Thursday, June 30, 2011

Marcando la hora

Ultimo día del mes... y siento como que... el tiempo pasa demasiado rápido.
Pero NO cumple lo que promete.
NO me ayuda olvidar.

Soy momentáneamente feliz. Algunas veces los ratos son de días, otras... no más me dura el gusto unas cuantas horas.
Esto de no encontrarle sentido a la vida está... pesado. Me da un chingo de miedo por las noches... aunque ya también pienso en eso por las tardes. Y en los días que ando muy, MUY mal... los pensamientos me atacan por las mañanas.

"Reloj, no marques las horas, 
porque voy a enloquecer..."
Ja... tenia mucha razón ese señor.

Ya no tengo sueños (bueno, sí tengo los típicos de siempre donde soy niña estúpida que cree que vive en un cuento de hadas), ni esperanzas... ya ni me importa ver la tele.

No sé cuanto más me dure la farsa de niña feliz. Ya comienza a reflejarse en mi rostro, hasta cuando estoy sonriendo (fingido, obvio).

Por un Julio de... más sentido... y más sonrisas.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

The Early Bird... loses a motherfucking earring

I had always bragged about never having to get up in the middle of the night to take a piss.
From... as early as I can remember, I was never the kid who had to get up in the middle of the night to take a leak. I wasn't one to wet the bed, either.
I seriously thought I was a freak, because everyone else I'd talk to did either (or both... on a good day) of the two.

At one point, I even suspected I peed the bed at night, slept through it, and by the time I'd wake up, I'd be dry... my paranoia got to that level (although my mind always told me that was nearly impossible, because I still remember the last time I wet the bed. I was still sleeping in the crib, I woke up wet, and I curled up in the corner feeling disgusted... then fear took over, thinking that my mom was going to beat my ass. I think I've already told this story, but I always tell it, because it's so ingrained in me. I was under 2.5 years old, because D wasn't born yet. I still remember I was wearing red clothes... imagine how terrified I must have been to remember something like that).

Anyway, after I made sure I wasn't pissing myself in my sleep, and I convinced myself I just had a really good bladder, I would tell anyone who'd listen.
Ok, no I wouldn't, but I would do a little happy dance when I wasn't always in a rush to hit the bathroom. I'd also usually be the one who'd get the best night sleep, because I'd sleep like a rock for eight hours straight.

Well... I'm saddened to say that for the last three months, I have joined the ranks of the poor souls who must wake up in the middle of the night to osmoregulate.
I only mention this because today, as I was relieving myself at seven in the morning, still wishing to go to bed after taking the piss, I was startled awake by a sound.
I had just rolled out of bed, kept my eyes half shut, felt my way to the bathroom which is about four steps away, sat down and did my thing as I fought the sleep monster.

Then there was the sound of metal hitting porcelain.
What the fuck? ...No. Please no.
My eyes shot open.
I reached for my earlobes.
One of my stupid right earrings had fallen off (I'm one of those Mexican girls who always rocks two gold, medium-sized earrings in each ear... having two on one ear and one on the other is unacceptable).

I felt around, but couldn't find the earring.
I held on to the hope that maybe... no, DEFINITELY the earring had slid to the floor.
But once I stood up, I heard the horrifying sound of my earring plunking into liquid.

I looked down, quite disappointed in myself for not fixing that goddamn flimsy latch on the stupid hoop earring (in the past, I've woken up plenty of times with that same damn earring stuck in my hair, or resting on my pillow-- it'll just no longer be IN my earlobe. I'm sure it happens because the earring is old AND I sleep like a wild animal whose foot is stuck in a hunter's trap).
I had eaten asparagus the previous night... so... I wasn't too eager to rescue my lost treasure.
Then again, these are tough economic times... I can definitely sell the stupid hoop for some dough if I no longer want to wear it... it's 14k gold.
So... I very dejectedly walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bamboo skewer.
I fished my earring out of the bowl, trashed the skewer, then treated the earring as if it were radioactive (as far as I'm concerned, asparagine-laden piss IS radioactive).

I asked Mom for advice on how to clean the earring... and she told me to quit being a pussy and just wash it down with some soap and scrub it with the Brillo pad... it'll be good as new.
Fuck that. That shit isn't going in my ear after all that.

So uh... I went for the easier route and just soaked it in alcohol then left it on a paper towel to dry...
Sure, I could just buy some other earring, but THESE ARE TOUGH ECONOMIC TIMES! I don't want to buy gold.
Plus... I'm sentimentally attached to the fucking things after having worn them for well over ten years.

Fucking toilet bowls and early-bird pisses...

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Gimme Some Sugar :)

Since I took the liberty to skip an unacceptable second post for this month, I've decided I'll write one up real quick to make up for it.
This just happened, and it amused me a bit, so I'll save it here for whenever I need a little giggle.

Yesterday, I was in Mom's vehicle for the first time in a few months.
She's has changed up her CD rotation, and much to my dismay, there's a particular artist on that rotation whom I dislike... a lot. Well, her singing, that is. She's a cool person, but her singing is not something I listen to willingly.
Anyway, thanks to that stupid CD being in Mom's vehicle, and her refusing to change it when I was riding with her, I got one of the fucking songs stuck in my head.
So, in my anguish, I tweeted out the following:
I'd rather have someone spit in my face than listen to Jenny Rivera music 
And I continued with my day.

About an hour ago, I was going to respond to one of my friend's replies to me, and saw a complete stranger tweeted this at me:
I wish I could gave u in front.of me so I will do it jsjaja lol
??... who... the fuck is this and what the hell are they talking about?
Then I saw what they were replying to... and it was that "controversial" tweet of mine regarding the terrible music.
Let's see this idiot and how she found me.
I could already imagine what she looked like: short, dark Mexican who's into rancheras, getting drunk at Mexican "bailes" and singing along to the music while their sloppyass-selves have their shirts halfway up their droopy chest, and the security guard is sweating as he tries to keep this troll from falling and getting trampled to death by her fellow drunken, sloppy, overworked Mexican housewives.

...OK. Angry much?
So I was a little interested in proving my point, and I went ahead and checked out her page.
I saw she had only tweeted twice, and she was only following one person (a San Diego radio station that plays--surprise, surprise-- Mexican music). No people were following her.
Her first tweet was a "real" tweet, her second was that one where she volunteers to spit in my face.

Originally, I was going to leave it alone... I was going to act like her tweet got lost in the Twitter Universe... because frankly, who gives a fuck what this one lonely person thinks? I'm sure in real life, if she were to ever ATTEMPT to spit in my face, I'd make her bite her tongue off as I'd kick her face against the pavement... Me, angry? Nah. I'm just telling it like it is. I'm as peaceful as they come, but don't touch me... unless you're prepared to get maimed.
But then I read her first tweet:
Ayer m sentia mal. Hoy m siento bien tener diabetis es triste. Cuidense y cuiden la salud d sus hijos.
(translates to "Yesterday I felt sick. I feel good today. Having diabetes is sad. Take care, and take care of your children's health." Of course, she writes like a dog, so grammatical and spelling error abound. But this is Twitter, where we're confined to fit our thoughts in 140 character... so I let that slide)

And that's where that vindictive, sarcastic cunt in me just couldn't stay silent, so I replied:
pero solo si tu saliva es igual de dulce que tu sangre... :)
(translation "but only if your spit is as sweet as your blood..." with my smiling emoticon that says "Yeah, I went there. Now let's laugh this off and forget about it." Low blow? Only if you're a pussy)

If you feel like clowning on me, make sure you don't give me material with which to rebuttal... 'cause I promise I'll try my best to make your blood boil at least a little bit ("blood boil"... which in this bitch's case, could possibly make syrup...).

