Saturday, June 30, 2012

Last of the month

Mexican Election Day tomorrow.
The first of the month tomorrow.
Eurocup Final tomorrow.

Fuck. June is done and now on with July...
Can the year slow the fuck down?! Pretty soon it's once again going to be winter and sweaters are going to be required and.... ughhh.

In other news:
I got nothing.
I'm tired. I only ate breakfast today... I'm irritated... too much shit to do... not enough time...
But... I will leave you with these two images that cracked me the fuck up.

True story. Now quit asking.


I can stare at that man for all eternity... Christ.
Aaaan that shit made me laugh... pretty hard. "Hey Girl" shit never fails to get a giggle out of me.

Thursday, June 28, 2012


Positive thing about this slight depression I've been dealing with is that I've been creative as hell.
Slowly, but surely, I'm going back to my regular self.
Last year, no matter how hard I tried, I could not doodle a damn thing.
In the last two days, I've drawn three sketches and finished two paintings. Pretty solid start... and my drawing aren't even depressing... even if I have cried a couple of times while sketching.

Overall, I'm back to smiling shape. I was even friendly in kickboxing today... even if I had one chick continuously invading my space... reeking of fried chicken (no lie. And if you're going to reek of anything, can you make it something NOT deep-fried? Like... maybe you went on a cherry-eating spree... or mango-eating-spree... even some bread-baking-spree. Fried chicken? Baby girl, stay home and digest that shit on your couch!). I wanted to kick her, but I just had to chill out... by taking wider strides in my side-lunges.
You call that a lunge?! THIS is a lunge! Hopefully that'll teach your stupid ass next time you want to invade someone's bubble.

There was a slight blip on the smiling today, thanks to soccer. I had to frown when I saw Germany lose. Yeah, I was shitting bricks thinking they would make it to the finals and rape my Spanish boys... and I should probably be happy someone stopped their rampage of terror... but I was kiiiind of looking forward to a rematch of the Euro 2008 Final. Seeing the disappointed players on the pitch, after the match, made me sad. Plus, I have acquired this freak crush on Michael Ballack thanks to his ESPN commentary... and he kind of reminds me of Jason Bourne... so DUH! He's also pretty funny when he's in a good mood. Aaaand there's that bit about Darcy being for Germany (I'd be lying if I said he wasn't all... fucking adorable in his damn Germany jersey. Then again, he'd be hot rocking a fucking burlap sack, as far as I'm concerned)... so... if I felt bad for a stranger--an ex-Chelsea player-- of course I'm going to frown for Darcy when his team fails to make the finals.
As if frowning about the surprise exit of Germany wasn't enough, as I switched the channel, I managed to catch the end of Nadal's Wimbledon match... where he was knocked out by a total nobody.
What the fuck, Sport's World? What is this garbage?!
So... there goes my interest in that fucking tournament... although... I'm still in if Federer is still in. Is he? I love him, even if he's not as aesthetically pleasing to my eyes as Nadal... 'cause come on... Nadal? That ASS? Hell yes! I'm just sweet on Federer because he's an incredible human being, aside from his athleticism, of course.

ANYWAY, I'm done for now... I still need to finish up a quick painting before I lose inspiration.
I like being normal, chirpy me.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Del suelo al cielo

I saw my babies today.
By "babies" I mean my Costa Rican BFFs.
Their mom was given a free laptop with built-in speakers and camera, so the first thing they did was download Skype and asked me to add them.
My heart melted.
I forgot my sadness of the past few days, my frustration from today's soccer match (it was as if someone was crushing my heart, watching that fucking game. Cristiano Ronaldo may be rich as fuck and attached to one of the most beautiful--albeit, kinda grossly skinny-- women in the world, but I genuinely felt terrible for the guy. He hustled hard the entire Cup, and to go out the way he did was upsetting), and even the ugly fuckhead living on my lip.
No longer a gross, "weeping" bump, just a gaping hole on my fatass lip.
Try to hold a normal conversation with me, all while that shit's staring you in the face...
The moment I logged onto Skype and saw the excited faces of my little munchkins (they were still in their school uniforms... it was 10PM! They had refused to change, since I hadn't seen them in their unis while I was visiting them. No Ice Queen can resist that fucking adorableness... NO ICE QUEEN in the world!), my fucking world lit up and every negative, dark, shadowy feeling disappeared.

Here, I avoid kids like the plague. I claim I don't want any kids, their shrill cries make me curse their parents, I fight the urge to slap the obnoxious, trouble-making ones at stores... but the moment a couple of five and ten year olds smile and wave at me like they would at Selena Gomez, I turn into a mushy girl-- a second away from melting.
What the fuck?
But so lovely... so lovely something so simple can brighten my day-- I return to my natural, bubbly, playful, silly, smiling self... you know... the girl I was before... everything else happened.
Hmm. Funny... but just what I needed, since these last few days the only thought haunting me has been "This summer. This summer marks 20 years. TWENTY years." (Fucking realization has been killing me for the last week or so, leaving me discombobulated and crying myself to sleep every other day. I never thought I'd still be this fucked up about something that happened so long ago... but evidently I can be fucked up for quite some time, if not forever. Some potent shit... what traumatic experiences do to you when they happen at such a tender age)

The Universe is a trip.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

- 1 + icon

I remember being about ten years old when I first watched "When Harry Met Sally," and a little later "Sleepless in Seattle."
As I've gotten older, I've become further endeared to these two films.
Last year, when I went to New York for the first time, I was geeking-the-fuck-OUT at the top of the Empire State building, continuously mentioning scenes from "Sleepless in Seattle."
When Harry Met Sally? What can I say about that film?
You know that film, When Harry Met Sally? Fucking describes my life, dude!
I've heard girls and guys utter this line. I know I'm guilty of it.
Never the right time...

Nora Ephron... that woman knew what was up. Hilarious stories, but also with incredible heart-- what I strive for in my writing, and life in general.
The world is officially that much shittier without her now.
Mis respetos, gran señora.

... and just... as a weird sidenote:
Notice the phrase I used in yesterday's post (technically, it was marked as earlier today since it posted at midnight)? This is my life.

And that's how my weird psychic shit sometimes creeps up on me.

Pretty awesome and smart

While I only get angry, drunk calls/texts from boys, my sister wakes up to this sort of SOBER text from an ex-boyfriend:

This is my life.

There are few days where I don't repeat this to myself:
27, AnoMALIE, 27.

Some days are just more difficult than others.

I'm sorry... I'll try to be OK tomorrow.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Lazy wetwhatwho?!

It's baaaaack!
My terrible, terrible lifetime partner is BACK.
and yes... that's a Germany-inspired mani.
I'm torn between making a portugal-inspired one next... or sticking to Spain. It hurts my heart.
I had been doing an awesome job at controlling it, especially since I've gotten the hang of when I break out.
What makes me break out?
Being extremely nervous...
Or being extremely flustered/angry.
Any of these two things happen, and that's when the stupid coldsore from HELL decides to accompany me for a few days/weeks.
What triggered this outbreak?
A moment of pure IRE, which I encountered Saturday night.

