Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Conejo Conejo

Me: Oh my goodness... tomorrow's December 1st, isn't it?!
Sister: Yup.
Mom: You gonna say "rabbit, rabbit" tomorrow morning?

And like that, I realized why this year has sucked so much dick! It's because I no longer say "rabbit, rabbit" first thing in the morning on the first of the month!

Back in elementary school, when I learned everything "American" off the television... mostly just Nickelodeon,  I remember there was a bit where they would give you little factoids during commercial breaks. I think Stick Stickly might have been responsible for it.
This was the place where I learned about the eggs being able to sit upright during Winter and Summer Solstice, and only then. Also where I learned about Earth Day and all that shit.

Anyway, during one of these factoid commercial breaks, they went ahead and mentioned how in... some culture, people believe it's of great luck to start your month off by having the words "rabbit, rabbit" be the first words to be uttered by you on that day.

I did this for years.
It was a little heartbreaking during my tough years... when I'd wake up in the morning of the first and think "PLEASE... let this month be better than the last... PLEASE." It usually didn't happen.

Still, on the mornings of the first, my siblings and I did the shit siblings do best: fight.
We'd try to fuck the other one over by forcing them to say something OTHER than "rabbit, rabbit" in the morning.
This was usually accomplished by being the first to wake up to piss off the other sibling(s).

  • We held the sleeping bastard's nose closed until he/she would wake up startled, then watched him/her get pissed because he/she would see our big head hovering over him/her with a huge, taunting smile on our face.
  • We sprayed the sleeping loser's face with water... usually resulting on the poor loser waking up and cussing instead of saying anything related to a certain cute, furry animal.
  • We'd hover over the sleeping beauty and ask them a question the moment their eyes would open. "WHERE'S MOM?!" Usually did the trick.
  • If really pissed with the sleeping offender, we resorted to the tried and true method of ruining someone's morning-- a swift kick to the ass.

So... now that no one is around to play these tricks on me, looks like I know what I'm going to be doing first thing tomorrow morning.
"Fucking son of a bitch" counts... right?

Monday, November 28, 2011

Watched it

Looks like I'm trying REAL hard to assimilate to American culture... at the age of 26.

I went ahead and for the first time ever participated in another great American tradition: Cyber Monday.
I didn't think I'd be one of those people... but apparently I am.
I blame the depression.

I wasn't too terrible. I purchased something I really needed... something I've been needing for well over five years: a watch.
Sounds reasonable, right?
Well... I went a little overboard... and purchased two.

The prices were so awesome, once I had my original watch I thought "What the hell, let's get another one!"
So now I have a white ceramic watch for my everyday use... and a black stainless steel watch with a little bling (WHAT THE FUCK! I usually HATE people who bling their shit out... but now I've joined their club. I'm disgusted with myself... but the watch is pretty fucking sexy) for days when I feel... sad?
Yeah, let's use that.
Both bad boys weigh a pound! That shit excites me a little too much...

I still consider this very successful, since I saved a total of $1113.56.
Good shit, right? Right.

Needless to say, I am now going to have to beg for my Barça birthday trip.

Goddamn impulsivity... stupid personality flaw!

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Under the Mattress

I skipped a post yesterday... make it a two for one deal?

Sure, why not.

SO, I've been somewhat emotionally unstable, right?
Well... not SO unstable... mostly just depressed, then very depressed, then hopelessly depressed... then again to averagely depressed.
Hanging with friends tends to curb this, since I force myself to act like a normal person. Who the hell likes hanging out with a sourpuss, right? And what the fuck do you do with an AnoMALIE who won't shut the fuck up but only cries... I can be pretty fucking scary when I cry.

Yesterday, in an effort to be genuinely happy... or normal, I decided to do that afternoon card game chill-out with a couple of friends (you know, what I mentioned in the previous post).
For the most part, I was doing great.
I played my first game of "Uno" and I was pretty much massacring.... something I tend to do when card games are involved... because ghetto kids may not have lots of toys when growing up, but you can bet your last fucking dollar they've played with a deck of cards... especially in this city (I shuffled like a casino dealer by the time I was in third grade).

Anyway, I'm killing at the card games... KIND of pissing off the rest of the gang... because they thought I'd be as clueless at card games as I am with everything else in this life.
After my third game of handing people's asses on a plate, they suggested we play a game that's sort of a cross of hot-potato and Taboo... aka a trivia game.
NOT FAIR! You know I was raised Mexican! I don't know American pop culture!
Me, being the good sport... the doormat I am, went with the flow.

I was paired with a dude I have a platonic crush on. He's surprisingly witty and intelligent because he hides it well with all of his heavy-metal tee-shirts.
We were teamed up against a married couple.
I was growing increasingly frustrated because the married couple could guess their words by just shooting themselves a look.
When it came to ME giving the clues to my partner, I was fucking awesome... mainly because he was so damn smart.
But when it came to me receiving the clues... WELL! Let me tell ya... it was fucking ridiculous.
What frustrated me MOST was that the married couple were able to "steal" our words if I didn't know the answer... which was EVERY SINGLE TIME! And these three people are super close... so... the married couple were guessing MY words.
After the SEVENTH time this happened to me... and on the word "credit union" (the clue my partner gave me was "people took their money out of the bank and placed it here..." My response: In a safe? UNDER THE MATTRESS?! I DON'T KNOW!), I finally lost it.
That's right... I CRIED.
I went red in the face... and cried.
I reverted to being seven, losing at LIFE (the board game, ok, the board game), and crying when I'd drive past my last chance at getting a kid, with a total of zero kids in my car.

That killed the mood... and freaked everyone out.
That'll teach them to try and beat me at a game.

I was at a Chente concert...

Good day.

This morning... not so much.

Yesterday, the pregaming began as I played board/card games with a couple of white folks (I say that lovingly... mainly because as a Mexican, boardgames are just... so not... popular. We do other shit... like drink and get pregnant. I'm glad I have "white" friends to show me the ways of this country... right?).
How'd that go? Fun and snack-tastic. I blew my morning's heavy leg workout after snacking on the nachos and fresh, giant chocolate chip cookies at the cardgame spectacular. Was it worth it? Ummm... I'm on the fence with that one... since I think nachos are a waste of tummy space with zero nutritional value... or flavor. The cookie... I would have eaten another two had I not guilt-tripped myself about the goddamn nachos. Fucking nachos. Maldita basura!

After that fun-packed afternoon, a drunken display of Mexican pride ensued.
How so?
I went to go see the icon of Mexican music. The man, the myth, the legend: Vicente Fernandez.
Knowing I was going to deal with the entire Mexican population of the city of Las Vegas, I had to do something to prep: Drink.
Trick to Chente concerts is to pregame shit before arriving to the venue. Makes it a little less painful.

