Monday, March 31, 2014

His Robin

At risk of getting beaten to death after admitting this, I'll do it anyway:
Unlike many people I know, I wasn't very into How I Met Your Mother.

The series started during a stressful time in my life. 2005 was a year full of science... labs, reading, screaming, crying, and sleepless nights. I was also writing, and part of the contract was to not watch TV, so I would adhere to the rule... only breaking it to watch America's Next Top Model and my late-night "Nature" shows on PBS.
It wasn't until 2008 that I went ahead and watched HIMYM sporadically, at the insistence of JC. I became a little more consistent around 2012.

Last year, when I visited JC in San Francisco, I watched an entire season with him. We were supposed to go out to the city, and as we prepared our "light lunch" before heading out, he popped up his laptop on the kitchen counter and began season four. With our eyes glued to the computer screen, we ate lunch, washed our dishes, cooked dinner, ate dinner, and once again washed the dishes. By the time we took the second dish-washing break, it was so late, we decided to stay home and finish the marathon.
As we watched the episodes, I'd catch JC staring at my face, examining my reaction to certain scenes.
Me: Oh man... that was... oh damn.
JC: See, I told you it was addicting. This show's... in your words "that show's my shit!"

These last two seasons I watched regularly.
Two boys would constantly pop into my head. One guy would come to mind because... well, he's my Robin. The other boy is JC, because... was I... am I his Robin?

I have flashbacks to that strange encounter I had with him back in 2001. That summer afternoon where it was just him and me in the kitchen. He asked me for something to drink, and as I handed him a glass while opening the fridge, I asked him what he wanted.
JC: Give me whatever YOU want to give me.
I will never forget the look that 13 year old boy gave me... or the way he said "whatever you want to give me." So picaresque and at the same time so... shy? Like a boy caught in the middle of a dirty daydream of his teacher, by his teacher.
My 16 year old self was no smoother than my 29 year old self. I tensed up, forced a chuckle, and awkwardly said "Water. You need water."

Then I fast forward to the numerous moment I've shared with him while visiting the bay.
I'm especially tormented by the look he gave me the night he saw me laying on MGH's lap... the look of... he felt pity for me, for liking someone who didn't like me... but at the same time he was surprised to see me there... he looked sad. Sad, disgusted, disappointed, and angry.
Many times he'd get between MGH and me when we'd be sitting together on our drives around the bay area, or while dining out... or when I'd be giving a back massage to MGH.
When JC had my undivided attention? He'd stand taller, he'd smile at me, and he'd speak to me in a steady, kind voice. He'd hold eye-contact until I'd be forced to break it by looking at the floor.

I think to the times he'd randomly call me, wether he'd be in Berkley or Vegas, or Argentina... or Germany. His voicemails that are now lost... we're he'd sing me my birthday song.
I think of the look he gave me last summer when I missed that train to... that day where I was splayed on his floor, crying onto the hardwood floor of his apartment in a very foreign land. That was his second time seeing me cry over a boy, and that familiar look of heartbreak and anger was on his face. He felt sorry for me, but simultaneously wanted to slap me for being so stupid.

His words "If he really gave a shit, he would have made it up here," "If you mattered, that's what would have happened" "Eres una pendeja," reverberate in my head... will probably do so until the day I die.
That sorrowful, angry look of his will remain emblazoned in my mind.

Am I his Robin? Was I his Robin?

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Slippery sink

It's a bumpy road back to "normal."

Ever seen a cat panic when they're about to fall from a high place?