I know I come off as quite the grouchy, mean bitch on here... but I swear to god I'm patient as fuck. I'm quiet, and extremely patient in person. I'm a timid mouse.
I will sit there, usually with a shy smile on my face, and listen to bullshit for fucking HOURS. People can toss insults at me for hours... they can even get physically offensive with me a couple of times, and I will STILL quietly put up with it... because I know the moment I go off, I will MAIM a motherfucker.
The amount of self-restraint I practice is... pretty unheard of, hence my usual rants on here-- it's the only time I allow myself to blow-up.
The rage I hold within is years in the making-- decades of much physical/psychological/emotional/verbal abuse.
I'm a fucking volcano... and I continuously need to tell myself to calm the fuck down.
I need:
1. Gym Time... with lots and lots of weight-training and kickboxing in order to relieve MUCH of the stress/angst/hatred I harbor.
2. Church time. I'm a big girl-- a science-oriented, science-educated girl-- while I identify Catholic, I have my own beliefs... and hearing people patronize me for it REEEEEALLY pisses me the fuck off. To automatically assume I'm a dumb shit for going to church will automatically get you on my shit-list, my will-beat-the-shit-out-of-you shit-list. Church time is my meditation time... my cool down time... my counselor time. It soothes me, so get the fuck off my back and quit treating me like a retard for needing a place to hear calming words that will keep me from smothering you to death. K? Cool.
Normally, I have plenty of these two things in my life... so I'm pretty good in person... and it's thanks to this that last night I didn't seriously injure anyone, and only suffered the outbreak of a stupid coldsore.

What happened?
Game Night with a racist idiot white girl happened.
Game Night with Musketeer's wife happened.
All was running quite well... it was like the reunion of the three musketeers... a very pleasant one. It was like we had traveled back to 2005... only I was the sole member who didn't bring back a soulmate... probably because I'm soul-less, but I digress.
There were plenty of giggles... and sarcastic remarks... and smiles... inside jokes... it was a pretty chill time.
Then Apples to Apples happened.
Fucking game always causes drama...
The adjective we had to try to win was... I think something along the lines of "lazy"... or "revolutionary," my ire makes my memory fail here.
Kelley's dude was the one in charge of choosing the winner. We usually plead our case to the "chooser," so that's exactly what happened.
One of the cards was "Cesar Chavez."
K'sMan: Cesar Chavez?
Musketeer: Man was a fucking HERO!
Musketeer'swife: That lazy wetback just wanted an excuse NOT to work.
Now... "wetback" is not a word that normally enrages me. I don't get angry when people are being "sarcastic" either... but this bitch said it seriously... like in the tone one uses when saying Hitler was a horrible man.
I was so shocked, I was at a loss for words... any sort of sound, really. My brain was nearly short-circuiting at the thought that someone would say something so racially charged... so... hateful... and fucking historically inaccurate.
Everyone else in the room gasped.
Musketeer'swife: What?
Kelley: You know... wetback's a terribly derogatory term, right?
Musketeer'swife: Oh my god! I'm so sorry! I'm from New Mexico! That's what they taught me! In New Mexico "wetback" is not a derogatory term!
And they also told you Cesar Chavez was LAZY?!
By now I could feel my face burning. My hair was standing on end... I felt like I could start shooting lightning bolts. I could have jumped at her throat and ripped her face apart... no bath salts needed.
I was also holding back tears... because I was finding myself pretty fucking hurt. I HAVE been called a wetback, numerous times... as has my father... and while I don't care when people throw it around "playfully"... when someone "means" it, I cry. I just think of the poor, terrified, desperate immigrants who cross the river... many drowning... the ordeal of it all... just to have a better life. I think of the horrible conditions many of these immigrants live under, and I seriously cry.
To hear someone mock it so hatefully gives me a knot in my throat.

So yeah, I was furious, I was sad, I was offended, I was confused... but I was holding it all in.
The girl kept apologizing, which only aggravates a situation because they're only digging a deeper hole, but I didn't want to make a scene... so I clenched my jaw (and fists) and told her to just let it go.
The night continued... but the awkwardness never left.

I went home, cried a little, then went to bed.
I woke up at six in the morning, and in the middle of my shower, I felt a hot spot on my lip.
Upon closer inspection, I saw my annoying companion.

Ah! Ignorance-- such a lovely piece of shit to deal with... it even gives me coldsores now! Hooray!
Ok, enough... I have to cry the remaining hate now. I'll be fine tomorrow.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Pantalones blancos

I shouldn't laugh...
And I'm not... it's just a light chuckle encouraged by Karma... so it never develops into a full, body-shaking laugh attack... out of fear that Karma will turn around and slap me across the face--Mom-style. It's just a quiet, controlled chuckle.

Remember the guy who gave me that "compliment" a while back? The dude who said I'd be perfect if I looked like my sister? Well... that is pretty vague, considering that's what a ton of dudes tell me.
It's the guy who told my sister she'd be perfect if she had MY personality.

Well, I've been talking to him recently... because I'm a forgiving idiot.
But it's not like it's romantic or anything. Sure, there's flirting and whatnot... but as far as me wanting to take it beyond lovely bater, no. He's a smoker. I don't touch that shit. Sure, it gives him this sexy growl to his voice, but that sexy growl eventually with age it turns to a hacking cough, and that shit is NEVER sexy. Plus, smokers have a permanent, penetrating stench that my nostrils can't tolerate (sorry, smokers, but I'm not going to lie and act like you smell good).
Also, he has this... WACK beard going on... which I don't understand, really. WHY are men purposely trying to look like some old school lumberjack? The Brawny man is sexy and all... but he's like... "dad sexy." Stubble's fine... not a fan, but it's fine... but going for the ZZTop/Zach Wilde bullshit is unacceptable.
This guy has the ZZTop shit going on. Blegh.

Anyway, we've been talking A LOT, mainly thanks to the whole Euro Cup thing. As far as sports are concerned, Los (that's what I'm going to call him) and I connect pretty strongly. The moment I accidentally bumped into him on my way to kickboxing class, his face looked like what I imagine someone would look like if he/she saw a unicorn.
Yo, man, my legs are nearly three feet long. Someone wants to teach me how to use them as a weapon? I'm game!
So, he thinks I'm cool because of this... and we'll gently tease each other about our sports favorites.
HOWEVER, in my years of knowing him, I've learned a few things:
He's a textbook Aries.
My experience with Aries is this (ahhhh, shit, here comes my astrology bullshit... but hey! You have to admit many times that shit is scary accurate): I don't get along with female Aries, but guy Aries are a different story. I get along with dude Aries because they tend to push me to do shit my otherwise cowardly-ass would never do. And they tend to defend the shit out of me because they have quicker wits than I do. And they tell me to quit my pity-party bullshit when I'm being a Negative Nancy.
They make me less of a crying pussy, basically. Everyone needs someone like that in their life. Plus, when they want to be mushy and sweet, they're fucking adorable.
They have a strong, often off-putting personality, but when they're cool, they're hella cool.
BUT don't EVER piss them off. They will chew you out, then ignore you. You DIE to them. It's insane, really.
That's Los.
I've pissed him off ONCE. I criticized his smoking and he quit speaking to me for months.
I had to do fucking backflips to get back in his good-graces.
Lesson learned: don't piss off an Aries.

Ok, so, we're friendly and flirty.
Next thing I know, he starts hitting me up last night, FURIOUS.
Luckily, I wasn't the target of his fury.
He just needed to vent.
While he likes my personality, it's clear physically there ain't shit... because he's into the more feminine look... you know, girls who are into dresses and heels and that shit. I'm 5'8", he's 5'9"... if I wear heels, he's down to my tits... well, not that short, but I'll usually be a head taller than him.
He had been talking to a chick who lives in San Diego, she has only seen photos of him which he decides to post on Twitter. She HAS heard him, though... and like I said, he has a sexy, raspy voice.
He also raps. This is how she knows him.

