No Candy Here

I swear I've been meaning to update.
I just get so fucking tired when the time comes to crank out the sentences.

If I were to type exactly what would be on my mind, without the use of editing, it would look like this:
hfgouh8024579623FUCK!worksucks.Can I just sleep the whole fucking time? Weddings are fucking retarded. I hate people. Jesus, can't I just sleep?! My hamstrings hurt like they've never hurt before. I almost fell today going up some stairs. That would have been funny. Painful as fuck... but hilarious. Not to mention embarrassing. But it would be worth it... as long as I wouldn't crack my neck. being a paraplegic isn't something I'm down for. oh goddddddd! i don't wanna shower tomorrow!! I'm sleepy but I still have to bake protein banana nut bread!! Why is pissing so underrated? There's a fucking reason for it being known as "relieving oneself": because the goddamn relief you feel with the release after holding in your piss for so long is... unlike any other. Ah, pissing, you feel fucking good!

Ok, enough. I can't. It's painful to continue with the free thinking shit. It's a little embarrassing... because really, that's what's going on... the misspelled words and lack of proper punctuation and all.
I need to capitalize my "i"s? Fuck you, brah.

Just a tidbit of what went down over the weekend?
-Pacemaker was in town... we had fun, we became irritated with each other, we shit-talked each other, we ignored each other, we hung out with each other.
-I slept a total of maybe 18 hours since Friday. Not nearly enough as my body requires. But NO! AnoMALIE wanted to party.
-Far too many compliments regarding my "transformation."
-FAR too much shit-talking in regards to how I probably went about this "transformation." Yes, people now suspect I went under the knife... which INFURIATES me to a degree I once thought was impossible.
It's called HARD WORK, motherfuckers. HARD WORK and DISCIPLINE.
I may not give the vibe of a hardworking chick, but you'll be fucking hard-pressed to find someone with my level of discipline. That's the kind of shit a person acquires when you've been raised by a woman more than one person refers to as "Hitler." Woman raised three little soldiers, just ask anyone.

ANYWAY, this last bulletin has been what has made me the most frazzled these last few days.
I don't know from what angle to attack it on here. It's just this huge blob of bullshit... that... I just don't know where to start. It's kinda like trying to eat one of those sandwiches with the over-easy egg inside. You want to bite it, but you just don't want to end up covered in egg-yolk the moment you make up your mind on which end to start devouring that sandwich.

SO, while I'd love to make some Halloween-related post... no, really, I would. I have some wack memories of this holiday, I just can't. I've been WAY too mindfucked by this weekend's happenings to make the holiday any justice.

How about I just post a photo that... well, is very much me... and kinda Halloween-related.
One of my high school friends posted it, and it pretty much made my day. She's my fucking twin:

AHAHAHA!
...
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Happy Halloween, kids.

Sing me a song

There's a joke going around the office.

I chill with the plebes... you know, the scanners.
There are three dudes who are... managers? I don't know what their actual titles are, I don't care to ask.
These guys show up in suit and tie... all dapper and shit, right?
Two are married assholes, and one is an adorable young, single dude.

These guys drop by time to time to check up on our progress. They're pretty douchey about it.
The cute guy is douchey in the sarcastic sense. He's borderline-prick... takes a minute to realize he's only joking.
ANYWAY.
This joke began yesterday.
Whenever Cute Douchey Manager and I are in the same room, the other two managers start to sing.
Now, if I were better versed in classic Americana... as in, old school english music, I'd know what song it is.
All I really know is that the song says something like
"I'm tired of being lonely" and something like "I want you to love me" or something like that.
I tend to go deaf from embarrassment, so I don't really catch on.
Anyway, if we are ever in the same room together, these dudes will bust out the song.
EVERYONE is in on it. They giggle.
I sit there, uncomfortable... my face hot as hell.
Is this ethical? WTF?


Apparently the guy has a crush on me, and I'm... too aloof to give a shit.
More like too AWKWARD.

The guy's a cutie, don't get me wrong, but he's... not my type. He's kind of cartoonish, if that makes sense. Not an ugly cartoonish... just... not someone I'd see myself with. He's a blondie... who blushes.
He's cute. That's as best as I can describe.

So, whenever I hear the song, all I can really do is smile sheepishly and act as if my current task is a life or death situation. Paper becomes EVER SO interesting... and my eyesight becomes legally-blind.

AnoMALIE, porque no eres una niña normal?!

Is this coherent?

I've been busy all fucking day today.
I never thought that would be possible.
Woke up ten minutes to 6AM, worked from 8AM-3PM, had lunch at 4PM, hit the gym from 5PM-7PM, showered at 7:30PM, at 8PM went to the mall to buy a gift for Saturday's wedding, returned at 9:40PM.

No time to sit and take a breather, much less write.
I can't update on the fact that some fucking asshole nearly killed my sister yesterday on the freeway.
She was coming home from work when some stupid fuck in a rice rocket jetted across four lanes of the highway, scared all the cars, and Sister ultimately got pushed into an exit sign only to ricochet against a concrete barrier.
The damage:

N-ohhhhh! :(

Her friends, particularly Twiggy, accused her of being dramatic.
Oh my god! That's it?! I was expecting your car to be completely wrecked based on your description!
Bitch, it's called German engineering. You can't compare your piece of shit Nissan to the work and quality of a VW... or any other German automaker. Get the fuck out of here. Maybe if your car ran down an exit sign and bounced on a concrete barrier it would be totaled, but considering that we've already had two nasty crashes in two different Jetta's, we can attest to the quality/awesomeness of this make.

Rafa's Jetta two years ago (October 25th, how scary!) after getting hit by a drunk driver at full speed.
All four of his passengers were unscathed.
VW won my respect that day.

They're fucking little tanks! Worth every penny. Das auto!

Anyway, so yeah, my sister was fucked up last night. She wanted to sleep in my bed so I could check up on her. She was convinced she was going to suffer a concussion... or something worse, so she just wanted me to be there to make sure she'd be breathing throughout the night.
Funny, we're 24 and 26 years old, and we still rely on each other when we're really scared. We go back to being the terrified 6 and 8 year olds, sleeping in the living room sofa of their "house" in the ghetto.
However, I wasn't scared. I did roll my eyes and called her a few derogatory terms... as a joke.
Then I was angry, wanting to find the stupid motherfucker responsible for nearly killing my baby sis. Motherfucker.

You can't hear me right now, but I just sighed.
I'm super tired.
I'll just leave with this:
Homegirl describes/draws exactly what I feel (though my depression isn't "for absolutely no reason"). Adds some chuckles to a serious/sad subject.

AAAAMEN!

iphone adventures

Something that aids in the emotional recovery process?

iPhone, sucka!

I've been playing with that thing for a couple of days now.

Sure, I've had it since the day it came out (I ran into the house the moment Mom brought me home from the airport. The excitement from DC wore off the moment the plane left the gate at DCA. I was thinking iphone! iphone! iphone! after that), but I kind of tossed it aside once the depression set it. I mean, I've never had an iphone, and I'm bad with new things... so I have to warm up to it.