Sis and I took a tequila-filled water bottle, braved the stupid ass traffic in the parking garage... and once parked, swigged the fuck out of the bottle.
Good thing.
I'd like to take this moment to apologize for... my people.
What these eyes saw...
This is what people associate when the word "Mexican" is dropped... Lord, have mercy!
People were fighting for about an hour near my seats... all because motherfuckers don't understand NUMBERS.
Dyscalculia is this prevalent amongst Mexicans? I'm definitely not gonna breed with them, then. Shit, my kids would be fucked.
About 90 percent of the girls present were in tight miniskirts/dresses... which, I mean... can be OK under certain circumstances... and when you have a smoking bod...
... but not when you're a 45 year old mother of three. COME ON, LADIES! WHAT THE FUCK?!
About 60 percent of the girls in miniskirts looked like streetwalkers... the other ones looked like simple floozies. The streetwalkers were identifiable based on their hairstyle and choice in makeup... sometimes their shoes.
I started feeling bad after the 100th girl I saw in this attire. I became self-conscious because I was wearing dark jeans, black TOMS, a black button-down shirt (showed off my cleavage... which made me feel somewhat Latina when I walked out of the house... but not once I stepped foot in the Mandalay Bay), and a black track jacket. Peer pressure was getting the best of me.
Oh no... I stick out more than the whore-y girls because I'm dressed like I'm going to catch a basketball game... Fuck... should I... umm... unfasten the top button on my shirt... maybe?
I decided to TRY and be a little... BAM! out there, so I took off my jacket and pulled down my shirt a little.
There. See. Yeah. I'm a Mexican girl. Enough? Cool. Now quit staring at me as if I were an alien. Look at the chick over there in the leopard print minidress and seven inch metallic heels.

Aside from having to deal with people... which we all know I'm terrific at... I had a blast.
I took videos of some of the songs... which I did think about posting, however, Mom's screaming in ALL of them, so they're a no. And yes, I'm screaming in some of them... which is extremely embarrassing, but DAMN, those songs just know how to cut me deep.
Aca entre nos, siempre te voy a recordaaaaaar!

Also, a magical moment I had was while making line for the metal detector at the concert.
There were some big screen televisions on the side of the building... I think it was a bar, but considering the mass of sombrero-rockin' Mexicans blocking the entrance, it could have been anything.
Anyway, at one point I turned and saw the majority of people in line were watching the game that was being played.
What game? The UNLV vs. UNC basketball game.
I believe it was at the point where the score was 82 Rebs, 72 Tar Heels... and everyone in line started chanting "RE-BELS!"
My heart filled with joy... who cared if so many of these short, obnoxious, drunk men were staring down my shirt... we were all rooting for the Rebels!

Ah... t'was a great day/night... even if at some point we lost part of my sister's car... and then I woke up unable to speak for a few hours.


Friday, November 25, 2011

Santa Baby

Last night, for the first time in my life, I went to a store for Black Friday. The lucky store? Guess. No, I mean take a guess.
I'm Mexican.
I'm a penny-pincher...
I like to fight...
If you haven't guessed Walmart by now, slap yourself.

The purpose was to buy D a television.
We dropped the plan once we stepped inside and saw the huge line.
D: Wow. It's not THAT important.

So... we didn't buy anything.
However, this all made me think of Christmas... and how it's exactly a month away.
Reminded me of the good old days when Santa would still visit the house.
We'd write our Letters to Santa around this time.

I haven't written a letter to Santa since I was in 4th grade...
... probably why my life has been sucking so much dick lately. Man probably doesn't even remember me now.
I should contact Santa and see what's up, right?
So... here's my Letter to Santa, 2011 Edition:
Ummm... hey, Santa... Mr. Santa? Sir?
It's been a minute... 17 years if you want to be exact.
I still have that violin in mint condition chillin' in my bedroom. Yeah, your last gift to me, remember? I liked it... a lot... even if my parents probably didn't because they almost went deaf the first year or so.
My behavior suffered a little since my last letter to you. I got a little... messed up. I'm sure you noticed.
But enough about the past.
This year? Have I been a good girl? I guess. I mean... I've behaved myself. I don't think I've gotten belligerently drunk or anything like that... I haven't tried drugs.... and obviously I haven't banged anyone. Being a 26 year old chick who still holds her V card is pretty remarkable, if you ask me. I'm pretty much in the same realm as YOU-- thought to only exist in works of fiction.
I have gotten pretty vicious... but can you blame me? I messed with my body's chemistry... and it's grouchy all of the time, demanding carbs or blood.
And I do apologize for all of the... borderline... ok... the suicidal thoughts and all that. You know I'd never actually go through with it... but it's still bad that I curse having to live another day, when there are so many people out there who fight for theirs on a regular basis. It's very selfish and stupid of me.
So... if you're kind enough to forgo all of this year's shortcomings... I'd like to... you know... ask you for stuff. Please?
Ok, first of all... I would very much appreciate... kicking this depression to the curb. It's terrible. Hindering. Crushing. Annoying. It keeps me from being myself. I'd be a much more productive member of society if I could just... enjoy every day... or at least not damn it like I currently do.
My second thing is... I'd really like to find a purpose. Right now I have NO CLUE which direction to take. None whatsoever. It'd be cool if I finally get out of this black-hole of uncertainty. Really cool.
Third: PLEASE help Tyson get better. Please. I'm not ready to deal with the loss of the love of my life just yet. I need more time in with my baby.
Now the frivolous, probably more attainable things (sorry, I'm a girl, this was bound to happen):
1. That Barça trip complete with Classico tickets. PLEASE! Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!
2. A job. Yeah. A job. I said it. Ok.

What's that? I haven't made mention about my romantic life?
Well... I don't want to get all Mariah Carey on you.
But... there is one tiny thing: can you make me less awkward around dudes? I guess you could help out by giving me a bit more confidence. That could help... right?
Y bueno, pues... sin falta... cuidalo, no?

Fingers crossed, baby!

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Dar Gracias

I'm sure even a stranger off the street can tell I'm not having the time of my life.
This last year has been... rough, to put it mildly. This last month has REALLY gone to town with the "Well, THAT'S fucked up" department.

But... in my attempt to get up off the floor and quit dancing with the ropes, I'll make a list in honor of today's holiday.

Things I am thankful for:
  1. Peanut Butter. You make my life, peanut butter!
  2. Bacon. Though I haven't had bacon since May, rest assured that I still adore this delicious food of the gods.
  3. Almonds... pecans... pistachios... walnuts... peanuts... pretty much any type of nut. So. Good.
  4. Chocolate. Obviously.
  5. Flowers.
  6. Green grass... not to be confused with weed. I'm not down with that green.
  7. Rain.
  8. Stars. 
  9. Clear, bright skies.
  10. Sriracha sauce.
  11. Hot peppers. Ranging from Jalapeño to Habanero, Arbol to Ghost... chile completes me.
  12. The gym and its trainers. BOY, OH BOY! Have you changed my life this year. CHRIST!
  13. My travels. I hadn't thought about all the traveling I did over the year... but shit, I went to a lot of places. It's my... delirio. I adore this activity.
  14. Tyson. He's a picky, remarkably stubborn little fucker... but he knows what to do when any one of us is upset. He's the best dog for us. Long live the massively misunderstood pitpulls. 
  15. Rafa. What can I say about my broski? We've had our intense fights/arguments... but he's the best brother I could have asked for. I'm happy for the closeness we've acquired this last year... it's pretty noticeable.
  16. D. We fight... a lot... especially recently... but we constantly work on our relationship and try to be... sisters. However, she cracks me up. And keeps me company when I most need it. I'm glad that stupid little brat's in my life. I'll still fuck any one up if they hurt her.
  17. My parents. Again, I fight a lot with them... but they've been very understanding of my... situation. They have done so much to try to comfort me and make me feel like less of a loser. They give me anything and everything I need/want. They may not be very "traditional" in the American sense... but they are awesome human beings that I love with every little inch of my very-beat-up heart. They're the reason for my heart's first beat, and the main reason my heart continues to beat.
  18. My friends. My friends. My friends. I owe whatever is left of my sanity to THEM. I may not have as many as other folks... but my group of friends is by far the most incredible group of people with whom I could have ever dreamed of surrounding myself. They enrich my life, and snap me back into reality when I most need it. They try to keep me from falling too hard into the trenches I dig for myself... and they are always there to lend me a hand when I very stubbornly still decide to roll chin-deep in the muddy trench. They're the yin to my yang... as corny as it may sound... as trite as it may be. This year proved it to me the most (that my friends complete me... not that I'm corny and trite... though I'm sure that's true too)
  19. My family. Well... while this will be the negative bit of this entry, I have to be sincere and clarify: my MATERNAL side of the family. They are... my everything. They put a smile on my face... and hell, even food in my tummy (LOVE IT!). They've always made me feel welcomed and appreciated... and that's something I will always hold close to my heart.
I may not be too full of sunshine recently... but I truly am thankful for everyone and everything that has attempted to put the smile back on my face. I notice... and I do appreciate it... with every ounce of my being.
I'll get better... I promise.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


So I'm a little territorial.
No more than a dog... but probably more than, say... plankton.

