Monday, August 29, 2011

Lonely Bachelor

All day today, I've been giving my brother that creepy stare a lot of us give... that stare where you try to attain as much information about the other person as possible, because in a few short hours, you'll be out of each other's sight.
When will I see you again? Will I see you again?
I love you... you fucking asshole.

I won't get to see him tomorrow... well, maybe at six in the morning, when I wake up to shower and get ready for the day's activities (I'm going to be a full-fledged idiot tourist tomorrow... since I have until 4PM to fuck around in the city before I head out to the airport). He works from nine to five... and my flight leaves at 6:45PM... so there won't be time for him to come home and accompany us to the airport.
I've been bummed all day. I was with the folks... and Rafa was working... so I didn't see him too much. Once he did come home, I just... did the staring thing... and I cooked for him, teaching him how to prepare the soup for when I'm gone and he has to resume his life of a lonely bachelor.
Tomato Soup Bien Chingona... and quick.

Solitude is a thing I appreciate... but parting ways with a person I love and admire is never an easy thing. I seem to have it easy when saying goodbye to my folks... and my sister (Jesus, I hope she doesn't hear that. It's not like I don't love her, I REALLY do. I think I've slapped enough kids around to prove that point), but my brother-- not so much. I just feel like my brother's at a much higher risk of never seeing again... you know... of him... dying... so saying goodbye to him always breaks my heart. Always.
He has never admitted it while sober, but I know he feels alone... there have been plenty of drunk dials to attest to that. All you really have to do is observe him... how he'll gravitate to the room someone's at. He'll never willingly choose to be alone (whereas I'm the opposite... and I'll always try and find a way to sneak out of a crowded room to be by myself).
During our time here, he has been curling up into the fetal position as he rests his head on my mom's lap. I won't lie-- I almost cry when I see that. It's... sad to me.
We also cringe whenever anyone drops the "J word"... Juarez. We try to put a brave face on... well, Mom and Dad do... I do my "Fucking Bullshit" stone cold bitch face. My "Oh, really, it's not that bad? How about your fucking kid goes to Juarez instead?" face. I can't help it. It makes me angry. How can anyone feel excited when told you're going to have to take "defensive driving" courses for a week? That's what bro will be doing... I think next week. He has to learn how to fish tail to escape would-be assassins. Last time I checked this nig wasn't signed up as a secret agent... what kind of bullshit is that?

But I digress... no need to get worked up... aaaand, well, yeah, he's once again serving the country and all that blah-blah-blah patriotic stuff.
What does make me feel better is knowing he makes so many people laugh. He's silly... and it appears all of those who come in contact with him appreciate it (there is ONE prick, ONE, who makes it more than obvious that he can't stand my brother. That uptight motherfucker. I was ready to wring that pricks neck, even if I WAS rocking 5inch killer heels and a button-down dress--STUPIDEST. IDEA. EVER.).

Mi broder.

Sunday, August 28, 2011


Tired, but happy.
Now sad.

It was a good day, but knowing I'm going to leave in a little over a day bums me out.
Leaving annoying-ass Rafa makes me sad.

I met his friend today. The "hottie." His face is... not so much... but his body... Jesus Christ, his body!
And his hands were very soft, softer than mine (with my damn manly calluses from weight lifting made me feel so fucking ashamed when I shook his hand. WAIT! THEY'RE ONLY ROUGH BECAUSE I LIFT... heavy... like a guy...). He also has a voice that is very agreeable to my ears.
Poor guy looked like a lost puppy when we found him waiting about a block away from Rafa's place. It was more than obvious the poor kid had a rough couple of hours. Reminded me of the shit time I had in Paris... it would have rocked had I known someone out there... and I would have definitely broken down into violent sobs the moment I'd see him/her.

Anyway, I'm sleepy after being out all day, catching a nasty tan... the day after the hurricane that turned into a tropical storm (I'm acquiring a strange orange glow... I find it mighty unattractive, actually).

Saturday, August 27, 2011


I'm catching cabin fever, guys.
I'm fucking irritated with this goddamn hurricane.
Rafa had to start streaming some fucking Netflix on his PS3 to keep me from cracking up.
Well... it's not that bad, but even HE got irritated with all the damn hurricane watch bullshit.

I'm further distressed due to the fact that I've had to share the same space with my folks for over 24 hours.
I love my parents and everything... but a girl needs her space, damn it!
Mom keeps snooping around each time I try to get online. She runs in whatever room I try to find privacy and she'll look over my shoulder.
It isn't until now that I can sit in a room without interruption.
I'm a solitary creature... the moment I'm deprived from a minute of solitude in a period of 24 hours, I'll start snapping at you. Sometimes I just don't want to hear you... or even TALK, so get away from me... please. I've tried the marble statue technique, but Mom seems immune to it. I'll sit there, stoically, not saying a damn word... sometimes not even blinking... just staring into space... thinking about the taste of a juicy Braeburn apple... or enjoying the taste of some delicious dark cherries, chewing the pit clean of any sort of cherry flesh... and Mom will still be rambling on and on.
I try to fade out the sound... but she's the loudest little Mexican lady you'll ever meet. She acts as if she's perpetually in search of her missing toddler at the swap meet.
The only time she'll hush up is the moment she tries talking to me and I'm holding a book. She'll start talking, and I, without lifting my eyes off the pages, will lift my right index finger in the air and move it towards her.
I don't have to say a word. It's my silent "NOT. NOW."

I've finished TWO BOOKS. TWO. In two days.
That is unheard of, my friends. I know I joke a lot about not reading and all that shit, but I do read... but never a book a day. My attention span has never been that long.
Back in my creative writing days, the professor used to "require" we not watch television. That shit rots your brain, inhibits your creativity, according to him. For the most part, I'd follow through with the requirement, I mean, I'd spend the majority of my time at school... or near school, killing myself with those godforsaken labs.
The only show I would watch would be America's Next Top Model... because I can't help myself when it comes to watching catty models fight one another... models are batshit crazy... and highly entertaining.
ANYWAY, the whole no-TV arrangement did work... since I'd crank out 5k words worth of fiction every two weeks... because I'm verbose as fuck.
Now, after graduating and encountering this heavy quarter-life crisis of mine, I'm lucky if I remember the correct spelling of "ellipsis." Television will be my fucking backdrop music to anything and everything. I don't necessarily have to be watching, I just need the noise. Not very "green" of me, but ask me if I give a fuck (actually, I really do).
I'll only read... hmm... what will I read? I read... my name on an envelope from citicards... sometimes I'll skim through my Glamour magazine... a billboard or two on my way to the gym.
SO, this time spent waiting for this goddamn hurricane has made me tune out the television and go back to some hardcore reading.
AND, I've noticed a difference. I think now. Not suicidal shit or self-loathing shit... or even crazy shit. I think.

Will it continue once I go back home? I sure hope so... but I doubt it.
I'll just milk it for all it's worth these next few days... while I'm still confined in this house with my bickering parents and irritable brother.