So yeah... I even have STRANGERS for haters. How cool is that? At this rate, I'm gonna be headlining comedy tours in no time. 


The other day, Rafa and I were talking about tracing our ancestry.
It wasn't a scientific conversation at all, it was just him being a dumbfuck with his annoying questions.
Rafa: *hisnicknameforMom* Are you black?
Mom: No.
Rafa: Are you white?
Mom: No.
Rafa: What would you rather be, Muslim, or Juwsh (Mom says "jewish" this way, Rafa mocks her by imitating it)
Me: She married a Jew, so I think that answers that question.
Mom: Your dad's not Jewish!
Me: Obviously he's no longer Jewish, he's a radical Christian... but at one point, his family was.

So then we started talking about National Geographic's Genographic Project.
We each went to the page and read about it... and Rafa had an idea.
Rafa: I'm going to PROVE you're black, Lady (speaking to Mom here)
Mom: No. You're not.
Rafa: I'm going to buy TWO testing kits. I'll do the Y-DNA test, and I'll have *nicknameIhate* do the mitochondrial DNA test. SHE'LL prove YOU'RE black, lady. I'll prove you married a Jewsh. I just... KNOW IN MY HEART we're black!
(Rafa went through a phase where he swore he was related to Michael Jordan. He'd also complain "MAN! WHY WASN'T I BORN BLACK?!" This was the story with him all through middle school and first two years of high school at Clark. I know deep down, he really DOES hope we have a high percentage of African ancestry, not to spite my folks, but because he really likes black people)

Our test kits come in tomorrow.
Mom's pretty upset and paranoid now.
I haven't been able to stop laughing this entire time. I just have to see the little lady so visibly perturbed before I start cracking up for a few seconds.
Me: I'm going to prove you're ASIAN, little lady.
Me: But it was your maternal grandma who was Native American, right? Watch... I'm going to prove your family crossed the Bering Strait. Puro indio!

Entertaining few days, I tell you.

Sunday, June 26, 2011


ONCE AGAIN, I'm in trouble for opening my big mouth.

It was all thanks to FB, apparently the new motherfucking Myspace.
A certain cousin, who has recently become increasingly annoying with his numerous drunk tweets and FB status updates, finally fed me up (I don't like how I phrased that sentence, but I'm sleepy, so I'm not going to waste time to edit this post).
I wasn't even mean about it. I just cracked a joke. A SIMPLE joke.
This guy cracks jokes at the expense of others EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. It's the only way he knows to be funny... and when someone cracks a joke about him, he starts World War III.
He posted a photo, this one:
O...k... ?
He has this delusion of grandeur, where he swears he's... OH! He's one of the guys who thinks he's part of Kanye's crew.
The group swears they get special treatment in this city... aka they "run it." Only what THEY do is awesome and... whatever hip-hop-ish slang they use for the concept of "cool."
Get out of here with that shit. You hit us up when you want a hook-up at Marquee, and we're "nobodies"... don't come at me with that Entourage bullshit.
Anyway, I recognized where he was, and I couldn't bite my tongue.
Me: Drinking at St. Anne's gym? Have you no shame?! JK JK!

This had a couple of female friends of his cracking up.
I get a fucking text from him. He's upset over how I should "respect" him and keep from "hating" on him on HIS page.
Offend? Woah. Calm down, I stated fact. You're drinking in the gymnasium of St. Anne Catholic School. Period.
So now the dudes are mad at me.
Because I'm insolent. I'm rude. I'm inconsiderate.

Yeah... ok. Glad that's settled, compa. Now I won't feel too bad about sharing the story of how you mooned everyone at a recent family carne asada and forgot to wipe the skid mark from your ass cheeks... how you made half of us throw up our food from having to see the shit streak across your ass.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Thigh hugs

I really needed this soccer victory from the boys or I'd probably be ripping people's face off by now (even my dad was excited. Listening to him talk about soccer is like listening to a valley girl talk about car engines).

Yesterday was a fucking mess.
One fuck up was my little cousin and her issues with her abusive boyfriend. I don't understand why girls put up with men who raise their voice at them, and I'm especially perturbed when they allow their guys to yank them around in public.
People who just stand there and watch girls get abused by a guy also bother me... I don't understand what goes through those minds, either.
Anyway, it was that subject that had me breathing fire early yesterday.

The day only got shittier as I went to a carne asada/birthday party at night.
There were three boys (they were 22, I'm just resorting to agism right now because of my bad experience with younger "men") who wouldn't leave me and D alone. Fucking meatheads who didn't know what "literature" meant (I was so astonished by this atrocity, that I found myself having a difficult time trying to explain it. "It's... stuff you read. A book. A magazine. A newspaper... umm... that sort of thing. It's... something you read... am I really... doing this?" Guess whose mouth/hand/vagina is never getting ANYWHERE near your dick, homeboy...).
I just tell myself they were being idiots in an attempt to seem... endearing (which is the WORST way to seem endearing. Stupidity is never a desirable trait to me, sorry buddy).
I was growing increasingly agitated by the meatheads trying to flirt (this probably solidifies my status as a bitch, but hey, ask me if I give a fuck), so I moved to the complete opposite side of the house. It ended up being a POOR move, because it was right next to the booze. So... the guys just had an excuse to linger and stare at D and me as we tried eating our food without spilling shit and looking like a couple of reckless toddlers (invite us to a party, and it's guaranteed one of us will leave with a nice little forget-me-not in the form of a ketchup/mustard/salsa/meat-juice stain. It's inevitable).
Ok, so my temper is gradually getting out of hand, then it just... spills over once this motherfucking bitch walks in.
She's the same bitch I always have issues with when my paternal side of the family is involved. She married my first "boyfriend" who is also my first-cousin's first-cousin (but he is of NO relation to me, let's be clear right there. I don't do that relative dating bullshit).
I don't know what the HELL they've told her about me, but out of every encounter we've EVER had-- maybe a total of 25-- she has greeted me ONCE. ONCE. ONE. TIME.
(and that's only because my mom was standing directly next to me, and Mom would have probably punched this bitch's nose clean off her face if she were to snub me in front of my mommy)
WTF, hoe?! What did I ever do to you? We haven't even spoken!
Normally, I wouldn't be so offended (I understand there are shy people out there--like me-- who go "blind" when in a crowd), but you see, when she enters a room... she's... she's the motherfucking Lady Gaga of my social circle.
She makes a scene when she walks in. She. Is. Loud.
And she greets EVERYONE.
But me.
I can only take SO many public snubs before I snatch her cheap-ass Corona bottle out of her hands, break it against the table, and shank her with the shards.
When she did her fucking little snub move once again to me yesterday, I looked directly at D and opened my eyes wide, Can you believe this shit?! See how it's not just my imagination?! I'm going to fucking CHOKE THIS BITCH!
D kicks me under the table.
D: OH! MY BAD! I didn't know your foot was so close to mine!
D gave me her "Don't be a fucking barbarian!" look.

