Thursday, July 31, 2014


I'm a magnet for drunk texts, however, I'm a newbie for random "nice" texts... This one taking the cake for... oddly nice/kinda scary:

I woke up to that text yesterday and was a little embarrassed over how confused it made me.

I'm over here having family drama and angst... and this friend of mine is more concerned about me than my "blood." I wouldn't even say she was a close friend of mine... well, she's a GOOD friend, however, I wouldn't say I know her hopes and aspirations... or even any sort of secret of hers.
ANYWAY, I was very touched by this, to see how concerned she was over a dream... my imaginary death (I made the mistake of asking how I died, and she just said it was "an accident" where I died. "An accident"... how vague of an answer was that? Did I get run over? Did I crash? Was it a PLANE?! Did I fall down some stairs? At least it takes out the possibility of some intruder murdering me in my sleep... or me being taken for ransom where my captors get fed up with me and just murder me... though it does not remove the possibility of someone "accidentally" shooting me... "accidentally" stabbing me).
Recently, a number of friends have reached out to me in a very kind way... and it is making me a little paranoid. I don't want to get all superstitious and dumb over here... but it freaks me out just A TINY BIT to see these people be very nice to me and saying sweet things they've never said to me before... it does sort of make me wonder if my death is right around the corner. I mean, I'm even on REALLY GOOD terms with Musketeer's wife... if that isn't a warning sign of my looming death, I don't know what is.
DO THEY KNOW SOMETHING I DON'T? AM I DYING?! Can they sense I'm about to fucking die?! Should I get right with God right now... not that I was too wrong in the first place, but yo, if I can get a couple of Hail Marys and Lord's Prayers in there before I croak, that'd be cool...

I will say it right now: If I DO die anytime soon, and you see ANYONE from my paternal side try to pull this emotional "I LOVED HER SO MUCH!" "SHE WAS THE BEST!" type of drama people do when placing the dead on a pedestal, please, please, PLEASE call them out on it. It'll be total bullshit... and nothing will make me happier than someone telling them just how much I disliked them and how poorly they made me feel (well, unless it's my dad's oldest sister-- only she and her husband get a pass. Their kids, however, are the worst, DON'T allow any one of those three to say shit about me or even attempt to get emotional... I'll come back from the dead and haunt the shit out of everyone if that occurs).

(In all seriousness, I just think people can sense I've been very much depressed lately, and are only trying their best to be very nice to me... that, or they're pregnant)

Monday, July 28, 2014

El aterrizaje

And as if by magic or some telekinetic/psychokinetic ability, after posting that last "wtf?" update, I randomly switched to a movie that had just started.
The movie captivated me... I was gone, owned, after these words were spoken:
"C’est l’histoire d’un homme qui tombe d’un immeuble de cinquante étages. Le mec, au fur et à mesure de sa chute se répète sans cesse pour se rassurer: jusqu’ici tout va bien, jusqu’ici tout va bien, jusqu’ici tout va bien.
Mais l'important c’est pas la chute, c’est l’atterrissage."

I can't begin to describe how much this spoke to me.
Straight to my bones.
Unbeknownst to me, this has been my life motto since... I was a child. I didn't know it was a real thing, apparently a real thing since at least 1995.

Fucking French... they sure fucking know how to reach me. 
The Universe will have none of my hate towards them... constantly forcing me to make up with them after showing me some cool French shit.
You win, France.

Jusqu'ici tout va bien...

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Don't move

Currently just standing completely still, watching as everything around me falls in the most random order, each piece at different speeds, different levels of violence, but each managing to startle the shit out of me.
I'm only sure of one thing: stand as still as fucking possible if I want to avoid incurring any further injury. The chaos eventually pauses, if only for a couple of seconds... but enough for me to inhale once or twice.

Good god...

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Second anniversary

I see him prancing around green fields, or locked in my Mexico home, or under that fig tree... the few times my boy visits me in my dreams.
Sometimes I'm having a great time camping and smiling at once again seeing my buddy, others I'm bursting at the seams with excitement thinking I have finally found him, only to feel the cruel sting of disappointment after realizing it wasn't him.

I just want to see him, touch him... even SMELL him. Never thought I'd miss his smell.
I want to hear him snore in his sleep, snort when he's hungry... do his happy prance when he'd see me carrying his bowl of thoroughly-mixed dry and wet food.
I want to feel him playfully bump the side of my leg with his ridiculously muscular thigh... I'd even be cool with him breaking one of my nails with the swat of his crooked little tail when he'd get overly excited.