Well, I've warmed up to it.

1. I played with Siri for almost three hours.

That fucking bitch understands me probably 40% of the time, and that's me being generous.

For example, I was trying to get her to say my name correctly.

This was as good as it got:

Story of my fucking life.

Now, what I was trying to say was this:

Me: Learn how to say my name correctly.

Siri went ahead and said what's written.

Me: My name is N-oh. Eh. Me.

Me: NO. MY NAME IS (name).

Needless to say, the three hours sped past me as I argued with my phone like the typical, irascible Mexican girl that I am.

Siri still can't say my name (she even saved my "phonetic last name" as "The Ass," no fucking lie). That retard.

2. Talking about retards:

I'd probably be responsible for that roller...

I laughed for a couple of hours throughout the morning just THINKING about this photo.

Musketeer, as if he knew I had been walking down the streets of Bitterville, showed me the paper a couple of minutes after clocking in.

I used my handy-dandy 8MP iphone camera and tweeted the image, of course!

My friends are fucking psychic and know how to make me laugh.

This was no exception. I would break into random bursts of laughter whenever I'd think of the product description. Made my day, really.

3. RINGTONES!

You guys, I can't begin to describe how enthralled I become when producing ringtones.

Music is... not my LIFE, but it does play a significant role in it.

I sit at the lap top and play with various songs and meticulously pick the perfect excerpts.

Currently, the ringtone that completes me is Kanye and Jay-Z's "No Church in the Wild."

It's an awesome song, with a sick beat, so... it's my ringtone (I hope my friends don't disown me the moment they realize I'm a bigger Kanye fan than I let on).

Besides the fact that my friends would be slightly horrified over the fact that I dig Kanye and Jay-Z (six of my ringtones are of either or both... yeah... shhhh!), my folks aren't too happy.

As I was helping Dad look for flights earlier today, Rafa called me.

My phone went off:

Human being to the mob,

What's a mob to a king?

What's a king to a god?

What's a god to a non-believer

who don't believe in... 

anything?

Mom and Dad looked at each other in horror.

Dad: Mira esta! (basically the translation for "look at this guy!" but for a female)

I went ahead and changed my ringtone.

Not much better...

It was changed to "This ain't a scene, it's an arms race" (the lyrics are... aiiight, but I specifically LOVE the beat. I can pick out that beat from a mile away... no, really. I fucking love it).

I am an arms dealer, fitting you with weapons in the form of words.

And I don't really care which side wins

As long as the room keeps singing,

That's just the business I'm in.

This ain't a scene, it's a God. Damn. Arms. Race!

This ain't a scene, it's a God. Damn. Arms. Race!

See! See! This is why I went with Kanye.

I'll just put it back... now.

fuck a title

I really, really wish I could update with something interesting... or at least funny.
I'm feeling better. My friends are great-- they improve my mood without even trying.
Still, it's a slow process. It takes a minute for me to crawl out of the holes I trip into.

At least Ms. Catty got screamed at by HER boss today. The guy's 28, she's well past 45. She was totally force-fed a dose of her own patronizing medicine, I just sat back shaking my head. What a vicious fucking cycle... although it did make her be much nicer to me.
Doesn't feel so great to be talked down to, huh, Lady?

I'm sorry, I can't keep going. I'm falling asleep on Mr. Mac. I need to sleep.

WHAT am I DOING

There's a heaviness in my chest... I haven't been able to shake the sense of sorrow I acquired on Saturday.
I seriously have to sit there and battle with my rib cage so it can allow my lungs to expand.
I haven't said much... I haven't smiled.
I went to bed at two in the morning last night, and reluctantly rolled out of bed four hours later.
I went through the usual prep before work... but once it was time to go, I just stood in front of the giant mirror sliding doors in my room and watched the tears roll out of my still-swollen eyes (I guess I should mention they were like that because I had spent the night crying).
What am I doing? WHAT am I DOING?!
I kicked off my shoes and crawled back into bed.
I rolled into the fetal position, closed my eyes, and blacked out.

I woke up two hours later to a text from Musketeer.
Are you coming in today?
I told him I was feeling sick (which was also true. I've been fighting a cold for a few days now. My tonsils swell every other day), but I'm sure it irritated him... especially since I wrote back two hours after he had sent his text.
I don't blame him if he feels like shaking me around, out of frustration... I wish I could do that exact same thing to myself.

This is what happens when I spend so much time and effort trying to convince others I'm ok.
I come apart at the seams and completely collapse.

Heartbreakingly Hopeful

On Facebook and even back in the Myspace days, I had a tendency to... go a little too in depth when it came to my likes/dislikes/interests.
However, I've kept a few things to myself.

One factoid I've refused to share with ALL my "Friends?"
One of my absolute favorite movies on the face of the earth, is Edward Scissorhands.
I don't keep that information to myself out of shame... or fear of getting judged... I keep it to myself because it's just a bit too revealing.

I first watched that film when I was in first grade, I think.
It wasn't the first Tim Burton film I watched, I clearly remember being frightened by Beetlejuice, and I watched Batman as well (slightly responsible for my aversion of clowns. FUCK The Joker, get that motherfucker out of my face!).
What drew me to this new film? The color palate. The look of the neighborhood.
I was five or six, come on!

I remember seeing Edward Scissorhands for the first time, and being scared.
Then I kept watching... and I fell in love with him... not romantic love, but... I sympathized with him. My heart belonged to him.
He's so sweet... he's... an awesome guy... and they're so mean to him... he's so alone.
Needless to say, by the story's end, I was a sobbing mess.
My folks thought I was crying because I was scared. I had to explain through sobs that my heart was broken. That the film made me sad. That Edward Scissorhands shouldn't have been treated the way he was only because he didn't look like everyone else.

I still can't watch the film without crying.
I cry harder now as an adult than I did as a kid.
Even now, just thinking about it, I get a knot in my throat and tears roll down my face. I can't fucking help it.
I feel that movie.
Do you know an Edward Scissorhands?
No. I AM Edward Scissorhands.
And that's as much as I feel comfortable sharing for now, as far as that film is concerned.

The exhibition yesterday was everything I wished for and more.
I gasped numerous times, particularly with the Beetlejuice section (they had some props from the set which were FUCKING AWESOME), Edward Scissorhands section (obvious reasons now, but one thing that took my breath away was the costume worn by Johnny Depp, which was propped up high. They also had one of the scissor hands. I admired that WAY more than I did the Hope Diamond), The Nightmare Before Christmas Section (they had the molds of Jack's various facial expressions on display. Fucking great), and OF COURSE The Corpse Bride section (I nearly lost it when I read the description of Emily: "The Heartbreakingly Hopeful Corpse Bride." Jesus Christ... control yourself, AnoMALIE! They had actual stop-motion... puppets? they used on the film. I admired those shits for far longer than I probably should have).
I mention those four portions of the exhibition, but really, the ENTIRE thing was remarkable (Frankenweenie, Vincent, Willy Wonka, etc etc). Awe-inspiring. Heart-filling. And the list goes on.

