Gordita IV

Ahh! I need more time!
I don't care if this counts, or if it's cheating, point of the story is, I'm storing this entry as the last one for the month of March, even if I technically wrote it up on the 1st of April.

Part IV.
The positive and negative.

Had anyone told me five years ago that there were negatives to weight-loss, I would have scoffed.
How the hell can there be any sort of negative reaching such a massive goal?

Well, while it is pretty rad to fit in normal clothes and all that girly shit, there is an issue.
They mention it plenty of times on television and all those weight-loss shows. I learned of it in histology and mammalian physiology: skin. Lovely, fantastic collagen and elastin. Mmm. Fickle little sons of bitches. Definitive motherfuckers.

I've known that rapid, dramatic weight loss results in saggy skin... I mean, come on, deflate a balloon de un chingaso ("suddenly") and see the result... how the latex looks... if it doesn't burst, of course.
While I don't feel I was "enormous" I knew the chance was there if I went too fast.
I honestly tried to avoid this with all my might.
What was I going to have to resort to? Muscle. Build muscle.
You stretched your skin to the breaking point, deal with the consequences, pendeja!
And that's fine, since I've never wanted to be rail thin. A Clydesdale can never be an Arabian (oh snap! Did I just recall information from that infamous giant, green horse book I checked-out from the library all throughout elementary school? Fuck yeah I did). I've never had a small frame, and it was futile to resist my body type.
The only dainty thing on my body has always been my wrists, that's it.
So... while I'm not perfect, muscle it is:

Consider me dead if these get on Facebook.

The thighs and arms that can feed a couple of large cats.

I'm sure it comes as no surprise that PLENTY of people DON'T like muscle on a girl.
I want to be fit... but I don't want to be bulky, ya know? That's why... I'll just be over here, on the cardio machines. Cardio. Cardio. CARDIO!
I hear that shit ALL. THE FUCKING. TIME.

This leads me to another negative to the weight loss:
I'm hell of proud of my muscle... that shit was HARD to gain... and while I'm in NO WAY ashamed of it, I've encountered plenty of hate from others due to it.
Ew! Please don't flex! That shit's gross.
Women should not have muscle.
I like my girls soft. (Like your dick, I assume?)
etc etc.
To that, all I have to say is:
The only man who think a woman should NOT have muscle is an insecure, weak man.

Not too many dudes I've encountered like buff chicks. Dudes in my family? Yeah, not fans... well, my lovely godson is... and that leads me to the positives.

Love and support.
I am OVERWHELMED... completely at a loss for words, when it comes to the kind words directed my way from my friends and family.
I know I said I had folks hating... and while they're still there, the ones who have stepped up have... really, truly touched my heart.
It's insane, really.
Kind of scary.
I freak out because I stop and think about how dark and abysmal my existence was exactly a year ago... (no, really, remember last year my cousin got married and didn't put me as her bridesmaid and I was also cropped out of my FAMILY photo with the bride? That kind of shit only happens in sitcoms with titles that contain the word "Ugly")
Today, I've seriously been one of the happiest girls on the planet. I literally have a bounce in my step!
All the words, every single one, I keep in my heart, and fuel me.

i am proud , you are in realy good shape that is some serious dedication to your training congrads madrina. keep up the exelent work

eso si son cojones madrina no chingaderas not many people can do that!!!!!! everything is posible when you realy want it!
You're FUCKIN' AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!! I'm sooooooooo happy for you \0/!!!!!!!!!!

But this is really inspirational (at least to me). You took something that effected you negatively and made something positive to yourself out of it. I hope you are really proud. I am proud of you :)
I am so proud of you!!! That's dedication!!! Shit, work it!!! 
Damn girl you be killin em
Congrats! So proud and happy for you! I admire you!

Those words help lean the scale, BIG TIME, to the positive.

I always knew I had the best people around me.
I fear I don't have enough time on this earth to ever fully repay them for the large impact they've had on my life.

Goodness gracious... I'm a positive person!

Gordita III.

I had originally planned on posting this series back when I hit the 173 mark... since that ugly number marked me for the rest of my life.
I hadn't seen the likes of that number since eighth grade.
Back when I started the diet, I didn't have a goal in mind... that number was not even a glimmer in my eye.

In all seriousness, I never thought I'd reach the 170's.

The last year has been a cycling of increasing my protein intake and veggie intake, and drastically decreasing everything else.

The reaction from others over MY eating habits is what has surprised me most. The outrage is what... leaves me speechless.
"THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH FRUIT!"
WHOA, homegirl! I'm sure there isn't, but right now, I need to cut that shit out. You've seen how fruits have worked out for me these last 26 years... calm the fuck down. You eat all the fucking fruit you like, kinkajou, but I'm cutting them out for the time being.
After enough bullshit reactions like that, I had to get snotty... it's just... inevitable for me. Piss me off, and I'll become pretty fucking petulant/insolent.
Look dude, carbs are GREAT... but right now, they're not very conducive to the biochemistry desired.
I have a biology degree, pre-medicine to be exact... you majored in art, shut the fuck up and quit judging ME for MY current dietary decisions. I'm not doing drugs, so get out of my hair, k?

I also had people in my face over my gym activity. Concerned maybe I was acquiring an addiction.
That shit just made me laugh.
Gym problem because I hit it up for two hours a day? There were days when I'd be in school for TWELVE hours of my day... no one ever became concerned that I was acquiring some freak addiction to school.
Plus, the time spent in the gym was less time I spent home, considering suicide (no, seriously).

All in all, this change in diet and increase in gym activity is what kept me on this planet.
It didn't just improve my physical health, but it helped my mental health... except for the low-carb/no-carb rages... those aren't fun.
I've also met some remarkable people who have helped me along the way. I have a little gym family that has embraced me, and is genuinely happy about my progress. Their faces light up each week when they see me. It is SO incredibly satisfying... and welcoming... and nice. Sure, if I think too much about my actual friends and family who aren't happy about my progress I nearly cry (it's so frustrating... their silence... or straight up snubbing. Some of the comments I get throw me for a loop, because of their backhanded nature. There is just NO pleasing some people, and while it SHOULDN'T bother or hurt me, it does. I can't eat sweets in front of some folk because they judge me... a couple have OPENLY said I'm going to go back to how I looked. Oh, ye of little faith. Little do you know your skepticism/hate only FUELS me. Proving people wrong is my forte. Few have my discipline/determination, best believe that... or better yet, DON'T), but I TRY to keep my thoughts positive... and I cherish every single compliment thrown my way... for the first time in my life. It is honestly something I'll appreciate until my dying day. Every single positive thing-- from Kelley having my back that one day at Red Rock when I freaked the fuck out thinking I was going to die on the trail (I now run that trail, Kelley! It's so crazy!) to the older lady who worked up the courage to whisper "You look so good, honey!" after months of seeing me in the same spot at the gym-- has managed to touch my heart way deeper than I could have ever anticipated.

