Saturday, December 31, 2011

Arrivederci!

Sums up my feelings to perfection:
Fuck. You.

2012, let's make it a good year.
Resolution time?
Sure, why not:

  1. I will work on my road rage-- curbing it, that is.
  2. No more barking at people... it's fucking ugly.
  3. I WILL bench 150! (I tried while in Chicago, and I left a little "forget me not" on Coconut's concrete basement floor... from where the plates hit full speed when I tossed that shit off me. SO embarrassing)
  4. I will squat in the big boy room at the "scary gym."
  5. I will not fear carbs. They are my friend. They are my friend. They are my friend.... yeah, not working.
  6. I'll smile at least once a day. THAT I can try.
  7. I'll make... two new friends. Lowballing the number because I doubt I'll interact with others much this year, though I enjoy this task (even if it initially intimidates the fuck out of me). I love "how I met you" stories... mainly because other's stories of how they met ME start with "I thought you were a bitch." Always pleasant to hear.
  8. I'll talk. At least... I'll try... for at least half an hour.
  9. I'll smile at minimum two strangers a month. This I find fun, because it's rad to see their face change with delight. It's cool.
  10. I'll master the basic pistol (THIS shit right here:  It renders me speechless. I doubt I'll ever be that gracefully strong. Sheesh)
  11. I'll be less cynical. Not less sarcastic... ok, maybe just a little... a little less sarcastic.
  12. I will not waste a single day laying in bed, sleeping my life away. I did that shit four times this year. That's fucking four times too many.
  13. I will forgive without resentment... and I'll trust without... paranoia.
  14. I'll be a sweetheart at the gym. I'll forgive the stupid newbies who invade my space... or I'll just give them a gentle nudge with my weights to let him/her know there's more to come if they don't get the fuck out of my way.
  15. I. Will. Not. Scream.
I think that's all I can really commit to right now. That's a shit-ton of resolutions... which can all melt down to this: I'll be nicer, I'll be happier, and I'll forgive... and I'll keep beasting.

Con todo, 2012! 'amonos!

Friday, December 30, 2011

The mean year

I always mention this, because it's certainly true in my case: you learn something new every day.
Now, I could make a list of every single new thing I learned this year, but who the fuck would want to read that? Not I, that's for sure. So, I'll try to keep it short... only mention the more prominent shit.

Things AnoMALIE learned in 2011:
* I don't take rejection well.
Yeah. That was a lovely lesson. I should add that I only react poorly when my heart is fully involved. I really wanted this grad school shit... REALLY, not only because it's my true love, but because it was my last ticket out of here. My last ticket to freedom.
Seeing that shit vanish in the matter of a few minutes destroyed me. My wings were clipped.

*Carbohydrates are your friend.
This one too comes with a disclaimer. Complex carbohydrates are my friend... in small amounts. See, carbs are my number one foe... because the moment I chomp on some bread... some beautiful, delicious, wonderful bread... I burst at the seams.
However, the moment I delete carbs from my diet is the moment I start head hunting motherfuckers.
I hate complicated relationships. And I love cupcakes. And I hate people.

*Life does not get better when you lose weight.
In fact, I'd say it gets worse.

*I'm hell of bitter and mean.
Yo. We all know this... but this year even I would take a step back and think "Holy shit, AnoMALIE, that wasn't cool. Chill!" Terrible.

*I love painting!
I had never tried canvas, and duuuuude! I was missing out! I fucking love this shit!

*I will never enjoy taking off, or landing, when in an airplane.
That shit always gets me nervous. I always think the damn plane will explode. This year, I boarded so many damn planes, I was constantly worrying... about the plane exploding... and about possibly suffering an embolism from a blood clot.  This or that, dude.

*Losing your faith... sucks.
That's all I'll say about that.

* I have lost the battle with Bachata. 
This year solidified my fucking fascination with that shit. It's hard to accept, due to my downright hatred of the genre... since I first hear of it back when I was 15. Eleven years to warm up to something... Eh, I'll take it. I give props where props are due, and this genre has some great singers... and their stupid little corny love (wow, enough adjectives there, AnoMALIE? I'd always get busted for that shit, and I'm finally understanding why. But I can't help it) lyrics are sometimes very touching. There. I said it.
Currently, I'm addicted to this song, and each time it comes on the radio (so I have yet to FULLY give in to the point of actually PURCHASING bachata music... though I have transferred a track or two off D's library into my phone) I nearly go deaf from cranking up the volume.

 That song is so gorgeous (shit, even the people IN the video. I don't swing that way, but Romeo's chick is fucking beautiful... I definitely wouldn't mind looking like her. Then there's Romeo and Usher-- I've always had a thing for those two). "Trying to be calm but my chest keeps pounding, Try to swim but it’s like I’m drowning…" fuck yeah, count me in!

*Lift. Heavy.
ROAR!

*If you smile and bat your eyelashes at a dude... he'll usually help you out.
Solid. Took me damn long enough to learn this.

This list is long enough. I'm tired and my nose is running (TMI? I don't give a shit).

Name for this year?
2011: The MEAN Year!

Fuck you, man. Good riddance.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Paaaatron

I like his smile. It makes my igloo of a heart melt. It's so symmetrical and pretty... his smile, not my igloo-heart, that shit's pretty mangled by now--my heart. Actually, I don't think I ever saw him not smiling... well, at least never with a scowl... I think? I don't know... it's been a while... a long long while... like, a "while" that makes me think "why the fuck... are you still talking about this dude's smile, retard?"
I don't know... but DUDE! He had dimples. Has? I don't know about those tense shifts... it's not like he's dead... or as if dimples disappear... then again, I probably say it because in my memory, he has dimples... and maybe in real life they're not as pronounced as they appear in my mind.
You know what I DON'T remember? His voice. It's like... I'm watching a silent film the entire time he pops into my head. I don't think I'd be able to pick it out in a crowd, his voice... you know, how some people's voices make your erector pili go crazy the second you hear it? Eretor pili... now there' a word I never thought I'd be using ever again. Erector pili. Mmm... histology, why weren't more classes like you?
I liked his skin, too... on him, of course. None of this crazy "Silence of the Lambs" type bullshit (oh man, or one of my friend's short stories, not calling it bullshit, just saying whenever I mention skin I freak out a little... because I'll always remember her story about making "skin cookies." The thought made me laugh... but each time I think too in-depth about skin, I think of baking human skin in an over, in the shape of stars--why stars? I don't know-- and then offering others a "skin cookie." It's a trip. Each time you see me shudder at the sight of a Proactiv commercial, know THAT crossed my mind). No, no, I mean... I remember it being pretty flawless... and pretty. He was a very pretty dude... even if I hate referring to men as "pretty," it's quite emasculating, right? But I mean... sometimes you find guys that strike you as... very pretty... like a well-lit crystal-glass display at Macy's.... you just have to stop and stare... probably while initially holding your breath. Can I touch it?!
And he was tall... I think? I think I had to tilt my head up a bit to talk to him... I think? Oh man... they make supplements for faulty memories, right? I need to get on that... the supplements, that is. But yeah, I can't tell you how tall he was, I just remember it was like... Goldie Locks... like when she finds Baby Bear's stuff. Just right, dude. No need to change a fucking thing, man... about his height or anything, man.
And when he'd talk, he'd always put his hands in his pockets... all endearing and shit... doing that shoulder shrug thing... all cute... and distracting.
I have this really vivid memory of bumping into him after this wretched Biochemistry exam. I recall what I was wearing... because I remember feeling like an idiot-- red tank with black over-shirt (because I've always dressed like a damn Mexican Mormon), and my most loathed pair of pants EVER because they were so light in color. I don't even know why the fuck I purchased those hideous pants. But guess where they are now, these pants? In my closet in Mexico, where I leave my clothes to die... preferably by getting ingested by huge, gross rats that break into the house. Fuck those pants, man. Anyway, I was walking out of the building, fighting back tears because I knew I fucked up on the test... then boom, right in front of me, there he was. My exasperation over my inability to recall the four codons for valine (or whatever other stupid amino acid it might have been) vanished as soon as I recognized who the dude removing his earphones to start talking really was. !@#$%^&! STUPID STUPID STUPID STUUuuu... Hhhhhhi... It made my day. It always did. It always does? Yeah. It still does.