I allow others to use my shit... however, there are certain objects I'll probably fight you for... like my toothbrush... my lipgloss/chapstick... my half-gallons of water that I remember to fill up and place in the fridge each night (we all know how that shit works out for me... especially during stressful times of my life... when the cold-sore from hell decides to pay me a visit like the fucking asshole it is)... stuff like that.
Staying with the "things I bring to my mouth" topic, I'm VERY defensive about my tea mug.
It's a fucking awesome mug. It's enormous. It comfortably fits 5 cups of liquid. It's cute with its blue little daisies dancing around in a white background. It was a gift.
It has a small chip on the lip because my mom was a jerk and bumped it with the damn blender.
But still, I love this mug.
Know who else loves my mug?
My dad.

I try to be cool about it, but each time I walk into the kitchen and catch him drinking out of my mug, I feel the stream rushing out of my ears.
Me: Heyyyy! That's MY mug, Dad!
(leave it to me to fight over a fucking mug)
Dad: Says who?
Me: Uh... everyone... in case the blue daisies don't give it away that this mug MAY belong to a female.
Dad: Well... then... which one's MY mug?
Me: Any other one in the cupboard... that huge black one with that one truck company's logo on it. No one touches that one.
Dad: But I like this one because it's so huge.

A couple of months back, Mom and I were having our little bonding time, shopping.
As she was busy in the dressing room, I found my way to the "Home and Kitchen" department.
I checked out the plates, and came upon the mugs. I found an enormous white mug with a giant black J drawn on it... and I was going to purchase it for pops, hoping the damn letter would make it clear that "Yo, this is your fucking initial... it's YOURS. Quit drinking out of my blue daisy cup!"
However, Mom convinced me not to, because according to her, we had more than enough giant mugs in the house.
When we were going to leave, some mugs with the zodiac signs (and their descriptions) caught Mom's eye.
Mom's borderline-fanatical Catholic and all... but she loves astrology... go figure.
We checked out the Virgo (Mom), Libra (D and Rafa), and the Pisces (me, obviously).
Mom didn't think buying Dad the giant J mug was worth the five dollars, but she went ahead and spent 15 bucks on three huge zodiac mugs we definitely didn't need.

Fast forward to today.
I was sitting at the kitchen table with Pops. I was enjoying some tea, and he decided he'd have some as well.
What mug did he grab? Mom's giant Virgo mug... which is even bigger than my blue daisy mug.
Me: Hey... that's Mom's mug.
(y vuelve la burra al trigo... I'm so fucking stubborn, and nagging, I know)
Dad: Uhhhhh! Where's MY mug?
Me: I was gonna get you one the other day, but Mom was all "No, he has one already."
Mom: Oh... I thought he did.
Dad: I like this one because it's HUGE! And it has a pretty lady drawn on it.
Me: ...and it's pink. Dad. I'm getting you a mug. One identical to that one. But... since you're a Capricorn, I'll get you that one. That mug is blue and everything.
Me: Yes Dad, you're a Christian... but also a Capricorn.
Me: Well, Christian, you really like that VIRGO cup.

He's getting a Capricorn cup unless that man decides to go to the store and buy himself his nice little Christian cup. Good luck finding that one.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


Last night I went to bed laughing.
I finished my DVD watching-marathon with Bridesmaids.
Best decision ever.

I made a conscious effort to not cry... though I really, really wanted to do just that, and I accomplished serenity... after a restless week.

A comment made about me has been gnawing away at me for the last week or so.
My sister was talking about her recent Chicago trip and she let to comment slip.
Sis: *MutualFriend* asked about you!
Me: Did he? That's cool. I miss him.
Sis: Yeah. It was when you posted about being at the Rebel game, and he was all like "Why is AnoMALIE so negative?"

I'm sure the fact that this comment upset me so much probably makes me seem like a lame drama queen... I'm surprised it has gotten under my skin like this.
But it has.

The moment she said it, I felt my heart drop.
Then I felt anger.
Then I went back to feeling sad.

Why am I so negative?
It surprises me that the question came from this guy... since I'm only joking around with him when we talk... or I'll compliment him. Every time. All I do is compliment him... sincerely compliment him. It's not me brown-nosing, I have no secret motive to the laudation... it's genuine admiration... and I express it.
I have nothing but kind words for him.
And yet... he thinks I'm negative.

The last week, all I think when I do or say anything is "Now... am I being negative here? Was that TOO negative of me?"
Then I think "WHY should I be positive? WHAT is there to be positive about?"
And so I teeter back and forth between being sad and then angry when I think too much about this subject.

Here, I try to be honest... because I'm sick of putting on the façade of being OK... and when I express my discontent, my anger, my sadness, or anything other than forced, faked enthusiasm, I'm considered "negative."
Newsflash: Life ISN'T rainbows and sunshine, motherfuckers. It's NOT.
Who knows... maybe YOUR life IS sunshine and rainbows. Fucking birds chirp beautiful little songs in your ear each morning... your neighborhood smells like roses each morning... you wake up to your significant other giving you head in the morning. Who knows. Just like my mornings are lonely, frigid, and monotonous... others might have motherfucking fairytale mornings.

I think to how so many people mention how they don't like "negative" people.
I fight the urge to get in their face and ask them to PLEASE try to have a little compassion and TRY to think why that person might be a teeny, tiny bit "negative."

Homie, I'm 26. For 26 years, I've been taught to be respectful and mindful of others. I've been taught to put other's needs and desires before my own. I've been mistreated, neglected, abused, offended, ignored, disrespected in SO many ways... EXCUSE ME while I fucking lose my cool for a motherfucking second.
AND STILL, when I DO lose my fucking head, I tend to do it in a written form... which you OPENLY choose to read. In person, you will RARELY hear a peep out of me. So why complain?

Instead of judging me, you should probably try to understand me.
I'm pretty fucking sunny for a person who fucking hates so many things that happen(ed) in her life.

So negative.


... and that's why Kristen Wiig having a massive mental breakdown at her BFF's bachelorette party made me laugh hysterically...
Was that too negative of me?

Monday, November 21, 2011


Know what makes the damage of a shit-tastic weekend go away in a matter of a second?
Getting paid.

I picked up my last paycheck this morning... and I even skipped out of the building... after slamming the front door shut.
Me, resentful? Naaaaahhhh.

