Saturday, April 30, 2011


Right about now, I would fight someone for:
- Avocados.
- Sushi
- Pho
- Assortment of salty nuts (don't even go there)
- Chocolate cupcakes

I will use bloody force for the bolded ones.

Pancakes... sometimes I think I smell them. Blueberry ones.

I only get weird rushes like that on occasion. For the most part, I avoid places where these things will be showcased (I'd rather watch someone attempt to slice apart my small intestine with a butter knife than walk into a house that smells like bacon or pancakes... it's plain torture).
Weekends seem to trigger these urges (of fighting for my favorite foods, not of wanting to watch someone go at it with my small intestine).

In unrelated news: I will never again tell guys that I like their hands, or anyone actually, that my favorite thing on a dude is their hands.
I watched a movie last night that was incredibly disturbing. The creepy, weird protagonist would tell her crush that she loved his hands... and she'd always stare at them.
I watched in horror as the story progressed, because all I could think was "Jesus Christ! I say that all the time!" The level of creep-dom this movie took that line was... enough to make me no longer comfortable admitting my admiration for hands.
So... sorry hands, but Hollywood managed to ruin my public fascination with you (I still really like you... as long as you're pretty, of course... and ugly hands will continue to be an immediate deal breaker).

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Twenty one plus one

What I said:
Man, all these years... I always thought your birthday was in June!
Another thing MySpace helps a person out on!

Anyway, hope you have a very happy birthday!

But, hey, if you can: QUIT GROWING UP, DAMN IT!!! Do you know how old that makes me?!

What I really wanted to say:
Good! THAT much closer to being a little more legit. You're still too much of a baby... but damn, such a good-looking baby. Happy birthday.

What I wrote:
Happy birthday to my favorite braceface in the world!
:D haha
Welcome to the year in limbo... where you're neither a teenager, nor old enough to legally gamble/drink in the US of A.
fun stuff indeed!

here's to you avoiding that swine flu! [we need you to get to the big 2-1 so you can gamble with some real money! haha]

What I really wanted to say:
I hope it sucks dick. I'm laughing because here you thought you were going to whore it up in Mexico and divine justice was served! BAHAHA! Serves you right, slut. Enjoy being locked up in your house, quarantined like the rest of the country. Ouch... side ache from laughing so hard. Love youuuu!
(This was the year H1N1 broke out... exactly on the week of his birthday. He had gone to his hometown in Mexico to celebrate, and he had spent the week prior bragging to me about how shitfaced he [and his buddies] was going to be the entire week. He had also bragged about how many girls he was going to mindlessly fuck. The though had been killing me, then the swine flu broke out, and I spent that entire week laughing-- because he wasn't going to die, but it sure as fuck was going to ruin his plans for debauchery. I'm mean? Maybe... but he started it, by intentionally hurting my feelings like that. He'd get on skype and brag about it for fucks sake! He'd stand up and start thrusting-- "air-fucking"-- when he'd talk about the girls. WHO DOES THAT?!)

What I wrote:
3,2,1 countdown complete! chale, el tiempo si que volo. Now you no longer have to act busy at that one toys r us of liquor stores as the rest of us buy our drinks. :)
que tengas un buen dia. Happy Birthday, braceface!

What I really wanted to say:
I can't believe I'm taking the time to address you publicly... considering my heart is still shattered and it refuses to adhere with anything I try. Thanks for further increasing the difficulty of getting over this by staying over at my house for the weekend. You make things so difficult... but I do hope... I can make you happy. We counted down to this day since the summer of 2007. So many things were going to get started, it's fucked that it worked out this way. Goddamn... why do I love you so much? Happy birthday... please don't go out with her today... please.

What I wrote:
Ma-ri-oh! Well, well, well... look who's slowly catching up to me... bwahaha! A ver cuando le caes a Vegas again, ya que on-line poker no se vale.
Espero y tengas un muy feliz cumple... I hear it's gonna rock :)

What I really wanted to say:
Ma-ri-oh! Well, well, well... look who's slowly catching up to me... bwahaha! I'm fine with you dropping by house now. You're my family. It finally got in my head, and I whole-heartedly accept it. I hope your birthday really IS as amazing as your girl plans it will be. Be happy, kids. I love you, broski.
Happy birthday :)

Today, as you can probably guess, is MGH's birthday... and I'm good.
In the time I've known him, he has never wished me a happy birthday. There was that time last year when I reminded him 10 days later and he went ahead and wished me a happy birthday... but we were in the middle of "the argument from hell" where our relationship exploded into non-existence.
But I... I just can't reciprocate the indifference. I'll always remember the birthdays of those who hold a special place in my heart-- regardless if I don't in theirs-- and I'll always wish them the best... even if at the time I only want to slap them across the face.

He's 22 now, he no longer has braces, and he's happy... with someone else... and I'm OK with it. No hatred, no resentment, no sadness... well, there IS a little bit of nostalgia.
I think back to MGH's childhood, and how everyone always thought he and JC were twins. People would be shocked whenever they'd realize the birthday party was ONLY JC's (JC celebrates in late June, so I was usually around by then).
They're 10 months apart... so it's an understandable confusion.
"Oh my goodness! You guys aren't twins? How much older are you than him, JC?"
JC: Six months.
The people would initially respond with "Ah! Ok!"s... then we'd sit there, waiting to watch their expressions as they'd do the calculations in their head and wonder WTF?!
We loved watching their confusion.
:) Oh, the good ol' days.

Growing up is... a must.
 Feliz, feliz, FELIZ cumpleaños... mi amigo del alma.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011


I'm a terrible person to be around right now.
I'll admit that.
For now, I have a very short fuse... and I end up doing/saying things that kill the mood.

Scenario One: El Clásico taken up a notch to the UCL stage.
I'm an animal when watching soccer.
I am.
I will cuss my heart out, I'll scream, I'll jump... I'm HORRIBLY annoying.
That's me on a good day.
When I'm upset for some other reason? I'm worse.
Now, not only do I get to fight in person with people watching the match with me, but I also have Twitter to have my nice little arguments.

Guess who wanted to fight with me today... via tweets.
__(your answer here)__

Answer: Euro Birthday Boy.
Fucking again. As if I don't hear enough shit from him.
I'm convinced he has a serious case of ageism... and misogyny.

Whatever I say, there he goes berating me.
He treats me like I'm a huge moron just because I'm 1. a girl, and 2. younger than him.
I'm immediately a dumbass because of those two factors. Regardless of what I do or what I achieve, I'll always be a nimrod to him because I was a girl born in 1985, not a boy born in 1979.

This time, I tweeted ONCE about the Barça game:
A team once sponsored by a BLOODY DICTATOR is NO team of mine 
He responded (not directly at me, but within minutes):
Crime pays.

Bitch say WHAT?!
Fucking passive aggressive dick.

I sat there and thought about going off on him... but instead I sat there and kept quiet, pouting... angry. Totally killing the mood for everyone around me.

I don't find the Real Madrid- Barcelona history a laughing matter. It's tragic... fucked up... and it pisses me off to see so many people hailing a team with such a crooked background as Real Madrid.
I often wonder if people know of the bullshit that went down for Real to have the dough to BUY all those amazing players that have played for the team (I'm sorry Hugo Sanchez, I love you, but it doesn't make up for the shit). Look into that. It's a nice little story of a wonderful little dictator responsible for inoffensive shit like the bombing of Guernica. Mr. Franco. That gem.

Maybe I'm more affected by this than a normal person... because I love the city of Barcelona as well as its people. I've said it plenty of times: My heart is THERE. I also hate injustices, which is what happened to the people of Barcelona and the Basque country (my "home" in Spain) during the Spanish Civil War. What Franco did to those people was despicable... I couldn't like anything he stood for.

SO, Real Madrid can go suck a dick... and laughing about how "crime pays" ain't cool in my book. It's like people who laugh about the Holocaust. How is human suffering EVER funny? Prick.

There's that rant and how it played into my shitty mood. I didn't even celebrate much even after the 2-0 win from Barça. I was still in cunt mode.