My dad's mom had this... ummm, well, it's supposedly translated as "sink" or a water basin, but it doesn't do this structure justice. This "sink" is common in the ranch we're from, because it's where women would do their laundry. It's a cement pool... a "baby pool" in the shape of a cube, built above ground, no taller than a woman's hip (I mean, they have to bend over it in the first place, in order to scrub the clothes). Two thirds of the cube is the actual pool that was always at least half-filled. The other third was where the women would scrub the clothes on the ridges built into the cement (they'd have a cup on the side that they would dip into the pool in order to grab water to rinse the soapy clothes. Am I doing a decent job describing this shit for people who live in this day and age where all we have to do is shove our clothes into a machine and press a couple of buttons in order to get shit washed?).
Anyway, I loved playing by this "pool," mainly because the cement was so worn, it would be irresistibly smooth, and water would evaporate in the strangest way. When the cement would be wet, it was the slickest, most entertaining shit to mess with (I'd try to write my name as fast as possible... I'd try to beat the evaporation process. That's the kind of shit that entertains me. I'm simple).
Well, I remember numerous times when my grandmother's cat (of the moment. They went through cats like I go through socks. Rough times in the rancho) would be curious enough to climb to the edge of this pool. As it circled the top of the baby pool, that slick cement would almost never fail to trip up the cat and BAM! cat in the pool-- or floor, when lucky. I remember catching glimpses of the cats right before they tumbled off... and I swear they always had that "FUCKFUCKFUCK!" look as they violently clawed at anything and everything to try and get a grip... all to no avail. Bye bye, kitty.

This is how I feel when I KNOW I'm about to slip into a depression... especially this latest bout I'm currently handling.
I know I shouldn't bottle negative feelings, but I do it anyway... I know I shouldn't dwell on negative comments OR ACTIONS... but I do it anyway.
I know nothing good will come out of these bad habits... I fucking KNOW I'm going to slip and absolutely nothing will be available to grasp to stay out of the sink... and I go ahead and fall.

Hopefully one day I'll learn there's no way to "safely" tread this slippery surface, and just stay on solid ground.

Monday, March 24, 2014

Todavia lo soy

That Brave Little Toaster scene-- that flower scene-- has been haunting me again.
I don't think there's anything out there that captures my existence quite like that scene.

I'm perfectly fine-- shit, I'm even happy-- when I'm sitting alone, by myself... when no attention has been called to me or my situation... when others let me exist.
Then I hear the comments... then I must interact with society... and that's where I'm reminded that I'm just... different.

Like that flower, I didn't initially seek the isolation, I was placed in it. I learned to adapt to ostracism... to think it was what was meant for my existence. I learned not to seek attention, rather, fear it. Once attention is paid to me? I shrivel the instance I'm left alone... because I have that new taste of "knowing" what it'd be like to have company.

This active weekend of being surrounded by my kin drained the fucking shit out of me. It shook me up and reminded me of how fucking painfully alone and misunderstood I still am by these people who supposedly know me... the ones basically forced to deal with me since birth.

I sit there and observe my surroundings... but I can't hear a fucking thing. It all goes silent to me. My chest feels heavy with each breath I take, and the thought "Just get through this, get through this, get through this. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't breathe too heavy. Don't let that shit call the attention of anyone around you. In. Out," is so loud in my head, I grow deaf to anything else.
Here I am, in a sea of people... and I feel so. fucking. alone.
I'm not like you guys. I never have been.

I need to stop typing. This is breaking my heart the deeper  dive into the subject.

... I hadn't cried in a very long time. Sucks I had to break the positive streak.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

One day he'll come

Pity Party Weekend!

The universe conspired to turn these last two days into "Pity AnoMALIE" parties.

First, yesterday.
I KNEW I shouldn't have attended the stupid Sweet Sixteen. I WASN'T going to attend, I was actually going to be a fucking adult and go to a... I think it's a bar? Anyway, I was going to go to the bar around 7, however, when I returned home from church (yeah, I'm doing that again) I saw Mom was upset because Dad had left to the party without her.
Since my hair and makeup were already done... and my mom really wanted to go (and only needed to change into her dress... like fucking Cinderella, I tell you) but hates showing up to big parties on her own (see where I get it from?), I agreed to change into my handy dandy LBD and prevent any divorce papers from being filed.
Everything was going ok, up until I was left alone at the table with my pregnant cousin and her mother.
I was complimenting the cousin on her pregnant cuteness, and telling her how sincerely happy I was for her... and everything was fine... up until the fucking most hated words were uttered by them:
Awwww, thank you! You're so sweet! One day, your prince will come along the road for you, and you too will get to enjoy this happiness.