I went ahead and purchased a poster (I'll post a photo of it if I remember later), and Sister indulged me and purchased The Art of Tim Burton.
I've spent all day (well, the part of it where I've been home) reading the book, page by page, and crying with a good few of things written/drawn.

I'm WAY too emotional, but absolutely, positively satisfied.

fLAke!

I consider myself pretty advanced in the art of flaking...
however, there's one friend of mine who is the undisputed Obi Wan.

So this trip to the Tim Burton exhibition has been in the work since... I think April, when I first got word of it.
I had planned to visit LA in the summer, however, this LA friend of mine convinced me to wait until October, because "shit is SO fun in October!"
Considering we were talking about Tim Burton, it made sense that October would be pretty legit for the trip.

Like I said yesterday, the exhibit requires you purchase your ticket ahead of time with an allotted time and date of your visit.
I hadn't purchased my ticket because I was waiting for the time that best suited my friend.
However, the visit would HAVE to be made this weekend, because I have special events planned for the last weekend of the month.
We discussed it for a bit... and she never got back to me, which pissed me off... because no one gets in the way of me and Tim Burton.
I was becoming increasingly irate as I'd see that creeper FB ticker inform me of this friend's FB activity.
BITCH! I KNOW YOU'RE ON-LINE! ANSWER MY MOTHERFUCKING QUESTION!
Finally, at around 5PM today, I went ahead and purchased my ticket. The only time slot opened for the weekend is on Saturday night at 7PM.
This LA trip is meant to be a quick day trip. A wam-bam-thank you ma'am. Having to chill in LA past 7pm really puts a hamper in my plans.

So yeah, this had me worked up all day.

Then I got worse when I saw my friend's response to my "I bought my ticket, please join us if you can" message.
"My friend's having a birthday party. We can do brunch though... or breakfast on Sunday."
Bitch, this is a DAY TRIP. Quit lying about your friend's birthday party. Just admit you don't wanna chill... you do this EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

So... let's get this straight:
1. Friend makes me change my plan for the MONTH of my visit. Delaying it by at least four months.
2. Friend makes me wait until the last fucking minute to buy my ticket... which ultimately gives me a shit time.
3. Friend makes up excuse to not see me AT ALL during my day visit to LA.

And she wonders why people don't like her and also consider her actions selfish/thoughtless.
Use your fucking head, man... or at least be honest. It saves a lot of frustration.

BUT! LA, here I come!

Gettin' Paper

Someone got paid today.
For the first time ever.
Me!

The day started out rough. I was exhausted... the road I use to get to work was closed due to a fire... and best of all, that stupid catty bitch almost made me cry AGAIN.
I was doing my job. I was sitting there, feeling quite proud of myself for doing everything meticulously correct--being extremely diligent for 8 in the morning-- and next thing I know, Ms. Catty was standing over my shoulder.
By now, I'm like an abused dog who flinches at the mere sight of the SHADOW of anything that resembles a rolled-up newspaper.
The moment I sense someone over my shoulder, I flinch, close my eyes, and prepare myself for the chastising.
Ms. Catty: THAT'S NOT HOW WE DO IT HERE AT WORK!
Oh wow... here we go again...
My tonsils prevented my heart from escaping out of my mouth.
I froze-- sat still, looking at the computer screen.
Ms. Catty reached at my lap, where I was holding the binder I was working on.
I was half-way through with a binder, so the clasps were open.
Ms. Catty: We remove ALL of the papers first, Scan them ALL, THEN put them back in the binder when everything's done. You're wasting too much time the way you're doing it!
She removed all the sheets on the half of the binder I had yet to scan.
I shifted my sight to the keyboard.
Ms. Catty: And move the binder over HERE.
She grabbed the binder by one of the flaps and threw it to the left side of my cubicle. In the process, all the sheets I had replaced in the binder fell out.
Yes.
I didn't move. I didn't say shit.
I wanted to cry. Honestly. I felt beyond embarrassed.

What she did was beyond patronizing.
So, I did what is the only thing I know how to do when someone offends/hurts/embarrasses me past my breaking point: I look them dead in the eye, while the only thing I'm thinking is "Why?"
A very Jesus move on my behalf, but it has been my response to any and all abuse I've ever received... because it really is the only thing I have left-- that question.
Why do you hurt someone who has not done a thing to you? It's just... something I cannot comprehend. I have never been able to understand people's unprovoked cruelty.

The two closest chicks to my cubicle looked over at the scene, and gave me what I hate most: Pity.
They said something to Ms. Catty in Tagalog, in a grave tone, then picked up the sheets closest to them.
Ms. Catty tried putting the sheets back in the binder, but I gently grabbed them from her.
Me: I got it.
I just wanted her to leave.

It took me about three hours to recover from that scene, three hours in which Ms. Catty was nowhere in sight.
The dudes were all very sweet to me. They tried making me laugh... but it's hard to laugh when you've been unjustly humiliated in front of an entire office.
(seriously, the shit that happens to me leaves my head spinning. Does everyone get as verbally abused/attacked as I do? I can't be alone in this shit)

The day started to look up once I was ready to clock out of work.
Ms. Catty was suddenly chummy with me, and tried encouraging me to work extra hours over the weekend.
Wait... my work ISN'T shitty and too sluggish for the weekend? Make up your mind, woman.
I declined, citing my weekend LA trip to catch the Tim Burton exhibition for which I had already purchased tickets (I haven't, but I'm about to, so it was a half-lie).
She wished me a nice trip.
It was then when BossLady walked in and handed me my check.

The moment I got in my car, my day instantly turned brighter.

It's all sunshine and rainbows from there.
Pretty fucking expensive price for sunshine and rainbows.

900

This marks my 900th post.
Oooo.
Write something meaningful? Insightful? Symbolic? Interesting?
Nah.
Load up the post with photos?
Too lazy.
Shit talk?
I'm trying to curb that.
Get sentimental?
Hmmm... this one might work, since I'm always on the verge of slitting my wrists and shit (really, I'm not. I'm only being sarcastic here).
Angry Hulk AnoMALIE post?
I keep that shit on Twitter for the most part... or at least I try... maybe because it's usually the closest thing to me when someone decides to wake the beast/rock the boat/piss me the fuck off.

It's a trip to think that if I were to follow the rule of "100 words or more" I'd have at least 9,000 words-worth of... bullshit.
Ha.
But of course, I do have those entries where I only write two or three words like "Fuck this." Or "My grandma died." so that kinda fucks with the word count.
I also have those never-ending entries... the ones where even I refuse to read them.
Curt or verbose. I can never find a happy medium.

900 posts.
Makes me think of that movie, Anne of the Thousand Days.
I think
If each post were a day, then I'd be 100 days away from getting beheaded by my asshole husband.
That movie did a number on me. They should never show that shit to an impressionable 14 year old.

