Piss n' LA

I'm getting old, guys! (and I don't just say this because my birthday is just one measly month away)

I completed my first work task today.
The job entailed driving down to LA, loading a ton (literally) of diesel additive, and driving back home.
Since it was my first time doing this, Dad accompanied me and showed me the ropes, introduced me to the sales reps and whatnot.
Obviously I was stoked about this... because I love LA and I love anything relating to vehicles-- please note the sarcasm.

My day started at 5:30AM, when we headed out... and within minutes Dad took the wrong entry to the freeway... which was apparently my fault. Fun start to my day.
After that tiny speed bump, Dad and I began to bond-- especially when I started to pick his brain. I'm boggled by his entrepreneurial spirit, seriously. It's something my mind just can't grasp. I definitely don't possess that trait... whatsoever... but shiiiit, do I admire the fuck out of anyone who does.

Whenever we weren't talking, we'd be busy listening to Sirius Radio's channel 82... you know, "RadioClassics." I sat there for FOUR HOURS, listening to classic radio shows that went back to 1930... 19-fucking-30!
While it was initially aggravating, the damn shows grew on me. They even made me get in an existential mood.
Imagine... these voice actors are DEAD now. So sad... they sound so youthful and innocent... and excited to be alive. Now you're dead... and I'm listening to you in 2012. 20-fucking12.
Made the trip to LA very quick.

Then came time to meet Dad's sales rep and pick up the cargo.
Fun shit.
Until I caught a glimpse of the sales rep... the hot, young, and incredibly sweet sales rep.
Diesel? I LOVE IT!
Suddenly, this new work task of mine became enjoyable.

After loading all of the boxes, we headed straight back home.
There were terrible car wrecks in the way, more deep father-daughter conversations, and four more hours of RadioClassics.
There WAS one giant problem: Once in the LA area, I downed two liters of water. An hour into the drive back home, I encountered the uncomfortable urge to piss.
I fought the feeling for three more hours... three excruciating hours which had me borderline-delusional, with visions of Jesus and Saints running wild. Me making promises left and right to dear ol' God.
Please, Christ, don't let my bladder explode! I already feel the toxic bacteria building in my urinary tract. Please forgive me, body! PLEASE STEP ON IT, DAD! OH MY GOD! People seriously take for granted their ability to piss in peace.
 I even began weighing the pros and cons of pissing my pants... "piss your pants, AnoMALIE" almost coming out the winner, had I not been wearing "cold shoes."

The moment the truck came to a stop in my driveway, I swore I was going to suffer that dog-reflex where they just let their piss go before reaching a tree... so I ran.
So. Good. So good.
I'll never get sick of saying this: peeing is such a wonderful release.

Anyway, I've spent the rest of the day trying to recuperate, especially since I've only slept two hours in the last 36 hours.
I can't even walk upright... or straight.

This aging crap sucks dick.

Nostalgia monster

Last night I suffered a severe nostalgia attack.
I wasn't trying to be nostalgic... I wasn't suffering from any sort of mood swing issues... I was good (well, ok, I was still a little scared from the tattoo incident).
Then Lau posted a video on my timeline (I like saying that instead of "wall." Loser status?).
That's where I lost control.
I was reminded of the existence of... shit, you can call it "evidence" of the summer of '08.
The good, the bad, the ugly of the summer of 2008.
Videos, photos, stories.
Everything posted on photobucket.

I was laughing, smiling, and eventually crying.

2008.
That year... that fucking year... was... the most GLORIOUS year of my life.
Started the year freshly graduated from college... traveling to Europe... being allowed to (pardon the trite metaphor, but you have no idea how true it rings with me) FULLY extend my wings for the first time.
It was magnificent.
Then the summer came and I went away to Hometown. It was the best summer of my life.
Drinking, singing, dancing, laughing, "ghost-hunting", out-running rainstorms, weddings... the emergence of the MGH-AnoMALIE duo.
I still think back and wonder if it ever really happened... because it was a fucking postcard of what a young-adult's life should be like. So carefree and wild... something I had never experienced.

Then the August clash.
However, as uncomfortable and hurtful as those events were at the moment, I learned from them.
I learned humility, that I had to shut the fuck up sometimes, and how to apologize.
September and on was spent getting engulfed by everything MGH-related. My love affair with San Francisco began.
That year ended with me swallowing my pride, forgiving AND apologizing.

All these memories rushing at me thanks to a fucking video. The tears attacking me thanks to a stupid video.
The video reminding me that Mexico will never be the same... reminding me that those beautiful days have ceased to exist.
Words cannot describe how much I LOATHE the motherfuckers responsible for wrecking my sweet "rinconcito de cielo."

But... I must say... I will forever remain grateful for the wonderful time I DID get to spend in Hometown.
My heart will forever swell at the mere thought of those moments.

Case #58663 against exhibitionism

Last night was one of the most terrifying of my life.
Ok... not THAT terrifying... I've had too many of those to make that big of a deal here, but the fear did momentarily paralyze me.
What happened?
D was a forgetful exhibitionist... that's what.

Last night I was supposed to hang out with her and a couple of friends, but around five in the afternoon I became sick, so I opted out of the girls' night (that'll teach me to go mental on some chocolate donut holes... I STILL feel like going outside and having a truck run over my stomach).
I did, however, agree to help D select her wardrobe and all that girly shit.

Since I was feeling sorry for myself and moping all over the house with my sugar-induced intestinal armageddon, D had to look for me each time she had to show me her outfit.
She was rocking a red minidress with some textured stockings when she found me complaining to Mom in the kitchen.
Me: WHY do I have such a weakness for chocolate, Mom?! I'm such an idiot!
Mom: Chocolate is so gross. So gross.
(can you believe that?! How. The. Fuck?!)
D: Look! Is this outfit stupid?
Me: Unless that outfit's name is AnoMALIE...

D opens up her leather coat. I notice the red minidress clings a little too tightly to her belly.

Me: Uhh... try... uh... picking up your pantyhose so it can... uh... push back... suck in your... because... the dress is kinda... clinging to your... bellybutton...

Now, whenever I have to readjust anything, I try doing it as inconspicuously as possible. It's that Mormon past life of mine... the Mennonite. I'm just never comfortable showing more than my ankles and elbows.
But my sister... that kid... she'll strip down anywhere. She has a runway model complex or some shit.

