Esta tristeza mia

Cried for a good two and a half hours after that game...
That was one of the worst feelings ever...

I can't explain it... I just know it sucks, and hurts, so much.

You never really do get used to getting cheated out of shit.

Whore how?

Know how I know you've been creeping my Facebook page? My intense mobile game of Candy Crush (or numerous other puzzle games of said nature) gets interrupted by an alert of you adding me as a Facebook friend... and once I check my Facebook (after losing my game lives) I see the notice has magically disappeared. To make sure I didn't just dream the scenario... or had some sort of glitch with my phone, I check my e-mail, and ohhhhp! there it is! "*ParanoidChick* added you as a friend!"
Slick... dumbass. Why don't you just go ahead and peep a few of my instagram joints? You'll get a bigger kick out of those, considering that entire thing is public... move I specifically performed for the viewing pleasure of people like you. Enjoy! (And no, I'm NOT interested in your HUSBAND. We're friends. We talk. We enjoy traveling and have traveled to the same places and I fucking babysat your kid for a week! WE HAVE THINGS IN COMMON. Get over your goddamn paranoia... YOU LIVE IN TEXAS! I want nothing to do with that)

But this post isn't about paranoid chicks who think I'm some whore trying to get with their man... no, I have sufficient experience with that to handle the ugly feelings within a few days of the incident. I'm used to girls hating me or misjudging me as a slut. I'll feel sad about it for a few days... then only recall a bad incident on exceptionally bad days.
And guys? Well, I've had my bad incidents with them. They've insulted me with many synonyms for "slut," but always out of frustration... because I WON'T get with them. These incidents don't make me sad... they make me angry.
Guys I like? They're of the opposite view-- they always think I'm too prudish... too good-girl.
This had always been the norm... up until recently.
For the last few months, I've dealt with one guy I really, really like... who now I'm pretty sure dislikes me... almost passionately... because he thinks I'm a druggie whore. Not only am I easy, but apparently also heavily into drugs.
While I should probably be normal and let this roll off my back... just forget this guy exists and MOVE ON... this fucked up judgement of me has me pretty messed up... it has been eating away at me... HARD.
For one, I have never participated in anything that could REMOTELY be considered slutty in his presence-- he hasn't even seen my exposed calves, for crying out loud. I don't understand where he goes off and thinks I'm a hoe... how? HOW? I'm closer to resembling a serial killer than a slut based on my behavior. Where is he finding the men who can say they've done anything with me?
When I'm near him, I am all about him... all I need to do is melt at his feet.
The druggy part also throws me for a loop. When he first met me, I was still sort of chubby... he didn't see me for a few months, and when we once again bumped into each other, I was at my thinnest. I'm guessing he assumes, like so many, that I dropped the weight with the help of illicit drugs.
... I don't even smoke. I haven't had a single drink in... months. The last time I was drunk was in December, and prior to that, it had been YEARS. I haven't even smoked weed... ever.
What?
Many of my friends DO smoke weed... I'm sure a good number do more than that... and while that shit irritates me, they're still my friends, and I still hang out with them. That doesn't make me a druggie.

... I'm irritated. And upset. And angry... so fucking angry.
I'm SO close to just going off on him... but I'm sure that would only garner me the superlative of "Craziest Bitch" in his world.
But no, I won't.
I will remain silent and just leave that shit alone... as much as it mortifies me to think there's a guy out there who thinks I'm such a sleazy, drug-loving chick (because nothing could be further from the truth... it is SO way off base). And what kills me most is the fact that he doesn't care to be proven wrong... he just does not care, he writes me off with complete disregard for my feelings. It's upsets me because I like him, and he thinks so poorly of me. It sucks. I'm embarrassed over how upset it makes me.

This girl can never win.
Happy Friday!

Kangaroo

How's my foot, you might ask?
Fuuuuuuucked up.
Never have a gimp girl watch her team defeat such an audacious, shit-talking, ire-inducing opposing team.

I jumped each and every goal scored by Mexico (and screamed... Jesus, I have never screamed like that before). By the third, I swore I was a kangaroo... I was getting some mean air.
Once the adrenaline died down and my heartbeat normalized... I was reminded of my mangled foot by the intense throbbing. All that jumping fucked me up.
There I went again, being a dickhead, pulling a dickhead move... idiotically re-injuring myself.


I'd totally do it again.

Vulgar R and R

I swear... if I see ONE MORE motherfucking neon-colored tutu, I'm going to lose my shit.

As you can see, I'm still very much easily agitated.
I tried making this weekend all about rehab... physical rehab, that is... obviously I don't have a substance abuse problem because I'd have to first consume some sort of mind-altering, addictive substance.
I took off from the gym since Wednesday, a little light work on Thursday (because I HAVE A PROBLEM, ok?! I can't just quit cold-turkey... it fucking KILLS me), and then NO physical activity until this evening, when I just HAD to hula-hoop to keep form going stir crazy (how can people be ok with inactivity? That fucking shit gives me a headache AND gives me nausea... like a nasty case of immaculate conception).
I just sat home and watched soccer match after soccer match. This is probably why I'm so irritable... I screamed at the television six hour of each day... either out of excitement, or extreme frustration.
"GET UP! YOU MOTHERFUCKING PUSSY ASS BITCH!!"
"YOU'RE FUCKING GERMAN! SINCE WHEN ARE YOU FRAGILE?!
"A fucking foot to your motherfucking cleat is THAT FUCKING EXCRUCIATING?! MAN UP, BIIIIIITCH!"
"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' 'BOUT!!"
"YOU'RE A MOTHERFUCKING BEEEEEEEEAST!!!!"

My vulgar World Cup antics are well documented across the lands...
I don't fuck around with that shit.

I still feel a little bit of tinnitus just writing that shit... I feel horrible for my viewing partners (for the first time in the history of my family, my DAD joined the futbol furor! Shit got annoying after he refused to only cheer for ONE team per game... the man cheers for every damn goal made-- he's the bimbo of the group).