Well, he went down to SD for some stupid rap-olympic type bullshit (see, if he heard me calling it this, I'd once again be cut off), where he finally met up with her.
Shortly after, he called me... at around midnight. His group of dudes had left him, and he was angrily/drunkenly walking the streets of San Diego.
Los: Yo, yo, yo! Can you believe this fucking shit?
Me: Uh... hello?
Los: I meet up with this chick, right? Fuckin' first words "You wearin' WHITE pants?!" and I'm like "YEAH, I'm wearing WHITE pants. Get off my dick!"
Me: ....
Los: Follows that shit up with "You look NOTHING like I thought you would." THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!
Oh. My God. Must. Not. Laugh.
Me: Whoa...
Los: Fuck that shit. Fuckin' broads tryin'a clown. Fuck fucking stupid fucking broads!!!
Me: You ok, man?
Los: ::Drunk, incomprehensible, raspy, sound... probably lighting a cig::

Aaaaaall righty then.
I still don't know what the deal was with that phone call... though I did find it hilarious it was made on JC's birthday.
It appears I'm quite the target when it comes to drunk, angry, heartbroken men.
Just let your frustrations out on me... it's all good. I've heard it all. Blame me for the ills of my kind... you know, the girls... though I'm not very girly... only apparently when you're drunk and angry and in desperate need to vent your frustrations.

And uh, Karma?
How does it feel, bro? I've heard that line before... I have plenty of experience with it... usually a lovely head jerk where I just know the dude is thinking "WHOA! WHAT. THE. FUCK?! Must. Get. Out!"

You'd be perfect... if you looked like your sister.

Hmm... maybe next time you'll watch what comes out of that purdy little smoking mouth of yours, homie.

Ok, I'll stop laughing and start feeling bad for my injured-ego Aries. Poor dude.

Thursday, June 21, 2012


Last night I dreamt of JC.
I was resting on the same tree branch I chilled on when I hit the Costa Rican beach... and I was taking a nap. I wake up after feeling someone gently caressing my right elbow.
I remember looking over and seeing JC passing his index finger very gingerly over my elbow.
We didn't say anything... just looked at each other as I allowed him to touch my elbow.
The entire time, the only "feel" to the dream was comfortable melancholy... if that makes sense.

I woke up missing my buddy-- JC.
Fuck, we were pretty damn inseparable. Prior to his Berkeley graduation, I hadn't spoken to him since his infamous Argentina drunk dial where all he did was cuss at me, angrily inform me he had always liked my dumb ass, and called me a "pendeja."
Pretty fucking unacceptable.
I fucked up in not reciprocating his affection, didn't I? I mean... he's not unattractive... he's actually really handsome... like... classically handsome. I can see him playing the role of some... Austen/Bronte character on Masterpiece Theater or something. He's also really smart... really, REALLY smart... even if I did write his college entrance essays for him... but that's only because English isn't his first language. He gave me drafts, and I added the filler. My writing skills helped get him into all the schools of his dreams, but I could not get myself into a SINGLE school on my list-- go figure.

I was too stubborn on liking his brother, and seeing him only as a brother... and now I lost him as my best dude friend.

He turns 24 tomorrow. I'm debating between writing him something curt, like he wrote me, or sticking to my true personality and doing my usual verbose shit.
Happy birthday! IWon'tBoreYouWithTheHeartfeltShitIPlanOnWritingBecauseIKnowNoOneCaresButTrustWhenISayItWouldBeLongAsFuck.

Hmm... losing guy friends after they get pussy-whipped really sucks.
A kid who once randomly went down to Hometown, against his mother's wishes, only to surprise me and beg me to join him on his trip to France.
What kind of friend does that?
Never again will I find someone like that dude.

P.S. The winner was: Happy birthday. I miss your face, JC... your personality only once in a while.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012


First day of Summer.
You can't hear me, but I just sighed... for about ten consecutive seconds.
My head is not here... needless to say my heart isn't either (a little of that has to do with the fact that the free preview of the Cooking Channel finally ended today... I love that fucking channel. Damn).
I had been wrestling with the thought of hopping on the bus for Hometown that left this morning. I had been thinking about it for the last three days. The desire with which I want to be in Hometown is disgustingly intense. However, each time I'm about to pull the trigger (terrible choice of words, but whatever) on just packing a bag and peace-ing out (again, ironic choice of words), some bad shit happens and I lose momentum.
What made me stop this time around? We got word that a couple of days ago my cousin's wife and her siblings got robbed on their drive down to Hometown. They were driving down to make their father's funeral, when on the outskirts of Chihuahua City, an armed group of masked men pulled them over and beat ALL of them half to death--women included-- and stole EVERYTHING... including passports, and obviously their truck.
Fucking terrifying. Call me a pussy, I don't give a fuck... but forgive me for wanting to piss my pants when I see myself surrounded, completely outnumbered, by a bunch of dudes in black masks pointing M16s in my face.

Over the weekend, I got into an extremely heated argument over this subject-- the violence in Mexico.
Mom and I were asked when we're going to Hometown.
Mom: We REALLY want to go... but... the violence is what keeps us away.

No biggie there, I thought... because we were speaking the truth. HELLO! My brother's a US diplomat living in Mexico, we have insider information for fucks sake-- and it just so happens that Hometown is a fucking hornet's nest when it comes to the violence going on right now. We're not just talking out of our asses.
But these two brats... these two chicks who LOVE stirring the pot... and are so fucking... narrow-minded and stubborn... just had to press my buttons.
Bitch1: I'm SO annoyed of people saying how dangerous Mexico is! Shut the fuck up. Nobody wants to kill you, dont feel so important. (seriously, verbatim)

Let the fireworks begin, baby.
It's not that one "feels important" it's just that one sees NO POINT in unnecessarily placing oneself in harm's way.
I'm glad many people are blessed enough to be delusional enough to think the violence in Mexico is "not as bad as depicted on television" because they've never had the unpleasant experiences many other Mexicans have had. Lucky them for not getting their Skype call to Hometown interrupted by a fucking gunfight going on outside. Lucky them for not having a family member taken for ransom... or robbed, or beaten, etc etc.
Also, it's not that we go out there looking for trouble... but there is such a thing as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Casualties of war, dipshit. Ever heard of drive-bys? I don't think the kids playing in their front yards were looking to get killed... yet, it happened quite fucking frequently when I was a kid.
But hey! Fuck it, point is YOU want to go to Mexico, right? I mean, YOU'RE fucking fearless... wait... what? What's that? You haven't gone in five years? Ooooooo. Interesting, Pancho Villa. I suggest you take your own advice and visit the paradise our hometown has become. Prove us ALL wrong, homie. It's pretty cool to see people practically run from door to door while they walk the street after grocery shopping... see how they flinch the moment they sense a car/truck approaching. Total overreaction. Yup. All overreacting drama-loving folk... like all those losers in the middle east afraid of grenades and shit. Pffft!

I fucking hate idiots.

SO! Yeah. Still wrestling with the idea. Still heartbroken with the probability that I will not visit Hometown for my second year straight. Second summer away from my thunderstorms and stars and volleyball in the rain... and the smell of horseshit and rotting carcasses and stuff like that. I just really like the third world... minus the violence. I'll try again next month.

But off sad subjects and more summer-y shit!
First thing that comes to mind are my cool "Spain-inspired" nails. Remember those?
Wasn't I making fun of Kim's fingers yesterday?
My adorable 50-something-year-old asian gym buddy asked me if I was Vietnamese today.
Sure, South Vietnam no longer exists
...but it did during HER lifetime.