Why don't I feel like that with other dudes? Why can't I think that highly about other dudes?
I'm going to be a fucking nun, aren't I?
Shit.


Someone had some late night patron shots with her mother...
I'm sure I'll have a great morning.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

When Psycho Ex-Girlfriends Attack

It appears I did not receive the memo on today being the day of "Attack of the Psycho Ex-Girlfriends."
No, not MY ex-girlfriends, considering I'm straight... I'm talking the exes of dudes I'm friends with.

The first one isn't really an "attack," but it's still weird as shit.
Guess who's coming to town tomorrow...
Yes. Heather. MGH's ex- girl... who... apparently isn't that much of an ex because they settled their differences on Christmas via heartfelt e-mail and subsequent video-chat.
Sheesh... people don't change. I'm glad I'm not in that dysfunctional yo-yo of a relationship anymore.
Anyway, the lovely Miss Heather will be in town tomorrow, and she decided to message me on Facebook and ask to hang out.
Fuck my ass! You fucking serious?!
I, being the sweet imbecile I am, agreed. I did it out of kindness and also because a few months back, when she was still the legit girlfriend of MGH, I told her I'd show her around whenever she came to town. I'm a girl of my word.. so... I agreed.
So uh... yeah... anyone wanna join me? Pretty please? Puh-leeze? I don't want to do it alone. How fucking awkward would it be? Plus, I need someone who will check me in case I start drinking too much... 'cause we all know what happens when AnoMALIE drinks too much... I turn into Coconut and my filter vanishes.
DUDE! I HATED you so fucking bad when I first met you! You and your stupid freckles... your lanky appendages... you reminded me of a marionette... or Popeye's Olive Oyl! I actually called you that for a few months! And that "strawberry blond" hair that looks more like it belongs on a Cocker Spaniel than a human... But you're soooooo cool now! You're funny!
Christ. My stomach is churning just at the thought of making that much of an ass of myself.
It does feel good knowing she's not scared of me taking her to the ghetto and selling her organs in the black market... though I'm sure her organs would be useless since she has such a bad drinking problem. Girl drinks like a fucking fish.
But don't worry, I'M not a psycho ex-girlfriend... so no harm will be done to the girl. I'll be the only one hurting as I show her around and get... drunk under the table (?).

The second scenario IS an example of a fucking psycho ex-girlfriend.
This chick is Berkeley Math Major's ex. Now THAT bitch is crazy. She's a bio major... if that helps explain the issue (yes, I understand I was a bio major, but that only means I KNOW what this bitch is all about).
I was minding my own fucking business when I suddenly got a message from her. The message was your typical psycho message from a stranger-- lots of punctuation marks, particularly question marks and exclamation points... and that thing psychos do where it appears their Shift key is stuck on their keyboard... ALL CAPS.
I still don't understand where she's coming from. I don't know what that's all about... so I just shrugged it off and ignored it.
I'm still a little scared that she'll get crazier on me... but if push comes to shove, I'm screen shot-ing that shit and showing BMM... or I'll just head up to the bay to handle some fucking business.
...
Write ME a threatening, psychotic Facebook message... shit... go back to your fucking Orgo book and learn your fucking mechanisms, twat.

Girls are fucking crazy.
God bless straight men who willingly put up with that shit.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

2011: The good, the bad, the WTF IS THAT SHIT?!

Ah, 2011... you're close to coming to an end. What... you have like... four more days or some shit to wreak as much fucking havoc as possible before 2012 knocks you off your podium?
It's bitter sweet... because I fucking hate you... so I'm sort of stoked to see you go... but then... that means it'll be 2012 and I turn a year older. Christ.

So here, as a nice goodbye, I'll list what I'll miss about 2011, and what I'll be more than happy to never encounter again.

The Good
I'm digging deep here... not much "good" can be taken out of this godforsaken year.
What most sticks out at me is the travel... the wonderful, remarkably fun travel.
For the first time in ten years, I did not step foot in Mexico, and I thought this was going to be shitastic.
But I was proven wrong (apparently the theme for this year-- proving me WRONG).
I dillydallied in the East Coast quite often, even hitting DC twice in three months.
There was also the dreamy New York trip. It feels so hazy in my memory... like it never really happened... because I had so much fun. It was one of the few times my heart "felt full."
There was Jersey... which, well, that too was interesting... even if I felt inadequate as FUCK the majority of the time (imagine that... feel inadequate in JERSEY).
There was Atlanta... even if that's considered the south... it touches the motherfucking Atlantic, so I'm calling it the EAST Coast. Anyway, it was a short trip, but it was some of the best hours of my fucking life.
Mmmmm... travel. You were good.

I'll also consider my... I really need to find a good phrase for this... one that won't make me feel stupid or corny or lame or trite... you get the idea. Let's just call it... oh god, I feel retarded... let's not give it a name. Let's just say "the obvious." The "Oh shit, AnoMALIE's smaller!" subject.
This one's "good" because, while it upset me to see people's treatment of me change, it made ME happy.
I now have a new life. Many consider it tasteless or bland... but I consider it healthy, fun, and exciting (yeah, exciting. Not only do I love the physical changes, but reading labels and noticing the shit people ingest kind of gives me a rush... it boggles my mind and trips me out. HOLY SHIT! 26 GRAMS OF SUGAR FOR ONE SERVING?! WHAT THE FUCK?!).

Dude! I also had a fucking job for the first time in my life! That was good... even if the end was... well... something...

The Bad
I'm a grouch.
It has gotten pretty bad. My fuse is nearly non-existent. My road rage... holy shit, my road rage is out of this world.
This new-found grouchiness (don't get me wrong, I've been moody my entire life, I have plenty of proof to back me up there) even turns me off, but it's SO fucking hard to chill out. I have no clue how I'll fix this... since my first thought--doing some yoga-- is a no go, because I'm too cynical for yoga. I laugh the entire time... laugh and scoff... which is so disrespectful to those who DO enjoy yoga... I'd rather not be anywhere near to make THEM feel bad (I'm a cunt, but I really do remain quite considerate of those around me. It's a strange, probably schizophrenic type deal).

ANYWAY, I'm fucking losing patience here, let's just get to:
The WTF IS THAT SHIT?!
(I swear, that was not intentional... it just happened that way... like my numerous accidental puns.
I'm just tired, and this post is taking forever to type... and my mind is wandering all over the fucking place. I just want to finish)
The obvious thing in this section is the rejection letter drama.
Obviously.
I seriously underestimated how long I'd be reeling from that shit.
It looks so easy to recover from that shit in the movies. The rejectee goes off on some soul-searching trip where he/she finds the love of his/her life, as well as a brand new passion for life... and BAM! end of your movie! WHY ISN'T IT WORKING OUT THAT WAY?! Oh yeah... because it's ME we're talking about. My shit has NEVER worked out. We all know that, let's not get delusional now.
I grieved that shit like the death of a close family member.
I'm still a little shaky about it. I still prefer not to talk about it. At all.
And so... it has clearly affected me this year. Absolutely. Completely.
It changed me mentally, emotionally (as in... my SOUL... as in... I NO LONGER HAVE A SOUL), physically... I'm just... a different human being.

Heavy shit.

Will I ever go back to being ME? I doubt it.
All I want to know is: Where the fuck am I going to go from here?
Je ne sais pas.
Sepa la puta bola.
I have no fucking clue.

I can say this, though:
2012... CHECK YO'SELF! None of this fucking "End of the World" type bullshit. NO. You fucking owe me. You can't go off and end without letting me know what THE FUCK "happiness" is. You just can't. Cause I swear... I will... fucking find a way to come back and... I WILL BE HAPPY, DAMN IT!

Please?
Pretty please?

Monday, December 26, 2011

2.5 VS 1.5

Well, now that Christmas 2011 is a thing of the past, looks like we have to move on with New Years.
I'm debating what I'd like to do.
Month by month recap?
Quarterly recap?
No recap?
A survey?
The possibilities are endless.