I feel ridiculous knowing I could love an animal this much... that I'd MISS him this much... that I'd get so animated recounting one of his stories (I do it every time I remember the simplest little things he did... I think I do it as a way to overcompensate for the horrible sadness I feel knowing I'm talking about my dead little guy... try being overly-happy while talking to keep from bursting into tears... which doesn't always work).
I honestly feel SO STUPID over how much pain I feel over his death... even after two years. Each time, each and every time I look out my window to the backyard, my initial feeling is immediate sadness-- each. and every. time.

I've been told this attachment and suffering of mine for a dog says a lot about ME and how I interact with other people.
But... don't they stop and think that perhaps the fact that I can be this attached to an animal, to love a dog this much... to think that at some point in my life, the ONLY creature showing me any sort of kindness and support, the ONLY thing encouraging me to keep waking up each morning, was a simple, stupid, "soulless" dog... doesn't that say more about PEOPLE?

I'm no longer at that low I found myself in when I was given Tyson, now I DO have kind, loving people in my life... and while my lows are hardly ever as low as they once were, I'm much better at climbing out of the abyss.
However, the fact remains that there was that time in my life, a time where I felt so fucking ostracized and ridiculed and... humiliated... and worthless... and fucking invisible and disgusting... and not ONE person would step up to help me out of it. Of the people in my surrounding, not one fucking human gave ONE single fuck.
That time I walked through school after having some dude dump salsa all over me during lunch break... salsa dripping from my hair... how many PEOPLE helped me out? None.
The times I'd walk past the park in Mexico, hearing boys moo and oink at me while the girls would laugh... how many told them to stop? NOT ONE.
People preferred DISTANCING themselves from me in order to avoid getting swept in the abuse... my siblings included. When I'd be around my family and they'd ask me STUPID questions as to why I was alone and I'd shrug, what would be my mother's response? "Haven't you looked at yourself in the mirror?!"
I mean, theoretically your family's supposed to love and defend you, especially in your time of need... these PEOPLE, yet in my case, they were just fueling the fire by turning a blind eye.
And just as I was fed up with putting a brave face to the world, when I was more than convinced I HAD to end it all in the quickest, most guaranteed way possible... I was given Tyson.

Others' rejection of me wasn't imaginary... it wasn't me inventing stories out of was. real. And SO FUCKING BRUTAL. SO BRUTAL. On a daily basis... for YEARS.
When my own kind was rejecting me, along came this dog... this tiny, ugly, so misunderstood breed of puppy... and gave a shit about me... thought the fucking world of me. A. FUCKING. DOG.
Suddenly, during the summers where I'd still encounter cruelty from my peers and even adults... instead of crying myself to sleep, I had this little creature worried about me, cuddling me the moment he'd see me take a seat in the backyard, licking each and every tear off my face, hands, and feet... a warm little body nudging me... urging me to play fetch with him... SMILING in my face. My ability to pick myself up was increased drastically with the introduction of Tyson.
I also had my little dog that upon seeing me walk in through my front door each day after school, would wag his tail so wildly, he looked like a wind up toy ready to burst. The thought of returning home to my amazing, silly dog was the new, sole, BEST thing that got me through the school day.
He was my anchor in the roughest waters (don't people say this about deities? Man, I'm a wreck-- pun not intended)... and helped me stick around long enough to see a clearing, to meet the amazing people I now thank for teaching me to trust in others and enjoy life. Tyson helped me stay long enough to see many of my former tormentors mature--at least become somewhat subdued.

How could you not love that creature with all of your being? How could you not suffer over the loss of that creature?
A dog... a pit bull, was the ONLY thing on the planet keeping me company, sticking by my side, and making me feel like I was worth a fucking shit, while my peers were either abusing me in any way they could, or quietly watching the harm to me occur without offering any sort of consolation or protection or END from the abuse.

I will never stop thanking that creature. I will never stop missing that creature. I will never stop LOVING that creature. Not two years after his death, not twenty years after his death.
He was my best friend, and many, MANY times my only friend... and now I can only interact with him in my dreams... the rare times my mind manages to conjure him.

So yeah... I suffer over, miss and love a dead dog.
I just had to get this off my chest. I hate others judging me for my feelings for a dog, I hate feeling stupid about STILL hurting about the death of my dog... and above all, I hate that there was ever a time in my life where the sole thing caring about me and keeping me company... and RESCUING me was an animal, a "simple fucking dog."

Sorry for the ramble, I've been crying all fucking day.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014


My left eye has been an unbalanced wreck for about a month now...
My paternal side of the family has been the worst bunch of cunts in my acquaintance for the last month...
My left foot has been healing only to be re-injured for... I don't even know how fucking long...
I've been getting backhanded compliments left and right for the last few weeks ("AnoMALIE looks very good!" Dad: You should have seen her a couple of months ago... face sunken in, bony arms... terrible, just terrible. Now she looks normal.)...


