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.