ANYWAY! Backing off the sentimentality, the 173 wasn't coming fast enough... then around the last week of December, I hit 169. I was going to talk about all this then... but I was too excited about other stuff.
Now, I've dropped another 9 pounds, where I've managed to remain.
Yup. I'm very publicly, and quite happily, admitting my weight. I'm a 27 year old, 5'8", 160 pound Mexican-American. C'est moi.
Want photos?
I don't care, I'm posting them anyway (especially since I refuse to put these on FB, because I've always been of the "Don't let your right hand know what your left hand does" type person. I'm keeping this shit to myself... and my close friends/family who, for some freak-reason, still read this. Bless your hearts, guys... it's a tough read... with my constant tangents, misspellings, terrible grammar, cryptic bullshit, etc etc. Anyway, this is the only place I feel safe to... get all giddy, sentimental, truthful about this issue, so bear with me).

My 18s. I wore the hell out of those pants.
I knew it was time to do something the moment I RIPPED these... at the airport, of all places.

These were my "goal" jeans... my 16s that were more like loose 15s.
I loved these pants.

Exact outfit I wore the week I joined the gym.
To think I ever squeezed into this makes me want to cry.

Sorry for the underwear pic... but I mean... do you know when's the last time I remember having hipbones like that? Never. NEVER.

Never again.
Now it's muscle time.

I'm tired and incoherent now. It's bed time.

Gordita II.

Now it's time for part two. Possibly the more embarrassing post... but again, I'm going to "keep it 100," as the youth say nowadays (by "youth" I mean "much more legit people than this nerdy, med-school drop-out").
No day more fitting for this post, considering it was exactly one year ago today that I embarked on this wild weight-loss... journey.

Without further ado, part deux:

So uh... I've been having this weight issue for the majority of my life... at least, the important years.

Yeah, I played basketball in high school... and if you ask me, and based on photos I've seen of myself form back then, I was fucking normal... just not the petite look most boys dig and most girls aspire to. 

I wasn't short, and I wasn't bony. I was 5'8" and 196 pounds (imagine my freaking horror when I saw coaches from ALL schools in our division got that information and kept it in their clipboards to study! Absolutely HORRIFYING! I kid you not when I say I barfed). My job was to take the shots from the top of the key (because I could not/ CANNOT make a layup to save my life), but more often (and more importantly), to stand there and take the charge... like some damn rhino... a hippo... Shaq (I love you, Shaq!).

Hit me, homie. Come at me, little point guard, I bet you I ain't going nowhere!

And while I DID have a couple of boys who'd look past that, the number of boys who overlooked me because I wasn't skinny enough FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR surpassed the number who gave me a chance.

And it wasn't just in the romantic sense where I was rejected because of my size... I was also rejected by girls as a friend, family members left me out of parties because I was too "big."

All kinds of people overlooked me because I was... big.

I can't recall when I crossed the 200 mark... because I stopped weighing myself once I entered college.

College... ahhh... good times, good times.

I DO know I was no longer fitting in clothes. Shopping was hell. It was a punch in my (evidently very enormous) gut. I'd come out of the experience in tears.

All of my pants (which were about... five pairs, max) were torn in the thigh area, from the massive friction my thunder thighs caused.

[I had been shopping in the "junior" department at stores since FOURTH GRADE. I was a size 13 in sixth grade... and I remember bulging out of thirteens once I entered eighth grade. Shitty part about that was that in those years (1998-99), society was not too sympathetic to us "fatties" and "regular" stores still weren't catching up with the plus sizes. I basically had to pray not to get any bigger... or else I'd have to... well, I don't know what I would have had to resort to. Homeschool? Early embracing of the Hermit lifestyle? I did rip two of my pants in my high school days. That was embarrassing... and loud... homeschool would have avoided me that trauma]

In college-- my first year, to be exact-- I was a size 15. I knew when I'd gain weigh based on how snuggly my pants fit.

Being (against my will) a Biology major, my schedule was hectic and stressful. No time to eat properly, much less workout... and why lie, if I DID have time to do any of that, I chose not to... I preferred to sleep... or weep, atop that stupid Organic Chemistry/Molecular Biology/Mammalian Physiology book.
It never really struck me how much damage I was doing to my body with my late nights and shitty diet (cheese, cheese, and more cheese. And bread. And pasta. And quesadillas... oh man, quesadillas! And Buffalo Wild Wings! Oh yeah, that place hit the spot every Thursday, pre-lab)... not until I hit a monumental birthday.

By the time I hit the big 2-1... as in, the moment I became legal... I didn't turn into the "typical" Vegas local. I didn't hit the clubs with a vengeance. Why didn't I? Because two months after turning 21, I attended my friend's 21st birthday party at Tao. She was throwing a joint party with one of my high school's "popular" girls... a very pretty girl, a very nice girl... but one who had a very fucking jerky boyfriend. A total piece of shit asshole. 

What happened at this party? 

Well,
One: when it came to letting us in the damn club, the line was stopped directly in front of me... that was fucking nice. 

Two: I became the bag girl... you know, the girl all the other girls toss their purses to while mouthing "Can you keep an eye on this for me?" and proceed to disappear into the night. Yeah, sure, I'm not going anywhere.

And the last straw: As I sat watching the stupid bags (seriously, girls, WHY the fuck do you take a BAG to a club if you don't expect to keep your own fucking eyes on it?), I noticed the popular birthday girl arguing with her boyfriend directly in front of me. He was asking her who the fuck we (I was sitting there with my bestie) were and why we were sitting in their VIP area. She told him we were the other birthday girl's friends. The jackass looked at us, and very loudly laughed (hysterically) while pointing directly at us.