Since I went ahead and dug up last years "resolution" entry, I'll go ahead and assess my... failure?
First, the part of last year's entry that mentioned some sort of resolution:
During the dinner, we all started talking about resolutions, and more than half of us were of the "FUCK LOVE!" crew. I even blurted out "Fuck it, I'm getting married to the first fucker that asks this year! I'm done!" but I blamed that shit on the Agavero. Marriage... pshhhhhhhh! In all reality, I haven't even thought of resolutions. I never really follow through... like that one year I swore boys off (not that I was going to start seeing girls. I just meant no relationships), I broke that one off within days and I paid DEARLY for it. So... no resolutions so far. Maybe just... less thinking about boys and more thinking about school. Simple enough, right? Blaaaaaah. I also resolve to be more of a girl. This tomboy shit is starting to bug me. And maybe I'll talk to Darcy about something other than Cristiano Ronaldo being a dick... and I'll quit being so sarcastic and full of "HA-HA!"s when writing back... I don't know why I do that. On the physical aspect... I guess I can gun for a 150 bench-press (here I go talking shit no one wants to read). I've been meandering in the 100's like a chump for too long (last week one of my friends accompanied me, and when she saw what I was lifting, she gave me that "Ughh... muscles on girls are so gross" talk. I just laughed... 'cause this was coming form a girl whose high school sport was bowling... get out of here)... and I'll work on keeping my thighs under control, 'cause I'll be the first to admit that with those bitches, along with my ass, I could have saved all 87 members of the Donner Party that tragic winter of 1800-whatever.
Umm... where to start? The first part of the entry would be good, I suppose. Brace yourselves, this is gonna be a long one.
The relationship thing.
I might as well have sworn off relationships this year. This year has definitely, without a doubt, been the... emptiest of my life.
It's not because of a lack of boys... this year was full of strange dudes coming into my life. I can't act like that shit wasn't fun... because it was (often times, I find myself bringing up that DC memory of me walking down the rainy sidewalk with T. It was... pretty fucking sweet. And the Berkley Math Major is... he's tight. I like that kid... he calls me "cute" and I mean... no one has called me "cute" since I was in 5th grade. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside).
I just... couldn't connect. My head and heart would refuse to accept anyone.
Part of it was due to my Darcy block, but this time around it was largely due to school, actually... because I was "too focused" on what was going on with that shit.
My heart had zero interest in finding a guy after my world had been blown to smithereens by the March rejection letters. So... I kinda followed through with that first part of my resolution... in the worst possible way.
AnoMALIE: 1 World: 0

"Be More of a Girl" thing.
Not really... though I do wear more colors now... and I paint my nails often. I also hell of follow through with my nightly face-washing routine. I have that shit on lock.
But I definitely have to step up my game when it comes to wearing dresses... and lipstick... and enjoying "girl time." I guess this is a half-fail.
AnoMALIE: 1.5 World: 0.5

"Talk to Darcy about something other than Cristiano Ronaldo being a dick" etc. thing.
This is... I guess I'll consider it a fail. I don't really talk to him at all now. Well, more like... he doesn't really talk to me, at least not how he used to.
Since I hate being that girl, I'll say something, and if he doesn't respond (which is probable) I try not to harp, much less dwell on it (easier said than done). I don't want to be that annoying pest who never shuts the fuck up. All I can ever think of is that saying in spanish "al buen entendedor pocas palabras" which is basically saying you need to use few words with those who "understand." As in, your actions speak louder than words. You can't force someone to like you... this ain't no "Misery" shit... no bricks and sledgehammers needed.
It just sucks to note how you're like that attention starved mutt at the pound, trying to get adopted, only to see the humans go for the cuter breeds with some rad pedigree (fuck you, Yorkies!).

I always have to remind myself to shut the fuck up and back down whenever I happen to direct something at him... which I won't lie, bums me out... it feels like when I was a kid playing in the backyard and our ball would fall into the grumpy next-door-neighbor's yard. The moment the ball made its way over the fence, we all knew that shit was a goner, so we just had to suck it up and go find something else to do with our time.
He may or may not get irritated by me... he may or may not be (ah, who the fuck am I kidding, he is) indifferent to me... but... my heart still flutters at the mere sight of his name. He's still the motherfucking shit. He'll always be Darcy.

He did show sweet sympathy the day my world collapsed. After reading what he wrote, it did make me stop crying for about ten seconds... then I proceeded to cry even harder because I felt like an even bigger fucking stupid idiot.
GREAT! Now Darcy knows what a fucking loser you are! Congratulations, AnoMALIE, you fucking stupid idiot!
So there's that. I guess it's what keeps this resolution from being a terrible failure.
AnoMALie: 1.5 World: 1.5

And finally...
The physical aspect.
I've stayed away from this subject... though I have various drafts saved up in this bitch. I just don't have the heart to post them... because they embarrass the shit out of me. I avoid the subject because I feel shame and disgust and sadness... with some pride and joy.... it's all a fucking wide array of feelings that generally mess me up.
Like I've stated before, I wasn't thinking about my resolution the moment I decided to embark on this trip. I was thinking of DYING. I no longer had any will... desire... to live. I did not care to see another day.
Then my body changed. I started to get curious about the possibilities... gave me another reason to see a few more days... you know, just to see what could happen... and to try and get accustomed to the changes (it wasn't until recently that I stopped bumping into walls because my brain couldn't properly gauge the size of my frame).
I gained some muscle once I started to love what I saw... but that took time... enough time to find a reason to live. No, seriously. I found purpose to wake up in the morning thanks to the gym. Had that shit not been available... I don't know if I'd still be breathing today.
In the words of Daft Punk, I'm harder, better, faster, stronger...
It's cold as fuck outside, but I still roam around the house in a wife beater...
because I like to flaunt my trap and delts...
like some dude.
with a ton of room for improvement, which actually excites the shit out of me.
I definitely improved from last year. Last night, we were all sitting down watching the video from Coconut's September 2010 Quinceañera.
At first we were all giggling, cramping up from laughing so hard... then D and I ended up crying. Sis thinks SHE looked bad... but I was three times worse. I had to look away after about ten minutes of watching myself... because it was painful. Painfully embarrassing. D and I were so upset, we got emotional and started to cry.
Imagine... this was me exactly a year ago... even with me lifting heavy and hitting the gym four to five times a week, religiously:
I will beat the fucking shit out of anyone who mocks this.
It embarrasses me SO bad... so fucking bad. Just check out how that old yarn bracelet fit me back then:
Christ. This is so embarrassing.
And to top it off, an ant just bit me as I wrote this.
It was starting to cut off my circulation, where I'd have to place it on my ballerina wrist so that it wouldn't hurt me (I could balloon to 400 pounds and my wrists would still be useless skinny pieces of shit that would simply break under the tremendous pressure. How the hell such skinny stupid wrists made it evolutionarily-speaking is fucking beyond me. That trait should not have propagated that successfully... but I guess they do look classy while playing the violin... I give them that... those stupid dainty wrists).
Today, that same bracelet nearly wriggles off my much bonier ballerina wrist:
Oh man! And that wonderful watch, while I adore it, gave me the most atrocious bruise on Friday!
It definitely wasn't made for clapping hands.
I walked out of the basketball game with a bruised hand from where the watch would bang up against my skin/vein each time I'd go crazy with a play.
So, physically, I've never been better, seriously, NEVER... unless you consider me at like... toddlerhood to third grade... back in my jump-roping, tag-playing days.
My skin is also far better than it has ever been (although I do have the occasional puffy eyes from crying like the pussy that I am. I'll also have dark circles under my eyes from time to time).
So physically, 2011 was my fucking year. I spanked that ass.

Sentimentally/emotionally, I've never been worse. I've never reached such terrifying lows.
I've never been physically paralyzed by sadness as I have this year. I always thought that was a fucking lie. Fucking impossible. Made up for the movies.
I felt things I never thought were possible... dark, evil... terrible things.
I thought things I never... that I never wanted to ever think.
I am FUCKED. UP.
Sentimentally/emotionally, 2011 fucked me up... fucked me up real good... placed-me-in-a-coma type good.