If I die because of this freak storm...well... let it be known that while I was constantly frustrated with my family, I loved them with all of my heart. And I was proud of all of them. Yes, seriously, I really did love them all... except for that one stupid ogre who works for my dad... that fucking kid is beyond retarded and self-centered. Fuck that kid.
And someone please, please tell the truth when it comes to my eulogy. I was "a grouchy bitch... with some issues she often refused to resolve"... because living in denial is sometimes the only way I know how to handle shit. I was grumpy... and a BEAST whenever suddenly woken from my slumber. Sleeping beauty my fuckin' ass.
(I'm not gonna die... this storm is a fucking hype. Rafa's out partying right now, if that helps explain how serious this situation is. Tomorrow, I get to hang around his "hot" friend for the day, since he'll be stranded in DC for the day due to NYC not running any trains or planes. Needless to say... I'm sort of glad this cunt of a storm is hitting the coast. Yeeeeah boyyyy!--I'm such a fucking predator)

Friday, August 26, 2011

Five inch killers

It's impossible not to get excited in this city.
Yesterday, I didn't have my phone on me, for the most part, but today... today was a different story.
The phone was on me and I was paparazzi-ing shit all day.

Let's start out with how big of an idiot I am.
So, I wake up early because Rafa makes me in charge of talking to the pest control guy.
Me: WAIT! You have rats?!
Rafa: Mice. I have mice. Not me, it's in the building and I saw it once in the cupboard where the gas comes in. It's running loose somewhere in the building.

I feel bad for those who have to pay rent here (five grand a month... lucky for bro, his shit is stipend... or something like that... the government pays for his shit, basically. Hello, budget crisis)... expensive living (and you have grocery shopping. Cost of living in this city's a fucking joke. Expensive as fuck) and you still have to deal with rodents.

Anyway, I ended up waking up at six in the morning... and it felt like the unholiest shit in the world... to be awake at that time.
It's 3 in the morning back home... THREE IN THE MORNING!

Ok, so pest control dude comes, he's a sweet dude, tells me what the deal is with the damn rodents, and I then go on and get ready to head out for Rafa's swearing in at the Department of State.
Now, I was under the impression that Rafa's place of work was nearby... and that we were going to take a taxi down there. As always, I was WRONG.
Rafa had me walking in five inch (brand new) heels... on cobblestone streets... for six blocks.
I was ready to murder him by the time he finally hailed a cab. MURDER, I tell you.
There was mad traffic by the state department (like how I interchange that? I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about) due to a protest and some sort of Iranian celebration (Yo, cousins!). By the time I entered the damn building, I was sweating bullets... my cream-colored dress was a wreck... my hair completely flat, drenched with sweat at the nape of my neck. A DISASTER.
The workers at the State Department were nothing but awesome... I've never met such helpful and kind people before... especially the main secretary, who had the same name as I, and we immediately clicked.
The whole time, Rafa had us walking all over the place. We explored the entire first and second floors of the Harry S.Truman Building. My feet felt as if they were going to break... by the end, I was sliding all over that fucking linoleum like a newborn fawn... luckily, there wasn't too much covered in that shit, since the majority was marble, and I'm used to that surface.
ANYWAY, Rafa then walked us out... and we had to go to another part of the fucking building. I was ready to cry by now... and I was still sweating profusely (he took us to the gift shop--yeh, the state department has a fucking GIFT SHOP-- where I purchased a bath towel--with the official state department seal-- for the sole purpose of wiping my disgusting sweat from my exhausted, overheated body. How's that for classy?), luckily, once I went through security, all was well with the world and I was finally in an air conditioned room, where I could sit my ass down in a pretty, cushioned bucket seat.
Once I sat down and had time to myself, where I didn't have to stand there with my fake smile and greet throngs of families, I took off my heels and assessed the damage to my feet.
Left foot, inner arch was a medium sized blister (I'll spare you the gory photos), right foot had a similar blister on the similar spot as the left foot, but it also had a popped blister on the outer side of my ankle... making sense?
Anyway, the blister was oozing (TMI? Imagine the people who had to look at it!), and I decided to change into my non-matching, black flats. It didn't go with the dress, but ask me if I cared... I had an oozing blister! Fuck looking good!
After the ceremony ended, Rafa decided to show my folks the Lincoln Memorial, since we were so close... and once there (where I terrified a lot of the tourists once they caught a glimpse of my jacked up feet), he decided to walk us through the Vietnam Memorial,the WWII Memorial, the Washington Monument (where I got to see the cracks... it's bad, guys), and we went on to the subway, where we high tailed it to China Town...where we had Pho like the South East family we really are.

Once home... Rafa and I went down to the grocery store... which was a terrible idea... since all these folk are freaking out over the hurricane. The store was PACKED, with people fighting over carts... no bottled water available... lines as long as the isles... a scene from an Armageddon film.
All I wanted was some freaking yogurt... and we stood in line for an hour and a half.

Come on Irene! I'm ready for your bitchass!

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Hurricane Rant

So I just saw my weakass attempt at posting the book photograph didn't work (awkward sentence... but who cares?).
I would have tried a little harder if I had access to MY laptop, however, I didn't bring it, so I have to mooch off my brother. I beg for internet time...well... not really beg, because believe it or not, I actually don't miss the internet... or even the TV (I heard "Rivals" ended... the MTV show... I had totally forgotten about it. Now I'm just pissed I missed the last fucking episode after killing my summer watching that shit religiously)... anyway, back to the thought, I have to beg for Rafa's laptop if I want to write anything... that includes posting photos.
If I want anyone to know what the hell I'm up to, I have to resort to my Twitter, but that sometimes fails because I tend to forget to post shit there as well.

ANYWAY, the book I decided to read was "Rant," and so far, I'm quite proud of myself for picking a book that hasn't put me to sleep (truth be told, in Princeton, I fell asleep after three pages of that Love Letters book my soulmate initially impressed me with. Must have been the cynic in me which didn't allow me to continue). I've laughed out loud a few times... which appears to worry Mom, since she sees the cover and thinks "What the HELL are you reading? and how can that POSSIBLY make you laugh?!" She then sees me furrow my brows and can't help herself to ask what I just read. I've also whispered "Ah... fuck that!" once, that caught her attention as well.

Aside from reading, and calming the fuck down from yesterday's excitement, we've started "getting ready" for this stupid hurricane. Bro and I are both in denial, claiming nothing will happen, and refusing to go grocery shopping... even when the store is right next door.
Tomorrow's Rafa's graduation thingamajig. Getting ready for that action is time consuming, more so than the stupid hurricane bullshit.

I'm sort of tired, and I've hogged enough internet time from my busy brother... so... I'll be off for now. 

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Not Really Ranting

I fucking LOVE DC. It's beautiful out here... you know, before the hurricane hits and all.
My bro lives two or three (I didn't count, I was too busy trying to ignore Dad's naco comments) from the National Mall. I can't even accurately recall how many ridiculously handsome young men I've bumped into in my bro's apartment building ALONE.
It's a motherfucking dream, I tell you. Just not when we bump into each other and I'm rocking a wife beater and running shorts. That's embarrassing... I'm not one of those girls who looks good in that sort of gear.... I look more like a disheveled psychopath... with my panting and all.
I'm stoked to see such smart men tend to be so goddamn handsome. It's a DREAM COME TRUE, damn it!