Something else that has had me smiling lately? My mom's oldest sister is in town, and we've been visiting her every day. She has been retelling some of the funniest stories I've ever heard.
First off, I was reminded why I have such an aversion for people slamming car doors.
"Deja puerta pa' mañana!" The infamous phrase my grandpa would say each time we'd slam his truck door. "Leave some door for tomorrow"... the saying was a huge part of my childhood, I would hear it at least twice a day. Before today, I hadn't heard it in a good ten years. I couldn't help but smile... crazy to see how much I inherited from that man... how much I miss him.
The second story I heard was how he once said he'd eat a shit taco "me como un taco de mierda!" if my grandma would be granted a green card... and when she did get the green card, my aunt took it to him and said "What's up?" and he just laughed and said he was joking. My aunt seriously wanted to see him eat a shit taco. Shit taco... I laughed at the thought... then gaged like a motherfucker. The mental image kills me... ugh.

There were many stories shared, but those two are the most memorable to me, currently.
I'm glad the other side of my family is capable of making me laugh until my stomach hurts... I'd hate to think what kind of human I'd be if BOTH sides were as shitty as my dad's.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Your shocked face is worse than my amused face

I have spent so much of my life bitching about the way my dad is... How he seems to have such a huge heart with everyone BUT us, his nuclear family.
The bitching blinds me from asking the important question: WHY is he like that?
Well... I have never been more convinced of the reasons behind his behavior than I am today.
Why does my dad seem to have a closed-off relationship with US-- his kids and wife? Because that's the fucking example he was given in HIS home. 
And that breaks my heart-- for HIM.

I shouldn't care, and it pisses me off to see that I DO care, I care TOO MUCH, about the treatment received from my dad's family. 

This cousin, the one I so publicly "defended" (on fucking Facebook, like a total fucking IDIOT) a while back from her ex-husband's family... the one who is super pregnant, the one I had NEVER had an issue with, had her baby shower today.
How did they invite my dad? Via text... A week before the party... a PHOTO of the paper invite.
THAT'S the invite they felt my father deserved from them... the man who has time and time again pulled them out of financial  trouble like some motherfucking bank-- only more fucking dependable... the man from whom they so audaciously demanded a house. 

This shit INFURIATED me... I'm talking "made me feel like I had swallowed molten steel" type fucking heated.
What pissed me off more? How this family acted so fucking SURE my sister was going to show up... when she had not heard of this fucking party until WE found out about the party-- on Monday.
"You are aware D has been living in Chicago for two years now, right?" Trying to play as though somehow... some magical, telepathic way, we had recieved an invite at a rational time for my sister to catch a flight/get time off at work.

My sister was upset.
"I haven't heard a word from ANYONE. It's as if I'm dead."
Hearing her say that only further upset me.

"I'm not going. And don't cover for me if someone asks. Tell them the truth: I DID NOT want to come. Why didn't D show up? Because we didn't know of this party until this Monday," I told my mom.

"It's a stupid party. Point is, you got an invite before the actual date" you might say.
But I. Don't. Give. A. Fuck. 
If you don't see malicious intent in this whole invite-drama, you're full of fucking shit. I would have been FINE with a text the moment they had a date set-- TWO MONTHS AGO. How do I know it was that long ago? Preggo-cousin's coworker, who is my close friend, told me that's when she found out. I would have been fine TWO WEEKS ago, when my dad's sister-in-law asked us if we were attending the babyshower-- she had recieved her invite then... that was an awkward conversation.

But since I don't play this fucking "passive-aggressive" BULLSHIT, I didn't cave in and act OK with this. Because I'm NOT ok with this.

But my mom and dad care about other's opinions, so they attended this party... to keep others from suspecting anything being wrong within the family.

It was a big party. In a fucking wedding venue. With lots and lots of friends and coworkers and extended family members... people from Hometown.

I have cried about this-- angry, frustrated tears. I HATE seeing this. I HATE seeing how no matter how NICE we are, and how much we have tried overlooking their "accidental" slights, they STILL go out of their fucking way to make sure to slight us, to try and make us feel so fucking insignificant.
I have stuck my neck out for every single cousin on my paternal side, and EACH ONE has fucked up so hard, and has demonstrated to me just how fucking unimportant and insignificant we are (EXCEPT WHEN THEY NEED MONEY! Let's not forget good ol' uncle MoneyBags Jesse is right there to just GIVE AWAY money based on the simple fact that he's him and you are you. He's like a fucking genie! Your wish is his command! Wish away, "family") that I can't help but be DONE with them... I can't help but cry so fucking hard, and full of so much fucking hate for them.