What does D do, right there next to the fridge... in full view of both me and Mom? She hikes up the dress to her bellybutton and starts tugging on the pantyhose.
What's so wrong with that? Mom and I are both girls, right?
Well, D has tattoos. Many of them. But in hidden places...
Sadly... one of the "hidden places" was not so hidden the moment she hiked up her dress.
The visible tattoo was this giant black-and-red rose (which wasn't the problem) with the words "Every Rose Has Its Thorns" written around it (bingo!), which is located on her left hip... which usually gets covered by her underwear... just not at that moment.
Once I noticed the visible writing on that dipshit's hip, I looked over at Mom, to see if she was looking.
Please... please, please, please... sweet Lord Jesus Christ, all-mighty savior, please, please PLEASE don't let my m-ahhh-mmmm...
I lost all feeling in my feet, arms, and head the moment I saw Mom's eyes glued to my dumbass sister's hip.
FUCK MY ASS! IT'S ABOUT TO GO DOWN! OUR WORLD IS OVER! THANKS A LOT, YOU FUCKING RETARD!
Still... with visions of my obituary running in tomorrow's paper, I maintained my calm demeanor.
I coughed a few times... and when I noticed the imbecile--better known as my sister-- wasn't catching on, I sternly said
JUST. GO. TO YOUR ROOM. AND CHANGE. CHANGE.
D froze.
I looked at Mom. Mom opened her mouth.
Herewegoherewegoherewego....
Mom took a deep breath... then closed her mouth... then exhaled.
D slowly lowered her mini dress, turned around without making eye-contact, and slipped into the hallway.
I stood frozen-- like what I imagine a soldier feels when ambushed, enemy holding the cold barrel of a gun against the back of his head.
Mom didn't make a move. She didn't look at me.
We're going to die. We're all just going to fucking die. Fuck.
From her room, and out of Mom's sight, D started miming at me.
D: Did she see?! DID SHE SEE?!
Should I speak? Should I shake me head? Mom's going to sense me shaking my head and know we're talking... she'll know I'm in on it. Fuck me. Fuckmefuckmefuckme. WHAT DO I DO?!
I nodded.
Me: Take it off. Take it off. Take it off! It looks FUCKING TERRIBLE, D!

I then started rambling. I can't say what the fuck came out of my mouth, because I swear I was having an out-of-body experience. I don't remember ANY of my nervous smalltalk.

The rest of the night I expected Mom to make her move. I expected the ax to drop.
I woke up this morning, still jumpy and ready to get slaughtered in some way.
But it never came.

I also checked up on Mom, making sure she didn't suffer a stroke from the pent-up rage.
But no... she has been very nice and relaxed, watching her Sabado Gigante and DVRed novelas.

That woman saw the tattoo.
That tattoo stirred something in her.
That woman is going to exact revenge.

This waiting game is fucking killing me... which is probably that woman's game plan.

Mexican moms are NO JOKE.
And while I don't have a single centimeter of ink on my body... I'm guilty by association. She knows I know this.
I'm fucked.

Convenience vs. Vanity

It's once again that dreaded time in a person's life:
It's time to renew my driver's license.

On Monday I received a letter from the DMV, where it was reminding me of my license's quickly approaching expiration date.
I have the option to renew on-line.
Fucking heaven-sent, right?
Not so much.

First off, I fucking hate my current license due to my hideous photo. It's terrible!

Dope cropping job I did on this back in '08, huh?

It also becomes a fucking hassle when I have to bust it out at clubs or bars. Bouncers/waiters give me a bitch of a time when carding me (like seriously, homie, I'm NOT underaged here. Give me my motherfucking drink and leave me the fuck alone!). It fucking sucks.
Second, I have a smaller head now... OF FUCKING COURSE I want to show that shit off. Sure, I'm older now... but my head is smaller now. Do you know how fucking important that is? Shit... it's pivotal in a chick's life, ok? Smaller head (greater than) Older.
And last, and the main reason, is because I get to drop the weight on that motherfucker... you know, NOT lie on that section.

I want to go to the DMV and get the photo retaken and all that shit... I just don't want to deal with the line... or the people (there's always one asshole who totes around his devil-spawn who won't shut the fuck up and continuously screams in my ear. Every fucking time). I also hate the new licenses. They're beyond cheap and weak as fuck.

So... I can either
1. Go the vain route and get a new photo and weight information... but deal with the unpredictable DMV line and carry the cheap, new licenses.
or
2. Keep my sturdy license, avoid the lines and renew on-line... but keep the disgusting current photo with the huge weight still displayed on that bad boy (weight on which I LIED and made myself 30 pounds ligther... yeah).

Oh... decisions, decisions.
(Fuck it, I'm going personally and getting that new shit.... I'm just going to wait for the massive pimple on my chin to disappear... and for my next eyebrow threading appointment. Hey, I am a girl, afterall)

Sniff that?

I usually gripe when someone shows up to the gym after clearly spritzing themselves with perfume.

It fucking kills me and ruins my workout.

There's one offender in particular that irritates the shit out of me, because her scent is heavily accented on the sweet note... she comes in smelling like freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. I give her my extra mean glare... my "How DARE you smell like cookies in a place like this?!" glare. One day I'm just going to lunge at her and lick her fucking arm. 

It's like that fucking jerk who stands outside of a gym munching on a twinkie... or enjoying an ice cream cone... it's downright cruel!

Mmm... I think I want a brownie now.

Anyway, today I was about to have a fit because a chick decided to stand directly in front of me, and I SMELLED her before I saw her.

But then that weird girl-thing happened... that thing we do where we associate memories with certain scents.

The moment I identified her perfume, I eased up. I relaxed.

It was a fucking tranquilizer dart to my carotid.

What did she smell like?

Dior's "J'adore."

Who's responsible for this weapon? Mooney. And her Mom.

I associate them with this smell... their HUG, to be exact. 

I love their hugs. They have that soothing quality to them.

It's comfortable. Yeah. That's the word that comes to mind when I smell "J'adore," comfortable.

Back when my siblings and I were ghetto kids, Mooney's family was the family that made us feel any sense of normalcy. They gave us a glimpse of what normal life could be like.

They had their own beds... rooms... a back yard. They lived in a cute neighborhood with neighbors who actually knew each other. They lived close enough to their school to actually walk there. 

They had the life of kids depicted on television. They let us know that yo, that TV life really DOES exist... it's not all scary drive-bys, prostitutes, and drug dealers.

I relished every second I got to spend with Mooney and her family. I felt safe... and normal (especially since they NEVER made fun of where/how we lived... unlike my other side of the family, who wouldn't think twice to remind us YOU live in a one-bedroom piece of shit that NO ONE wants to visit because we might see a cockroach or get SHOT!).

Yeah... J'adore is my tranquilizer gun.

This made me think.

What other smells fuck with my mood due to my mental associations?

mmmmmm!

1. Dior- Addict

This I associate with MGH... and San Francisco.

My first time in SF where I stayed in MGH's house, I remember this perfume leaked in my luggage. EVERYTHING smelled like this... not that it was bad... but when your eyeliner pencil gives you a waft of Addict each time you bring it to your eye, it kind of gets annoying.

Anyway, whenever I smell this, I get both a sense of excitement... as well as anxiety.

It makes my stomach get into knots.

A sad state of affairs, really.

Quit laughing!

2. Paris Hilton's "Paris Hilton."

College. College. College.

Both the good and the bad... but mostly the good. I particularly remember sitting outside O-chem class, reading the damn book as my ass froze on the cement tables/benches, but enjoying the clear spring day. Such a pretty day... such a godforsaken subject matter... and the smell of "Paris Hilton" (yo, I must note I DID NOT purchase this myself. It was a gift... which I wound up loving. But don't share that shit with anyone).

I still go to this fragrance whenever I went to feel the butterflies I felt my first few years of college.

Good times, good times.

Makes this monster weep with joy...

3. Caress's "Tahitian Renewal Silkening Body Wash"

I will sit in the shower, motionless, my nose attached to this bottle... for at least five minutes.

It turns me into a puffer.

The amount of joy this smell brings to me kind of sort of freaks me out.

My go-to smell whenever I need to seriously cheer-up, Zoloft be fucking damned.