Anyway, how's my foot doing? It's aiight.
Now don't talk to me... tomorrow's going to suck dick... fucking World Cup... fucking Mexico.
(I guess my passion for this shit is back... just extra testosterone-y. Lovely)

TinGirl

Good lord... when a day is shitty, it is REALLY fucking shitty.
WHY SPAIN?! WHY?! FUCK.
Now that I think about it, the entire month of June has been fucking garbage.

I am currently suffering from that feeling I often get, where I go on with my life as though I've taken one deep breath and dunked myself into a deep pool.
Inhale AS DEEP AS YOU FUCKING CAN!
I then attempt to survive the entire day like that... without breathing.

I'm exhausted. My body aches. I'm once again sad as fuck.
I try to ignore the shitty feeling by hitting the gym harder than usual... in hopes of getting my legitimate physical pain to override my emotional hurt.
A girl can run on that plan for only so long before her body starts to give out.
My body is giving out.
I have a stress fracture in the metatarsals of my left foot that has been unable to heal for the last... three  or four months (?) because I refuse to take more than two days off the gym. Each time I get close to no longer feeling any pain, I go off and do some fucking stupid shit... like abrupt burpees... and my foot once again gets wrecked.
My knees are also hurting now. Well... they don't "hurt" per se, but mornings are now extra crappy, because I wake up stiff as a board (imagine if I were a dude and used that colorful cliche...).
My back isn't too enthusiastic in the mornings, either.
Basically, the only thing currently not giving me grief are my arms and pectorals (... pectorals... as though I were a man-- although now that I think about it, I do have big pec muscles for a girl, and the fat content of my tits has gone down drastically... it upsets me. Only hint left of me ever having large tits are the stretch marks... the best part of the big-titty club!).
Each morning I have to spend about half an hour stretching like some fucking ballerina. I often catch a glimpse of my body in the mirror and can't help but conjure the image of the fucking Tin Man... oiling myself up to make sure I'm better able to walk over to the fucking Wizard of Oz.

I'm not doing so hot, and now my exterior is beginning to match my interior-- damaged and quite possibly irreparable.

FuuuuuUUUUUUUCKKKKKK!

First in three

Espere hasta el ultimo minuto. Preferi dormir y estár inconsciente, en vez de estar despierta y agonizar con cada minuto que me acercaba a la cruda verdad:
Lo que a sido la base de nuestra conversación por la mayoría de nuestra amistad ya no importaba... ya era cosa perdida.
Y así fue: silencio.

A lot of shit happens in four years.
A lot.
Four years ago I was still very fat.
Four years ago I had yet to try my hand at grad school applications (and eventual rejections).
Four years ago I still had Tyson.
Four years ago I was-- incredibly-- less heartbroken than I am today.

Seventeen years were spent thinking that life would get better if I lost weight. Middle school, high school, and college spent thinking that one day, one day I'd actually find a way to drop weight... and when that day would come, I would be treated like a person... even possibly be liked.
Weight came off, and all these thoughts proved to be massively incorrect. Instead of all problems magically dissolving, and happiness magically replacing them, problems only reached a new degree. Suddenly, I had this new problem where some dudes were hating on me for not allowing them to treat me like a sleazy whore. The amount of insults lunged at me rose EXPONENTIALLY. Anything form "slut" (which... how is that possible if I'm NOT fucking ANYONE?), to "bitch" (not a new one), to "crazy," and an extraordinarily high amount of insults along the "dyke" line. I have never been accused of homosexuality as much as I have now at a lighter weight. Public humiliation of me has risen as well... this is definitely something I did not miss from my childhood... and now in adulthood, I find the humiliating events a little more public than they were in grade school-- bars an clubs have many more people in them... people who STILL don't do a thing to defend you. And still, still you aren't good enough, smart enough, pretty enough for the only one you give a shit about.

That grad school thing... well, no need to elaborate. Just that whole thing about me losing so much of my soul. I've seemed to patch that up by simply refusing to acknowledge it... blocked it out of my mind. But you know who did beast that shit? ...

Tyson. I met a new, much more painful version of heartbreak... heartbreak I now refuse to ever endure again. I will never again own a pet. I was also introduced to a different version of loneliness... a new level. A couple of hours after y'all chilled... Boom! Goodbye, Tyson.

There was a tiny intermission in the shitty times... an intermission that can be grouped altogether to less than a week. A week in four years. A single week where I felt as though I was floating on air... dancing on clouds.
But there's that pesky problem about flying so high-- the higher you rise, the harder you fall... the more painful, debilitating the fall.

I crashed hard... so. fucking. hard.
So.
Fucking.
Hard.
"Just another girl. Nothing more, nothing less."
"He told me not to cockblock..."
"I KNOW NOTHING'S WRONG WITH ME! She's the one with the mental problems! SHE needs to work on herself!"

I think of it all and the only thing my mind thinks, and repeatedly asks, is "How could you?"
I know I shouldn't even ask... the answer has always been there: because you never mattered, homegirl.
But my mind can't stop asking... my eyes always implore an answer when I catch my reflection in a mirror.

I apologize for the sad post... I've really been trying to be cheerful... or at least abstain from ranting or venting sad shit when I'm not having the best of day... but you see, he has been present in my mind lately.
He lived up to the hype I always said he was capable of. He reached the goal I always optimistically assured him he'd achieve-- not that I did it often, but when the subject was mentioned, and he'd go off on some pessimistic humble shit, and I'd always tell him to shut the fuck up and cut the shit... well, maybe a little less vulgar than that.
Brilliant, you're fucking brilliant. You always have been, and you always will be. I said it once, and I'll always say it.
He's a badass, officially a badass-- now verifiable to anyone and everyone... not just some timid girl with an unwavering affection for him.

Remembering our conversations of the last ten years has me nostalgic... but I'm especially nostalgic because we're currently in the middle of the only thing I could ever really talk to him about that wasn't school-related-- the World Cup.
Each time Cristiano Ronaldo was involved, I was sure to hear from him.
I lived for these occasions. A single sentence from him would brighten my week. You can ask anyone, they'd be able to tell you how I'd just beam with joy "randomly."
He'd never remember my birthday... or perhaps it was just a lack of caring for it... but major soccer events? That was my thing with him.