A couple of weeks back, Musketeer and I had been talking about the Silly Symphony episodes that would air on Disney when we were little. I told him how my mom recorded all of them on VHS. We'd sit there, vigilant to whenever we'd see the Silly Symphony sign, and we'd press record.
It took us a shitload of time to get all of the episodes together.
Anyway, I gave him the VHS, and he promised he's convert it to DVD for me.
Well, since I no longer work there, I asked him if I could get my VHS back today along with my paycheck.
I wasn't expecting the DVD to be ready, but there it was. He had burned me a copy.

I've spent the last couple of hours watching the DVD with Mom and D.
Hilarious memories.
We had a good laugh when we watched "The Three Little Wolves."
Now as adults, we can tell the wolves sing a song about pig parts in German.

Me: What the hell?! And here we'd be trying to sing along... to fucking German!
D: NO WONDER MY ENGLISH WAS SO BROKEN (out of us three siblings, she had the hardest time grasping the English language. She started speaking English at about... seven years of age)! ::sings a song she'd sing as a kid. The words were "invented" according to us, but what did we know? We only spoke Spanish:: I was speaking German the whole time!

Ah, sweet, ghetto youth!

I needed that laugh.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Not so happy little trees

I (as well as the rest of the world, I'm sure) find that my doodles relate to my emotional state.

Not too long ago, I was drawing "happy trees" all over the place... largely due to me spending too much time watching Bob Ross while knocking out my morning sprints.

My "paintings" looked more like this:
Remember, this is my FIRST time drawing any sort of trees without the aid of a pencil.
Not to mention my paintbrush was less than desirable for the technique.
But enough with the excuses.
I tried working on something today... mainly because I was stranded in my room because my folks decided to have company over... and I'm anti-social. I felt no desire to converse with these people and answer their questions (Mainly because it'd go something like this: Me? Where do I work? Nowhere. I was fired on Friday. What do I do? Nothing. I have a biology degree hanging on that wall right there behind you... but I haven't done shit with it. What do I want to do? I'm not sure... right now it's mostly just suicide... but... I'm not too sure how keen my folks are to the idea of... you know... me being dead and all...).
So I just sat in my room and painted.

I quit at this:
What the... fuck am I doing? Fuck if I know.

How am I doing?
Fine, man. I'm fine.

Saturday, November 19, 2011


Recently, one of my friends from elementary school found me on Facebook.
He was a really cute kid... but a very weird kid.
Now that I think back to it, I'm pretty sure he had ADHD.

Anyway, reconnecting with the kid took me back almost twenty years (WHAT THE FUCK?! We're getting so fucking old!!). Made me smile to remember some of the ridiculous things we did.
Like G.A.T.E.
That's where I met him. Since I was an ESL kid, my only interaction with the English-speaking kids was in G.A.T.E. class. Remember, while my primary language was Spanish, I was more than fluent in the english language... at least in speaking it, so I was allowed into G.A.T.E. because I could communicate... and apparently very well.

It was more like the

Supposedly all of us in GATE were really smart... maybe TOO smart, so we had to be given a special hour-long class in a different room... I think it was every other day.
Every kid in there was WEIRD. AS. FUCK.
All of them.

To this day, I'm not entirely sure WHY I was admitted into that class... because I wasn't THAT smart... and I certainly wasn't THAT weird.
But anyway, regardless of how clueless I am behind the teacher's desire to add me to the GATE (FUWEKICO) clan, point is: I WAS part of it. I must have added something to that group of elementary school super heros.
  • I was the quiet shy girl who really, REALLY liked to draw. That was about it. Oh, and I guess I was pretty freakishly good with numbers.
  • Then there was Adam, the PE teacher's obese son who ran the school with an iron fist... that little jackass with his stupid Billy Ray Cyrus mullet, Freddy Krueger sweaters, and Harry Potter glasses. I dedicated an entire entry to him back in February.
  • There was Janakee, the sweet Indian girl who constantly gave us lessons on growing up Hindu. She was cool, smart, and really good at dancing... but she was more silent than I was... by a fucking long shot. She dressed in traditional clothing... you know, the saris, the jewelry, the bindi. It was cool... but the teacher treated it like a handicap.
  • There was Andrew. The blonde, blue-eyed, curly haired boy with a gap between his two front teeth. He was the poster boy for the all-american momma's boy. His mom would ALWAYS be in school. She ALWAYS volunteered to chaperone shit... even things that DID NOT require a chaperone. We all might have been eight-year-olds, but we all at some point questioned what the fuck this woman did around the house. Does she not have a job? Does she not cook? Does she not clean? WHY THE FUCK IS SHE ALWAYS AT SCHOOL?! GET A LIFE, YOU OBNOXIOUS WOMAN! Andrew was the typical Momma's Boy... super spoiled, annoying, loud... cried when he wouldn't get his way, etc. Since his Mom would ALWAYS be in school, we were all pretty much bullied into letting him do whatever the fuck he wanted... unless we wanted the wrath of the giant-hipped woman to come upon us (I CLEARLY remember this woman being the first person I ever saw cellulite on. I learned what that horrible devil was thanks to her MASSIVE lower half she refused to cover in anything other than Spandex. The woman was about six feet tall... so... that bottom was NO JOKE). Oh great! It appears I made this all about poor Andrew's mom... oh well.
And last, there was Keno, the boy who recently found me.
Keno was a super, duper hyper kid. If I close my eyes, I can still hear his little voice... speaking at 200 words a minute. He had a bowl haircut... light brown hair... enormous eyes... crooked, giant teeth. He was cute. Really cute. But that hyperactivity... christ... that hyperactivity made it REALLY hard to admit it.
In GATE, he usually played second fiddle to Adam. Only Adam was able to control the hyperactivity... just not when a certain subject would be mentioned:
Good Lord! Vikings!
Fucking kid would salivate at the mere though of SPEAKING about vikings.
Group project up ahead? LET'S CALL OURSELVES THE VIKINGS!
What subject should we learn about next, kids? VIKINGS!
Today, we're learning about OCEANS! Know who sailed the oceans? VIKINGS!

I'd be banging my head against the table after ten minutes of dealing with this kid.

While Adam would subdue Keno, the other boy, Andrew, would only amplify the ADHD.
It was like Beavis and Butthead... actually, it was a lot like Beavis and Butthead, you wouldn't even have to change what they look like.

Anyway, Beavis and Butthead would go about and irritate the quieter Janakee and me, and we'd pretty much have to take it because it was considered "rude" to hinder a fellow classmate's "creativity."
Yeah, OK, hippie.
But there was a time when the hyperactivity decreased.
Beavis and Butthead would be very secretive, and would only want to QUIETLY sit next to J and me in GATE class.
I, being the typical optimistic dumbshit dreamer, thought this was because Keno liked me.
How cute! The cute kid likes me AND he can be quiet!
However, since J and I would usually be inseparable in class, it was kind of hard to tell who had a crush on whom. Still, we very gladly accepted this change.

One day when the teacher had left us alone in GATE class to work on some project, and Adam was sick of being the fifth wheel, he finally killed the harmony... like the true asshole he was.
My heart was racing. J and I looked at each other with... excited anticipation?
Andrew: NO!
Adam: FINE! I'll tell her!
Andrew: N-OHHH!
Andrew was running over to Adam, trying to cover his mouth.
Andrew reached Adam before anything audible was uttered, knocked him out of his chair.
They were rolling on the floor, Adam laughing like a psychotic maniac, trying to scream something, while Andrew was red in the face and crying-- holding his hand over Adams face.