It was quite humiliating... and it cut me deep.

I only continued to balloon after that. A year after that, my final year of college in '07, I barely fit in size 18s.
Yes.
One day... I don't know what exactly possessed me to do this, but I decided to get on the scale.
I saw the number, and immediately jumped off... as if a cobra had just swiped at me.
245.
Ouch.
It was a rough wake-up call... but not hard enough to push me into the gym. Don't get me wrong, I BAWLED my ass off that night... but I didn't do anything other than that.
Then May of '07 rolled around, and a friend finally gave me enough courage to join a local gym... with the promise of a very cute instructor.
I told myself I was going to change.

This is where the "fun" part starts. The photographic proof. Now, if it were up to me, there would be NO photographic proof whatsoever, however, my friends were typical FRIENDS who want nothing more than permanent reminders of the good times.
'07... how did I look in '07?
Ok... deep breath... here we go (guys... this is what I imagine a mouthful of battery acid going down my throat feels like. Not fun. Painfully embarrassing):

The week I joined the gym.
I remember this because I was in a world of pain here.

This one hurts my eyes... and my stomach. And my heart.

I'm hyperventilating by now...

The friend who lured me to the gym with the promise of a ridiculously handsome adonis for instructor.

Oh my God... is it over yet?! I can't look!
:(
...
Ok... I'm good to talk now.
Ok, so '07 I join the gym with the promise to get better... but my diet doesn't change, neither do my sleeping habits... and my consistency isn't great either.

'08 rolls around, and how do I look?

Those are s'mores in my hand, FYI

... ah geeze...

time of my life... time of indulgence.

No words, really. 

Those ta-tas are now gone... bummeroo.

... I see this and wonder how anyone could love me.
Bless his heart.

However, by now I'm out of college, so I don't care. I'm in the honeymoon stage where everything is daffodils and rainbows... I sleep until my back hurts... I have no care in the world! I have a biology degree, no job... it's the first taste of absolute freedom I have since August 1990 (the time I entered kindergarten).
I travel to Europe... I travel around the US and Mexico... I fall in love... the world is my fucking oyster, and who gives a shit if I'm 245 pounds (or more?).
The next time I check my weight, I'm at 225... a win, I think, because I feel it's good considering I'm living the life of a bum.

Around this time I'm completely enamored with the idea of moving to the bay area because my dude is out there... and considering I have a biology degree, getting a job out there and furthering my education practically in the bag.

As I work out the details, personal issues arise... deaths in the family occur, and my move to the bay does not work out.

Through all of this, 2009 comes and goes in a sad haze... enter 2010.
My relationship with the bay area guy ends BADLY in March of that year.
I'm a depressed mess.
How do I recover? I resort to my true love: writing.
A love I discovered my sophomore year of college, but never pursued due to my lovely parents' dream of me becoming a doctor (I guess I should mention I tried... my my heart and body refused... so in the middle of my application to various schools, I quit. I acquired the biology degree, but I refused to enter medical school).
Now that I had zero interest in going to the bay... and a new found interest for following my dreams, I decided to finally gun for that star: I was going to attend grad school... for creative writing.

I prepared all of 2010 for grad school... I zoned in on that sucker the entire year.
At this point, I was hitting the gym consistently. I had noticed my attention span was longer if I worked out... and I retained information much easier.
Was I eating right?
Hell no. Not when there's Buffalo Wild Wings down the road... and Yard House two minutes away... and all-you-can-eat sushi on nearly every busy street!
By December of 2010, I had submitted my applications... and I played the waiting game... often envisioning my life in New York as I worked on my tricep pushups.
I wonder if they have cheap gyms in New York...

Then March 17th, 2011 rolled around.
The infamous emails.
Rejected.
By every single school.

"Not a big deal" you might think... but see... I'm a nerd. I've always been a nerd. Princeton contacted ME when I was in high school due to my AP exam scores. I had NEVER been rejected.
And this was my DREAM. My wildest fucking dream. A dream I allowed others to hear... a dream I was now going to have to admit to being too... lofty.
My soul was crushed.
I got lost.
I lost the will to live... since I no longer really had a reason... I no longer knew who I was.

March 29th, 2011 rolled around, and after days of not eating... or sleeping... and only crying... I decided I was finally going to cave.
I was finally going to DIEt.
Would it work? Who knows. Who fucking cares.
Would I die? Who knows? Who fucking cares?

I jumped, head-first, into the depths of the unknown... not caring what April 30th, 2011 was going to look like, much less how I was going to look like...
and never imagining I'd make it to March 29th, 2012... especially not looking like this:

Do those pants look familiar to you?

I'll leave the rest for Part III. This was WAY too long.
Please don't stare at the photos for too long... you have no idea how embarrassing they are...

Gordita I.

A while back I mentioned how I've been working on a "series" of entries.
I haven been reluctant to post it because... well, it's hard. It is SO. DAMN. HARD.
I know I often over-share on here, but in real life, I'm as private as they come. I prefer to listen to others talk, than open up and speak. I hate any kind of spotlight, and will fight my way into obscurity.

However, since tomorrow marks a HUGE day for me, I decided to just... let go... and be one-hundred percent sincere on a topic that has engulfed my entire life, centric to my existence:
AnoMALIE is was FAT.

First, I'll start with the "pre," my childhood... the time my issue with fatness is cemented. Where my trauma arose.
I wrote this entry back in July, against my better judgement-- my urge to remain silent-- I'll post it.
I apologize for the sentimentality... but this topic BURNS me to the core... travels down my esophagus, seeps its way to my ventricles... and gets carried down my bloodstream to every inch of my body.
I'm so sorry.

*** 

I'm very tired after a day of being relatively sad... so this means I'm pretty vulnerable right now.
Add a laptop to this late-night vulnerability, and you get my equivalent to a drunk person and a cellphone full of ex's numbers.
Well, no, not like that.
I'm just going to spill my guts about something I guard very tightly when I'm in a normal state of mind.

I'm currently facing a problem I never thought I'd have.
In the past, I criticized others for their reactions, but now that I'm in their shoes, I'm having a difficult time dealing.

I've made it more than clear that I've always had a self-esteem issue. I've never really liked myself.
This has made people suspect that maybe I hate myself because I'm "in the closet," but those who know me best can attest to that being false.
My image problem stems from being told I'm not good enough, and that I'm "ugly" ever since I was a toddler.
It's kind of fucking hard to get out of that mindset after decades of hearing the same shit.