I waited until the last second before the game today... and then again until the day came to an end.
Silence.
Nothing.

A lot of shit happens in four years.

Just another girl-- indeed I am.

Boy oh boy

Baby showers that run past 10 PM... is that fucking normal? Is that fucking protocol now?
FUCK THAT.

I bit my tongue, swallowed my pride... and left my house during the half-time of the last World Cup game of the day.
I thought this party would be done by 8... maybe 8:30 at the latest.
The one thing being dangled over my head to keep me at this hellhole for so long? The fucking gender of the baby.
It was a gender-reveal party which also serves the purpose of a baby shower. I've never experienced this.
Besides the fact that I wanted to experience a gender reveal, I also stayed because of my stubborn, extremely persistent personality.
This little creature is a BOY! Just look at that belly!
I stayed because I wanted to prove my point.

By the time 9PM rolled around, I was anxious... visibly frustrated, constantly rubbing my forehead and burying my face into the palm of my hands.
I went to this party alone, and I'm not on good terms with the pregnant woman-- she's being a total cunt with her pregnant hormones... and I have little patience for that shit. HOWEVER, I try my best to be rational and behave myself... constantly reminding myself that she has a parasite growing inside her that is capable of controlling everything she does and thinks, and so, I take a deep breath and put up with her shit.
SO, I told myself I had to be an adult... a rational, nice adult, and go to her baby shower, even if it was me all by my lonesome... in a sea of married/divorced/coupled women who have or are going to have children.
I did my usual "pump up" routine... where I think happy thoughts, take deep breaths, listen to dance music, and try my hardest to make myself laugh. I tell myself I'm decent looking... and remind myself to not feel sorry for myself. That sort of shit. Social anxiety sucks FUCKING. DICK.
And so... after going through outfits for 30 minutes, I finally grabbed my shit and headed to the party.

Typical torture occurred at this shindig. I walked in, couldn't "see" shit because of the social anxiety that creeps up when I am first exposed to a large group of people. The first people I saw were the family of a girl I'm not too happy with (well, she's the one who is upset with me... because she can't handle my timid ways and that frustrates her, which only guilt-trips the shit out of me). I said my hellos, then finally found the pregnant woman.
I then went ahead and sat with the family of the girl who is mad at me.
This girl has a 6-month old... and so... she's the one I chilled with-- the six-month old.
I didn't eat anything, because they had a very unappetizing shrimp cocktail for food. (That's always tricky, telling a Mexican woman you're not hungry at her party)
I just sat there... tickling a little creature that was apathetic to me, not discussing a damn fucking thing beyond "Oh MAN, she has such fucking HUGE eyelashes!"or the freakish strength possessed by this same baby... ok, I also discussed proper M&M eating etiquette. (This girl eats them with a spoon... ?)
I sat there patiently waiting for this grandiose event of the baby reveal.
Mariachis came in and fucking wrecked everything... all loud and shit... flirting with all the girls... dirty, shameless flirting. They made this fucking party DRAG for what felt like an eternity.
What I must say, is I'm glad no one asked me about my relationship status or WHY I don't have kids-- I am not kidding when I say I was the only single, childless chick. They just kind of sat there, pitying me and how lonely I am... but that I can handle, since it's going to be the story of my life.

Anyway, 10PM rolled up and I was finally fed up-- I HAD to leave.
That's just crazy shit... crazy fucking shit. Parties with bottles and babies and pacifiers and pastel colors abound... no liquor or music (there were the mariachis... but that's just seven extra people we have to make room for, seven extra people with whom we must interact, seven strangers we have to applaud each time they finish a song. That's too much fucking work) or dancing... just a bunch of old, nosey ladies... bunch of loud, obnoxious kids running around giving me a fucking headache and anxiety attack thinking they're going to suffer some sort of accident... no no... no no, fuck that.

Ugh.
At least I don't feel "drained" emotionally... just irritated. I think that has to do with recent events, but I'll discuss that later, when I get some sleep in and completely forget the anxiety of this event.

Last thing on the list

Four year ago, I was so stoked about this event.
Actually, I've been stoked for this event since 1994... I can't really recall anything earlier than that.
This is my first year feeling... what I can best describe as apathetic.

I am so fucking bummed by my inability to feel any buzz.

WHAT THE FUCK, BRAIN?!
You get excited, and you get excited NOW.

Maybe I just need to get Mexico losing out of the way before I begin to feel some sort of passion. Right now I just feel like I'm flinching before someone pulls the trigger of a gun that's resting at the back of my head.

C'est la vie.

La vie est stupide. 

Karate chopping

Dad has been in Nicaragua for the last week, he actually flies in later today.

My mother, while incredibly aggressive, physically tough, violent, and tyrannical as she is, has one gigantic flaw: she is ridiculously afraid of the dark... I'm talking straight phobia status.
Mom can't listen to scary stories without panicking... and when she panics, it's not a girly panic, it's a violent "SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH AND GET OUT OF HERE! I'M NOT PLAYING" type panic. It does not matter how much we try to rationalize with her over how fucking ridiculous some of the things we're discussing might be... she will have nothing to do with it.
She will strangle a fucking intruder with her bare hands... but god forbid anyone mentions a ghost having some unfinished business in the living realm.

So, I have a scaredy-cat mom.
In Mexico, she never allowed us to sleep in our own room. Instead, Mom would scoot together both beds in the "kid's bedroom" and would have Sister, Brother, her, and me sleep in the same giant bed... with a nightlight plugged in the entire night, every night of our Mexico stay.
This was possible up until Rafa reached puberty... at around 13. By the time Rafa felt he was an adult, he moved out of the room and left Sister and I to deal with Mom's fear of the darkness.
Sister was around 13 when she decided she wanted to sleep in her own bed, so while we were still in the same room, sister got her own bed, and I shared my bed with Mom.
I STILL do that in Mexico... well, not the two final year's of my grandma's life... those summers Mom slept in the same bed as her mom... that sad sight... but we picked it right back up in 2010, and 2012.