Broski lives in "the snobby" part of the city, to properly quote him.
Everyone eats healthy (HIGH FIIIIIVE!!), works out (I'm having a motherfucking orgasm here... ok, no, I'm not, but if I were a dog, my tail would be wagging frantically right now), and they all seem to be between the ages of 25 and 35 (AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! YESSSSSSSSS!). Just today, Rafa took me on a little run to see the mall at night. I've never been so fucking excited.

I was tired as fuck when I got here... now I'm feeling invincible like I imagine a heroin fiend might feel like after shooting up... or more like a coke fiend.

And now, because we all know how this goes:
I had my DD today, as usual.
What was it?
The fan-fucking-tastic book collection the REAL owner of this loft owns.
The guy has an extraordinary mini library. He even has Jane Austen (Emma, of all books, Mooney! lol).
This guy outdoes my Princeton SoulMate by a long shot. LONG SHOT.... because I even found Gabriel Garcia Marquez in his collection. This guy is a fucking MASTER!
Anyway, as I was browsing the multitude of books and squealing with glee every other book, I saw The Master had a couple of Chuck Palahniuk books.
I went for one I hadn't heard of...
Popular book in this place, based on the wear and tear of the pages
now, it's my buddy for the next week...while I handle this wack-ass storm.
And so... yeah, there you have it, my DD. As always, I don't intentionally seek it, it just finds me... and obviously, I welcome it with a silly smile... like some preteen... 'cause I don't know anyone who won't smile the moment someone mentions their Darcy.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Earthquakes and tech difficulties

Final day in the windy city.
Chicago decided to say goodbye the best way it knows how: by having a weather-related fit.
After a week of sunshine, it decided to pour this morning, and apparently it will continue to go down like that the rest of the day.

I also started the day by having technical difficulties with my flight reservations.
I'm just crossing my fingers I don't have issues at the airport... but at this point, I don't give a fuck.
I kind of want to go home, though I will miss the city... and my family, obviously. I'll miss the greenery as well, sounds silly, but it's true.

Then I'll get home around 10:50PM tonight, if my flight gets in on time.
I then have to catch my 7AM DC flight in the morning.
And obviously... DC must be a great place to visit right about now... after this earthquake and all.

I have some good shit to look forward to.

Excuse me now... I think I have to go cry out this "excitement."

Monday, August 22, 2011


I know I'm going to come off as an emo asshole right now, but I'm only going to say it because it's extremely true in my case:
I feel most alone when I'm in a group of people.

Walking around large cities makes me frown.
All these people... ALL THESE PEOPLE in the world... at this moment... y yo sola como un perro. Toda mi puta vida.

I love it, because I do enjoy sight-seeing... life is beautiful, after all. However, once a few hours pass, I get extremely drained and depressed.
Add to that, all the beggars on the side of the street, and I seriously feel heartbroken by the end of the day.

I can't find this sort of Youtube video quick enough:


Ok. I feel better.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Such is life. I'll handle my business.

Ah, fuck.
Well, not all things can be roses and rainbows.

Yes, I'm still having a great time in Chicago, but today I received some upsetting news.

The day started out entertaining as usual.
Turns out my sister's galan asked her out since 8 in the morning. He picked her up at 10:30 for an all-day date in the city. Very romantic from what I hear.
That meant I got to spend the entire day with the lovely ladies of the house.
We exercised for two hours once D left, we then showered, cleaned up, and chatted over lunch.

I then saw my brother's DNA info was finally posted:
Turns out my dad's Russian/Ukrainian.
Well, his haplogroup is Indo-European. A large percentage of East Iranians are of this group, as are a large percentage of men living in the Hindi-speaking portions of India.
His "ancestors may be responsible for the birth and spread of Indo-European languages." "English, French, German, Russian, Spanish, and several Indian languages such as Bengali and Hindi."
"Around 40 percent of men living in the Czech Republic across the steppes to Siberia" are of this haplogroup.
Ooooo.... aaaaaa.
This haplogroup is also believed to have domesticated the horse.
Explains my fascination with horses... and how I have yet to meet a horse that does NOT like me (and maybe why my fucking head is so goddamn long).

ANYWAY! Reading all the information provided on the website had me all stoked.
So I texted Rafa and let him know I had read the results.
He wrote back disappointed. But reminded me that he was going to find out his work destination in 45 minutes (today was his "Flag Day" at the State Department).
I told him to keep me posted.
In the meantime, I called Mom to tell her about the damn DNA test bullshit... because I was still an excited little baby.
I told her everything... then reminded her about Rafa.
She told me to call her if he texted me with a response.

Two hours passed, and he hadn't written back.
I knew something was up. A couple of years back, he called us two seconds after being told he was going to work at London's parliament... and now... two hours had gone by and no word?
I texted him again.
Me: Yo man, text me the place, ok?
Rafa: Did you see my Facebook? Juarez. Such is life. I'll handle my business.
Me: Puuuuuuuuuuuuta madreeeeeeeeee! Wtf?!
Rafa: Dude. It'll be cool. People need to serve there, and I'll be set for Brazil.for the World Cup
Me: I guess... and it's not SO far away...
Me: P.S. Your facebook doesn't say anything, I just checked.
Rafa: Is my Facebook status showing now?
Rafa: And is *mom'sNickname* all mad? haha
Me: Nah, she just hopes you're not upset
Rafa: Nah. It actually does set me up to be in Brazil right afterwards, because when you serve in a place that sucks, you get much more priority over others as to where you wanna go for a second post. So if the system is true to form, the bastards that got sweet posts this time around will get shitty ones next time.
Me: Let's hope man

The news had me in shock. Terrible... extremely disappointed shock.
We had been crossing our fingers for him NOT to get Juarez.
Iraq would have been better than Juarez... ANYWHERE would have been better than Juarez.
My brother speaks Italian, Portuguese, English (obviously), Spanish, and even some Japanese... and he gets sent to JUAREZ. He gets WASTED in Juarez.
Crock of fucking bullshit.
What breaks my heart is his reaction.
That has always been his reaction to everything that happens in his life.
I could never be that calm about BULLSHIT.
It makes me want to cry. I'm sorry for how corny or stupid I may sound right now... but that kind of calm reaction is what makes my brother my... hero. I look up to him because I know I'd be a fucking mess right about now, especially since I know how badly he had wanted to get placed in Brazil, and how badly he DID NOT want to be in Juarez... yet Rafa is strapping his boots and gulping that shit down.

My brother is a HOSS.

Expect me to be a nervous wreck these next two years.
(and yes, this news fucked up the rest of my day. I was further upset because the ladies wanted to go eat at Cheesecake Factory... and I DETEST that place... but apparently, that place is THE hot spot for the 'burbs folk. The parking lot was a disaster by the time we left... as was my stomach. I finally understand why they call that shit JUNKfood. It felt worse than sinning... though sinning typically feels GREAT. I really DO hate sugar and salt... and ESPECIALLY butter. They feel like shit. Fuck my life and my inability to ruin other people's plans)

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Seis banderas!

Ohhhhhh, Six Flags, how you've reminded me of my youth!!!!