And just as I was about to start crying (Hey, I'm not made of stone! It's SO hard to practice self-restraint when someone hates you for no fucking reason... and then goes to extremes to belittle you in front of others--who don't defend you, to make matters worse. I don't know why so many fucking people get a kick out of doing that to me. Being mean to a timid girl while in a crowded area is one of the cruelest things a person can do), the cunt's 3-year-old son walked up to me and handed me a lollipop while he screamed "HI!" in my face.
Now THAT almost made me cry.

Wanna hear something creepy? When I see that kid, I sometimes think: You... could have been mine...
How... NOT-me is that? But it's weird and true that I'll catch myself thinking how weird life would be if I would have been in Cunt's place, the mother of this precious (and quite musically talented, I must add) boy.
It's stranger how that little boy likes me so much, when his mom has been nothing but mean to me.
The boy spent the party holding on to my arm or thigh (the thigh hug has always been confusing. From personal experience, I know how embarrassing it is for a kid to realize he/she is hugging the WRONG thigh--I still think about the time I did it and I want the ground to swallow me whole-- but now as an "adult," it's awkward to be the recipient of the thigh-hug. Do I pat his head to make him look up at me, or do I let him keep thinking this is his mom's thigh? He'll let go of me eventually... right? Then I'll find a way to hide from him). And he also kept giving me his belongings before he'd go out to play.
Fucking baby... quit being so cute.

I didn't know a better way to cope with all this bullshit, so I just drank and sent an angry tweet.

Who the hell needs therapy when there's liquor and social media within reach?

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Puke, puke, WHAT?

Ever have one of those days where WAY too much happens in the span of a few hours?

Today, I:
*Baked the best fucking (protein) brownies EVER.
*Ate some of the best sushi I've ever tried.
I ventured into trying lobster rolls and soft shelled crab. It. Was. Magnificent.
*Barfed out soft shelled crab.
Just a little heads up: it's not so "soft" traveling UP the esophagus. Jesus.
*Went to the gym... where I feared I'd continue the puke-fest, part II.
At one point, I swore I was suffering from appendicitis. I stood there, covered in sweat (I'm talking a fucking copious amount. I was dripping sweat as if I had some hose attached to me. It wasn't helping my mild freak out), trying to remember what side the appendix is on. Standing while in this kickboxing class is... not accepted. Luckily, my appendix didn't rupture and I was just being a drama queen. My poor stomach was just trying to digest whatever was left of the sushi I had devoured earlier in the day.
*Heard from MGH.
He's coming to town... with his girl... and they're staying at my place. Both of them. Maybe that's why I barfed? My body was just telling me I'm a fucking dickhead for agreeing to so much bullshit.
*Booked my flight to Chicago.
Maybe my judgement was a bit clouded by what I had agreed to earlier... so I made a brash decision... and I booked a flight to Chicago from August 16th until the 23rd. I was also kind of rushed to buy the tickets because today's the last day of that one Southwest Airlines special, where flights are $40, $80, or $120, according to the distance between the cities. After booking my roundtrip flight, I was angry at myself because I realized a ticket from Chicago to Boston is only $80. Had I gone Chicago, Boston for a few days, then LAS, it would have been $120 + $80 + $150. I'm an imbecile... an impulsive imbecile.

Yeah. I'm telling you, The Universe has a really fucked up sense of humor when it comes to its treatment of me.
The phrase of the day was: "Are you fucking kidding me right now?!"
But hey, I'M GOING TO CHICAGO (where I'll watch my sister date the dude I found ridiculously attractive... just The Universe being funny again. That asshole)!

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Concise Birthday

Today's JC's birthday.
We've always reciprocated on the birthday phone calls.
He sings to me on my birthday, I... agree to visit him when I call him on his birthday.
Whenever possible, I'd go to his birthday party and we'd spend the day doing whatever weird shit he'd be obsessed with.

This year was different.
He was skyping with his girlfriend when I called him... so it was awkward. HE was awkward.
The conversation felt like when you have unwanted guests at the house, and you're just trying to shoo them out of the front door as swiftly as possible.
We kept it short... as in "we talked for two minutes and 57 seconds" short (even his abusive phone call from the airport that one time he was going to take off to Argentina was longer than that... and all he really did was call me offensive names for not liking him the way he liked me. This time it was "How are you?" "Eh, I've been better. You?" "Eh. I'm taking summer school. It's interesting." "Cool.").
Another one bites the dust.
Guys and their girlfriends...

It's not cool... and all joking/sarcasm set aside, it HURTS.
It feels like... I have a sumo wrestler resting on top of my chest... or like... I swallowed mercury.

Hopefully his balls are once again descended when Berlin time comes around... that's if our friendship is still solid by Fall.

But for now, the JC-AnoMALIE Adventures are--sadly-- over. He was my best guy-friend.
... as if I needed any MORE reasons to hate life... well, more like... find no sense in it.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, lasts... especially if it involves me.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

A little bit of nothing

It's no secret I get most of my depressing songs form Native Minnow. He has an eye for songs I'd probably never find on my own.
He has a new mix posted on his blog, and once again, while I like all the songs on the list, I found one that got me immediately. The melody, the lyrics, everything:

Thanks for Nothing by Middle Brother (Just the title told me this song was going to be a winner. AND, I'm a middle child... so you know I sympathize with anything relating to middle kids)

I got off of the plane ok
Now I have a city to myself--
The strangers in the coffee shops, the sidewalks, and the way the evening smells.
But none of it distracts me in the ways that I had planned...
Or brings me back my smile like I was hoping.
Now there's a distance between me and the world that's offering its hand...
And I have you to thank for that, thanks for nothing.
(story of my motherfucking life RIGHT THERE. When I first heard this, I froze in place to listen, 'cause I could have sworn I wrote those words in my paper journal at some point)

It's probably raining off in London if it's snowing here in Nashville Tennessee.
Oh, I hope he's taking care of you, and showing you you're where you need to be.
But I don't want you to leave him once he gives himself away,
The way a match looks after it is done glowing. (This simile of the match squeezed my heart. It's fucking depressing!)
Oh, you don't know how it feels to think you'll never be the same...
And I have you to thank for that, thanks for nothing.
(the way his voice trails off at the end of this "thanks for nothin'" makes me frown and fight some tears, actually. His voice is SO SAD!)

Now the only girls I meet all look for hearts that they can fix,
But mine is more like a kid that has gone missing.
Now there's a pretty girl in front of me I know I won't let in.
And I have you to thank for that, thanks for nothing.
Oh, I have you to thank for that, thanks for nothing.
(Just imagine that "girls" is "boys" in my situation)

So yeah, I spent the day listening to the depressing mix... holding this song on repeat for a couple... dozen times.