In the states, Sister and I would sleep in Mom's bed whenever Dad left on trips with his church... this is from 2000 and on.
We did it because she is such a sad little panda when she has to go to bed, often waiting until three in the morning to finally knock out... lighting every single damn light in the house until she reaches her room.
Also, because her bed is huge and comfortable as fuck... and it's Mom... c'mon, that's just some comforting shit.

So... guess what I've been doing all week... Yep, I've moved in to Mom's room.
I've been watching the lady go to sleep each night... kind of easy, considering she snores and it drives me too fucking insane to go to sleep at a godly hour.
I think the stress of dealing with her snoring was finally pent up long enough for me to lash out last night... well, I guess technically yesterday.
I was sleeping, and it was some time between 3-4 in the morning, when I woke up as I felt my left hand raising in the air. I know I was having some sort of aggressive dream, and that I woke up when I felt my arm in the air and thought "HOLD UP... this is happening for real!" I saw my mother was in the fetal positing, her back to me, and my arm was already half way down into the karate chop. I was fully awake when my karate chop hit the little lady smack dab in the middle of her left rib.
That's right, I karate chopped my sleeping mother.
I saw Mom flail upon my hand making contact... and I immediately closed my eyes.
I'll just act asleep and make her think she dreamt the physical contact...

Guys, I felt terrible.
But I did laugh uncontrollably when my mind randomly decided to remind me of the night's activity as I was driving home from the gym.

When my mother returned from work, I couldn't stand the guilt, and I finally told her what happened. My mother asked me to reenact the scene, since she had no recollection of it ever happening. When I landed my hand on her ribs, she immediately felt the pain where I had karate chopped her.
Mom: Oh my god... you could have killed me!
Me: Don't be dramatic... it was an accident. I did it all the time to D.
Mom: You need to stop watching all that stupid ID channel, murder garbage.
Me: No, you just need to quit being so lame about the dark.
Mom: I think you're better off single...

She might be right... I may be able to karate chop my mother in my sleep without any repercussions... but a man? I'd get my own 20/20 episode.

NEVER trust aces

You know what really clears a muddled mind? Losing at poker.

Today was spent running around the Rio... rooting for people.
Everything was fun... the thought of the endless possibilities had me buzzing with excitement.
I saw all but ONE of my poker favorites... yeah, I have those. After all these years of distancing myself from the poker world, I realized I'm still completely enthralled by this skill... and the people who excel at it.
The dudes are still hot as fuck, and the girls are still intimidating as fuck.

Anyway, I spent my morning at the Rio, but left at noon to hit the gym. It was the worst hour I've had in a while. I kept checking my phone, dreading a text from M telling me he had busted out of the tournament.
But no... it was so fucking exciting... because he'd send me updates on how low his stack was running, and I'd calm him down... and when he'd triple up, I'd keep him level headed so he'd avoid pulling overconfident moves.
After gym time was completed, I went home and washed up as soon as possible... just to head back out to the Rio to catch more of the action.

I was STILL so overjoyed by the fact that 6 in the afternoon had rolled around and M was STILL playing. Six hours in a turbo tourney is pretty fucking praise-worthy.
Anyway, I strolled around the different ballrooms (I believe 12 of them were seeing action), checking out my favorite players... checking out the gorgeous men... then heading back to the room where M was competing.
I walked into the enormous room and was startled by the sight. The room was completely empty except for a single corner... 1/6 of the room. There were only 20 tables left of people playing, and M was one of them.
As I took my place in front of the cord that held us plebeians apart from the poker rockstars, I locked my sight on M's baseball cap. I then proceeded look at the people in the remaining tables. Not even five seconds into my scan, I saw M stand up.
Oh God no...
I thought perhaps he had pulled a huge move... and he was so excited he was standing... or maybe he had a cramp... but then he started walking towards me.
N-ohhhh!
I remained silent only because there was a large number of spectators... but my heart broke the moment M made eye contact with me.
He busted out 200th, with pocket aces (as in, he had a pair of aces). He went all in, and would have quadrupled up, but the chip leader at the table scored a straight on the flop (first three of five cards drawn).
That felt like shit, I can't imagine how much that's amplified for M.

I'm still bummed out about it, and I didn't spend a single dime today, OR waste six hours sitting in a chair lying my ass off.

On our drive to the Rio we discussed ugly hands. Verbatim, I said "Pocket Aces... NEVER TRUST pocket aces. Don't go all in with that shit." I then told him the story of how I got so black-out drunk the winter of '09 in Mexico, where I played tequila-shot poker, and lost an 8-shot bet because I was an idiot who trusted pocket aces.

My psychic vibe is out of control.

(Off topic, sort of, but a little in line with the psychic vibe: this weekend M and I chatted like we did back in '08, the height of our friendship. We were talking up a fucking storm... like literally two besties. He let me in on a secret of one of our mutual friends... well, technically it involves three of our mutual friends. I always knew something was fishy between one of our dude friends and one of our female friends... and today I found out that they were indeed fucking, all behind the back of the dude's girlfriend... who is friends with ALL OF US. I may have mentioned my suspicions last year, when I hung out with all the young kids from the bay, and I mentioned how one of the chicks was definitely in love with one of the coupled dudes. THEN we spent the rest of tonight rummaging through M's ex-girlfriend's page. AND he said what I had been saying all of 2010: "What the fuck did I see in her? Now that I look at her... she's... ugly... What the hell was wrong with me, AnoMALIE?" I would have cried over this maybe a year ago... but now? It made me laugh... not at the expense of the ex, but at M... and my own luck. Fucking wack how time validates me... when it's too late for anything. This is how my entire life is going to be spent, I'm sure... might as well get a fucking sense of humor about it... can't be fucking crying all the damn time)

Department store

Discussing my relationship issues with a guy... that's fun.
I don't normally discuss relationships with others, especially not men... and I especially don't often have men ASK to hear details about my relationship issues. It's weird.
Discussions normally go:
Dude: You single?
Me: Yep.
Dude: Aight, cool. Wanna chill?
Me: Sure.
Ten minutes later, dude tries to touch me.
Me: What the fuck are you doing?
Dude: You're single, what's your problem?
Me: Don't touch me, that's my problem.
Dude: Dyke.
Me: Fuck you.
Dude: You ain't even cute. Fatass.