Then I look at my poor dad's face... I see how he is not blind to this... how he notices how shitty his family is to all of us... And I recognize his heartbreak... It upsets him... And he tries to act like he's oblivious to it... like it's fucking normal... but his little heart is SO broken.

How could I ever expect my dad to be loving and doting... when his family never showed him HOW to be that way? He has only been this fucking money-making robot to them... A robot who is expected to have no fucking feelings when he sees the rest of them enjoying a feast in the kitchen as they show him the backyard door, where he's to go eat alone like some fucking dog.
... Even dogs who help with the hunt get a bone or two...

I fucking HATE his family.

Thursday, July 17, 2014

They're all...

I was transported to some time around 2001-2008 Mexico summers... the best summers. I was sitting in the middle of a very green field, surrounded by my mom's family... her mom was happy, laughing, incredibly talkative, and chubby.
Tyson was prancing around, tongue out as if smiling, his tail up and authoritative-- my favorite stance of his. 

I woke up, that usual feeling of elation from seeing these people and laughing with them, remembering how great it felt... only to have the first words out of my mouth be "... They're all dead..." and immediately feel the worst sorrow in my chest.

These past few days... I've hated them.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Esa loca

Because finally sitting down to finish this shit is much more productive than me going out and punching every single motherfucker who has pissed me off these last few days.

Definitely not fun times for good ol' me.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Talk this shit out

How do normal people mediate an argument?
Because my method of arbitration is as follows:

"You talk this shit out, you hear me? Talk. This. Shit. Out.
I don't care how long your break is... go ahead and take separate vacations... do it tomorrow, do it next week... do it soon. Go wherever you'd like, for as long as you'd like... calm down in separate places.
But you talk this shit out right now.
I don't want to hear this crazy shit.
Talk this shit out!"

Me? In denial? No. I'm just practical.
My dad's 60, my mom's 53... I don't need two different families at this point... THEY don't need an extra family at this point... my siblings don't need to hear this shit. My folks need to chill the fuck out, that's what THEY need to do. Homies signed a contract... they need to live up to it and just chill the fuck out (evidently so do I).

How'd it go? They talked this shit out.
I saved the marriage... again... for now.

My mood sure went to shit though.

Yings and yangs can build successful partnerships when they possess a good level of patience... but when they butt heads it's a fucking explosion. Jesus Christ. (Yeah, Jesus Christ had a lot to do with this blow up. What else is fucking new? ... And they wonder why I lack enthusiasm for religion-- the topic has been the fucking BANE of my existence!)

Friday, July 11, 2014


FIGURES Mom would drop the news on me about her and Dad thinking about getting a divorce when I'm all fucking happy n shit.


Thursday, July 10, 2014

WTF is this yogi shit?

The mind is one hell of a trip!
Well, at least mine is... I bet there are much stronger people out there... there has to be, right? There's always a group of folk who refuse to get brainwashed. I know Kelley has always been someone I can depend on to never drink the Kool-Aid. Me? Homie, I like to think I don't, but sometimes I'm chugging that shit straight out of the punch bowl.
Luckily, I have numerous friends who manage to slap that bowl out of my firm grip and snap me back to healthy consciousness-- like Kelley, she does it gently, of course.

Being brainwashed, or under some weirdo spell, is hard to explain. It literally does feel like you're a numb little drone... well, it feels that way when you look at shit in retrospect. DURING the time of the mental-game, your mind is preoccupied with only thinking about... well, the subject on which you're getting fixated.

"Waking up" from the mind-lapse ranges as far as "found emotions" is concerned.
Sometimes, there's a lot of laughing... hysterical laughter at the embarrassing shit I said/did/thought (what I am currently experiencing).
Other times, there's rage... How the FUCK did I allow this to happen?! WHAT THE FUCK?! (What I usually experience)

I don't know how to snap out of shit... I mean, as in, I don't know how to do it to myself. It's not like I seek it, most of the time. I often don't feel I have to snap out of anything-- it just happens. When I snap back to reality, and being myself, I "feel" it... literally that trite shit they speak of on TV and movies... where you just feel this crazy clarity. This weight I didn't even know I was carrying, is suddenly lifted.
I go back to "feeling" like myself... you know, that upbeat kid who laughed about everything... sincerely laughed. That witty funny girl... who is sometimes a little too active and excited about shit.
No, that really IS ME. When things aren't bogging me down, I am that fucking kid who runs and laughs and skips and runs some more (I didn't start hating the whole running game until I gained tits... such a disadvantage. Jiggling boobs hurt. As a kid, no one ever tells you to enjoy your fun time running around because adulthood will more than likely give you jiggling titties that will make you pay every single skip you take).
It's pretty cool to notice this side returning to me. I honestly hate being the angry, aggressive girl I've been the last... three years or so.

