Decision 2014

Know what I've always been embarrassingly SHITTY at doing?
Making quick decisions.

I have to come up with a short list of friends to join me on a trip... and so far, nothing has worked. I mean, my top choices have been unable to go.
That's what I get for giving such short notice, but it was even short notice for me... I thought I had until August, but it turns out I only have until the end of June.
I also think this stupid Eurotrip failure has a lot to do with my reluctance tp actually pull the trigger on any of this decision making.

I'm frustrated to the point of not wanting to go on the trip at all... that's how fucked up decision-making gets me.

They have classes for this type of shortcoming, right? Something or someone out there can teach me to get my act together. I mean, it's pretty fucking irritating... to be unable to make quick decisions without freaking out... this sort of shit is something that natural selection should have weeded out... yet here I stand.

Ughhhhhhhh.
First world problems.

Good luck with that

Guess whaaaat...

Fucking awesome, right?
This time, my lip decided to switch shit up. This time, instead of breaking out in my usual spot of the lower left corner of my lip, my central nervous system decided it had enough of that shit, and handed me the cold sore smack dab in the middle of my bottom lip.
I have two lovely, perfectly circular holes in the middle of my lip. It'll be interesting to see that shit heal.

What caused this outbreak? An infuriating exchange with my trainer yesterday afternoon. My body was QUICK to react... the cold sore popped up six hours after the enraging encounter with the guy.

Remember that story about my substitute teacher who made me cry because he wouldn't give me my homework, back in third grade? I know it's in here somewhere... the story with that goddamn motherfucker Mr. Lockitch (however the fuck it's spelled... probably some Scandinavian or German spelling a Mexican like me never gave a single fuck about learning. His name I may not know how to spell, but his face I'll never forget... fucking... Edward James Olmos' characterization of Jaime Escalante in "Stand and Deliver" looking-ass) and how he took joy in tormenting me by holding up the extra homework sheet above my head as I pleaded for him to give it to me... tormenting me long enough for me to miss my bus and all that good shit you'd love to do to a nine-year-old good-girl.

 That was twenty fucking years ago... and yesterday, the story repeated itself, sort of.
It's well documented I HATE running. I'll sprint a couple of laps, just to get my HIIT in... but from that to making me run a mile after an hour of intense kickboxing is insane. It's NOT. GOING. TO. HAPPEN.
I was NOT built to run long distances... for fucking SHIT. I'm a fucking OX... I'm built to survive long, harsh winters... built to carry shit twice my weight... built to wrestle motherfucking bison... THAT'S the type of body I was given. I was not given the body of some fucking marathon runner... person who had to carry fucking surrendering orders to pussy-ass tribes... person adept to fleeing at the first sign of danger (can you tell my fucking disdain for this fucking activity, or should I continue?).
SO, when I'm ordered to run a mile, I will give my best contempt-filled glare, and walk out.

There's an added hatred to this mile because very few people actually run the fucking thing. When we sprint a lap or two, I'm always game... and I'm always the first girl done with the task... and if I get a good-enough head start on two particular guys in class, I'm the first person done. I hustle... I hustle HARD, just so I can get the damn thing done.
However, I find I'm usually one of the few who actually DOES this stupid thing. Well over two-thirds of the class just WALK HALF a lap, go to the bathroom, and then go back to the room to continue with the weight-lifting portion of the class.
This boils the fucking HELL out of my blood... I damn near foam at the mouth... and I definitely shoot death-glares at every single lazy fuck I see walk through the doors-- MORE SO to the fucking cunts I catch already in class, acting as if they ran the allotted laps... which I know they DID NOT, because none of them passed me on the track... I often scowl at them while mouthing "Liar" directly to their faces.
The dishonesty of others infuriates me... but the fact that the instructor knows this shit is going on, and STILL does it pisses me off most. He knows I kill the one or two laps, but still insists on the mile-- that shit fucks up my shins, it's too much stress on my body.
So as protest, I don't do it at all-- I just grab my shit and go home.