I feel horrible when I find out a dude likes me... even worse when I learn that after letting him know that I don't do relationships, and that I'm really one really fucked up chick, they still harbor the crush... or whatever I can call that weird attraction they have. I feel bad because I know their crush is not going to take them anywhere, only down a road that will end in their hatred/resentment of me.

I feel like a freak because of the way my heart works. It seems it's terribly uncommon to like people the way I do... it makes me feel crazy, actually.
Is it normal for someone to like one person... well, to only feel with one person? One person for a very extended period of time? And that when you realize this feeling for the guy will never be reciprocated, instead of looking for someone who will make you forget... or almost match your feeling for the one who scorned you... you just feel yourself go numb? I'm talking... absolute numbness... where you feel absolutely NOTHING for anyone... where in the place in your mind where everything was bright and chirpy and hopeful, it's all just this huge blank... absolute darkness, where you don't have happiness or sadness, just... nothing.
There's no desire, no need... no hope, no... no memory... no idea of what it's all supposed to be like.

I've been entertaining Mario this weekend. He's in town for the famous tournament that's in town... of the addictive activity I had to quit a few year back...
He came to town on his own, and knows no one, and since we've agreed we're adopted family, I took him in.
It's been a chill time. We've really just hung out in his room, chatting about life. He tells me his future plans for his career and love life... he even discussed his past relationship.
M: Guess who told me to say hi to you! You're going to laugh!
Me: Ummm... is it a guy?
M: It's a girl. A blond girl...
Me: Your ex?
M: Yeah! Can you believe that? I told her I would, but that you were going to burst out laughing.
Me: Why would I burst out laughing?
M: Because it's Heather!
Me: So? We're friends in real life...
M: Come on... we all know you don't really like her... you were only nice to her to not make things awkward for me... because you...
Me: No, I really like her as a person. She's great. And I'm glad she thought of me.
M: You know she only said that to piss me off, right? Come on... everyone knows you...
Me: No. You're my brother.

I have moments where I just admire him as he irons his clothes... or brushes his teeth... or reads his email... or answers a text... or even switches the television channels.
I love this kid... I know his mannerism... his quirks... I can predict his movements... but I'm not in love with him.
I loved this kid for so long... I was so in love with him... and now, I search for the feeling... and it's like it never existed.
You know what does exist? The particular pang of pain (writing the alliteration killed me more than it killed you to read it) his rejection inflicted. That feeling is still there, raw as ever.
When he hugs me, it's tight... but it... it's so fucking apologetic... it hurts.
Yesterday, as we walked through the poker tables, smiling and laughing as we people watched, our hands bumped into each other. I quickly apologized, but he, instead of removing his hand, grabbed my hand. I turned to look at him as he stood to my right. I smiled, and did not remove my hand.
M: Walk behind girls. People will always make way for girls.
Me: ... you do understand I AM a girl, right?
M: I meant sluts. You're too polite and get manhandled easily... let me show you how it's done.

As he walked me through the crowds of tourists, all I could think of was how badly I wanted a tiny gesture of this nature five years ago. Now, it just feels like... a guide, you know, what it really is. It's not a man shielding the woman he loves... a man showing society his concern for this particular woman... it was just a friend making sure his idiot shy friend wouldn't get trampled by the glittery hoes decked out in six inch heels.
My heart wasn't fluttering, my cheeks weren't flushing... I was just quietly following my friend who wanted to exit a casino. I was following like a lost little girl follows a store employee in a department store.

The moment I got home, I broke down into violent sobs.
I don't feel anything... I don't... I don't have anyone. I don't love anyone. I don't feel anything.

I never thought being numb would be so damn terrifying.

Sweetness leaves the Earth

I know I have wild mood swings... and I can either be irritatingly joyful, depressed to a worrisome degree, or in the middle of a blinding rage. I try to be rational and calm for the most part... try to find an explanation for things, after all, it's how I try to calm myself down when I find myself in a scary mood.
How is this helping you in any way? How is screaming all these profanities at an unsuspecting lady driving down the street helping in any way?
Ok, and locking yourself in your room in complete darkness is going to uplift your spirits... how...?
I know this is fun... but take it down a notch... you're getting a little too loud and obnoxious, homie.

For the last month, I've been dealing with this inexplicable sense of fear-- not dread, but fear.
The scariest moment was a couple of weeks ago, when I woke up in the middle of the night, scared out of my mind, with my heart pounding in my chest... and just KNOWING something was standing in the corner of my room, to my left... I just KNEW something or someone was there-- a masculine energy-- staring at me. It was a dark figure, and I saw it when I opened my eyes and looked over-- heart pounded so hard, I swore I was going to suffer a heart attack-- then I closed my eyes and told myself I'd keep my eyes closed and act as if I was asleep.
It can't do anything to me if it thinks I'm asleep... act asleep... breathe slowly... don't move... DON'T open your eyes.
It was agonizing... so fucking agonizing.
I sat paralyzed in my bed, trying to stay calm as I felt my left leg grow BURNING hot for a good five seconds, then immediately ice-cold. Then again to the burning, but this time up to my stomach... where I could have sworn my bed sheet was catching fire (no, I was not thinking of the Hunger Games), and again the scary cold on the leg. It was so goddamn terrifying and befuddling.
WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON?! DON'T open your eyes, AnoMALIE!
After what felt like an eternity, I finally opened my eyes and reached for my phone, turning on the flashlight function.
The time was 3:36 AM. I wanted to piss my pants... I HATE waking up at three in the morning... because I do believe that's a bad hour... fuck 3 AM.

This sort of shit happens to my sister all the time-- she's the one who sees "dead people." She's the one who suffers those paralyzing moments where dead family members come up to her and speak to her (in her latest episode, she saw Tyson, happily wagging his tail and licking her face, which removed all sense of fear in her... and that's when my paternal grandmother appeared. Sis was embarrassed to tell me about it because she thought I'd laugh at her because of a dog "speaking" to her, but it was totally the opposite. I'd fucking kill-- not literally-- to see Tyson one more time, my love). My "ability" is to sense when someone close to me is going to die... which I think is better than that petrifying shit I felt.