What most mind-fucks me, and turns me into a complete imbecile, is the crush-- liking a dude. I guess my brain just doesn't know how to handle that shit.
"Twitterpation" is real, man, so real... and it FUCKS the shit out of me.
Will I ever learn how to handle "love"? I hope so.
But let me tell you, not being preoccupied with thoughts of a dude is liberating AS FUCK. (How do people know I'm legitimately happy? I swear a lot... A LOT. I'm reading this over and thinking "Jesus, you sure are cussing a lot right now, dude..." Sorry. Happy swearing, is all)

I like being myself.
And laughing about what an imbecile I was for... fixating.
And then apologizing to EVERYONE for my previously exhibited behavior... because it's shitty to deal with for everyone.

I think I have Monday's hangout (there were a number of us at the gathering-- all science teachers, except for me of course... which made me feel weird. I was that girl who hangs out with the folks educating college kids... the adults these youngsters bitch about online. It felt WEIRD as fuck... especially when they were all at least 10 years my seniors. "Why didn't I bump into you at school?" "Because... you were probably educating my peers and I was just lost in the sea of students? I'm a chameleon.") to thank for my current moment of clarity. The hangout and the subsequent, impromptu mini "roadtrip" was a nice, gentle slap to consciousness.

I swear, some fucking negative nancy comes over to ruin my shit, they WILL get punched. Fuck that shit, man... don't kill my good-ass vibe that takes fucking months to restore. Don't do that to me, man.
And I especially don't want some hot, hilarious man to try befriending me and once more fuck up my brain chemistry.
Come to me if you want to laugh and be happy... not so we can throw a pity party. These last few months have been a never-ending pity party that really hasn't done anything for me but legitimately injured my heart and probably shortened my lifespan (then again, who the fuck wants to live past 100? Apparently, my genes think it's a good idea... and my heart's like "Not if I have anything to say about it!" But that's a different post).

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

The fireworks

My life is composed of very fucking random episodes.

Some episodes are violent and aggressive.
Other episodes are heartbreaking.
A number of episodes are so hilarious, you could swear they were fiction.
But there's always this strange... full-circle effect. There is always one tiny detail unifying it all somehow.

"Your writing is very... unique. You manage to make successful connections between some very seemingly disparate things," a college professor once wrote on one of my essays.

July 7th, 2014
Amazing lightning strikes opaqued the brilliance of the Vegas skyline.
Rain poured against my Q7's windshield.
So much relaxed laughter.
Random, aimless driving through the wet streets, many which I was seeing for the first time.
Reminiscing. Catching up.
A single, unexpected red chrysanthemum firework going off on the side of the freeway.
Me: Woah!
Him: What?
Me: You didn't see that?
Him: What?
Me: A firework right down there just now.
Him: A firework...
Me: Someone refuses to accept The Fourth was... three days ago.
I pulled at the end of my side braid, which rested below my armpit.

July 3rd, 2007
The skies were cloudy and the climate was muggy.
I was nervous. It was awkward.
We stood outside of my 4Runner.
Him: Did you see that?
Me: What?
Him: Some dumbass is blowing up fireworks right now.
Me: Where?... I don't see them.
I nervously scratched the back of my exposed neck, still not accustomed to my bob-haircut.

Things definitely didn't work out back then... which of course, bummed me out-- rejection is never fun, but was also expected (I was at my fattest... or nearing it). I totally understood.
However, time only revealed something cooler.
Yeah, things weren't meant to be romantic, but throughout the years, our friendship definitely became one of my favorites.
He never had to write me an anthology when bothered with my issues... sometimes a word or two sufficed. One song suggestion or another would help sooth my pain for months... some have worked for years now.

Last night as I laughed in the passenger seat of my car for two hours, allowing my friend to drive wherever he pleased, I realized our friendship is undoubtedly the best thing that could have happened between us. It's a legit comfortable, effortless friendship that I don't normally experience with other dudes. I can only bet on all of that ease being nonexistent had he given me a shot seven years ago.
Instead of the awkwardness and more-than-likely resentment (from my part, obviously. I am always the resentful ex), I get to discuss how shitty life can be to both us, mid-laugh-attack... because that's how life works.

Seven years ago I was too nervous, uncomfortable, and self-conscious to notice the evening's fireworks display in the middle of a movie theater's parking lot... but yesterday I was gifted a single, perfectly fired chrysanthemum by some redneck who refused to accept Independence Day was three days gone, at the exact moment my vehicle sped by on the freeway on a rainy summer night.
All in the company of this guy.
No, no romantic little love story to see here... but certainly an enduring friendship that constantly slaps a smile on my face, and renders me tranquilized.
What more could I ask for?