That was pretty much my reaction-- a long, angry pause.
I side-smirked and "Yeah"ed, no longer caring to speak.
Lito showed up with a couple of my guy cousins, so I excused myself and chilled outside of the ballroom until my mom decided to call it a night and took me out of my misery.

As if yesterday wasn't enough torture for me, today I headed over to a bridal shower in my old neighborhood.
Pity party part two.
Here, everyone is fucking pregnant, married, or engaged.
The girls that are my age are all sitting on the opposite side of the courtyard, at the same table. Of course, since they are ALL either engaged, married, or pregnant, I'm banished because... well, I'm none of the above.
I sat at the old lady table. The middle-aged lady table... where I listened to women discuss the cute behavior of their grandchildren... and was actually relieved when they began creeping each other's Facebook pages.
I was in my own world... looking up at the sky, taking deep breaths... enjoying the breeze. Then, of course, came the questions.
Am I married? Do I have kids? Where do I work? Do I study? Do I have a boyfriend? What do I do?
I'm single. Have been single. Will probably remain single. No children. Graduated with a biology degree I don't intend on ever putting to use because science makes me ill. I draw. I paint. I write. I travel. I lift heavy shit. I punch and kick. I really fucking love guacamole. I really fucking hate talking.
And, of course, the typical reaction was given to my responses:
Awww, pretty girl... soon enough, a man will come to your rescue.
I'd just take a swig of my coconut margarita and proceed to stare at the tip of the Stratosphere... imagining myself free-falling from the needle, face-planting on the concrete floor.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Shitty shittiness

Good God, some people are fucking GIFTED when it comes to pissing me off.

And I try so hard to keep my mouth shut so as to not make matters worse... but FUCK! does that shit kill me.

Listen, when shit doesn't pan out, just fucking accept it and move on... especially when it was something OUT OF MY CONTROL.
Getting pissed at ME will only piss ME off at YOU... and nobody wants that.

Shit, if it weren't for this thing, I'd probably be suffering a stroke from holding in my rage. Instead, I vent here and come off as a psychopath to the internet.
I promise I'm normal, and for the most part, CALM AS FUCK... I just need a platform to vent, and most of the time, I happen to be on the internet when someone decides to get under my skin.

Last, but not least: I will never understand people who think it's perfectly fine to mistreat others with the excuse of "I was having a bad day." No apology, no conversation... just a "I was having a bad day."
But OH! Don't get it twisted! Don't you dare hurt THEIR feelings, even if by accident (i.e. you weren't wearing your glasses when they waved at you at the grocery store, leading to you ignoring the wave).
Their feelings >>>>>>> your feelings.
How does that work?

Empathy, homie... practice a little bit of EMPATHY.
Treat others how you'd like to be treated.
Shitty day? Keep your shitty feelings locked up in your shitty room for as many shitty hours that are required to shit out your shittiness. You shithead.

I have plenty of shitty moments... and I avoid people as much as possible during those episodes. I make it a POINT not to bump into society when I'm suffering a rough patch. It actually helps-- I'm usually the only one who ends up with busted feelings (my self-loathing is pretty vicious).

I'm disappointed for allowing someone's shitty treatment get to me. Damn hormones.
Can I be a robot already?

Wednesday, March 19, 2014


Proclivities. I have them. For certain groups of people.

Today is Jose's birthday... you know, the dude from The Bay with whom I have an interesting back and forth. The smarty pants who hit me upside the head at a club back in December. The dude who gets me to act like a total fucking idiot while he is cool, calm, and collected.
I like that young man.

Today is also Richard Gere's birthday, you know, the one from the wedding.
He's kind of a dick... but I can't complain about that, because I'm not the loveliest human to grace the planet either.
I make him laugh. He irritates and frustrates me. It works out wonderfully (no, it doesn't).
He's a cool dude... who does incredibly cool shit for his birthday... like what he did this year, for example:

He complimented their form.
I'm eternally jealous.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Reading Stuff

One of the activities I hated most while in grade school was reading out loud.
Regardless of the approach the teacher chose to take-- going down the rows of students, alphabetical order off the roster, or just picking names at random-- it made my heart pound, my hands sweat, my vision blur, and my body shake. The anticipation would fuck me up.