This was the case yesterday. After fucking killing myself with all the plyos, the moment the trainer ordered the class to run the mile, I walked over to grab my towel, water bottle, and car keys, and proceeded to walk out of the  class.
I was one of the first people walking out the door, and next thing I know, the instructor snatches the water bottle out of my hands, and goes for my hand holding my car keys.
For the next two-three minutes, I stand there, asking for the return of my water bottle, and he demanding my car keys so I can go on and run the mile.
Me: Not gonna happen.
Him: Gimme the car keys. You can't run with your car keys.
Me: I can't run that much. Give me my water, please.
What was REALLY pissing me off was the fact that his fucking groupies walking past us kept giving me "encouragement."
Annoying18YearOldTwat: Come on girl! You can do it! Wooo!
AnnoyingTwat2: Yeaaaah! Let's go, girl!
As if I was some fucking out-of-shape slob.
I was fighting the urge to "encourage" these fucking annoying girls to squat 200 pounds with their fucking noodle legs while I enthusiastically hooted "COME ON GIRL! YOU CAN DO IT!" Because everyone knows yelling words of encouragement helps you accomplish physically impossible tasks (the running is currently impossible for me because I've been nursing a fractured metatarsal for well over two months. I keep fucking it up because cunts keep yelling "encouraging" shit when I'm told to perform an excessive amount of burpees... always resulting in a re-injury of my fucking toe. Running on it is excruciating).

So... I was PISSED... but trying to keep my composure.
Keep the fucking bottle... it's only a dollar.
And just as I was about to walk away, completely done with my "begging," the guy gave me my bottle and I walked away.
Why don't you give your bitch this much of a hard time? SHE never runs.

It wasn't until night time when I realized the level of rage reached... once I saw the cold sore.
Those bad boys always betray me and let me know just how fucking deep certain actions really cut me.

FUN TIMES!

Can we quit it with the herd issues?

My brother was in town this weekend. What was more surprising was that we did not fight a single time during the four days he was in town... not a single instant.
We just laughed, discussed GMOs, talked about his roommates and their good/bad habits, and watched tennis... a lot of tennis.
We're getting old, man.

My weekend's interaction with my little sister was not this smooth.
The girl is depressed... so very heartbroken and disillusioned by everyone.
These instances are where I'm sort of... thankful for the difficulties I faced as a kid... how I was so young when I learned that people can be absolutely horrible... and that physical aggression is much easier to deal with than psychological/emotional abuse.
Get your ass beat by a crazy bitch, be embarrassed and hurt for a few days, but you'll live. Sure, the ass-kicking can leave lasting physical scars... bruises... cuts... black eyes... missing teeth... bald spots... shit of that nature, but I'll take that shit ANYTIME over having to deal with the everlasting trauma of psychological/emotional abuse some fucking cunts are so masterful at administering.
While I do have to live with the PTSD-like symptoms these abusive moments left in my mind, it does makes me pretty good at helping, or at least consoling, others when they deal with similar instances.

The trouble Sister has is that she's unable to enjoy (or be comfortable with) her alone time. She just can't be alone without her subconscious lobbing insults of the "You're such a fucking loser!" kind.
I always try to educate her in the art of people-watching... but she's a hard study.
Just shut up and check out your surroundings. See those bees over there? What are they swarming on? That chunk of crepe? Now... try to invent a little story in you head of the type of person who dumped a bit of crepe so damn fucking close to the trash bin, in the middle of this pretty park.
Check out her shoes. Would you ever wear those? Do they look comfortable? Do you have outfits that match that shit? Why would anyone buy those fucking shoes? Do people wonder that shit when they look at my shoes? Of course they do.
Did you catch her accent? Where do you think she's from? Why haven't we traveled there yet? Can you imitate that accent? Try.
Look at his face-- he totally likes her, and she doesn't give a shit... she's checking out that hot dude over there instead. Ufff.
I liked her nose, I'm going to draw that nose in my next painting... that shit is fucking interesting.
Sister's reaction to all these pointers seems to be the same: that's stupid.