(I wrote about setting up that first hangout the day before it went down. I literally ended my entry that day with "20 bucks we end up being just friends." Ha. Haha.)

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Ha-ha! I beat you!

Yesterday at the Quince, I was seated next to my youngest male (first) cousin.
I still remember when he was born, and I especially remember when we went to go visit him for the first time after he and his mom were discharged from the hospital.
This was 1993.
During his baby stage, and toddlerhood, I was his favorite person aside from his mom. I could make that baby laugh with almost anything, and I could also make him stop crying almost immediately.
Then he went to school... and he became withdrawn.
He's very thin, and regardless of what he does, he just can't gain weight. This has made him the target of much bullying and ridicule, even from his own family.
Like many bullied kids, he was forced to gain a personality... a sense of humor.
Hmm... sounds familiar...
My humor comes from my dad. My cousin's humor comes from his dad. Our dads are siblings.
SO, guess who rebuilt their tight bond...

For a good three hours, my 20 year old cousin and I caught up on life... about 15 years of it.
I learned he took French in high school... which made me realize he went to MY high school.
WAIT?! At MY high school?! Since when?! God, I'm a horrible cousin!
I learned he hated high school.
Please tell me you love college...
I learned he loves college, since it's a huge difference from the high school bullshit.

I tried giving him advice. I told him not to be in a rush to get things done, to instead be sure he loves what he is doing. I told him to explore. I told him my biggest regret about college was not traveling... not seeing the world... and majoring in something I did not love.

I loved seeing his little eyes twinkle when I'd say something that surprised him, in a good way. Apparently he thought I was a total shy wallflower with no personality... which is fair enough, since he hardly ever hear me speak after he was about five year old. Can't blame him for suspecting I'm that quiet girl who is only quiet because she can't form any type of opinion.
I felt sad thinking this poor kid knew so very little about me (he actually refuses to get a Facebook. I told him I have crazy respect for those who have cut ties with social networks), and that I knew so little about him... when our relationship started off running, practically from the moment he exited the womb.

There was ONE story which upset me... in the sense that it pissed me off.
He told me about the day our mutual cousin, C, announced her pregnancy back on Christmas last year.
I told him how D and I had to hear the story from my brother, on FB messenger, because D and I were in Mexico for a wedding.
"I heard that my dad was frozen in disbelief... and that the rest of you had no idea what was going on until Vickie (our littlest cousin who is 17) screamed out 'OH MY GOD! YOU'RE PREGNANT!" I said.
"Ha. Oh yeah... she did say that. All I really remember is that I was in a different room from where the action was happening. I was there with my mom and your mom... and I just remember my aunt (my dad's IDIOT youngest sister... the idiot who asked for a house a few weeks ago... A HOUSE!) going up to your mom and saying (while pointing at Mom's face) 'HA-HA! I BEAT YOU AT BEING A GRANDMA!'" he said.
I felt my blood boil.
"Oh yeah! I remember Rafa told me! I didn't know she made it that public, though..." I said.
"Yeah, it was THE FIRST thing out of her mouth. It was... odd," my cousin said that last part while raising his eyebrows and opening his eyes as large as possible.

Our conversation changed to a different topic, but I held on to that anger that I felt brewing inside me.
It ruined my night (well, you know, besides my whole crazy low self-esteem/social anxiety/depression issues. This shit added "rage" to the mix).

The fact that my cousin only remembers my aunt saying this shit to my mother tells me this is something his family must have discussed at his house... and not in a good way. No, I don't think they talked shit about my mom, but quite the contrary... they must have talked about what a crazy idiot sister my dad and his dad must have... to be more concerned about BEATING my mom at something rather than the fact that she was going to BE A FUCKING GRANDMOTHER.
Maaaaaaybe they might have laughed a little.

My mother must have been fuming about the whole issue when it happened.
I brought it up to her today, and she looked... sad. She did not look angry or annoyed... just SAD.
So, I did what I do best: I turn snobby and cunt-astic.
"Next time we see her, I want you to point in her face, laugh, and say 'HA-HA! ALL THREE OF MY CHILDREN ARE COLLEGE GRADUATES!' or 'HA-HA! MY HUSBAND IS NOT AN UNEMPLOYED LAZY ALCOHOLIC!' or 'HA-HA! NONE OF MY CHILDREN ARE DIVORCED!' I give you permission, Mom, I'll back you up. I'm done being nice."
She only smiled.