The method that upset me most was the random choosing... it was my version of Russian roulette.
This fear wasn't due to me being a poor reader, quite the contrary, I always read at a higher level than most kids. I feared the reaction from my peers. I feared fucking up a word. I feared catching the sound of someone snickering at a mispronunciation. I hated the sound of my voice (for some students, this would be the only time they'd hear a peep out of me). I hated the uncertainty of the length of time this torture would last.
I remember many teachers gave me more "reading time" than what I thought to be normal. Some of my peers would be given a sentence or two to read out loud... and I remember myself getting lightheaded upon noticing I was about to start on my third paragraph of reading.
Fuck... am I really this shitty at reading and need this much practice? What the fuck? When is this going to end... ? I just want it to end. 

I never grew comfortable with this activity. Ever.

My mom? My mom loves this shit... reading out loud, that is. Everything she does, she does out loud. Thinking? Out loud. Counting? Out loud. Reading? Out loud.
She's a... lector? Lecturer? at church. I've been sitting through services with Mom as the reader ever since I was about nine years old.
Random strangers go up to Mom at public places and greet her as though she's family... never fail to say something like "I LOVE how you read at St. Anne's!" She's like a spanish Catholic Mass celebrity.

Yesterday, I mentioned to Mom how my Mexico City friend gave me a tiny psalm card... no, that's not what it's called... a Prayer Card? It's like a poker card, with one side depicting a saint of your choice, and on the back, a certain prayer associated with the saint... so he or she can intercede for you like saints are believed to do. You take this card and pray, obviously.
I'm not much of the praying type. When I do pray, it's usually because I'm inexplicably frightened awake, or unable to go to sleep. It's a good pacifier.
Anyway, so I tell my mom about this card my friend gave me, and how I feel it has actually done what it was "supposed" to. I told her to read it, and see if she agreed with me (it asks for help in pacifying one's mind, and restless soul. Clearly I've been suffering from that shit for too long, ya feel me?).
Mom: I don't have my glasses. I'm tired. Just read it out loud to me.
Me: This is a trick. You just don't believe I still remember how to read in spanish, do you?
Mom: Just read it or I leave.
So I read the card out loud.
I stumbled into the part that has always bugged me, due to a grammatical error (it's missing a comma and that shit drives me bananas), and looked up at mom's face to complain about how the fucking comma was missing and tripped me up.
Me: You're crying! What the hell, lady?
Mom: Keep reading.
I kept reading, occasionally looking up to throw Mom a crazy stare, and finally finished the prayer.
Mom: You read so pretty! You have such a pretty voice, baby!
Me: Ew Mom... quit being creepy, weirdo.
Mom: I didn't know you had such a pretty reading voice!
Me: Ummm... no. I sound like a man. Had you never heard me read before?
Mom: No! Never! I've heard your brother and your sister, but never you, ever.

The woman was so emotional and stoked-- crying like a total weirdo. I felt it necessary to tap her on the forehead and call her a weirdo one more time.

I'm just a quiet girl who likes to live her wallflower life without catching the attention of anyone for anything.
That's really hard to do with this woman over here acting like I'm William Jennings Bryan or some shit.

Saturday, March 15, 2014

A little bit of everything, Mutt-face

Late night dinner, therefore, late night bedtime.
As I try to reconcile sleep, I'll go ahead and run at the mouth, as I usually do. Maybe I can get tired of staring at a screen and just pass out randomly.

So, back in November my siblings and I participated in that test that became controversial... the one that tells you not only your ancestry, but also health-related shit.
I was unfortunate enough to miss the cut-off date for the health report by three days. I was offered a refund, but decided to forgo the damn thing and get my information anyway.