Anyway, after that scary shit, I kept getting perturbing dreams. I kept waking up and telling my mom "Someone's trying to talk to me... a dead person... or... do you know of someone who recently died or is dying? Because that homeboy or homegirl wants to talk to me. Someone has some unresolved issues or some shit."
Then last week, as I was driving to the gym, I tried changing the radio station as I backed out of the garage, and my car refused. I'd be able to turn the nobs, but when I'd press enter, either on the steering wheel or the MMI (multi media center... Audi is a classy bastard), I'd get nothing. Then, randomly, the station switched to a non-existent station, where I listened to white noise. I could not switch on or off or to the satellite radio, or CDs... my car was forcing me to listen to white noise... for the 20 minute commute.
Oh FUCK... FUCK FUCK! I just fucked up my car... it isn't even a year and a half old! My mom's going to fucking murder me!
I spent gym time freaked the fuck out over what I was going to tell Mom about my fucked up car.
When it was time to go home, I turned on my car, and it was back to normal. Instead of feeling relief, I felt another type of fear...
Uhm... is Mr. WillyBoy... haunted? What. The. Fuck? I think I preferred it when I thought it was a mechanical issue...

I came home and told Mom all about it.
Mom: Keep watching your scary shows, AnoMALIE... serves you right!
Me: Mom... someone's going to die.

Tuesday night, as I sat in my room, I was on my way to the bathroom when I heard--clearly-- someone call out my name. Clearly.
I didn't feel scared, since the name was called out very calmly... none of that haunting shit you hear in movies.
I thought it was Mom trying to ask me for a favor... even if the voice wasn't anything like hers (that woman screams like she's at the Superbowl, regardless of where her audience may be, despite what ever mood she may be in).
When I walked over to the living room and asked what she needed, she was surprised I was out there.
Mom: I didn't call you, Mija... it's almost midnight.

This morning, I woke up weepy... a heavy feeling on my chest... and I was just... randomly crying... crying hard... out of the blue.
At first, I thought maybe I was just regrouping from all this BoxingTrainer Drama bullshit of the last days... that I was upset with myself for blowing up the way I did.
Then in the middle of my gym routine I get the text: my maternal grandpa's brother-- the sweetest, gentlest one-- passed away.
And so... there I sat amongst the weights... crying like a pussy.

You know... I try to rationalize shit... to debunk all this supernatural shit... but I can't. So many strange little nothings occur to me... they all build up... and while I can't tell WHAT will happen, or when it'll happen... or TO WHOM it'll happen... it ends the same: I lose a loved one.
I don't know how the person will die, when he will die, or WHO will be the one dying... I just know the loss will hurt me.
I wish I could point to a particular person and say "Hey, you, love the fucking shit out of your grandpa right now... because he's going to die... he has been coming to me at night, scaring the shit out of me... and I think it's because he wants me to tell you to quit being a cunt and go say goodbye to him like a normal person. He misses you... now GO!" but I can't. Instead I sit in my room, paranoid as fuck, hoping these creepy things stop... or for them to just become clearer and tell me how I can help out or whatever the fuck needs to be done.

Godspeed, uncle. You were a sweet, caring man. Thank you for proving not only to me, but to the rest of the Hometowners that the M******* men are capable of deeply loving, and respecting women... giving your wife her rightfully deserved respect, and treating her with the endless love you promised her until the very end.
I will miss your stories... your romantic, adorable stories.
Thank you for being one of the only souls capable of, and CONCERNED with, bringing back my grandfather from the dark side to which he always fell victim.

What a Woman

Today, I woke up with a lovely little reminder of my extreme rage from the previous night: another fucking coldsore.

The anger only escalated when I woke up to see a couple of fucking IDIOTIC cunts had decided to give lip (I had angrily posted something on the swindling trainer's page the night before)... which is something you should never try with me before I've had any sort of sustenance. I will fuck up ANYONE who tries to fuck with me when I'm running on an empty stomach... in the fucking morning (just ask my brother). Fuck that shit. Throw me some patronizing comment and I will lob that shit right back.

SO YEAH, I was angry... borderline furious, before 9 AM.

Then weird shit started happening:
Men started hitting on me, left and right.
I needed to get my eyebrows threaded. Guess what happened to me in the parking lot of the threading establishment... and then inside the establishment... then when I left the establishment-- I was shamelessly (I'm currently fond of that word. I trust I'll find good synonyms soon) checked out by men as though I were a piece of meat. I had all black clothing, no makeup, and my hair was held back by a headband-- in other words, I was a fucking bum. However, I guess my pent up aggression/rage was making me look fucking irresistible to men... or maybe I was just bumping into psychopaths who like bitches who would probably headbutt the fucking shit out of them... they're into that bondage, BDSM shit and I look like one hell of a dominant.
I had to take lunch to my mother at work. What happened to me at the restaurant's parking lot, inside the restaurant, and the freeway as I was taking Mom her lunch? Men checking me out.
I had a nice chat session with Mom as she ate the lunch. Two cholos who had to be in their early 20's showed up to pay their month's diesel bill... as they sat there counting their stacks of cash, they'd steal glances at me... smiling when we'd make eye contact, me trying to look as apathetic as possible (Homies, you're counting 101 $100 bills... keep your eyes on THAT).
When I finally decided it was time to return home, work suddenly swarmed with customers. Three drivers walked into the store to pay for their diesel, and two of them I noticed became all weird and shy... and kept staring at my face.
GOD DAMN IT... CUT IT OUT! I have a fucking coldsore! Leave me alone!
While I did want to scowl at them to force them to quit staring at me, I did otherwise because they are, after all, our customers.
As I walked out and turned on my vehicle, I noticed one of the drivers walked back outside and looked around, as if looking for someone.
This guy... so dramatic... does he think he's in a Novela?

