Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Que Circo

I know my bitching does very little to clear my image of being... well, a bitch.
LUCKILY, I tend to leave my bad-mouthing for blogging purposes only... with the occasional angry tweet.
Since I fight the urge to be outright rude and outspoken, I manage to get humbled in a more quiet fashion... no one else really sees me getting slapped into shape.

I know I was frustrated and angry about the Nebraska family staying over, but they quickly changed my mind.
They turned out to be the sweetest, most easy-going people I've bumped into in a very long time.
Their favorite activity of their stay?
Visiting Circus-Circus... the midway.
... ?
I was incredibly uneasy and irritated at first...
I've never met adults who were so fascinated by a fake circus.
Fucking place is full of clowns and balloons... I fucking detest both!
However, once I removed the stick out of my ass... and proceeded to cover my ears with my hands... I started to have fun.
How much money did I spend?
A dollar.
I spent one dollar, one try, on the skee-ball machine... and I won:
This sweet thing still has no name...
NO, I will not call it "Flipper."
Yeah.
Of course, since this is AnoMALIE we're talking about, there was some motherfucking controversy involved:
The stupid kid next to me took my KILLER WHALE instead of handing it to me like the damn worker told him to. Since I'm NOT above fighting a fucking ten year old over a stuffed animal, I fucking complained and threw a hissy fit.
In the middle of my complaining/threats, my cousin scored the same amount of points as I did, and the worker proceeded to hand another stuffed animal... the gray dolphin.
It was a large brouhaha... and I was being an asshole... and I somehow ended up with Mr. Dolphin over there.
I walked the rest of my Circus Circus visit with that dolphin hanging on my arm... my right hand in a death grip on the dolphin's belly. Of course this had people staring... and oddly enough, dumb-ass teenaged boys hollering at me.
Boy: I'll be your teddy bear, girl...
Me: It's a dolphin... you fuck. And if you yearn for me to grab you in the manner I'm grabbing this dolphin... you might be secretly transgender, wishing for a cheap way to lose your dick.

Back in my teen years, the only place I was ever really allowed to hang out was Circus Circus.
It would usually be a large group, of equal boys to girls. How would my night end? I'd be the one girl of the group who'd end up at the arcade, playing either skee-ball, table hockey, or shooting games with the the couple of guys who wouldn't be lucky to hook up with the girls of the group.
I'd have a stuffed animal or two, but none of which were given to me by a guy... no, no, I had to work for the stuffed animal and earn him through my own athletic merits.
Often times, I'd get to see my crush hook up with one of my COUSINS... which sucks more than watching a crush hook up with a friend.
Not once did I get "picked" by my crush... I never even sat next to him. Not once did I get "hollered" at... I didn't even have a guy tell me something nice, actually.

I'm 27... single... no kids... and I was hanging out at Circus Circus on a Monday afternoon... with a stuffed dolphin in my arms... and teenaged boys hollering at me.

Fucked up way Life has worked out for me.

BUT! This is a happy post!
After having this fucked up epiphany, I went back to smiling as I watched my Nebraska family enjoying the casino so enthusiastically... even my dad got in on the action and played some games... shit, Mom and Dad were even holding hands as they walked through the casino (which threw me for a loop, considering how allergic Pops is to PDA).
Yeah, that's right... I hung out with my parents at Circus-Circus... something I NEVER did until yesterday.

Crazy.

Monday, July 30, 2012

cRAZy kids

I went to bed frazzled as fuck...
Then I woke up to see something that still cracks me up... even just thinking about it.

So, the twelve year old boy is attached to me. I learned how to get him to chill the fuck out and quit pissing me off: toss money at him.
Aside from giving him money (no, seriously... he rummaged through my WALLET... which... at the age of twelve... I NEVER did that... that shit would get my fucking hands slapped so hard I'd lose feeling in them for days), I also play Donkey Kong and Super Mario with him... and not to toot my own horn, but I murder at those games.
Anyway, the boy now thinks I'm pretty legit.

These last two days I've been sleeping on the floor in my parent's bedroom (each night I brace myself to wake up to some traumatic shit, but so far, the only thing that has woken me up is the arctic temperature my parents keep in that room). By the time I wake up and work my way towards the room where everyone is hanging out, it tends to be pretty late.
Not today.
I woke up to some serious laughter.
Why the cackles? Because the 12 year old tried shaving his face this morning.
With MY razor.
You can imagine the sight.
Kid... you're lucky that razor is reserved for my calves...
All morning long, each time I looked at his chin I'd bust out into a chuckle.

What didn't make me chuckle was the fucking chastising I STILL received this morning.
This time, my aunt was the one giving me a talk about how "you don't do" what I "did."
Her parents were worried sick. She's nine years old. That was so irresponsible. What were you thinking?
First of all, I DON'T hang out with kids. I don't know how to handle kids. I DON'T LIKE kids. Second, you guys MADE ME take her with me when I was clearly only intending to take my 20 year old cousin to SUGAR FACTORY. Third, that fucking little heifer was the one throwing a fucking hissy fit at Sugar Factory about "I want M&M WORLD!" I don't know how to handle spoiled, idiotic twats (aside from slapping the shit out of their mouths and telling them to "act right!" But that would have gotten me in trouble in such a public area as the Las Vegas strip), so I did what she wanted in order to get her to shut the fuck up. Last, you of all people, should know this damn kid embellishes the fuck out of her stories. I got this after talking to her for five minutes... you've dealt with her for nine years, you should know this and take it easy on me.
Of course I didn't say what I was thinking... I just wanted the fucking conversation to end. I apologized, said I thought it was going to be a quicker trip (which I DID... but these kids were more indecisive than I am), and that I was very sorry I upset her parents like that (which I was... but when I say "I'm going to the Paris casino to get 20yearold some Sugar Factory," they should have known this was going to take some damn time... they should also know of their child's manipulative nature).

But... again... all I have to do is think of my cousin's bleeding chin, and I crack up.
Crazy kids.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Candy Kids

Yeah, yeah, another cheat update. But I'll be motherfucking damned if I don't update EVERY SINGLE DAY of July. I'm SO close!

Anyway, guess what I've been up to?
Aside from listening to a bunch of back-handed compliments and playing video games like a prepubescent boy... I've been baby sitting the kids.
As if taking care of the 10 year old (who is actually 12) and the 19 year old (who is actually 20) wasn't enough, they decided to add a 9 year old to the mix.

I get to baby-sit them as their parents gamble the night away.

To say I'm frustrated would be... kind of putting it mildly.
I want to punch strangers, that's how irritated I am.
The kids I've warmed up to... but I just want to chill sometimes, and all these kids want to do is eat candy. SO MUCH fucking candy.

I went ahead and lost all credibility, all trust, due to me being "inconsiderate and irresponsible" after allowing the fucking nine year old little jerk swindle me into taking her to the goddamn M&M factory or whatever the fuck that's called.
We were at the Paris... at Sugar Factory... and the little brat got her panties in a bunch and demanded I take her to the M&M place. Upon hearing this, the 12 and 20 year olds joined her strike.
Me, being the EVER vindictive, angry cunt I am, decided we WERE going to go to the stupid M&M place... WALKING.
Wanna boss ME around, you little fuckers? Let's walk... no, JOG over to the M&M place. Suck on THOSE balls.
Of course, while I got my way and irritated the fuck out of the kids... not to mention their feet were KILLING them, I also got scolded by the adults... because this walk took us a great deal of time to complete.
I BROUGHT A NINE YEAR OLD HOME AT MIDNIGHT!
... but only because the little bitch wanted M&Ms at 10PM... she would have been home at a decent hour had she listened to me and gone for the goddamned Sugar Factory cupcakes...
Anyway, the parents were upset with me... and now they think they "know" me. I'm really just a fake-humble girl who really just likes getting in trouble and staying out late. Yup. Totally me. All the time.

At least it gets my mind off things, right?
Right.