According to my calculations, how'd I fare for 2011?
AnoMALIE: 2.5
World: 1.5

It sure didn't feel like that. Not. At. All.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Welcome to my nightmare

Since it's Christmas, and I'm in a giving mood, I've decided to post twice today.

I finally have time for myself. Time to just sit quietly in my room... in silence. Silence is so underrated.
I love my family and everything, but constantly being expected to entertain... to talk... that's just asking too much from me. I enjoy being in the company of others, I love feeling them near, but please don't make me talk OR listen to their incessant chatter (don't get me wrong, I like some chatter... as long as you give me a minimum of an hour to myself. Just a little hour of not saying a DAMN thing, that's all I ask).
Quiet air is good air. Too much noise just confuses my poor little brain.

My brain is further jumbled up due to the fact that I'm currently helping a few people with their emotional issues... emotional, romantic issues. ME, helping THEM. The blind leading the blind, son.
I'm baffled as to why anyone would want to hear my thoughts on such topics, but hey, I'll add my two cents... which are usually along the lines of "Please don't do that... don't be that psycho." I suppose I'm good at spotting psychotic behavior... but hopefully not because I'm THAT fucking neurotic weirdo freaking men out... though I suspect I AM... I mean, I AM that 26-year-old virgin... I didn't get there by being your average chick.

Anyway, changing the topic and before I leave, here's my little gift to you:

You have to watch it ALL. ALL OF IT, you hear me?

It's a new dance craze sweeping the Mexican youth. This shit has given me nightmares. To say I'm appalled would be... the politically correct term.
The dancing and attire are FUCKING STUPID... but the music... I have to admit... I like the goddamn music. Yeah, I hate myself a little more for admitting that just now.
God, have mercy.

I hope you all had a terrific day.

Por los arboles, los pajaros, y el sol

Quiero darte las gracias, mi Señor, Por el don que me das cada mañana, - Por los árboles, los pájaros y el sol, Por la lluvia que azota en mi ventana.  Quiero darte las gracias, mi Señor, Por los niños que encuentro en mi camino, - Por sus ojos que no saben de rencor,  Por la gracia que tras ellos adivino. Quiero darte las gracias, mi Señor, Cada noche al terminar un nuevo día,  - Por mi madre, por el pan, por el amor, Por las penas que son fuente de alegría. Gracias, muchas gracias, mi Señor.

Back when I was in the church choir, I hated singing this song-- it made me cry.
Even as a nine year old, this song hit me. It resonated with me.
I find the prayer quite beautiful, and concise.
It can still make me cry, but for the most part, it soothes me. It's one of my favorites.
Short and sweet.
It made me learn to appreciate my time on earth-- it's so fucking limited. It's what keeps me from doing crazy shit. Granted, I still do a vast amount of crazy shit... but I'm talking stupid crazy shit... stupid, irreversible shit.
It helps me forgive the ones I hate, and love even harder the ones I DO love.

I may have stupid fuckers in my family, fuckers who constantly upset me with their bullshit, but I do know to take the time to value them... especially those who stick by me even when we have our stupid, petty arguments/fights/misunderstandings. My heart always races when I'm in their presence, and my face never fails to light up whenever I have the opportunity to share a giggle with them.
Who's that girl with the equine smile?
Must I always look so abnormally ecstatic?
Yep.
I adore my friends and family. I honestly would not have made it this far-- seriously-- without you guys... especially not this year. I've been lucky enough to have so many caring people in my life work at slowly and patiently reattach that smile to my big, long head.
I could not have asked for more.

Merry Christmas.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

40 MPH

These last few days have been a daze.
I'm still sick as fuck... not tummy-wise... or even mental/sentimentally, but physically.
I'm fucked up.
I'm fighting a cold... the fucking cold from hell... and I still have to be a good host to my goddaughter, since I'm the only person available for most of the day.
I don't want her to have a shit time, so I end up "manning up" by taking a shit-ton of vitamins (I even shoot a teaspoon of straight vitamin C... the absolute grosses shit ever) and hopping out of that front door.

I cough all over the place... all over the fucking tourists (today, just to be a cunt, I coughed on a French couple as I strolled down the Bellagio shops. It was my discreet FUCK YOU GUYS! NEVER FORGET! YOU'RE IN AMUUUURICA! FUCK. FRANCE. Ahhh, I'm so resentful, it's gross), and I sniffle every twenty seconds. My nose is red and dry, and my voice... it sounds like I have a bullfrog living in my vocal cords.
I'm straight GARBAGE, but I deal with it because I don't want the little coconut to complain about having a shit time in my city.

Needless to say, I'm also a little agravated. It's difficult to stay chirpy when you're forcing yourself to look and act normal... when all you want to do is stay in bed, sippin' on some hot tea and chicken soup... coughing like a motherfucker and spitting out all the disgusting, drama-causing phlegm.
Like with everyone, I'm noticing some things that bother me a bit about this goddaughter of mine. I've tried beating them out of her.

She's A LITTLE self-centered.
Her momma's a housewife... so she does everything around the house. The only thing my little coconut has to do is... wake up, go to school, go to soccer practice, do her homework, go to sleep. So... she's kinda... slightly... umm... how do I put this nicely... she's... a little useless? Um... a little lazy?
She leaves her clothes thrown all over the house-- the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the different bedrooms.
She'll also leave her used bath towels (because she uses two each day) crumbled in the corner of the bathroom... or sink... but ALWAYS crumbled into a very wet ball.
She'll leave all appliances turned on... even her straightening iron.
It's... quite obvious what her mom does for her... because the coconut won't do those activities (seriously... not turning off appliances? That's dangerous! Do it for your OWN safety, homegirl).

My little coconut also lacks a filter when speaking.
Yesterday, as we were all enjoying a family dinner at the kitchen table, she started talking about dolphin facts.
Coconut: Oh my god! I learned SO much about dolphins last year! Like... SO MUCH!
Mom: Oh yeah? My favorite animal is the dolphin.
Coconut: Yeah! Like... there's this thing... called... beastAlity...
D: BesTIALity...
Coconut: Yeah, that. Where humans like to fuck animals...
Me: Oh man...
I look at dad, who has long since stopped eating.
Coconut: And like... when dolphins cum... it like... SHOOTS OUT AT 40 MILES PER HOUR!
Coconut accompanies this with hand gestures... which... I mean, I'm sure you can all imagine what it must have looked like-- her reaching for her imaginary penis, and then "shooting" cum out of it. Truly priceless, guys, just priceless.
Coconut: Imagine! Imagine if like... a human is trying to give it a blowjob!
(I had lost all control by now and was laughing so hard, I was hurting my tender little esophagus. "Blowjob" in a Chicago accent cracks me the fuck up. "Blow-J-Ahhhhh-b")
Coconut: It'll chop the person's head right off!!

Yup. Definitely my goddaughter!
This child just HAD to be mine.
She's clearly one of my people... though I'd NEVER mention blowjobs... bestiality... or any sort of sexually-related topic in front of my dad... or anyone else's dad. EVER.
(She proceeded to make today's dinner similarly eventful... by talking about diarrhea. That kid. Gotta love it)

I hope this flu goes to hell in the next few hours. I need to be in tip-top shape for at least one fucking day... you know, so I can remember it clearly whenever I want to take a stroll down memory lane.
Also, so I can take at least one decent shot with the freakin' munchkin (today, we rode one of the rollercoasters on the strip, and when we reached that one place where they show you the photo they take of you while you're on the ride, she took a glimpse of it and very loudly exclaimed "YOU LOOK FUCKIN' RETARDED, AnoMALIE!" That damn filter thing again).
Aaaand there's also the UNLV game on Friday... while I'm cool with fucking up the stupid tourists on the strip, I don't want my fellow Rebels to get sick because of my sick "retarded" ass.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Tacos de Lengua

I feel I don't say this enough:
I fucking LOVE my maternal side of the family. They're the fucking shit.