My brother received his report before I did... and since he's a boy, his report was exciting as hell.
I was in suspense for a good two weeks before I was able to see my information.
What happened?
I cried. Like a racist fucking idiot. I. CRIED.

In my defense, my tears were more out of anger, because no less than two days earlier, I had entered an argument with an asshole on a friend's page who claimed we Latinas should be thankful to Africa for our attractiveness because we were ALL African.
I jumped and said "FUCK YOU, BRO. Maybe Caribbean girls, but I'm straight Native American-- we're more Asian, if anything. Get the fuck out of here with your bullshit." Well, not verbatim, but to that effect. Point being, it was a heated debate where I just wanted to reach through the screen and knock this guy's teeth out.

My results?
This is where I fucking wish I still had paintshop pro... or some other editing shit.
Fucking busted-ass Mac.

"Fuck that fucking asshole... goddamn it... fuck. Goddamn it, he was right. FUCK FUCK FUCK."

And so, guys, I'm African.
(In all seriousness, what a messy little combo I turned out to be. Oceanian, guys... Oce-fucking-anian. No wonder I'm so contradictory... I'm a little bit of everything-- except South Asian)

Monday, March 10, 2014

wrong wrong wrong

You know that feeling when you just KNOW something is absolutely, positively wrong, but you can't figure out WHAT? Yeah, I'm currently dealing with it... and it's killing me.

I'm restless... and sad... and... I feel an emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

Something isn't right, but I don't know what, and it's fucking killing me.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Where do I fit?

Yesterday I snuck in a day trip to LA with my sister.

The reason for the trip was to accompany my sister to her best friend's baby shower. Since the vehicle used is mine, I pretty much was strong-armed into going.

I'm glad I went, not just because it was a stereotypically beautiful California day, but mainly because it was an incredible opportunity to people-watch. It was MOTHERFUCKING AWESOME.
Why the excitement? Because I was somewhat of a fly on the wall, and I was able to watch two families interact without having a bias toward one or the other.

Both families were Mexican... but the different versions of Mexicans that I swear exist.

One was what I consider "traditionalists." First generation, very traditional... spanish-speaking... formal (for parties)... still return to Mexico on a regular basis for vacations. I guess I should call them straight edge.
The other family was the stereotypical Mexican displayed on television sitcoms... the LA Mexican-Americans, what pops into Mexican people's minds (in Mexico) when someone says "Chicano." Lot's of drinking, lots of swearing, lots of tattoos, lots of illegitimate children... teen moms... ex-felons... super dark skin, but unable to speak a lick of Spanish ("Con el pinche nopal en la frente." Roughly "With the fucking cactus pasted on your forehead." As in, you're as Mexican-looking as a fucking cactus). That deal.

It was like having an out-of-body experience.
It was like watching... Mexicans time traveling to their sad future.

The Straight-Edgers weren't saying much mean shit about the LA Mexicans... but they were mostly disgusted... upset, disappointed in the direction the LA Mexicans had gone. The look on their face was like what I imagine one's to look like if given the opportunity to travel a couple of generations ahead to see one's children have turned out to be huge disappointments.

The LA Mexicans were obese... drunk... all the women had children... all the men were covered in gangster tattoos... gaged ears, and more nose piercings than I've seen in any other gathering anywhere. Oh, and not a single one spoke Spanish.

I just sat there... soaking it all in.
I am neither this nor that... mainly because I'm rejected in both circles.
I am too traditional for LA (I get ridiculously frustrated with non-spanish speakers... it surprises me, but that's the way the cookie crumbles for me. LA reciprocates by getting frustrated with me because I'm a goody-goody who likes WAY too many Mexican things), but I'm also too "Chicana" for the traditionalists (I'm too liberal in the church teachings... I have a rebellious streak, believe it or not. I don't give a shit about some day getting married OR procreating... I don't care for "raising a family" and that sort of shit... and I drink and cuss and rough house like a teenaged boy... I'm not very proper).

I was entertained.