Arg! You win this time...
Looks like I'm not as creative as I think I am.

I'll try harder next time.

Hi, Summer!

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Roast Menu

Remember that story from my childhood, the traumatic event that involved my aunt throwing sand in my face and calling me ugly?
Well, it's always an interesting time when I have to attend her parties... which aren't often... maybe once every five years.
Yesterday was time to pay my dues.

My aunt is married to my father's brother (hence why she's my aunt), but she's also my mom's cousin. Whenever I attend her parties, every single person there is related to me.
While I love my mother's side of the family... her maternal side, the Garcias, are interesting ladies. My aunt is one of these Garcias.
While they're hardworking, devout, loyal women... with many more virtues, they're shallow AS FUCK. Well... I don't know if you can call it "shallow" but more like... vain. They place far too much importance on physical beauty.
They're the ones who continuously "complimented" me with the whole "You'd be SO MUCH prettier if you wore a girdle!" line.
My mental traumas regarding beauty? Yep, placed there by these no-talller-than 5'3" little Garcia women who worship beauty... and let me know I was inferior since the time I was four and Baby D was born to prove that she was perfection, and I was perpetually defective.

Mom, while she knows these outspoken, vain women have a way of insulting me, still loves being with them. And I let her have that. They remind her of her momma-- I'll sit there and listen to the new bullshit they have to say to me, if that means my mom will be getting hammered and singing-along with her Garcias.
I don't mean to mention this as way to get other to feel sorry for me-- I hate that feeling in the first place-- but merely as a way to get you to... experience some of the... somewhat ludicrous shit I quietly listen to. Maybe my abrasive nature becomes a bit more understandable.

Stuff on the menu this time? Well, here are my favorites:
1. Except for you.
Entering the party, my aunt's mom greeted us. She seemed very excited to see us. I was the last one she greeted.
"Oh my goodness! You look... wow! Good job!" she said.
Holy shit... is she being nice?! HOLY SHIT!
"Go, help yourselves! We have a ton of tacos out back! Eat, eat away! This is a party!" She said.
As I walked past her, she tapped my shoulder and whispered in my ear "Except for you, since it's obvious you're on a diet... No food for you. Wouldn't want to ruin what you have going on right now."
SO CLOSE! You were so close, lady.
Seriously, I was speechless. I was in no way on the verge of tears, because I was too busy trying not to laugh cynically at her comment.
Some might say "Relax, AnoMALIE, she obviously meant it as a joke!" But trust me, I've known this woman for 27 years, I know when she's being serious. She was being serious.
I ate THREE slices of cake later. Fuck passive-aggressive comment. I licked the frosting clean on ALL THREE.
Fuck you, lady!... ugh... sugar... headache... ouch. Stupid.

2. Kim K.
As I was making line to grab my motherfucking tacos (I eat, damnit!!!), one of the younger Garcias with her 15 year old daughter intercepted me.
"Oh my GAWD! AnoMALIE! Looking great, baby! We were just talking about you! We agreed you look just like... like... what's her name, mija?" My cousin asked her daughter.
"Kim... mom..." said the girl, gritting her teeth... surely mentally cursing her mom.
"Oh yes! Kim Kardashian!" said the lovely Garcia.
"Whoa... haha... not at all," I said. Only thing I have similar to Kim are my eyebrows... and anyone can get those shits. "Probably just the eyebrows... because I thread them."
"Hahaha! Yes! You are of the 'dark-version' Garcias. We're more of the blonde, less-hairy, European-ish Garcias. And what about that badunkadunk (this is how I know you're trying too hard to hold on to your youth, ma'am...)?! I know none of us have anything resembling a butt! I hear she has cellulite... which... you know, is the only way we'd all be similar," the cousin says, winking at me.
I asked for it.

And to be clear on this subject: it does flatter the shit out of me to be told I look like his chick.
Definitely the eyebrows.
Definitely not the nose or lips or hair or ass 
I find her to be quite pretty, actually. I'd never call her ugly... even if her fingers are... ehhh:

To be associated with her, I can't help but immediately recall her sextape (GIIIIIRL! Where do I begin? First off, I wouldn't be fucking Ray J. Kanye? Maybe. Ray J? Hell naw. Forget that scrub)... and her divorce scandal (Shallow? Vapid? Insipid? Impulsive? Huhhh?).
This also invites everyone to argue with the physical comparison.... which... you know... I never come out clean... because family loves to drive home the fact that I am NOT pretty.
It's just asking for trouble. So just don't say anything.

3. Short, nice interlude... almost.
After round one of the harassment, I found myself sitting next to an in-law to the family. We were sitting next to each other for a while, so the chit-chat began.
Mom mentioned how my brother was living in Juarez, and how my sister had recently moved to Chicago.
I was taking a sip of my margarita when the in-law went ahead and interrupted me.
"So how old are you, sweetheart? Does your mom know you're sneaking that margarita?"
She proceeded to take a swig of her water bottle when I cleared my throat to answer her.
"I'm 27, Ma'am..."
She choked on her water.
"27?! Oh my god, I'm not even kidding you, I swore you were 19, maybe 20! How in the world do you do it?!"
I laughed nervously. She was being serious, her face was red with embarrassment.
Just as I was going to answer her, to keep her from feeling silly, (she HAD been a nice lady the entire afternoon... and I found this to be the best compliment of my life) my loud-mouth cousin butted-in.
"Girl's 27, single, biology degree sitting at home. Can you believe it?!"
Do you get PAID to do this to me? Fuck...
I shrugged and smiled.
Lots of water, no smoking, no drinking, lots of sleep, no fucking... constant suicide contemplation... it's like the devil grants you eternal youth upon hearing you want death above all else. 
...This among other factors, ma'am.

I'm convinced they do this to me in attempts to be funny... and to give me a backbone... and to make me hate life.

4. One last time.
As I finished up my two carne asada tacos and two birria tacos, my dad's younger (and dumbass) sister sat in the empty seat next to me.
She had ten tacos on her plate.
"Let's eat, Mija, so people don't say we're skinny because we don't!"
One last time: I'm not skinny.

This particular aunt used to be much chubbier, but recently did some diet where she basically purged everything she ate... so... uh... yeah.
I know I didn't have this when I wouldn't eat:
Too bad my Spain-insipred nails aren't visible.
I'm quite proud of my nails.
So don't worry about me, tia, all's well over here.

I ended the night after listening to my drunk parents and uncles drunk-karaoke for three hours... proceeding to drive my parents home at two in the morning.
Fun shit.

All quickly improved this afternoon after a little bit of soccer, of course. Nothing like watching France lose at something... though it wasn't definitive. Sweden just left the wonderful job of humiliating the French to my boys, the Spaniards. Ohhhh yeahhhh.
Fuck. France.

Monday, June 18, 2012


My Facebook friends are more entertaining than yours:
seems innocent enough...
Whoa! Wait! What?
Uh-oh... shit's going down!
See, if I were in this fight, I'd use proper spelling, punctuation, grammar, etc.
But that's just me.
I giggled.
Even I felt a little offended here.
Prostitute? Homie, that's only OUT OF TOWN HOES!
Really? "Let's escalate the argument! Let's take it to THE PHONE!"
No girl likes admitting she has an "ugly ass fk" man.
No girl.
True story.
And... is it me, or do I sense a strong case of bipolar behavior right now?