I look to the skies and continuously scream "WHAAAAAAAAAT NOW?!"
For real. Just... what else can be expected out of me... what other fucking lemons are going to be handed to me before this month is over?

... I promise I'll never, ever, EVER smile for more than three consecutive days. That shit has cost me a shit-ton of tears and frustration...

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Chez angrAMALIE

It appears the universe does not want me to write up the short story... or at least not share it.

Nebraska family has dropped by unexpectedly and I've spent the day cleaning like the crazy person I currently am.
And I'm pretty sure I will not have much time to write things of much substance... though I usually DON'T write shit of substance anyway. I'm such a lazy bum.

But at least it's keeping me from being too emotional or blubbering shit I'll find myself regretting later.
Perhaps tomorrow... when I don't have my little cousins staring at my face as I type away... making me so self-conscious and shit.
Oh, hey kids... just... writing up an important email to my clients, is all... carry on... there's a Wii somewhere by that television... entertain yourselves. Quit staring now. Please... and don't you dare work your way to this side of the screen. 

Ahhhh... I'm such a lovely host.

Did I mention they're fundamentalist, evangelical Christians? Well, they are.
Fun times ahead.
... I'm going to cuss every fucking chance I get.
Ha.

**Update**
WELL!
We're definitely not going to get along...
First, my uncle, who I haven't seen in three years, greeted me with some fanfare.
Uncle: Holy moly! You're a different person!
Me: Me?
Mom: Haha. Yeah, it's 'cause the last time you saw her...
Uncle: She was REALLY FAT!
My uncle then proceeded to mimic how monstrous I was... which always ends up looking like someone trying to imitate an angry gorilla.
This was in front of my parents, my uncle's 40-somthing year old daughter (my dad's cousin) and her 40-something year old husband, and their 19 year old daughter and 10 year old son.
... yeah, that wasn't awkward.

A little later, I was ambushed and interrogated by my little cousins as I washed my face in my bathroom.
I've never met them in my life... so I obliged by answering some of the more normal questions.
Her: So, how old are you?
Me: 27.
Her: So you're all done with college and stuff, huh?
Me: Yup. For the last five years or so.
Her: So what do you do now?
Me: Nothing. I got my Biology degree and then dropped out of medical school.
Her: Why?
Me: Because I didn't like it. I was unhappy and I didn't like my peers.
Her: Do you plan on going to like... grad school?
Me: I tried... like... almost two years ago now. Didn't work out. Who knows, maybe I'll try again later. Maybe.
Her: So like... besides hang out, what else do you do?
Me: Nothing. (think about suicide on a daily basis and cry every other hour)... well, I do go to the gym... and I write... and paint...
Her: Do you get paid for that?
Me: Nope. (I'm pretty much waiting for death now...)
Him: You don't sound very smart...
Shut up, you fucking ten year old twat. YOU still believe the universe is six thousand  years old... I wouldn't talk if I were you.
Me: Ha. Well, what do YOU guys do?
Her: I work for Kellogg's. I have three years of nursing school ahead of me. See how much I like that.

Ah, youth with their dreams.
I remember having those (dreams AND youth...).
The Universe, just having another little laugh at my expense, it looks like.

You don't sound very smart...
Excuse me, I gotta go cry myself to sleep now.

Friday, July 27, 2012

BIG Heart

I don't know why this sort of shit happens to me, but it does.
AGAIN, I had the intention of posting part one of the series of the "short story" but of course! because my life isn't sufficiently out of wack, I get more bad news.

My auntie, the one who likes buying me random shit, the one who gives me (often hilarious but also unsolicited) advice, has been diagnosed with an enlarged heart.
Poor Aunt was freaking the fuck out when she told my mom. Of course I'm told this shit because, as stated before, apparently my bio degree translates to "Doctor" in my family.
Guys, I'm an imbecile, calm down and quit telling me your health problems...

Always difficult to watch someone panic before your eyes.
She was told her final results would be given to her next week... whatever that means.

Seriously, Universe... you done, big man? You good? Or you got some more fucking shit up your sleeve?
I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated. Please take it easy on me. Please put someone else in your sights. I'm done. Please.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Preface

Estoy sentada en silencio...
Pensándote a gritos.
I'm sitting in silence...
Loudly thinking of you.

Well. It finally happened. And it was... very true to the way MY story tends to go, it was very AnoMALIE-esque.
AnoMALIE fact #76893: In high school, I asked three guys to prom. THREE. I was bucked off the horse twice, dusted myself off... and finally gave up the third time my face hit the floor. Real talk: I asked three different guys to prom, and each time I was turned down. I spent prom by first failing my driving test, and then taking the longest bubble bath of my life... where I'm sure the ration of my tears to tap water was somewhere along the lines of 2:1.
For a shy girl... I sure do put myself out there when it comes to letting guys know how I feel. Not once have I succeeded there, as in, not once have I heard a positive... but I still do it. I don't know why. My brain will continuously scream at me to shut the fuck up... but my stupid, STUPID heart plows past the warnings... like the real asshole it is.
While in the last few days I've probably felt every fucking feeling that exists in my heart... there is ONE positive: I am suddenly SO. DAMN. CREATIVE.
I've been drawing and writing like a maniac.
The drawing is fine because it stays in my sketchpads, but the writing is a mess-- it's just a bunch of thoughts that I need to reorganize... and proof-read. But it's clear that my brain has kicked up the productivity/creativity in the last two days.
It's the best way I know how to deal.
I know I gained a great affinity for weight lifting because of this intense desire to cope with heartbreak/disillusionment. It helps transform whatever emotional pain I may be feeling into actual physical pain. There's also punishment for anytime my mind is anywhere other than in the lift I'm performing. It cracks the whip.
But I'm not going to lie, I am enjoying the spurt of creativity... even if my esophagus feels as if I've swallowed a gallon of battery acid... my cheeks feel hot as if I've been attacked by a gang of backhanding sumo wrestlers... and my heart feels as if someone ripped a strip of the protective duct tape I've managed to wrap around my heart as means to keep anything from leaving or entering.
Everything hurts... but I suddenly have this urgency to write it all down, before it too gets lost... just like that fleeting sense of happiness I sometimes have the privilege of creeping up on.

I think I'll do this in installments... it's uh... rather lengthy, and let's be honest, you don't have the patience to read it, nor I the attention span to write it.
It IS part of a story... it has always made an appearance in my stories... but those who know me best know this deserves it's own... book... a book I can finally complete due to an ending finally being available, I guess you could say.
No, I won't write the "short story" version of it here... just the skeleton of it. I wouldn't subject y'all to that pain.
And please, don't feel sorry for me... it's just... the way the cookie crumbles for me... always. I just don't understand why I made myself believe that this time around it would change.
Things never change for AnoMALIE.
Refusing to accept that constant was my biggest mistake... so I brought this upon myself.

You can't make someone love you, just like you can't choose who you love.
Back when I was in middle school, I remember watching a Jennifer Aniston film, where she's in love with her gay best friend... and I remember feeling extremely gutted for her after she utters this line:
I want you to be with me, I want you to marry me, I want you to love me the way that I love you. I don’t really want to see who you are at all.
My soul felt crushed for the character... especially after seeing, and hearing, the way she pleads the part I underlined.

I want you to be with me...
Fucking words have haunted me since.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Stepford

"Damn. AnoMALIE, I wish I had your life!"
I've received numerous calls and texts from friends and family after this whole Tyson death thing.
It has been nice to catch up, and for the most part, as long as they don't sit there and try to make me reminisce about all the ridiculous... hilarious, sweet stuff my dog did, I'll be good.