Keno, while hyperactive, was a peace lover above all. He'd be eerily mature when it came to keeping the peace.
He rushed to the brawling boys on the floor.
Keno: ANDREW! ANDREW! I'll tell her. Just get it over with.
Andrew sat still, still covering Adam's mouth, tears still rolling down his chubby cheeks.
Keno turned to me, took a deep breath, and spoke.
Keno: AnoMALIE...
Andrew: NO!
Keno: Yes. AnoMALIE, my friend Andrew here, likes... you.
Keno: Ew! Me?! NO! I like Janakee!
Janakee: EWWWW! WHAT?!

There we were, five kids in a room... five supposed baby geniuses... all five crying.
Me, crying because Keno "ew"ed me and because Andrew liked me.
Janakee, crying from the misunderstanding that she will now be in trouble for having a "boyfriend" behind her strict parents back.
Keno, crying because Janakee just "ew"ed him... and probably also because I liked him.
Andrew, crying because I "ew"ed him... and because Adam was such a little bitch.
And finally, Adam, crying from laughing so hard... that little sadist.

The look on the teacher, Mrs. Vanderbilt, was PRICELESS the moment she walked back into the room.

GATE classes resumed two weeks later.

Good times.

Friday, November 18, 2011

"Good-Son"ed me

Not one of my best days.
The pride of Filipino lions got their way... and I was fired.

If I'm not mistaken, it was a couple of posts back where I was a little nervous about my coworkers sudden change of heart... their unusual kindness.
Something about... being super nice before they chop your head off or something like that?

They totally sweet-talked me into walking to a cliff and they went all "Good Son" on me and pushed me off that fucking cliff when I wasn't looking because I was being too much of a dickhead, giggling at their goddamn jokes.

I'll spare everyone the bitter details.

BUT! I will show everyone the thing that DID manage to put a smile back on my face after all this drama:
...and YOU made MY day.
I love my family.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Break me

Well... now that I've opened that can of worms... guess I'll delve a little deeper, right?
Well, not "a little deeper," but I'll stick with the subject for a second.

I'm 26. This issue happened almost 20 years ago... yet... I still am affected by it in my every day life.
I often wonder if it's like that for everyone in my... unfortunate club, or if I'm just a weakass.

It's so conflicting, because in my heart, I really yearn for human contact... like... when I meet people, I really do wish to give them the biggest hug imaginable... because I really am a warm person... and I do give awesome hugs... but then that injured-seven-year-old AnoMALIE cowers away.
I'm not lying when I say that often times, when someone touches me, even with a simple hug, their touch lingers on my skin... as if they burned me. People's hands fucking hurt.
I also shudder when someone makes a move for me. It's a crazy reflex I can't really control... but my initial reaction is always that little shudder of... slight fear?

Makes me feel like a bronco.
Ever seen when a cowboy breaks a bronco? It's a pain in the ass. Then, once the bronco is slightly tame... it'll still be paranoid and freak out with sudden movements. It will somewhat reluctantly take sugar cubes/treats from your hand, and immediately go on guard afterward.
Most horses become tame enough to ride or use for work and whatnot...
... but there will always be one or two who remain pretty wild. You usually have to kill those.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011


My morning routine:
  1. Wake up.
  2. Jump in the shower.
  3. Blow dry my hair.
  4. Check email/other internet fuckery.
  5. Apply eyeshadow, eyeliner, and finally mascara.
  6. Run to the kitchen, prepare water for my five cups of green tea (excessive? Nah. That's just my standard breakfast green tea dosage).
  7. Weigh myself.
  8. Place green tea on the kitchen table to cool.
  9. Prepare and eat my breakfast.
  10. Run back to my bedroom, straighten hair.
  11. Change out of PJs.
  12. Brush teeth.
  13. Head out to work.
This morning, my routine looked like this:
  1. Woke up.
  2. Jumped in the shower.
  3. Blow dried my hair.
  4. Checked email/other internet fuckery.
  5. Cried my ass off.
  6. Cried my ass off some more.
  7. Crawled back into bed.
  8. Slept until 10AM.
My real fuck up came the moment I decided to check my email.
Well, the problem wasn't in the email, the problem was when I went off into the other internet fuckery. Serves me right for trying to be "informed" and reading THE NEWS before starting off my day.
All I had to do was read this, and I was done.

One of AnoMALIE's deepest, darkest secrets up ahead.
Proceed with caution.

It happens a lot. A. Lot.
When I hear a new story, I don't usually cry. I get that pain in my gut, as if someone has kicked me out of the blue. I'll often feel disgust... but I don't usually cry... I mean, what will others think the moment they see me cry after I hear a story of another kid getting raped/molested? The frequency at which that shit happens is, sadly, quite high.

This whole Penn State drama hasn't helped. I haven't cried with any of the details... I've been left at a loss for words... I've felt rage... but I haven't cried.

This morning... I just couldn't take it.
The more I read about this poor girl, Ashley, the more my heart broke.
I looked through her photos... and cried.
She tried so, SO hard to appear happy... and did such a great job at it... it was breaking my heart.
Then I saw the following photo, and I collapsed:

The look in her eyes. Her smile. The body language...
I lost control and bawled.
That dude? Her dad. Her tormentor. The reason she killed herself.
First she had to deal with being sexually assaulted as a seven year old by her stepdad... and then as a teenager, the one person who was supposed to protect her went off and did the same thing... for years.

I have a similar photo:

No, it's not with my dad... my pops is a great human being.
No, the man for whom I'm putting my "brave" face on is none other than my mom's dad.

That photo was taken in the summer of 1995.
It was my first time in Hometown since 1992, the year my world came to a screeching halt. The year my delicate, innocent world shattered into pieces.
I was seven... just like poor little Ashley.
Upon my return in 1995, I was unsure how to act... all I knew was that I wanted to be nowhere near that man.
But I was stuck.
Mom: Honor thy father and thy mother.
10yearOldMe: Yeah, YOU guys. Nothing there about anyone else.
Mom: By default, you have to show the same respect for my parents.
10yearOldMe: But... let's say... that person... doesn't deserve it?
Mom: You're no one to judge. Just respect them and love them unconditionally.
10yearOldMe: But what if... the father... or mother... is a bad person? A horrible person? I still have to respect them?
Mom: In God's eyes, they are your father and your mother. YES.
10yearOldMe:... that's so stupid. So. So. SO. Stupid.

My chest would hurt from holding in my screams. I just felt I really, really had to scream. At the top of my lungs.
It was so fucking exasperating to have to... sit there... and let this man act as if I were crazy. As if I was the one who did something wrong. As if I was the bad person.
I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs that it wasn't my fault. That I didn't want to be there. That I didn't want to see him. That HE was a bad person... a HORRIBLE person. That I didn't want to touch him... hell, I didn't even want to smell him. That he needed to GET HIS FUCKING HANDS OFF ME.
But I'd be there. Every day. And I'd have to hug him hello and goodbye. I had to kiss him hello and goodbye. I had to ask for his benediction every night before heading home.
What kind of fucking blessing could I possibly receive from YOU??
I'd roll my eyes each time I'd bend over towards his hand to kiss it.
It felt as if I was suffocating. Each day. Each night.

That summer, 1995, everyone knew me as the "rebellious, disrespectful" AnoMALIE. The bitch.
Bro: Why are you such a crazy bitch? You're so fucking rude, you fucking freak.
Me:... fuck you.
All of this because of my aversion to good ol' grandpa. I was the mean freak... and I let everyone think that... because I had to honor my "mother" and "father"... and because I didn't want to break my mother's heart.