Now excuse me... I have to grovel in pain for a few hours because I have no self-control.
Mexican posadas + tacos de lengua (tongue tacos. Yo, don't knock it 'til you try it... even, if you know... you see me over here on the verge of going to the ER because I have NO SELF CONTROL and over-ate like some fucking competitive eater) + Baklava + blowjobs (the drink, obviously, considering my status and all) = moribund AnoMALIE.

Verrrrrrrrrga! Me voy a morir!

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Bye AJ

Pardon the sad post from yesterday... I had just received devastating news:
MY Backstreet Boy finally got married.
NO!!! WHY AJ?! WHYYYY?!
I was gutted.

HAHA! I kid (though, granted, I spent the majority of my middle school years daydreaming about one day marrying that crazy, facial-hair Picasso. Man forever fucked up my notion of what I find hot in a guy)!
I was sad because I was subjected to being in a crowd for a prolonged amount of time. Everyone knows that shit drains the fuck out of me (but I am sincere in identifying with the daisy. Even when I'm chirpy like right now, I know I'm the daisy).
Also, I wasn't too happy because I'm currently suffering from a sore throat. My vocal cords are all jacked... to the point where I couldn't utter a sound yesterday (what I get for making fun of Spongebob Emphysema pants the other day) and today it has that transvestite-quality to it. It's hot.

But enough of the sadness.
I'm stoked! Tomorrow I get to pick up my little coconut at the airport.
Sister and I chipped in to fly our goddaughter out here for a few days, and so... I'm glad I'll have a little 16-year-old to treat like my personal little doll.

Only thing that sucks is that I'll now have to clean every nook and cranny in the house.
Sweeeeet.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Espejismo




I was about four when I first saw that, but I clearly remember it breaking my baby heart.
Now, as an "adult," it turns out to be... pretty reflective of my own life.
No one, absolutely no one, will understand the breadth of my sorrow... of my solitude.

Un espejismo... a mirage.
Estoy sola, aislada. Siempre lo he estado.
Yo sola me hice creer que había encontrado alguien como yo... muy parecido a mi. Por mas que otros me advirtieron que solo era un espejismo... no lo quise creer.

Siempre estuve sola. Siempre lo estaré. 

Friday, December 16, 2011

Not MY foot!

In spanish, there's a saying "Les dan la mano y agarran la pata."
You give them a hand and they grab a foot.

I'm BAFFLED at how some people can be so inconsiderate... feel so fucking entitled to shit.
You try to help someone out and they fucking go overboard with their demands.
I'm helping you out! Calm your ass down, Cleopatra!

I was having a great Friday... I even made an Ugly Christmas Sweater for my sister:
I seriously underestimated how hard I was going to laugh while making this beast.
Then someone had to go off and ruin my vibe with her bullshit.
What happens when someone angers me? I lose the ability to communicate coherently.
Instead, I'll just showcase my newest infatuation.
The song I'll now lift to... possibly jump rope to:



I'm so fuckin' hood.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Don't do it, girl!

I'm getting better.
I'm even on "mood stabilizing" pills.
Who would have thought carbohydrates to be THAT fucking important in one's emotional health.
But I'll pay that price any day, over... you know... being fat and KINDA normal (now I'm just pissed all the time... but I can leg press your mother... and probably your father, too! Deal with it, World).

You know what else makes me angry? Yesterday's show.
Ok, it DOESN'T make me angry... it just irritates me... and it's in the forefront of my mind because... it was so goddamn ridiculous.
Today, we spoke about how you break it to a dude, and if you even break it to the dude.
On the show, the girls would straight up tell the date "I'm a virgin." after maybe half an hour. Then they'd go off and ask the date what their future plans looked like... the steps and amount of time they planned to take at each one and whatnot.
I sat there watching, mesmerized.
No wonder these broads are virgins...

Seriously, I've never actually vocalized my status. I've never had to. I find it akin to "I'm retarded."
If I see myself ever actually saying those dreaded words, it'd be seconds before fucking, and it'd be along the lines of "well, I apologize in advance if this sucks... but..." then we'd get over it. But this would only happen if I really liked the dude and wouldn't feel stupid about one day possibly admitting to banging him (that's where MY issue lies. I overanalyze and convince myself that I'll never forgive myself for allowing this or that dude's appendage anywhere near me. I really do treat my body like a temple... or I'm just fucking mean as hell. He has a fucking stupid-shaped head! YOU let THIS guy hit it. THIS GUY! With the stupid-shaped head! For shame! or He says "SUPPOSAVLY!" SUPPOSAVLY! Shoot yourself, AnoMALIE... you fucking idiot! You let that animal possibly, theoretically procreate with you!). It'd be my way of admitting he's pretty fucking legit.
Yo! I totally don't think you're embarrassing or stupid! And I'm totally cool with the thought of you one day possibly reproducing mini-yous! Hooray!
However, I'm not saying I've never seen this go down with someone else... the vocalization of status, that is.

In my experience, when a girl tells a dude she's part of the club, his reaction is one of two:
1. He wants to hit that. BAD. 
He will hustle that girl until he lands her. It turns into a fucked up game... that I kind of enjoy watching, because both parties entertain the shit out of me-- the dude for trying so hard and the chick for being so retarded and throwing her so called "morals" out the door. Both parties always think they're smarter than the other... when in reality, they're equally handicapped.
Most of the time, once the guy hits it, he totally quits it. And the girl goes off and becomes a huge whore... or "reclaims" her virginity... that twat.

2. He runs like hell.
I have to admit, this one used to infuriate me.
REEEEEEEELAX, you fucking asshole! You're not THAT special. Calm your ass down, you lamefuck (these accidental puns are really aggravating me, but I can't help it. This is how I really talk. It's how my brain works).
I used to think these egomaniacs needed to get punched in the face, for thinking so highly of themselves.
Yeah, you're so fucking special... I'll NEVER forget your sexual prowess. The moment you leave me, I'll be broken FOREVER! Suffer a lifetime of longing for your dick... because you will be so damn unforgettable, my love! "My love" because that's what will definitely happen after I have a taste of your penis... I'll be madly in LOVE with you! Get. Out. Of. Here.
But after watching this show, I get it.
I get you, guys, I get you.
Bitches be motherfucking crazy! Chick may try to stronghold you into marrying her... or she'll forever stare at you with that creepy, adoring, is-she-a-serial-killer? look in her eye.
Run. Run like the wind!

Ahhh, I'm in the company of greats.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Not MY diary

I've been fighting off a cold these last few days.
It fucking sucks.
I tried recuperating from the two hours of sleep by following it up the next night with 14 hours of sleep.
Big mistake.
I was even more fucked up yesterday, so I opted out of writing anything on here (but obviously not tweeting... since my phone was near me most of the time). I even opted out of gym time... and that rarely happens.

Today, I didn't put off my gym time, but afterward, I did proceed to chill the rest of the day.
Now, originally I was going to go off and rant about various gym-related topics (like how it drives me fucking crazy to see a chick punch like a fucking idiot--seriously, WHO punches as if they're holding up a tea cup? How the fuck has that ever worked out for you, homie? You will fucking lose that finger in a fight, Rocky. Or how I am insanely jealous of anyone who can pull off a pistol-- the squat, not the weapon, etc. etc.), but a couple of minutes ago, I finished watching the most... disturbing show I've had the misfortune of watching.
Not too long ago, a couple of my friends posted this video.

I watched it, of course... and felt... well... kind of sad, but I mostly laughed until I almost peed my pants... then I was just disturbed.
What... the... fuck?
But I left the thought at that. I never intended to watch the show about a bunch of virgins.

Well, today in my infinite boredom, I saw this was pretty much the only show available to view at 10pm, so I watched the hour-long program.
It was... interesting.
And did I mention disturbing? Slightly horrifying.
Christ, is this what people think of me? Oh. My. God.
At the end, they asked if anyone knew of... I think the term they used was something like "Later Virgins" who might want to "share their story" on the show.
Sister and I just stared at each other.
Hell. NO.