The person who has succeeded most with this task has been Pacemaker. That chick.
We were talking about our upcoming trip to the east coast, and the conversation went something like this:
Pacemaker: We should have this trip totally booked by late August. Deal?
Me: Yeah, definitely. We have to work shit out prior to the first week of September.
Pacemaker: Oh, so you're on board for the Hometown trip with me, then?
Me: No... I have to skip on that one. Apparently things are growing increasingly worse. Plus, I have another trip pending... so I wouldn't be able to help out with the plans until mid-September when I return.
Pacemaker: Where are you going?
Me: ... Costa Rica. Mexico's national team is playing a cup-qualifier against Costa Rica on the 9th, and our friends got us tickets to watch it with them...
Pacemaker: Costa Rica's that fun, huh?
Me: Yeah. More like... I like it there a lot, especially now that I have "family" there.
Pacemaker: Damn. AnoMALIE, I wish I had your life!
Me: No. No you don't.
Pacemaker: Yes! Yes, I do! You get to travel to all these places whenever you want. You don't have to work. You can spend as much as you want on whatever you want. All you really do is work out, clean the house, and cook. I want that life.
Me: Ha. Yeah. I'm pretty much a Stepford Wife minus the kids, husband, and sex. Yeah. Dreamy.
Pacemaker: Dang. Calm down, Negative Nancy.
Me: Pacemaker, my dog's dead. I'm not exactly a ray of sunshine right now.

I wish I had your life.
Really?
I know damn near everyone says this (and those who don't will instead say something along the lines of "I'm SO BLESSED!" Which, I know I've said it once or twice... usually when I escape some bad situation, but others just love to drop this line every other day. Shut the fuck up, yeah?), but... my life isn't dreamy. At all.
Maybe someone who loves to spend money might envy my life... some shallow, materialistic person (Christ, I'm sorry Pacemaker... I love you, but your emphasis on monetary issues is the one topic that upsets me in this relationship), but money's fickle-- it comes as fast as it goes. Also, while I pretty much have free reign when it comes to spending, I don't have the heart to spend it. I think of the difficulty with which that money is obtained, and I can't bring myself to spend it on frivolous shit like designer shoes/bags/luggae etc. I've never been one to enjoy flaunting my shit... I'm sure my friends can attest to this-- I always look like a bum. Flaunting makes me feel bad.
Money doesn't get you shit, if anything, it gets many people--especially strangers-- to resent you.

This also makes me wonder... am I THAT good at making it look like my life's awesome? I don't talk! I rarely smile. I SLOUCH! I don't hold eye-contact.
That's the behavior of a person with a dope life? Last time I checked, people who behave like me have serious traumas.
Did I just admit to having serious traumas? Well... it's not like I'm normal, now, is it? Of fucking course I have traumas... and regardless of how much money I may chuck at them, they don't go away. Ever.

My life is meaningless.
Every dream I've ever had has been shot down at point-blank range... with a shotgun.
Kinda rough for a girl whose life has consisted of dreaming, something done in order to endure many of the aforementioned traumas.

Above all, my life is painfully lonely... it always has been.
Whether the room is full of people, or completely empty, it does not matter-- there's a disconnect.
Lonely, more so than ever, now that the only creature that ever understood me is buried behind the "play room" of my house.

When I found Tyson on Monday morning, aside from the obvious sadness I felt over his death, and relief I felt over him no longer being in pain... I was surprised to note I also felt a little bit of envy.
You beat me to it, boy. You were given the ticket out first. You no longer have to worry. You're free.

Sorry to say it, but: be careful what you wish for... things are not always what they seem.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Sin perro que me ladre.

Could not have said it better myself.
I'm doing much better today.
Yesterday I was FUCKED. UP. My eyelids ballooned to a level never seen before, especially my bottom lids.
Mom: You didn't cry this hard for any of your grandparents...
Me: That's because I wasn't the first one to find their lifeless body...

Each time I though of my poor doggie's face... that giant grin, I broke down.
Smiling, even in death... THAT was the kind of doggie he was.
Your dog is SO UGLY and MEAN!
That was the general consensus amongst the girls who met my dog.
Guy's would typically admire his size and his vicious nature... though sometimes they would say "how ugly..."
He'd bark up a storm and threaten the shit out of everyone he met, but he really was a giant teddy bear... to us, his owners.
Why the fuck would I want a friendly guard dog? Fuck that shit. I LOVED that my dog licked no one's ass but ours (uh... not like that, but you get the idea).
He knew something that takes humans a motherfucking lifetime to learn: Trust NO. ONE.

He may have been "ugly" but he was also a sweet, silly, intelligent, witty little bastard.
To see how loyal he was, and how his sole purpose in life was to make us proud... keep us safe... it owned me.

That dog was the love of my life, and took a large part of my soul with him.

In Spanish, there's a saying that goes: Sin perro que le ladre.
Without a dog to bark at her.
It's a way to denote someone is alone. Completely, utterly alone... usually in reference to a single girl, especially a spinster.
Now I know why the damn quote is used-- I'm the fucking embodiment!
Those were the only words crossing my mind yesterday.
I don't even have a dog now...

But like I said, I'm ok now. Very much so. I just needed to cry it all out (I would even cry when I'd remember how on Sunday, as I was walking out of the movie theater, I saw the poster for Frankenweenie, and thought "If that were possible, and Tyson died, I'd bring him back..." Like I said, the universe trips me the fuck out sometimes)... and I was good to go by the afternoon.
Tyson will now be a beautiful memory of the only male in my life that loved me unconditionally (sorry, Pops, but you don't hold this spot because you told me yourself you'd disown me if I told you I was gay. Though I'm not, that's still putting conditions on me. If I had a kid, I wouldn't give a flying fuck about his/her sexuality. I'd just want my kid to be happy and safe), and listened to my shit willingly.
Mi corazón, mi amor.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Good-night, sweet prince

The way the universe fucks with me is... unreal.
This past weekend was so pleasant for me... I smiled SO much... I hadn't been that happy in quite some time.
I hung out with Darcy, for crying out loud! That's like... something that was not even in my dreams, because I saw it THAT implausible.
Ok, maybe you'd coincide in one place... but to purposely chill more than once? Get real, idiot.
Everything felt so light... so airy... even if the most I did was give him a half-assed hug.

Then this morning happens.
I was chirpy... so fucking chirpy, despite having only slept four hours.
I had a bounce in my step, I was enjoying my breakfast... and as I happily wriggled in my seat while munching on my berries, I though:
"Well, shit! You know who deserves a good breakfast as well? Tyson!"
I stepped outside and noticed Tyson's mat was missing. I went for his food bowls and saw that both had been drank out of.
Ok, so he didn't run away.
As I walked towards the game room where we store his food, I made a quick glance behind me, and saw Tyson splayed under his favorite tree-- our giant fig tree.
When I approached the room's door, I noticed a couple of chipmunks, brazenly standing in front of me.
These little shitheads... who the hell do they think they are, standing up to me like that? Shameless little bastards.
These chipmunks are the same chipmunks that always scatter the moment they hear me reach for the food bowls. But not today.
I prepared Tyson's food... still chirpy, still smiling, and I headed back to the porch, where Tyson likes to eat.
I quickly glanced over towards the fig tree, and noted how Tyson had not moved... I could only see his backside, though.
I reached the porch, and decided to walk towards the fig tree to encourage Tyson to come get his breakfast.
I cleared the built-in grill that was obstructing my view of Tyson... and then everything went silent... I could not hear a thing... as if I were suddenly submerged under water.
"Tyson? ... Ty... son?"
He was laying on his left side. I looked at his belly first... it wasn't moving. Almost reluctantly, I looked at his face.
His mouth was open... with his usual, enormous, silly grin showing... his little tongue sticking out.
"Tyson..."
There was a puddle of slobber under his mouth, his eyes were wide open... still slightly watery.
"No, no, Tyson... Please no... Tyson? Tyson. Tyson. Tyson.... Please. Baby?"
I reached and shook his right shoulder. He was warm... but did not move. He did not breathe.
"Oh, Baby..."
This can't be happening...
I covered my mouth and jogged back into the house.
I ran into my room, where I couldn't hold it in any further, and I screamed.
"BABY!!"
Before I allowed the sobs to overpower me, I remembered my baby still had his eyes wide open.
NOTHING is going to eat his eyeballs right now.
I went outside, and did my best to close his eyes... the whole time wishing he'd suddenly reanimate and do his stupid little "I was kidding!" face... since he has always loved scaring me into believing he's dead... the little jokester.
Maybe I just saw wrong and he was just in a really deep sleep?
He never did reanimate...