Europe is associated with this smell. It's the body wash I toted around all over the fucking continent back in '08.

The moment this gets discontinued I'm going to go out and get fucked up... mourning the loss of this... wonderful scent. A beautiful part of my memory will go to hell.

There are other smells, like wet dirt, Sun Chips, or leather, which bring strong feelings/memories to mind (Mexico, barfing on the entire trip TO Mexico, and my maternal grandfather, respectively)... but the above three scents (four, if you count J'adore, which you absolutely should) are quite possibly the strongest for yours-truly. Scents which could most probably put me under a spell.

Fun shit, the female state of mind...

Now excuse me, I got some body wash to go sniff.

Espera(nza)

Mi vida consiste de esperar.
My life consists of waiting.
I've waited my entire life.

I've continuously drawn a self-portrait of myself... though I use the term "portrait" lightly, because my face is never visible.
Since middle school, I've drawn a girl sitting--slouching-- but facing away... in the middle of nowhere... completely alone.
The scenery changes according to what colors I'm feeling. Sometimes it's a snowy park, or the middle of the desert, maybe a dense forest at nighttime, once it was even at the edge of a cliff overlooking the Bay of Biscay.
That's me.
Wilting.

And this immediately flashes through my mind...

Her brain knows it's never going to come... perhaps it already departed without her... but point is, it's never going to come.
Her heart though... her fucking stupid heart... keeps her sitting there. Hopeful.
Fucking stupid heart.

Each time I find myself patiently waiting on someone... when I'm dressed up and ready, each tick of the passing seconds sinks my heart a bit more.
But maybe... they'll come... now! Or... NOW! Or... I'll just wait a little longer... just a little...
I can wait for hours. Days. Weeks. Months. YEARS.
Seeing how someone breaks a promise, breaks his/her word, without a passing thought on how I might feel... I can't control myself, and I cry.
The carelessness does not infuriate me... it breaks my heart. It constantly reminds me...
It's happening again... You. Don't. Matter.
Those are probably the most bitter tears I shed. Those hurt my soul the most. Those cost me the most.

I wait.
And wait.
And wait.

Each day a little more wilted. Each day a little more tired.
Each day wondering why my heart refuses to just give up and accept the cold, hard facts.
Move on. Be a cold-hearted, self-centered jerk. At least it won't hurt that way.

Love is bullshit. Emotion is bullshit. I am a rock. A jerk. I'm an uncaring asshole and proud of it.

Enanillos

Is that ME holding a baby?
Why yes, yes it is.
AND the baby's spitting in my face (at leas this time he wasn't chewing on saltine crackers... that was fun)... AND I don't drop him for it!
Clearly babies know how I feel about them.

These last two days I've spent playing with children... against my will.
It's not like I'm going to throw them off me when they decide to crawl on me and do cute shit.
Plus... while I don't exactly look to play with kids, I won't turn down their toys once they bring them to me.

The child handed me a baby-version of a drawing tablet...
OF COURSE I was going to play with it.
That cow down there didn't escape my grip, either. 

The parents of the kids continuously ask me if playing with the kids makes me want to have one of my own.
HELL NO it doesn't.
I'm terrible with kids.
3-year old: This is... this is... a T-REX!
Me: That's cool!
3-year old: and this is... this is... ummm... I don't know what it is... what is this?
Me: That's a velociraptor.
Kid's dad (My adopted bro, actually): Yeah... that might be too long of a word to say... but hey, Isi, how do you say "dinosaur" in Chinese?
3-year-old: *Long-ass Mandarin word for Dinosaur*
::Three year old proceeds to perform her victory dance::
Me: ... damn that Kai-Lan.

One day I'll harness this pied-piper power of mine... I'll have babies and toddlers wreaking havoc on those I don't like.
Or you know... I'll just be normal and smile/laugh a lot... maybe remember my heart is not made of stone.

Biography of a 21 year old

A while back I was approached about writing in a magazine.
I talked about it here, I'm sure. I was pretty stoked about it.
Then, like with everything in my life, the opportunity was unfairly snatched from me.
I don't know if I wrote about that beyond "FUCK THIS SHIT! I FUCKING HATE MY LIFE!" or something to that effect.

Well, once again, it has been offered.
WHY was it offered? Because the stupid bitch editor is writing up my godson's biography.
Me: My godson's BIOGRAPHY? HE'S 21! What the fuck is this bitch going to write about?!
Mom: That's where you come in...
Me: What the fuck does she want?
Mom: She wants you to revise it and edit any information she might have left out or jotted incorrectly.
Me: Here's an idea-- CONTACT MY GODSON. I'm sure the piece will drastically improve the moment she collects actual quotes from the kid himself.
Mom: No, no. That's not the point... she's writing a biography...
Me: Without his permission? What kind of fucking idiot is she?
Mom: She just needs accurate information.
Me: How about she actually TALK to the kid? She hasn't even crossed a word with him in real life. Not ONE word. What an opportunistic bitch.
Mom: AnoMALIE! Show more respect!
::I move my right hand in an up-and-down jerk-off motion::
Mom: ANOMALIE!!

Twenty minutes later, Mom walks back into my bedroom.
Mom: She says you can collaborate pieces whenever you want...
Me: She can fucking blow me.

Me? Resentful? Naaaaaahhhhhhhh.

And now, for the best fucking song in the universe, my anthem:

Best. Song. Ever.
(and the symbolism in the music video? Fan-fucking-tastic)

All the time?!

I often wonder if others have to work so damn hard at being happy... shit, not even "happy," just "not fucking miserable."

In my life, I've encountered numerous people who are irritated, downright bothered by my quiet nature. It manages to anger them, of all things.

• You CAN'T be that fucking quiet all the time! You're hiding something!
• Do I make you THAT uncomfortable that you won't fucking talk around me?
• Listen here, if you want to get ANYWHERE, you're going to have to TALK!
• Look, I just COULDN'T give you an A in class (8th grade English) because you DON'T TALK. Maybe next year you'll learn to speak up. But it's CLASS! It was beaten into me that you're not supposed to SPEAK during class. I READ AND WRITE the English language better than anyone in this fucking class... NATIVE speakers, and you're giving me a B because I don't SPEAK in class? WHAT THE FUCK?! (of course, I only thought this... as I only nodded sadly at the stupid cunt for fucking up my otherwise straight A report card the entire fucking school year)
• Bullshit she "doesn't talk," I'm sure that fucking little hypocrite talks shit the moment we walk away from her.

That last one always makes electricity run down my spine... as I fight the urge to sweep the floor with the fucking bitches who always say that within earshot of me.
Bitch, if I had any sort of preconceived negative opinion of you, I wouldn't be hanging out with you in the first place. But hey, guess what! Looks like you managed to place yourself on my shitlist for being so fucking retardedly catty, so now I WILL talk shit about you... behind your back and IN FRONT of your face.

ANYWAY! While this attitude others have towards my naturally shy/silent nature manages to anger/sadden me, I snap out of it because I find I have similar sentiments towards naturally sunny people.

• Seriously, you can't be that fucking happy all the time!
• Is this bitch on drugs? It has to be drugs... that shit just isn't natural.
• Goddamn it! It's way too fucking early to be listening to your fucking hyena laugh. Lower your decibels, bimbo.
• NO I WON'T laugh or smile... let me wallow in my self-pity, you annoying ass.