Scenario Two: Compliments + Me = Not right now.
The aunt who upset me last week when she started prying into my personal life... I love her, even if she has a very peculiar way of... "complimenting" me.
This time, our little parlay went a little like this.
Aunt: Oh my God, AnoMALIE! Look at your face!
Me: ... what?
Aunt: Where are your cute chubby cheeks?! I can't... pinch them anymore!
She tries pinching my cheeks.
Me: Apparently gone.
Aunt: So thin!Your head is so long now!
(see! There it is! That special little compliment dropping by to say hello)
Aunt: What's his name?
Me: Ummm?
I laugh nervously... 'cause here she goes again.
Aunt: The times girls lose weight drastically like that is when they're in love...
Me: Or have lost the will to live...
Room is silent.
Me: Why do you look at me like that? It's true! Girls do that!

See, in this case, everyone was happy-ish. Then I knocked down the mood by mentioning suicidal tendencies.
Well, it's not that I have suicidal tendencies... I'd never actually go through with the act because it's a terrible thing... but I often don't get the point of being alive. That's just a fact. At least once a week, I find myself thinking "What's the point?" but it doesn't mean I'll quit going through the motions. I'm too curious for what the day will bring to go off and end my life. Ok, got that settled.
Now, ever since the rejections, the last one, to be exact, something inside me cracked. I've never felt anything like that. It was me... breaking.
My body, my heart, my mind, they all simultaneously said "ENOUGH."
Having nothing to live for, I found myself not giving a fuck about me.
Uh oh. Drugs? No.
I went ahead and stopped eating... well, not entirely. I do eat, but about... 500 calories a day.
Dangerous? I don't give a fuck. I quit caring about life, remember?
No sugar, no dairy... shit, I'm not even eating salt.
And I'm only ingesting water for my liquid.

Anyway, this has all caught up with me. It's obvious on my body: my head is long (like my aunt so kindly pointed out), and my thighs can no longer feed a pride of hungry lions (maybe just a solitary jaguar now). Stuff like that.
People think I'm doing it for a guy... but honestly, it happened because-- like I said-- I no longer have a reason to... give a fuck. No, I'm not starving myself, I'm just doing something risky (that isn't drug-related) because I no longer care if I die.

Jesus Christ... I'm not making sense.
It's the lack of oxygen to my brain (RELAX! It's not even like that. I eat plenty of protein and veggies. I'm not reverting to my old anorexic ways. I'm eventually bumping up the calories in order to go back to some heavy deadlifting, squatting, bench pressing, and clean and presses. I got plans. I just have to clean up my act and start from zero. That's the God honest truth right there, not all my other sarcastic/moody shit).

Point is: I'm sad, I no longer give a shit about food, and I'm a moody little cunt that loves killing the moment for everybody else.
Oh, and I have a long head, in case I didn't stress that enough.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Does she even HAVE any friends?

How old is your sister?
Why doesn't your sister come out with us?
Does she even have any friends?
Hmm. I want to meet her. I don't believe you.
Does she have a boyfriend?
Why not?
We should introduce her to *Sister'sEx'sOlderBrother*
Is your sister down to have kids? Because *Sister'sEx'sOlderbrother*'s want grandkids, now.

Those questions were made by my sister's ex's sister-in-law the other night.

I knew when D was speaking to the cunt, but I didn't know what was being said, I would just see D bust out laughing randomly.
I knew she wanted to tell me about it... I could see it in her face. I could see her building the courage... then she'd back down.
She'd just keep repeating "Damn... fuckin' Gaby (Sister'sEx'sSisterInLaw) is so fucking nosey."
I wouldn't take the bait, I'd just leave the room. It's not like I give a fuck about the majority of her friends (I think they're rude, pretentious little assholes I'd NEVER speak to if I'd bump into them anywhere).

Today, when I was minding my business in my room, D walked in and started telling me about the conversation.
Her answers to the questions Gaby asked:
Because she's... not really into going out (bullshit she said in order to not say the truth: Because she doesn't like you guys).
Yeah. She has her own friends.
I doubt she wants to meet you.
Because we're the... boyfriendless sisters? We've always been.
WTF? Why don't YOU? She doesn't even like kids.

I won't lie, this hurt my feelings.
I don't understand where the fuck this girl is coming at me from. I've NEVER crossed a word with her... I haven't even SEEN her. There's no reason for her to form ANY SORT of opinion about me, MUCH LESS insult me.
I'm D's sister. PERIOD. That's all I want you to know.
Then to throw that jab at me about probably not having any friends? Cunt's lucky I didn't hear her say this, because I'd MOST DEFINITELY beat her face in using only my elbow.
And hooking me up with that guy? WHAT THE HELL?! I've heard of him, since my sister is continuously talking about that guy's family. It's three guys. The middle one is the one D dated, the younger one is the one dating Gaby, and the older one... who is well over 34 years old, is the one she wants to hook me up with... to have children.
No. Not happening. EVER.
And how fucked do you think I am to even want to ENTER into that? I'm not desperate. I'm not an ugly, dumb piece of shit like you (Gaby)... and I'm not poor. There is NO reason for me to get into a relationship like a fucking hippo plodding into a puddle... just because I'm "getting old." If I don't find a guy, guess what? OH WELL! I DON'T NEED A MAN TO SURVIVE (to be happy, yes, but to live? Is it vital? NO).

The thing that damn near sent me over the edge was when D tried convincing me the guy and I would "probably get along because you both like to travel."
One thing is to enjoy traveling, and another that I would get with a dude for this sole purpose.

Pushing a guy on me? NO. I'm not cool with that. EVER.
I make that decision. I say who I like, WHAT I like in a guy.

I DON'T UNDERSTAND what it is about me and my life that makes others... sometimes complete motherfucking strangers, think they can meddle in my shit.

I'm single. I choose my friendships wisely. I choose who I spend time with even MORE meticulously.
Get over it.
Leave me the fuck alone... because I WILL fucking hurt you the moment you try and push shit on me.

... Sorry for flipping out... this just really strikes a nerve.

Monday, April 25, 2011

All clear for NYC

Ladies and gentlemen, I have officially booked my flight to NYC.
A while ago, I was stoked about it... you know... when I thought I had a chance to possibly live there... but now, it's kind of a drag.
"Look what you could've had" sort of deal.
Fuck you, New York!

I'll be running around New York for three days, collecting anecdotes and all that junk. I'll then move on to Princeton for another three days, where I'll probably be bored to death.

I don't have much to say besides that.

Mmmm... a little more to complete the 100-word requirement?
I'm kind of addicted to Adele right now.
This song, in particular, is on repeat:

Fucking sad bullshit-ass songs... always getting stuck in my head.


Sunday, April 24, 2011


Fuck! Shit! Cunt! Bitch! Ass!

I'M BACK! And it feels SO good!

I was in church last night from 10:10PM until 2:30AM, I kid you not.
I was the angriest person by the end of the night. Ready to elbow any asshole who got in the way of my exit route.
I was pissed because mass was supposed to be over at 1AM at the latest, but this priest... he rambles on and on and on. It didn't help that the choir was the choir I HATE. The man's some sort of South American... my guess is Argentinian or Colombian, based on the accent I hear him sing in, AND the instruments he chooses to use in services. This man doesn't shut the fuck up (I'm overdoing it now, aren't I?) and he makes everything into a song (you know, like parts that are only supposed to be SPOKEN... there he goes with his fucking rainstick and SINGS. Yes, RAINSTICK. Those shits don't belong in church... they belong in a salsa club, where I WON'T be around to hear them). It frustrates the hell out of me.
Also, there was this guy sitting in front of me with two keloids, each the size of a grapefruit, on his right forearm. It was... it gave me goosebumps and shivers. It was too disturbing to look at.
Well, don't be stupid. DON'T look at them! you might say. But that was impossible. IMPOSSIBLE, you hear me! I've been traumatized for life.

Anyway, let's forget about that stuff since it makes me cranky and my skin still gets goosebumps when I think of the dude's forearm.
Point is: I can cuss again! A successful 40 days of Lent. I finally accomplished what I've set out to do for over ten years.
I'm a hoss!