I went back inside and called my mother.
"Tyson's DEAD, Mom... Tyson died..."
We both began to sob wildly over the phone.
I kept repeating the line... and she finally managed to get me to stop by asking me to recount everything to her.
I asked her what I should do, and she asked me to go back outside and fix his little legs before rigor mortis set in, and as a favor to her, splash a bit of holy water on him. Everything else she and Dad would handle.
After hanging up on Mom, I went back outside... this time completely dreading the process... and I tried moving his right hind leg-- it was completely stiff.
The puddle under his mouth? Dry.
I went ahead and sprinkled a bit of the water Mom indicated... and tears flooded my eyes.

The love of my life, my best friend, was officially dead.
***

Mom says he was alive, and resting in the sun when she filled his water bowls at 7:30 in the morning. He looked up at her, gave her a sad look, and went back to napping.
I found him at 10:50... obviously recently deceased due to the watery eyes, puddle of drool, and warm, soft body.
I barely missed seeing him with life for one last time...

By 11:30, I kid you not, a group of song birds had assembled in the fig tree, and were loudly chirping away.
It was like I lived in the fucking enchanted forest and all the little animals were coming out to pay their respects to the fallen old man of the hood.
I couldn't stop crying. I was a fucking mess. I still AM. My eyes have NEVER EVER been this swollen. The tears just keep coming.

My Pops was the one to dig the hole behind "Tyson's Room" aka the play room.
He freaked out a little when he returned to grab Tyson to drag him to the hole, and found me petting his little neck, whispering "You were a good boy. Good boy. Thank you. Thank you. I love you, baby..."
I started to sob loudly when I saw my dad begin to drag Tyson by one of his hind paws and drag him across the backyard.
Me: You're NOT going to treat my dog like that! His face isn't going to get dragged across the ground!

I reached for Tyson's front legs and lifted him, having Dad lead the way as we both carried him to his final resting place.
I finally had to allow my dad to drag him by one foot when it came time to place him in the grave.
Tyson's body positioned itself into his "baby chicken" position I loved so much, the one where he tucked his paws under his body, usually around the winter time... the one that made him look like a hen incubating an egg... this always made me giggle.

I once again sobbed very loudly as I watched his brindle coat disappear under the dirt.
Goodbye, my sweet, sweet boy.
***
My love...
I didn't know I could be THIS possessive... but Tyson was my fucking boy. MINE.
No one, absolutely no one has had my back like that, and no one ever will.
He was mine since the day I turned 16. He saw me through some of my toughest years.
He knew when to defend me, he knew when to lick my face, he knew when to lick my hands, when to lick my knees, and even when he could be a sick little bastard and fart in my face... which was always only used for comic relief... he knew that shit.
No one has looked at me with such loving, adoring eyes like my little Tyson.
No one has loved me as unconditionally as Tyson.

He wouldn't want me to join him outside so I could show him my love, he ALWAYS wanted me to go outside so he could show me HIS love.

So many nights this boy sat at my feet, and calmed me down. So many nights he listened to my heartbreak and traumas... and he always solved the problems by looking at me in a way that made me feel like the coolest, smartest, most amazing girl... human, in the world.
Girl, you rock. Don't cry. It'll be ok.

My fucking best friend is dead...

Tuya

I have a confession to make:
I spent my weekend in the presence of Darcy.
Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday night.
I'd hang out with him every single damn day of his stay if he asked, shiiiit.
It still feels like a dream. Like it never happened.

As cliche and trite as this is, I can't find a better way to put it:
He has me, all of me, in the palm of his hand.
I am all his.

And it's not something he tried to do-- get me-- or something I looked for, it's just there.
While I often sit here pondering wether I'm capable of "learning" to like a dude, doubting whether I'm able to like anyone... all Darcy has to do is stand there, not even looking at me or saying a word to me, and I'll be completely, blissfully subdued.
Soy tuya.

There's a problem, though:
My mind is so adamant about me not "bothering" him and getting all obnoxiously enthusiastic around him, that I get all awkward... and proceed to avoid making eye contact with him, or talking too much to him, or even accidentally touching him, not even a simple bump.
Sometimes it looks like I freakin' hate him.

My brain keeps telling me to chill out, that if he liked me, he would have said something by now. For all I know, he probably thinks I like one of his friends and he's just playing the role of supportive friend. So I just keep the distance, even if all I want to do sometimes is inform him how much I look forward to seeing his lovely face and hearing his lovelier voice... how often I have to remind myself not to touch him, just so I won't be one of those girls (I shake my head each time I see a chick getting touchy-feely with a dude that clearly doesn't like her. It's pretty cringeworthy).

At times I feel like just being straightforward and telling him how I feel.
You make me feel funny. My heart races, my knees wobble, I can't see straight, and I hold my breath when I see you smile. You captivate me... even if I try so hard to make it look like you're just another dude friend. I find you to be extraordinary.
But of course, I then think of how I feel when someone I don't like professes his admiration for me... so I shut up.
If he liked YOU, he would TELL you. Guys do that when they find a girl they like... just look at MGH!

On Saturday, I spent most of the day with him (of course, it wasn't just us, it was a small, chill group of his friends) at his pretty house (looking at the decorations I just angrily thought of my mom. Why does MY mom refuse to add color to the house?! Black and white and gold... what kind of shit color scheme is that?! And why don't we have bookshelves?! Bunch of Neanderthals, we are). It was a good time... even if his mom gave me some icedtea drink that I'm still sort of confused as to what it was (Southern Comfort? Something like that. I drank it straight, on the rocks... after having only eaten--besides breakfast-- a protein shake. Not smart of me, guys, not smart). He even has dogs that are adorably affectionate, but back off before dogs reach that "annoyingly clingy" level.
Anyway, so I'm all comfortable and bubbly.
Then that stupid thing that always happens to me happened to me:
My heart was dropkicked all while some stupid, sentimental music played in the background.

MGH started this trend back in our Cancun summer of '09. The time my heart broke in slow-motion in front of a Margaritaville as the Amelie theme song played in the background.
This time, it happened outside of a pub. Although... the music was played a couple of minutes prior to the actual event. I'm talking about listening to a cover of Willie Nelson's "Always on my Mind" followed by "I would walk 500 miles."
As the songs played, I scoffed to myself... Very appropriate... how ironic.
But the songs did help me acquire some courage to convince myself to finally affectionately hug Darcy when it would come time to walk out of the pub in a few minutes. I had convinced myself I'd do it.
All was going well... he was leading, and I wasn't too far behind, then I stalled, waiting for another friend to finish his conversation with some other dude.
As I stood outside the pub I turned to see Darcy and his bestie were still walking full speed ahead, without turning back.
I was parked in the complete opposite direction, it wasn't like I was going to hunt these guys down to say goodbye.
Instead, I stayed put in front of the pub, waiting for the guy to finish his conversation, while watching Darcy's frame quickly disappear from my sight.
Not again. Not again.
I then made eye contact with his other friend.
Him: Well... that's kinda fucked up that he just left like that...
I shrugged, as is customary when I feel bummed, but realize there's nothing I can do-- when I realize things aren't mutual.

I said my goodbyes to the rest of the people, and headed in the opposite direction, alone (Oh my god, when I got home I was scared SHITLESS after I clearly felt like someone was rushing towards me from behind as I was fumbling with the keys to open my front door. I seriously thought I was going to get murdered, so I dropped everything in my hands and gripped on the Pyrex casserole I was holding. I was ready to smash that thing against a motherfucker's temple if I had to. But when I turned around, no one was there. Piss-my-pants-worthy, that scare. I swear).

This helped cement that no matter how strong my attraction might be, his end just isn't there.
It didn't keep me from hitting up the movies with him Sunday night, however.
As long as he allows for me to be around him, I'll keep choosing to be around him.