Awesome time spent at that fantastic amusement park.
I had forgotten of the awesome with which roller coaster are filled.
Sure, I came back burnt as a motherfucker:
I'd NEVER fucking cut it as a field worker.
I'm a white girl. Can't even have the luxury of tanning...
(my left arm is currently reminding me what a fucking asshole I am, with it's constant burn... it's as if my brother were giving me one of those indian rugburns every ten seconds), but I had SO much fun. SO MUCH.
Honestly, I had forgotten how... awesome life can be. Plain and simple.
It was genuine happiness. I didn't care what others were thinking of me (although... there were certain instances where I'd catch dirty men shamelessly staring at my tits... but that was MY fault, for wearing white to a park that is known for having water rides... guess I had it coming. So yeah, when I'd catch their eyes piercing though my shirt, all I could think was "N-ohhhh, but AnoMALIE wanted to wear a white shiiirt. There ya go, retard. Do it again!"), or trying to impress others... or trying to look good to find a guy. Nope.
I. Did. Not. Care.
I just wanted to get on as many roller-coasters as possible.
I rode every single one, and each time, I'd catch myself smiling from ear to ear.
How can anyone be depressed at a theme park? Impossible!
My godmother was surprised that I wouldn't scream or freak out... since everyone else would act like a typical girl... but I'd just sit there giggling like some fucking toddler who is playing peekaboo with her Dad. It wasn't even a nervous laugh (or a maniacal one, if that's what you're thinking)... it was just... a laugh. A true, good laugh... that would often come about because of the hilarious things my family members scream when scared (my godmom would only scream "A CHINGA'O! A CHINGA'OOOOO!" and I mean... this girl is saintly... so to hear her cuss is something that truly amuses me).

On the drive home, I still felt as if I had a harness firmly pressed against my chest... and as if I'd be lifted off my seat at any second (I went on this 200-foot drop ride... which... I didn't scream on that one... but it definitely didn't feel good to feel as if I were free-falling to my death... ok, that was probably the only somewhat sinister idea that popped into my head, but that was it. ANYWAY, that drop made me feel anti-gravity the most, and still has me all fucked up, thinking I could levitate at any second).
Now, while I'm tired and all... I could say I'm in a state of bliss.
Mmm.... to be young again, if even for just a day. You have no idea how much it means to me to be allowed to be 13 years old again. It means the fucking world.

(Poor D couldn't hold on to the bliss as long as I, since she had a date planned for later tonight but--surprise, surprise-- my godmother told her 10PM was too late to go out. D had showered and done her hair... all she needed was to do her eyeshadow and run out the door. But she was denied by my godmom.
What's my line, guys?
And people wonder why we don't have boyfriends.
What a joke. Poor D)

Wednesday, August 17, 2011


I'm an awesome sister.

It may not be apparent, but I actually enjoy traveling with my sister.
We fight like cats and dogs, but we tend to collect funny memories.
This time, it was no different.

As we were waiting for our flight to depart from Vegas, Sister and I noticed this one boy eerily staring at her. He eventually moved his way to sit directly in front of D.
He did not say a word, he would just stare with a smile on his face.
D: I feel like I should... shake his hand... or give him an autograph. What the fuck?
We lost him once we boarded the plane, since Sis and I were the last ones to board... and we we split into sitting in the front between a group of old men.
Sister sat between the two more normal gentlemen, she forced me to sit between the most loquacious, annoying old men on the plane. Add to that, these men had TERRIBLE breath.
Why the fuck don't you guys sit next to each other so I don't have to sit here between you two to suffer through your halitosis-laden conversation?

After nearly three hours of holding in my vomit, the plane stopped in St. Louis, where everyone but about six of us got off. As we waited for the new group of people to board the plane, D moved to the seat next to me and we decided to eat one of our dog biscuits for "lunch."
As we were shamefully eating our banana-nut dog biscuits, the creeper reappeared... and took the seat next to D.
He did not say a word. He just did his creepy stare... where he invades your space... not saying a word.
After D very uncomfortably faced me, she mouthed off "What the fuck?" and that's where my giggle-fest began.
We tried texting each other, but that went to shit because this guy then proceeded to impose himself on us so he could read our phones. Even I was affected in this one.
I updated my status and even twitter... and I'm sure he read it all.

After everyone boarded, that's when he decided to speak up.
He was... strange.
Sister would answer his questions, and as she was doing that, I busted out a book so I could act busy while I was actually laughing my ass off.
At one point, he asked for her name, and she said it was Jessica.

Ok, so we finally arrive in Chicago.
He mirrors all of our movements... so we decide to jump into the girl's bathroom.
The place was packed, and once we were done doing our thing, we headed outside, thinking the coast was clear.
He was waiting by the escalator to baggage claim.
My sister did not say a word.
Once we were at baggage claim, he stood next to D and once again, called her "Jessi," but this time, he tried going in for a hug.
That was finally where Sister stopped being nice and she looked him up and down and walked away.
"This bitch... taking the liberty to call me by my imaginary nickname... pshhh!"

I have not laughed so hard in a while.
82 and sunny... I love it.

Monday, August 15, 2011

punctured blood vessel

Since I'm AnoMALIE... and I'm an idiot, guess what I did today.
If you guessed "stabbed yourself with a knife and punctured a blood vessel" you would be correct.
Luckily, it was only my left thumb... not my carotid or anything like that.
Still, I've lost dexterity in my left hand... because I'm an overreacting pussy. I'm no more dextrous than a clumsy chimp... one that has been mauled by a lion. But that's only in terms of my left hand.
Still, I refuse to get my left hand into any action... or anywhere near water. My right hand is being overworked.

Of course I'd maim myself the night prior to heading out on my two week vacation.
My clumsy/pansy-ness also made me ruin my batch of banana-nut protein bread I had prepared for the trip. I'm now carrying "bread" similar to fucking dog biscuits instead of moist, delicious banana-nut bread.
Why did this happen? Because I was still so bewildered over my new impediment to notice I pressed the "convection roast" instead of "convection bake" setting.
THEN! Once I corrected the error (when I peeked at it after ten minutes and saw the bread was fucking toasted on one side), I left it in the oven to "cool." I do this for about five minutes then I remove it from the heat and place it on the granite countertop.
WELL. I remembered I had to give Tyson his epsom salt bath, and I went outside.
I returned twenty minutes later.
I found a brick in the oven.

It's too late to do another protein cake thing-a-majig... so... I must deal with my massive stupidity and pack those stupid protein dog biscuits in my luggage.

Seriously, I don't even know how the hell I've managed to survive 26 years.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Packing fuckery

I'm convinced there's not enough time in a day.
I'm at that stress level where I find myself having a meltdown over stupid shit.
Rafa: Why the fuck don't you ever answer the phone, buster?!
::commence uncontrollable sobbing::

I think of having to pack my shit and I get sleepy.
The thought of catching back to back flights is making me lethargic.
I'm such a fucking bum.

In happier news:
1. Cesc Fabregas will once again rock the Barça jersey.
This means I'm DEFINITELY going back to catch another match of theirs. The guy may be two years my junior, but he's fine as hell. I've liked that kid for a LONGass time, I just never cared for catching an Arsenal game.