900.
I didn't know I was capable of having THAT many thoughts.
I'd expect my writing to improve after 900 posts... or at least my thoughts to become a little more complex.
But no. I'm mighty monotonous. I might actually be turning stupider. Far stupider.
But that doesn't surprise me.

My apologies, 900... but this old lady is too fucking tired to write any further.
Getting old sucks.

I DO MY JOB!

Want to earn my everlasting resentment?
Question my integrity.

I... well, I wouldn't call it "got in trouble," but my attention was called.
Musketeer must now "keep track" of my work... the exact detail of my work.
NO ONE else is going through this. Just me.
Who had that idea?
Guess.

WHY THE FUCK ARE BITCHES SO GODDAMN CATTY?!?

Somehow, the boss is under the assumption that I sit there for NINE FUCKING HOURS doing jackshit.
I DON'T EVEN CHECK MY FUCKING PHONE when I work! I DON'T EVEN FUCKING EAT!!!! (I HAVE taken a grand total of THREE pee breaks in the last TWO WEEKS I've worked... which I'm sure is probably a total of five minutes... my bad) 
How the hell are people suspecting I just sit there and fuck around?!

I was so upset, I nearly cried.

I work hard, and I stick to my task. I ALWAYS have, regardless of what the stupid task may be, regardless of my age, regardless of WHO fucking asks me.
I didn't earn a Biology degree by being a lazy fuck. I DID NOT.
I don't cut corners.
I do my motherfucking job, and I try to make it THE BEST FUCKING JOB ANYONE can make. I'm stubborn like that. I'm a perfectionist like that.

Kelley suggested I let these bitches have it on my last day... and originally, I had said no.
Not the case now.
I have no idea when exactly this stupid job will end... but when it does, I'll have my opening line prepared:
VAYANSE A LA VERGA, VIEJAS PUTAS! PUDRANSE en este ESTUPIDO "trabajo" que tanto pelean! 

Fuck. I always hate it when Mom or D come home and vent their work frustrations... and it appears I do the same fucking thing. Shoot me now.
(I'm just glad I really don't have to deal with this shit behavior, since it's not my permanent job. I feel so much for anyone who has to put up with asshole coworkers. That's just some bullshit right there)

Instead

The night of the fiesta, Rafa decided we'd take a cab to the host's house.
The entire day had been scattered with showers, so instead of risking it, we just hailed a cab once we exited the Safeway (being the good guests we tend to be, we made a beer and chip run before heading out to the party. Negra Modelo and Tostitos, to properly represent our home country).
The conversation at the party was, as previously stated, somewhat overwhelming for me at the start. I'm highly intimidated by these smart people.
After about an hour, D and I were fully incorporated... especially when we had the "Stupidest thing I did while intoxicated" contest.
We sat in the living room, the heavy rainstorm in the background, and we all took turns recounting the stupidest decisions we made while under the magnificent influence of alcohol.
I definitely didn't win. The winner was one of Rafa's colleagues, who was drunk driving one night while at Princeton, and had three passengers in his car. I guess there's a very infamous railroad track where everyone gets stuck. Welp, this dude had one of those moments. However, he was boxed in the vehicle by the two... what are they called? Those little arms that go down when the train's about to pass? Well, those things. They had him pinned, and basically, all they did was prepare for impact... which never happened. They all just pretty much pissed their pants.

So yeah... once we all shared those embarrassing, yet somewhat comical stories, we were completely at ease (the guy who won the contest stressed about three times how not ALL Princeton students are drunken idiots... just the cool ones... I kid. But he was concerned about our opinion of the students after that train track story... which of course, didn't negatively affect my opinion of the guys. I felt relief. WE'RE ALL STUPID and make horribly terrible decisions sometimes! Yey!!).

Back in May, for Rafa's graduation, I remember meeting one dude I was extremely drawn to. Let's call him T.
T was at the party.
Furthermore, he was totally vibing with me at this party.
The thirteen-year-old in me was jumping up and down, gushing... as the 26 year old exterior was trying to be calm and relaxed... which only made me a very confused, sleepy female (being calm and collected makes me sleepy. I'm sure I'm not the only person with this problem).
Once it was time to go home, we all said our goodbyes, and the BEST hug of my life was given to me by T. After the hug, and as I began walking down the hall and out of the house, T rushed in order to leave with my siblings and me.
The sky had cleared up, and the cozy little residential area looked like a post card.
The wet sidewalks glistened under the moon, the autumn leaves still hung on the trees... yellow, orange, red... some green... some still dripping a couple of raindrops.
Rafa and D walked ahead... and I walked next to T... slowly.
Cute, funny, sweet, adorable, beautiful lips (apparently I'm BIG on lips all of a sudden. I don't know what the fuck is up with that... but guys with pouty lips are SO fucking hot to me right now. I have no clue what celebrity to blame for this shit), beautiful eyes... intelligent, great taste in music... ex violinist. Easy-going.
Oh MY GOD! YOU'RE FUCKING AWESOME!

But you know the fucked up part of it all?
There I was, hanging out with a guy I had been crushing on since May... the sweetest guy I've had the pleasure of meeting... in such a gorgeous setting... and all I could think was:
Daaaamn, imagine if instead, he were Darcy... !

I proceeded to look off into the distance, as I occasionally kicked my closed umbrella, and smiled to myself.
So there's this one dude...

I think I'm back

I have not had a trip THAT fun in... fucking ages.
It was so fun and exhausting, it took me this freakin' long to update. I just wanted to sit back and savor it all... mentally relive it at least three times before I went ahead and wrote about it.

1. There was no fighting.
Don't get me wrong, potential for massive sibling fights was there, we just never acted upon it... there just wasn't time to waste like that.
I think knowing there was such a tight time constraint was what made us enjoy the moment in the fashion we did. It was like 2008's express London Tour.
There were tiny scuffles like when D said I had my dad's body type... which had she said that any other time I probably would have exploded on her (to make this shit clear, if anyone has my dad's family's body type, it's Rafa. We all find it offensive to be compared to that body type because they have no muscle tonality, chicken legs, inverted ass, no neck, and a big head. It's VERY noticeable when someone has THAT body type. It's fucking ugly. They have beautiful hands, but the rest of the body is like fucking Frankenstein's creation. Sorry, Dad). But I just rolled my eyes and continued doing what I was doing.

2. I did NOT give a fuck about the way I looked.
Ok, maybe I did... a little... hence why there are no photos of me this time around. I had been planning to take a few with my siblings, since we're not going to be together like that in a long, long time... but see... I forgot to pack a blowdryer... and more importantly, I forgot to pack a brush/comb.
That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I forgot to take the two fucking basic tools to groom my hair (I purposely didn't pack a razor, because I wasn't about to check in luggage, and the duration of the trip didn't merit shaving).
Well, just use your brother's comb, your hair's pretty short anyway.
Not that easy, my friend. My brother's bald, he hasn't owned a comb in ten years--since he joined the army.
I lucked out for the most part because it was raining the entire time I was in DC (except on my final day, which turned out to be a motherfucking gloriously sunny Autum day), so all I had to do was rock a hat.
There WAS the night where we went to my brother's friend's Mexican Fiesta. That one was a little rough.