No one makes me feel the way he does... still. This girl belongs to him.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Sweet man

Today Mom got word of a new ransom victim in Hometown.
Unlike other times she hears these sort of newsflashes, this time, she quietly walked into my room, closed the door behind her, and she started to cry.

Do you know how many times my mother has done this?
Zero.
When her dad died, she went to work, and cried her ass off over there.
When her mom died, she went to work and cried her ass off over there.

Yes, I've seen Mom cry, many times ME being the reason for the tears, but this was different. She was looking for comfort... from me.

Who was taken for ransom? Her guy best friend from her adolescent years.
Why's it extra sad? Because he's a sweetheart.

This guy never had a girlfriend. He didn't really have guy friends, either.
He was a quiet, gentle dude. He would be too shy to ask a girl to dance, he spent most of his days working in the morning wrangling cattle, and the remainder taking care of his mom.
Hometown dudes obviously looked down on this, and were quick to accuse him of being gay... because guys who respect/love their mothers and treat other women with the same respect aren't considered manly according to these barbarians.

Anyway, due to guys shunning him, he went ahead and hung out with girls.
Being that he was a rancher, he always had money and spent it on the gaggle of girls he'd hang out with.
Mom would be in this gaggle.
Mom was also the only girl he ever asked out to dance, and she actually agreed... thinking it was just him trying to kill time.
According to Mom, he just never showed interest in girls, OR guys. He was just quietly resigned to be alone.

Fast forward to Mom bumping into him when we were all munchkins, around the range of 6-2 years of age.
They hadn't seen each other since she left Hometown after getting married.
He was still single.
Mom says he looked at all of us and told her how cute we were. How pretty she still was.
He proceeded to confess how she was the only girl he ever loved. The only person he ever had feelings for.
Mom: Why didn't you tell me anything? You just let us all continue to believe you were gay...
Him: Because I noticed you didn't see me like that. Once I realized you couldn't notice the way I looked at you was different, I knew you would never be with me. But I always loved you.

Mom continued to be his friend. And each time we saw him around, we'd greet him warmly, even my dad would be nice to him.

Well, I guess he's now abducted in Hometown.
He's pretty rich, but it's all due to his hard work.
The motherfuckers running shit in Hometown (as in, the criminals) saw him as a target, and took the opportunity to milk as much easy money as possible.

Mom: He's SUCH a good guy. He's such a sweet man. He is such a hardworker! He didn't deserve this... he didn't deserve this.

That's all Mom kept repeating. She was shaky.

I must admit, even I feel shitty about this. Just thinking about the way his life turned out brings a frown to my face.
I really hope they release him...

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Ay dolor.

My urge to go to Hometown comes in waves.
Sometimes, I'm ready to jump on the next bus to Mexico, other times I want to slap myself for ever thinking about visiting that war zone.
Some days I'll have some relatives in Mexico trying to convince me to travel down to visit them, other days they're calling my house and telling me it's dangerous as fuck and that I should just stay nice and safe on this side of the border.

While I'm still on the fence about Mexico... and will continue to be in such a state until September rolls around, I've noticed my subconscious has compensated for my indecision:
I am speaking Spanish all over the place... at all times.

Yeah, I DO speak Spanish on a regular basis, since it tends to be the only language I speak to my folks in, as well as my aunts and uncles (actually, I ONLY speak Spanish to my aunts and uncles. My brain is hardwired to do that), but for the most part, when I think and stuff, it'll be in English (except when I do basic math, I always do that shit in Spanish for some reason).
Well, not recently.
Everything I do AND think is in Spanish.
This only bums me out. Here I am being a total bean in the States, but in Mexico, all I do is speak English and listen to English music. It's a constant reminder, Hey bitch, what the fuck are you doing over there in Vegas that is so important that you haven't returned to your roots in two years, huh? Traitor.

My brain likes to torture me.
Ayyyy, dolor! Me quiero largar!

Friday, July 20, 2012

No longer irrational

I have numerous "irrational" fears, many of which I've talked about here.
I say they're "irrational" because I'm sure many people will think I'm dumb for the things I fear... but in my head, I can totally reason them all out.
Like my fear of knives. It's not... like I run out of a room the moment I see a knife. I mean, I DO cook... especially meat, so I have to mess with them. I don't freak at the sight of knives, or the sight of others using knives as they're intended. I only freak out the moment I see someone "playing" near knives. My brain immediately screams "HEY! You can seriously hurt yourselves or others if you fuck around with those things! Get away from the knives!"
Very rational.

Then there's my fear which tends to baffle others: balloons.
Again, I don't piss my pants at the sight of balloons, I don't cry or any of that sort of shit either. I just get very uncomfortable and irritated. I hate the sound they make when they're popped, and when kids play with them, I think of them biting the balloon and getting some of the latex stuck in their throats.
Who knows, maybe in a past life I died after munching on a balloon or some shit. Point is, I DON'T like balloons, and whenever I'm near them, I tense the fuck up.

Then comes the fear I always thought of as irrational, but sadly, is now plausible.
My social anxiety has a lot to do with the fear. Whenever I'm in a crowded room, or... a large room, the first thing I do is look for my nearest exit.
Ever since I was about... maybe five, I always wondered what I'd do if some crazy shit happened whenever I'd be in a large group of people. I swear. I have no clue where this stems from, but that's how I've been since childhood.
The thought always crosses my mind, whether I'm at church, at a basketball game, a concert, a movie.
I always think "Dude, if some fucking crazy person just walked in here and started shooting at people... would I duck for cover... or would I run?" and so I sit there and analyze this sort of shit.
I blame the ghetto.
I seriously do this at the movies all the time. The thought has crossed my mind and all I really think is "Fuck, that would suck. It'd be like shooting fish in a barrel..."
Imagine my horror after seeing the mayhem that took place last night in Colorado.
My worst fucking nightmare come true.

Not gonne lie: I got teary-eyed as I read the reports and watched the footage. So fucked up, everything that happened... and HOW it happened.
Total bummer.

The thing that pisses me off is the fucking shooter.
Way to make us naturally quiet/timid people look like fucking psychopaths.

And the whole med school related stress thing... ahhhhhh!
See, the moment I realized the med school path was making me more miserable than happy was the moment I dropped that shit (well, I went on for two more years, but only because I didn't want to leave shit unfinished... because I'm stubborn).
Once the pain became too much to bear... and I could no longer control my body from convulsing each time I had a stressful exam approaching, I dropped that shit... I didn't go out on some fucking rampage against innocent people. What fault did they have? Sure, I didn't like the majority of my clique-y peers, but instead of taking it out on them, I decided to just get away from them for good. Just separate myself from the shit that makes me miserable. Cut your losses and move the fuck on.

Christ.
Well, there goes my chance at becoming any more likable. People are probably going to fear me/suspect of me now... and it's not like I'll be able to blame them.

Goddamn psychopaths... I wish they'd be a little more obnoxiously loud, and not brooding quiet types.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

El Perro y La Paloma

My dad hates pigeons.
Can't blame him, pigeons wreak havoc on the roof. Fixing the roof is expensive... I'd rather spend that money traveling. Wasting money like that on a roof only pisses off the family.

Dad thoroughly enjoys going outside, BBgun in hand, and killing any and all pigeon that chills near our house.
Sometimes, Dad manages to kill the bird, others the bird manages to escape... often with a mortal wound. Blood from the fleeing, injured bird will usually splatter our concrete, or cars.
The unluckier birds land somewhere in the backyard-- within Tyson's grasp.