2. I'm for sure going to Six Flags while in Chicago.
I haven't been to Six Flags since... I think it was 8th grade, back in the day when we'd have those music festivals and the orchestra nerds and band nerds banned together to make the trip down to California.
I have a really fucked up memory of the "Batman." We made line for two hours or so, and once it was our turn (me, my BFF Cassy, her mom, and two other friends) to get on the ride, Cassy's mom was unable to ride because she was too big for the seat. It was a huge scene, and poor Cassy nearly cried. The four of us who could ride the Batman were willing to just leave, but Cassy's mom made us get on. I have never seen such miserable girls on a ride like that before. Not one of us was smiling in the photo they take of you on the roller coaster.
That shit traumatized me for years. But I think I'm good now.
I also hope it isn't as ghetto as the freakin' California Six Flags... people get stabbed up in that one.

Friday, August 12, 2011


I've always ignored the "misses" part of a department store.
For the most part, the clothes they offer me there is shit I'd like to wear to something like... jury duty... or... a non-Latino's first communion.
I typically just buy t-shirts and jeans. I don't need to step foot in the "misses" section for that stuff.

Well, now that Rafa has been making such a huge deal about the state department (I had to give him some personal information yesterday so that they could "clear" me to get in), I've come to realize I'm probably going to want to look decent for this graduation ceremony two weeks from now (TWO WEEKS! JESUS!).
So what did I do today?
I went shopping in the "Misses" section of a department store.
Way to make me feel old.
I found myself looking for the business attire that showcased the most skin.
I make fun of Latinas for being drawn to skimpy shit and there I am, being one of the bunch... fearing NOT showing some cleavage will make me look Amish.
I'm convinced that behavior is fucking hardwired into a Latina's system.

Anyway, I decided to buy two dresses and make Rafa choose the more appropriate one. A job every man loves, I'm sure.
OF COURSE my favorite dress had to have a motherfucking missing button... a rather important button, the one smackdab in the middle of the torso... but... I'm trying to salvage it. Hopefully Rafa picks that one (like he'll give a shit. I'm sure his response will be something along the lines of "I DON'T CARE! Just don't look like a fucking hoe!").

Off that subject, but still kinda on the same track:
As I was driving to the store, Mom was getting freaked out over my skills... because... well, everyone pisses me off. Slow drivers, people who don't use their turn signals.... you name it, I probably have a fucking problem with it.
Mom: Ayy, mija! No sabia como manejabas! Por que andas tan agresiva?! (Oh, sweetie! I didn't know you drove like this! Why so aggressive?!)
Yeah... umm... talking my way out of that one was a doozy.
I was joking... but it still didn't fix the awkward silence... which followed us all the way to the male underwear section of the department store (underwear for Dad, nonetheless. That shit's always fun).

Thursday, August 11, 2011


My patience level is quite high, believe it or not.
I know I rant a lot and whatnot, but that's only here. In person, I have a tendency to wait on people and things for a freakish amount of time. I put up with A TON of shit... ask anyone who knows me (explains why I only resort the internet to complain, complain, complain).

I usually make fun of those who throw hissy fits at restaurants and other places where one must wait.
Even when I have shit-tastic service, I'll wait... and wait... to the point where I'll often get teary-eyed from the pent-up anger, but... I am never one to walk out or speak up/complain. I just shrug and think that motherfucker SUCKS at his job... and probably life as well.

Today was Tyson's second follow up for the little paw.
It's still not completely healed. The bloody area has shrunk considerably, but there still is a bloody area. That shit's unacceptable.
I had made the appointment two weeks ago, on his first follow up.

Aside from my patience, I'm also--for the most part-- very punctual.
I showed up to the appointment--as always-- fifteen minutes early.
No one was waiting at the vet's, and no appointments were ahead of me.

Since Tyson's an antisocial monster, we must perform an entire dance to get him into his room.
First, one of us must walk into the office to make sure no other pets or people are in the waiting area.
Second, we have to announce Tyson's ready to walk in.
Third, the room is prepared, and once the room's available, they leave the door open for him and the assistants get on the other side of their desk.
Fourth, we have to make sure no one is in the parking lot. Once the coast is clear, we practically run him into his room and close the door behind us.

So much hassle for a 102 pound pitbull.
But we have to do this because he has almost murdered two other dogs in the waiting room in seperate occasions... and he has almost bitten two assistants in the past.
The only person he likes is the male vet. Fuck girls. Tyson HATES females (hmm... they say pets resemble their owners... and this little fucker is a clear example of that).
Anyway, the animal hospital has been very, very nice and considerate of this antisocial pet of mine (why don't you just muzzle him and walk in there like the rest of us? You may ask. Tyson's smart, and he's far more dextrous than any fucking dog should be. He uses his paws to remove the muzzle, I KID YOU NOT. Also, since his head shape is so bizarre, muzzles don't fit him like they do other breeds) and I've never had a complaint.
But today...
Today was NOT the day to make me angry.
For one, I went to bed hell of late last night since I once again had to be the mother of the house, because Mom and Dad left on a day trip to LA for a funeral. I had to do everything in the house because D was out being an irresponsible brat.
Once I DID conquer sleep, Mom walked into my room and woke me up, angrily asking for D's location.
I gave her incoherent answers... because I honestly had NO IDEA where the hell D was, and I was also in the middle of some goodass REM sleep when she decided to barge into my room like some fucking ICE officer.

In the morning, I was exhausted from killing myself at the gym the day prior, killing myself at the house the remainder of the previous day, not getting much sleep that night, and then bathing tyson who acts as if water is made of nitric acid in the morning... so when I got to the animal hospital, I wanted to get the shit over with ASAP. It was only a check up, after all.
At first, everything was going great. I was told his room would be ready in a few minutes, so I went outside to chat with Mom--who was handling a hyper Tyson-- while we waited for the room to get ready.
After ten minutes, I walked inside.
Once again, they promised me the room would be ready, and this time, they made me sit inside.
Two people walked in with their pets... and I became furious the moment I saw they were immediately ushered into two of the three rooms.
One of them was NEW to the place, so she clearly had no appointment scheduled... and by now, they were cutting into my appointment time.

I waited some more.
They attended TWO MORE people and their pets.
AN HOUR had passed.
By now, my blood was boiling.
I decided to stand up and hang out by the counter... since apparently that's where people get more attention.
They straight up ignored me.
Instead of getting rude and saying something cunt-y, I just walked out.
No appointment for Tyson.

I was angry about it for about three more hours. I couldn't even eat breakfast.

Hopefully I don't update this shit in a week's time to talk about the death of poor Tyson.
Curse you, Mexican irascibility! 

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Como los usa el Ranchero

Here's a TMI post, because I feel I don't do this enough (please note the sarcasm).

So, I think I'm not the only person who has difficulty noticing when they gain or lose weight.
When I gain weight (well, this was back in the day. Now I have a problem because I check weight gain like a motherfucker. But let's act like I don't do this), I am in denial. I usually have to squeeze my ass into jeans in order to admit that maybe... just possibly... I've gained a few pounds.
When I lose weight... well, this is a new sensation for me.
I have lost weight in the past, but not nearly as much as I have now. The most drastic aspect is in the clothing.
For the most part, when I'd lose weight, it wasn't so much where I'd notice it too much in my clothing. I'd just think
Well, looks like I'm wearing these pants way too much, 'cause they're starting to zag a little.