Then I remembered I wanted to be happy... so I went ahead and began cooking for everyone.
As I pulled out some eggs, I remembered what day it is-- the first day of summer, aka Summer Solstice.
Thanks to being an obnoxious little girl who was WAY too fond of Nickelodeon, I remembered a little bit of knowledge "Stick" (DON'T act like you don't know what I'm talking about! "Write to me, Stick Stickly, P.O. Box 963, New York City, New York state, 10108") passed on to me-- today is one of two days of the year where you can make an egg sit "upright."

I killed an hour and a half fucking around with eggs. Even Mom joined me (Rafa didn't, because he couldn't do it... the impatient loser).
Started out easy... but I'm ambitious.
See all those eggs on the left? I was hellbent on getting ALL of them upright.
My masterpiece.
Science is wonderful.
And like that, my mood got chirpy again.
I love being a ten year old girl.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Good News, Bad News

Good news: I'm NOT pregnant! (through immaculate conception or whatever, ya know) 
Bad news: My body was a little too eager to let me in on the good news, and it let me have it while I was wearing some sweetass yoga pants and lifting some heavy weights around.
It's nice to see my body has a sense of humor... I just wish it'd be a little more chill about it. I don't know if I prefer this over how my body loves to trip all over the place, however... because that has a tendency to hurt my actual body and not just my ego.

Good news: I found something that seems to have a magnetic attraction for me!
Bad news: It's broken glass... when I'm barefoot.
This lead to a horrible argument between me and Rafa. HE was the one who broke a glass over the weekend and did a SHIT job cleaning up the mess... so this infuriated me and I called him a motherfucking idiot, an asshole, a barbarian, all that good stuff I yell in my incoherent showcase of rage. 
This made him pretty pissed, so he started shooting back. And he hit me where it hurt: WHY DON'T YOU FUCKING DO SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIFE INSTEAD OF JUST SIT THERE AND WASTE AWAY?!
Boom! FIRE! 
And the argument snowball just got bigger.

Good news: I'm SO good at making empanadas! The filling... the dough...they're so goddamn delicious!
Not conducive to my health goals, man... fucking pastry. Useless fucking pastry and its empty cals. Fuckity fuck. Arrrrrg! Makes me SO angry.

Now I must sleep, since I accomplished my nightly goal of pissing myself off by thinking too much/remembering stupid shit.
Au revoir.

Sunday, June 19, 2011


Yesterday's wedding went as predicted.
The mass part was empty, but come food time there wasn't a damn empty seat in the house.
Once that shit was over, I dropped by another spot to have a celebratory drink with a birthday boy.

Apparently I was in a fantastic mood, because I then had an urge to bake for my dad.
He has been bugging me about empanadas for well over a month... I'm talking non-stop "Mija... you know what would be a good idea? If you were to pick up on them... empanadas. Empanadas are always good." Every. Single. Day.

Since today is Father's Day, and my little Pops puts up with so much of my shit (like me calling him a neanderthal every other week, when he frustrates me... although I actually favor the term "troglodyte" because the sound is just.... it soothes me since it sounds so ugly, but appropriate for my rage. Much better than that one time I called him a "fucking idiot"), last night a sense of urgency overpowered me. Something told me that baking a few dozen empanadas wouldn't be TOO difficult, and I HAD to do it. I wasn't even THAT drunk.
Someone must have been smoking weed around me or something...

Anyway, at around midnight, I went ahead and rushed to the store and picked up powdered sugar, flour, baking powder, and butter... since I don't have any of that in my house.
I'm sure the store workers must have thought I was a crazy lady.
I did them all by my damn self... without anyone instructing me (I seriously must have been unwittingly high).
By two in the morning, I pretty much WAS a crazy lady. I was damning the moment I had convinced myself I was a legit Mexican.
The empanadas started out ROUGH:
Take a stab at (no pun intended) which one was my first EVER attempt at an empanada...
Of course the gringo-style crimping would be the one that DOESN'T work.
But by the end, I guess you could say I regained some of my legit Mexican status.
I heard they were tasty.
I, of course, am not eating any of the 48.
Homemade corn tortillas... now empanadas... shoot, all I need now is to master tamales and I'll add "Maria" as my middle name.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Lucky Ducky... or not.

OK guys, I'll come clean:
I haven't been entirely truthful about something.
Today I get to rock this:
That's right. I'm getting married.

Hell fucking no.
But I am wearing that.
I get to spend my day doing one of my most loathed activities, and that is to attend a wedding. A Chunti wedding, of all things.
That's where the ring comes in (thaaank you, HnM).
Had it been a normal wedding, I wouldn't have busted out the cheap jewelry. However, since this is a chunti wedding, I have to pull out the big guns.
Guys at these things are hard-headed as fuck, and they will not take "No!" for an answer.
Guy: Quieres bailar? (Wanna dance?)
Me: No.
Guy:... porque? A poco tienes novio? (... why? You actually have a boyfriend?)
Me: Yup.
Guy: Donde esta, no lo veo? No esta aquí, no te puede ver... entonces, bailamos? (Where is he? I don't see him. He isn't here. He can't see you... so... shall we dance?)
Me: No.
I've just adopted the "look-at-my-ring-finger" method. I've been "engaged" since I was 18.

I'm going to the wedding to show my support for a cousin who... hasn't been the luckiest person on Earth.
Poor guy was dealt a bad hand from the moment he was born, and he just hasn't been able to pick himself up. Well, NOW is when he's trying his best... since he was locked up for all of his 20's. Now that he found a girl whose willing to overlook his shady past, he's trying to do everything right.
I'll always root for that sort of thing... blame it on Edward James Olmos and all of his cholo movies from back in the 90's.
Anyway, as much as I want to show my support of this guy cousin of mine, it's just inevitable that I'm going to have to deal with the chuntis. That's why, instead of being my typical cunt self, I've opted for the ring, so I can send the guys a silent signal of "No. Not interested. Ever."

(This didn't work out for the church portion of it. OF ALL PEOPLE, my cousin's DAD--aka the groom's father--was the biggest fucking creeper who kept looking down my shirt and... just kept trying to FLIRT with me... being a total creep. Fucking DISGUSTING. I HATE dirty old men. Ridiculous idiots)

Friday, June 17, 2011


What do I imagine heaven will look like?
Shirtless, Spanish tennis players playing golf in the locker-room.
Mmmmm.... mmmm... mmmm!
Ok, I gotta stop now...
Nadal and Feliciano Lopez are... uffff!
Oh man... STOP!
What will it smell like?
(protein) CARROT CAKE! That I MADE (recipe found HERE)!
I'm such an adult!
Now do you understand why I'm such a well-behaved, arguably-saintly girl? (Shit, right now I'm glad I'm such a good girl. Would I be like the average girl out there, I'd be shitting bricks right about now. My fucking body's all out of whack... two weeks behind. TWO WEEKS! What the fuck is that shit? I'm about to get all hypochondriac on people and start suspecting I have some kind of serious health problem. I'm clock-work, dude, CLOCK-WORK! What is this?!)