Tyson has learned to hate pigeons.
Initially, when he started encountering the injured pigeons, he'd stare at them confused.
This was followed by a short period where he tried eating them.
He finally adopted a more sadistic practice: he played with them.
Tyson would start by gently dragging out the pigeon from whatever hiding spot it had found.
He then would drag the pigeon to the only open, grassy part of the backyard. He'd stare at the terrified pigeon, and as the pigeon approached the edge of the grassy area, he'd drag the bird back near him-- tearing out some of the feathers each time he'd do this.
Once the pigeon quit trying to flee... and it was nearly bald, blood dripping out of the pores... Tyson would proceed to force it to move.
As the pigeon lay still, but alive, tyson would throw it back and forth between his paws, occasionally nudging it with his nose... forcing the bird to move its broken bones somehow.
Tyson would finally walk away once the pigeon's reflexes were close to non-exisitant. He'd let the bird agonize for the last few minutes of its life... and never acknowledged it again.

I don't know what possessed him to do this, but he did it. I don't know why he chose to torture pigeons instead of giving it a swift death... but he did it. I don't know what made him stop this behavior, but I'm glad it did.

I don't know which human owners he was emulating with this behavior... but I bet it was a guy.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Latches

Today's post is brought to you by the letter F... for FUCK!

My hands are red and tingly. I held a screwdriver in my hands with a death grip for four and a half hours, I'm surprised I didn't lose a finger.

After ignoring the fuck out of this beast for a few days,
That glare... SEE why I don't like mornings?
I decided I'd go ahead and put it together.
All was well... up until the LAST step, which is stupid anyway. Apparently I set up the latching mechanism incorrectly, and there's just no fucking way of fixing it. SO... umm, looks like my treadmill WON'T be a space saver... because AnoMALIE's an idiot.

To add insult to injury, I fucked up my dandy nails.

I'd be fine with chips in the polish, since I need to change it up anyway, but I actually broke five nails... and that HURTS.
My hands now look... well, gross.
My right hand is embarrassing to stare at.
They never get that bad even on my WORST lifting days. I'll occasionally break a nail or two after handling the plates like a moron, but never five.
Fuck handiwork. That's some bullshit.

And just for good measure, because I drive on a daily basis, but Wednesday are especially grouchy commutes:
Amen.
Today was not: Funny. Fantastic. Fabulous. Fun. or even Favorable.
Today was: Fucking Frustrating... a Factory Full of Fucksup.
Thank you, and goodnight (maybe a coherent entry will be worked in later tonight... I still feel like writing, but I know I have to cool down a bit).

Edit: Never mind, I'm no longer angry... this just made me smile and lighten up (thanks, Mooney). HA! Memories of being a teenager...

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Babe

They say all things resemble their owners... or something like that.
Tyson is no exception-- he has a little bit of each of us.

He's stubborn... like Mom and I.
He's silly... like Rafa.
He's loyal... like D.
He's vain... not that D is, but she likes looking good, and this pitbull can stare at his reflection (and does) for hours. I swear I've seen him flex numerous times, that little weirdo.
He's anti-social, like me.
He's grouchy... super moody... just like me. He does this thing, where he holds a mini grudge if you do something he does not approve of. How do I know he's holding a grudge? I'll go outside, and be like "Hey, Tyson. How are you, boy?" and he will refuse to look at me. He will turn his back and act like I'm invisible. He usually does this if I don't give him enough water, or if I feed him too late... or if last more than two days without playing with him.

Well, now this weird little dog has taken his mood swings to another level. I don't even think I can call it a mood swing, he's just seems to be going through some life change where he's having some identity crisis or something.
My dog has recently decided he does not like his name, so whenever we call out to him, he will not react.
I've always called him everything from "feo," "ugly," and "perro." I'm pretty sure for a time he must have thought his name was "feo."
Recently, my poor little guy hasn't been feeling so hot. His whole little paw issue still aggravates him, and this has made me all tender-hearted, so I call him by sweet names like "baby" and "little guy."
For the last week or so, he has been unresponsive to ALL names.
"Tyson! TYSON!"
My dog does NOT give a fuck.
And look! He's sleeping in the sunlight. 
Yesterday, for some reason, in my frustration, I decided to call him a name I'm not too fond of: Babe.
What does this fucker do? React.
Apparently, my dog's the Prince of the dog world. For the last day, Tyson D. has ONLY responded to "Babe."
I now find myself walking around the backyard looking over my shoulder and whispering "Babe!" whenever I need Tyson to come over. I just know he's looking at me from a safe distance and laughing at me.

This son of a bitch knows how to be magnificently passive-aggressive... I love it.

Monday, July 16, 2012

Hazme Felíz

Happiness is...
1. Random conversations with childhood friends.
2. Traveling.
3. Lightning storms.
4. Naps in the early morning sunlight.
5. Shopping.

1. I may not have a multitude of friends, especially of my own gender, but whenever I'm upset, my girls come out of the woodwork.
I hate being surrounded by too many chicks, and I find them catty, but the girls in my life are THE BEST.
From Kelley writing me her eloquent, uplifting comments, to Pacemaker conference calling me to have a giggle-fest... my friends are the shit, and they know how to bring that smile back on my face.
I will never be able to properly articulate how much I love my friends.

2. Plans have been made for the month of October that will take us from the midwest to the East Coast. By "we" I mean Pacemaker, her cousin, and me.
Some of us might be more excited the others... with some uh... different motives, apparently:
True love? This isn't a fucking RomCom...
I was semi-joking... since I recently ready how Massachusetts is the most Catholic state in the nation... and each time I think of a Boston boy, I think of a foul-mouthed ex-altar boy... with some kind of cool scar on his body.
I wasn't kidding on the Matt Damon-y part. I've loved that man since I was a fucking kid. He's the epitome of my dream man: witty, intelligent, articulate, artistic, handsome, hilarious... just... d-ohhhhhh-pe. I think about him and my legs tingle. Mmmm. Matt Damon.
On the real, though: I don't know why these girls think we're going to find love out there. My travel plans never consist of finding someone to hook up with... they never have. Am I weird for that? I actually keep away from dudes and only really people-watch. I'm such a weirdo.
I was meant to be a nun.

3. Lightning storms have always held a special place in my heart. They will forever remind me of my mom's mom. She loved seeing them, but hated the thunder... she was terrified of thunder.
Lightning has always made me terribly melancholic. I always find myself admiring the show alone... in the dark... and the only thought that ever crosses my mind is: This is so beautiful.
It's the time I'm perfectly content to be alone... surrounded by complete darkness.
The dark stillness, abruptly interrupted by the bright, powerful appearance of a bolt across the sky.
So symbolic for me. So comforting.
Son la onda.

4. I woke up early this morning and headed out for Painting Round 3.
We're nearly done with the place, so I was primarily there to keep my mom company as she did the finishing touches.
I was tired as fuck... and found myself laying on the carpet of the living room. The blinds were open, so the sun light was flooding the place. The sun in my face made me sleepy... and for the first time in my life, I took a restful nap.
I'm the world's worst napper... and I always wake up cranky, or tired, or feeling gross... but not today. I woke up feeling like some happy, well-fed baby... you know how those little punks always look so rested? Yeah, that was me.
Must have been the sunlight. I guess I should probably quit being a vampire now.

5. Perhaps the coolest thing?
I bought a motherfucking treadmill.
About fucking time. I haven't gone running in two weeks-- since the day the treadmill decided life was no longer worth living and it crapped out on me (during my 3MPH warm-up... which only infuriated me and made me kick the damn belt... which I'm sure didn't help, but come on! Three miles an hour? REALLY?! Fuck you, treadmill!).
Second murdered treadmill I go through. I'm probably (no, I AM) going to destroy this treadmill, because it frustrated the FUCK out of me. Worst treadmill I've ever had the misfortune of purchasing. I'm taking a hammer to the piece of shit.
But this new treadmill! OH MAN! Fucking GREAT! Now I'm just going to keep dumbass Rafa away from it. That idiot is not fucking up another belonging of mine ever again.

And just like that, the smile came back on my face.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Decadas

No sirve de nada.
Nada vale la pena.
Nada sale como uno sueña.

De chica, la manera en la que me lograba calmar, era cuando me convencia de que de grande, mi vida mejoraría.

Espero horas, dias, meses, años... y ahora hasta décadas. Y jamas me encuentra. Jamas valgo la pena.

Nada es real.