Wait... I'm confused now...
More giggles.
"Squares in me circle?"... wha?
Oh! Oh! I sense "shit's about to get real!"
Ok, enough.
Yeah right! I kept reading!
It was like "Blood In Blood Out" being played out in real life!
... Aaaaand this is how people end up murdered over a Facebook status...

I swear not a day goes by where I don't wonder how the hell I'm still friends with some people...
P.S. The angry latina? Yeah, I fought her back in middle school. She "stole" Mario from me and shit went down.
P.S.S. I whooped her ass... then we became friends.
P.S.S.S. I think she's gonna get her ass BEAT when she meets up with this crazy broad.
P.S.S.S.S. This argument only got WORSE... talk about infanticide, and 48 "niggas" jumping "yo white ass." Hmmm... people are interesting creatures... I feel like I need to call the cops now...

Sunday, June 17, 2012

My dude!

The dance was over at 10:30pm and more than half of the attendees had left.
Arturo had returned to our table and asked Jennifer to dance. They were grinding against each other for the rest of the night.
Rafa had gotten up to dance with his childhood crush at 10:45pm. The bride's mom had come over to the table to ask my mom and Mague to dance in a circle of middle-aged women at 10:50pm. Jose had left with his wife at 10:55pm. The only ones left at my table were Dad, Arturo's dad, and me. I had rearranged myself to sit next to my dad, in Jose's spot. I couldn't stand the thought of sitting alone.
I stared at the various circles of dancing people on the dance floor when Daddy reached his right arm around my shoulder and squeezed me.
"You're beautiful, Mija," he said. "You're so incredibly beautiful."
I bit my bottom lip and turned to my right--away from him.
It doesn't help when you're the only one who sees it, Dad.
I had been doing a good job at keeping the tears in, but his words made me weak. A tear rolled down my right cheek and I fought to keep any more from leaking out. I looked to the ceiling and wiped at my right eye with my left thumb, then my left index finger after realizing my thumb had been bleeding all night.

My dad was not very present in my childhood, he spent most of his time working his heart out in order to get us out of the ghetto.
My short stories rarely mention Dad, he's not much of a star player. Most of the time, I'm just asking him for permission... or dealing with his machismo's effect in my life.
That tiny excerpt is from the only story where he's the "hero" so to speak. And it's a true story.

I had cut my thumb that morning as I clumsily shaved my legs at six in the morning, in preparation for a wedding where I'd get to see my crush. At the wedding, I realize the dude had a new, super trashy girlfriend (no, seriously... she was SUPER trashy).
As a way to keep from crying, I proceeded to spend the night rubbing my cut thumb on the tiny glass beads decorating the the table cloths. The physical pain would make me forget about my shitty feelings-- the self-mutilators defense.
Daddy was the only one to be nice to me that night.
The story was my professor's least favorite, because "it's good as usual... but it's your saddest one yet :(" (The man didn't like seeing me sad-- my adoptive granddad. I guess he gets a shout-out today as well, because he's dope like that)

So, though Papiringo drives me INSANE quite often... and I argue with him on a regular basis... I adore him. He's Mi Papi!
He may believe things like washing dishes, cooking, and doing laundry is strictly "women's work," but he has the softest little lamb heart in the universe (so much so, it gets taken advantage of by EVERYONE).
He has this psychic ability to detect when I'm miserable as fuck, and he takes immediate action to cheer me up (obviously my favorite is when he doodles for me, like I've mentioned before. His doodles brighten my LIFE. That little cutie).
He may not let me drink in his presence... but he lets me travel to any destination I please, for as long as I please, blank check. I mean... I'd be the stupidest cunt in history to complain about that.
In a time when so many people don't have the luck to have a father in their lives, I am lucky enough to have my pops snooping around my life and cracking me up the whole way.
Take the good with the bad, and of course, the good always outweighs the bad.

I love that man... mi papi, papirrin, papiringo, Pops, Dad.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

A Cold Stranger

I have officially found my all-time favorite backhanded compliment!
After years of hearing shit ranging from "You're pretty! But... you'd be SO MUCH prettier if you wore a girdle!" to "You'd be PERFECT... if you looked like your sister" I have found one that... made me angry, sad, then burst into laughter.

As I'm sure I've complained here, people have a ridiculous ability to insult me... especially when they're trying to pay me a compliment. Often times it hurts the shit out of me... other times I'm infuriated... but seldom am I amused enough to laugh-- don't get it twisted, just because I laugh DOES NOT mean I like it. An insult's an insult, and it takes permanent residence in my heart and mind... and will usually make an appearance during one of my frequent self-loathing episodes.

OK, on with the compliment:
I'm not entirely sure how this got out... but it appears my... adoration of Samuel Clemens is no longer a secret.
I claim not to read and all that bullshit, but truth be told, this man holds my heart... hence why I don't call him by his pen name.
I'll watch documentaries on Mr. Clemens, as well as read articles... and I find myself tearing up... I swear I even sobbed with one of the documentaries.
Basically, I think this man was the most awesome human in the history of ever, and totally my soulmate.
But I keep that information to myself... I don't really remember owning up to my adoration.
BUT, point is, somehow, this dude caught word of my LOVE for SAMUEL CLEMENS.
I think he was trying to impress me... I HOPE that's what he was trying to do... not tossing some... posh insult at me.
He quoted:
There are women who have an indefinable charm in their faces which makes them beautiful to their intimates, but a cold stranger who tried to reason the matter out and find this beauty would fail.
My reaction?
Silence. Slight choking on my own spit.
Homie... you're gonna quote A Tramp Abroad... and THAT'S the line you're gonna choose? DUDE! I've crossed two sentences with you... no way can that be considered "intimate." What the hell are you smoking?
Him: Lame quote, but Sam Clemens must redeem it a bit
No shit, Holmes, you straight up just called me ugly... 
and WAIT... did you just call him Sam Clemens? Has somebody been Facebook stalking my albums?

Serendipity DOES NOT exist... especially not now in the time of Facebook. I quickly remembered ONE photo I uploaded from one of my DC trips... one where I'm next to a Mark Twain poster, and I declare my love.

After feeling creeped the fuck out... then angry... then sad... I had to start laughing.
That was so incredibly horrible. SO horrible... oh my god... how would anyone find that appropriate? Jesus Christ... AHAHAHAHA! I'm so glad I don't have to do that.... I promise I'll refrain from doing that... fuck, my stomach hurts... good laugh, good laugh... and YOU, guy, to the lions! You are DONE!

A cold stranger... sounds like... everyone but my nuclear family.
Dear Lord... compliments were definitely not made for me.

Potty rant

Some days I wonder why the fuck I even got out of bed..
Today was one of those days.
From the moment I opened my eyes, shit went downhill.
People pissed me the fuck off, I pissed others off. I can only be a ray of sunshine for so long before I start barking mean shit at others...

What sets me off MOST is how some folk can be so goddamn self-centered, how they don't give a flying fuck to try and understand where someone else is coming from.
Yeah, dude, I said I was going to get back to you on Thursday and it's now Friday and I haven't written back... did you stop and think I probably didn't do it because I was still trying to work shit out? I have some big decisions to make right now, the last thing I need is your fucking attitude.