I finally had to speak up later that summer when Sis started to criticize me for my behavior.
I wasn't going to say anything... but the moment I noticed Grandpa getting close to my sister... when I began to notice how he'd try to get her alone... I had to speak up.
Me: Do you think I WANT to be this rude? This... weird? I DON'T!
D: Then why are you such a bitch? He's never done anything to you. You've always been his favorite, loca.
Me: I want you to stay away from him! Don't EVER be alone with him.

It was so frustrating to see how NO ONE seemed to notice shit. How no one bothered to use their fucking brain to think Hmmm... AnoMALIE has always been a sweet little girl who loves to smile... but... now she just... sits there and stares off into space... and she only wears baggy clothes now... then she gets rude with this ONE particular MAN. Hmmm... that's not weird AT ALL.
They all just preferred to think I had gone crazy.

I harbored resentment... hatred for my grandfather for years. I hated the man with all of my heart throughout my teen years.
It only took about two years for me to become accustomed to the fact that family and friends all thought I was a jerk who hated her grandfather for no apparent reason... only excuse being "he's an asshole."
I found escape in writing stories about him... about what went down.
I'd fantasize about getting my revenge.
I gave him slow, painful deaths in a few stories. In other stories, I'd speak my mind and destroy whatever "soul" he had...
... and then there was one where I actually held a pillow to his face and killed him.

I tried erasing the memory from my mind... but it's still alive and well, somewhere back there... constantly ruining my life in some way or another.
I think about it when it rains.
I think about it when I'm sitting inside of a truck.
I'll think about it when I step in mud.
I'll think about it when I hear the word "pretty."

It has fucked me up.
I have only verbally spoken about it with D and Mooney. I feel stupid when I SAY it... the words are just too hard to utter.
I've alluded to it with Mom... but she's in denial... and I let her be. It's ok. I'm a big girl now. And he's dead.
I don't resent him any more. I actually forgave him a year before he died... though I never really told him to his face.
I put myself in his shoes... and I know his childhood was fucked up as well... at least what he let us in on. He was robbed of his childhood the moment his dad died and he had to become the man of the house at the age of eleven. On my bad days I'll judge him for stealing MY innocence... but I just... have to take a deep breath and... forgive.

I take steps to try and bust through my walls:
If someone compliments me, instead of immediately thinking "Shut the fuck up!" or "BULLSHIT!" I'll smile.
When a random guy decides to sit close to me... possibly come into physical contact with me, I don't immediately scream "DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!"
It's a very slow process.

But still... reading about this young girl... seeing how it all ended... broke me.
No one deserves that shit. No one.
Godspeed, babygirl.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Make it fit

For those days when I feel lost at sea, fighting to stay afloat as an anvil is attached to both my ankles, I have days like today.

It was pretty much a given that the day was going to be good when the other Mexican in the building announced it was her birthday.
FOUR co-workers brought her a cake.
I have a bitch of a time trying to remember to get A cake for myself... how the fuck does a person get FOUR? (she's awesome, plain and simple... which is plausible for this lady... or the cakes are laced with arsenic because SO MANY people want you dead... which would probably be MY case if I ever get four cakes)

I've had to prove myself to this lady because she happens to be a paranoid Mexican, who is never quite sure what other's intentions might be. I'm pretty much the same way, so I don't hold that shit against her.
Anyway, I'm not quite sure what the hell I did, but it appears I've passed her test. The lady chats me up, cracks jokes... and she's pretty chummy with me.
Well, since she had four cakes to eat, she went ahead and cut her first one at around 10AM. Red Velvet.
She walked to my cubicle and handed me the biggest slice.
Jesus Christ... this sugar's gonna fuck me up! But... I can't turn it down! I just barely got in her good graces... the moment I turn down her birthday cake is the moment I go ahead and replace that goddamn bullseye on my back... Oh! The fucking predicament!
And so, there I was, 10 in the morning, munching on a monster slice of red velvet cake.... licking every last bit of the cream cheese frosting.
I felt like a beast... but it was so good. And hey, it made the birthday girl happy (me, not so much. Ten minutes later, damn sugar rush gave me a head ache).

At work, the day seemed to be "Make AnoMALIE Giggle" day... or they all fucking read my blog or something... because every single person in the office was being freakishly pleasant to me... downright sweet. Every single person in the office made me smile.

Most memorable conversation?
I was working on a rush project with Musketeer, and we were trying to figure out if some documents were all going to fit in one binder, or if we were going to have to split the job (which would suck, because we had to copy it all three times. So, the less binders fucked around with, the better for us).
We were set on using only two binders for the job, but it appeared like maybe a third was going to have to be used.
Musketeer: Does it look like it's all going to fit in there?
I sit there, hellbent on making all the documents fit in one binder.
Me: Oh, I'll MAKE IT fit!
DudeIHaveAMildCrushOn: Now who DOESN'T wanna hear that?

It had been a minute since I had dealt with that sort of banter.
Reminded me why I like hanging out with dudes: they know how to make me laugh.

Monday, November 14, 2011

La de Rojo part 23352

(I walk into my aunt's house, dressed in jeans and a red track jacket-- representing good ol' UNLV)
Aunt: Ay, AnoMALIE! No me habia fijado que bonito te queda el rojo! (Oh, AnoMALIE! I hadn't noticed how nice you look in red)
Me: I've always been more of a Crip.
Aunt AND Mom: ???

Compliments aren't my thing. 

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Dor de Ontem

A dor de ontem é a força de hoje-- Paulo Coelho

The pain of yesterday is the strength of today.

I was going to make a massive entry for 11/11/11.
I had been looking forward to that day for... a while.
Correction: The stupid optimist in me had been looking forward to 11/11/11 since I first heard about people making wishes at 11:11 (I'm Mexican, remember? We don't do that sort of shit. We pray to multiple saints and believe others when they tell us they've seen apparitions, but we certainly don't believe in the calamity that is wishing on numbers... that's just nonsense).

I complain. I'm cynical. I'm somewhat jaded.
But I'm SO. Motherfucking. Hopeful.
And I hate it.
That hope gets me in so much trouble. That hope gets my heart pulverized. That hope embarrasses me.

I kept the entry curt. Concise. Cryptic.
The lack of capitalization was done on purpose.
The lack of a title also serves a purpose.
It can be interpreted as pleading. It can be interpreted as cynical.
It can be anything, depending on the day or time I decide to read it... even depending on the person doing the reading.
Was it a wish? Was it me blowing it off?

Know how they say telling your wish to other nullifies the wish?
The stupid optimistic girl in me sort of adhered to that rule.
But the asshole pessimist in me--AngrAmelie, remember?-- will ruin it a little:

There's a void in my soul... an ever growing, all-ingulfing chasm.
The feeling often fades, but never fully disappears.

What do you want to be when you grow up, AnoMALIE?
I want to be happy. I want to be normal.
21 years later, and that simple wish still eludes me.
What five year old asks to be "normal?" Many. And I'm one of them.
Many achieved "normal" status... but I only seemed to deviate the older I became.

The pain of yesterday is the strength of today.
Maybe if I repeat it enough times...

A stronger person may have been able to shake it all off. They might have become stronger people... but not I.
It still hurts. It still haunts. It still affects.

The pain of yesterday is the strength of today.
Maybe one day...

If dreams came true... if dreams come true: I want to be normal.
Because "happy" well... that's just not meant for me.