In the early years, I didn't have the "fat" issue, because I was a healthy kid whose mom didn't allow her to have junk food until she knew how to read (and even then, Mom didn't buy junk food until I was in 5th grade... and the junk food would be either a bag of Doritos or Hot Cheetos). I was also very active... so I stayed skinny.

Happy, healthy kids...
who are more than stoked over the fact that they're finally going to try some sugar.

Then puberty hit.
I still remember (Jesus Christ, I can't believe I'm going to admit this, but fuck it, let's be real. No sarcasm or hyperbole used for self-preservation this time)
::deep breath::
being in third grade and that being my first time feeling the pressure to "lose weight."
A week or so after third grade would be over, I was going to be making my first communion... and I was stressed over fitting into my perfect white dress.
I had purchased that motherfucking dress the previous year, because I was... one of those little bridesmaids at weddings-- not exactly a flower girl, but I was one of the girls in charge of carrying the train of the bride's dress.
Anyway, kids grow. So I was outgrowing this dress at a fast pace.
A month before my first communion, I remember stepping on my dad's scale and looking down at my weight for the very first time:
94 lbs.
FUCK! I NEED TO LOSE THIS!
I CLEARLY remember thinking that.
I was a 94 pound third grader. NINETY-FOUR-FUCKING-POUNDS!
I can't begin to describe the sense of... worthlessness that overcame me at that moment. I mean, I was in NO WAY expecting to see that number. NO WAY.
I remember setting the goal of NOT breaking the 100 mark.
The day before my first communion, I stepped on the scale:
102 lbs.
I did my first communion with puffy eyes.
Mom has a jumbo-sized photo from my first communion hanging in the living room. It mortifies me... because you can see how disgusted I am with myself. A nine year old... hating herself.

I DID NOT lose weight after that. In fact, I just kept gaining it... but not in the best places.  I was flat as a board... I looked like a pudgy little boy. I reminded myself of a carcass whose getting consumed by bacteria/maggots on the inside... you know, when they get bloated right before they burst and get super disgusting?
But still, in today's standards, I wouldn't be considered out of the ordinary. I don't know where exactly all that heaviness came from... but it was there.

My next devastating encounter came in 8th grade Health class.
The teacher measured all of our heights... and weights... in front of the entire class.
That has to rank as one of the most humiliating moments in my life.
I remember her being a mean bitch... she was scary, in her late 20's... and she CLEARLY didn't think through this idea of hers.

She measured EVERYONE... and my heart rate would only increase with each new person to get measured... because the rest of the classmates were SO interested in seeing what others weighed.
Of course, the teacher would facilitate this curiosity of my fellow classmates because she'd call out the weight and height of the person she'd be measuring.
I remember my heart racing, and almost fainting... because I was terrified.
The teacher was using one of those legit scales doctors have, which also measure your height... so it was very easy for others to read... just in case they couldn't hear the teacher, ya know?

I was the second to last person.
It was one of those moments where you can't hear shit because of the blood rushing to your now-beet-red face, you're suffering tunnel vision... everything fades, and nothing else matters.
Like a lamb to the slaughter, I walked over to the scale.

Defeated, I stood quietly as she measured my height.
"5'6" and a half, " she called out loud.
I was the tallest person measured up to that point.

Then the weight.
First, the 100lb weight. Bam! Didn't budge.
Move the small weight? Nope... that doesn't cut it.
Add... the 50lb.
The girls in class gasped once they saw that.
I bowed my head in shame... not wanting to see the final number.

I made eye-contact with the teacher before resting my gaze on the floor... making sure she understood it as my "I'm the good girl in class who never talks and does all her homework on time... I didn't deserve to be humiliated like this..." look. That was exactly what I was thinking, at least. I saw regret in her face... but she still kept going. She had to finish what she had started.
She had to add a 20lb weight.

The loud, obnoxious guys hooted and hollered "OH MAAAAAN!!"
My throat was hurting by now, from holding back the tears. I could hear one of the bitches in class whisper "Damn... she's already at 170 pounds!"

By now, I was the heaviest person in class, by at least 20 pounds.
This time, the small little weight only had to move over three tiny marks.
"A hundred and seventy-three pounds..." a classmate called out. "A HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-THREE POUNDS!"
The teacher then tried ameliorating the pathetic, traumatic scene by declaring "REMEMBER! MUSCLE WEIGHS MORE THAN FAT!"
Yeah... because I'm totally a ripped 14 year old, lady.

The last kid to get weighed was a 6'2" 203 pound basketball player. Sure, he was the heaviest... but he was also the tallest... and a fucking basketball player.

I don't know how I still functioned for the rest of school... Health was my second period out of six for the day.

***

That's where it ends.
That's where I'll pick up tomorrow.

Klutzy McKlutzenstein

Klutzy day...
1. 11AM.
Sprinting full-speed on the treadmill.
Ok, that's fine.
And then suddenly having the lights go out.
Not so fine.
Damn near took out my knees with that shit. My heart also beat erratically for a few moments.
GOOOOOOD morning, Las Vegas!

2. 12PM.
Kettle Bell swings.
Fun! Seriously.
Underestimated distance between left knee and kettle bell.
Chriiiiiist all mighty!... who needs sesamoid bones, anyway? (I DO!)
Luckily, I banged the knee when the swing was on its way down, which I do as gently as possible. Still, 35 pounds bumping your knee at any speed sucks.

3. 5PM
Interlude.
Time for some Lent Penance Service.
Church was empty, especially when it came to English-speakers... so I went ahead and confessed with my favorite priest: the foul-mouthed Nigerian, Father Innocent.
All was good, I even made him giggle...
Then came time for my penance, my sentencing: Seven "Hail Mary"s AND seven "Our Father"s.
Holy cow! I thought we were cool, Father!
Looks like someone wasn't a good girl (Father Innocent has NEVER given me penance... and now to drop SEVEN of each prayer on me? Sheesh. Way to make me feel like the spawn of Satan)... wooooops.