Yo, la eterna ilusa. La pobre, estúpida ilusa.
***

Friday night was sort of good. I guess.
It served the purpose of eliminating the... current gossip subject with Hometown folk... at least it did so with the Hometown folk who are related to me, from my mom's side.
Multiple people approached me, and this time were mindful when it came to their compliments-- they were actually nice.
My favorite compliment was definitely: Wow. I can actually see your muscle without you having to flex. That's awesome. Good for you!
I feel at ease with this group of people, because now they can see for themselves that I'm not "sickly" skinny... the kind of thin you get from diet pills.

I bring this up because tonight, I was made aware this topic, as in, the "AnoMALIE is thin because she's hooked on diet pills!" topic is what is currently circulating amongst the Hometown people. It's not just reserved to Pacemaker's nosey cousins, but the town in general. Men and women are gossiping about me.
Their opening line?
"Oh my God! You know who looks good? AnoMALIE! I saw her Facebook, and she looks SO SKINNY! There's a ton of photos of her on there, if you don't believe me!" Really? Where the fuck is that? Looks like I need to check my motherfucking privacy settings...
I heard this line tonight from a chick who isn't even my FB friend. I haven't even spoken to her since I was eight years old and I went on a camping trip with her.
"What's her secret?!"
There ain't no secret, bitch. It's a well known fact: diet and exercise.

While this agitates the shit out of me, at least I got to the bottom of WHO is talking shit and WHAT is being said.
The strangest thing is how everything fell together... even the line people are using... the "she's so thin because she's hooked on diet pills." (hearing the same line being used verbatim by different groups hurt my feelings more than I'd like to admit. But yeah, when I heard the phrase, I had to think of bunnies chewing on fresh lettuce in order to keep from crying. The line embarrasses me so much)
The whole diet pill thing came about thanks to my dad's idiot SISTER. She has been selling pills she gets from Tijuana... and apparently everyone is talking about how my paternal side of the family is getting SO THIN due to the pills.
"Todas esas están flacas por las píldoras."
I'm the latest target, because Hometowners never gave me enough credit and thought I'd be fat for life.

Apparently the chicks from Hometown are flocking to get info from me, but "can't get the courage to ask"... so instead they invent stories about me and mock me behind my back.
Good move, geniuses. Go ahead and get on my bad side.
Tonight one finally spoke up and asked me after accidentally bumping into me.
Such a suck up... so surprising to see how she acted as if we were such close buddies.
I tried setting the record straight, but I doubt she believed me.

Now I'm left feeling embarrassed... and upset.
I'm a quiet girl... the girl who would like nothing more than to be invisible.
Hometowners have never given a shit about me until now.
To know I'm currently one of the hot topics is... overwhelming.
To know I'm being ill-spoken of is worse.

I don't know why it's so easy for others to dislike me and intentionally hurt me.
Seriously, I must have been HORRIBLE in a past life. That's the only explanation I can find.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

D is for Destiny. Divorce. Devastated. Detestable.

I spent the morning bawling my ass off... so much so, my voice is now shaky. You'd think I was the one divorcing the love of my life.

I never thought my cousin's divorce would hit me like this.
Then again, I'm pretty sure I know why I'm so fucked up about it:

I've known these two since they started dating. I was there from the start.
I do not know a girl in this world who adores her guy as much as my cousin adores her soon-to-be-ex.
She WORSHIPPED him.
I'm baffled with how a dude is willing to toss something like that aside.

I guess it's all HIS idea. He has been wanting a divorce for the last year, and it wasn't until recently when he up and told her: I don't love you anymore. I don't want to be here anymore. Let me go.
And like the loving, sweet girl she has always been, she finally obliged.

I can't express how much sorrow this brings me. It confuses me... this feeling.
People might think I'm exaggerating... and sanctifying her, but anyone who knows her can attest to my cousin's personality. She is SO naive, and sweet... she can be considered a complete idiot. She sincerely sees only the good in people. She is such a kind heart, she's stupid.
To see someone use and abuse her like that... for twelve fucking years... has really fucked me up.
My eyes are motherfucking swollen, for crying out loud!

I know I claim to be cynical, and not give a shit about love and bullshit of that nature... but goddamn it, I want to believe in love SO DESPERATELY. When something like this happens, I'm completely devastated.

 I think of how an innocent, trusting human can be thrown into the pits of despair... and it breaks me. So bad.

Needless to say, my cousin's... destroyed.

I've never felt this type of ache. Now that I'm no longer crying, I have this permanent frown on my face.
Fuck.

Like ripping the wings of a butterfly...

Friday, July 13, 2012

Love: Persona non grata.

God. Fucking. DAMN IT!
Another one of my "possibles" is Facebook official.
This one made me want to barf... as if I had been mule kicked in the stomach.
I kinda want to cry. He was a REALLY good one... damn near perfect... if he were taller, but still a great dude. FUCK.

It doesn't help that I just got back from that fucking Quinceañera (yup, this is yet another one of my "cheat" updates)... where my sister was drunk texting me her heartache. She is REALLY fucked up right now. My poor baby.
And the emo begins... I'm (very appropriately) the blue one.
I'm always random.
Very true to how I talk in person...
So hard not to look like a psycho as I furiously typed away at her.
umm... I MAY have had a drink or two by now...
Why do they always sit me by the bar?
I tell ya, my fucking priorities..
I officially HATE this guy.
Hmm...
The conversation only got more depressing...
And I'll refrain from invading D's privacy any further... but FUCK, I was so upset during this conversation. I wanted to hug her and slap her at the same time. Shit, I wanted to slap MYSELF.
We even got into talking about Darcy, and I had to correct her: Look, it's not like HE ever led ME on. Plus *Darcy* is so fucking awesome. He's smart. And doing things with his life. And his fucking pants fit him. Quite fucking nicely, actually. It's impossible not to fall in love with him. Don't group him with *asshole we're talking about*
We had to change the subject and talk about more depressing shit: the future. Jobs. Gross.
But seriously... I read this shit over and I STILL feel my fucking blood boil.
I don't get it. And it's so disheartening. If my sister, who I think is GORGEOUS and pretty fucking tight, can't get a dude... such a simple, normal, average dude... what kind of fucking hopes does it leave me?
I swear to god we're fucking cursed.

I also found out my first cousin, whose wedding I was bitching about back in '10 (the one with the brick-colored bridesmaid dress),
is getting divorced... from the love of her life... with whom she has been with for twelve years.
What the fuck is she supposed to do now? She wasted her youth on him. She has been part of the duo for nearly half her life... and now... what is she supposed to do? I feel like fucking shit FOR her.
I nearly cried when my cousin told me at the party. My heart was pulverized for her.
If HER love of over a decade went to shit... what kind of hope do I have? I can't get a guy to like me for a day... shit.
I want to hug her too. I'm going to text her tomorrow, and offer her my support... even if it's just my physical presence... or a shoulder to cry on... I give awesome, tender hugs when needed. I'm also really good at petting people's backs... and I have a high tolerance for tears/screams of frustration. I give the support I wish others gave to me when I'm at my worst.
My poor, sweet, innocent cousin. She definitely did not deserve this... she was the one LEAST deserving of this outcome.

(On to more frivolous shit)
And I ripped my favorite dress ON MY WAY to this fucking Quinceañera... I didn't notice until I took a seat at my table.
The seatbelt ripped my dress! HOW?!
I spent the night with that shit on my leg, holding on to the thread, crosing my fingers it wouldn't run any further.
Like how my shoes are obviously too big? My feet seem to have shrunk.
At least I'll no longer provide the damn perverted Hometown men with gratuitous shots of my cleavage...
Tittayyys!
Dude sitting across from me at my table was "burning a hole" through my chest.
Fucking dude probably designed the dress...

It's all too fucking much... it's like the universe is conspiring to fuck me up and see me cry.