Then I went ahead and forgot any part of the adventure that bummed me out by visiting my good ol' now-19-year-old boy for a short minute.
I swear... I feel like... well, I feel bad... doing shit on the down low as though I'm breaking some type of law... Mrs. Robinson type shit. And we haven't even done anything scandalous.

... but he thinks I'm gorgeous and hilarious and a fucking genius... and his eyes twinkle all cute when he finds me in a crowd, as though he has just seen the most valuable treasure. Then he holds me close against his rock hard ABS (let's not get all porn-tastic here) with his muscular arms as if he's scared I'm going to be torn away from him any second, never to be seen again... and that shit is... I've never felt anything like it. It's wonderfully exhilarating and flattering. It's so protective... and I've never been protected. It's the one thing I've always kept to myself, silently... this desire to please, PLEASE be protected... please don't leave me hanging there alone, only to be stomped mercilessly by the heartless assholes who always seem to find me. It warms my heart and makes a gentle smile slowly creep across my face. He makes me feel like I'm worth a fucking damn... worth being treasured.
A nineteen year old. Insane.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

Needs to

These first couple of months are the busiest I am throughout the year.
I do all of the on-line bullshit required for my dad's businesses... for free.

This on-line back and forth with various entities has me logging in and out of my dad's personal e-mail account... because that's how he wants it to be done.

I think it was last year where I had that unpleasant surprise of the Cuban hussy who'd email my dad shady shit.
This year I had a different surprise.

Today, as I went to my dad's email (on his insistence. I never just think to myself "I haven't checked my dad's email... let's see if there's anything FOR ME." He usually says something to the effect of "I got something in the mail about that thing," which of course, frustrates the fucking shit out of me. Could he be any more vague?), I saw his Mexican buddy-- the one from Cancun-- had emailed him.
Dude, I cried.

It's one thing to have strangers, and even so-called friends... even distant relatives talk shit... but another entirely when I catch my close ones talking shit.
There, in front of my eyes, was a discussion about ME... their concern for my lack of motivation. How I NEED to choose something to study.

Need to? I'm sorry, but if I'm not mistaken, I DID study something... something I fucking hated and that made me physically sick for so many years of my life. I vomited, cried, and stressed to the point of losing my hair, all the way to a degree in Biology. Give me a fucking break.

I HATE how my dad speaks of me as if I were some fucking... high school drop out. Some fucking burn out. The worst fucking failure to exist in the entire family tree.
Maybe I did burn out... but that was AFTER I completed what I set out to do: get that fucking science degree to hand to my folks and finally say "I'm DONE."
But I guess the fact that I'm a girl who doesn't work OR is involved in a promising relationship means I failed at life.

And I totally feel that's pretty damn valid and true.

But you know... sometimes a girl gets tired of pleasing others. So damn tired.

I could be having a fucking amazing week, where all I have been doing has been smiling (that's all I've ever wanted in my fucking life. I just want a goddamn reason to smile. Ever. Fucking EVER)... and then someone like my dad goes off and depresses the fucking shit out of me.

My sister flies in tonight, so HEY! Brave face, everyone!

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

No subtraction

It's that time of the year again: Lent.

This year, I did NOT go ahead and attempt to give up profanity. That shit is never going to happen.

Instead of giving anything up, I actually decided I am going to:
Smile at least once a day;
Be nice;
Be friendly.

Add instead of subtract.

This is where I end the post. I've been fasting all day, it's my most grueling gym day... my head hurts and I'm pretty sure I'm delirious.
I need sleep.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Origins of "Ice Queen"

Remember the time my godfather tried hooking me up with his cousin... who turned out to be gay?
The boy was lanky, shy, sweet, and very artistic.
He was trying so very hard to please his family, but it took me less than five minutes of knowing him to realize he did not like girls. This of course, only endeared me to him. Though we lived in different states, we became friends-- always encouraging each other during our rough times.