Happy Easter, motherfuckers! ;)

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Sigo siendo niña

A little over 6 hours before I can freely express myself!
No guys, you have no idea how BADLY I've wanted to do this.
These 40 days have felt like I've had a choke-chain around my neck... ready to be pulled the moment I drop an F-bomb or any of my other beloved words.

I'm in such a good mood, I'll share my new favorite song.
It helps that someone told me this song reminds them of me (not because they love me, but because they know certain lyrics turn me into a squealin' little girl).
Cute song... and a music video that makes me watery-eyed, because while I wasn't raised in an orphanage, the shenanigans these kids get into is TOTALLY what I'd do in Mexico... I still sort of do, when I find someone who doesn't mind getting dirty... which is the majority of my friends, because they're so awesome.

My Mexicanism at it's best:

And the lyrics get me all mushy and stupid... because they're terribly sweet, and what I think all "love" songs should sound like... because I'm so into nature, obviously:

Cuéntame qué escondes trás de tu mirada
dime en este instante lo que te haga falta.
Yo estaré contigo para protegerte,
quiero ser el ángel que cuide tu alma.
(after hearing that, I get a knot in my throat)
No dejes que nada borre tu sonrisa,
eres tú la niña que siempre he soñado.
por verte feliz cualquier cosa yo haría,
vivo finalmente de ti enamorado.
(I'm tearing up by this point, especially the bolded part. Anyone tells me that and I immediately cry. That is SO unbelievably sweet)
Tienes la fragancia de las flores del jardín,
todas las mañanas brilla el sol gracias a ti.
Hay tanta ternura dentro de tu corazón,
mas fue tu inocencia lo que a mi me cautivó.
(COMPLETELY and THOROUGHLY THAWED MY HEART! Those are THE BEST lyrics in the UNIVERSE! Sorry, it excites me a little too much)
Y cada día va creciendo más mi amor,
y es por ti que la tristeza para siempre se marchó.
Doy gracias al destino que te puso en mi camino
niña de mi corazón.
(AWWWWWWWW! Awwwwwww! I listen to this holding my breath... so I won't cry, duh)
Eres tan dulce como el agua de los ríos,
hoy gracias a tu sonrisa mi vida tiene sentido.
Mi amor, quiero decirte que desde que apareciste
despertaste mi ilusión, niña de mi corazón.
(Yup. Anyone who busts out the bolded sentence on me would absolutely, without a doubt, have me at his feet---shhh! don't share that with ANYONE. Sounds like something John Redcorn would say on King of the Hill... but ey, I LOVE IT!)

It helps that I think the band singer did a great job. Most of the time, banda singers anger me... because all they do is scream or "talk-sing." This guy tries... and his voice is pleasant to my ears.
That song... the freakin' ISH in this world.

Now excuse me while I go freeze back up again.
Freakin' song melts me faster than this Vegas heat melts my ice cream.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Mean-muggin' moments

Tomorrow is my last day.
You can't see it right now, but I seriously have one of those ear-to-ear smiles going on.

This has probably been the best I've done with the no cussing thing.
I wasn't perfect about it, obviously. I had plenty of arguments where I just let the bad words fly... but for the most part, I was pretty fantastic... once I got over how stupid I felt yelling "CRAPPY APPLES!" (what does that mean? I have no idea. That's just the first word association my brain made one day, and it sort of stuck)

These last few days have been all about church and self-reflection and whatnot, but all I can really think is "AnoMALIE... *NUMBER* MORE DAYS TILL YOU CAN CUSS!"
It's getting me through the irritation of dealing with the hoards of ill-behaved people at church.
Like yesterday, everything was cool... except for this one freakin' kid (about seven years old) sitting directly in front of me.
He stared at me the entire mass. He rested his back on the front bench's back (making sense here?), and faced me dead in the face the entire time.
I did that thing where I acted as if I couldn't FEEL him burning holes through my head, but I couldn't help but laugh a couple of times 'cause all I could think was WHAT THE HELL IS THIS KID'S PROBLEM?!
and then Oh maaaan... three more days until I can flick off little twats like this one. THREE MORE DAYS!
But there came the time when I couldn't relax by thinking about my proximity to cuss-a-thon 2011 ('cause that's how I'm celebrating Easter. Some people hunt for eggs and OD on chocolate... I go on cussing tirades, Tourette's style... a little unconventional, but what can I say? I love my cuss words), so I had to use the missal to cover the kid's face.
I came home and looked at myself in the mirror. Was there something on my face worthy of those terrifying stares? No. He was just a creeper-in-training.

Speaking of laughs:
Wanna see what trend I've started amongst Hometown young girls? This pose:
what the... someone please put the respirator back in her mouth!
This young girl likes to hang out with me during my Mexico Summers. She's... 18 now, but she has been following me around since she was 15. After a week of being around me, she starts talking like me... even walking like me. By the end of summer, she's pretty much a younger version of me (only WAY easier... not that I'm easy).

This is my version, back in '09 (MEXICO! I MISS YOU SO BAD!):
My sister is going to murder me for this...
Then again, my hairy eyebrows and FACE make up for her glasses
We both look retarded (the 18 year old and me, not my sister and me. Sister doesn't look retarded at all), but I did it as a mock-mean-mug. I don't know WHAT the heck 18-year-old was trying to do.

I find it hilarious that a girl would try and copy that face... and NOT give me credit.
I kid! They don't need to give me credit. I don't want to be considered responsible for girls lookin' like stroke victims.

My word of advice? Think of something that irks you, THEN make the face. Don't go off and look like... you're out in space and someone's removed your spacesuit.

Tyra Banks, eat your heart out! (Oh man! I also get sarcasm back! While I do occasionally write it on here, I definitely have refrained from using it while holding conversations. I've been REALLY good with that)

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Un Valiente

So... I'm still simmering in yesterday's conversation/argument regarding my relationship status.
It always happens.
The moment the argument is going down, all I really do is sit there, too busy to deal with anything because of how fast my head is spinning... absolutely surprised over how heated the argument gets amongst the older ladies. Jesus... really, ladies? You're that concerned about me? Oh man. I leave it in the back burner for the rest of the day.
Then I wake up the next morning and random highlights of the argument will playback in my head... at random times. It could be while I'm hanging out in the pantry picking out a ripe orange ("ripe"... apparently I'm TOO ripe) or when I'm putting away some laundry (I bet the freakin' ladies can't wait until I have to do this for a MAN).
From yesterday's argument, the comment that hurt me the most was one uttered by the Euro Boys' Mom.
It was unsolicited "consolation."
"No se preocupe mija, algún dia un valiente saldrá."
Which translated means "Don't worry, sweetie, one day a brave guy will step up." Although... a "Valiente" is... like... a warrior, so to speak.
I just acted as if I didn't hear. But now the phrase has been eating away at me. It has me pretty pissed, actually.

Un valiente.
Get out of here.
I don't know how that's supposed to console anyone. It's telling the chick a guy needs to summon courage to give you a shot.
That's bullshit.

That stupid little word is just chipping away at my mood... and now I'm smashing cans in my tight grip and grinding my teeth every other hour.

Women are so fucking stupid and annoying.

HOWEVER! There is some good news that makes me snub this out for long periods of time:
Rafa called us to tell us he's going to be the keynote speaker for Notre Dame's Poli Sci departmental graduation.
I don't know about the rest of the world, but that bit of news has this family beaming with pride.
My brother is the biggest badass I know!
(Maybe that's why I have such high standards for dudes? I know there are intelligent, hilarious men out there, and I'm not about to settle for some schmuck for the sake of "company")


(Dude, am I bipolar or what? Haha)

Wednesday, April 20, 2011


I love getting branded as much as the next girl... but I've scrubbed at this thing three times today and it still doesn't get off.
Must I really bleach this out of my skin, Chateau?
And then a nautical star... everyone know how I feel about nautical stars.
Next time they should just put their stamp on a hot iron and brand the club people, cattle-style.