Since March-- you know, the month my world came to a screeching halt-- I've dropped six dress sizes.
I don't talk about it because I'm extremely self-conscious about it... and it makes me sad because of the difference in treatment I get from others (you know all those fat-suit experiments they run on TV shows? Like the time Tyra did it? Yeah. Living it. It makes me cry, believe it or not... and that's considering that people are treating me FAR better than they used to. I'm still the same girl inside, and it upsets me to see that people will be quick to assume I'm awesome just because I'm of a "normal" size. I've been doing EVERYTHING in my power to show people I'm a good person worth their time, and all it took was for me to drop a couple of pant sizes. That's just fucked up).
But this post isn't supposed to be sad, so I'll just evade that aspect.

Ok, so the dress sizes.
I haven't had a problem with the pants, because I've been lucky enough to get my sister's hand-me-downs (I NEVER thought that day would come. EVER), but the last week or so, I've had a little problem with the underwear.
The problem, you ask?
They keep falling when I'm at the gym.
The worst part is when I have to do the plyo portion of the workout.
Jump squats, ski lunges, and especially jumping jacks fucking kill me.
I wear spandex capris for the most part... and they are pretty much like a sixth layer of skin (the dermis and epidermis compose 5 layers, I do believe. Oh, how I miss you, Histology!!), but someway... somehow... my underwear find a way to fall down below my cheeks. Would I be a bigger idiot and wear a skirt, they'd be on the floor within minutes.

Well, today I finally had enough.
After the fifth time of having to get through two hours of constantly reaching for my underwear as inconspicuously as possible, I came home and went through my drawers.
I trashed a number of underwear that no longer stay on my ass, but I also found underwear I had purchased in middle school.
Can you believe my middle school underwear no longer fit?
Yeah. It was bittersweet.... because, oddly enough, I'm sentimentally attached to them.
They each have a story. A story I feel happy when I remember.
But alas... it's time to clean up... as much as I may love my "Flirt" underwear (WHY would anyone want to advertise that shit on their underwear? If your crotch flirts... I wouldn't consider it a positive... but still, they remind me of a conversation at one of my many Hometown slumber parties... so I cling to that pair as if it were my passport) they had to go.

The downside to dropping sizes... so difficult to part ways with such intimate companions.
I'll always remember you, friends... you made me feel normal when that damn Sisqo song came out...

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Why I'm not a girl

I complain about being considered a boy, and after much thought, I think I understand why: I don't participate in a lot of known female behavior.

1. I don't post bathroom photos of myself... showcasing my rack (there WAS that twitpic photo from not too long ago, but it pales in comparison to this one).
What. The. Fuck?
I don't... it's just... I prefer not showcasing my toilet to the public like that.
And I don't really care about showing you how nicely my beerbelly is coming along.... because that was your intention in this photo... right?

2. I don't dig acrylics.
call me crazy, but I think your manicurist suffers from ADD...
Seriously, the more this fad catches on, the more my inner rage grows. It makes me VIOLENT to see girls with these talons. I'm convinced a chick with a nasty case of nail fungus came up with this style. Shit that thick is NOT natural... and for God's sake, stick to a color palate. What the fuck is that shit? Fuck. And... sorry, but I must ask: How the fuck do you clean your ass? It's a nightmare to even imagine.

3. I never have, nor will I ever, pose with a gun.
(photos removed out of fear... hahaha)

Yeah... looks like I'll be stuck being one of the boys.

Monday, August 8, 2011

One of the boys... against my will

In case I ever doubted it, last night, it was proven to me that I am--and I'll probably always be-- one of the boys.

The entire night I was treated as... a dude. I might as well have walked into the bar grabbing my crotch.

The boys greeted me, no lie, by grabbing me in a headlock and ruffling my hair.
ALL FIVE OF THEM (well, those were the five who know me in the group of attendees who feel comfortable enough to hug me. My sister has an A-line haircut, yet NO ONE touched her head).
They would then proceed to DEMAND I flex... they'd lift my shirt's sleeves until I finally caved and just gave them a quick, half-assed tricep flex (seriously, what girl says/does that shit sober? Fuck).
Apparently this twit pic of me made its rounds amongst the group:
Luckily, no one challenged me to an arm wrestling match... that would have been met with me marching my ass out of that place. I'm NOT a dude, damn it! 

For the most part, I had a... blah time.
I played a couple of video games... which killed much more time than I expected. I guess I should explain the bar is this one, where patrons can drink while playing video games (which often results in broken glass everywhere from clumsy, angry drunks... more so than regular bars).
I make a pretty mean team when I'm with a dude... so my duo was practically undefeated. Killed plenty of time.
Once I found myself at the bar, I had to choose between playing Street Fighter, or watching a kung fu movie that was being played on over half the screens.
I could have also chosen to socialize with the rest of the patrons.
Knowing me, I opted for "The 36th Chamber of Shaolin," because I was sick of video games... and I hate people... and that movie was making me laugh (I'm not sure it was supposed to elicit that reaction, but eh. Wait, wait, wait... you're telling me there's like... rocks in those bags and he has to hit them with his head? AHAHAHAHA!).

I was also frustrated and on the verge of starting a fight due to all the fucking smoking going on.
I had forgotten how much I detest that disgusting, incredibly RETARDED vice.

I also found a couple of the attendees rather cute. One in particular.
Guess what happened.
Yup, he ended up liking my sister.
I think I'll have a new tag line: Hey, I think you're really cute! Here, meet my sister! You're going to be swept off your feet!
Fuck my life, dude.

There was another dude, he too was cute, but he ruined my night.
He wasn't SO cute, yet he's one of those dudes who SWEARS every girl in the room wants a piece of him.
By the time he showed up, I was waiting around my sister and her BFFfromtheBay, since D's the one who gave both of us a ride.
The rest of the party had left because the birthday boy got like this, before midnight even struck:
BirthdayBoy in the middle, making us proud.
He was totally unconscious.
The Bay Girl was waiting around for this cute-guy-with-an-attitude, so when he showed up, I was forced to wait even longer to go home because it'd be rude to leave so soon after he joined us (if it were up to me, I would have left BEFORE he showed up, the prick).
Anyway, he was a fucking asshole to me from the moment I was introduced to him.
He almost made me cry... but I thought Why the fuck am I going to let this fucking retarded ass wanna-be UFC-fighter get to me with his fucking attitude? RELAX, FABIO! Ain't nobody wanna fuck wit' your short ass and your goddamn severe acne scars on your cheeks. BIIIIIITCH!
So I stood there, arms crossed, NOT laughing at a single joke he cracked.
Cocky motherfucker... and really, really rude. That's as pleasant as my description of him will ever get.

SO! I had to spend about an hour and a half, biting my tongue and holding back my tears of... anger/sentimentalism, as my sister and the bay girl giggled to this guy's rude sense of humor.
The worst part was that I've known this jerk since middle school. I hadn't seen him since then, but still, people don't change THAT much physically.
I could have dug into his insecurities, gotten plenty of laughs out of it, but no... I stood there, bored as fuck while giving everyone my "Don't you fucking touch me, or TALK to me" stare (three dudes still groped my ass though... I fear my stare is losing its strength). Because I'm nice and I try not to ruin other people's fun.

I will NEVER understand the appeal of bars.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

He has a boyfriend now.

My soulmate has a boyfriend.