I'll work on that shit. I must.
But I will NEVER be loud in the morning. Fuck that.

Galletas

Feeling depressed?
Got dumped?
Were you the poor soul who scored third to lowest on the Molecular Biology exam in the entire lecture hall?
Parents bickering again?

Dude! Fret no more! BAKE STUFF!

Nutella oatmeal cookies on left
Red velvet sandwich cookies on right (Paula Dean style. I don't give a fuck that she has diabetes, she got there somehow, right? And I'm sure it was fun AS FUCK, too).
Motherfucking DELICIOUS!
And the size of my head.

I've spent the last... seven hours baking with my sister.
Sure, two of those hours were spent shopping for ingredients and a couple of appliances (so uh... we kinda burned our mixer, and had to make an emergency run to Target at 9PM), but we've been concentrated on baking for seven hours.
Ok... that's a lie. We've also been discussing her love life.

It's so cute to see her so excited. It's a trip to see how much love she's putting into these baked goods (I should probably mention these baked good are meant for her dude).
It's nice bonding time. She tells me what's up, and I give some input.
The blind leading the blind? Maybe... but hey, I'm making damn fucking sure she keeps the psycho-girlfriend tendencies down... that has to count for something, right? I may not know how to keep a dude, but I definitely know how to point out female's psychotic behavior.
Don't do that!
Don't say that!
CALM DOWN!
DON'T text him!
Shut up and cut it out! Don't be a fucking psycho, idiot!

I'm so going to be that fucking spinster sibling out of this bunch... I already have the "Gives good advice on behaviors one should AVOID" shit on lock.
But look at that! I'll be useful for something!

That one girl part 567492

In support of yesterday's internet blackout, I opted out of posting.
Ok, I was also kind of tired and chose to sleep instead of type.
I won't skip today, but I'll try to keep it short:

A name I've grown accustomed to hearing others call me is "that one girl (or chick)."
It doesn't offend me, I mean, it's pretty dead-on.

That one girl who flips you off in traffic? 
Right here.
If you want to get tough with me, I'll throw up my hands in that "What? Wanna fight, bitch?! I'm RIGHT HERE! COME AND GET IT, BITCH!" cholo gesture. I have that chola shit DOWN. It strikes fear in my white friend's hearts... just ask them.
Musketeer: Move!
(I get within inches of his face, raise my chin, and talk slowly, sustaining eye-contact)
Me: Or. What?
Musketeer: Oh shit, AnoMALIE... that was real Mexican chola right there. You scared me a little.

That one girl who manages to step in the ONE puddle of water in the entire sidewalk/carpet/parking lot/football field... or manages to trip on ANYTHING ranging from a minuscule tree branch to a dry leaf?
Guilty.
THAT LEAF WAS WET! Wet leaves on asphalt are slippery! Cut me some slack, God.

That one girl who doesn't say a fucking word for three hours, and totally convinces you she's a mute?
C'est moi!
Sometimes, I make a game of it and try to go on as long as possible without uttering a word. I've gone silent for three days. Afterwards, I was clearing my throat for hours... as if I were some chain-smoking 90-year-old. That wasn't fun.

That one chick who can't shut the fuck up after someone makes the mistake of bringing up soccer/ANTM/anything Mexico-related/anything gym-related... or worse yet, someone decides he/she wants to compete against her in something and BEATS her?
She goes by the name of *AnoMALIE*
...and she will beat your ass... or cry, depending on the time of the month.

That one chick that can sing you a variety of 80's-90's cartoon theme songs and re-enact scenes from Disney movies?
You got your girl.
Anyone else remember that "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes" cartoon? That song haunts the shit out of me for some reason.

That one chick who drops f-bombs galore... and pretty much out-swears any dude?
Yo! What up, muthafuckaaa?!
I'm working on easing up on this, I swear... but my repertoire is too fucking awesome to let go!

That one girl who is uneasy around balloons?
Fuck balloons, man.
Really, WHY do they exist?! If they're not filled with water: Fuck. That. Shit! Pop one near me and I'll fucking kill you.

That one girl who blushes every time any dude directs anything her way... whether it's eye-contact or a smile?
Why do I do that?
I need to grow some balls. I'm such a stupid virgin, seriously.

That one girl who Lennie-Small's shit all the time?
Hulk SMASH!
It should be physically impossible for a chick with ballerina-wrists to destroy anything that lands in her hands... yet here I am... continuously breaking shit.

That one girl who refuses to pay attention to any guy because they don't live up to the awesomeness of that one guy?
Yeah, I'm that one girl.
Or Ryan Gosling. I mean, look at him stopping this fight in the middle of the day in NYC:

Oh g-aaaaaaaaaaaaah-d! Is it fucking hot in here or what? Shit. Mmmmm.

of thoughts and dreams that scatter

These last two days can best be described with this:


Well, it's not really an "I just had sex" dance for me, but I really have had two very bright days (today in the card aisle at Target, I even danced with a toddler I caught playing with a birthday card that would play "Tequila" whenever you opened it. It was WAY cute, and while I didn't full on bust out REAL dance moves, I swayed back and forth along with him).
Those days where it feels like the sun came out JUST for you to enjoy.
I smile at strangers, strangers smile right back at me.
Babies giggle with me.
Birds chirp.
I fit in pants.
I fit in bras.
I found UNBELIEVABLY delicious, meaty dark cherries.

La dulce vida.

FrankenPie

Yesterday was my dad's 58th birthday. Fifty. Eight.
Daddy! :(
To honor him... and because this last year I've taken to hanging out in the kitchen, I baked him an apricot-pinapple-walnut pie.
This was originally supposed to be my little specialty of empanadas that I wasn't going to touch-- hence the disgusting pineapple...
... but I fucked up on the dough (who knew using gluten-free oat flour was going to be STUPID and render a fucking stiff as fuck dough? Not I. That was a very unpleasant news-flash for me).
In my fit of rage, I tossed the dough in a pie tin... and started punching it.
Yeah. I did.
After punching the dough about twenty times... I thought "Fuck it, let's do a motherfucking pie then."

I've never baked a pie. I didn't even know we had a fucking pie tin until I almost threw it away when I bumped into it while in a frantic search for a cookie sheet.
So, I made the bottom layer... punched that shit as thinly as possible, smoothing out any holes my bony knuckles made... and then I added the apricot-pinapple-walnut filling. I finished it by stacking the crumbling strips of the fucking incredibly stupid dough on top. I covered it in egg-wash (my attempt to keep the "crust" together), crossed my fingers, and popped it in the oven.

I had somewhere to be, so as the stupid pie baked, I showered and got ready to leave.
On my way out of the house (with my casserole-full of enchiladas, mind you. I told you, I'm hitting the fucking kitchen with a vengeance!), I took the pie out of the oven, dusted it with a mix of confectioner's sugar and cinnamon, and dashed out of the house.
Before leaving, I did give ONE instruction:

Mom, when this cools down, PLEASE HIDE it. I don't want anyone seeing, much less tasting, this garbage (that I only baked because gluten-free oat flour costs an eye out of the face!).