Last night was entertaining.
I was lucky and the party was moved out to the entire balcony. The rowdy latinos at the place ended up being... well, us.
My job was to mean-mug all the smokers who would get too close to us.
Really, people, it's 2011... we all know what smoking does to the smokER and the people around him/her... not to mention it ends up costing you a pretty penny. WHY DO YOU KEEP DOING IT, LOSERS?! And yes, I will FIGHT you physically over this.
I was also the girl who was nice to one of the two boys in our party.
Poor kid was so quiet and would try to make conversation, and it would crush my heart to see all the other girls ignore him. I couldn't be a mean girl and ignore him like the rest (I immediately think of my brother when I see girls ignoring a guy. It breaks my heart and I have to speak up, even if I have ZERO interest in him physically).
I'm a sucker like that. Well, not that being nice should be considered being a sucker. I just hate seeing others feeling ignored and neglected. It makes me frown and feel guilty the rest of the day. So I converse with the quiet kid at parties.
By the end of the night, I pretty much had this kid adopted ("kid" because he's 22). It helped that I remembered playing with him when I was about ten, back in Hometown. Once we bonded over that, he followed me around like a lost puppy, and all I wanted to do was... pick him up and hug him (because he was also up to my shoulder... and I couldn't help but think "Awww! You're SO ADORABLE! Come here, little guy! I'll help you!").
By the time I wanted to leave the club, I made sure he had made a connection with a girl closer to his age and height. I felt like a proud mother.
Go get her, tiger!

Anyway, this good deed of mine had me feeling like a champ all day... until I went off with Mom, D, and my aunt to go visit the "Euro Boys" mom. She had surgery, so we rushed over to show her our support.
WELL... the visit got awkward. Why? Because for FORTY MINUTES the topic of conversation was MY SINGLE-HOOD.
That's always a fun topic to delve into... apparently very popular, too.

I used to think only celebrities put up with this garbage.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011


Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the shredded manicure for which I dang near died yesterday:
Since I can't flick (flip?) off the camera...
Worth the swig of acetone, I say... maybe two.
Those fingers are ready to come out and play tonight... although I might not.
I heard it's Latin Night at Firefly* (I swear... each time I hear someone call it "Fireflies" I feel like doing the world a favor and ripping that person's tongue out. LEARN HOW TO READ, RETARD! Since when does an asterisk make a sound?!), and sadly for me, that's where this friend of mine decided to throw her birthday party.
Oh my gosh... a Latin Night at a Tapas bar? How odd!
Yes, I'm Mexican... but I HATE being surrounded by latinos. Well... I don't hate hate, but I don't exactly enjoy it. I always end up in a terrible mood.
The men tend to be pushy and rarely understand no means NO. They're pretty freakin' persistent.
The girls are catty, and there are over a dozen things I'd rather be doing (like washing dirty dishes with my own tongue) than giving catty girls any more fodder. Also, since I AM a hot-blooded Latina, the moment one of these cats tries messing with me or my loved ones I don't respond with equal cattiness, I go straight for the jugular and I DO fight.

Hooray for tonight.

Funny note:
I had to get my eyebrows threaded today. I ended up going later than usual because my mom has a knack for driving my car instead of hers (she doesn't want her Lexus to get dinged up--she's a TERRIBLE driver-- so she drives my poor thing. Bambi gets all the abuse from the runaway shopping carts and asshole passengers who open their car doors too wide--you have NO idea how hard I fight the urge to stab those imbeciles. Each time I see a new dent on my vehicle feels like a screwdriver is getting shoved transversely through my throat). I had to wait for her to return home at two in the afternoon.
Once I got to the eyebrow place, the wait was LONG. Supposedly, it was going to take me half an hour before getting the work done (it actually took 55 minutes), so I had to make myself confortable.
I took my place on the furthest chair available, and I began tweeting like a teenager (Don't believe me? Look! Those are too many tweets for such a short time span. All I needed to do was mention what I was hungry for-- The Cupcakery's "Trip to Graceland" cupcake, if you were wondering. I've been dying to taste it for the last month. It's torture).
I noticed an older asian lady kept giving me the evil eye (you see, the seats are arranged so that two rows are on the left side and two rows are at the right. The sides face each other, so often times, there's that awkward eye-contact-with-a-stranger moment)... but since I'm respectful of people, I didn't care and kept tweeting with reckless abandon.
Suddenly, the body of a gentleman standing up took my attention from my phone.
It was the old lady's husband. She was sort-of screaming at him in Mandarin and he was just bowing his head. He then took the seat directly behind her, completely out of my sight. When I noticed that, I saw the old lady stare me right in the chest, then look me up and down.
WTF? Calm down, lady! There isn't much I can do about these girls. I just developed this way.
I felt self-conscious and lifted my shirt's collar as far up as possible.
Way to make me feel dirty.
But I did laugh at the thought of that poor man getting scolded in public for looking at other girls' racks. And yes, the lady saw me smirk.

For shame, men! Not in front of your ladies! And in a beauty salon? Rub one out before heading out with your lady... you'll do us all a favor.

Monday, April 18, 2011

She's a gooood girl

I could get hit by a car, die, and be good right now.
I went to Confession and I'm good to go, so to speak.

Yeah, I did it because yesterday marked the start of Holy Week, but also because I damn near died in the morning.
Ok, I'm being dramatic here. It was just another case of me being an idiot, nearly killing myself in the process.
Just like that time I nearly choked to death on soap suds while showering, or the time I thought hiking an abandoned cattle trail was a good idea, my stupidity nearly got me killed.

I'm currently addicted to water. I drink at least a gallon a day (I sometimes freak out about electrolyte imbalance and dying that way. I'm sure I'm capable of that). So, throughout they day, there's rarely a moment where I don't have a liter of water in my hand.

Ok, so I wake up this morning and feel the pressing need to do my nails. While I did like the mani of the weekend:
Like that injury on my thumb? A true testament to my clumsiness.
I got word of a party tomorrow and so, I decided to change up the colors.

I seriously underestimated the annoying nature of the glitter base color. It was being a real jerk, not coming off no matter how hard I scrubbed away at it with the acetone-dipped cotton ball (no matter how much I'd douse the cotton ball, it wouldn't make much of a difference).
Add to that, the fact that I was watching the food network, trying to catch the recipe. I constantly looked up to see what was going on.

All the scrubbing had me irritated... and thirsty.
I'd viciously scrub at my nails, then angrily take a huge swig of my water bottle (I bet you already know where this is heading).

Well... during one of those moments of taking the drink, I was very zoned in attacking my nail.
I grabbed my water bottle, and took a swig.


It wasn't water.
Yep. It was the acetone.

Lucky for me, my mouth reacted quickly to the bitterness and didn't allow me to swallow too much.
I swallowed, oh yes-- remember, I was agitated and tired from the scrubbing-- but not too much.

What followed?
Me freaking out, of course!
I also vomited.
Should I call poison control?! Should I make D rush me to the ER? Wait... I'm uninsured. GREAT! How am I going to convince people I wasn't attempting suicide?

My stomach hurt for a bit... I was also sweating bullets expecting to drop dead at any second... or at least cough up blood, but neither happened.
I didn't eat anything the rest of the day... I couldn't... everything tasted bitter as heck.

Instead, I rushed on over to Confession, had the priest roll his eyes at my weaksauce sins (this always makes me wonder what the heck everyone else confesses. Seriously. I'm over here feeling bad for having severe anger issues and harming people... and he just rolls his eyes at me like "Oh, child, that's it? Don't waste my time!" He doesn't even give me a penance! Am I that awesome and innocent, or is everyone else just a horrible, horrible person?), and I was back at peace.

I'm ready to die, Acetone. Do your worst (please DON'T)!

Sunday, April 17, 2011

What does it mean?

Drunk texts from MGH always bum me out... and piss me off.
I don't know what his problem is... or why he does it (actually, I do. He does it when he's pissed off at his chick... which, tough cookies, homeboy, I'm cool with her now), but there I am, one in the morning and answering his questions.

