Not in DC!

How a fun day goes shitty:

1. Go to a party, only to keep your non-dancing sister company in the corner.

2.Receive text message from airline informing you your flight for tomorrow has been cancelled. 

3. Be made responsible for the lack of dancing.

4. Sit in the corner for 4 hours, watching your non-dancing sister glued to her phone.

5. Being asked repeatedly if you're "the oldest."

I HATE being considered the old, boring, weird sister.

I love dancing. I love laughing. I love listening to stories.

Sadly, I always opt to keep the weirdo, party-pooper company... Only to be blamed for the depressing behavior at the end of the night.

I never win. I fucking never do.

(At least I got 3 free drinks out of it, I guess)

Flight woes, surprised?

So... What was I doing today? Flying out of Chicago to get to DC.

The hours spent at the airport were hell.

One minute we were on time, the next we were delayed... Then cancelled... Then delayed... Our emotions were shot after an hour of these shenanigans.

It's a trip how this bullshit bring people together. My sister and I made friends with three suited men, as we all frantically dialed/texted our loved ones our frustrations.

The airport was silent... the eeriest sensation ever... To sit at the airport on a clear, sunny day, with no flights going anywhere... no engine sounds... Just people blankly staring at screens, confused as fuck.

We were one of the lucky planes, leaving only an hour behind schedule... After getting notified of the flight's cancellation three different times.

I'm now in DC, with my brother and sister... After having stuffed our faces with a variety of different style fries, and beers.

All is well with the world (especially since I'm away from Chicago).

Still prefer the chinchillas...

No, seriously, this fucking cat has been harassing the shit out of me since I got here... And she does it most whenever I try to eat (but will refuse to eat what I'm having... She just wants to make my time a little tougher when it comes to feeding myself).

I think it's the universe telling me it's ok to be a cat lady... That I'm MEANT to be a cat lady.

... Damned cats.

Ps. NO, I did not pose her like that... I was honestly trying to make her get off me, but evidently my tits are just too comfortable. That pervert.

ChicAhhhh here I go again.

So, I'm in Chicago, paying my sister a week-long visit.
Luckily, I'll actually spend the weekend in D.C., celebrating my brother's birthday/farewell party since he heads out to Athens on Monday. Well, I'm bringing my sister with me, so it won't just be me (I say I'm bringing her with me because I paid for her ticket).

I'm a mess.
I got in last night, after a much delayed flight. I was hungry as fuck after not having a single bite to eat in over nine hours. My life sucks after having gone on this "fitness journey." Back in my fucked-up-diet days, I was able to starve myself for days without batting an eye. Nowadays, I'll be ready to stab a bitch if I go longer than four hours without a meal.
Anyway, since it was nearing 10PM when I was finally in my sister's car, we decided to just eat whatever she had at home... since everything closes at 10 in this very fucking stupid city.
We get home. I have to be civil with my sister's roommates, introduce myself and all that hoopla... the entire time trying to keep my intestines from being cunts and growling too loud.
Finally, I eat some old chicken, rice, and asparagus.
Then I meet the house cat. And she loves me. And she's weird... she's a fucking cat. And she feels most attracted to me while I'm trying to shove the fork in my mouth. Cats...
Then we finally go to bed... where Sister and I chat for three hours about everything going on in Vegas. We remember some funny shit... and proceed to have a crazy giggle-attack for about half an hour.
Then I found myself crying in the morning. I was sad as fuck. Those mean, critical voices creeped up on me. I also felt sad looking around my sister's living quarters.
You left us to live... like this?
I was upset at both of us.
Upset at myself for refusing to "grow up" but also pissed at my sister for leaving the very comfortable lifestyle my parents give us, all to live in a shitty ugly city full of mean, inconsiderate folk. Then thinking about how successful my brother is... and then I cry because GOD! I miss that motherfucker and I'm going to miss him even more once he's in Greece.
Then I think of how many more people I'm going to have to introduce myself to in the incoming days and I cry some fucking more.
God damn you, social anxiety. DAMN. YOU.