I asked Rafa, repeatedly, if the dude was gay. Each time, my brother acted bewildered over my doubt.
Turns out I was correct the entire time.

My "PrincetonSoulmate" has a boyfriend, A REALLY cute boyfriend... a boyfriend I would definitely be attracted to.
I swear... that guy is ME.

Bummeroo... but obviously something that is totally AnoMALIE-esque: I accidentally bump into my "soulmate" as I stay a couple of days at his place, dude turns out to be gay... so I just settle for knowing I have a soul-twin out there.

Cheers, ladies and gents! I get to get drunk while playing old school video games as I celebrate yet another 90's baby who finally hits the 21 mark.
I'm probably going to be damming men and relationships if I hit the right number of cocktails.

Hooray for Sundays.

Saturday, August 6, 2011

I think I just turned Japanese

So the results are in.
According to my mitochondrial DNA... it looks like I'm:
Southeast Asian.
Yep. Sounds about right.

Rafa and I joked about it before we even turned in our results. Based on what we saw on the accompanying DVD, we nailed it when they started to discuss... sheesh, I already forgot... but... it was a population in Asia. The body type was EXACTLY my mother's. Now that I look at her, the body characteristic are far more apparent (in the video, her body type was described as "a little furnace," term we now use to make fun of her. "What's up, Little Furnace?" On another note, this also helps support my claim that I was built to withstand long, cold winters. See! Seeeee! Though... I'm much longer than my mother, so... I'm a... faulty, less efficient little furnace?).
Oh my god, Mom, you're looking very Korean to me today!
(it also explains why I looked like this as a one year old:
That, ladies and gentlemen, is a Korean baby!-- and the girl holding me, has the same mtDNA as I do, actually... so... hmm)

Anyway, I ran into the results last night, when I decided to check in on the website.
I was so excited and entertained, I wound up going to bed around 2:30... that's fucking LATE for a grandma like me.
Now, the results also show that there's a significant amount of Native American, which obviously makes sense when you think of migratory patterns... so I can't say I'm all Asian.

I went ahead and played around with a website, where other people compared their mtDNA sequence, and I had 40 matches (a Korean was among the lucky 40, about 20 Spaniards, about seven Mexicans, and the rest were Cherokee Indians. How radtastic is that?!). Checking that shit out was fun... though... there's an extra transition substitution (here comes the boring shit you can skip if you hated the genetics portion of your high school/college education... which I wouldn't understand why, since that shit was always the most entertaining part of science class. Nothing like that hellish botany part. FUCK. PLANTS. Sorry for the tangent) in my sequence, which happens WAY before the first one with my matches, which is kind of... iffy... since I only found ONE person in the ENTIRE database with that particular substitution.
Does this make me retarded?... or... and ALIEN?! (that's sarcasm, calm down)
I'm blaming it on the fact that I had just eaten a Tomato and Basil Wheat Thin twenty minutes before swabbing my cheek. Fuck that weird shit.

I was eager to see Rafa's results, since I have his login information.
DUDE! Now we can make fun of Dad when he busts out his "I'M NOT MEXICAN! I'M SPANISH!" bullshit! "No, DAD, you're actually East African!"
They still hadn't posted his results last night, and when I woke up this morning, I saw this message when I tried logging in under his name:


Your sample failed to yield results for the initial analysis. You do not need to take any action at this time. The lab will draw another sample from your vial and run a second test on your DNA. Please note that there will be an additional ten-day delay in delivering your results.
Also, please be aware that in some cases the re-draw may be unsuccessful, in which case the lab would obtain a new sample from your second vial. Should this occur, we will post an updated message when you log in to check your status.

When he did his first swab, he was so busy prancing around Mom telling her he was going to prove she was black, that he dropped his swab on the floor... the moron.
There go your hundred dollars, pendejo!
Then, on his second swab, he swabbed so hard he drew blood.
The men in my family... I swear.
So... I hope something is fucking salvageable from what remains of his samples. I can't wait to show Pops how NOT-European he really is.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Peer Mediatiors

Back in fifth grade, the teachers at my elementary tried implementing a system to curb the spurts of aggression a lot of us showed.
I'm not sure if they were the ones who came up with the idea, I'm sure other schools had the same system, but I just never asked.
A select few of us were chosen from each grade. I was one of the... probably four fifth graders chosen.
We were pulled from our classes for about an hour a day, for a week. We would go to "Peer-mediation" workshops, where we were taught methods for solving/preventing fights.
At the end, we were given orange sashes with "PEER-MEDIATOR" written in huge blue letters. Oh, and a clipboard... can't forget the important clipboard.

Each day, at recess, two kids from each grade (3rd-5th, I do believe) would have to "patrol" the school yard during lunch time. We'd go looking for kids who were in the middle of a fight/argument, break it up, make a write-up of what went down and how we solved it. The fighting parties had to sign off on the sheet as well.

I hated this.
I never ASKED to be in the damn peer-mediating program, yet I was forced to walk around the yard with a stupid orange sash and a heavy-ass clipboard looking for fights every other day.

The worst part?
Each "couple" had a quota to meet. Three fights a day.
Honestly, kids can only get into so many fights in the span of thirty minutes.
After about three days, it was damn near impossible to find that many fights going on.

Teacher: They don't have to be physical altercations... you can easily solve arguments. That counts too.

What did I do? I made them up. I had my friends and relatives fake the fights.
You can't blame me for trying to expand the horizons of some of these kids.

After about two weeks, the teachers started to notice my action-packed sessions, and started the ease up on my rotation.
Either she's lying... or she's INSTIGATING the fights.
Me?! Instigate? How rude! I'd never do that! Now, embellish... that's a different story.
By the fourth week, I was out.

That's why I now resort to problem solving using only a bat.
Or... not.
Truth is, I'm still a sucker for problem solving by talking shit out, and I end up with a giant headache and close to tears.
But it fucking works.

Someone get me a clipboard and a motherfucking orange sash!

Thursday, August 4, 2011


Like how I lied and acted as if I posted an entry last night?
Well, it's a half-truth.
I was working on the entry when my sister walked into the room and yelled at me about "needing it for a bit!"
I did that cheat post where I post it and then save it as a draft, so when I DO post it, it'll show up as if it was written the previous day.
Anyway, I was planning on posting it once D was done with Mr. Mac, but I was so exhausted from the day's activities, that once I heard the Doug theme song (I am LOVING this "90's Are All That" programming on TeenNick. I will scream that at the top of my lungs if anyone doubts), I crashed. I really have no idea who turned off the lights and television.
Back to the post, once I saw it this morning, I realized all of my inspiration was gone, so I went ahead and posted it as-is.

And now... my inspiration is still gone.
No one made me angry.
I didn't swoon over some random cute dude.

My mind's blank.
So uh... yeah... here's a dancing Beluga Whale named Juno who happens to have similar taste in music as I do (and currently, Mom and I have a little joke where she asks "Como baila la ballenita?" [how does the little whale dance?] and I wiggle around... yeah, I'm calling myself a little whale, apparently).
Stole my heart, really... the cute little bastard.

If you happen to dislike whales for some reason or another--you heartless motherfucker-- here's a funny video on something I dislike. Take your pick of the two (I find both equally hilarious. So I watched both... twice. Oh yeah):


They should have remained at the yuppie stage... Christian Bale made them irrevocably hot to me. Thanks a lot, you awesome... beautiful actor.