This of course, gave me motivation to paint again.
I messed up today, though.
I got a little overconfident since last time everything went swell and I didn't break anything... or more importantly, spill anything.
But not today.
I kicked over the bucket of water holding the dirty brushes, and the water got all over the carpet.
Did I mention I was painting in my room? Well yes, I was. I didn't want to miss "The Amazing Race" so I kept the painting in my room (one of four rooms with carpet out of the entire dang house)... and the result is three pee-colored stains the size of... my foot, all over my room's grey carpet.
Such an imbecile.

Anyway, no photo of the painting today, since I don't know how I feel about it.
I'm even flip-flopping on the title.
It's from a sketch I did on how I remember Algorta, over in the Basque country. It's basically the cliffs my sister took me to which oversee the ocean. That's the image which is most burned in my brain (besides the doner kebab place which was sheer magic. M-mm-mmm!).
Well, originally I titled the sketch "Regresaré" aka "I will return." But now I'm all lazy and I just want to cal it "Algorta." Plus, I find I don't have to sit there and explain why I called it that (See, I once went to the Basque country, and it was gorgeous, and I fell in love with it... so, it's basically saying "I'm coming back, I promise." Because I love it so much and yearn for it. She looks sad because she is leaving her soul there. Get it?).
I noticed weird titles make others confused.
Take for instance yesterday's painting.
Mom has stared at it for a good... two hours, collectively speaking.
Mom: I try... and I try... but... I can't figure out... what is that by her nose?
Jesus, I feel stupid... arg! (Arginine? That's the science background speaking. It still makes associations like that)
Me: Another person's nose.
Five seconds of silence. Mom stares intently at the nose.
Mom: ... I... don't see it.
Me: It's there. It's... vanishing, so to speak... like a dream... kind of... I guess.
Mom: What does it mean?
Now... I could tell the truth... but... I feel stupid enough as is.
Me: It's stupid... just ignore it.
Mom: ... I don't get it.
Me: Story of my life, Ma.

Sister: Look at that! The AnoMALIE paints!
Me: Eh.
Sister: What's it called?
Me: Let me touch your lips (now practically whispering because I notice how stupid I feel after saying each word) I wanna see where you're... at.
Sister: ... o...k... weirdo.
Me: It's a song!
Sister: Whatever.


But, I won't let it deter me... because I've officially declared war on Musketeer's wife.
That dumb bitch.
I'm nothing but nice to her, and SHE'S the one who acts like I'm the stupid nuisance. She gets arrogant as if she even has a high school diploma.
She also thinks she's Picasso:
NOT MY work, obviously. Daisies are SO 1992.
So... I'm gonna play the game... and be a total cunt right back (yes, I know. The finish line is SO close, but I'm just really irritated right now. I HAVE to cuss).

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Let me touch your lips

Normal people spend their Fridays drinking and partying... or at least hanging out.
What did I do?
I drew.
No, I painted.

Now, keep in mind, the only painting "lessons" I've ever received in my life have been two or three Bob Ross episodes I watched on PBS when I was in elementary school.
I know all about "happy little trees" and whatnot.
What Bob Ross did was oil paint. That stuff is expensive!
For a newbie like me, I went acrylic... especially since I can easily clean that junk off... we all know how clumsy I am. I'd probably have oil-paint stains on random body parts for months if I went the other way.
Anyone who asks who this is gets STABBED.
I LOATHE that question
The skill of a fifth grader, so don't judge (plus, other than here, NO ONE is allowed to see what I draw, because I feel stupid sharing. So feel special).
I gave it a painfully long title: Let me touch your lips, let me see where you're at, in honor of one of my favorite songs, The Wallflower's "From the Bottom of My Heart."
Technique? What the hell is that? I just acted like a kid with a coloring book (crayons are so much easier).
I must say, though, it was quite relaxing. I was just beating up the brush on the canvas and it was making me smile. I finished with a smile on my face.

I've been trying REALLY hard to pound the sadness out of my heart... and so far, I've been kind of successful. Gyming it up, hiking with the bestie and laughing at ridiculous lyrics and cussing as we get lost on trails (one day, ONE DAY we'll get it right! haha), leaving the house just for the sake of getting some sun.
But there's still that bit of... that feeling of loss. The feeling of being lost and not knowing where to pick it all back up and keep going.
I can say that when I'm drawing-- now painting-- those repetitive motions, they make me feel better. I'm in my own little world (you know, the part that wasn't destroyed by that nuclear bomb that was the grad school rejections) where I'm actually happy, and nothing really matters. It's a really strange feeling in my chest.

I'm such a freakin' hippie.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Hobo Fridays

Fridays are a freakin' pain.
What are they called... Lenten Fridays? Something like that.
I don't normally crave meat... but like clockwork, every Lent, when it comes to Fridays, I'll spend the day eyeing steak and all that bloody mess.

However, counting today, there are officially TWO more Fridays where I have to put up with this. TWO!
It couldn't come sooner.
I've spent the last few Fridays holding my breath as I force myself to eat shrimp on Fridays (that vile garbage. PUKE!). No matter how hard I try, or how I prepare the shrimp (well, I know I can muster the courage to eat them in sushi, but they have to be done in tempura batter), the consistency of the shrimp is just too disgusting for my tongue to tolerate.

Last week, I was feeling brave.
Mom prepares amazing ceviche, from what I hear. I've never tasted it, but every single friend or family member who has tasted it has fallen in love with it. Salvadorans, Filipinos, white (what else can I call them?), they taste the ceviche and they return for THIRDS. One Filipino friend ate a freaking GALLON of it. Also, ever since Rafa was in the army, when he comes home for breaks, his one request is always ceviche... and Rafa's a goat when it comes to eating: he inhales anything. So to request ceviche... I guess it must be good... right?
So, last Friday I was like
Ok, I can handle this... if so many people make such a big deal about my mother's ceviche... I kind of have to try it. All these people can't be wrong.
I had Mom make me some ceviche Thursday night, so it could be ready for Friday lunch time.
I was actually giddy when it was time for bed.
Ce-vi-che! Ce-vi-che!
Friday afternoon, when it was finally time to eat, I pulled out the ceviche, and took my first bite.
Sister: So... ?
Me: It looks like brains... and it feels like wet boogers... this is... torture.
Sister: Well fuck you too!

Sadly, I proved I will NEVER like ceviche. EVER.
I was nice and finished my little bowl Mom had so kindly prepared for me... then I declared myself an eternal enemy of ceviche.
Sorry, Mom.

So... that was a failed experiment (I even tried it after pretty much starving myself. When in those conditions, I can eat a rock and it'll taste glorious to me. NOT ceviche).

Now I limit myself to eating tuna straight out of the can on Fridays. I call it "Hobo Friday."

April 29, I'm going to gorge on filet mignon and skirt stake. Be ready!
Fuck seafood (except salmon and sushi)!
(yeah, I'm cussing... but I'm just so passionate in my hatred for that stupid food group, I can't help myself. Plus, I only have a little over a week of censoring myself. SO close!)

Thursday, April 14, 2011


Recently, a cousin I haven't seen in over 20 years added me on Facebook.
Now, I usually ignore the older crowd (HA! Says the 26-year-old... waaaa!) and especially the Hometown-born crowd... because they gossip like nobody's business. TMZ has NOTHING on Hometown people, NOTHING.
The reason I know this is because there are days when Dad comes home and starts talking about certain things that have taken place on Facebook... like what one person said to another... or what scandalous photos someone's kid posted.
Dad, obviously, doesn't know what he's talking about for the most part.
Comment? "Posting photos"? What is that Facebook thing? A newspaper?

Anyway, I avoid these people to save myself the aggravation.
I still have two pending requests just sitting there. I don't know the women, personally.
I showed Mom and asked her for her opinion, who knows, maybe I'm related to them or I played with one of their kids in the early 90's and I just don't remember.
Mom: Oh! That's *SomeLadyIDefinitelyDON'TKnow* and the other one's her daughter. They're pretty dumb... and... simple-minded. I wouldn't add them. They're just nosey.