Mom also tried giving me the silent treatment today... because apparently she hasn't learned that I actually ENJOY silence... so... this isn't really punishing me.
What?! You mean you're not going to try and tell me a two-hour-long story-- with excruciating detail-- about your employee's hoodlum son who continuously does stupid shit that nearly drives his mother to an early grave? Not today? Ahhhhh, shucks! I was really looking forward to it! It's the highlight of my fucking day!
Why was she refusing to acknowledge me? Because she irritated the fuck out of me, so she got a nasty response from me:
There are some things you just DON'T do to me. One of my top DON'Ts is, what I consider, pretty fucking understandable: DON'T BUG ME WHEN I'M IN THE BATHROOM.
Bathroom time, whether I'm pissing, shitting, or showering, is MY time. You let me be in that fucking room in silence... don't fucking try talking to me, don't try getting me out of the room... just leave me the fuck alone and go about YOUR day sans moi.
Mom, well, that woman has a fucking knack for bugging me when I'm in the bathroom-- I'm pretty sure it's the reason behind my severe sensitivity to this topic.
Being the Mexican woman she is, she goes about screaming all the fucking time.
"AnoMALIE!!!" is all I fucking hear... all day (this is how I KNOW I could never be a lesbian, and if I were born a man, I'd be gay as fuck. I don't know how men willingly put up with a nagging woman for the rest of their lives. Fuck that shit. FUCK. IT)... even if it's just to inform me of a television blooper.
Gali tripped as she played that game with the rest of the cast from her show?? I nearly broke my neck as I slid on the motherfucking marble floor... thinking there was some goddamn emergency... and it was all to show me how this bitch falls on Mexican television?!
This time around, I was in the bathroom, pissing right before I jumped in the shower (I've never been one to piss in the shower... that shit grosses me the fuck out... WAY too much)... i.e. I was naked on the toilet taking a super long piss... vulnerable.
And she screams at me.
"WHAT?" I ask... not irritated at all, just trying to be audible all the way from my bathroom, to the kitchen, where she was located.
"AnoMALIE!!!!!" she elevates her tone... to her "I'm fucking angry you little idiot, and if you don't come over here RIGHT NOW, I'm kicking your ass!" level.
This ENRAGES me.
It was so loud, I swear the house shook... my throat hurt after I shut up. And the house fell silent... I'm sure at least one of the neighbors contemplated calling the cops.
This, it turns out, greatly insulted her. So she stopped talking to me... because she's always right and I'm always wrong and there's nothing wrong with sounding like you're herding cattle when you're actually calling your kids over.
Ay, mujeres... silent treatments... will you never learn? Only people affected by that shit are those who seem to be afraid of being alone. I love the fucking shit out of silence. If you want to punish anyone, do what you always do: talk incessantly about vapid shit... I assure you plenty of us will begin contemplating suicide after ten minutes.

Anyway, after this argument, things only got worse. No need to go into further detail, because it will only frustrate me and bore you.

Lessons learned:
1. If you wake up and "sense" shit is off... just... stay in bed. Don't leave your room. You're probably right.
2. Silent treatment is INEFFECTIVE when applied to me... because I'll only love it... and you'll probably end up feeling lonely... and that will only amuse me.
3. Don't EVER... fucking EVER interrupt me when I'm in the bathroom. You'll regret that shit... no pun intended.

Thursday, June 14, 2012


One of my crushes became "Facebook Official" with a chick today.
"One of my crushes"... as if I have so many... well... hmmm... I do find a number of dudes cute and whatnot, but this guy was a contender... not too many "contenders" on my list.

Anyway, his girl is the complete opposite of me-- Swedish... ice-blue eyes (not gonna lie, I'm jealous of that)... natural redhead (can't say I'm jealous of that shit right there. I'm very happy as a brunette)... short (and here I thought Swedish chicks were tall as fuck).
I find this is... quite the theme in my life. Well, no, not really. When a dude I dig finally goes for a girl, and I wind up the loser (always the case. ALWAYS the case. I'm not even joking. If there's ever a choice to be made, I lose. Simple as that), I notice it goes one of two ways:
1. The winner looks just like me, but with minor adjustments (maybe she's a little bit shorter... or thinner... that sort of shit).
2. The winner looks the complete opposite of me (blonde, blue eyes, rail thin... stupid... etc).

To this day, I don't know which sucks more.
Number one is pretty much a slap in the face and says "Yo, AnoMALIE, your personality SUCKS!" or just "You know... if you were just a little bit thinner... you'd be a winner..."
Number two says "INADEQUATE! Umm... hello?! You're like... SO PLAIN! You're not even blonde!"

Number one leaves me upset... but mainly angry with the guy... and usually just screaming "WHAT'S SO WRONG WITH ME?! HUH?! FUUUUUUCK YOUUUU, GUY!"
Number two is more of a self-loathing thing. Why the fuck am I so Mexican? Plain-ass black eyes and brown hair... fucking Vegas is loaded with that shit! Nobody wants that! That sort of deal.

Alas, I'm not upset with this new turn of events. It's expected... I seem to be the person with the worst case of fear of commitment... I avoid relationships like the plague. I get an A+ in that department. Everyone else is normal and eventually falls into some sort of committed relationship.
If I got upset each time one of my crushes got a girlfriend, I'd be floating facedown in some roadside ditch by now (not to say that I haven't thought about it... but you know, a guy is never THAT important anyway. Kill myself over a dude? AHAHAHAHA! Riiight. Sure. Maybe some day. I'll add it to my bucket list).

Oh well. Hopefully this catches on and even the fucking creepers finally leave me the fuck alone.
Go out there, men... there's a sea of women willing to love you... or at least fuck you. And you'll find her... because every dude I've ever liked has found someone way prettier, cooler, and easier than me... and these are guys I TRY to impress... so... dudes who already dig me will definitely find something better than me.

If you don't mind, I'm going to go drink a chocolate protein shake now... and quite possibly punch a hole through my wall. Cool.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Verano, veranito!

Summer tiiiiime!

This means:
Mmmm... lord knows I'm a happy camper when I have a variety of berries to choose from. Blackberries, blueberries (blueberries! blueberries!), raspberries, and though they're not legitimate "berries," strawberries! I eat breakfast and wriggle with joy each morning as I sit at the table.
Mornings are the fucking shit during berry season.
Enough said.
No, no... let's emphasize it some more: CHERRIES!
3. Sports!
A. Tennis. My boy Nadal (BEEEEAST!)... and a ton of other cute dudes... I mean, most of them ARE cute... besides Murray, that poor guy... wouldn't touch that.
B. Futbol. Need I say more? I nearly suffered a stroke this morning when, in the middle of the Portuguese national anthem, the power went out at my house. I straight up looked just like Amelie's neighbor when Amelie plays that trick on him... where she unplugs his TV during vital parts of the soccer match and he flips the fuck out. THAT was me. I was ready to cut a motherfucker at 8:45 in the morning. Not the best way to start the day, but it certainly improved! Today's matches were by far the best of the tournament. About fucking time.
C. Summer Olympics!! I pretty much disappear from civilization for the duration of this magical event. My total adoration.
4. Mexico!
Though I'm no longer positive on my departure date... I still look forward to Mexico summers... if even for two weeks. The violence is escalating as the election approaches... so... this is a toss up... but I'd still love to head out there. I'm still trying to weasel my way to Hometown... I just need to get a little crazier to get the courage to hop on the next bus to Hometown, and VAMONOS!
5. Boys.
Did I say boys? Damn right. Boys are dope. I like boys.
6. Victoria's Secret Semi-Annual Sale!!
I no longer have my partner in crime... D and I hit this shit up like vultures to a fresh carcass each time. But I don't care she's now unavailable. I now have the skill to subdue an unruly bitch all by myself if she ever tries to slap a bra out of my hand. Plus, my tits are smaller, so I no longer have to wrestle with the stupid strippers and delusional lactating mothers who think they can squeeze into a 36 DD. Now I can rummage through the more normal sizes... hopefully without getting some rude bitch into a chokehold while the cops get there to separate us.
7. Bright Colors!
I know I tend to favor black... but come on, I'm Mexican... as much as I hate perpetuating stereotypes, we're just drawn to bright colors... and I'm no exception.
If the brights aren't on my clothing, then they're definitely on my nails.
NOT focusing...
Oh yeah, my nails!
... my eyebrows are hella thick...
and I really prefer D's room over mine..
Wait, what was I talking about?
Shit, my hair is messy...
That bracelet is awesome.
Oh yeah, summer time is also GREAT tank top weather.
Bonus: MOVIES!
A. Spiderman! That new kid... I've had a mini nerd-crush on him. I blame it on his enormous mouth. It's charming.
B. BATMAN! I... can't... properly articulate... my excitement. Really... is there anything more exciting than this shit? I'm stoked.