I might have fallen in love. hahaha

Happy Thursday.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011


For the last few days, I've had dreams of jumping very high.
Jumping is not one of my fortes, it NEVER has been, so I don't understand where this desire is stemming from. It's driving me crazy, because I'm fucking awesome in my dreams... and in real life, I'm too scared to jump because of a basketball injury from... ten years ago (JESUS CHIRST! TEN YEARS AGO!)... that, and the fact that jumping when you have relatively large ta-tas kind of fucking hurts.
Anyway, expect a "Why am I such a retard?! I just injured myself jumping!" post in the near future.

Speaking of the near future, Chicago time is almost here.
I wasn't feelin' it last week, or the week before, because MGH made a thought resurface:
I'm going to Chicago pretty much to serve as a wing-girl to my sister... who is going to be dating the dude I found cute out there.
MGH: WHY would you want to do that?!
Me: Because I'm a good sister?
Awkward? Maybe just a bit.
I don't have feelings for the guy, it's just what he "stands" for... As in... the constant reminder that any dude will choose my sister over me.
I'll be there, walking around, killing time--ALONE-- as I know my sister might be getting serious with a dude.
Spinster alert? DUH!

Sometimes I think about it for a couple of minutes... then I let it go.
Eh. Whatever. As long as no one asks me about my future plans or digs into my non-existent love life, it's all good.

Oh, Chicago, will the day ever come when we'll be cool with each other? You're a lovely city... far as hell, but lovely.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011


I'm one of those chicks who gets angry each time a dude jokes about a woman's place being in the kitchen.
It makes me... kind of psycho-angry. There's a history behind that, as with every damn fucking trauma of mine, but I'm in no mood to write it up.

Anyway.. guess where I spent 2/3 of my waking hours today?
The motherfucking kitchen.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner like always... but I also decided to make dad some more empanadas.
Usually, it's not much of a fucking hassle... since the "jam" is made in a heartbeat.
However, today I was in such a giving mood, I decided to prepare a fig/pecan jam.
Fuck the moment I came up with that idea.
I don't eat figs, because they gross me out (for some reason, they remind me of a uterus. I'm not eager to know what a uterus tastes like) and the flavor has never appealed to me.
In my life, I have not peeled a single fig.

Well, we have an enormous fig tree in the backyard, and Mom, Dad, and D don't eat the fruits fast enough. Dad loves them, but there's only so much damage he can make to the fig supply.
So I decided I'd surprise him with a jam made out of those ugly, uterus-resembling fruits.

The peeling process was so tedious, I started pondering existential shit...
Light at the end of the tunnel? I'm sure if that ever happened to me... and they asked me if I wanted to walk towards the light or go back, I'd scream "go back"... death sucks... but... everyone has to die... imagine, Bob Ross is already dead, yet here I am, still awed by his work as I watch the re-runs on PBS... but one day I WILL be dead... and... would I want to live forever? Oh god... fuck you, figs!

That bastard jam ruined my day!
... but the empanadas are orgasmic.

I'm a beeeeast in the kitchen... I'm just not going to freely admit that shit to anyone, especially not a man.

(dude, last night I had a dream where I invented ice cream flavors. Not just ANY flavors, but they were all boozy flavors. I remember the Chardonnay best. In real life, I don't even know what that shit tastes like, yet there I was, selling gallons upon gallons of the thing. I woke up feeling satiated and proud of myself. I swear... I'm spending TOO much time in the kitchen. My break can't come soon enough)

Monday, August 1, 2011

Nada es oculto

I got a name.
And information.
And photos.
Adriana--the suckerpuncher-- to the left
and her equally classy friend, who happened to be the one who pulled D's hair, to the right.
This is THE DAY OF the incident.

When I want to get you, trust me, I'm going to get you.
I'm from Durango-- the world is now aware of what the people from there are known for.
I was born and raised in the ghetto.
I don't play.

HOWEVER, a bit of information changed my thirst for revenge.
What was that?
My cousin's behavior.

Also, I could go all thug on this girl... revert to middle school and wait for her outside of her house as she gets home from work... then get to work with a bat. Break all of her possessions. Etcetera, etcetera.
1. It's not like she KILLED my sister.
She sucker-punched D in the face, like your stereotypical catty-ass Latina who swats at anyone better looking than her. It's not news to anyone who has a remotely attractive family member/friend. It's common knowledge that ONE DAY, that pretty girl in your group is going to get fucked up in a fight.
D isn't THAT fucked up, either. Her nose is no longer swollen, and there's barely a mark now. You'd have to know she was punched in the face to even look for a trace.
D only has a disgusting ball on her forearm from where the stupid bitch in the orange mangled her around. It's a huge, bundled-up bruise.

2. I find my cousin's reaction much more repulsive.
There were FOUR of my cousins standing around the moment this fight went down. FOUR. What is the likelihood of that happening in this city, at a concert?
Two of them cut all ties to the bitch-- that would be 30thBdayBoy and my other cousin who shared his 30-something birthday with him back in March. Those two walked out of the concert the moment the fight ended. They wanted NO part in it, Hoodrat died to them at that moment.
But two other cousins... they stayed.
Now, one of them I'm not mad at. I'm only mad he didn't want to give me a name when I asked him. He admitted to knowing the girl, and I was only pissed at him for not telling me who it was.
But the fourth... that guy.
He's the one who claims to be my "Brother." He's my brother's BFF... which, coincidentally, my brother started distancing himself from this last time he came to town.
He swore up and down that he did not know this girl.
He even gave me a response on Twitter that infuriated me, because I could just imagine how he would have yelled it at me in person (which would have led to me slicing my hand through his fucking teeth).
Me: I would appreciate knowing that animal's name... please :)
Him: idk but just drop it! If anything ask *30thBdayBoy*
Luckily, I read that at five in the morning, when I was too tired to respond with something much less sarcastic.
Anyway, a little later in the afternoon, he called my sister and claimed to not know this girl.


Today, Twiggy called.
She found the girl.
Who is she friends with? My "brother" and that one cousin who didn't want to give me a name.
My "brother" bitched out like that.
Figures he'd choose pussy over family.

So... instead of beating this bitch's ass... or at least "randomly" bumping into her somewhere to sucker-punch the shit out of her, I just got her 86'd from Tao Group properties.
'cause I'm vindictive like that.
She's 21. It's gonna hurt her... though, she IS a hoodrat, so she probably goes to the seedy shit in North Las Vegas.

More importantly, this taught me a hard lesson in loyalty.
My "brother" is all motherfucking talk. Constantly spewing at the mouth about all this love and how I'm the sister he never had and blah-blah-blah.
Bullllllllshiiiiiit, buddy. Bullshit.
But it's cool. All he lost was MY loyalty... and once that's gone, it's gone for good.
Your word is your bond, once you fuck that up... all integrity I once gave you credit of possessing evaporates. Fizzles. Buh bye!

This chapter is officially over, now just an opportunity to bring it up whenever Sister thinks she's being a badass.
Hey, take it easy there, Tupac! Remember the time you got punked by an ugly bitch at that rap-olympics thingamajig?
She's not going to live this one down.