I left that instruction because my aunt was going to drop by the house to throw Pops a surprise party.
My pie was meant for my nuclear family's eyes... no one else. I'd fucking die if anyone else in this universe saw that offensive excuse for a pie. Imagine a party of nothing but Dad's relatives? Fuck. That.

I was supposed to come back home before the party started... but I was so happy hanging out with my friends (and eating german chocolate/gummy bears), that I lost track of time, and ended up getting home an hour after Dad's party had started.
Oops! My bad, Daddy! You still love me, right? I mean, you hate parties anyway!
When I walked to where the noise was emanating from, to my utter HORROR I saw that not only was my pie in full view... but completely demolished.
What the fuuuuuuckkkkkk?! N-ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! That shit was UGLY! Who touched it?! Who defiled my already-hideous pie?!

After greeting everyone standing between me and FrankenPie, I saw my aunt serving herself a fourth of what would have been the entire pie... only leaving about... a sixth.
Aunt: This was some GREAT pie, Mija! YOU did it?!
Should I lie...
Me: Yeah. I created that beast...
Own your mistakes, pendeja.
Aunt: It. Is. DELICIOUS!
You're... joking... right?
D: So you DID do it?!
Me: Yeah. You ATE it?!
D: I knew it tasted like your style! But I was like "since when does AnoMALIE know how to bake pies?!"
Me: I don't.


Jesus Christ... did I just write up an entire post on a fucking PIE?!
Sh'Oh did.

Lesson learned: I'm a motherfukin' ARTIST, regardless of the medium!
Not.
It's more along the lines of... "Don't judge a book by its cover," "It's what's on the inside that counts," and more importantly "DON'T EVER TRY USING GLUTEN-FREE OAT FLOUR ON EMPANADA DOUGH!"

Bärig Gut!

I believe in the barter system.
What can I say? It's the Mexican in me. Lo india.
Want some legit Mexican enchiladas from me?
Gimme some legit candy from your hometown.
It's as easy as that.
This:

Typical D-style Enchiladas Verdes.
Garnishes courtesy of my cursi mother.

For that:

My life... forever wrecked thanks to my introductions to this... magnificent gift.
It's worse than crack.

Yeah. Oh yeah. Gummy bears AND chocolate... I mean... fuck, who do you want me to kill?

Ah, who the fuck am I kidding? I'll feed you for free...
It's only a bonus if your little Oma sends you sweet goodies from the old country.

Weekend

Something about me just can't... play nice with others.
When given the choice, I'll more than likely choose to be alone.

My Saturday night in New York was calm.
While D and her friend went out drinking until six in the morning, I stayed home... writing. My only companion was the house cat, Tennessee Williams.
I was amazed in that city... but there was that nagging sadness in the back of my mind... and inside my heart.
Once I completed my writing at 2:30 in the morning, I sat at the window of the bedroom. The bed was placed perfectly so I could rest my body on the bed, with my elbows resting on the inside of the window ledge.
I sat there for an hour... just staring out the window.
Tennessee seemed to be keen on this... and she stood stoically next to me... although there would be times when she would move to rub her little head on my arm (it was comforting at the time... then I woke up with the wicked rash that plagued me for the week). I bet her owner does the same thing regularly.
I'd admire the cars... the animals... the people that would walk past... and I was... comfortable.
I felt I was where I needed to be.
It was my perfectly serene Saturday night.


....
How fucking weird am I?
This memory brought to you by "In case you doubt I'm going to end up alone."

Blacktop

On New Year's Eve, I had a conversation that made me think (you don't say? YOU think, AnoMALIE?).
I wound up talking to one of Darcy's friends, who unbeknownst to me, I had known since middle school ("unbeknownst" because I SORT OF knew him... I knew OF him. Here's the tangent: Back in middle school, while we shared our "field" with an actual park [we did the same with our pool] we were never allowed to play in it except for P.E. purposes. Now, we were kids in the hood... if we're not playing sports during our free-time, we're going to be fighting or fucking... it's just the order of things. WHY they never let us play on the fucking field is beyond me-- it's like they wanted us to fight in the cafeteria over petty shit like someone sticking her finger in your brownie [speaking from personal experience here, and no, this is NOT a euphemism of any kind. I'm being literal] or the dumb bitch in front of you ordering the last pizza slice after hearing you were fucking starved and finally had enough money to order that goddamn slice of pizza [once again, personal experience]... or that time some dumb broad leaked her disgusting burrito all over your brand new grey sweatshirt [if that doesn't warrant an ass kicking at the foot of some stairs, I don't know what does]. ANYWAY, the people who didn't want to participate in the weekly cafeteria brawl would go outside and play football on the blacktop... that was until one day, when that activity suddenly came to an end because of a serious injury. Some kid had managed to "bust his face" on a pole during a football game... and thus ended the blacktop football. This kid was pretty notorious amongst... everyone. Fuck that kid, man! Just because his clumsy ass fucked himself up doesn't mean we should all be punished! Hmmm... you say the kid ran into a pole... just HIM, no one pushed him into it or anything... and now no one can play football? I want to meet this kid. HAHAHAHA! The kid hurt HIMSELF?! It was a running joke once the anger died down. Watch out, man, don't want to hurt yourself on that pole or anything... Shit of that nature. Anyway, turns out the poor kid who "busted his face on a pole" that fateful day was this guy, Darcy's friend. Turns out he accidentally ran into a pole and split his eyebrow open... hence the "busted his face" comments. His confession made me laugh for a good couple of minutes... and each time I'd look at him, I had to smile because the middle school memories would bombard me. YOU were the Blacktop Football POLE kid?! OH MY GOD! Even my MOM knows about you! I did try to ease the pain of the memory, informing him of an even worse scenario that took place the year after he left middle school: At least you weren't the kid who ruined vending machines for us after he tried grabbing his can of soda that was stuck... only to be bitten by a rat. Kid had to get rabies shots AND the following day we no longer had vending machines. Later we were all informed over the intercom to "refrain from petting wild animals. Rats WILL bite. Don't try to pet the rats. Leave the rats alone." Who the FUCK tries to pet a rat? That kid who tried rescuing his can of soda. Sucked to be that kid).
We talked about how glad we were to see 2011 go... because it had been a complete asshole to us.
He told me why his 2011 had sucked so much balls, and I immediately felt like an asshole. HIS 2011 was terrible. Mine? Mine were just whiny bitch problems.
When he asked me why mine was so terrible, I froze up and just said "Lame shit... lame emotional shit."

That question followed me home.
WHY was my 2011 so fucking shitty?
Well, my only answer to that is: I suffered a nasty identity crisis. Period.
An upheaval in my "career", my physical aspect, and even my faith.
I was rocked hard.
For a chick who doesn't really like change, it was just a liiiittle too much to handle.

But that's it. An identity crisis.
People can recover from that shit... right?
I'm trying, so that should count for something.
I'm trying to be a better person, instead of recoiling into a completely insufferable shithead.
So far, it's working. I'm being kind... I'm learning to take compliments... and I'm definitely smiling a lot more. (And my only shit-talking is done here... or Twitter when I just can't help myself and feel like I might explode if I stay quiet)
I'm also trying REALLY REALLY REALLY fucking hard not to dwell on shit. Seriously. It's SO fucking hard... but I'm noticing it's slowly becoming part of my life.