I'm tired. I was woken up by my sister at 4:30AM as she was showering to get ready to go to work. She was making so much damn noise, I couldn't go back to sleep.
Once she left for work at 6:30AM, I was too angry to catch some shut-eye afterward... so I stayed awake and watched some good ol' Mexican programming ("Hoy," on Galavision, because it brings back beautiful memories).

Now, I'm just sleepy as hell. So... I'm going to bed to continue having nightmares about being pregnant or carrying some massive cancer in my uterus. Woo-hoo.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Thursdays with Rafa

I've decided I'll play Rafa's game and ask him questions until he grows irritated.
Let's see how many he'll put up with before he gets mad and starts yelling obscenities at me.

This is my impromptu interview with my brother... the Poli-Sci guy with a Masters Degree from Princeton University (his vocabulary will make it obvious, I promise):

Hey Rafa, what do you think about:
1. North Korea?
"They're NOT gangsta... those motherfuckers."
2. China?
"The Chinese are fucking copycats... steal everybody's technology... those muthafuckahs." (His homage to Tupac... since he'd be 40 years old today... I'm sure just as fuckable as back in the 90s... yeah, I said it)
3. Russia?
"Flex their muscles and have a shitload of fucking oil... and Putin and Medvedev are gonna be in a dogfight, niggaaaa! Fuckin' spy bastard... (Putin) He still thinks we're in the fuckin' Cold War.
(I'll admit it: I actually learned a lot from this response. I didn't know Russia had a Prime Minister AND a President)
4. Greece?
Them muthafuckas need to pay 'dem bills! Fuckin' broke muthafuckas. Fucking scumbags... shady-ass accountants sons of bitches.
5. Mayonnaise?
Fucking terrible.
(I second the motion! Fucking gag-worthy GARBAGE)
6. Butter?
::shrugs:: It's fatty, but necessary sometimes... in food.
7. The word "supossably?"
Used by fucking retards. Used by miscreants.
8. Wine coolers?
Haven't had one in... my whole life... shi-eeet. Wait... are Boone's Farm one of them? I've killed a few of 'em... they're only good if you mix 'em with vodka.
I have no clue what that shit is, so I google it.
Me: A "flavored apple wine product?" What the hell is that?
Bro: I'm tellin' ya... they're only gansta if you mix 'em with REAL liquor.
He then pauses for a minute.
Bro: What is this? A fuckin' survey or somethin'?
Me: Yeah, kinda.
9. Sarah Palin?
::scoff:: Fucking JOKE. Can't believe fucking stupid-ass people think she's a fucking... REPUTABLE human being.
10. Michele Bachmann? 
::shakes head:: Umm... she's Fucking. Retarded. And I don't know which one I disrespect more out of her and Sarah Palin. She has to ACTUALLY read the constitution... stupid bitch. (Changes voice to his "thug" voice) STUPID BITCH!

He ended the interview by singing "One time, one time, YEAH WHATEVAH!" in my face. I don't like it when anyone sings anything in my face, so I stopped asking questions.

So... there you have it, ladies and gentlemen... it appears I grow irritated whether I'm the interviewee or interviewer.

Fun times. Fun times indeed.

Ohhhp... and now a huge fight has erupted because he just broke D's glasses.
Jesus Christ.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Public Record

All right, I'm just about ready to put my fucking brother up for adoption.
So damn aggravating.
I can only take so much poking, so much hair-ruffling, so many headlocks, so many times someone barging into my room ONLY to fart, so many times of people leaving their dirty dishes at the table.... before I get the urge to start breaking shit with a bat.
And he's back to asking his stupid questions with either a baby voice, or a wanna-be, hardass, Harlem gangbanger:
"What do you know about JOBS, *nicknameIhate*?" (the gangbanger voice)
"*NicknameIhate* did you poop today?" (baby voice)
"Have you ever shot anyone? Have you ever KILLED anyone?" (gangbanger voice... this one sounds like Biggie to me)
"What does 'Juden Verboten' mean?"

He just caught me writing that up and flipped.
"WHAT THE FUCK?! You're gonna write that?! You're gonna make me seem like a freakin' anti-semite! That shit's public record!"

Ah... I was going to bitch... but that little stint just made me laugh until my side hurt (to clarify any misunderstandings, he watched "Inglorious Basterds" for the first time today, and he has been going around saying random German shit. Of course he knows what 'Juden verboten' means, he's just being an idiot asking me his stupid questions, trying to get under my skin).

Taking the good with the bad, I guess...
I just wish the "bad" wasn't so fucking smelly and obnoxious.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

BRoss Style

You'll have to excuse me, I've been fighting... some sort of flu or some shit, for the last couple of days. It's some shit Rafa passed on to me, like always. He's the one that goes out and catches shit form grimy-ass people and he randomly just passes it off to me.
Rafa: Quit blaming all this shit on me.
Me: I've been PERFECTLY fine up until you came back. It's just like with the cold sore. You're the one who goes off and hangs out with infected people and I'm the one who has to live with the consequences.
Rafa: Oh. Shut. Up. "Live with the consequences," what is this, AIDS?

Ok, Ok, I'll admit it... I'm Howard Hughes.
OCD, reclusive... anti-social.
I'm a clean slate... for the most part.
So if you deal with germ-carrying kids, I won't hang around you with much ease... but Rafa... he'll let any damn kid put their dirty little hands in his mouth if they want to.
So... because of that (or maybe he was just making out with a sloppy-ass bitch at a bar-- as is his custom-- and she just so happened to be ill), here you have me... sick.
Damn it.

I locked myself in my room and painted. (See, the "reclusive" thing)
I tried the Bob Ross style this time.
A winter scene. (Anti-social thing. My world-view is bleak)
I should DEFINITELY stick to comics.

My life is fucking exciting right now. Be jealous.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Poison that's not really poi

Rafa's back in town.
I should probably mention he's been gone for the last week since he was in South Carolina visiting some of his friends from his army days.
Since I decided to sleep last night instead of heading out to pick him up from the airport with D, I turned today into a much needed "I love my brother" day.
D went to the pool with Twiggy, so it was just me and Rafa.
What did we do?
We massacred some sushi, obviously.
This went down at one thirty in the afternoon... and even after running around, and lifting a little earlier tonight, I'm still laying on my stomach, damning the moment I agreed to eat sushi. I only had four rolls (Rafa had six, and he's walking around like a champ. He even had BEANS an hour ago. How the FUCK do guys do that?!), NOTHING compared to my once 7.5 record... yet I'm over here swearing up and down that I'm on the verge of dying.

Anyway, this "I love my brother" day was great, tummy ache set aside.
The conversations I have with Rafa crack me up... and puts my shit back into perspective.
It's REALLY hard to be miserable when Rafa's walking around the house talking nonsense... or nearly choking on a mint as he sings along to "Extraterrestrial" while we drive by UNLV
(Rafa: Katy Perry, I'll inject you with my POISON... that's not really POI ::cough.cough.cough.choke.choke.choke::
Me: A little too excited there thinking about your "poison that's not really poison," Captain Obvious?).
Then, ending the day talking shit about Honduras' soccer team was the cherry topping to my day (actually, baking gluten/dairy free protein brownies was the cherry. It was choco-tastic... and the house smells SO fucking good! But the shit-talking came a close second).