4. 8PM
Green tea time!
You are so damn delicious!
I drink approximately six 20-ounce mugs a day... because it's so damn delicious.
Everything was fine and dandy, until I reached in the cupboard for a brand new box of tea. The box was stuck to the box it was resting on... and that box bumped a glass jarful of saffron. SAFFRON.
Needless to say, the jar broke... as did my heart... and I lost about thirty-bucks-worth of the damn fucking spice.
I carefully sifted through the broken glass to try and rescue the remaining bits... which I DID.

Overall, the day could have been considered a failure... but there was a major saving grace.
This bad boy:

"Single scoop" of Orange frozen custard.

Lord... I love this place.
I only did what the cone asked me to do.

Me and my friend, my friend and I

Ahhhhh, boys, boys, boys.
Such lovely specimens.
I love them, for the most part... then they go do some fucked up confusing shit out of the blue.

I say I dig dudes for friends because they're chill and don't usually allow petty shit get between friendships... as long as they don't enter a relationship AFTER you've befriended them (everyone knows their balls get cut, and they'll disappear until the relationship ends... another curious behavior).
I can joke around about the strangest/grossest shit and they'll be incredibly accepting... and forgiving if I say something a little rude/outlandish. I love that.

Then one day, they wake up on the wrong side of the bed, some chick refuses to blow them... or... anything else that might randomly get them in a bad mood... and next thing you know, they're lashing out at you.
I say this because I've currently fallen out of grace with one of my favorite dudes.
Yes, it was entirely my fault... but it wasn't like I did something out of character.

I like this guy because we have a lot in common. One of my favorite things to do with him is giggle over poor grammar. He's a super stickler... I'm not so much, considering I have shit grammar thanks to my Mexican upbringing and whatnot.
Anyway, I see him correct people and we have a lovely giggle over it.
Considering he's such a grammar Nazi, I banter with him and correct him when he messes up in the slightest.
I have ALWAYS done this.
For some reason, the other day he was NOT in the mood for it... and I suffered for it.
He was commenting on a photo of our mutual friend, and fucked up on the "My friend and I" vs. "my friend and me" dilemma.
His first sentence was ALMOST correct, except for the fact that he placed "My Friend" after "me."
He then went off and "corrected" himself by changing it to "My friend and I."
I then, probably two minutes later, corrected him... quite fucking nicely, actually... and next thing you know, homeboy goes off on me!
:(
That's exactly how I looked. It hurt me. It made me sad. It confused the fuck out of me.
AND HE KEPT GOING!
:'( Why are you being so mean? I thought we were friends! I like you, you jerk... :'(
And he went all extreme: He deleted me from his social networking sites!
WHAT THE FUCK?! What the hell is going on? This shit be serious, yo!

What throws me more for a loop is that this guy is chill. SO. FUCKING. CHILL. To see him spaz out like this freaks me the fuck out.
Shit. I must have really gotten under his skin.
So I try and be a big girl, and I go ahead and apologize. You know how hard that shit is for me... considering how much I LOATHE apologies.
...
Homie straight up ignores me. Acts like I'm invisible.
I thought only bitches did that? I thought dudes were straight up and owned their issues?
Needless to say, this thing is killing me. The thought of offending a dude this badly is bugging the shit out of me. It takes a shitton to piss off a dude (you're not banging) to the point where he doesn't want to speak to you... so I'm baffled.

Hmph. Just lovely.

Bitchface or Sadface?

It's no secret I have a bitch face.

I don't really know how to fix this issue... I mean... HOW do you fix the way your face looks when you're being quiet? I can't sit there with a smile plastered on my face... that'll just make me look deranged, are you fucking kidding me?
I was just born this way.

Fuck you, brahh.

Don't touch me.

A clown? It's freakin' Christmas and I get A CLOWN?
Get this shit off me.

The face wins me haters quite regularly... just look at my previous post for proof (I see that bitch tomorrow... blaaaaahhhhhh).

If people aren't hating... they feel sorry for me.
I'm either really pissed or miserable, according to folks (and yeah, I guess they're often correct... though they usually just skip past "Why aren't I home sleeping right now?"-- that one's ALWAYS correct).

Contemplating slitting my wrists and slipping into the tub... or just wondering why "Boba" goes by  "pearl tea" "Bubble tea" "Tapioca balls" etc... 

Since this week I already bumped into someone who thinks my bitchface is for real, it was only fair to bump into someone today who was under the impression that I was once "La Sad Girl" of my all-Latina gang (because all Mexican-Americans my age belonged to a gang at some point, obviously).

I was quietly sitting alone in my favorite pew at church (Yes, I have a "favorite" pew. Sue me). It was ten minutes to eight in the morning, and I was tired, having slept only a few hours.
Add to that, the fact that I've NEVER been a morning person... AND that I use church as a time to meditate... in SILENCE...
I was pretty much a zombie.

Other people... I imagine it's naturally outgoing, rambunctious people, can't seem to grasp this idea... the idea of being OK with being alone and quiet... and they immediately think you're in need of attention.

As I sat at the pew, staring at the floor and working on some mental math (macro counting... trying to squeeze in some room for an ice cream cone... you know, VITAL shit like that), I felt a lady hug me.
Whatthefuck?
She wrapped her arms completely around me, rubbing my back, and gently bumped her head against mine a couple of times. Her head-scarf was hitting me right in the eye, pretty much blinding me.
thefuuuuckisgoingon?!
Then she very... kindly... said:
Smile. Jesus loves you!
Whaaaat is going on?
When she released me, I looked at her... probably with the most bewildered look on my face, and then felt relief when I noticed she was the lady who always sits behind me at English mass.
I smiled.
Then I felt stupid.
Fuck... do I look that damn pathetic?

So... that question: How the fuck do I look NORMAL when I'm being quiet and having "alone" time? I don't want any more "enemies" and much less any more awkward, far-too-public sympathy hugs.
Remember, I don't want to look deranged, and I'm too afraid for plastic surgery or drugs.

My parents should have never mated that fateful May/June day of 1984. Bad combo, guys.

Haters Gon' Hate? Fuck that.

Know how I know I'm Dad's favorite?
When D got in that ugly wreck a few months ago, he refused to pay for the repair... he even refused to take the car to a shop.
What does he do with me?
He gets the mechanic at our place to use his thingamajigs (that's as good as it gets with me. I know nothing about car jargon. I turn to Ariel and refer to everything as a "thingamajig" and "thingamabob." It works. I know how to change a flat tire, having done it three times, but do I know what tools I used? Fuck no) to fix my bumpers. Pops wouldn't even let me drive Bambi until it was inspected.
My little babe is as good as new.