Sister needs to understand that it is perfectly normal, and acceptable, to think your family is the best company... because they are, after all, the first friends you ever make. You are not weird, or a loser, if you prefer to chill with family... and you definitely don't HAVE to be part of a fucking HERD to be happy.

Balloons

I don't know how true this is, but I could almost swear it's mandatory in all high school French classes across the country to have its students watch "The Red Balloon."
(I'm being sarcastic)

I connected with it, even tearing up at the end.
(I'm not being sarcastic)

Balloons-- I hate those shits, but I also find those pieces of shit do a great job at describing my life.
In person, balloons make me panic. I HATE when others pop balloons, and I freak out when I see kids biting balloons.
But using balloons for metaphorical purposes? Boy, they get the job done.
Balloon-- looked like one for the majority of my life... all round and corpulent and... inflated.
Balloon on a string-- I feel like one when things start getting out of hand. I feel... I feel as though I am drifting away, slipping out of the firm grasp of a kid that keeps me grounded. Float away, float away, and away... further away from reality... from everything I know and comforts me. Away, to the unknown.
Popping my balloon-- that happens the majority of the time. My hopes are popped. My dreams are popped. My heart-shaped ballon is always popped with a fucking harpoon, all the time... all the damn motherfucking time.

Then come the moments where I feel the gentle tug of my kid... a family member of the kid... someone who knows me, and begins to pull me back to the happy reality I once knew. I'm rescued from aimlessly flying out into the atmosphere... and reminded who I am, and why I love being who I am.

I don't know... I don't make sense.
I just know I love my friends... and am reminded of how much I fucking missed them in my life.
I aimlessly wander through the world... quietly, completely alone... sometimes sad, sometimes apathetic, often curious, many times excited... but still aimlessly. I convince myself I'm this person... this terrible, solitary person... and then I feel the familiar tug of a friend... a really good fucking friend, and I am gently reeled into the fact that some great people are part of my life... and they just know how to turn me into the REAL me.
I am not shy. I am not sad. I am not mad.
With these people, I'm comfortable, I am laughing, I am happy, I'm talking.
I remember the awesome times we had ten years ago, look around at our present, and feel thankful we're still capable of making one another laugh hysterically, able to continue to make more enjoyable memories.

I look around and still find myself smiling.
One is married.
One is engaged.
I am still very much single.
The three musketeers at three different stages in life, but we're still fucking laughing together.

I don't know... I just really needed these guys to pull me back to reality, more than I knew... and I feel so very damn good now that they did.

Forcing the inspiration

An hour and a half's worth of work...

Now I know what people mean when they say the room's lighting fucks shit up.

My brain gets hell of fried when I force myself to paint.
This time I listened to more EDM while simultaneously playing an episode of Hoarders in the background.
As far as the quality of my work is concerned, this little experiment of forcefully painting has proved that it's... uh... strange. I'm pretty obvious when I reach my breaking point... I mean, look at that white streak on her left leg. While the painting can't talk, that shit pretty much screams "My brain stopped giving a shit riiiiight here."
As far as my mood is concerned, the forceful painting has helped in clearing my mind. It does such a wonderful job turning me into a blank slate, I'm honestly having a difficult time writing this up. I'm committing a shit ton of simple mistakes... adding unnecessary letters, leaving out e's and s's-- those two seem to be the letters I neglect the most.
I also notice I lose track of time when I paint... hence the Hoarders episodes in the background... it's the only way I can keep track of time (don't resort to my phone because that shit would just distract me).
My feelings about the painting? I'm not nearly as embarrassed about it as I am about others. I feel free to hate it publicly... well, I mean, if someone were to see it, I wouldn't blush... I'd just feel comfortable saying "Oh, that shit... I forced myself to draw that shit as an experiment. Feel free to observe it and notice my mood shifts based on the strokes of paint. Feel free to hate it-- I hate it too."