SO. Looks like I'm slowly but surely finding a new, much nicer identity... going back to my carefree toddler days.

It's a good life.

Thanks, Blacktop Football POLE Kid! :) 

Oink

I've seen my FB blow up with a ton of videos in regards to the whole "Shit girls say" series.
I had never actually sat down to watch the videos, but considering that I needed a laugh today (after a somewhat maddening gym session. The newbies really REALLY frustrated me today... except for one who told me I had "beautiful punching form." That shit made me blush. I'm hood, homie! That shit's natural), I sat down and wasted an hour of my life checking out these videos.
I'm guilty of NUMEROUS things pointed out in the videos... whether it's the normal girl, or the asian girl/black girl/spanish girl (MAJOR gripe with the name. I fucking HAAAAAAAAAAAATE when they refer to a Latina as "Spanish." It makes me want to stab an imbecilic motherfucker).
My number one?
MAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Anyway, seeing the videos made me want to be more of a mute... but then I remembered I talk more like a dude... you know, with my incessant swearing and references to ANYONE as "dude" or "man"... not to mention my occasional "suck my dick!"s.
I'm good... I'm good... as long as I cool it with the sighs and spacing out.

In other news of the "manly" kind: I had my first pork tenderloin for lunch today.
I consider that shit manly because how often do you hear a chick say she eats that shit?
Pork tenderloin...

The muslim/jew in me totally felt dirty afterwards. Seriously. I felt like shit... not health-wise, but just this bizarre-o sense of guilt.
Such strong guilt, I managed to dislike the taste.
Needless to say, the only pork I'm ever going to consume guilt-free will be BACON (my mouth watered at the mere sight of the word. I need bacon back in my life. BACON!)... with the occasional taste of honey-glazed ham. Other than that, I'll stay kosher, thanks.

(Sorry, I'm exhausted... this is all you get today. Sure beats reading "FUCK!" written 100 times across the page, right? Right)

HOMEtown

It's happening again...
I'm getting that uncontrollable impulse to head down to Mexico.
My salmon senses are tingling.

A couple of my friends are down there right now, not in Hometown, but the much more touristy spot of Guadalajara.
I see the photos and my heart feels crushed.
I have dreams about walking the streets...

Going to the tienditas to buy some on-the-go yogurt (normal people would say "soda" but no, not I. I'm that lactose-loving little cow who goes for nothing but dairy. You don't know what good is until you try Lala milk products... it's like staring at the face of God the moment you taste that stuff) and Sabritas... or gummy bears... or sweet 'n sour moritas.

I miss the cold breeze from this time of the year... how desolate everything looks... the late-night bonfires... the non-existence of flies and mosquitos! I don't care if it's not as green as it is during the summers.

I even miss the smell of horse shit, for crying out loud.

I miss my godson and our conversations that range from heartfelt and depressing to ridiculous and motivational. I miss his bone-crushing hugs that instantly snap me out of any funk I may be feeling.
I miss his little brother and his realist point of view. Kid is fucking blunt as hell and I love it. I need that sort of shit in my life.
I miss their mom... my cousin, who often frustrates me with her simple-mindedness, but also warms my heart with that same characteristic. She's a precious human being.

I miss my aunt and her selfless, giving, naturally nurturing nature (auuuuuch! Hooray for alliteration, baby!). She's also hilarious as hell.

I wanna go home.

How I feel about the judicial system

Know what makes a day ten BILLION times better? Getting dismissed from jury duty!

Ayyyyyyyyyyy!
I'm a happy girl.
And this isn't 100 words... but hey, today, I DON'T give a fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkkkkkkk.

I DO love Skittles...

I have been quite creative today.
I felt the urge to do something artsy since last night, when I returned from a family function that had me quite chirpy. Something about hanging out with my M side makes me... happy. Ok... maybe the fact that I overdosed on chocolate might have something to do with the chirpiness as well. That shit had me amped until three in the morning. No, seriously, I was like this the entire night:

I was holding my heavyass camera up there,
I wasn't intentionally posing like an idiot, ok?
... I have such an enormous head...

Anyway, since I couldn't quite... properly harness the energy, I decided to sleep on it.
I haven't encountered a stroke of creativity in a while, so the moment I opened my eyes and realized the creative energy was still there, I decided to take full advantage.
First, I created a beautiful (and I heard "delicious" from those who ate it... I didn't touch it, since I'm staying off the carbs for a few weeks) strawberry-banana protein cake for Sister to take to work for breakfast.
Afterward, I decided to paint.

A couple of weeks ago, I was shopping and once again, the home department called my attention. I almost purchased a painting that had four of my five favorite cities listed.
Yeah... that was ALL that was painted... just words... yet I felt the urge to buy that shit.
However, since I'm frugal as FUCK, I talked myself out of it, convincing myself I'd just go home and create one.
Well, today was finally the day to make good on that promise.

To start the process, I first painted the five bases. As in, each city was going to have a different background for it's color.
I ranked the city from favorite to least favorite, top to bottom... and assigned each city a color... a color with which I associated it most.
My list of cities goes like this:

1. Barcelona
2. London
3. Rome
4. Paris (yeah, I couldn't believe it either)
5. New York

Ok, so I paint the canvas according to the list, and leave it to dry in the living room (place where I decided to start painting, because I do shit impulsively).
I proceed to go about my day, staying out of the house from 3PM until 7PM.
Everyone was home once I returned.
I walked to my room, to drop off all the shit I had been carrying around, and wound up bumping into my sister.
Sister: SO... what's up with that uh... painting you left in the living room?
Me: I left that painting out to dry while I went out and did shit. Why?
Sister: Just 'cause... we were just... wondering... my DAD was wondering... what the hell was up with that RAINBOW.
Me: It's not a rainbow.
Sister: Uh, no. It's CLEARLY a huge rainbow. Dad walked into the kitchen and asked us what you were "trying to say" with that painting.
Me: It's NOT a fucking rainbow.... a rainbow is ROYGBIV... and my painting's red, yellow, greeeen... bl...ue... and indi... fuck dude, IT'S NOT A RAINBOW!
What I'm "trying to say?" What the fuck, Dad?! Yeah, like I'm going to come out by  painting a giant canvas as a rainbow... I plan on marching with that shit at the next PRIDE parade... yeah, Dad.

I was frazzled... but still decided to continue with the painting... even if the vindictive, stubborn mule in my wanted to leave the giant "rainbow" canvas as-is, to irritate Dad with my supposed declaration of homosexuality.
Not even twenty minutes in, while I was in the process of drawing yellow stripes on the red section (get it? Barcelona... Spain... RED... Catalunya= red and yellow stripes. Ta-Da!), Dad tapped me on the head.
Dad: What ya doin' there?
Shooting heroin. Staring at lesbian porn through my phone. What do you think?
Me: Painting, Dad, I'm painting.
Dad: Yeah, I can see that... but WHAT?
Me: NOT a rainbow, ok? NOT a rainbow.
Dad: Good. I'm GLAD... relieved it's not a rainbow.

Just wait for my next piece of work: I <3 COCK!
Is that straight enough for ya, DAD? "What I'm trying to say"... get the fuck outta here.