And that's how I know I'm his favorite. My little Popster.

Know whose favorite I am NOT?
My substitute kickboxing instructor.
I'm not being paranoid, this shit is confirmed.

Before class, I did the usual thing and chatted up my old-lady friends. One I'm particularly tight with because we talk basketball each season.
This lady has a younger sister who is very close to the substitute teacher because they both have the same aggressive, bitter nature (kind of like me, but not really like me... if that makes sense. I'm hardened because I'm a sweet girl who was hurt at a very young age. They're older women who were CLEARLY hurt by a boyfriend, when they were in their mid-twenties, and have just never recovered. HUGE difference).
As we sat in our corner, talking March Madness, the younger sister brings up the substitute teacher... kind of laughing.
MyOldLadyFriend: You told her to go hard on me, didn't you?!
OldLadyFriend'sYoungerSis: ... maybe.
MyOldLadyFriend: I already know she doesn't like me. You made sure to tell me. Which reminds me, guess what she thinks of YOU.

The old lady looks directly at me.

Me: The sub? Of me?
MyOldLadyFriend: She thinks... ::nervous laugh:: you're a little bitch.
?!?!
Me:... me?!
MOLF: Yeah. She doesn't like anyone from *RealKickboxingTrainer*, says we're annoying and vain. The other day she was complaining to my sister about it. Then she brought you up. Straight up said "I want to make that bitch hurt."

I couldn't make a noise. My eyes were just huge in disbelief.
Me: But I didn't do anything!
MOLF: It bugs her how... I guess she has caught you yawning a few times... says you act bored and it pisses her off.
Me: I have late nights and early mornings!
MOLF: Well, be ready. You already know her intentions.

Now, I'm a pushover and a sweetheart and blah blah blah. I don't like conflict. I cry a lot. I'm a pacifist (even if deep inside I'm burning up and cussing up a storm. I'll stay quiet because I HATE rocking the boat).
But I'm my mother's child.
I'm vindictive. I'm stubborn. I LOVE to prove people wrong. I. AM. COMPETITIVE.

Make ME hurt? BIIIITCH, you don't even know me. Fuck you. BRING IT, you fucking hater. 

What did I do?
Well, I definitely felt offended and sad at first. It never feels good to be told someone dislikes you for no apparent reason.
My face just fucking looks like this, ok?! I'm timid. Naturally quiet and shy... not stuck up and vain.
After pouting a little, and taking a few deep breaths, I took all her commands and made it my fucking mission to do them like a pro.
I channeled the rage and imagined it was her bitch ass directly in front of me that I was kicking, punching, kneeing, and (my absolute favorite) elbowing.
When the plyos came around, I made sure not to bitch out... even on the stupid burpees that hurt the shit out of my weak wrists (fuck you, burpees).

Basically, I owned that kickboxing class yesterday.
...
Then I woke up this morning-- completely immobilized.

Parts of my body I had never felt before are crying in pain (my gluteus medius/minimus are wishing death upon me. That pain is... nasty. It's so awkward... a totally foreign feeling).
I nearly passed on the gym... but, again, my stubbornness and pride got the best of me.
That bitch made me hurt? FUCKTHAT! I'm adding another ten pounds to this squat, and these motherfucking lunges are gonna be weighted!

I'm probably going to regret this... but hey, good thing it's the weekend, right? Stupid hater bitch doesn't see me at the gym until Monday.
I'll gain some mobility by then... hopefully...

I'll make sure to smile and skip my way past her.
Bitch.

Keep them cars away!

Fuck. My. Ass.

Fuck.
I need to quit being so happy, it never fails to attract negative energy or whatever the fuck.
Guess what I just did.
I just got crashed.
FUCK.

Sister left for Chicago a couple of minutes ago, and I was the one in charge of driving her to the airport.
That goddamn 215 entry at LV BLVD is under some kind of STUPID construction. Not a good thing, considering how many fucks must be drunk driving around there thanks to good old Town Square.
As if that wasn't enough, the stupid fucking idiot BMW-driving cunt in front of me didn't have her lights on and was at a complete STOP. On the freeway entrance. At 11PM.
I hit my breaks twice, which activated the ABS... but still, I managed to hit the blue BMW in front of me, and the red Volkswagen behind me hit me because he freaked.
Blue BMW SPED AWAY. SPED AWAY!!!
THEN! The goddamn Volkswagen dashed into the traffic and got lost!
Umm... ok... so we're going to act like NOTHING happened?! You guys just raped my little Bambi! Get out of your fucking cars, I'm going to smash your face against the hood of your respective cars, motherfuckers!!

The rage subsided and turned to sadness.
My car just got raped... my little Bambi... DPed by drunk motherfuckers. I could have died... M-ahhhhh-m! :'(

I dropped D off at curbside... quietly drove home, then checked up on Bambi.
She's a trooper. She held her own in this scrap. Nothing too bad to deal with... just my fucking rage.

For the next two weeks, I'm meanmugging ALL motherfuckers in blue BMW SUVs and red Volkswagen Golfs.
Assholes.

Jolly Green (not that much of a) Giant

Last month, Pops visited Nicaragua.

The day he left was the day he told me I could have joined him.

Gee, thanks Pops.

He went on a "mission" for his church, handed bibles to the folks in the street.

Had I joined him, I wouldn't have spent my days handing out bibles (sorry, Papi), I would have spent my days exploring the wildlife. Fuck yeah.

Instead I had to settle for Pop's souvenirs of raw cacao... and a sweet green muumuu. I'm not complaining... I mean, sure, I could have visited Nicaragua and returned with the memory of chillin' on a volcano... but that muumuu is way more comfortable than anticipated... even if I do look like the Jolly Green Giant when I rock it (which is ALL the time I'm in the house. It's comfortable, I tell you!).

The resemblance is UNCANNY. I wish I were kidding.

Last week, Pops asked me what I preferred: Puerto Rico or Costa Rica.