The pain of yesterday is the strength of today.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Please come back

I was planning on writing much more these last few days, I mean, Rafa has been in town since Thursday night (I felt so stupid, but the thought that got me through the excruciatingly long workday on Thursday was the thought "Rafa flies in at 7! Rafa flies in at 7!" Oh, how life changes when you get old). There has been more than enough action and topics of conversation had these couple of days.

  • The sushi baby on Thursday.
  • My broski's first Rebel game (my treat, in honor of Veteran's Day) on Friday.
  • The boxing match today.
  • The never-ending Penn State drama. 
  • Continuously being asked if I'm sick by various people over the weekend (it's scaring me a little).

Just to name a few.
But it's SO DAMN HARD to get on the computer!
When my day is done, all I want to do is sleep.

Now, Rafa leaves at 4:30 in the morning... and... who knows what's in store for him. All we really know is he starts his job at the Juarez consulate on Monday.

I hate how quickly life passes you by... and how reluctant I've become at recording it.
But hey... let's have a giggle, right?
I'm glad we DID have the opportunity to be goofballs for at least one minute together:
Our tribute to our godsons (The Adonis and his equally buff bro).
D will have me shot if she knows I posted this.
I wish we didn't have to grow up.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Chiquito Bonito

I was so excited to update today, but I'm SO FUCKING TIRED after a horrible-ass day.

Yesterday was awesome... and so much awesome went down, that it basically mindfucked me into being unable to express myself appropriately. Shit happens all the time.
I decided the updating would have to wait until the following day... and that day (aka, today) turned out to be fucking shit-tastic.

Now, when I'm finally at the laptop, I'm too tired to think clearly.
I guess I'll just settle for mentioning what's most prominent in my mind right now:
My godson's a fucking beast.
First kid I ever saw get breast fed.
Shit traumatized me for life.
He won the National title of his division (youth) in fitness modeling at Muscle Mania (Latin America). Pretty fucking exciting. He ended up with 6th place for Latin America... in the all-around competition.
His competition.
The dude in the middle was incredibly deluded, claiming he was robbed.
Yeah. Ok. Maybe when you get some sort of abdominal definition, kegger.
I feel I must mention it was his first competition.
...though I won't blame you if you ask "WHAT competition?"

I call him a hornet. Such a tiny waist... but look at the size of his back!
My boy is fucking beautiful.
He has his pops to thank for the face (ha... as a kid I was super shy around him--my godson's dad-- because I thought he was so freakin' good looking. I can remember thinking like this since I was like... 5), but the body? All his Ma's work... aka, my cousin... and she gets that from my grandpa. Dude was batshit crazy... but he gave his kids the legacy of a fucking rockin' body (just look at Mooney's Dad from back in the day:
you can't tell me this man isn't a freakin' stud!
He may have been shorter than a good few of the dudes in Hometown... but muscle mass was another story. That's what he looked like naturally. Dudes in my maternal side of the family are badasses, period)

Ha. Suddenly I'm no longer sleepy.
No. Yes, I am.
But let me just say it one more time:
My godson, my little guy, mi chiquito, my little piece of heart, is the motherfucking shit... and so fucking handsome... and I'm glad Latin Americans recognize it.
Just wait until you get to know him! His heart is just as gorgeous!
he's being a goofball, just FYI

Monday, November 7, 2011

Babies, GTFO!

My Saturday was spent being an adult.

I attended my ex-adopted brother's baby shower. Make sense?
It's the dude who was super incredibly chill with me a few years back, then all of a sudden lost his balls once he got in a relationship.
Well, he wound up marrying the girl who cut his balls off, and apparently it wasn't too successful of a vasectomy, because they're now awaiting the birth of their first kid.

Since I'm only resentful with certain subject, being kicked to the curb for a girl isn't TOO serious... especially if my dude friend ends up marrying the chick.
I guess they WERE serious.
The moment they try and mend fences, I'll more than gladly agree.

OK, so yeah, my ex-adopted--maybe-one-day-re-adopted brother invited D and me to the baby shower, and we agreed to attend.
We arrived three hours late to the shindig, just in time for the cupcakes and cookies, but too late for the games. Perfect, if you ask me... 'cause I fucking hate being peer-pressured into partaking in the stupid party-games of baby showers... or any party, really. Fuck that shit.

As made obvious by the photos, I was being my typical wallflower-self:
I'm a "Where's Waldo?" fan.
This would be my "Where's AnoMALIE?" entry.
"I'm wearing black..."
Clearly, I'm having the time of my life.
I love everything related to babies.
Well, not a complete wallflower, since I WAS talking to the people around me, and not just D.
(I just love how I can find all these fucking FB photos of me being a creeper! WTF?!)

After the gift-opening extravaganza, where tears were shed by the majority of the people present (babies cried because they were tired, adults cried because Ex-Adopted-Brother was crying like a baby over his mother's gift), we turned the party into... well... a party.
We cranked up the Vicente Fernandez as the "Babies, GTFO!" sign.
Once the babies were gone, we busted out the tequila, and the drinking commenced.

Some days, I just refuse to believe there's a better thing than being Mexican.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Don't try

Long post or short post today?
I've been slacking... severely. For that, I'm sorry. It's days of missed opportunities of writing something... memorable? Useful? Something like that.
It's not for lack of inspiration, it's more like... an inability to stay awake long enough to write shit up. I'm just unusually tired as of recently, so all I really want to do is pass out on my bed.

But now that I AM alert and in an unusually good mood, I'm drawing a blank.
Je ne sais pas quoi dire.

Think I'll just let good ol' Bob Marley take it form here, guys.
Happy Fall-Back! I sure as fuck enjoyed it... and I even acquired a quote from my favorite priest (yeah, I went to church today for the first time since that Bubblegum Debacle. It was the perfect day to return, too... though I made my official switch to English ONLY mass now. Sorry, Spanish, we had our 26 year run).

"Trying. Never. Works. You either DO IT or you DON'T. Don't try-- COMMIT!"- Father Dave.
(Just what I need. Admittedly, I'm a dreamer... and often get swept away by my stupid feelings and bouts with depression. I often complain when people of strong character--like my mother-- try and snap me out of my funk. They are stern with me, but it's what I need. I need someone to grab me by the collar of my shirt, shake me around... and if need be, even slap me once or twice. I need that strong, authoritative presence in my life to keep me walking upright and not doubled over in defeat. This priest's words were just that... the metaphorical slap to my face)

Oh yeah, back to Bob Marley.

Friday, November 4, 2011


Friday night.
Time for some laughs, right?
I mean, I've been extremely aggressive recently... especially yesterday. As I was driving out of the gym, some asshole dude in a BMW was tailgating me as I was trying to pull out of the parking, then he honked at me for not taking a U-turn at the moment HE wanted me to, to which I responded with looking back and flipping him off.
Once we both did our U-turns, he did the tailgate shit again, and when he was going to pass me, a car got in his lane, so I sped up.
I can be a cunt right back, you son of a bitch.
SO he almost crashes, but maneuvers his way out of the trap only to speed off... all to no avail, because the streetlight turns red on him. I get right behind him, turn on my high beams, and arrange my car far enough so my lights hit his side mirror in the right spot where he's getting blinded.