My mom rocks when it comes to Facebook. She'd rather rip off her own arm before she gets sucked into it. She also helps me when it comes to weirdo friend requests from people who sound familiar, but I'm not too sure about. This is true for Rafa as well, since he used Mom's knowledge and advice last week to reject four of his friend requests (he first called ME over to check out the people. He looked a little troubled when he pointed out one person in particular: his childhood tormentor. The one who "joked" about killing D when she was a newborn. It's sad to see Rafa still remembers and DOES NOT forgive the guy. I can't blame him, though. I too remember some of the jerk's "jokes," since I was on the receiving end a couple of times... like the time he fed me and Rafa some soap-filled cookies. It's one of the reasons why I'm not too fanatical about cookies... and why I'm suspicious when others try to give me cookies. I also take baby-bites when I first taste anything. NEVER traumatize a two-year-old!).

Anyway, when it came to the cousin, I had to ask Mom about it.

See, when I was a five-year-old, I only knew this cousin as "Leti."
She was about ten years my senior, lived in Hometown, and she freakin' loved me and D.
She'd always be over at our house when we'd be in Mexico for the summer/winter, and she'd always play with my little sister and me.
She's the ONLY person I've ever rough-housed with. The rough-housing was one-sided-- only I would pull her ears and kick her around (you know, whenever she was giving me a piggyback ride, I'd take it all serious and act as if I had on spurs... and I sure as hell "used" them).
She's the only person I was a little bitch to. I don't know what would get into me.
But STILL, she loved me.
Of course, after I was a little punk to Lety, I'd go back to my normal sweet-kid self and hug/kiss her and let her show me thing like roses and butterflies and all that sweet stuff.
There's even video of us playing with her. Video of us being little jackoffs while she patiently stood there and smiled. Then Dad (who is her first cousin) asks her if she still wants to come to Las Vegas with us knowing we're such little animals, and her eyes light up and she nods her head.

Anyway, I was about six when her mom died. Once that happened, Leti left Mexico and joined her dad in Chicago. I didn't see her again.

Well, once I saw that "Leticia" person (with a baby for a profile pic. Always so confusing... again, says the idiot with a baby picture of herself for a profile pic. That'll get changed... eventually... when I care) was trying to add me, I asked Mom, and I was told she was my long-lost, patient cousin/baby-sitter.
You're still alive? AWWW! Of course I'll add you! More importantly, you still love me after I was such a little cunt?! Great!

Oh Facebook... oh boy.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Up in flames

Remember this post from October?
Back then, a lot of people gave my cousin flack for her story.
They said it was "too unbelievable" and they dismissed her as crazy and overdramatic.

Now, the news is everywhere. Not about her near-abduction, but of what goes on in those buses.
I found news sites from Madrid, Barcelona, even freakin BBC, talking about the current situation with the mass graves in Mexico.

They have three states where graves were found, I can assure you there are at least three more states--including my beloved Durango-- that should be added there. I wouldn't doubt they get added... in a couple of months.

Back to the news story, I didn't know they had found two college girls among the dead.
That scared the hell out of me.
They were taken out of the bus along with the young guys, expected to join the *badguys* (I will NEVER mention these guys by their real name EVER again). Everyone in the graves... well, we know what choice they made.

I just think back to the summer and how D and I were sitting in the very front of the bus when we were heading down to Hometown... how we saw the truck full of hitmen (not the ones from the branch they suspect of the graves) drive next to us for a bit.
Just... ugh. It's hard not to be creeped out.
To add to the creepy factor, a lot of the people found in the mass graves went missing in the month of October, pulled out of the buses they were riding to/from the border.
Coincidence? Of course not. I told you guys.

Words just can't describe how heartbreaking all of this is for me.

Back in the day, I'd describe Hometown as "another planet."
One of my many, notoriously-imbecilic ideas.
(That was a cliff... covered in gravel)
It was like stepping foot out of the present, and traveling back in time a couple of decades... to a more tranquil time. I mean, we didn't have phones until 1998.
Now... it's... not... in this realm. It's... Hell.
What they do down there... you only read about in the bible... in the Apocalypse.

I'm watching my little peace of heaven go up in flames.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Brushy brush

What does a sad AnoMALIE do in hopes of cheering up?
She buys a new motherEFFING (two more weeks of this, TWO!) toothbrush and some floss!
Overly-excited? Me? Nah.
The joy wasn't complete, however, since my favorite floss is no longer available. I had to settle for some lame-o regular stuff.
Freakin' Walmart.

But the new brush helped.
I'm now smiling and skipping around the house like a high school girl who got asked to prom.

I'm such a weirdo.
Girls usually buy themselves purses, cars... guys... when depressed or going through some crisis, in hopes of cheering up or at least forgetting about their problems.
I'm over here buying myself a four dollar toothbrush and I feel as if I snorted some amazing coke (not that I would know... I've just seen so many others do it, I know the behavior the proceeds the act).
What can I say? I love brushing my teeth.

The small things in life, people... it's always the small things.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Sucker punch-ee

I was attacked by a phantom boxer last night.
There's no other explanation.

I tried taking a picture of it, but the lighting never captured it properly.
Stupid Photo Booth.
Plus, why would I add a ridiculously unflattering photo of myself?

I guess I should explain what's so unflattering:
I woke up unable to touch my nose... the tip of my nose, to be exact.
It felt as if I slept with my palm resting against my nose... making the "piggy" face. You know what I'm talking about... the face you make while holding the tip of your nose back, imitating a snout, and you snort like a pig. That face.
As the day progressed, the pain radiated further. I was unable to scrunch my face (I do that a lot, since I'm Mexican and that seems to be a genetic trait or something... genetically predisposed to be unable to talk or tell a story without making faces) by lunch time.

Once it came time for me to make dinner, Mom walked into the kitchen and asked "Who punched you in the face?!"
I looked in the mirror, and saw my nose was completely red, all the way to the apples of my cheeks (I looked like the piss-drunk uncle at family gathering).
My nose was also completely stiff (as opposed to it's soft nature, which allows for me to flare my nostrils at will. They were rock-freakin-hard).

I really need to take it easy while I sleep...
... or I need to catch the asshole who punches innocent, sleeping people in the face.

Sunday, April 10, 2011


My legion is growing.
I'm officially the godmother of THREE people.
Yes, three people were crazy enough to give me such a powerful title. I can now reign over them and force them to do my bidding...
Then again, I'm responsible for all of their tomfoolery if they so choose to go all crazy.

It was strange to be at UNLV completely dressed up. I always went to school as homely as possible: oversized sweater, whatever jeans I could find, and my hair straight-ironed (that kind of nullifies my statement, doesn't it? Straightening one's hair takes time and patience, or else one runs the risk of losing an ear).
But not today.
All business today.

I was also not making a big deal about sitting next to the bishop (so close, he actually spit on me a couple of times during the homily)... which was apparently awesome to the rest of the people in the building. It was awkward for me, to tell the truth... especially since I have no idea how to respond in english to anything they say throughout mass. I just stood there like a confused heathen.

I was the first person to do everything. Why? Because my godson wanted to sit in the very front.

Good stuff.

Then, once the ceremony was over, I hung out with his family at some greek restaurant.
Funny people. The things we were talking about made me take an even longer time to finish my food.

I also met one of his brothers... mmm.
Apparently my buddy's brother stole all of the growth hormone available in the womb. He also had freakishly cold hands (I know, random, but it was the first thing to come to mind after mentioning his height. His height was just right, his hands were pretty... but they were ice cold. BRIIIICK. No good for me now. I'm the only one allowed to have freezing extremities in a relationship).

That was my Sunday.

That aside, I'll share something that made me giggle to myself and appear crazy as I sat at the greek restaurant, avoiding the food on my plate:

I looked at my phone and saw a notification that my cousin-who-is-like-an-adopted-bro posted a photo on twitter as his "favorite."
When I saw the actual photo, I nearly choked on the cucumber (NO euphemism there) I was chomping on.
Turns out to be a painting from last night's Vegas StrEATs event:
Carmen over there on the left had a rough day.
Check the inside of the socket... for... research purposes.
I'm pretty sure only Kelley gets this one... since she's the other person to read a certain story, which this painting helps bring to mind.

Once upon a time, I heard that the ONE animal you will see every single day of your life is a cow. Whether it's an actual cow, a cartoon cow, or just that black and white cow print... you will see something that reminds you of a cow every single day.