I've said it once, and I'll say it again: EVERY GIRL NEEDS A BROTHER!

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Rotting pipes

I am INCHES away from being convinced to go to Hometown.
Crazy, I know... and yes, it merits a strong slap across my face... but I can't help it.
Mom talked to her brother-in-law this morning, since we were informed that there's some sort of drama going on with our home in Mexico. Mom called to see what was up with all that bologna.
After telling her what the issue was (apparently there's a leak on the roof with the potential to wreak havoc if left unchecked... just what we wanted to hear. Also, our pipes are rotting away... HAAA! And that's with you NOT knowing what's going on in my personal/sentimental life, buddies), he then proceeded to tell her about the current gossip going down in Hometown.
All funny stuff that I really couldn't care less about, but then he added the fact that apparently everyone misses us. Men, women, children, they've all asked about us since we tend to be down there by now. They can't believe we're not heading down there this summer.
This crushed my heart.
I hate these people and they talk so much shit which usually has me in tears or in trouble with my folks... but I also love them. It's so, so strange. I can't imagine myself loving everyone in Vegas, but people from this damn tiny, gossiping town are buried in my heart. It's disgusting.
Anyway, my uncle spent the rest of the time trying to convince Mom to go to Hometown (according to him, there isn't any more shady shit going on, unlike last year. He said it's hot in the afternoons, but at night it's cool, with a slight breeze-- we all know how much I love a "slight breeze," especially because of the things I associate with it. He said people are starting to show up, especially since there's going to be an "important" quinceañera the first week of July. All good shit that can almost persuade me to drop by for at least two weeks).

I close my eyes and I can just see myself walking towards the living room after showering in the morning. It's the strongest image in my Mexico memories. Walking out of the blue bathroom, walking down the pink hallway, and walking toward the living room as I see the yellow kitchen in the distance.
The colors are so bright... maybe that's why I can't get the image out of my head.
I can also SMELL Hometown. The freshness. Wet dirt getting dried by the sunny morning.

Ohhhhh! Mexic-ohhhh! WHY do you do this to me?!

I give everyone permission to slap me if I mention going to Hometown ever again.
I can't.
I can't. I can't. I can't!
It's dangerous... it's lonely... and I'm going to want to leave after two days.
No Mexico. No. No. No.


Saturday, June 11, 2011

Thieving brat

If there is one thing I hate with all my being, it's an ill-behaved child.
They are the motherfucking BANE OF MY EXISTENCE!
I hate their incompetent parents the most though, for not teaching them SHIT and allowing the little bastards to get away with the most ludicrous garbage.

There are days when I deal with little fuckheads better than others.
Anyone... anything could tell this week is DEFINITELY not the week to fuck with me. Whether you're 70, or seven, stay the fuck away from me and my shit unless you want me to unleash my wrath upon you.
Well, apparently a little 10 year old cunt was not too good on catching social cues, and I. Made. Her. Cry.
Yessir. I made a ten year old little bitch cry. In church.

Hear me out:
I was minding my own business, sitting in the 5th bench from the front row at church. Mom was sitting to my right, no one to my left, since I was at the very edge of the bench.
Before Mass starts, some person is always up in the front leading the rest of the congregation in praying the rosary. At the end, they always make us stand up, they say some closing prayer, and we once again take our seats and wait for Mass to start.
SO, this happens, we stand up, sit back down, and then four ladies decide to sit in our row, so Mom scoots closer to me. That's when she remembers "Oh, the envelope with the money offering," and looks to her right (where she so stupidly placed it. I always place the damn envelope directly in front of me... because you never know what people are capable of... especially in these tough economic times, also, I place it there because I'd probably forget it if I didn't).
Anyway, once Mom looks to her right, she notices it is no longer there.
It was there before we stood up for the rosary thing... hmmm... 2+2...
Mom started looking around, even in the missals. We both pretty much made a scene looking everywhere for the freaking envelope. I even looked under the bench.
Oh, you silly, silly dumb-dumb... do you not think straight? It's a motherfucker in the back. Someone behind us took it.
I was convinced one of the members of the family of four behind us had taken it.
I looked back at them, and they very cynically stared back at me... so I stared even harder... I glared.
I KNOW one of you took it, you son of a bitch!
When Mass started, I turned my entire body to face the family (under the guise that I was following the procession, which starts at the back of church). I continued glaring...
You ROBBED ME... AND IN GOD'S HOUSE... YOU MOTHERFUCKER. It's ten fucking dollars! You condemned yourself for TEN FUCKING DOLLARS!
I stood tall and gave them my best "You're such a fucking piece of shit" look.

Since I'm stubborn, and I'm a fucking C-U-N-T when I want to be (especially when someone STEALS from me), I sat through the rest of mass with my body turned slightly to my right, my face turned to my right, making sure they could see me LOOKING at them throughout mass.
I'd occasionally look directly at them, look them up and down, shake my head, and look back at the priest.
I. AM. A. BITCH. (when I want to be)
Th whole time my chest is ready to explode from the rage. I can't even swallow... I swear I'm going to suffer a heart-attack. All I really want to do is get in the face of the Mom, Dad, Ten year old daughter, and six year old son and scream at the top of my lungs.
I was bewildered at the thought of someone robbing you blind... IN CHURCH. Of all fucking places.
Anyway, I survive mass without saying a damn word or causing a ruckus. Well, there was ONE part where the little boy threw one of his two ping pong balls into my leg, and I stomped on it, completely destroying it (another HUGE pet-peeve of mine is when parents bring toys for their kids to church. The shithead is SIX, that motehrfucker better know how to sit still for an hour. If he can't, then DON'T come in and disturb the peace. Suck a dick if you want to argue over this... oh wait, that's what got you in this predicament in the first place).
By the time Mass ended, I KNEW who the guilty party was, because when it came time to give our $ offering, the ten year old told her Dad
"Papi, que hago con esto? Lo encontre allí." aka "Daddy, what do I do with this? I found it there."
"Just leave it here," he said, placing an envelope in the little missal cubby on the back of my bench.
I stared right at it.
The dad left before Mass was over, so I got WAY more courage once Mass was over. I turned around, looked in the cubby, saw my envelope, felt my blood boil, and I stared at the duckbfuck mom--who wasn't making eye-contact, which was weird since I made a fucking scene as I turned around and dug my hand in the cubby, right in her fucking face, not moving my eyes off her.
Mom looked to see what I was doing, and once she saw the envelope in my hand, she was pissed.
Me: Para la proxima, no VUELVAS a tocar algo que NO ES TUYO! Eso se llama ser RATERA.
(Next time, don't EVER touch something that ISN'T YOURS! That is called being a THIEF)
I said it directly in the face of the little girl... I got down to her level and practically spelled it out to her.
Mom was shaking her head.
Mom: Porque no le enseña modales a su hija? Eso no se le hace a nadie... gente mañosa.
(Why don't you teach your daughter some manners? You don't do that to anyone... cheap people)

We were pissed, because clearly these fucking imbeciles saw their retard of an offspring (she was NOT really retarded. Fucking little brat was alert as hell, she was just being a fucking asshole when she took our envelope) take our envelope, and they STILL didn't hand it to us when they saw us searching for the thing like fucking maniacs.
Anyway, this went down as the choir was singing and the procession was heading back out of church, so obviously the priest didn't see what was going on, but EVERYONE in our surrounding did... especially when the dumb little idiot started to cry.