Next Lifetime

D: Back in my TSA days (remember when Sister worked for TSA back in like... '07? Good ol' days), I remember *Coworker* warned *coworker she hated* that he'd better watch his back, because every dude who worked with me fell in love with me. I was like "No, Steve never fell in love with me!" and they just looked at me, rolled their eyes, and said "Yeah... um hmm... sure... Steve didn't fall in love with you..." and I was like "He's my brother!"
Me: You know... I DID find it weird that he was so interested in being my friend... in being cool with me.
::Sister rolls her eyes::
Me: You know he was just trying to get cool with me so I could encourage you to give him a chance...
::I wink at Sister::
D: NO! You know, it's entirely possible for my friends to want to be cool with my siblings because they're so much cooler than me.
Wait... what? You're saying I'm...
D: Like... a lot of my friends have told me they like you because you're cool... like... most recently... it was... let's see... it's was...
What the hell?
D: Carlos! He thinks you're hella cool, funny, and easy to talk to. He told me he wished I had your personality because he can talk to you about a lot more subjects than with me.
...
.....
What good does that do me, really? How's that supposed to make me feel?
I'll tell you how it makes me feel: angry.
It's not the first time I hear it, but each time it feels like a pebble is thrown at the back of my head.
You think I'm cool? You enjoy talking to me? What's that, though? You wish I looked like my sister? My bad... I'll try and work on that for my next lifetime.

And this is how I know I'll be single forever.

STOP the dreaming

I should try being a little less melodramatic.
I'm just upset because I never once thought I'd be the one who'd end up running shit at Mom and Dad's place.
I'm the one with the biology degree... D has the business degree.

This all came about because Dad felt terrible for me after I lost my job back in November (crazy how time flies). I'm convinced he's reading my diary too... he's unusually concerned with my emotional state. He has been inviting me to go out with him.

Dad: Mija, wanna join me and your mom to go see the houses we bought?
(ah yes, my dad's new endeavor. I'll talk about that eventually)
Me: Why?
Dad: I don't know... to get you out of the house. So you won't be here alone.
Me: No... I'm fine. Thanks.

Dad: I'm going to Sam's Club. Wanna come?
Me: Uh... I'm cool. Thanks.

Dad: I'm going to check out if the mechanic has D's car ready. Wanna come with me?
Me: It's ok, Dad, I think D would be the person more interested in doing that.

Then I remember my stupid outburst from last month.
You're such an idiot, AnoMALIE...
It's already January, I should be off suicide-watch by now. Would I have attempted anything, it would have been around the holidays, like so many people do (I'm not joking here. This past December, two acquaintances did this. It's always so disheartening to hear, even if I didn't really know them).
I'm still bummed and have to fight off the sadness and everything, but I'm actively trying to get better. Seriously. I'm even doing that stupid thing where I'll hangout in the sunlight for a few minutes, getting that fucking vitamin D in and whatnot.

I also know I shouldn't be upset about Mom and Dad's workplace... I mean, it's thanks to that place that we have anything. And it's OUR place. I know far too many people who wish they could own their own business.
No one can scream at me... I have the power to fire people... it's an easy job... I have as much vacation time as I damn well please... and I can take vacation whenever I want. It's good.
I'm just... sad because it's not something I love. Shit, it's not even something I'm remotely interested in.
I get frustrated because of all that fucking time I spent killing myself at school... going all the way back to elementary. All those years giving it my all and staying up late learning bullshit... crying and freaking out... and it all boils down to this.

I kid you not when I say I felt probably the last piece of me die the moment I signed the last sheet of paperwork.
Aqui esta mi alma. I give up.

No more dreaming, AnoMALIE. It's over.
Grow up and give up.

Signed

I signed over my soul today.
My hopes and dreams went down the drain...
I finally agreed to work for my parent. I finally signed the papers... and I'm officially their employee.
I signed the papers yesterday, but I went in to work today to finish up the last of the paperwork.

I came home... cried a little... then went looking for a bra at this blessed event that is the Victoria's Secret semi-annual sale.

Then I went ahead and hit the gym... where I cried a little and disguised it as sweat.

Empty. That's the only word I can think of right now.

Adventures in Gymland #24534

Ahhhhh, yes! First week of the new year.
That magical time of the year where I consider taking aspirin to thin out my blood so I don't suffer a stroke from the rage-inducing gym newbies pissing me off.

But there's a perk that I do love from all this: the specials on gym attire!
I live in that shit.
I'm currently crossing my fingers for a discount on these babies... because they're at the summit of my wish-list. They're so fucking majestic... and expensive. Mmmmm.
But until that happens, I just go around buying enough sports bras to fit a soccer team.

Anyway, I've been good about this new onslaught of gym newbies. I'm taking my resolution seriously.
I walk in the gym with a smile on my face, and I've helped out two newbies already.
I also didn't chew out some 50-year-old Kevin-James-lookin'-ass who invaded my space this afternoon during my lifting session.
I did glare at him a couple of times... when I was clean-and-pressing and the idiot was too close for me to perform the lift correctly.
I HAD to glare... because come on, that shit is dangerous... for both of us.

Speaking of dangerous, today I almost died.
Ok, no, it wasn't that dramatic, but I did risk serious injury.
At the gym, I was feeling confident, so I increased my squat weight by twenty pounds (hey, that's huge for me, ok?).
I performed exactly TWO full squats, and on my third, just as I hit the bottom of the squat, I suffered a laugh-attack.
Let me tell you, laughing while in a squatting position... while holding a heavy-ass bar across your back, is NOT the smartest thing you can do.
It felt TERRIBLE. And I got stuck.
I felt so weak...
And I got scared.
OH FUCK! MY KNEES! I'm going to blow out my fucking knees!
AND I WAS STILL GIGGLING!
It wasn't until I thought of how STUPID I would look toppling over with a bar across my back (the noise! Imagine the NOISE!)... possibly hurting others, that I gained my composure and focused on getting un-stuck.
I bared down, straightened out, quickly released the weight, and then continued to laugh like a hyena... even if my "core" felt like I had just taken a serrated knife to it.
Then my face felt hot and I almost cried.
How did I keep myself from crying?
I thought, Hey, at least I wasn't this guy:

Somebody please punch that "trainer."

Fuck. That.

What induced my laugh-attack? As I hit the third squat, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror... and the position I was in reminded me of Darcy. Well, more like a move in which Drunk Darcy was trying to educate the rest of the room on Saturday. He was teaching us how to take a proper shit... you know, in case we were ever stuck in the woods and needed to bust out our best Bear Grylls skills.

The moment I thought of that was the moment I lost control and fucked up.

I'll now have to think of... my parents murdering our pet rabbit, just so I can keep from laughing each time I have to squat.

Something tells me I'm going to have some fun in Gymland this year (or I'll just incur a terrible--but possibly hilarious-- injury)!

Dentist?

Back in my legit writing days, I remember the professor encouraging us to write in different narrative modes.
I think he would say the most difficult was writing in the first person, as the opposite sex.
Well, considering I'm stubborn, and... border-line retardedly (pretty fucking sure I just invented that word) ambitious, I wrote ONE story in first-person male mode... and he was cool with it. However, I seriously think this man was easy on me because I reminded him of his daughter. Every other person (besides Kelley)  has slaughtered me on my shit.