I love you, Summer Time. You're the shit!

Tuesday, June 12, 2012


"Usted es muy linda. Solo pienso en usted, en sus lindos ojos, y su tierna sonrisa. Le digo, si regresa, no creo me pueda contener. "

I love dudes.
They're funny... entertaining, smart, cool, laidback, blunt, etc etc.
As long as they're not attempting to get in my pants, I fucking adore their presence.

... but there's always that lame schmuck trying to get some pussy.

I'm a good girl. I swear, I damn near emit a heavenly glow... you know, that glow on paintings... on the sad-looking saints... the halo...
As long as I'm not behind the wheel... or doing some other activity that pisses me the fuck off (few, I'm aware), I'm a super good girl.
That halo SHOULD say "Back off dudes, this girl is boring!" but sometimes it gets lost in translation.
Sometimes... I get total creeps that somehow get delusional and think that maybe it's all an act... or that I'm SO sweet/innocent/naive that I'll fall for any type of sweet-talk.
Newsflash, buddy, I'm 27 years old... cute YOUNG dudes haven't been able to crack the cookie jar, you sure as FUCK aren't, at your ripe... what? 45?
My "good-girl glow" attracts these fucking creeps that say some shit to me that pretty much leaves my head spinning... with rage... then sadness.
Do I look like a slut or something?

I say this because this one guy... who I swear was only talking to me because of my folks (well, there's my idiot naive part), totally came on to me. Shamelessly.
I was pretty much speechless.
The fucking man is married... and he straight up... just put it out there.
I'm angry about it. Grossed out about it. Sad about it. Confused about it.
I don't fucking get it.
What about me invites a married man to... declare that shit. "You're very pretty. I only think of you, in your pretty eyes, your sweet smile. I tell you, if you come back, I don't think I'll be able to contain myself."

Come on, man! I'm awkward and quiet and shy and antisocial... I dress like a dude. I'm not a sexbomb, I don't come on to dudes... I don't even like to come into physical contact with people... how does that attract anyone?
I think that screams pedophile... someone whose fucking attracted to innocence... and that makes me uncomfortable.
It's probably my trauma speaking right now... but a grownass man getting like that with Bashful AnoMALIE makes me uncomfortable. I showed nothing but timid respect for the guy and next thing I know he's sending me these lame... private love notes. Get the fuck out of here!
I want to vomit in my mouth each time I think about it...

Like I said, I was born in the wrong fucking decade.
Old dudes love me... old married dudes find me outstanding... while I beg for attention from dudes my age.
I hope to god he was drunk when he sent me that shit... at three in the afternoon.
I feel dirty.
And sad.

Guys! You're supposed to be cool at all times! What the fuck?!

Monday, June 11, 2012

Best Medicine

I seriously planned on writing up 30 entries this month... you know, an entry a day... with the occasional catch-up posts... but it's hard shit.
This weekend was hectic... with tons of visits, shopping, drinking, sport-related activities (soccer, French Open, Boxing), and trips to the airport (six times. I went to the airport six times in less than a week's time... three times in less than 24 hours)... then, when I'd try and write, I'd do bullshit like the previous post where I'm overly sentimental or whatever the fuck. I do apologize for that shit... it's just that hard-liquor knocks down my filter with an astonishing speed, especially recently.
Drastic weight loss = lightweight drinking status. Get it through your head, AnoMALIE! You fucking stubborn mule!

So, my lack for proper updates is not due to depression or anything of that nature, I just don't have time.
I'm actually pretty happy... though there HAVE been some bumps along the way. The worst bump is, sadly, Pacemaker's situation. She has been calling me, venting, over her father's situation... which, like I suspected, is pretty bad. When she tells me the results of the tests he undergoes, I try to cheer her up... but in the back of my mind, all I think is "Fuck... that's not good..."
Instead of giving her a piece of my "medical" knowledge (turns out he has lymphoma, which extended to his liver... which, on the first phone call, I very STUPIDLY told her he MIGHT have after she told me his symptoms. I felt like such an asshole when she told me the doctor's diagnosis today), I decide to do what I know I'd prefer to hear when my Pops was sick: I make her laugh.
I'm working some HARD overtime to make her giggle. I feel like someone's dropkicking my heart each time she sobs. It's horrible! My heart breaks and I fight the urge to get on the next flight to the bay just so I can hug her.
She may drive me crazy with her pretentious, condescending, patronizing, elitist remarks... but it's something I've come to accept. I excuse it... because I figure shit in her past has made her that way.
Pacemaker can have a charitable heart. She's hilarious. She's dependable. She's brave. She's silly.
As long as she doesn't turn shit into a competition, she's awesome. Hearing her sobs and broken voice is pretty fucking difficult to endure.
So... as hard as it is to listen to my little Pacemaker cry over the phone, I'll sit there and crack jokes... mention shit I KNOW makes her giggle... and while it was impossible that first time she called me, I've been able to cheer her up all other times-- even getting a roaring laugh last night.
Poor girl...

Another tiny bump is the fact that both my siblings are once again gone.
The fact that we were together this weekend seems like a dream. Sure, we fight A LOT... it's pretty damn obvious there's gonna be beef the moment D takes my car without asking, or when Rafa rocks this despicable shirt around the house:
FUCK that guy, man!
But once they're gone, the world sucks a little more.
But I now have a trick to beat the blues (not to be confused with the EPL team).
Whenever I feel sad, all I have to do is glance at this photo:
Must. Hold in. Pee.
My brother's face cracks me up... hard... to the point where I often have to fight the urge to piss my pants.
We are such interesting specimens...
And now I have to go pee.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Verde pa' la depre

This is the kind of shit I write up while slightly intoxicated:
Me mata que no puede pasar ni un día en el que no piense en ti.
Quisiera que eso fuera otra de mis exageraciones, pero es completamente verdad-- estas en todas partes.
La manera en que me haces sentir invisible es inaudito... ya quisiera yo tener ese poder.

Unos días tu recuerdo es mas fuerte que en otros.
Ultimamente, con todo lo que esta pasando en el mundo del deporte, estas resplandeciente en mi mente.
Recuerdo como hace varios años, me tratabas como amiga, pero ya ni pordiosera soy. No me haces en el mundo. Y yo de terca intentando demostrarte que valgo la pena... que enfadosa, me disculpo.
Algún día haré que entienda mi corazón, ya que sé que incomodo es tener a alguien que te admire tanto mientras tu solo quieres que te dejen en paz.
No se que me pasa, pero lo intentare de corregir. Te dare la tranquilidad que buscas.