Cut to dinner time, as I washed the dinner plates.
Mom: Mija! HAHAHA! I know what I forgot to tell you!
Me: Ummm... I'm kind of scared to ask.
Mom: Today I heard... you won't believe what I heard.
Me: ... what?
Mom: You left this one guy STUNNED.
Me:... ?
Mom: At work, did you see that younger bus driver? That well-dressed, short Mexican guy?
Me: Umm... the short one with the hair? (the other one who stared at me was rocking a cholo fade)
Mom: Yes, him. When you walked out, he followed you out, then walks back in and goes "Ma'am, with all due respect... but... who was that gorgeous woman who was just in here? The one who just left" And I said "My daughter?" And he goes "So she WAS your daughter? Once again, with all due respect, but... WHAT A WOMAN!'
Me: EW MOM... WHY did you have to tell me that? EW.
Mom, laughing hysterically: He was literally stunned... like he had just been witness to a miracle.
Me: My life was better before you told me that... I feel fucking gross now. EW. The fuck is wrong with him?

I'm over here poutin' 'n shit... all I want to do is throw my fucking tantrum in peace and angrily carry on with my day, and motherfuckers won't even let me do THAT in peace.

I am a below-average looking, shy chick... chill the fuck out men, you'll find five hotter chicks within thirty seconds of bumping into me. Keep cool, and carry on, blood.

Horse shudder

Many people I know consider horses to be "dumb" animals.
I've always been fond of horses. I find horses to be noble and silly... and smart.

My summers spent in Mexico always involved camping trips to the mountains, campsites to which we traveled to on horseback.
There trips taught me to trust horses.
Horses were able to see things we could not... they would sense danger.
While the group of people would be distracted by the beauty of the scenery, or just conversation, someone would randomly have their horse buck, immediately bringing the rest of the horses to an abrupt halt.

We'd be annoyed by the halting, since our initial reaction would be to kick the horse so it'd quit being such a stubborn little jerk and just get us to our destination... but then we'd end up having to apologize to the beast when we'd spot the huge snake camouflaged in our path.
Horses are SO good at sensing danger... and they don't shy away from expressing their qualms.
Naaah, bitch! I'm not moving... there's some bad shit over there. Fuck off.
That's their attitude... you can just tell that's what they're thinking... as you feel their skin crawl underneath you... you feel and hear their shudder.


While I'm definitely not 100 percent when it comes to judging a person's character, I do have a perfect record when it comes to people I initially dislike.
Too often I've been wrong about someone I immediately like upon first meeting them... but I've never been wrong about someone I initially disliked.
I don't dislike many people... being repelled by someone upon introduction is a rare occasion for me (I'm that dummy who WANTS to believe EVERYONE is a good person with no ill will towards anyone)... but like the good ol' horses, I have a visceral reaction to it. I literally feel something inside me shudder and my gut will feel as though it's on a very uncomfortable free-fall... and I will refuse to budge on my distrust of the person. Something in my mind will quietly, but sternly say "No."
I will try to convince myself to be nice to the person... give them a chance to prove me wrong... and in doing so, my energy will drain and I will grow increasingly aggressive/resentful toward the person.

AND THEN the person in question proves me right. The fucking dirtbag will prove to me what a worthless, shiesty motherfucking piece of shit he has always been.
I will be angry about the person being a piece of human garbage, but angrier about the fact that despite every fiber of my being telling me to ditch this piece of shit before he gets to fuck me over, I ignored my read on him and allowed it to happen.

I honed this ability for a while during my poker playing days. This was probably the time where I took full advantage of my read on people and profited from it (in all reality, I wound up breaking even, completely even).
Of course, I had to stop with the poker because it was really fucking with my sleeping... and my overall attitude... since it was an all-consuming addiction... where I'd grow FURIOUS with anyone who tried to interfere with my tournament times. The price I had to pay for normalcy was losing my acute ability to read people... bad people... dishonest people.

But then days like today happen... days where I learn I still possess some of this ability. I am STILL perfect on my read on BAD people... but it doesn't feel good to know it.... because it means I STILL encounter shitty people.

My boxing "trainer" turned out to be SUCH a lying piece of shit... and I FELT it from the get-go... from the moment that fool touched my hand when I took the initiative to shake his hand in order to introduce myself. Today he helped me realize I'm still good at catching bad people... bad people like him.
I learned I need to quit ignoring my gut. While I wish everyone was awesome and I was just a judgmental, stubborn bitch... it just isn't so... people out there can be horrible rats.

I hope I never have to be correct about bad people again... it fucking sucks to encounter legitimately SHITTY humans.

How YOU doin'?

The summer of 1999 was rough on me.
The previous summer had been incredible-- I was encountering a surge in popularity due to me suddenly hitting puberty and looking sort of different to the people in Hometown (I'm notorious for being pretty constant in appearance. People freak the fuck out when I change). As the year progressed, puberty hit me HARDER and I ballooned.
A girl can never gain weight without others being hypercritical and vocalizing their disgust... because the girl deserves all that berating because FUCK HER for being such a fucking slob... because all fat people are subhuman fucking slobs. They need to be put in their place.(SARCASM, here, ok... just had to place the disclaimer)

SO, while I spent that summer in Mexico continually contemplating suicide and hovering dangerously close to the edges of the town's bridge... I did have a couple of friends.
My best friends were my two cousins I've mentioned previously... the pretty girls.
This close friendship with the pretty girls made me popular with the cute guys... because they wanted me to hook them up with my friends.
This was my initiation to the DUFF Club.
Good fucking times in that club... I dare say I have a lifetime membership. (There's that sarcasm again-- the good times, that is... I'm pretty rock solid about my lifetime status)

Anyway, that summer, a pair of twins seemed to be the most active in seeking my help in coupling them with my friends.
These twins were BY FAR the most popular men in the entire municipality... like most fucking twins.
This constant chill-time spent with the twin boys made me popular because other girls wanted me to put in a good word for them... but also popular with the same girls because they'd proceed to gossip about what a whore I was (this always confused me. One minute I'm a fat cow/pig no one wants to be seen with, and the next I'm a whore... when would I have time to fuck all these guys when everyone was so concerned with publicly ostracizing the shit out of me?).
Like the lonely, sad girl I was, I tried to oblige EVERYONE as best as I could.
The only people who seemed to NOT be ashamed of being seen with me where these twins.
Needless to say, I did get them each a shot with their girls... and I (thought I) formed a close bond with the dudes.