Tough love.
I assure you that little bitch isn't going to touch shit that doesn't belong to her EVER again.
You're welcome, world.
Now someone get me a promoter, I think I'm ready for the damn UFC.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Oldie but Goodie

Tired. Sleepy.
But hey, today I only cussed out ONE person (I've come to the conclusion that it is IMPOSSIBLE for me to drive without showcasing some sort of roadrage).

I'm a bit subdued because I dedicated my night to painting away.
I didn't think of a damn thing. I just sat down, pulled out the acrylics... and well, yeah, I guess I did think about what colors I should use.
I settled on this:
Every color and every shape carefully chosen.
And still, this would only go for $5 in NYC.
Useless talents I possess.
My oldie but goodie, now plastered on canvas.

Ah, the good memories associated with that shit.

Now I feel as if I took some Vicodin (along with some Zoloft). Calm, quiet, and relaxed.
I don't give a fuck about the world, to be quite frank. I just want to close my eyes and pass out.


Thursday, June 9, 2011

Recite me a little something

This Angry AnoMALIE is not an ANoMALIE I like... and I'm sure neither do any of my friends/family.
Aside from channeling the anger into workouts where I nearly kill myself (if it doesn't hurt, I'm not doing enough. I live by Radiohead's "Creep" line: "I don't care if it hurts, I wanna have control." There's a joy in that hurt that keeps me from thinking about anything other than how irritating it is to get sweat in your eye and not being able to wipe it off because you're in the middle of a circuit/squat session. It's true that I don't care about the hurt, because THIS hurt I can control... and it feels SO damn good. Ok, I'm off THAT tangent), I've gone back to painting. I'm working on an oldie but goodie right now. I might post a photo of it if it comes out like I picture it in my head (a lot of "happy little trees"... though they're not too happy, since they're all bare... my favorite type of tree).
So far, it has worked today.
It also helps that Mexico played today and massacred their opponent once again in the... Gold Cup? I don't know which tourney it is in english, since my soccer life revolves around the spanish language. My boys Dos Santos, Chicharito, and De Nigris scored... what else can I ask for (ugh, besides wishing that damn doping scandal five of the squad members are encountering would have never happened. Fucking idiots)?

I'm ok. Or at least getting there.

Know who's not OK now? My sister.
Poor girl is currently going through some shit I went through in the past.
Last night Sister was supposed to go to her friend's birthday party, but since she had to be an adult, she ended up working until 2AM.
Her friends were all at the party, and ONE in particular, the ONE who follows her on Twitter started talking shit about her to everyone else. It got to the point where he started reading Sister's tweets out loud... at the party.
What kind of shit is that? Fucking prick.
Luckily, it appears the only prick at the party was that ONE guy. Everyone else started telling him to mind his own goddamn business and quit talking shit.
Still, once Sister found out, she was heartbroken and irate at the same time (see, it's hereditary. Mom's personality seems to be pretty fucking dominant. Though I guess this is more of a Nature vs. Nurture type deal, huh?).
While my drama wasn't Twitter-related, I have had two occasions where someone recites word-for-word part of my blog to me. That has been pretty infuriating.
I had to lock up my original on-line diary because something like that went down... and because a family member found it and went to my parents and told them I needed... I think he said "psychological help" (bitch, please, I was 19. You think I was troubled then? READ MY SHIT NOW!). Fucking asshole better not find me now, or else he'll probably propose a fucking intervention for me.

Sister went ahead and deleted her Twitter, since you can't lock that shit like you can a diary (well, you CAN make it private, but remember, the shit-talker WAS one of her friends who she allowed to follow her). Instead of deleting her "friend" she went ahead and got rid of the drama all together.
Poor kid.
So yeah, she's the one moping around the house, hating life right now.
Surprisingly, I managed to tame the beast within who wanted to go to this guy's house and rip his balls off (since he clearly has no need for them, being that he's such a fucking PUSSY).

Nah, just kidding.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Two of Five

What follows depression? In my case, anger.
I don't follow any five-step rule, fuck you Kübler-Ross.
...not that I'm dying or anything.

I've just noticed that for the most part, I deal with depression most effectively by getting aggressive.
Damn this hormonal cocktail with which Mom decided to bless me. It makes me be sentimental, crying all over the place, then become the Hulk and punch holes through walls. It's quite lovely... motherfucking testosterone and its bullshit-ass associated behavior.

My dad isn't helping in easing my rage.
For some reason, reason I WILL find out, he has gotten it in his head that he wants to create a Facebook AND twitter account.
I have been blunt with him:
Dad: Why?!
Me: Because they were created FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.
Dad: I feel too restricted using the internet ONLY for checking my e-mail and reading the news.
Dad: I've heard about that thing... Facebook... and Twitter. I want those. I want to be able to read the guestbook.
Dad: They told me I could read what was written.
Me: Look, when you can't even describe what is going on, there is NO REASON for you to have it. You have NO BUSINESS having a Facebook and MUCH LESS a Twitter account.
Dad: I'll just have someone from church set it up for me.
Me: AAAAAHA!! THAT'S who got it in your head!! What fucking NACO was it? I want to meet this fucking asshole. Usted lo quiere para andar de chismoso! Un viejo RIDICULO! (You only want it to be a gossip! A ridiculous old man!)
Me: I KNOW they'll take advantage of you. And the only reason old Hometown people use Facebook is for gossip reasons, DON'T tell me that's not why YOU want it. YOU HAVE A PHONE. Wanna stay in contact with your "friends" USE THE DAMN PHONE like you've been using for the last 50 years!

And the fight kept going. Mom would make her "Shut the fuck up!" faces at me, but I'd keep going.
It infuriates me, how easily others influence my father. I just can't stay quiet OR relaxed... especially not after all this crying I've been doing recently.

Maybe other people can have their parents on Facebook, but I sure as FUCK cannot. Dad gossips more than a fucking old woman... the moment he is introduced to Facebook, my world will end. There will be drama, he will tell people TOO much... and it's just... my dad's worse than Star Magazine. I give myself nightmares just thinking of the endless possibilities... I fucking start hyperventilating.

Yeah... I'm still on the combative/aggressive trip (I have this gnarly cut on my right thumb because I was being a violent asshole yesterday morning as I was showering. I was looking for my bar of soap and I gripped my razor as if it were Play-Doh. That's when this barbarian learned she had to take it down a notch).
And yes, it makes me fight with Pops... and it makes me an all-around unpleasant person to be around...
BUT there is somewhat of a silver-lining: I have been able to channel some of it into workouts.
I'm that girl in the corner, shooting you the "Don't fucking get ANYWHERE near me or I'll fucking BITE YOU" look, as I squat and deadlift heavier than anyone else in the room.

I'm convinced I was supposed to be a dude... a gay one... because I cry a lot and I like dudes.