3. My brother's friends are awesome.
It was Thursday night, D's birthday, and some of Rafa's Princeton buddies were throwing a fiesta. The people are all going to be stationed in Mexico, hence the Fiesta theme.
I don't know about you, but I find it incredibly intimidating to be in the presence of such smart humans. I know I say I love the company, and that I'm extremely attracted to impossibly brilliant men... but goddamn, this shit is HARD to treat with normalcy... I'm a fucking UNLV graduate... that ain't got shit on these Princeton MPAs. I'm a fucking savage in comparison to them.

So of course I worried: there I'd be, stupid AND disheveled like the true fucking barbarian I am... only disgracing my poor brother.
How'd I fix the hair problem? I showered, stood in front of my brother's fan, nearly caught pneumonia, stuck some bobby pins in my hair... and wore a SUPER lowcut shirt.
Yo, you can't judge me if I'm shoving my cleavage down your throat, right? I get pointers for bringing the tits to the party... right?
My excuse was Latinas are super sensual... this is TAME compared to the skimpy shit they wear. For one, I'm wearing PANTS to this shindig... WITH TOMS... how illegitimate is that for a Mexican? TOMS are hardcore caucasian shoes. So... I can be slutty up top for the boys, but keep it totally classy below the belt for the sweet caucasian girls.
Anyway, it worked.
The girls are hilarious and sweet... only SOMETIMES making jokes that I wouldn't find funny (at one point of the night, one of the girls busted out the biographies of all the MPA students and read them out loud. I'd laugh sometimes, but most of the time, when relating to the subjects that would make them roar with laughter, I'd sit quietly with a shy "why the hell do you find that funny?" smile on my face).
The guys... oh the guys.
Mmmm... the guys.
You'd never guess it, but it appears Poli Sci buffs also give really, really good hugs. Oh... the guys... :)

4. I pigged the fuck out from Wednesday until yesterday.
I had cupcakes Thursday AND yesterday.
Thai food on Thursday.
I ate a hotdog yesterday... and about 10 cookies... and cheese dip.
A Reese's Klondike Bar on Friday.
AND Fried chicken with a hazelnut waffle Friday night... and some peach cobbler... and fried corn... and TWO cornbread muffins with PEACH BUTTER.

Best fucking junk I've had in the last SIX MONTHS... and I didn't gain a single fucking pound.
Worth it? HELL YES. HELL FUCKING YES!

5. "Hotlanta" is officially on my "must hit" list.
In the couple of hours I had to run around the city, I fucking fell in love with Atlanta.
Best couple of hours I've spent in a while.
I now feel obligated to give it its proper visit sometime in the near future.
The dudes there were pretty hot... which I found out of character for me... because I don't usually check out hip-hop-loving dudes.
Who knows... maybe I've officially moved on to my black phase.

I'd like to write more... perhaps elaborate, but I'm tired.
Just thought I'd update, now that I've found time.

I am such a happy girl... a happy, iphone 4S-owning girl...
Mmmmm.

Don't Speak

I once dated a dude who'd call me every fucking morning just to hear my morning voice.
He thought my groggy anger was cute. I found his early morning calls annoying and stupid.
Four month relationship that lasted four months too long.

Anyway, I've always found my voice annoying. Downright ugly.
There's a husky quality that borderlines tranny whenever I'm sick.
People who knew me as a toddler make fun of me, because my voice was so jock-y as a baby. There's a particular line I'm popular for:
Te quero muncho, MUNCHO!
Which, in correct Spanish would have been said as "Te quiero mucho, mucho," aka "I love (like) you a lot, A LOT!" but again, I was a stupid toddler with a voice apt for James Earl Jones' offspring.

That was back when I was learning how to talk. Now that I don't really interact with people, there are days when I don't even speak. I can go days without hearing my own voice... unless it's just the one in my head, which never shuts the fuck up and loves to criticize.

This brings me to today.
My coworkers try to get me to talk, and while I do, I tend to do it at a low volume... because I do that when I'm shy. It's like forcing a mouse to talk.
Can't I just sit here and work, guys? Must I really have an opinion on stuff? Must you really want to hear it?
The coworkers who try to get me to talk are all dudes. The chicks are click-y and don't give a shit about me. I guess you could say they give me my privacy.
Since today we had to heavily rely on quality control issues, we basically shot the shit at our cubicles, discussing music.
Most of the time I had a comment (usually along the lines of "Oh, I KILL this song on Guitar Hero." Because I imitate Kurt Cobain and Coldplay's Chris Martin to perfection... Gold Star on Expert perfection. On a good day, I'll also be killin' it as Muse's Matt Bellamy. "Plug-in Baby" has to be one of my GUILTIEST pleasures to sing along to... I just love singing the "I've exposed your lies, bayyyybeeee" part. I find it sexy as hell. haha), the guys would have to ask me to speak up.
Musketeer: I always have to ask you to speak up. You need to learn how to be a little louder.
Me: But I have such a stupid voice. When I'm loud, I'm annoying as fuck.
Musketeer: No, it's not stupid at all. Your voice is beautiful.
Dude1: I find your voice rather pleasant. I wish I could hear it more often.
(I kiiinda have a crush on this dude)
Christ! Are you serious?! WTF?
Dude2: What are you talking about? You have a pretty voice!
(this guy's a sweetheart. Each time I see him, I get the urge to squeeze him in a tight bear hug)
Me: I've never liked the sound of my voice. I'd rather be silent than listen to the stupid noise made by my faulty voice box.

The next five minutes were spent listening to the guys in the office compliment my voice, and me, telling them there's no way they're going to convince me to speak louder (who understands men? They complain when girls don't shut the fuck up, then they complain when a girl is too quiet. I'd rather be next to someone who doesn't say a word, than someone who won't shut the fuck up).

Weirdest five minutes of my life (though I did feel this strange happiness when I heard Musketeer give me that sincere compliment. My friends are definitely responsible for my ability to communicate and behave in public. They give me the security and comfort I need to not feel stupid about shit).
And of course, the chicks in the office thought I was doing it on purpose... because girls can't be naturally timid and quiet.

Trapped in A BOX!

Overworked and underpaid.
WELCOME TO THE WORKING-CLASS, AnoMALIE!

My day didn't end until about 7:30PM today, after having started at 6AM.
I wanted to stab drywall after about five hours.
I know I said I loved my coworkers, but there's one bitch that can't stand me. For some reason, she has taken it upon herself to make my day turn to total shit.
Initially, I was scanning three boxes a day.
Then this bitch stepped in.
Apparently boxes full of binders are "too easy."
She made the manager hand me more difficult boxes... boxes with countless random, loose shit like ASTRO TURF and DRYWALL INSULATION and CARPET SAMPLES.
I'm talking boxes that take NINE HOURS to scan completely.
I spent ALL of today, NINE-STRAIGHT-HOURS (no lunch-break, mind you), scanning the items in ONE FUCKING BOX.
ONE. FUCKING. BOX.