It's behavior like that which one day will get me killed...
(Funny enough, a couple of minutes prior to that incident was when I penned a new nickname for myself as I kicked and punched my way through kickboxing class: AngrAmelie. I was laughing for the rest of class and up until that fucking asshole driver pissed me off. The sound of the nickname is so close to "acromegaly" that I couldn't control myself and I'd find myself chuckling to myself, like a total mental patient)

ANYWAY, since I'm aggressive, and I want to cut that shit out... and it's Friday... I'll mention something from last week that is/was quite mortifying to me, but hilarious to Mom and Sister when I let them in on it.
I'm always game for making fun of myself... so I'll write it here.
Plus, I want to get this shit out in the open just so the embarrassment will quit haunting me:

Day- Saturday, October 29th.
Place- The Gold Coast Casino ballroom (I think that's the spot? It's that place right across from The Palms).
Occasion- Pacemaker's cousin's wedding.

Part I.
So, last week's wedding was a trip... as I'm sure everyone can guess.
Sister and I made a very uncomfortable splash because the majority of Hometown was present. They hadn't seen us in a while, like... possibly over a year... so, when they saw us,

Baby Sis got that posing shit on lock!
She's precious!
Me? Not so much.
Dig all that mess in the background?
In my defense, it belongs to pretty-girl D. It's her room.
they kind of freaked out.
Most were very kind and would go so far as to touch us.
Many had this look on their face... where their eyes sparkled and shit. Those kind of broke my heart, because I could see the sense of... admiration/happiness they had in seeing "Wow, she actually FINALLY did it... she's not fat anymore!" It felt strange to know all I had to do to garner their approval was to drop weight. Very strange/uncomfortable/sad.
I'm sweet. I'm funny. I'm smart... but what catches your admiration is my ability to fucking drop 50 pounds in 6 months? WHAT. THE. FUCK?!
Anyway, point is: there was a TON of attention being given to Sister and me.
It was like being on a reality show, where people are checking your every move.

I'm socially awkward... to a damn near unfathomable degree... but I was trying SO HARD to act confident. Happy. Comfortable. NORMAL.
The biggest test came when it was dinner time. Buffet style.
I had to stand in line for about fifteen minutes... answering questions, "gracefully" accepting compliments from the Hometowners... staying straight and not slouching.
That test I passed with flying colors.
I also passed the "serve yourself" portion of the test. I thought I'd surely fuck up right there because I'm clumsy as they come. I trip on some of the most impossible shit... like a spilled pea or something of that ridiculously stupid nature. I also often tremble like a fawn when in public... you know... that whole social anxiety shit of mine... I thought maybe that would kick in and I'd turn all Parkinson's as I'd be in the middle of serving myself some of the chicken marsala... that would ultimately end up on my dress... or worse yet, on the person next to me's dress.
But NO, NONE of that happened! I even managed to serve myself half a plate of steamed ASPARAGUS! That glorious vegetable! And none of it--not even the tasty juices-- ended up on the floor (uh... ok, maybe that's a half-truth... since one of the times, when I cut my asparagus and placed it on my fork, in my... child-like enthusiasm, I kiiind of missed my mouth and the asparagus fell to the floor. It's scientifically proven that I can NEVER be a smooth operator)!

No... the horrible incident happened the moment I reached my table with my goodies.

Part II.
So... recently, for some unknown reason, I've been excessively salivating (like how I try to keep it classy and not just say "Lately I've been HELLA drooling, dude!").
I'm sure you all now know where this is headed...
Smart people would probably hypothesize that I'm drooling because of my change in diet. I've had to tweak that shit so my metabolism doesn't fry or get too accustomed to my meals. It's a way to kick that motherfucker in its side to keep it on its toes, so to speak.
When I see food that really appetizes me, my mouth goes crazy. A totally new phenomenon for me.
I always joke about drooling... especially when I refer to a dude I find very attractive... I joke about him making my mouth water and whatnot, but of course it's a lie. I've never been able to drool over food (unless it was Tabasco sauce... even the smell of that shit has made my mouth water since I was a toddler)... because I apparently fucked up that part of my brain in middle school when I thought anorexia sounded like a good idea.
But recently, I've caught myself swallowing an abnormal (for me) amount of saliva.
If there's food in sight, I need to be careful before I speak, because I don't want to spray any innocent folks standing within spitting range.

I guess social anxiety makes me forget important shit... like SWALLOW YOUR FUCKING SPIT, YOU ANIMAL!

Part III.
I arrive at my table at the reception, second only to my sister.
Everyone is still in the buffet line, except for the family sitting at the table directly in front of me.
Ohhhh... you should know where this is going by now, or else we can't be friends...
I start fiddling with my silverware, trying to make room for my salad plate, AND my dinner plate. There are so many fucking forks, and knives, and glasses everywhere, but not room for my damn plateS!
The Universe, yet again plotting against me! I can't hold TWO fucking plates for too long before something eats shit and I make an ass of myself! MOOOOVE these fucking glasses and forks out of my fucking wayyyy!
As much as The Universe tried fucking up my day by putting that new little too-many-glasses-and-silverware trap in my way, I kicked it in the balls and set both of my plates on the table without any stains, or dropped food, or injuries to me or third parties.

Then I committed the fatal mistake... of sneaking a triumphant glimpse at my plate of asparagus as I was pulling out my chair to take a seat.
My head was bowed, looking to make sure I wasn't sitting on anything (terrible habit a girl acquires when raised with a bunch of mischievous boys who like to fuck around with ketchup packets, tacks, and other sharp/sticky object), and that's when it happened:
An ENORMOUS amount of drool escaped my mouth... and landed on my seat.
What did I do? What any other human does when they do something stupid/embarrassing/incriminating which can be used for decades for blackmailing purposes: I looked around to make sure no one saw.
DID anyone see?
I sure fucking hope not.
I made eye-contact with one of the girls at the table in front of me... and I gave her my best "YOU SAW NOTHING HERE. YA GOT ME, BITCH?" look.
Poor thing, I'm sure she didn't see shit other than me giving her a menacing scowl... as I wiped my seat with the cloth napkin in my hand.
It took me about two minute to compose myself. I was busy trying not to burst out in maniacal laughter, 'cause that's what I do when mortified. I was also finding it hilarious that no one had just witnessed such a potentially traumatizing event in my life.
Here I just drooled all over my seat like some Saint Bernard, at a wedding, and NO ONE saw! Not even D, whose sitting INCHES away from me! AHAHAHAHA!

I took a deep breath, waited until the last person at my table took his/her seat, and then proceeded to eat my drool-inducing asparagus.

I then took a potty break and released the asparagine-laden nuclear waste known as post-asparagus-piss...

Universe: 75687120
Me: 0

Wednesday, November 2, 2011


Today's song of the day was "Total Eclipse of the Heart."
I knew how to pick THAT one out of all the songs these men decide to sing around me.

The work environment isn't getting any better.
I find myself mindlessly staring at the computer and robotically going about the documents.
It's the only way I can work without suffering an anxiety attack. I'm still scared shitless of Ms. Catty though she has been VERY kind to me these last two days, even referring to me by my family's nickname for me (while the nickname itself is pretty popular for various names, I don't adhere to it much... mainly for the same reason. If I turned around each time I heard a name that ended in the sound "Me," I'd go fucking crazy).
I'm apprehensive about her kindness because it's usually when mean people plan their final blow... that short, calm in the eye of the storm... them BAM! Your head gets severed.

AH, GOD! I'm sorry, guys! I wish I could do better, but I'm just so exhausted and sad and... fucked up, I can't continue.
I hope things get better and I have time to clear my head and work on something interesting... or at least funny... but for now, I really need to sleep.