While this holds true for me, it appears I have to add something else to that list:

Much better than a freakin' cow.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

van Gogh

Last night's conversation went as expected.
No, there weren't any fights. Most of the time something irritating was uttered, I'd be the one bothered, but I'd bite my tongue.
It was a little pow-wow between Lau, Pacemaker, and me. LA, Bay Area, and Vegas.
We each took turns to talk about the happenings in our lives.
Pacemaker went first, as expected.
Apparently her life is awesome right now because she has two jobs that each pay 23 bucks an hour. She's stoked, since the only payments she has to make are... what she consumes in fast food. She doesn't even pay her phone bill, so she's makin' bank.

Lau was next, and I guess her life is rockin' as well, because she got a job as an English teacher at her ex-high school. She was excited because it was thanks to her that the "principal" got fired. It's a Catholic school, so the man's a... bishop? A priest? I don't know. Point being, he's a "holy man," but a holy man who was corrupt (surprise surprise).
She then proceeded to talk about my sister's extraordinary weight loss. Between her and Pacemaker, I had to sit there and hold a Q&A about the diet and exercise plan Sister followed. This is where Pacemaker tried adding her two cents, and I'd correct her. I'm sorry, but if you are well over 80 pounds overweight, and your school major is International Business, I'm not going to follow your diet plan. If you're gonna talk the talk, you better walk the walk. And NO, you going to the gym twice a month to be on the elliptical DOES NOT count as exercise.
Anyway, I sat there and rolled my eyes half of the time as I'd listen to Pacemaker talk about the latest weight-loss fads and how they DO work (the funniest part would be when she'd try to describe the metabolic processes. Hilarious). Anything to keep from ME talking about MY life.
But it didn't work.
Lau cut-off Pacemaker and asked how my life had been going. My response was the usual:
Eh. It's going.
Pacemaker excitedly screamed (no, really, she screamed) "OH! THE SCHOOLS! How did that go?!"
I stuttered.
Ah shit... I wasn't ready for this... I had forgotten about this... come on, Pacemaker, why?
"Oh. I (come on! think!) still need to hear from two schools."
My voice cracked.
Pacemaker: Which ones?
COME ON! STOP! Umm... what to say... the one's with the latest date... were...
Me: UNLV and... Stanford.
Pacemaker: So which ones DID you hear back from? Cornell and...
Me: NYU. That one hurt. They held off on letting me know...

Then the pity party began. Not from me, all I was doing was saying "... yeah..." but Pacemaker was over here being a motivational speaker, telling me things happen for a reason and blah blah blah. She also wished me luck with the next two school.
The whole time it was like having a wild burro standing in front of me, kicking me right in the gut at its will.

I don't know why it's so hard for me to admit my failures... I mean, this whole grad school business isn't even that bad, considering the schools I applied to only accept eight CW people at the MOST... so I don't feel too bad. But others, they don't seem to get it through their head. They seem to be under the impression that it's like undergrad admissions to state schools.
So, when I tell them I didn't get in, their little pity party angers/upsets me.

I also couldn't tell these girls about my real life. Their life is on the rise, while mine is crumbling by the day.
I couldn't share my total identity crisis... my melt-down.
Some days I'm OK, others I have difficulty finding a reason to breathe.
AnoMALIE- the girl who was so smart and studious her entire life... now reduced to the girl who would rather stay home and sleep her life away.

I couldn't share that.
So I just "Hmmm"ed and "Yeah"ed my way out of the two-hour conference call.

One good thing about me having identity crises/melt downs? I get creative.
Not quite as drastic (in creativity OR lunacy/depression) as van Gogh... but I totally understand.
Usually I sketch for days. Sometimes I'll write. Other times, I'll just sing my heart out in the shower.
This time... I went ahead and purchased some canvas.
I've never painted... but screw it, I'm up for anything.
Plus, paint fumes would come in handy right about now.

"La tristesse durera toujours"

Friday, April 8, 2011


Three years ago today, I was in Algorta.
D and I were hanging out in our favorite cozy coffee shop. We were each sipping on some of the world's tastiest "café con leche."
I don't like coffee... it messes me up for the most part, but 1. I had to buy a cup in order to use the establishment's free internet and 2. This was exceptional coffee.
Between pintxos and my café... and especially the internet, I was at peace.
Y recordé: Hoy es su dia. Ni aunque pasen los años, ni por estar al otro lado del mar, ni por estar rodeada por el ambiente relajante de este lugar, me olvído de el. Que bueno.

That day in Algorta, I was so tranquil... completely relaxed by the somniferous environment... I could have easily fallen asleep and ignored everything. But I was on a mission. Get on-line. Don't forget.
I was so far away, and it had been a while, but I still wanted to wish him an (equally) awesome day.

Genius, hilariously sarcastic, handsome, unforgettable, charming, and secretly kind (this whole time I thought he was heartless... ok, no I didn't). Making girls swoon at the sight of his smile.

Austen never alluded to Darcy's birthday... but I'm pretty sure it would have been today. 

Thursday, April 7, 2011


Know what's weird?
Waking up in the middle of the night because you're hiccuping your head off.

I don't exactly know why I do it... but it happens every now and then. I've been told it happens when your body's cold... but really? Last night was rather pleasant. The coldest I've ever been while sleeping was one time I visited Denver in December, and the outside temperature was freakishly cold (it was something like -30F, I kid you not. You couldn't stand outside for longer than five minutes without getting frostbite. My 19-year-old head couldn't wrap around it all. WHY DOES ANYONE LIVE LIKE THAT?). The room I stayed in had the crappiest heater, and I had to sleep on the floor with an exorbitant amount of blankets. It was a long, cold night... but still, I did not hiccup once.

The first time I noticed I hiccuped in my sleep was when I went to Mazatlan with my cousin and I was startled awake because she was hovering over me. She became startled when I opened my eyes.
"Oh my God, I thought you were awake this hold time... then I just thought you were dying. It's the weirdest thing I've ever seen!"
I had to sit there at three in the morning, angrily trying to control the hiccups because I could no longer sleep.
The temperature then was awesome... I mean, it was July and I was at the freakin' beach. No reason for me to be cold.

It was difficult going back to sleep last night because the hiccups were pretty violent... and loud.
I sat there trying to remember remedies... but it was about four in the morning... I can't even remember my name at four in the morning.
I was sleepy... and angry... so I just sat there and held my breath as I'd fall back asleep, only to be woken up by a violent hiccup.
I don't know how long it took, but it eventually worked.

I do not wish a nightly hiccup attack on anyone.

In other news, Pacemaker and Lau finally know of Alo's marriage.
Lau texted me at 11PM somewhat bewildered. I told her we'd talk about it on Friday, since it's also Alo's sister's birthday... so we'd be able to ask the girl a bit about the situation.

Something tells me this isn't going to end nicely.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011


The answers to yesterday's quiz are as follows:

Guess what!

You were bitten by another bastard spider.

Yeah, but where?

Your inner left thigh.

Yes! How'd you guess?!

Because those *expletive of your choice. Creative ones get extra credit* always harass the hell out of you, regardless of where you may be. Inner left thigh because that was the most painful spot I could think of... and knowing you, something like that WOULD happen to you.

Sucks, right?!

It sucks so bad, I would exterminate all the arachnids in this world for you, just so it never happens again.

Needless to say, I've been limping around like a pirate with a peg leg since yesterday. And when I have to piss? JESUS CHRIST! I'm inches away from going to the doctor and asking for a urinary catheter (TMI? I DON'T CARE! Dramatic? Suck it!).
Sleeping was also a drag. I couldn't let my injured thigh touch the other one. It was pretty difficult, considering most humans are unconscious when asleep... and my preferred sleeping position is the fetal position.
I only share this because it's stuff I've never taken into consideration before. I never sat there and though "Yo, AnoMALIE, so... what would you do if one morning you woke up a total gimp due to a spider bite?" Umm... I guess... I would... have to change how I sleep, wouldn't I? And... I'd... definitely not be able to take a comfortable piss, that's for sure!