His family is highly religious... hardcore catholics, and it was visible on his face how much his "secret" was killing him.
When he came out, his family was mostly in denial. The younger cousins thought it was "just a phase" and that he'd "snap out of it" soon enough. His aunts and uncles would either ignore the topic of HIM all together... and there were also those who'd mock him and condemn him. His mom was torn... and resorted to some heavy drinking. His dad preferred to ignore it all and hide in his own world.

Those who stood by his side, initially, were few.

Back in 2010, when I dropped by Chicago for a quinceañera, I had the opportunity to hang out with him for a week.
A huge party had a bunch of family living together for a week. Stressful, but fun.
I remember that on my last day in the city, he came up to me as I quietly stood in the kitchen corner at my godmom's house, munching on an apple.
Him: So what's up with this ice queen act of yours?
Me: Huh?
Him: I know this whole thing... (points his index finger at me, waves it up and down) this thing where you hang out by yourself and hardly speak to anyone, is just an act. You're no ice queen... you're a sweet heart. Come here. Give me a hug.

I remember standing slack jawed, bitten apple in hand like... the evil witch in Snow White. I looked at him as though he were crazy.
He walked over to me, and proceeded to give me the warmest hug I had felt in years. His arms were wrapped around mine, so I stood there in a... warm cocoon of confusion, pretty much immobilized.
I felt my eyes ready to betray me, ready to shed those tears, but instead I giggled and thanked him.
"Ice Queen" has since become a running gag between us.

He's ambitious. He parties hard, but works harder.
Proof was given on Sunday:

That's my boy, right behind you know who at the you know whats.
EVERYONE was proud.
No more shame. No more ridicule. No more lamentations. Just... chest-puffing pride.

I remembered the Quinceañera week.
One of my little cousins... I think he was 17 at the time, was somewhat freaked out because he had never been around an openly gay man. It was a trip to watch the boy change his very closed mind the more he interacted with my friend. My little cousin went from saying shit like "For a gay dude, he's pretty cool. It's hard to believe he's gay," to "He is such a cool dude!" by the end of the week.
It made me happy to see someone realize that gay people, are in fact, people... and often, people can be pretty fucking extraordinary.

Monday, March 3, 2014

Best kind

Some dudes... some dudes.

The crazy part? I have absolutely zero feelings for him that are not that of friendship.

I should be punched for my stubborn, idiotic ways.

Sunday, March 2, 2014

Sing to me.

He called me.
He sang to me.
I felt like it was back to our good times.

He was whispering.
He was happy.
I was happy.

I'm going back.
I won't cry this time.

It was a great birthday.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

9 plus 20.

"It's my birthday today :) "

I haven't announced that since that day... I think I was turning 5, when my cunt of a baby-sitter/cousin said that to me.
There's a fine line between being sarcastic... and being a thoughtless, mean-spirited piece of shit. She was the latter.

I no longer make a big deal, but I do appreciate any form of acknowledgement... now, even the "Happy bday" and "hbd" messages.

I never imagined I'd make it to 29. Honestly. At any age, the furthest I thought ahead was 26. I thought about being 26 as a kid, mainly because that's when I calculated I'd be done with school (I don't really understand my math, but keep in mind my folks only made it to 6th grade).
Once the teens hit, I swore I wasn't going to make it past high school. Each year only brought forth heavier problems... more painful shit to handle as quietly as possible. In 9th grade I swore I was just going to kill myself and get it all over with.
But I held on.

In my early 20's I swore I was going to die of some health-related issue... but I still stand.
Mid twenties depression struck harder than ever. Then I swore I was just going to dissolve into non-existence.
But I'm still here.

20 years ago, as a nine year old, I remember that year as one of the most tumultuous of my life. A NINE year old.
Last night I went to bed remembering what life was like TWENTY years ago... and I damn near had a panic attack.
4th grade was horrible. Horrible, humiliating, painful, and traumatizing. I don't even remember what my 10th birthday was like. I just wanted to be dead.

I've outlived 9 by two decades.
Yet the scars are still there. When anyone presses that button, I crumble completely.

I don't even know what to expect, or what to ask for, now as a 29 year old-- I never expected to see this number.

I don't know whether to be excited or upset.