Costa Rica! DUH! The mere thought of the biodiversity found there makes me tremble with excitement! Who, besides the state of New York, gives a fuck about Puerto Rico? (I'm being sarcastic, PLEASE don't get all angry at me for the comment... But I really do prefer Costa Rica... even if Puerto Rico has hotter men. Remember, I like animals more than I like humans... but not in THAT sense, no no, no bestiality here. Ew. Way to ruin my excitement)

I said this with that much enthusiasm, which in turn made my dad pretty happy.

He extended an offer for me to join him on a trip to Costa Rica next month.

FUCKKKK YEAHHHH! I'll go! Are you kidding me?!

I think Daddy thinks I'm going to join him in the bible thumping aspect of the trip, possibly running the risk of getting converted... because he has been so happy with me... even talking to me in his baby voice (yeah, Dad does that to me when we're on REALLY good terms. It drives me crazy, in a good way... it's the thing that makes me bite his cheek... like the fucking barbarian I really am... I can't explain it beyond that. I'm a wild animal when I'm too happy for words. Watch out).

But uh... Mom is coming along as well... and... well... we're Catholic girls who will, hands down, choose to chill at the beach and think of God while admiring his creation (My goodness! The sea just... keeps going and going! Thank you, Diosito. This Triple sec is B-AHHHH [I blame Chicago for this]-MB! Thank you, Diosito)... instead of push him down peoples' throats. And NO, there is absolutely no way of getting us to convert. No way... but you just keep holding on to that hope that maybe we can, if that makes you feel better.

Mom and I already have plans, yo. Chillin' at the beach, drinking, sleeping, jungle exploration, massive ingestion of local fresh fruit (mangos and passion fruit, I'm looking at you! I'm gonna overdose on that shit)... and did I mention chillin' at the beach? 

We're gunning for a tan... a nice Costa Rican tan.

Knowing me, I'll get a lame caucasian Spaniard burn.

But who cares? I'm walking on sunshine right now... I don't want to think about lobster burns or Chagas disease.

Ok, I'll chill out now.

Let's see if this works out.

Springy Spring SPRING!

Spring is here!
Much cleaning was involved today; yes, some of the cleaning due to the whole "Spring Cleaning" mantra, but also because I pretty much had to after the St. Patrick's Day Leaky Roof bullshit.

My Saturday was going great... up until 5 in the afternoon, when I made a quick visit to my bedroom and froze in my tracks as I heard an unfamiliar noise:
A drip of water.
A drip of water which was quickly turning into a gush.
Worse part? I was home alone.
How the fuck am I gonna fix this? I know jack about this shit! 
Worst part? The end splash was landing on my paintings.
VERGA! NO!

The whole scenario had me upset... pretty furious, even after the stupid leak had been sealed.
It didn't help that Dad went all Troglodyte and stepped on my semi-ruined paintings.

Considering my Saturday had been shitted on (and that I still needed to return some of my purchased items AND drop off the uncle who came to my rescue), instead of picking up the mess that was my room, I decided it'd be best if I left the house.
Lucky for me, my trails left me in the hood of a couple of friends, they had some Jameson... and the rest is maggot-cheese VS ricotta cheese VS blue cheese (intense conversation that left me on the verge of vomiting... but also intrigued. Must find this maggot cheese with those disgusting long-jumping maggots)/dog-fawning (yes, ladies and gentlemen, I became one of those people who whips out a photo of their dog in the middle of a conversation. I participated in DOGTALK! What is happening to me?! It WAS fun though... I like watching the smile creep on pet-owners as they talk about their little creature) history (where the pet-talk got the best of me and I wound up petting the hell out of a very friendly cat... and yes, I went to bed itchy as fuck, red welts all over my arms/hands, with no Benadryl in sight. I will never learn... Goddamn cats need to quit being so fucking cute and cuddly).

So Spring, I did my cleaning... be cool.

(while I talked maggot-cheese and fixed my fucked up roof, my sister was being a boss at a local nightclub, arm-wrestling a bachelor and winning.

She'll always be infinitely cooler than me)

Brain-purge

It happened again-- that thing where too many things happen at once and my brain wants to explode.
I really need to get that shit under control.
These last few weeks have been lacking updates not because of the monotony that controls my life, but quite the opposite.
Each day has been... different.
Too much for my fucking brain to handle.

I've been so frustrated by this sudden buzz in my life, that I've resorted to taking AUDIO MEMOS. AUDIO MEMOS! Do you know how fucking weird that is?! I feel like Joseph on Amelie... talking into his recorder as he stalks his ex... except I do it to keep my ideas in order.
There I am, sitting at a red light, holding my iphone to my mouth and talking to it... silly, really... but if I don't do it, the idea is more than likely gone forever. At 27, it appears my memory's "full," so I'm S.O.L. if I want to remember anything new.
We had a good run, brain.

Anyway, what can I say about these last few weeks?
There was a 50th wedding anniversary (topic I wanted to talk about here was "how the fuck do you put up with someone's bullshit for 50 fucking years? It's admirable... but kind of nauseating to think about. That being said, my parents BETTER FUCKING MAKE IT TO 50! They're gonna be married FOREVER, you hear me?!"),

so THIS is how you filter your nose out of a shot!
Eye-makeup: the only redeemable thing about hitting up a 50th wedding anniversary.

Birthdays galore (my fellow Pisces rock. March babies are the shit... also... why are there so many around the same days? Like... around the 7th-15th? The 10th is LOADED with birthdays... what holiday falls on the conception date for March 7th-15th babies? Memorial Day? It's-Hot-So-I-Wanna-Ride-Bareback-Weekend? Whatever it is... that day is fucking popular... no pun intended),
Leaky bedroom roof-- discovered while it poured and I was HOME ALONE (plans ruined by my inability to be a resourceful Mexican... a couple of my paintings ruined as well, which led to a rage/sadness-induced mini-meltdown... melt-down eased by hanging out with a group of dudes... and drinking whiskey on an empty stomach... because when I want to drink, I don't do pussy shit),

My room flooded today? Hmm... I can't seem... to... recall that.