I made sure to occasionally take time from staring at my computer to glare directly at her.
You fucking BITCH.
She even followed me to the bathroom when I took my ONLY bathroom break of the day.
Wanna get in the stall with me, make sure I'm really pissing and not just... spitting into the toilet or shooting up in the stall, you fucking cunt?

I was fed up by the time Musketeer left, but I had a couple of folders left, so I stayed.
I finally gave up when I saw newspaper pages were the only thing left.
Fuck newspaper, bro, no one needs newspaper. I need a fucking carrot or some shit right now before I start going cannibal on your asses.

The day didn't end there, since I had to run pre-trip errands, which elongated my day AND starvation for a few more hours.

I'm fed now, not too well, but I got some protein and veggies in my system. It's off to round two of my pre-travel bullshit before I go to bed.

Two thoughts are keeping me from giving up: DC is SO CLOSE! and YOU'RE GETTING A MOTHERFUCKING iPHONE! WORK, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!

Running, running, as fast as we can

I tried my damn hardest all weekend to keep the smile on my face.

I DID smile, and I WAS happy, but I've spent most of my time dealing with the growing alien embryo in my gut.

I can't eat a single thing. Everything feels like shrapnel wreaking havoc in my intestines. Even doing something as simple as drinking water makes my stomach panic.

What alleviates my pain for a couple of hours? Running. But it's not like I can be running all freaking day.

Speaking of running, Rafa ran the Chicago marathon today. Though I didn't mention it on any social networking site, I'm DEFINITELY proud of my brother. He finished the marathon at 11:31:31 AM, after running for 3:51:13, with a pace of 8:50 a mile. That's fucking remarkable, especially considering it's his first full marathon.

My brother's a fucking BOSS... motherfuckin' Forrest Gump over here... and I love it!

So, knowing that, I managed to continue with the smiley faces.

AND I continued to smile even if one of my "could have been"s got married yesterday.
We never worked out because I was reluctant to get into a relationship... because school was in the fucking way, as always. We made each other laugh with ease, we had a shitload of things in common, and hey, we were physically attracted to each other like crazy.
I'm actually very, very happy for him and his new wife. She's a gorgeous, sweet girl, and well, he's an awesome dude who I've never seen happier. I'll always applaud sincere happiness.

Good times had all around... even if I'm more than eager to abort this motherfucking alien embryo that cripples me with pain.

I'm going to diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie!!! 

Ok, it's not that bad. But I won't lie, it does make me whimper like an injured puppy.

Good, good life

I have not looked forward to sleeping-in this badly in a very long time.
Feels fucking good.
I'm exhausted from starting my last three days at five thirty in the morning, "working," and then finishing my day with two-hour long sessions at the gym.
I'm gonna sleep like a fucking baby tonight.
I will resort to violence if anyone wakes me from my slumber.

I'm also giddy because for the first time ever, I've pre-ordered something. Since I'm in DESPERATE need for a new iPod (seriously, D and one of my trainers were inches away from starting a charity, the "Get AnoMALIE a new iPod" charity, embarrassingly enough), and my phone contract is up, AND I'm due for a phone upgrade, I pre-ordered the iPhone 4S.

The workplace is fun. I've reached that level where I couldn't care less what the job entailed (repeatedly stab my thumb with staples? Fiiine! Get binder-inflicted paper cuts all over my hands? Who caaaares?! Stare at a computer screen for eight hours? I do that at home, for freeee!), because I actually really like my coworkers. They're funny and sweet... and have awesome taste in music... and they don't care when I sing along or dance along to some of the songs.
Though today I did encounter Typhoid Mary... guy's a sweetheart and ALWAYS down to help me when I'm too confused (which is often. But I've noticed all I have to do in front of guys is LITERALLY bat my eyelashes and they will do ANYTHING for me. It's fun, but it also makes me feel guilty as hell.... I'm one of those girls... Christ! I'm confused and don't understand how guys get so weak-kneed with a simple smile/batting of eyelashes from a chick. I can't wrap my head around that shit) but I'm PRETTY sure he had some sort of stomach flu. Pretty fucking sure. And I felt sick as hell until about half an hour ago.
The price of having fun.

I don't know... life is pretty fucking good right now. I can't explain it, but I'm sure as hell going to ride this one out with the biggest smile on my face.
Oh god! And I even had a tiny slice of pound cake AND one of those new Snickers "Peanut Butter Squared" candies... oh yeahhhh. Hit the spot like you have NO idea.

I'm a happy, slightly-ill girl.

The Watch

Mom was VERY interested in shopping yesterday.
She had gotten into an argument with Dad because he went off and bought a house and only listed it as his.
SO, Mom was fuming.

I found it understandable that she'd want to do some retail therapy to get over the rage she was feeling, but she was getting a little out of control.
I knew something was wrong the moment this went down:
I'm staring at the Michael Kors watches, and stop to admire this one.
(I've been in need of a watch since... umm... sophomore year of college? I spent all of grade school rocking a watch, and suddenly, I was 20 and watch-less. It felt as if I were naked. Somehow, I never got down to actually buying one. I always left it for tomorrow, when I'd go look for a decent--not Kandy Kid-style-- watch. Now, I don't really miss it)

Mom: Get the watch, AnoMALIE.
Me: Nah. They don't have the one I want.
Mom: But I thought you said this one was pretty... ? You stare at it all the time.
Me: Yes. It's pretty... but it's not my style. It's too glitzy. I don't like bling.
Mom: GET. THE WATCH.
Me: Mom, it's not an emergency. I can live without it.
Mom: GET. THE WATCH!
Me: What is wrong with you? It's 500 dollars. I DON'T NEED IT!
Mom: C'mon, sweetheart... get the watch. I see it in your eyes that you really want it...

I pause and look at her.
What has gotten into this woman??
Me: Mom...
Mom: I owe you a watch... and I'll get you this one...

She almost has me reeled in, here (yeah, leave it to ME to have to be persuaded and sweet-talked into being gifted a 500 dollar watch). She's giving me that friendly little smile she gives me... the one with a twinkle in her eye 'n shit... the same look she gave me when I HAD to tell her I needed a pad because I had my first period. It reassures me... but creeps me out at the same time... like... if she were telling me to trust her and put my hand on a mouse trap, she'll be holding it so no harm comes my way... but I KNOW that shit's gonna snap all over my knuckles.

Mom: I'll buy you what EVER you want... (whispers in my ear) just don't ever tell me you hate going to church...

And THAT made me frown and feel like shit.

I walked away from the watches, with nothing but a huge knot in my throat.

Scanning

Back in first grade, our class would go to the computer lab once a week.
They were huge Apple computers... with enormous floppy discs.
I remember always wanting to play the Oregon Trail, but the only game I was ever allowed to play was a stupid math game where I had to attempt landing a spaceship on a certain part of the moon (this became available once I correctly answered a certain number of addition problems. BORING!).
I'd be the sourpuss sitting in the corner computer, pouting because I couldn't care less about stupid spaceships and addition... I wanted to kill some fucking bison!