My thoughts on the show:
YIIIIIIIIIIKES!
1. There was a chick who called herself a "reclaimed virgin." Let me pick at that for a second.
Homegirl has fucked all seven of her previous boyfriends, but now, she has decided to "reclaim" her virginity and wait until marriage.
That's one of my BIGGEST gripes.
YOU. ARE. NOT. A VIRGIN. It voids the fucking definition (ha. Pun NOT intended).
The moment a dick penetrates you, that fucking game is over. Boom. Gone. No more virgin.
What you CAN be, my friend, is celibate. But of course, it doesn't have the same ring to it.
"Reclaiming" you virginity... get the FUCK out of here.
2. Male virgins make me frown. They make me so, so sad. I'm still frowning as I write this. Poor guys.

For the most part, all the people on the show were doing it for religious purposes (besides the guy).
I've said it multiple times, and here it goes again: I'm NOT doing it for religious purposes, I don't think it's going to be magical or any of that shit.
So this show basically made me feel like such an oddball. Maybe it's a good thing... because I swear I'm not as weird as these people. I mean, I AM weird, but not... like these people. I like weird patterns, I'm scared of random shit, I have bizarre dreams I like to share with others... and my sense of humor is... weird.
But... dear God, I certainly don't have the same kinda-crazed-look in my eyes as these folk. I'm not THAT sort of weird.
Everyone in this show was also pretty urged to fuck. They were pretty damn desperate.
In case I haven't said this enough: I'm in NO rush to fuck.
My attitude towards fucking?

Whatever dude. I'd rather just chill here and not give a shit.

I am sincerely apathetic.
Not too fun for the program... so... no thanks.

But shiiiit... those images are going to haunt my dreams for a while now.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Tooooooooot!

Today marked my 4 year anniversary of my last college class ever taken, Molecular Biology final exam... if that counts as a class.
I kind of miss it... how gross is that?

Anyway, I've been running on two hours of sleep. Two. Motherfucking. Hours.
I originally had planned to sleep for five hours, still not enough, but not as unreasonable as TWO. My plan was wrecked at one in the morning... when the fucking train that passes too fucking close to my house, decided to lay on its fucking horn... for HALF A FUCKING HOUR.
Half an hour... of a train's horn.
No, no... you don't understand. You don't understand.
It's cute when it does the "toot-toot!" sound when it passes the street crossing... but a half hour of "Tooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo(half hour of this shit)ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooot!" will make ANYONE start looking for a grenade launcher.
Once the son of a bitch conductor came back to life, or whatever the fuck happened, the tooting came to an end for about five minutes.
At around 2:15AM, the motherfucker started doing it again.
Irate. That's the word that best described me at 2:15 AM... luckily the rest of the neighborhood was onboard... a couple damn near went off to go lynch the son of a bitch.

Well.
Eventually I fell asleep, at around 3 in the morning... only to have to wake up at 5 in the morning.
It was that infamous day at church today. The mega headache, but I deal with it because I have my story... and esta morenita will always have a spot in my heart.
Freakin' kid wouldn't move out of the way.
I was going to mention more stuff... but my brain is seriously minutes away from completely shutting down.
I'm even nauseous.
Byeeeee!

Sunday, December 11, 2011

ILMSD #125342

Today was another installment of "I Love My Sister Day."

Here, a compilation of some of our conversations:

1.
Listening to Adele's CD as we drive around the city, we talk about how much we love the songs (and how her ex-boyfriend deserves a Grammy for inspiring so many painful songs). The CD gets to "One and Only."
You've been on my mind 
I grow fonder every day. 
Lose myself in time 
Just thinking of your face. 
God only knows 
Why it's taking me so long 
To let my doubts go. 
You're the only one that I want. 
Me: I fucking love this song.
Sister: Fuck yeah. It's awesome. There's just one part that pisses me off.
Me: Oh dang. "Pisses you off?" Shit. Why?
Sister: This fucking part right here...
I dare you to let me be your, 
your one and only. 
Promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms 
So come on and give me the chance 
To prove that I'm the one who can 
Walk that mile until the end starts.
Sister: You don't have to tell a guy YOU'RE "worthy." Fuck that nigga! He should already KNOW!
Me: ... Yeah.... you have a point. Fuck that shit!
Sister: "Promise I'm worthy".... get the fuck outta here!
My lovely sister, once again talking sense into my retarded head (and here, a clear example of how you can take the girls out the ghetto... and give them bachelor degrees... but you can't take the ghetto out the girls).

2.
We decided to hit Nordstrom in search for our goddaughter's Christmas gift.
We were in the shoe department, and decided on some cute little Toms.
We stood around, looking for some goddamn sales associate asshole to notice us, but they acted as if we were invisible (I fucking love that shit. LOVE IT. Fucking racial profiling snobby pieces of shit. YOU WORK RETAIL! GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, DICKFACE! But thats me going on a tangent, so let's get back to the story).
Instead of getting angry and knocking all the fucking shoe displays off the tables, I decided to make myself comfortable on their nice "leather" couches... dangling my chuck-rockin' foot off the armrest.
Sister stood, arms crossed, Tom shoe dangling on her right index finger, a second "sales associate" (aka SHOE-SALESMAN, bitch! YOU SELL SHOES FOR A LIVING! GET OFF YOUR FUCKING HIGH HORSE!) walked past her.
Sister: Do these motherfuckers work for commission here?
Me: Yup.
Sister: Mother. FUCKER! It's the fucking curly hair (she had done her hair curly, style she dislikes).
A third shoe-salesfucker passes her without acknowledging her.
Sister: I'LL TAKE ONE IN EVERY COLOR, biiiiitch!
I sit up and look around... slightly embarrassed.
Sister: How do these motherfuckers know I'm not going to go off and buy one of every style? Miss out on a massive commission. Pricks.
Me: No cuesta nada soñar (it's free to dream).

3.
Talking about nicknames. It started off by me complaining over how half the female population has my nickname (really, Mariah Carey? "Mimi?" They get "Mimi" out of "Mariah"? Shut the fuck up. Don't get me started on Mandi Moore), hence my aversion to it.
Me: You know who else's nickname I hate? Mike's.
Sister: Ugh.
Me: Seriously. How the fuck did they come up with it? How the hell do you even say it without feeling stupid? (His nickname sounds like the spanish term for "poop")
Sister: Shut up. You know what I'd feel stupid about? Writing that gay-ass Christmas card of yours.
Me: I shouldn't have listened to you and written how YOU really feel.
Dear Poopy-face,
I can't eat, sleep, laugh, talk, or shit without thinking of you... I mean, your name says it all.
You're everywhere... your six-foot-six (she corrected me on this. Originally I thought he was 6'4" but turns out I was two inches off) frame I see in everything... like doorways and graveyard undertakers.
Your ringtone ID on my phone makes everyone turn around and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. It annoys everyone and I risk getting punched in the face, but I put up with it because you're SO FUCKIN' AWESOME.
When you text me, I laugh like a hyena who has stumbled upon an abandoned, but freshly killed wildebeest carcass in the Serengeti. The Serengeti... a much warmer place than that frigid tundra known as "Chicago" that I'm so adamant about moving to this upcoming spring.
I have already named our future first five babies.
I hope they have your sleepy, radioactive-green colored eyes.
You're SO fucking hot... even when you call me all those lame, stereotypical names like "Hermosa" and "linda." From you... they sound like poetry.
You are so fucking hot.
Love you, always and FOREVER!
D! 
Sister: Fuck you.

Always a fun time with that bratty poopy-face.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Riding Unicorns

D: Hey... AnoMALIE... wannaaa.... createMike'sChristmasCardForMe?
Me: What?
D: I was wondering if you... wanna make Mike's Christmas card for me...
Me: Make it?
D: Yeah... with like... cardboard paper and stuff.
Me: ... uh...
D: And... come up and write what's gonna go in there and stuff...
Me: ...
D: It's 'cause I'm not good with creative shit... or words. You know that!