One-Year Anniversary of my "Death," metaphorically speaking (Oh, that lucky 2011 St. Patrick's Day... Eat a dick, St. Patty's Day!),
March Madness (this speaks for itself. I'm a meanass wreck. So violent... kicking shit, punching shit, cussing in front of men, women, and children. I need a chill-pill...),
"Mood-stabilizers" (they work MAGIC. I think this qualifies me as... insane... right? Nah, not even... I just need help when it comes to not wanting to jump off a cliff when sadness gets a hold of me... or strangle that dumb cunt at the gym who only gives me two feet of space when I'm clean-and-pressing or kickboxing. I'm 5'8"! Get out of my way, you fucking midget!),
Body recomposition (I have some MEAN obliques going on right now... and my deltoids are kinda dreamy... I'll cop to being a tool and admiring my back as I flex in front of a mirror. My one year anniversary is coming up and I have a massive entry dedicated to this whole weight-loss/strong-girl issue of mine... hopefully I don't go all ADD on it again),

Down side to lifting like a dude for MY clumsy ass?
The random bruising that comes along with it!
I mean... have you seen what a weighted glute bridge looks like? Yeah. THAT bruise sucks.

Arm wrestling--and beating-- boys at night clubs (we M girls are fucking beasts, that's all I gotta say about that),
and SO much more.

But I'm tired as fuck right now...
so... hopefully once the pace slows down, I'll hit one or two of these subjects. I'll just make an AUDIO note of it.

He's not dead

I try not to be that damn girl who lets herself get swayed by her dreams.

I tend to succeed.

But not today.

I blame my dream on the news I listened to before going to bed.

My last summer in Mexico, I  remember being in Hometown when I heard our favorite congressman had been abducted. He was a a young handsome man, a very nice man, and above all, incorruptible. He was our Robin Hood of some sorts.

This, of course, rubbed some people the wrong way... the bad people, to call them that.

Though he asked for bodyguards, the day they abducted him, they took him along with his bodyguards.

This was in 2010. No one had heard from him since... not until yesterday.

The news hit me a little harder than expected, because I knew him personally. I knew a teeny, tiny secret of his: he was having an affair with my ex-boyfriend's married sister.

I was sympathetic to their story, because those two lovebirds had been childhood loves that were separated due to her background: rich, politician's daughter. 

She was married off to a rich dude... forever in love with her childhood BF.

It made me sad to know this guy was now dead (there were rumors of his death in '11, where one guy told us how he was found: his eyes gouged out-- young man had very stunning, sweet eyes. We refused to believe because... that was a terrible thing to do to him).

Anyway, I blame this bit of news for making me think of my ex-- politician's lover's little brother-- and the theme was similar to the news.

In my dream, I was given the news that my ex had been killed in a hate-crime... and I spent the rest of the dream sobbing uncontrollably-- snot all over the place.

When I woke up, I realized: Fuck... I really do love this guy. I'd be devastated if he were killed.

But don't be fooled, I don't mean LOVE love, I mean... the love you feel for family. THAT I can admit. THAT type of love I do have for him.

Guess who's getting a tight hug from me next time I see him?

... I'm SO glad he's not dead.

You're out

Heartbreak.
Heartbreak.
Heartbreak.

This season... so... it's such a great metaphor for what has happened in life.
I think that's what has me most upset.

Por mas que quieras convencerte que todo es posible... que no es un sueño guajiro... alguien te regresa a la tierra... de un chingaso.

Dreamers don't like to be reminded that... yo, wake up, homie, you're dreaming again.

Pegasus

A little taste of the ADD disaster that is my brain:

Let's starts with the double-entendre that dominates my life. That whole issue where I say shit that could be misinterpreted... or could serve as quite the euphemism. Today I seemed to be on fire when it came to this.

1.
Sometimes, it's unintentional, and I catch myself before making the situation any more awkward. Such an example occurred this morning, as I prepared my breakfast.
I love avocados, right? So the other day, I purchase two magnificently soft, huge, perfectly green avocados. Super tasty. Problem with that is that my dad eats avocados like normal people eat apples. I wish I were kidding.
Anyway, due to my dad's insatiable voracity for avocados, whenever I find some bomb avocados, I have to hide them if I plan on tasting them.
As I searched for the avocado half (which I had hidden in the fridge the night before) Mom walked into the kitchen. She was standing directly behind me as I joyfully exclaimed:
"My avocado is UNTOUCHED!"
Followed by an "Ew..." after my subconscious chimed "It suuure is, you nun."
Mom: What?
Me: Nnnnnnothing. I'm just really happy to see that avocado.

2.
Foot-in-mouth/double-enendre/AnoMALIE-ism part two took place at the gym.
This time around, it only served to prove I often need others to point out my... poor wording. Gentle teasing is the preferred method of choice.

My trainer caught me doing some extra arm stretches, slightly grimacing each time I'd pet my rotator-cuff.

Trainer: What's up with your arm?

Me: Too much violent hooking.
Trainer: Listen, I hear times are tough, but there are other ways to make money, young lady...

Me: Huh? ... Wait... Arg! Too easy...
Trainer: ... in that field of work...
Me: DAMN. IT!

3.
I can't place all blame on my family/friends/acquaintances for fucking up my sentences. I'm largely to blame because... well, I'm super prone to being purposely vulgar.

I was talking to my sis this afternoon about an inside joke I have with Kelley, about being "flavorologists." I was telling her about our talk about visiting a candy factory. Then we got into talking about working for said company.

Sis: You'd be like... fucking Willy Wonka!

Me: Only if his dick is scrumdiddlyumptious.
Sis: I didn't mean it like that, you fucking pervert.

And now for some images:

Haz caso, con un chingado! 

Seriously have not laughed so fucking hard in a minute. My brain seems to think in Spanish when I'm really upset... like when friends have plans sans moi (only happened to me once, in Mexico... but I have seen this happen to OTHER people... and let me tell you... fucking Meme is on point).

I had an unhealthy fixation with horses when I was in elementary school. I'd jot those motherfuckers all over the place. I'd find excuses to draw horses on book reports, chalkboards, Valentine cards, the inside of my mother's Jeep... everything.
I'd go to the library and ALWAYS check out the same thick book on horses. A giant green book filled with horse photos and their stats.
I checked that book out EVERY. SINGLE. WEEK. From first grade, until fourth grade--when the book suddenly went "missing."
Christ. I had a problem.
Anyway, the book helped me learn how to draw... horses.

The moment I saw "Pegasus" as an option on Draw Something, I jumped on that train, just to make sure my horse-drawing game was still on point.
Took me thirty seconds to draw... and while the wing is shite, that horse is pretty boss... thank you very much.


My brain's all over the place, folks.