I hate bitches publicly mocking my momma, making her feel bad. Poor lady.
Cry all the way to the bank, Momma, all the way to the fucking bank.

Saturday, July 5, 2014


I am officially retiring from quinceañeras for a while.
No, not in participating-- that ship sailed long ago-- but attending.

The last quince I attended didn't hit me this hard... maybe because I'm not as close to that family as I am to tonight's family.
Maybe I wasn't as upset then because I basically just went in and out.

Today I sat at the party from the very beginning. I had time to sit and admire my surroundings.
And then the nostalgia monster attacked me-- violently.
Maybe I had a worse time because many of the teens present reminded me of my friends, family, and me at that age... we all do look alike, after all.
I was transported to the early '00's... which hit me pretty hard. I thought of the style, the music... the slang of the time. I thought of what it actually felt like to be a hopeful little 14 year old girl... excited about the years to come.
Excited about the upcoming years dating and flirting with boys.
Excited about finally growing out of your awkward chubby stage.
Excited about how cute your crush(es) is (are) going to get.
Excited about the motherfucking future!

God, I was so jealous of those kids and their youth... like some wicked witch in a fairy tale (now I understand why they do all that mean shit).

I was fine, smiling for most of the party... memories do make me feel warm and chirpy for a minute or two.
But the MEAN nostalgia monster takes over... and everything goes to hell.
"AND LOOK AT YOU NOW!" it seems to scream at me.
I lose all concentration and stare idly at the ground as two thirds of the room hit the dance floor-- my conscious paralyzing me with its crippling insults.
"How many of those teen dreams came true for YOU, AnoMALIE?! How much advantage did you take of your youth?! NONE!" it continues to abuse me. "You are A-L-O-N-E! Your dreams are D-E-A-D."

And I finally lose my cool and beg to go home.
And so we do.
I get home, and can't even look at myself in the mirror as I power-walk to my room. I feel like the oldest, ugliest spinster in the world, I fear seeing an old, wrinkled catlady in the reflection. An idiot who wasted her life.
I wash my face and sit in my room in darkness, only my television occasionally illuminating my room, my laptop illuminating my face.
This is the only way I can calm myself down. This is the only way I can silence the self-loathing thoughts.

Others can be extraordinarily mean to me... but I am definitely the most vicious of all-- to myself.
Pre-party, knowing all too well how psychologically fucked up I will be returning.
Somehow, I always manage to make this girl feel like the stupidest, ugliest, oldest, and most useless creature to inhabit the earth-- like the worst waste of space.

I don't think I'll ever be able to stop-- I've tried, but it only worsens with the passage of time.

At least everyone was nice to me at this shindig, not a single backhanded compliment was given. There's that.

Friday, July 4, 2014

I'm not her

Sitting away from the action... but not so far where I can no longer distinguish your facial features.
I can see you smile, see your lips move... lip-read some of the things you say.

I can best describe the majority of my interaction with my little sister like that.
Use the analogy of sitting on a lounge chair at the beach, under some shady palm tree, wearing noise-canceling earphones, looking on as my sister frolics in the ocean in the company of cute boys-- the ones I have a crush on.
I sit quietly, alone, keeping a watchful eye on her... but simultaneously wishing I was her-- so happy, so admired by handsome guys.
She is so social... so popular... so pretty, and I'm just there... forlorn in my chair.
Sometimes she'll accidentally make eye-contact with me in the middle of her frolicking, and that's where I'll catch a glimmer of pity in her eyes. She'll immediately look away, in hopes of shaking the sad feeling, and continue with her laughing. She will move a little deeper into the ocean, and I will finally look in the opposite direction.

"I know you wouldn't like it and just turn me down, so I didn't bother to ask," she'll say.
"You're right," I'll have to say, "I'd totally hate it and make it awkward for you... like always."

I can't imagine how mortifying it must be for her... to have to deal with me, the eternal cockblock. How frustrating to try and get me to not be that awkward quiet girl who moves as though she wishes she was just invisible... or to at least get me to not scare away her potential suitors.
She is the peacock, wanting to be admired, while I am the ghost, only hoping to vanish out of sight.

I am condemned to be the girl who quietly admires the cute boy... feels her heart race the moment she sees him walk up to her, only to have the cute boy extend his hand to her sister.
Of course you were staring at her... of course.

But bless her heart for trying to avoid these scenarios for me, by skipping my invite altogether.

I don't know why she does it... well, I do... but it's just easier to act confused about it all, rather than admit she's so goddamned ashamed of me.

Today was a shitty. fucking. day.

They both like her. I'm the one who makes them laugh all night, but she's the one with the cute dimples and hypnotic eyes.