I'm going to bed now, before I toss this laptop across the room and get my ass beat by my exponentially-more-aggressive mother.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011


I've been trying to cheer up all day.

I had cereal with fresh raspberries... and it helped... for about an hour.
I went running (as fast as I fucking could, for as long as I could) and it did help... for about two hours.
I tried on Sister's pants, and was stoked to see they fit properly. It cheered me up... for half an hour.
Cleaned the fridge because Mom left raw chicken on the TOP SHELF and as expected, the juices spilled all the way to the bottom shelf. This pissed me off for three hours.
I allowed my mean/cunt side to make an appearance as I looked through photos... and it did make me laugh hysterically for a few minutes... then I felt guilty for... well, I still feel guilty.
But not too guilty to not show you some of my favorites.
Tell me you don't laugh with one of these three:
I TOLD her not to get on that horse.
Did she listen? Of course not. Who the hell listens to AnoMALIE?
I get stomach cramps from laughing so hard at that horse's expression.
I have SEVEN more of these... this was the one I thought was the LEAST fucked up.
Musketeer's wife.
I see this and I think of that Simpson's episode where Nelson laughs at that really tall guy driving the VW Beetle.
That's how I feel about "large" people driving little cars.
If she were to attempt doing to me what the tall man did to Nelson... you'd see me on PPV... in an octagon. Cauliflower-ear would be the least of her worries.
Bitch. I'M not the one with TERRIBLE taste in cars.
Ok, I'm ranting now. See how quickly my giggles leave me?
MGH's girl.
We're cool and everything, but I'm not going to ignore the obvious.
You have to be BLIND not to notice how the keys in her pocket make it look like she... well, like she has a dick.
Total sweetheart, but the extra junk in the crotch... and her legs, ain't helping the situation.
(is it obvious why I lost THAT battle? My legs didn't look like that in KINDERGARTEN--my hammies and quads have always been a force--much less now)
All mean shit aside, I'm trying so hard not to think anything... not to feel anything... but it's impossible.
I wish it could be positive, but so far, the negative drowns it all out.

Nada, ABSOLUTAMENTE NADA, tiene sentido.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Libros, libritos

I'm not at my best right now.
I've been crying all day.
The way how nothing ever works out for me has really been making me... think crazy shit. No, I'm not PMSing... I'm just extremely fed up and I don't want to write it all out because I didn't set up this blog with the intention of ever writing any of my depressing bullshit.

Instead of typing out everything I'm really thinking, I'll just give the answer to last week's post.
I was talking to Mooney about it yesterday, and she brought it to my attention that the photo was blurry as fuck. So, here's my attempt at making the image a little clearer.

The books starting from the top shelf, left to right:
Upper far left.
Upper middle: Saint-Exupéry's "The Little Prince" and Dr. Seuss' "Oh, the Places You'll Go!"
(And two medals for running half-marathons. +)
Upper right.
Middle shelf, left side.
Middle shelf, right side.
Bottom shelf.
The winners are:
1. Wuthering Heights
THAT is my book.

2. The Great Gatsby
Another of my top reads.

3. Oh, the Places You'll Go!
One of my favorites since elementary school. Now, it just makes me cry... hard.

4. Tender is the Night
Little did I know I would be the one getting destroyed...

5. Le Petit Prince
Gold. Pure Gold.

6. Lolita
Yep. You know it.

The middle shelf is filled with the books he had/has to read for his Poli Sci concentration.
Niiiice, but obviously, not books I'd ever read...
I'm good knowing my dude has read them... maybe he can explain them to me.

The bottom shelf is full of french books. While I DETEST France and I'd rather extract my own wisdom tooth with a screwdriver than interact with a Parisian, I have to admit... I... still have a soft spot for France... since I WASTED four years of my life learning that bullshit language.
SO, seeing that he too obviously studies French, it makes me sympathize... it's cute. More shit in common is always a plus.

But those top six books are absolute winners and made me immediately infatuated.
I would then go off and read a little from this infamous book each night :
He MUST own this for the sole purpose of banging girls.
'cause I know it would certainly work on me.
That wolf.
And well... there should be no doubt as to why I now want to propose to this guy.
(I'm being sarcastic... but I DO find him irresistible now) 
Thank you, literacy!

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Str8 Compton

I officially live in Compton.

I came home last night to see my street was blocked off by seven police patrols. As I worked my way around them (they closed off two blocks. I was ready to run over a fugitive if I had to), I saw another patrol parked in my driveway, and a helicopter hovering over my house, lighting my backyard.
WTF?! What did my dad do now?!
As I got out of my car, the cop honked at me and pressed his siren.
Hell NO I'm not walking towards your car... especially with a fugitive in my fucking neighborhood. I lived in the hood long enough to know to lock my ass IN my house and not linger around, looky-loo imbecile-style. Those motherfuckers wind up dead or in a hostage situation. Anything important, you get out of your patrol and tell me what's going on. Otherwise, I'm running into my house, into safety.
Did I find out what happened? No. I just saw two patrols drive into the desert-area in front of my house, and two cops walk around with dogs... obviously looking for someone.
Once the cops left and it was around midnight, Mom was scared, expecting to get murdered by the person the cops were searching for. I knocked out like a rock, not giving a shit (the ONE positive to being disillusioned and depressed. You quit giving a fuck if someone breaks into your house and slits your throat as you sleep... sometimes you might even welcome that shit).

Anyway, I'm an old lady and I get tired far too easily now.
All my body wants to do is sleep...
so... I guess that's it for today's post.
I was going to talk about getting chastised at the pho place... or about Pacemaker talking shit about my photos... or about my PrincetonSoulmate... maybe even mention todays hysterical DD... but I'm tired, and I don't want to spook away the sandman who is currently chucking a load of his sand into my eyes.
Ok, I'll mention the DD real quick:
I went shopping w/ Mooney and as she was at the register paying for her stuff, I looked over towards some jeans and caught the most... glaring DD of the day.
I wasn't paying much attention, however, when I scanned over the description of the jeans, I did a double-take because a word looked familiar.
Wait... did I just read "Darcy?"
So I read it again.
You don't say?
It made me laugh, because back in the day, I remember talking to Kelley about Darcy and how he was so cute and blah blah blah, but I had a concern.
Me: God... I fucking hate coming to school. CW is probably the only class I look forward to because at least I get to see Darcy. That guy's SO cute! ::sigh::
Kelley: Well, why don't you hang out with him or something?
Me: See... I don't... is he... am I the only one who... I don't know if he's... gay...
Kelley: AHAHAHAHA! No, no, I think you have nothing to worry about. I'm pretty sure he's definitely straight.

I still spent the rest of the semester crushing away on Darcy... but always wondering Is he... or... isn't he... ?
That sign today made me laugh to the point where I almost suffered a side-ache.
The poor girl running the register was also a little baffled/scared by me (I've been so neurotic lately... I should probably retreat to my reclusive nature and quit scaring people with my weirdo behavior).
I'm such an idiot.

OK, I must go to sleep now. I'm exhausted as fuck.
Maybe tomorrow I'll vent over this new issue with Pacemaker and how she's currently hurting my heart with her fucking shit-talk. It's fucking 5th grade all over again.