Anyway, I'm done with the painting for today, since that's all the torture I can subject myself to for now.
Tomorrow I'll gun for the hands and face... goddamn hands... I've never been able to draw that shit.
Ew. No. I prefer finishing the white frills... that is grossly ignored.

herds

Yesterday morning was spent consoling the birthday girl.
She reminds me so much of my sister, this birthday girl.

I remember that birthday I had to drive over to the Palazzo to a crying, very drunk Sister.
"No one came..." and she burst into uncontrollable sobs.
She hadn't invited me to this birthday party at the club... and while I was still hurt over the slight, I was more upset over my sister being so heartbroken.

Today's birthday girl was upset over everyone (something like 20 "confirmed" attendees... which, I admit, is fucked up. If you're not sure about going, DON'T RSVP... it's fucking simple) flaking on her. I believe only five of us showed up to her festivities... and Kelley and I tried our best to hang for as long as possible... but once the weed came out, we were done.

These girls, no matter how old they get, refuse to understand that many people, TOO MANY people, are shitty people.
These girls seem to wrestle (and lose) with the fear of doing things in small groups, or worse-- on their own.

Just like many don't understand my loner tendencies ("Oh my god... you go to the gym alone? I feel sad thinking of you just sitting there alone!" ... yes, because I go to the gym to SIT by myself and just gaze at the meatheads for hours at a time-- that's sarcasm, by the way), I don't understand those who must be in a goddamn herd in order to be happy.

If you rely on others in order to be happy, you are going to be sorely disappointed on a continual basis.
Happiness comes from within.
And yeah, I'll try to remind myself of those two lines whenever I get sad... I really should follow my own advice.

No artist here

The slowest progress ever.

You'd think it would take me less than three weeks to do that shit... but you would be wrong.

I thought about my little theory of only being able to paint/doodle/write when infuriated, so I decided to do my best to prove it wrong. I plopped my ass on the floor, started up my workout playlist, and forcefully got to work.
It's pretty obvious where my inspiration waned... right? It's obvious where I just could no longer deal with mixing colors and shading and all that shit... and just called it a night-- my stubbornness got the best of me.
That mallet and that face are going to be the death of me (not to mention I now have to do the lightening on the black portions of the costume to even out the depth). But look at that bicep (and that enormous tit... if there's anything I know how to draw, it's fucking giant tits... I've had that shit on lock since elementary school).

I've never taken a painting lesson (well, now I have that wine-drinking painting class I did back in October with my friends... but that was about three hours of my life)... so this is all trial and error.
I've never really considered myself a professional artist, due to my lack of education on the subject and the fact that I certainly do not run in the same circles as the "artsy" people.
I'm a nerd. A reclusive nerd who likes nature. A reclusive, good-girl, nerd who would rather be sitting under the stars in the company of two or three friends... laughing.
I am not rambunctious. I am not wild. I don't like drugs... at all.
I am quiet. I am shy. I'm a goody-goody. I crack nerdy jokes almost no one catches... or make random plays on words that-- again-- few understand, and which only expose me as a total weirdo.

Tonight I accompanied my friend to her birthday party at some art expo thing at a warehouse (I have visited far too many warehouses this week... what the fuck?). She's an art teacher, so this is her circle of comfort... she even had a piece of her work on display at this thing.
I tried being comfortable, I swear... but I couldn't.
First, the place reeked of weed from the get-go. I fucking HATE the smell of weed... fucking shit nauseates the hell out of me. I walked around the place fighting a headache within two minutes of entering.
Then there was the fact that people present were obnoxious... not all, but many, too many. So angsty about nothing... so into bullshit... and so, SO into getting drunk and high. Fuck that shit.
I don't know... I guess the word "pretentious" covers the air at this shindig. Nearly impossible to feel at ease... and these people trying entirely too much to be perceived as cool.
And if people weren't being pretentious, they were being far too liberal for my shy, uptight self. No, I will not play the tit game... I don't even flash myself, why the fuck would I flash anyone else? No. No, man. Not game for that game. Call me uptight, call me a prude... I am me, and I do not enjoy exhibiting my body. Never have, never will. Sorry.