Fast forward to the fall of '99 and how my time only WORSENED as I entered a new school... as a Freshman in High School... an ex-ghetto Mexican-American girl in an affluent, vastly-white school.
The ostracism reach a completely different level, and my only friends were those willing to chat with me on-line.
These twin boys were some of the few who'd still chat with me.
One day, I commented how one of the twins-- let's call him V-- looked like the little boy on Seventh Heaven. I meant it as a compliment, David Gallagher was fucking beautiful, but V took it as the most horrendous personal attack, so he fired right back.
"Yeah? Well, you're Betty La Fea, only the fat version."
Ugly Betty... he called me Ugly Betty (imagine my distress when America Ferrera played this role years later... apparently we look alike, according to EVERYBODY), only he added the extra punch about the weight at the end.
BOOM! Nuclear War.
I let that bitch have it... I unleashed all the built up hatred in my heart and told him every single bad thing about him.
I'm terrible when it comes to speaking, but give me the opportunity to attack you in a written form? I will FUCK. YOU. UP.

Our friendship ended that moment.

I had not spoken to this twin since that incident. I have remained on good terms with his twin, but have gone out of my way to avoid that idiot V-- despite the fact that we're actually 3rd cousins (our grandfathers were very close).

Well, guess who I bumped into this afternoon as I walked out of my hardcore workout? Good ol' Simon Camden (aka "V").
He was on his way into the gym, but throwing something into a garbage can directly in my path, so when I looked up in order to avoid colliding with the can, I noticed him. I stared him in the face until he made eye-contact with me.
Like the idiot I've always been, I greeted him with a giant smile and loud acknowledgement.
"Hey, V!"
He, in typical V fashion, stared at me like he's carefully wafting some unknown concoction in high school chemistry class... looking down at me as if I'm a lowly plebe to his royal highness.
I don't know if he recognized me, but he stopped, and VERY shamelessly maneuvered his entire body so he could check out my ass-- unabashedly STARE at my asscheeks-- and uttered the phrase I will mock for the rest of my life:
How you doin'?

Now, I wouldn't make so much fun of this... had he been JOKING... but NO! He was serious.
He did not look me in the eye... he did not utter my name-- he stared at my spandex-clad ass while dropping the sleaziest line known to humankind... he spoke to my ass.
!
?
!

I laughed, continued walking forward (if he wanted to stare at my ass, what was the point of me just standing there trying to hold eye-contact like a normal, conscious creature?), threw up the peace sign (for real, I did all that... I don't know where I got the self-esteem to be that cool, but I did) and raised my voice loud enough for him to hear me say "I'm doing well!"
I did not look back.
I kept walking to my car (so fucking far away... all these "Beach Body" fanatics are making gym-life difficult), randomly bursting out into uncontrollable, childish giggles... with me occasionally repeating V's line, in the same tone and everything (nice to know my impersonation-tendencies return to me when I'm greatly amused).
"How you doin'?"

Today, the 7th Heaven goody-goody died and arose from its ashes only to become Joey Tribbiani.

Ps. V is now fat.
TAKE THAT, MUTHAFUCKAAAAA!

All of it?

Planning any trip has been a complete fiasco this year.
I'd be more upset about it, however, seeing how it has been happening with every single planned trip, I can't help but see it as a sign.

This Cancun trip... goddamn.
It was meant to be strictly relaxation time... with a few friends. Just chill time by a body of water, with the daily trip to the bar to passionately scream at whatever soccer match would be going on... with some more relaxation afterward.

So far, everyone has had to work during the week we have planned for the vacation... all except one, because she's unemployed.
This woman? My mother's sister.
"Just pay for your plane ticket, and your dinner, and you're good," my mother told her.
This seems reasonable, right? We're footing the cost of the rooms... that's reasonable as fuck, if you ask me.
Well, now we're not on speaking terms with the woman because she's PISSED we asked her to pay for her own fucking plane ticket... despite my mom telling her she'd pay for the room and one of her meals each day.

...
I don't get that shit. I don't get it AT. ALL.
I'd be angry about it, but this seems to happen so much with my dad's side of the family, I've pretty much gotten over others feeling entitled to free shit from us (a few weeks ago, Dad's little sister ASKED for a house... no lie... a fucking house). Well, I'm over feeling enraged... that is, I feel sad now, but not angry.
I'm increasingly upset now because my mom's sister is the culprit behind this latest episode of... entitlement... and then for her to act like the offended party.
... What?

So... my mother is sad, because this is something she has always had to deal with since her childhood (her family was the richest in the town, so others were always taking advantage of her siblings and her), which has now reached a new level because it's now her sister who has once again tried this sheisty move.
And me? Well, I'm just dumbfounded by it all. Oh, I'm also frustrated... you know, because nothing is working out.

I just want to be far, far away... disconnected from everyone and everything... occasionally laughing in the company of strangers... but all signs point to me staying put in my good ol' hometown.

Blahhhhh.
People are interesting.

Hedgehog Bear-Wolves

I dreamed I was standing in a huge mansion in the middle of some country side (too much "Million Dollar Listing"). The house had enormous windows, and was more like a fancy log cabin on stilts, more than anything, just sitting in the middle of the forest.
I remember standing in front of a huge window, staring out below to a very green clearing in the back yard as I sipped on some red wine (I don't even like that shit).
That's where I'm somehow informed of Darcy marrying BB.
I didn't cry or any of that dramatic shit... I just sat there like "Well... fuck," and went back to staring out the window (so that's what the wine was for!).
Slowly, this hedgehog came out of the woods, and then a second smaller one followed, and immediately after, a baby hedgehog waddled over into the clearing.
Just as I was going to begin to baby-talk the "cute little hedgehog family!" I noticed the animals were morphing into giant beasts... they were suddenly what I can best describe as a crossbreed between a hedgehog and grizzly bear... and a grey wolf. It was a fucking monster. Huge-ass bears with the shoulders of a fucking hedgehog... fucking giant fangs the size of my leg.
"What. The. Fuck."

Then I woke up.

... That's one way to make me not give a shit about my pathetic love life.