Well, that pain was more of an issue yesterday.
Today I woke up with my leg being a little better... so I went for a hike.
Ha! I just love treating myself badly.
Nah, the pain wasn't too bad at the start of the hike, plus, the weather (cloudy with occasional sprinkles) was awesome. The smell was... mmmmm... wet dirt makes me happy. My left thigh could have been impaled by an arrow and I'd still be happy with the smell of wet dirt.

Anyway, the hike made me so happy, I convinced myself I was good to hit the gym and lift.
I was too upset over having to lower all of my weight (except for squats. My blessed, injured thunder thighs are good for something-- besides being good spider bait, of course) by at least ten pounds (for reasons I'm sure I'll discuss later in the month) to care about my horrifically injured thigh.

That's where my day went downhill.
After putting all the weights away, I looked into the mirror to readjust my hair into a neater ponytail (I look beyond disheveled after working out). As I was scooping my hair back, I misjudged the distance of my hand to my neck and damn near slashed my left carotid artery with my left thumb (what is it with the left side of my body?). It was a sensation that made me double over in pain (and that dismemberment video from that notorious blog was the first thought to rush to my head). I still can't touch it, to tell you the truth... it hurts, but it also grosses me out.

After that, I came home and lo and behold, who's at my house?
My dad's real-estate agent... guy with whom my dad is trying to hook-up either one of us (D or me).
I was messy... with my busted carotid artery... my limp... and Dad still forced me to greet Ivan (we hadn't formally met), per Ivan's request.
So uncomfortable. I felt like a slave being sold at auction.
Sure, her hair is a nappy mess right now, but she never goes out without straightening it. Just look how long it is! And she has... that weird red gash on her neck, but I assure you she's NOT suicidal... it must have been the seatbelt of her car. Sure, she's sweaty right now... but did you know she goes to the gym and can bench-press her weight... which is... OPPPPP! Stop right there, sir! ENOUGH!

So, ladies and gentlemen... looks like my dad has finally lost his patience with me and is trying to marry me off.
Hopefully he finds a more tactful way of doing it (trying to marry me off, that is).

Don't worry, I'll invite all of you to my wedding... so one of you can abduct me before I walk down the aisle.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011


Guess what!


Yeah, but where?


Yes! How'd you guess?!


Sucks, right?!


Kinda rough day today for little ol' AnoMALIE.
So much so, I don't feel like talking much.
Instead, I'll dedicate this song to my adopted sister Mooney, who had an even rougher day. She told me something that broke my heart, because I relate.

I too am tired of being alone, so please know I'll always keep you company.
When I'm bummed, this song--while heartbreaking-- makes me feel better... because it helps me get it all out. This bad boy is on repeat for days when I'm bummed. Maybe it'll work for you? It's Ben Folds... and we all know how cool that guy is :)
Feel better young lady!

And so, 
Annie waits, Annie waits, Annie waits
For a call form a friend.
The same. It's the same 
Why's it always the same?
Annie waits for the last time.
The clock
Never stops, never stops, never waits.
She's growing old. It's getting late.
And so, he forgot, he forgot... maybe not?
Maybe he's been seriously hurt?
Would that be worse?
Headlights crest the hill.
Shadows pass her by and out of sight.
Annie sees in dreams
Friday bingo, pigeons in the park.
Annie waits for the last time.
Just the same as the last time.
Annie says:
"You see? This is why I'd rather be alone..."
And so, Annie waits, Annie waits, Annie waits
For a call from a friend.
The same. It's the same. Why's it always the same?
Annie waits as the last
Headlights crest the hill.
Who will be the one forever more?
Annie, I could be...
If we're both still lonely when we're old.
Annie waits for the last time.
Just the same as the last time.
Annie waits for the last time.
Just the same as the last time.
Annie waits
But not for me.

Apoco no es allegadora la canción? Makes me cry... or at least frown, every time... especially the bold parts (it's like this guy read my diary for inspiration).
Once I don't cry, I know I'm ok.

Love you, primiux!

Monday, April 4, 2011

Kicked out

I don't normally post twice in one day, considering I have a difficult time coming up with ONE entry a day... but this just... made me feel so weird, I had to share:

I made a grown man cry today.
A grown man who is also my father's best friend.
It was 100 percent unintentional.

Dad came to Vegas back as a teenager and lived with his dad's sister.
Dad knew no one other than that family, and he didn't speak a lick of English.
Dad spent his time fixing his car, as well as the neighborhood's cars... because there was nothing better to do back in the 70's in North Las Vegas... especially for an immigrant.
One day, he was at a scrap yard looking for car parts, but he was having difficulty finding a certain part.
Dad was walking aimlessly, when one of the workers started harassing him, accusing him of stealing and calling him by some derogatory terms.
Dad had no idea what was going on, and he had no way of defending himself. That's when another Latino came to Dad's rescue... a Mexican-American kid about Dad's age who was browsing around and heard the commotion.
From that moment on, Dad and A (the Mexican-American kid) became inseparable.
In his twenties, Dad moved in with A... where they made their bachelor pad a party central. They drank for days, and these homies would smoke weed 'til... they could eat a horse.
Then A got married and started his family.
Dad left for Mexico, met Mom, and got married. They decided they'd live in Mexico, and only visit the US to have their (anchor... jk!) babies.
Once Mom was about six months pregnant, my folks decided to head for the US. Dad went for help from the only person he knew: A.
My folks lived with A, his wife, and their two kids.
Mom would babysit the two kids (she has some hilarious anecdotes from those days), cook, and clean (all while pregnant, like any awesome Mexican lady) in order to pay back the hospitality.
Mom and Dad lived with A until Mom gave birth to Rafa. That's when my folks decided they would stay here, and raise their family.
My parents found a place to call their own, and when Rafa was about six months old, they finally moved out of A's house.
We would visit A at least once a week, we'd go on camping trips to Utah at least twice during the summer, and we treated each other like family for years.

Around the time when I turned ten, the visits stopped... A's marriage disintegrated... and A went a little rogue.
Still, we D's cherish the memories shared with A and his family, and we remained eternally grateful for the kindness they showed my folks during the rough transition of moving to a foreign country. That's the kind of stuff you can never forget and will always appreciate.

Ok, now on to today and how I made this poor man cry:
Dad has stayed in contact with A, and he has visited him about once a year.
Last week, A let Dad know that he needed him to help fill his pool (is that what it's called? When you get rid of your pool by covering it with concrete).
Dad has been doing the concrete job at A's house these last two days.
Today, Dad finally asked A what his deal was in no longer visiting us.
This is where A started to cry.
A: Wanna know why? It's because of your daughters!
Dad: What?!
A: They kicked me out of your house!
A: When I go, they never come out of their room. That is THEIR way of kicking me out. They don't care to know me... they DON'T know me. Sad, because you and I are not "friends"... we're BROTHERS!
Dad: Oh... yeah, we are... but... don't let that get to you... the girls do that to everyone. If you were to drop by more often, they'd hang around... eventually. Don't feel bad about that.

Dad told me this as I was making some dinner.
I laughed... then I felt terrible, when Dad told me how A was BAWLING.
Whoa, my "slights" elicits this response from grownass men? CALM DOWN! It's only me.

I know the guy... I DO. I know what part of Mexico his family hails from (Chihuahua). I'm in contact with his only daughter (we took some college classes together, as well). I know his ex-wife's mom is a lesbian. I know his three kids are Jewish while he is a non-practicing Catholic. I know his ex-wife only ate lox. I know he and Dad would smoke weed like Cheech and Chong (something A's kids know NOTHING about). I know how he met Dad.
I could pick him out of a crowd like I can pick out Waldo, for crying out loud!

I treat him like I treat any other adult who visits my folks: I greet him at the door, shake his hand as I smile, and I excuse myself to another part of the room.
What can I talk about with a 50-whatever year-old man I see once a year? I don't even smoke weed, so I can't even talk about that.
I'm sorry, A!

So now I'm embarrassed and sad over  hurting this man's feelings.

Men... women may be crazy... but you guys are such pansies (says the girl who cries because she's not invited to be part of a bridal party).