The entire vibe didn't jive.
I don't belong in this circle of people either.
I'm such a fucking weirdo... unable to find a niche... because I'm such. a fucking. weirdo.

I'm not smart enough to be with the brainiacs.
I'm not pretty enough to chill with the cool kids.
I'm not... uh... laidback enough to be with the artsy kids.

What the fuck am I, man?
I'm such a fucking oddball.
(I'm not bummed out, just irritated... the weed probably got to me... there really was too much weed)

Focus, fool

So many events in the next few days have me frazzled as fuck.

There's a difference between me being frazzled, and me being angry/irate. Being frazzled is me being... umm.. spacey. When I'm frazzled, I can't concentrate on anything... I can't even form coherent sentences.
When I'm angry, I have an incredibly narrowed focus. I zero-in on something and proceed to gut the shit out of it. I get shit DONE... because it's what keeps me from going all aggro on the deserving twat who has managed to cross me (look! I'm suddenly British!).

Frazzled doesn't work. Frazzled is especially problematic when I actually have things to do.
For some inexplicable reason, very fucking randomly, a couple of people have requested paintings... from me. I didn't even offer or anything... it just randomly occurred... very fucking randomly.

I wouldn't mind pleasing these friends... as long as they don't make a big deal about the doodles... however, my brain isn't cooperating. My brain is gone. I can't even finish my painting from the other day. All inspiration is gone and I'm mostly functioning on automatic. I am a fucking robot.

But I guess anything beats the ugly feeling of wrath that overpowers me when people play me dirty or mistreat me.
It's nearly impossible to breathe when I'm seething... so... I'm not too upset about this lack of inspiration... this self-induced coma and whatnot. I guess.

(Oh, but I could bet my last dollar on fuming at some point this weekend... I BET my inspiration will return by Sunday night)

my little viking

I had one of those "quiet creeper" moments today. My infamous moments where I just quietly admire someone, usually with a mild smile on my face.

A few months ago my mom's baby brother (who also happens to be my godfather... my favorite one... the eternal bachelor) visited us in order for me to acquire a spit sample from him for that genetic test... you know, the same test the rest of my family did back in December. When we told him what was going on, he very enthusiastically agreed to get tested.
Prior to this visit, we hadn't seen him in probably a year-- this uncle is very elusive.
Our interaction was a little awkward... like one between strangers.

Fast-forward to today, when he finally had time to visit us to get his cool results (patrilineally, he is from the fringes of the North Sea... which is pretty damn unexpected).
Uncle ate dinner with us, time which was mostly spent laughing.
As the hours passed, I caught myself quietly staring at my uncle... observing him... admiring him... realizing how much I miss his face, how much love I have for that sad, sweet face.
I heard his stories... and smiled.
I loved watching his eyes shrink as he chuckled at his memories from a time that seems like an eternity ago.
I loved hearing his hearty chuckles... his voice. I love how he drags the "i" when he says "Shit."

This guy is so full of love and cheer... and all I can think of is the day he came to our house one night sobbing violently... drunk... and could only talk about how he felt everyone used him... how everyone only used him... nobody truly loved or cared for him... just saw him as something to use, something of which to take advantage and then discard... but that he still couldn't keep from loving these people, all of us.
Such violent, loud sobs.
I think of that day, which was probably some 20 years ago, and it still breaks my heart.

I hope you no longer think none of us love you... because we truly do. We love everything about you... always have, always will. Always. We love you.

When it was time to say goodbye, I hugged my uncle/godfather tightly and told him the only thing I on my mind: I love you, tio. Take care of yourself.

The loneliest, saddest people are the ones who work the hardest at making others laugh... and they usually have the most infectious, beautiful laugh.