Now, while I'd love to write up an entire first-person, female narrative, followed up by the equivalent, but male form, so you can compare and rate my efficiency... it's too time consuming... for me to write AND others to read.
Instead, I'll give you a couple of scenarios/conversations that went down NYE-- my interaction with Darcy.
What really went down will be in normal font/color, but my subconscious thoughts (as in, what I was actually thinking but couldn't properly articulate) will be in italicized pink letters (as opposed to my usual style of going for good ol' green when it comes to my subconscious). I'll also take the liberty to occasionally insert what I think really crossed Darcy's mind-- that'll be in italic blue letters.

Alright, be my guest and wince away as you watch this protagonist--me-- blow it with her cringe-worthy performance. Enjoy (honestly, it was like an out of body experience where I was watching--in horror-- how I was fucking up but I was just so paralyzed by a severe "stupid moment" that I couldn't fix it).

Example numero uno.
As he's waiting for the beer pong table to be set up, Darcy walks over to me and kills some time.

Darcy: You know what's sad? That the first paper of mine to ever be published... was a science paper... and not, you know... something... great. Something of fiction.
Me: Yeah. That's crazy. But cool. I'm jealous. When we first met, I was the scientist.
Yeah, like that didn't come off as you being a cuntface, AnoMALIE.
His friend: Then what happened?
Me: I fucked up, that's what happened.
Great... am I turning Hood AnoMALIE right now?
Drama queen.
Darcy: Yeah. So I have that article. If I were to email it to you, would you read it... and give me your honest... non-biased opinion?
Boy, if your job was to write the list of ingredients on a ketchup packet, I'd read every single ketchup packet I'd bump into and consider it a masterpiece each and every time...
Me: Of course. Even if... I haven't read anything scientifically-related in years... no, that's a lie. I read science articles all the time.
Stop... just stop talking, AnoMALIE. You're only digging the hole deeper.

Example #2.
Darcy asks if I have seen our old professor.

Me: Nah... I'm too embarrassed to talk to him right now.
Drama queen.
Darcy: Why?
Me: Because of my failure...
Don't cry, pendeja.
Darcy: Because you didn't get into schools like Stanford... and NYU?
Oh. My. God. LAME!
Me: Yeah.
I know it's stupid... but with my bro going to Notre Dame for undergrad, then Princeton for grad, this shit feels like someone just curb-stomped me, History-X style. It forever pigeonholes me into the "vieja pendeja" category with my family.
Girls...
Darcy: When I first moved to (city he lives at now), my roommate was this... brilliant scientist. Like... in our... field, you have to be... efficient at science, and computers.... and usually... people are... good at one thing, but not the other. But this guy, he knew about both, right.
I'd be the one who'd know nothing about either...
Darcy: Well, he applied to Harvard... as an undergrad, a grad, and post, and he was rejected by them. Three times.
So quit crying, wuss.
Darcy: Now he's... this... well-known scientist. A much sought-after professor... he's doing all these brilliant things now... and to think Harvard rejected him.
Is she even listening? Her eyes are glazed over... ?
Yeah... but that's Harvard... Harvard's HAAAARD.
Fuck it, looks like I'll keep talking in hopes this shit registers in her hard head.
Darcy: I guess the point of this story is... you know... fuck those schools."
I like his pep talks. They're so cute.
This bitch did not hear a word I just said...

Example number howmanytimescanyoufuckupAnoMALIE?!
We're all standing in the living room, watching the countdown. I notice Darcy's holding up his camera, filming the screen.
You're seriously recording the television screen?
We all countdown, then cheer to the new year.
Get off your fucking camera!
I cheer with everyone, even strangers... everyone but Darcy... I don't know how that happens, but it does. (Now that I think about it, I did not wish him a happy new year at all... wow... how fucking retarded can I get?)
Seven minutes into the fireworks display, I'm still standing near the television, watching the fireworks, occasionally the other guests. Somehow Darcy reappears and stands next to me and his bestie.
Darcy: What a waste.
Pointing your camera at the television screen during the countdown? I agree.
Darcy: Who needs to spend all that money on fireworks? It's such a waste. Look at that. Or what do you think?
Do you EVER have an opinion? Do you seriously EVER talk?
I think you shouldn't have been pointing that fucking camera at the television screen...
Me: Fireworks are cool... but not for seven... now eight minutes.
Darcy: Yeah, see. A total waste.
Like pointing your fucking camera at the television screen...
Me: Now there's the lovely pessimist I knew!
Even when you're ranting... you're sooooo fucking cute.
How is that pessimistic? It's the TRUTH!
We notice after the eight minute mark the fireworks finally end. We start walking in opposite directions.
Darcy: Well, that was anticlimactic...
Because you were pointing your fucking camera at the fucking television screen!
Stupid fireworks!

And that's the type of shit my professor enjoyed.

Grimace, much, guys?
There were a few more moments similar to that... where I'd just bottle up and seem retarded...
Poor Darcy... it was like he was trying to pull teeth.

In unison, let's all shake our heads in disapproval of me.
Baaaaad AnoMALIE!

Twitterpated X infinity

I was right.

My memory, that is.

He's still ridiculously handsome... if not more.

How can one person be so irresistibly adorable?

There was one problem with his looks though: the moment I saw him, I turned into a clam.

I swear to god I tried talking. I swear, I swear... but my brain was so fucking frozen... with that ridiculous smile of mine plastered across my face.

Motherfucking Bambi when he finally gets "twitterpated." That was me.

Yep. I definitely have never felt this with anyone else. Stunning. Lo mas lindo.

I was deaf, mute... shit, probably even blind for a minute.

If I could draw what was going on in my head, it would just be a bunch of "O"s... because I can't draw sighs.

Someone should bottle this up, and use it as a weapon of mass destruction. Unleash it on your enemies and render them useless... left completely still... like deer caught in headlights... then just bayonet them to death, because they'll be THAT immobilized.

My brain was screaming "talk!" but I was just... all I needed to do was drool.

I was stupid.

A pathetic sight, I was.

I deserve to get slapped, really, I do.

...

But that smile... those eyes... so wonderfully enchanting. (Suddenly, I feel like Helga on "Hey, Arnold!")

And his voice! Oh my god, his voice! It was like "Holy shit! I was just talking about this the other day!"

Oh... the smile. Definitely his most gorgeous attribute. My favorite.

I still feel lightheaded when I think about it. The mere thought of the sound would make me smile to myself at random times of the day yesterday, and even today.

It's all like a hazy dream. Just like everything in my life that is remotely pleasant, it gets stored as a hazy memory... which will always make me question whether it really happened.

He is so fucking perfect.

He is so hilarious.

He is so smart (even while intoxicated! I mean... come on!). 

He is so sweet.

I had never really dealt with the sweet side of Darcy, at least not in person. Then on Saturday, as I was whining to him about my failure, he--in a very cute... distinctly Darcy fashion-- consoled me. He told me a story, and I stood there, sheepishly wondering why there weren't any rocks near my feet to coyly kick around (ignoring the fact that I was standing in a garage, and all...).

Ahhhhh, shuuuuucks. You're the fucking cutest!

All of this... and I still act as if he's made of fire.

I made it my motherfucking mission to keep a distance... because I'm an idiot.

Seriously, someone needs to slap me.

This was all such a crazy-ass dream.