So, I guess you could say D is kinda dating that Mike guy... the one from Chicago... the one I was all bummed out about back in September of '10.
It's cute, at least to me it is.
I haven't seen D so happy. She goes around the house laughing like a little hyena most of the day, and she usually has a smile on her face.
She'll continuously tell stories about the guy, or she'll read me one of their text-convos.
It's all very cute. It's like opposites attracted. It's a little "Beauty and the Beast"... he's not ugly or barbaric or anything... but he's just... it's pretty much "burbon-drinking 28-year-old, six-foot-four Mexican artsy Hipster and the vodka-drinking 24-year-old, five-foot-six Mexican classy-club kid." It's kind of weird... quirky.
D and Mike aren't "official," mainly because he lives in Chicago and she lives here. The distance thing is what keeps them from making any formal announcement or whatever.
"It's not fair to him/her." (Bullshit. When you really like someone, you make it work. But hey, that's just me and my fucked up logic... we've all seen how that has worked out for me-- POORLY!)

ANYWAY.
Sister is really into giving gifts to her loved ones. She always has been (she used to go around the house giving all of us random gifts back when she was little. She'd find something, wrap it in toilet paper, hand it to one of us, and tell us to open it in front of her. It was her gift to US... even if the thing she found and wrapped in toilet paper was something that already belonged to us, but was "lost" during the time D went around wrapping it).
Thought Mike isn't her legit boyfriend, he's now part of the gift ring. He's getting a little gift from her, and since she thinks it'd look stupid to just mail him the cardboard box, she wants to make him a cute little card to place inside... because he likes art.
In this family, there's only one person remotely close to being artistic... and that would be me (as if my motherfucking mood swings aren't enough proof that I live the life of a tortured artist. I'm this family's motherfucking van Gogh, damn it!). So, naturally, I was the one asked to do the job.

D: Just imagine... you're writing it to some guy you like... but that lives far away... so you don't want to make it seem like you miss him A LOT, even though you really do.
Me: Ummm...
D: Make it heartfelt... letting him know you think he's AWESOME (inside joke they have with each other in regards to this song), but not like... you're desperate to marry him or anything like that. Can you handle that?
Me: Umm... I guess I can try... ?

Here, my attempt to write something "heartfelt but not desperate," for my sister... to a guy she really likes, but lives far away:
(embarrassingly inaccurate depiction of the world, with one giant landmass that looks more like Pangea. Green Christmas Tree located where I consider Las Vegas to exist. Bold, red line shooting out of the tree, and towards the moon, where a little bearded Santa is located)
1,752 miles feels more like this...
Especially during the holidays.
(Next page)
How close do you think we are to Santa's Sleigh Technology? ;)
Merry Christmas,

(Halfway through this, all I could think was What the fuck is this? 500 Days of Summer? I don't do this shit!)

What was really sent out. 100 percent D's creation, since she caught a glimpse of my card and stopped me in my tracks:
Mike, 
Like riding fuckin' unicorns: You're AWESOME.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
<3,
D

Boom.
She's so practical and concise. I'm jealous.

Friday, December 9, 2011

Leave 'em 'cause I don't fuckin' need 'em

Me: Dude, I can't even imagine how much bud will be in the air tomorrow...
Sis: Shiiiiit.

One terrible, terrible thing I do when heated is that I make incredibly brash decisions... and after a few hours, I'm kicking myself in the ass.
This last one includes tonight's Jay-Z/Kanye Watch the Throne concert.
Right now, my sister's enjoying her time out there.
What am I doing? Feeling very fucking stupid.

I seriously need to take up yoga once again...
I also wouldn't mind a muzzle. 

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Curandero

One of the images that most sticks to my head, is that moment where Bambi gets shot by the hunters and falls to the floor, completely defeated. Suddenly, a thunderous voice commands him to "GET UP!" Bambi looks up, and there you see his father, standing in all is majestic glory.

So, the Universe's sucker-punch to the back of my head came yesterday, as made obvious by the previous post.
It was pretty fucking intense.
So intense, I was unsure about today. 
No, not whether or not I would live to see it, but just how we'd move on.
To say it was an explosion would be putting the shit mildly.
I went off the motherfucking handle... so much so, I'm now on house suicide-watch.
Ummm... yeah. I bet 8-year-old me never saw THAT one coming.
After my... dramatic display of... distress... was done, even I thought "Goddamn, am I possessed or something?"
I said some things that... were downright HEARTLESS. The worst part? I enjoyed it... I did it all with a very cynical... some might say maniacal... smile on my face.
THAT'S what scared me... and made me consider visiting some Veracruz Curandero... have some shaman shake me down with some sacred palm leaves while chanting some ancient, healing verses or something.

The showdown was between Mom and I... and... well, if there was any sort of "victory," I guess it would be me... if victory is considered "uttering the meanest shit possible and making the opponent crumble into uncontrollable sobs." Then yeah, I won. Because, like I said, I didn't cry (during the showdown. "Before" was a completely different story), and I left the room once D was huddled over my violently sobbing Mom, hugging her, pretty much shielding her from me.
I made my mom crack.
And I didn't feel like shit...
which is what kind of scared me.
Holy shit! Am I deranged?!

I thought once the new day would begin, I'd no longer have a computer, a phone, a car, or a house (the threat was made yesterday, to which I responded with something that... might be frowned upon by most societies... maybe not samurais). THAT'S how intense this fight with Mom was last night.
When I woke up, I stayed in my room, not wanting to touch or eat anything, because I swear I thought I was going to get evicted any second.
Instead, I came to realize I was just under suicide watch.
Great.

It's safe to say I've seen better days.
(But in all seriousness, I'll be ok.)

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Chest-first

I was seven years old the first time I held a knife to my chest.
I stood in the middle if the empty kitchen, and held the knife directly above the spot on my chest where I would rest my hand each morning during the Pledge of Allegiance.
I knew I wouldn't be strong enough to push it trough, so I though that maybe if I fell on the knife, it would work.
Just as I was seconds away from diving to the floor, chest-first, my mom walked into the kitchen.
***

"You're going to remember those words you just said and they're going to eat away at you once I'm dead!"
That's IF you die before I do... Then MY words are going to haunt YOU.

The countdown is on... and I'm preeeety sure I'm gonna win this one.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Amped little dreamer

"There are dreamers, and there are realists in this world. You'd think the dreamers would find the dreamers, and the realists would find the realists, but more often than not, the opposite is true. See, the dreamers need the realists to keep them from soaring too close to the sun... and the realists, well, without the dreamers, they might never get off the ground." - Modern Family.
Still in a terrific mood, and it was only amplified after I received my two watches in the mail today.
I hopped around the house when I closed the front door on the mailman.
I was so amped, I went into the garage and did goblet squats, front-loaded lunges, kettlebell swings... I even jumped rope for five minutes (I don't know about normal people, but jump-rope has always eluded me as an adult. As a kid, I could jump for the duration of recess--as long as it wasn't double-dutch, I was always pathetic as fuck at that-- but once puberty set in, and I had to deal with my tits, jumping went to hell).

December is always such a kind month to me.
I am so, SO thankful.

(yeah, that's it for today. I was going to post a somewhat-aggressive entry on my feelings toward being referred to as "Doll," but that can wait)

Monday, December 5, 2011

Tres Frescas

I woke up in a very cunt-y mood today.
Don't get me wrong, I'm still happy... not sad at all... even after listening some more to Musketeer's Suicide Mix he gifted me (have I mentioned this before? No? It's a joke I have with my friends. I encourage them to give me their saddest songs... and compare. I tend to love everyone's Suicide Mix... because it appears I LOVE sad songs).
Anyway, I blame the startling way I woke up: I dreamt I lived in my old house in the hood, where a huge sinkhole appeared in the front yard. In the dream, I opened the front door and saw the hole right at my doorstep.
It damn near gave me a fucking heart attack.
I'm surprised I didn't wake up screaming...though I did sit upright wayyy too fucking fast and gave myself a massive headache.
After that, I caught myself getting very worked up in the shower (seriously, who pisses themselves off while they shower? Only I, the motherfucking Hulk), due to reading a certain person's tweet... a dude who happens to be my relative... and... he's such a two-faced moron... it gets difficult to keep my mouth shut sometimes.

