbors, would only stare at me like "God... this girl is so emotional, get her out of here."
That's where I ask myself (now) Really... you see a kid freak out this bad with a sad cartoon and you don't ask yourself why she gets like that? That's not a red flag for you? Wow.

I said that story concerning my aunt was only the start of the bullshit I'd be forced to deal with. It was really the "formal introduction," the time someone explained why they were being mean to me.
Back when I'd get babysat by my imbecile neighbor/cousin (the one partly responsible for that infamous plastic pony to my face), she'd do mean things to me (like abandoning me for a piñata, leading to me getting my first concussion/black eye) but would never tell me why... just something about me would bug her and she'd push me, or pull my hair, or whatever. Like here, it's not obvious in this photo, but my upper lip is actually scraped (remember, I smile like a horse, so my upper lip nearly vanishes when I smile).
When I started being possessive over my baby sister.
No one would hurt her without dealing with MY FIST first.
How did it happen? I was running on a rocky surface and she tripped me. I ate shit face-first. Of course, Mom was told I was clumsy and tripped on my own... I was two and a half, totally believable. It wasn't until a little after my aunt told me what she did, that my babysitter told me nearly the same thing (it was also around this time that her older, teenaged brother interrupted Rafa and my playtime outside, and told my FOUR YEAR OLD brother he was going to kill our new baby sister. He came out of his house--we were neighbors-- with a knife in hand, and my brother damn near had a heart attack. I just stood there, crying as Bro raced to the house to lock the front door and save my sister. It was a joke, obviously, but who does that to a four and two year old? A fucking mentally unstable prick, that's who. Fifteen years later, oddly enough, Karma killed his first born. Not that I'm happy over it... the death of a baby is always unfortunate and lamentable... but I'm just saying... weird how life works out).

I'd find some solace, thinking I'd probably run the same luck as the duckling and turn into a lovely swan once I reached adulthood (not literally, obviously. I wasn't that stupid)... but uh... yeah... Disney lied to me. Although, when I look through my childhood pictures, I don't find myself to have been an ugly kid. I was just a timid little girl... who you can actually note the increasing fear and sadness the older she gets in photos. You can see that little girl break. Not cool.

Sorry, I'm still down. I'll try extra hard tomorrow to cheer up.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Not Happening

I'm having a rough week. Like many people, I wanted to distract myself with a little comedy. The title of an article a friend posted intrigued me... especially since it was from a site where I usually get my daily laughs.
This one.
I thought I had hit gold, since it's totally a subject that worries me, and so I can relate.
Ways not to fuck up like my parents did, all written in a humorous manner? I'm game!
Then I read... and my heart felt heavy and I started having difficulty swallowing.
It was humorous... but it was a serious subject. It was heavy... but... I'd get the occasional chuckle to ease the frown on my face.
Overall, I enjoyed the article... because as much as I love my parents, I encountered some of the shit he did (the fear of God getting struck into me by an angry parent. My mom is my mom, but the fact that she would go batshit on us whenever we did things like spill our milk or not know how to count is still there. I don't know if there are many people out there who have gotten backhanded so hard their lip splits open, let alone this happen to them at the age of eight by their own mother who was angry because all you were trying to do was get her off the goddamn Nintendo). Then I read the comments, and felt... angry.
While many people loved the article, there were many people criticizing it for the content.
"I came here to laugh, what the fuck is this shit?" others were comments of people not believing some of the abuse could actually happen, and stuff like that.
Oh wow... sounds familiar!

Back during the ONE time I let everyone in my creative writing class read two of my stories, I gave them one that the professor always brought up in class. He'd speak vaguely of it, and apparently, this intrigued some of the people in class. I only gave them what they asked for.
The subject was heavy... I guess it could be considered a form of child abuse, but with some comic relief.
It was a true story, where I switched names besides the main character--me-- in order to "protect" identities.
It started with somewhat comical situations of a five year old girl... a birthday party (once again, totally real. Everything I wrote was just like I remembered and corroborated by the video recorded at my party), and it snowballed into a terrible experience I had with an aunt verbally and physically hurting me over her kid's lie.
It's a story that haunted my life from that moment at five years of age until... well, I still think back to it and my chest starts to feel heavy, but I can finally laugh about it and think "What the fuck was she smokin'? Crazy bitch." However, it took me until last year to finally tell my mom about it (I damn near started hyperventilating when I caught myself sharing the story. Mom was quiet... then she said "Ah. Hmm. Everything makes sense now.... that crazy, jealous bitch").
ANYWAY, the story is a little jarring at the end... when my aunt throws a fist-full of sand in my face (the physical abuse), tells me I'm a "very ugly little girl! No one likes ugly girls!" (and that's the verbal) and grabs me by my arm and throws me across the street. She then threatens me not to tell my mom or else she'll tell her shit about me so I could get hit. I run all the way home (a block away... in the ghetto, mind you), trip on some uneven pavement and scrape my face and knee. It ends with me realizing that fuck... I am ugly... and I deserve any and all bad treatment I get because of it.

Ok. My purpose in making the intro somewhat comical was to lubricate the reader's __orifice_of_choice__ before ramming the huge __object_of_choice_ at the end.
It was dealing with a difficult subject, without wanting to commit suicide afterward, basically.

In all my stories, regardless of the subject, I make it my mission to add some sort of humor. It's the comedian in me.
I find that with many comedians, they have a really dark, deeply sad, side... vulnerable to get caught up in addictive behaviors that usually end in a tragic fashion. While I doubt that will happen to me (the drug addiction and eventual drug overdose or suicide), I can relate with many of these troubled comedians. We've had such terrible pasts and traumatic experiences... we're left feeling empty... useless... guilty (this story of my aunt only introduced me to the MANY bullshit episodes that would come my way. All of which would work ever so diligently to destroy my carefree, gentle soul), so you just drink/snort/inject your life away. No one really comforts us... and for the most part, we don't want to trouble others with our baggage, so we crack jokes. Then, when we see someone feeling shitty, we try our fucking hardest to get them out of that abyss we're confined to... at least, that's my case. I don't want ANYONE to feel as shitty as I very often do.

Anyway, back to my creative writing story: nobody liked it (besides Kelley, but that's because she's awesome). It was torn to shreds when it came to the peer critiques.
The comment that hurt most was this one bitch in class, the one Kelley and I referred to as "The Homely" girl. She commented  "What adult would do this? It's not believable" while scoffing.
I have never practice so much self-restraint. I sat there and "Oh... ok"ed her comment, while all I really wanted to do was jump on the table and drop-kick her face.
I guess infanticide and child molesters/rapists don't exist in her world... which seems like quite the rosy and inviting place to live.
But hey, guess what... it happens. Children face FAR worse scenarios than the one I wrote about... and yet, here you have me, 20 years later still affected by the heartless words uttered by someone I was supposed to trust.
Just like you have crazy ladies screaming mean shit at a pre-schooler, you have parents who neglect and abuse, even kill their children.
I hate people who try to negate that fact.
I bet they're the type of person who fast-forward through the "tough" scenes of a movie they rent.

I pray their world never gets shattered by the cruel nature of life... and if it just so happens to someone they love, that they don't try to "fix" it by ignoring it.
There ain't no fast-forward button on this bitch... believe me, I've searched.