Thursday, July 3, 2014


I've been stretching my last bit of shampoo for a few weeks now... shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who knows me-- or sees me, for that matter.
Since I'm running dangerously low, I decided I'd make the dreaded trip to Walmart after getting my eyebrows threaded.

Everything was fine. In a matter of five minutes, I picked up deodorant, floss, mouthwash, shampoo, and some panty liners (of course these were last, because for some reason, I'm still painfully shy to admit to fellow shoppers than I am indeed a menstruating female).
Mistake number one:
I headed over to the 10-and-less item lane.
I didn't notice the people ahead of me, since I was too taken by the wide variety of beef jerky... like some starved dog. However, my concentration was ruined by a very angry young man, strung-out as fuck, yelling at the lane's cashier. Right there, in front of me, stood a young fellow... probably no older than 23, reeking of... something stronger than cigarette smoke, definitely not weed... but something more offensive to the nostrils... like tar. His black shoulder-length hair was disheveled as fuck... like a rat's nest.
Like the traumatized ex-hood rat I am, I looked down at the floor, hardly breathing (these are the moments where I'd transfigure if I had that super power), hoping not to get noticed. I was unable to leave the lane, because some fucking oblivious bitch parked her overflowing cart directly behind me... practically pinning me on this strung out homeboy.

I guess Strung-out Homeboy was irritated because the cashier was refusing to sell him cigarettes without an ID, and he was losing his shit.
After verbally abusing the shit out of the cashier, the homeboy looked like he was finally calm enough to leave on his merry way.
But of course I couldn't be so lucky... this crazy couldn't leave the store without incident with ME. Homeboy turns around and looks at me. Dude proceeds to grab a magazine off the rack (I don't remember if it was Star, or OK! since I don't keep track of gossip magazines) and tosses it directly in front of me, on the conveyor belt.
Him, looking at the cashier: I bet you won't turn Kim down! Here, I'll save the bitch some trouble and place this here for her. She buys all the covers she's in. Don't say I didn't do something nice!

And the dude stormed off.
The cashier and I stared at each other, I'm sure we were both equally pale.
I looked down at the magazine before the poor man removed it out of the way so I could finally unclench my beauty products and place them on the belt.

Who was I confused for by this drug addict as I clenched some panty liners for dear life in the line at Walmart? Kim Kardashian.

I was so... amused and confused (that's the new insult going around now? Calling a chick "Kim Kardashian"? I wish I was that homegirl, are you fucking kidding me?!), when I sat in my car getting ready to drive off, I committed mistake number two:
I popped out one of my diamond earrings with the seatbelt... and lost it under my car seat.
This wouldn't be bad... if my car seat were fucking normal.
But my car seat isn't normal. My stupid fancy car seat is all hydraulics and bullshit... I can not find a way to retrieve my earring.

I have never owned diamond earrings... and now I know why: BECAUSE I LOSE SHIT! I can't have nice things!

These earrings are the most expensive piece of jewelry I have ever owned... and I fucked that shit up.

I have never been so angry.
I proceeded to throw my phone against the ground and screamed... because I'm fucking level-headed like that.

This day has sucked balls.
This week has SUCKED DICK!

I just want to sleep. Fuck this shit.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014


While a couple of weeks ago I had to force myself to take a break from the gym, this week it's not the same story.
Sunday... let's not talk about Sunday, that shit was a mess.
Monday, I forced myself to get off my ass and go to the gym. Once there, a dude in a bright orange shirt set up right next to me, and my hour of weight-lifting was spent fighting back tears. 

Is that you, you diving son of a bitch?!
I came home, showered, and watched the Germany game.
I haven't showered since.
I haven't left the house since.
It's a pathetic sight, really. My hair is in a bun, my left eye is a watery mess (I swear it's some sort of allergy. The pressure in that eye is off, I just know it), not a single ounce of makeup is on my face.
I've also been force-feeding myself. I'm dealing with that thing that happens to me when I'm severely upset-- angry or sad-- where I lose my appetite. I swear my esophagus closes up and any attempt to eat is practically impossible. However, I'm fully aware I MUST eat, so I sit at the kitchen table and stare at my food-- at some point I pick at it enough times to clean the plate.

But I swear it's back to reality tomorrow. I have a nice little story making me laugh, and therefore, forgetting how badly this whole World Cup shit has upset me.
What's the story? I've been invited to the bachelorette party of a girl who legitimately hates me... and this party is a small party of EIGHT (myself included)... where THREE of the attendees dislike me. Is it a set-up? Hell of reminiscent of mean-girl slumber parties where they invite the ONE girl they're going to torment all night... sorry for being paranoid, girl-power chicks, but that shit happens, and it happens often.
Fun, fun, fun.