And now that I mention people who irritate me... plus the difficulty I have when it comes to keeping my mouth shut... AND being in a cunt-ish mood, I'll go ahead and vent something that has been bugging me for a little over two years.
It's about Pacemaker.
Something about Pacemaker's DAD, which... is kind of fucked up.
I'll write it out because... no one really knows her, unless they go to my Facebook and looks for my friend with the moon-shaped head and skin of alabaster.

Place: Hometown
Time: Late July, Early August-ish 2009
Occasion: Wedding

It was the dance portion of the wedding, I was being a petulant child, begging to be taken home. The dudes present were getting a little restless... a little obnoxious... totally stereotypical drunk Mexican.
Dudes were making scenes, like breaking bottles or loudly asking a girl what the fuck her problem was for not wanting to dance with him. Shit like that makes my heartbeat get out of control... because I get ready to knock a motherfucker out.
Backstory: In Hometown, it's customary to slap a girl across the face if she refuses to dance with you. Knowing this, and knowing how I HATE dancing to that garbage music... and how I pretty much hate the dudes from Hometown, I'm always ready to HURT any motherfucker who dares to try and touch me. READY (it's kind of like watching a cat do that creepy thing where it arches its back and hisses at you... that's pretty much me at a Hometown dance. AND I ONLY go to watch the "first dance." That's. It.)!
A couple of tables down, we (Mom, Sis, and I) notice one of our female cousins making a scene.
A waiter is standing next to her as she throws three bottles of Fresca to the floor while screaming "NO! NO GRACIAS!"
WTF?
THOSE ARE PERFECTLY GOOD BOTTLES OF FRESCA! What's wrong with her?!
NOW what's wrong with that psycho?
People at the dance looked over for about thirty seconds... then we continued with the typical dance-watching.
Maybe five minutes later, Scene-Making-Cousin and her 16 year old daughter walk over to us and take a seat next to Mom.
SMC: *Mom* Do you know that man over there?
Mom: Who?
SMC: Man sitting three tables down from where I was. White hair, fucking small... flea-sized eyes,  fatass belly...
She continues to describe the guy. Who was he? Pacemaker's dad.
Mom: Oh yeah, he's *Pacemaker'sDad*
SMC: Ok, that's what I thought. Isn't he still married? Is he recently divorced... or separated?
Mom: Nnnno. He's still married. Not separated or anything, as far as I know. Right, AnoMALIE?
Me: Yeah... as far as I know.
SMC: Ok. Because that fucking RIDICULOUS, OLD PIG is trying to get with my daughter! He THINKS MY DAUGHTER will pay attention to him... that three fucking sodas are going to win her over.
Me, Mom, and D: whoa...
SMC: That idiot had the gall to send my daughter fucking drinks, and told the waiter to ask her if she would dance with him. And now he's just sitting there staring at my daughter with that... disgusting salacious look in his... rodent-looking eyes. HE EVEN BLEW A KISS AT HER. RIDICULOUS!

So... we awkwardly sat there for what felt like seven hours, until we all decided to get up and go home.

Now, whenever I see anyone from Pacemaker's family, I feel like I'm going to giggle, but I also feel sad.
That's just some shit I could have lived without knowing.

I hope no one has that type of dirt on MY family... sheesh.

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Queens Coffee

Pacemaker: I'm so excited! For the first time, I actually met my new year's resolution!
Me: That's great!
What... was her resolution?
Pacemaker: Yeah! I'm shocked that I actually had the time to visit all 10 new cities.
Me: You did?
Pacemaker: Yeah. Let's see, I went to Miami, Miami Beach, West Palm Beach,
(I giggle)
Pacemaker: What?
Me: Nothing, nothing... just that... you're considering "Miami Beach" a different city?
Pacemaker: Yes...
Me: Ok... if you say so.
Pacemaker: Then I went to New York, Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens...
(I laugh this time)
Pacemaker: What?
Me: You went to Queens? When?!
Pacemaker: I went... to a little coffee shop there.
(I laugh even harder. The pause made it more than obvious she was lying. We practically had to give her a wheel-chair ride to Brooklyn because her lazy ass was getting too tired walking around the pier and nearly quit before walking across THE FUCKING BRIDGE)
Me: Wow. I never met someone who wanted to find a coffee shop in QUEENS. The time I spent there I just wanted to get the fuck out ASAP. Though I DO have that fond memory of that girl spitting her chewed-off nails onto my pants as we rode the subway. Still, I don't mark Queens as a place I hit.

I appear snotty, don't I? I come off as a little snobby bitch... but see, Pacemaker has been rubbing me the wrong way for a while now. Since the wedding back in October, things have been rocky in Pacemaker-AnoMALIE Friendship Land.
I don't know what the FUCK is her problem, but she has taken it upon herself to brag about EVERYTHING of hers, and to belittle everything of mine.
She talked shit about my degree, talked shit about my job (which I no longer have, but I dare not tell her, for obvious reasons), talked shit about my dad's business, talked shit about my family's vehicles, talked shit about my brother's job... it's just REALLY fucking aggravating me.
I haven't straight up told her to shut her fucking mouth and watch the way she speaks to me, but I'm probably two phone calls away from doing it.
I'm sick of her bragging, so I'm becoming an eight year old and making her feel uneasy with my ridiculing giggles.

I'm not too fond of bragging (I'm sure it's not too obvious here, since I feel I brag a lot when I blog... but that's only because it's probably the only place where I share anything at all... since in person I turn into a timid mute), but her little list of "10 New Cities" got my gears turning. I could have shut her up, and proceeded with MY list of cities I visited, but I kept my trap shut. Instead, I made the list for myself.
So, for my OWN viewing pleasure, my list of (some not so new) cities visited in 2011, went like this:

  1. NYC
  2. Princeton, NJ
  3. Chicago, Il
  4. Washington DC
  5. Atlanta, GA
  6. Los Angeles, CA 

Honorable mention to Milwaukee, WI, place where I had a layover, twice, which lasted about three hours each time, so I went ahead and tried legit Milwaukee food... i.e. their motherfucking BOMB cheese.
Second honorable mention to Boston, MA, place where I had a layover of about two hours... then got stranded on the plane as a freak tornado ripped through the city. That was intense... and made me realize I have to hit that city next chance I get. Something about nearly losing your life in a city makes you realize you have to pay your proper respects to the area some time in the future.

Anyway, while it's not anything like Pacemaker's 10-city list, it's a list I really did enjoy... and a list I totally didn't just half-ass.
Miami Beach.... get the fuck outta here.

Keep the shirt

"Are you ok?"
His first words to me.

I've tried holding off talking about this, because it tends to anger me... then make me sad... then make me feel like a loser.
MGH has been up to his shenanigans once again.
He has been doing the whole "subliminal message" thing with me.
And while I DID notice, I acted as if I didn't... even if I felt like I was getting upper-cutted with each little detail of his.

Him: I bought an ND shirt the other day...
Me: Is that so?
Him: Yeah... ND.
Me: That's cool. That way you can always think of RAFA and NOTRE DAME when you wear it.

I've known of the shirt for a while now. I saw a photo of him wearing it... at Pacemaker's nice's Quinceañera. Coincidence he wore it there? No. If I learned anything from him, it's that his actions are calculated and deliberate.
I saw him wearing the ND shirt (my initials, in case you've forgotten) as I looked through Pacemaker's photos, and I felt as if I had gotten kicked in the gut.
WHYYYYY are you doing this?! Goddamn it, WHY?!

Today he used his famous line on me: I need to talk to you.
Everyone knows I spring to action when I'm needed.

Once I agreed to talk, those were his first words... "Are you ok?"
Agitated, irritated, annoyed... what have you... and still, I talked to him for two hours (hours filled with more of the cryptic shit... where he highlighted memories from the past... especially Cancun. He really stressed that one. Oh yeah! The trip where you obliterated, completely pulverized my heart? Oh yeah, I remember that!).

I'm such a fucking sucker.
And I will NEVER understand guys.

... and I will NEVER take him back.