Thank you for that wonderful memory, Mr. Steve Jobs. Rest in peace.

***

My First day on the job?
It was interesting.
1. The place is run by... a particular nationality... that speaks a different language I don't understand. It was uncomfortable to sit there and just... KNOW they were talking shit.
It's only temporary, you're doing them a fucking favor. Get over it.
2. I remembered a new word! Nepotism! That shit runs the fucking world.
Bitter? Me? Nah.
3. My friend is radtastic.
Personally, I wouldn't want to work there full-time. It's not something I dig (cubicle... sitting and staring at a computer all day). HOWEVER, being that my work partner was one of my besties made it fun... made it tolerable. Plus, he'd play music I liked... and is impossible to be depressed with (if you can get depressed listening to NOFX you have a fucking problem... or maybe I just haven't found any depressing songs yet). He's also incredibly reassuring... very comforting when he knows you're confused/intimidated as fuck... this is why we've been homies since freshman year of college.
This is why I want to be as good as possible at this job, just so he won't look bad. That'd be fucked up on my behalf.

Other weird tidbit? I'm the tallest PERSON in that building.
...
I'm 5'8".
No, I take it back, there is ONE guy taller than I am, but other than that, I have to physically look down to make eye-contact with people.

Another bit: Ok, so this job is basically me meticulously scanning legal documents for court cases. I caught myself smiling to myself because all I could think was:
Here I am... biology degree... doing the job ANY ten year old (who has not been living in a cave) can do.
Then I'd fight back a case of the giggles when I'd realize this would totally be my 15-year-old-self's dream job.
Back in 2000, all I fucking did was abuse the scanner and upload any and all photos that landed in my grasp.
This would make me laugh hysterically in my head... remembering the 15-year-old-days, that is.
Oh my god... OH MY GAAAAAWD! AHAHAHA! It's a fucking circle! It all comes back!
Then I'd smile some more.
I can't believe they're paying me to do this shit.

And so, I did my job as fast as possible, because I just want to crank out the 800-box (each containing four 4-inch binders PACKED with documents/post-its/etc lawyers may need) job ASAP and get on with my DC-Trip-Part-Deux (oh yeah, I'm going to DC next week. I've been too busy being Emo to update y'all on that).

I'd rather be a scientist.

J-O-B

Typical conversation between me and a friend I haven't seen in a while:

Friend: Hey, AnoMALIE! How are you?! You're tiny! (this last part is new. Seems everyone is fond of the term. I personally don't consider myself "tiny," just so we're clear on that)
Me: Hey! Oh, you know, just... living, I guess. But I am doing much better than six months ago, that's for sure.
Friend: Going to school? Working? What's new?
Me: Nope. Neither. Schools rejected me and... well, no job either. It appears Las Vegas has no need for biologists, believe it or not.
Friend: Aww... well... you're looking great, so that's good, right?
Me: Eh. (I don't do compliments very well)

Often times, we'll go into long conversations over jobs. In order not to sound frivolous or... just like a total asshole, I act like this whole "me not having a job" thing is a very lamentable ordeal.
I don't want to be like "Well, my parents have their own successful businesses and I really have no need for money. You could say we're 'blessed' where my siblings and I have free reign to follow our dreams, so don't feel bad for me. I'm ok. Trust me" (this makes me feel like so much shit, especially with the current movement going on at WallStreet with the protesters. The 99 percent issue. My heart breaks to know so many people are living day-to-day).
Does it suck that I can't use my degree to help out society in some way? Hella.
Am I beating myself up for being unemployed? Nah. There are many, MANY other people who could certainly use the jobs... you know, people with families and mortgages to pay. I can't live with myself knowing I may be taking away from those families just because I want "spending money."

So, that's the usual song and dance-- song and dance I performed over the weekend while helping Musketeer move.
Musketeer had a somewhat difficult time finding a job, so when I told him I was STILL unemployed, it seemed to really upset him.
Being the good friend he is, he and his mother started brainstorming over possible jobs for me.
It was a little sad to know they were so concerned over my employment state... to think of the conversations they must have behind my back (not bad, just that they were feeling pity for me. We all know how I feel about pity).
Anyway, I very graciously thanked them for their concern, and agreed that if they found a J-O-B for me I'd be cool with it.

Today, Musketeer texted me.
Homeboy found me a job.
?!?! Oh wow... you were quick.
I start tomorrow.
Oh SHIT! You weren't kidding!
It has nothing to do with biology, it's temporary... but it does put some extra cash in my pocket, hours are ridiculously flexible, and I get to help some people in need.

Awww!

Heavy limbs

Days like today remind me of my old Histology class.
I can still see the professor, recounting the menstrual cycle... and smirking. Telling us all about PMS, about females feeling exhausted... every damn limb feeling heavy as fuck... and then he'd laugh.
Sucks for you girls.

Yeah? Well... at least I don't have to put up with blue balls.

I just want to sleep... and punch my fucking uterus.

Pistachios

So... uh... how do you recover from a blow up of that proportion?
I definitely can't ignore it, I mean, I haven't been that enraged or hurt in a very long time.
It hit all the usual hot-buttons of mine, but this time, there was religion involved. It fucking devastated me.
But then... I also don't like apologies--giving them or receiving them.
What to do?

I woke up with bruised arms, bruised legs, and a bruised ego.
My legs were sore as fuck, as were my forearms... not to mention my ass.

However, I did make peace with Mom. She once again spoke to me around noon today. We discussed bagels.
How did I win her back? I regressed to our hunter-gatherer origins and picked pistachios in the backyard (it's embarrassing to admit, but I fucking love this task. Pistachios, FRESH pistachios, are a party in my mouth, and I'd climb the sap-covered branches ANYDAY just to get those little nuggets of nutty magic). I returned to the house with sap all over my hair, twigs glued to the sap that was glued to my hair, and various scratches all over my arms and legs (guess I'm not a very good gatherer... or maybe just too adventurous/barbaric. I have a huge gash running long-ways on my wrist... as if I need to look any more suicidal to the rest of the world).
But it worked.
Best of all, there was no sentimental talk over what was screamed last night... it was just... a mutual understanding that Fuck, life stresses us all out sometimes, but the love will always be there... and yes, AnoMALIE, you're sometimes too irascible. Eat a goddamn cookie once in a while.

Bruised ego: ignored.
Bruised legs: painful and unsightly.
Bruised arms: unsightly and suspicious. People stare at me as if I were a battered woman. That shit needs to clear ASAP... but then again, that's what I get for thinking I'm motherfucking Wonder Woman yesterday.

I'll take it.

October's Big Bang

So uh... today wasn't... one of my best days.

You could say October started with a bang for me.
A big one.
A REALLY big one.