Not to my daddy!

I don't think there's a person out there who enjoys seeing their parents upset... well, maybe if your parent is an undeniable piece of shit human... but other than that, I don't think anyone of sound mind enjoys his or her parent's pain.

Yesterday my Pops came home so upset, he didn't eat dinner and he went straight to sleep-- at 7 PM.
This man loves food.
He also brought home a dozen fancy donuts he hadn't touched. He had been planning a surprise for Mom and I... but instead, he just left the box of untouched donuts on the kitchen counter and went to bed.

Daddy was upset... wildly upset, and this of course, crushed me for Daddy.

My dad is honest to a fault, way too many people judge him a dumbass for this reason (myself included, much to my shame). Nothing upsets him more than being accused of dishonesty, and yesterday, that's exactly what happened.
A high way patrol man staked out his place of work for forty minutes, harassed my mom about my dad's whereabouts, and waited for Dad to return from a cement job he was working on.
Once Dad arrived, the cop accused my dad of causing an accident on the highway after his truck spilled rocks over a car. The driver of the car filed the report saying he had pulled over to a rest stop and spoke to my dad who had supposedly assumed responsibility.
1. During the time the report was filed, Dad's truck was empty, he has the receipt from the gravel company stating his fill up time as 14 minutes after the report was filed.
2. Dad NEVER spoke to anyone. He never pulled over at said stop. Luckily Dad, due to his years in the truck-stop game (44), is close friends with the owner of the truck stop in question, and he now has footage of what transpired in that location... you know, the fact that he was NOT THERE.
3. Since when the fuck do cops respond to "minor" accidents? Didn't we recently change that rule and now there has to be a serious injury in order to get cops involved? Who the fuck is this driver to have so much importance to call on a cop to pick up his case over a fucking broken windshield?

Dad was most bothered by the fact that the douchebag claimed he had spoken to Pops, also upset over how the cop treated him and my mother, and more upset over the fact that Pops lost his cool and dropped numerous curse words in his ire.

Hearing all this, and seeing my poor dad's defeated look when he walked into the house yesterday fucking gutted me... then infuriated me.

You know, I defend the law enforcers damn near blindly. I like to imagine a world where there is no corruption and shit like that... because I can only stand ONE Mexico-level of corruption in my life, and that spot is taken by Mexico.
You hear all these fucked up stories of cops doing shitty things, and think "Well, what the fuck was the douche bag civilian doing to piss off a cop like that?" And when the answer is "He was an honest Mexican business owner"... it makes the pit of my stomach hurt and my mouth/throat run dry.
It's scary and sad and infuriating and confusing.
What do you do?

Uncool. So uncool.

Retourne

Wow.

As I was too busy dwelling on last week's events, a friend learned her cancer has returned.

And like that, I am ONCE AGAIN reminded to quit fucking wallowing in the hurt inflicted upon me by a well-established prick. Reminded how petty it all is... and how HUGE the problems of others really are.

Oh sweet, sweet girl.

Therapy, my way.

As predicted, this strong, violent episode of unadulterated rage produced a surge of creativity.

In two days, I manically created this:

 

Today, my mind's like "Are you gonna finish this or nah?" to which, of course, I'm like "Nah, man... I'm actually pretty happy and calm now. Thanks for the outlet, Brain... but I'm good now. Fuck the details for now. I'll finish this sucker next time someone makes me irate... or the next time I come across some fucking imbecile drunkard. And I'll stop talking now because I'm starting to get angry again."

But for real, I'm so much better now. Sure, I still feel a little tear coming up when I let my memory wander back to some of the mean, idiotic shit MGH said and did... but I just force myself to be happy by thinking of things like... dumb music lyrics... or the fact that my brother is hollering at one of my close friends from high school (this I'll discuss in much more detail in the near future, you know, when this story gains more material).

I wish I could become creative on command, not after some fucking traumatic life event or whatever.
Anyway, painting is great... and drawing psychopaths is fun.