I knew I was done the moment I caught myself getting watery-eyed as I sang along to "Part of Your World" at the Quinceañera (like I said, the motherfucking universe CONSPIRES to fuck me up. I have no clue why a kid born in 1997 would play a Little Mermaid song at her party... that's so 1990-92)
"When's it my turn? Wouldn't I love, love to explore that shore up above? Out of the sea, wish I could be part of that world..." Why the... fuck am I crying right now? Jesus Christ... I had never taken the time to think of the lyrics... curse you, Little Mermaid... no, no, I don't mean that. I'll always love you!

Wait... it was Friday the 13th, wasn't it?
Fuck, man. Fuck fuck fuck.

I'm just bracing myself for some more shit-tastic news.
This isn't going to end nicely... I'm going to be a sobbing mess on the floor any moment.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Bruiser

When I started working on this fucking house, I had completely forgotten about tomorrow's event. Though I've been out of Quinceañera commission for ten years, I'm still forced to attend these fucking cotillions (is that what it's called in English?). Tomorrow is no exception to this rule... I must go... and sit around, watching teenagers grind on each other for a couple of hours, all to the chagrin of... everyone.
Fuck... kid's these days... that's dancing? Why don't you just pull down his fucking pants and stick his dick up your twat? Shit. Your parents and grandparents are watching! Tone it down, morons, this isn't EDC!

Sometimes I don't cringe at the thought of this social occasion, after all, it gives me an excuse to act like a girl. But see... the whole painting thing I did the last few days has left some battle wounds:
My badassery came with a price...
I do love the look people shoot at me when they see this at the gym.
If only they knew I acquired this shit after falling off a bar stool... while completely sober.
Not to mention I have very stubborn paint still clinging to my hair.
Mom has some pretty gnarly bruises as well.
We're going to look like a couple of champs at this fucking thing.
Alas, I don't really give a shit, I mean, who the fuck do I have to impress? These things are only frequented by family... and boys looking for a girlfriend... or a chick to grind on for a minute.

Back in the day, you know, when I was still "in commission," I did fantasize that maybe I'd find my next boyfriend at one of these shindigs. I'd be one of the numerous chicks hitting the dance floor... most of the time being part of the... what are they called? Entourage? Like... not bridesmaids, but... maids? Whatever... one of those chicks. I'd dance in the large group of girls, but of course, since my life has been pure discord and bitterness, I was never asked to dance one-on-one with a dude. Nothing like that ever happened. I'd just end up hanging out with the younger girls... who weren't old enough to get picked up by the boys in the "dancing age" (this made me INCREDIBLY bitter... but now that we're older, the "popular" girls have popped out at least one kid, and the "popular" boys are fat and bald and uneducated and working in warehouses... so... whatever. I'm happy they never chose me as a dance partner and chose to ignore me their entire adolescence. It only means I get to ignore them in our late twenties... which... well, isn't that awesome... because I still end up alone... but... hey, I get some sort of revenge... right? Nah. I don't. It still sucks dick and I still carry those wounds in my heart... I'm still that wallflower who feels less than everyone else in the room. I still sit there and wish I were invisible. But hey! Enough emo talk). I was left eternally yearning for the moment where the boy of my dreams walks up to me and asks me for a dance... for everyone to see.
See, guys! I AM pretty! Boys DO like me!
Sounds corny, but it's true. It's my unfulfilled wish... which I will never own up to in front of anyone else.

I must admit, all of this is largely responsible for my stance on love... which is similar to this:
This movie's the fucking shit.
Hmph. Easy for you to say.
So, I can't fully blame the stupidity of the youth for my hatred of Quinceañeras... I have that little secret bit of heartbreak nagging at me the entire time I sit through one of these.
Waiting... just... waiting. Your entire life composed of this, AnoMALIE... and yet, you refuse to leave post. You just sit there and watch everyone else be happy, banking on the hope that one day it'll be your turn. You're an idiot.

I just managed to make myself sad.
... bummer.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Huffing

Painting part two.
Tired as fuck once again... but I certainly asserted my fucking dominance in that sport. I'm a fucking boss.
I've found that painting a house in 113 degree weather is quite possibly the only thing that keeps my mind off everything.

At home, I cut the shit out of my middle finger thanks to thinking about a boy who does not think about me. He has the loveliest smile though...
I'm an idiot.
Is that 100 words?
I doubt it.
I'm tired. I want to sleep. SO I end this here.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Paint Mah House!

Hey, AnoMALIE! It's the hottest day of the year, what are you going to do?
I'm gonna paint a house!

Fuck. I'm exhausted.
So many things I want to rant about, laugh about, and ask about... but my fingers are killing me!
Let's see how far I can take this entry:

So we're landlords right? I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this, but yeah, we have a number of homes, and this latest acquisition is a motherfucking handful.
My dad, ever the stereotypical Mexican Machista asshole, doesn't want to do shit. He just coughs up money to his STUPID "brothers" from church to do shit for him... everything from mopping, sweeping, or painting the walls.
Mom and I are fed up with this bullshit. It's one thing to pay people twenty bucks to sweep a fucking kitchen, and another to pay someone 100 bucks for that shit. Come on now, that's fucking shameless... to charge that much. It's not like I'm asking Paris Hilton to sweep... get the fuck out of here!
Mom has been doing EVERYTHING at this house.
Dad doesn't even call her to see how she's doing. He just comes home at 3 in the afternoon, sits in his sofa, and surfs the internet. He doesn't even bother to cook.
And people question why I REFUSE to get married? I'm sorry... umm... how in the fuck is this behavior supposed to entice me to commit such a fucking stupid action? FUCK. THAT.
I felt horrible for Mom this morning, so I decided to join her at noon.
We painted from 12PM-8PM.
At first Mom was reluctant to allow me near the paint. She's under the impression that I'm still that four-year-old who doodled her name all over the walls in her favorite magenta crayon.
She made me responsible of removing the paint from the mirrors and windows using only a razor blade.
After finishing the bathroom and all four bedrooms, Mom walked into the master bedroom, where I was checking my phone.
Mom: Look at you! You're super good with the razor!
Me: I was an angsty teenager, Mom. I'm a fucking PRO with razor blades.
At least she didn't suspect my mastery was due to cocaine abuse... right?

After Mom saw I had no more surfaces to fuck up with a razor blade, she trusted me with the paint roller.
First thing I do? Spill paint directly into my eye.
That lady knows me better than I know myself.
I was entrusted to paint the ceiling, and... because I'm an idiot, I looked up just in time to have a huge drip of paint fall directly into my right eye.
I proceeded to nearly kill myself as I jumped off the (ROLLING!) bar stool I was standing on.

Rough start, but I eventually turned into the Bob Ross I always knew I was meant to be.
I was working like a legit day-worker...
I worked so fucking hard on that manicure last night...
I was seriously pissed off.
as if Mom drove to Home Depot and whistled at me.
Working hard... just Mom and I... from 12PM to 8PM. Dad NOWHERE in sight.

I'd find myself cracking up at times... whenever I thought about school... my biology degree.
Remember, kids, stay in school! Oh... wait... that's right... I'm painting a motherfucking house like some illegal immigrant... and I have a biology degree at home... hmm...

I didn't eat a bite since breakfast, which was at 10AM.
I came home at 8PM and prepared myself a meal the moment I walked into the house.
As I was grabbing spices from the cupboard, Dad waddled into the kitchen.
He had been home since 3PM-- FIVE hours, plenty of time to either cook himself some fucking food, or even drive two minutes away to the nearest fucking In-N-Out.
As I turned around with the spices in hand, I caught Dad shoving half of my meal (shredded chicken breast) in his mouth.
I almost cried.
I wanted to cuss at him SO BAD... but all I managed to do was grumble "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

I huffed and puffed... but I did not cry.

Each day I stand firmer next to my claim that I am NEVER getting married. Fuck that shit. Fuck purposely attaching myself to a man who won't do shit for me and will treat me worse than a fucking dog the moment I sign that fucking paper.
Not I. I will not do that.

Great, now I'm grouchy...
Let me just get this out of my system:
MEN CAN'T DO SHIT!

Ok, all better!