On the bright side:
I made peace with Musketeer's wife. For real.
I guess helping someone move out of their apartment by hossing heavy boxes up and down two flights of stairs for five hours will kind of help prove your point that: I'M YOUR FUCKING FRIEND!

On the bad side:
I fought with my mother over yet ANOTHER humiliation suffered at church... at the hands of the fucking stupid ushers.
Backstory: As I helped Musketeer move, he ordered pizza. Since I had been jumping (no, seriously, I was jumping on and off the truck, up and down some stairs), jogging, continuously going up and down two flights of stairs, and lifting heavy shit for five hours (which had me drenched in sweat, I'd be leaving a sweat trail after the third hour, no lie), I decided I'd partake in the pizza-eating.
This fucked me up. My stomach was wishing my death.
AND STILL, I decided to go to church at 5PM (I was done helping Musketeer at 4PM).
Now, I NEVER do this at church, but as a means to encourage my body to start metabolizing the fucking pizza that was killing me, I decided to VERY DISCREETLY chew A STICK of bubblegum.
In the Catholic church, you're not allowed to eat anything a full hour prior to taking the holy communion.
Thing is, I don't take the holy communion.
I've never been a fan of hypocritically going up there as if I'm a sinless creature, because I know I'm not perfect-- I cuss on an hourly basis and I wish harm on others at least twice a week. That, in my book, makes me unworthy of going up there... so I DON'T go. I'm sincere in my behavior when it comes to that aspect. The moment I fuck up is the moment I quit taking communion, even if it's something as simple as me cussing at D.

OK, so that was my rationalizing of that even.
My stomach hurts, this pizza needs to get digested... I'm not going to take holy communion... so I'm going to DISCREETLY chew on this stick of gum to encourage my stomach to digest. Mass is an hour long, I'll hang on to this gum until I get home.

What happens? About five minutes into mass, a stupid little cunt, about 14 years old pokes my left arm and tells me
Bitch: Are you chewing gum?
Me: What?
I look down and see she's holding a Kleenex in her right hand and pointing at it with her left.
I look at the Kleenex, then at her.
I raise my left eyebrow.
You're kidding me, right? Who the fuck do you think you are?
Bitch: Can you spit out your gum?!
I look back down at her hand, make eye-contact, roll my eyes, scoff, and wave her away with my left hand (she was down to my shoulder, since we were both standing up).
Me: It's all right. I'll swallow it.

The little twat walked away.
Since I'm not a complete asshole, I decided to swallow the gum.
BUT I kept moving my mandibles as if I were chewing... because I wanted the goddamn metabolic process to fucking begin. BECAUSE MY STOMACH HURT.
Five minutes later, another girl walks up to me. This one giving me a more "hardass" look. She did the same thing with the Kleenex. She was about 15.
Bitch#2: Spit out your gum!
I made eye contact with her. I made sure to give her the MEANEST glare in my repertoire. My "Who THE FUCK do you think you are?! Get away from me before I fucking KNOCK THE TASTE OUT YOUR MOUTH" glare.
I wanted to make sure I made my point clear-- if she, or any other fucking asshole in that building approached me, I was going to do just that, knock their fucking teeth out.
Excommunication be damned, I was going to beat a motherfucking condescending cunt right then and there. I KNOW the rules. I FOLLOW the rules... to damn near motherfucking perfection... for all TWENTY-SIX motherfucking years of my life.
Me: WHAT GUM?! THE ONE I SWALLOWED FIVE MINUTES AGO?!
Bitch#2: Oh. Ok. ::between her teeth:: Thank. You.
Mind you, all this shit went on as the gospel was being read by the priest and we all stood there, listening.
The people sitting around me all saw this scene... of these fucking twats trying to condescend ME, a 26 year old who was minding her own fucking business... DISCREETLY chewing gum to kickstart her goddamn metabolism. The 26 year old who has been attending that church for TWENTY SIX YEARS.

I spent the rest of mass grinding my teeth, chewing my tongue and inside of my cheeks.

OK, so there's that.
I came home and I was talking about it with D. Laughing about it.

Of course, Mom had to come in and add her two cent.
More than two cents.
As always, she took sides with the church.
She said things that greatly upset me, and no matter how hard I tried explaining my situation, she wouldn't listen.
It was ALL YOUR FAULT and YOU DESERVED IT.
I AM A GOOD PERSON! I AM A GOOD CATHOLIC! I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY THESE MOTHERFUCKERS WHO RARELY GO TO CHURCH BUT SUDDENLY HOLD A SPOT AS AN USHER FEEL SO FUCKING ENTITLED TO SHAME ME IN FRONT OF THE CONGREGATION FOR BULLSHIT.
And we kept going at it.
Me: If they would have sent ONE more fucking little bitch, I would have spit in her fucking face. I WOULD HAVE!
Mom: You're crazy, AnoMALIE. YOU'RE REALLY CRAZY!
I was quiet. I covered my eyes, took in a deep breath, trying to calm down... and I said what I was really thinking.
Me: You'll never understand. You'll just never understand. I don't want to... listen to you... even look at you right now. Please get away from me.
Mom: IF YOUR STOMACH HURT SO MUCH, WHY DID YOU GO TO CHURCH?! YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO GO TODAY! WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST WAIT TO GO TOMORROW?!

And suddenly... something in my head and heart snapped.
I was done being nice. I was done walking on eggshells. I was done holding it in.
I looked her dead in the eye, and as... honestly as possible, but knowing I was going to hurt her, but getting some sort of... evil joy knowing I WOULD, I said the truth.
Me: Wanna know WHY I went today? WANNA KNOW WHY?! BECAUSE I WANT TO GET RID OF THE CHURCH CHORE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. I WANT TO FINISH THAT TASK AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. I WANT TO GET IT OVER WITH AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. BECAUSE I FUCKING HATE IT. IF IT WERE UP TO ME, I WOULD HAVE STOPPED GOING TO CHURCH FUCKING FOUR YEARS AGO!!!!

That's where Dad walked into my room. He saw how wildly I was crying, mascara smeared all over my face--not just my eyes-- from rubbing my face so hard in my exasperation.
He immediately asked me what was wrong.

I don't know what it is about my pops, but whenever he wants me to explain a situation that has me upset, I just lose it.
I couldn't get past two sentences before I was sobbing too hard to make coherent sounds.

Somehow, I managed to tell him the story, explaining how what I was doing didn't merit that sort of... public chastising/humiliation, when there were many other people being FAR MORE disruptive than I was (two benches ahead of me, there was this imbecilic mother allowing her stupid spawn to rip pages out of the missal. FAR more destructive than any bullshit I was supposedly doing).
Dad took my side, saying the least he would have done would have been to slap the stupid little bitch across the face.
Mom stormed out of my room (she went to bed without giving me her blessing. She has never done that before).
I kept crying.
Mom wouldn't defend me against her church... that shit hurts... a lot. Then again... it's thanks to that adherence that she... ignored what happened to me 19 years ago...

And that's how my parents found out I'm... possibly possessed by the devil.

Hello, October.