People ask why I don't drink... uh, hello?!
This toook me HOURS to type, with a shitload of spellchecj. My Baaaad!

Hmmm. Nice one, AnoMALIE.
I'm still happy, just that whole drinking shit only amplifies my hidden feelings... obviously. Hence my usual apprehension towards the activity.
I did feel a little bummed with the outcomes of today's games, however (the Netherlands loss pissed me off, and while I went for Germany... my heart was just holding on to that hope that MAYBE Portugal would do something). As much as I complain about little bitch Ronaldo... I still like the actual country of Portugal... and Ronaldo is a total asshole when he loses... so it makes it THAT much more difficult to like him.

But every negative feeling always manages to die down when Mom prepares my favorite food:
Obviously the abundance of avocado is courtesy of... me.
I love that shit. LOVE it.
Mmmm... Enchiladas Verdes.
The sun is out, my friends. It's lovely... and life is aiiight.
Fuck anything else.

Friday, June 8, 2012


This marks my first EuroCup that I do not spend in Mexico.
It's pretty devastating. And weird.

I haphazardly got addicted to the EuroCup one summer in Mexico, when the only thing on all three channels of the television were showing the same thing: the EuroCup soccer matches.
I was basically forced to watch soccer or clean the house.
A. Soccer: hotass European boys (I QUICKLY made the association: European = HAIRY motherfucker. Yes, awesome looking men, but the hair... all over the place) running around, sweaty, angry, competitive.
B. Cleaning: splinters, sweating, sneezing, occasional rat/snake/lizard encounter.

Uh, we all know the winner here. Fuck snakes, man!
Eventually, this tradition bore some good fruits (did I use that phrase correctly? IS it even a logical phrase? I made a literal translation from Spanish so... it might... not make sense): I discovered good ol' crybaby Cristiano Ronaldo. Sure, he cries like a little girl... actually, he cries more than I do... AND he primps more than I do... but that mug... Mmmmmmmmmmmm!
He also runs like a dummy... I can pick him out of the crowd, even if all I see are little stick figures. Very distinctive. Still hot as fuck... as long as I don't get a glimpse of his tiny, creepy hands. That's the only thing that proves to me he's a mere mortal and not some... god sent from the heavens... those ugly, little fingers (manicure the shit out of them all you want, they'll always be creepy, Cristiano).
Good memories...

The previous cup, I didn't get to watch the final... because I was stuck in church.
This was better for me, since I suffer mild heart-attacks when I watch soccer matches I really care for. I was caring last time because my dudes, Spain (remember, 2008, I now had acquired my eternal love for the country after having spent a measly month with my sister over there), were playing the final against Germany- team I swore was going to rape and pillage the village (I mean, come on, when don't they?).
So, me being the ever so dedicated Catholic, and seeing how... well, the gates were pretty much open, I made a deal with the Virgin of Guadalupe (she has always been my G). Please let Spain win, and if they do, I promise to... dejarlo en paz.
And what happened? She came through.
Did I follow through with my end of the deal? Sort of. Half-assed. Ok, no, not really... not at all.
And for that, I can swear I've paid dearly.
My bad. Never again. I'm sorry, Virgencita.

Now, keeping with tradition... well, sort of, I went ahead and made my sister tie this badboy on me.
I get three wishes... which I won't divulge... but I can pretty much bet you guys will know at least two of those three.
Come on, senhor do bonfim da Bahia!

If anything, it's a nice little ribbon on my wrist. I dig.
P.S. Coming up with those three wishes? Hard as FUCK! I'm such a broken, cynical, jaded mess.


If ever asked if you want to hang with a well-known hypnotists... whose show you just watched, it'd probably be in your best interest to say NO.

This may come as a surprise to people, but I'm a little tight-wound.
Blame all those fucking years of traumatic experiences that taught me that people fucking suck.
I like to laugh, obviously, and I love to make others laugh... however, if that comes at the expense of making others feel bad, I more than likely pass. So... whenever there's a slight chance for me to get... umm... made fun of... I might get a bit uptight... and pissed... and violent. I don't handle that shit well. I'll fuck you up.

No, I was not hypnotized... but that was mainly due to the fact that I sat there thinking about my grocery list, then trying to solve mathematical equations... trying to remember chemical structures of amino acids... thinking of bunnies... then bunnies getting decapitated as I stare in horror... the sheet music for Vivaldi tunes and then fingering it (I always hated this expression. Even at 11, I had to fight the giggles... then feeling dirty) onto my thigh... shit like that. It's pretty easy for me to NOT focus... so... I wasn't one of the lucky ones to get played with.
My cousin, however, was not so lucky.
I don't know how it happened... but it was pretty public. What did he make her do? He made it so that the moment he shook her hand, she orgasmed... loudly.
This girl is prim and proper, more so than I am... and girl went to TOWN the moment he shook her hand.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night getting ready to throw elbows if anyone reached for my hand.
That is not the way to live.
This also made for some interesting dreams.

Screw hypnosis.

"Is this... real life?"

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Un Animal

Good day, guys... such a good fucking day... I've been smiling and laughing so much, I fear those around me are going to have me committed to a mental institution.
But... she was so depressed not too long ago... now this? She probably has her suicide plotted out and we need to stop it before she goes ahead and does whatever crazy shit she has planned!
I hear that's what happens with people before they commit suicide... they're really happy and lovable the day before they go off and do the crazy thing...
But I swear to you that's not the case. I'm just so happy, and on a total upswing right now... I'm kind of fearful that the world IS ending... hence this strange string of blissful days-- the Universe's way to even the score.

Or maybe I'm just really amused when I make my poor, mega-Catholic, little Mexican mom listen to my favorite songs that may not be all too innocent.

I was driving her around town and my itunes shuffled to NIN's "Closer." Instead of changing the song, I increased the volume... as an experiment.
Me: GUESS why I love this song.
She's gonna kill me...
Mom: It sounds scary.
Me: It's awesome... and dirty... but fucking awesome!
Mom: AnoMALIE! Quit talking like a trucker! (she has this new thing where she accuses me of being a "trucker" whenever I get too vulgar or whatever)

The lyrics begin.
You let me violate you. You let me desecrate you.
Mom: Valgame Dios! (equivalent of "Oh my God")
Me: Shhh!
You let me penetrate you
You let me complicate you.

I turn up the sound, my cheeks hurting from smiling so hard. Mom was staring at me in disbelief, shaking her head in disapproval. This--naturally-- only made me giggle a little louder.
Help me, I broke apart my insides.
Help me, I've got no soul to sell.
Mom: Muy bonito... ("very nice," obviously said sarcastically)
Shakes her head again, a bit more intensely.
Me: Shhhh!
Help me, the only thing that works for me. 
Me: Get ready, get ready!
It feels like Christmas Eve!
Help me get away from myself.

I join in on the singing... emphasizing the obvious word.
I wanna fuck you like an animal.
Mom: ... of course.
I wanna feel you from the inside
Mom: Ave Maria Purisma, niña! ("Blessed Virgin Mary, girl!")
I wanna fuck you like an animal
Mom: That vulgar bastard... THAT'S what he is!
Me: The voice mom! The voice! It's sexy! ... and the lyrics are hot. It's some good shit, Mom, gotta admit it.
Mom: Que me van a gustar estas vulgaridades! ("Like hell I'd like these vulgarities!")

I like to torture my poor saint of a mother... so we listened to the entire song.
I know she ended up liking it... I mean, she was bobbing her head to it after maybe a minute.
I'll just let her keep denying the fact. I got you, Mom. No worries.