It's weird... and I'll be the first to admit I'm confused by it all.

I'm not PMSing... I think I'm just tired and hungry... so I'm all fucking emotional and dumb right now. That fucking cat isn't helping.

Why come?

I didn't participate much in the town's festivities while I was in Hometown this last time around.
I've explained the tradition before: it's Spanish in nature. The towns were given patron saints during the Conquista, and for centuries, the towns celebrate the patron's day. Nine days prior to the actual celebration, the town participates in the daily ritual of walking around town at six in the morning, praying the rosary, setting off fireworks at the start of each new... mystery (I think that's what it's called in english. The rosary consists of five "mysteries"... you know, each little batch of 10 Hail Marys, started by a single Lord's Prayer). Then at four in the afternoon they go to a daily mass.

All jazzed up.
Patron saint in the middle like a... king.

This is nine days.

Then the night before the main celebration (the 9th of the month, in my town's case), they have a giant firework's display. Then on the actual day of the celebration, they have more mass, more singing... and more fireworks. The FOLLOWING day, they have a rodeo and huge dance, where they crown a young lady as the "queen of the town."
These three days, while loaded with lots of church activities, are even more loaded with DRINKING. Men are FUCKED. UP. for the entire week... more like ten days.
ANYWAY, the only times I participated in anything were on the 9th (mass at 2PM, and only because it was late enough for me to have some good rest, a nice breakfast, and a shower. Then the fireworks bullshit until 2 in the morning), and Mass on the 10th.
OF CROUSE, I was heavily criticized for this.
"THEN WHAT THE HELL DID YOU COME HERE FOR?!" I'd always hear.
My response was always "Simple: to relax. I come here to relax."

My view returning home form the tiendita aka "mini mart".
How the fuck am I not going to come to a halt and admire this shit?

People don't understand why I enjoy walking around town, admiring the scenery.
They judge me crazy.
Seriously.

Judged for standing in front of my maternal grandparent's home and admiring this...
But, you see... I spent my childhood staring at this same sight...
so many afternoons and nights sitting in that field, just crying my eyes out, completely heartbroken, but out of sight from EVERYONE.
Many rainy nights spent sitting in the porch, listening to Grandpa's scary stories while watching this mountain light up with the lightning.

I try not to be haughty, but after continuos BULLSHIT, I just have to become a bitch.
"I live in Las Vegas... I can party ANY night out there. You know what we don't have out there? GRASS. GREENERY. RAIN. NATURE. What you have in abundance here, we lack over there. What you guys enjoy here for a week, we have in excess over there every single day of the year. I DON'T care to party. I DON'T care to hook up with guys. I want to sit here, with my thoughts, and just enjoy nature. That's it."
It had been a while since Hometown had been peaceful. I hadn't been able to enjoy sitting alone in a desolate place for nearly a decade. When the whole Cartel shit started, there was this indescribable fear in the air... uneasiness... heartbreak. It was the worst case of nerves to think of going to the fucking grocery store, running the chance of getting caught in a shoot-out... and not just a "normal" shoot-out, but one involving rocket-launchers and grenades, like some fucking war-torn country in the middle-east, only worse because the WORLD did NOT give a shit... we DID NOT EXIST as far as they were concerned.
This year, for the first time, I was able to walk alone, chill alone, stand on the road and admire MY TOWN, without having soldiers OR masked gunmen hold me up, pointing assault rifles to my face, asking for information.
I visited Hometown because I wanted to enjoy the solitude... the safe solitude, that I can't find in Vegas.
I did not visit Hometown to be a raging alcoholic, prowling the town in search for dick... to get "dolled up" to seduce the already heavily-intoxicated "men." I didn't care to be on camera, looking like some fucking town celebrity.
I also didn't go to be locked up in church. I do not have the vocation of a nun... I am comfortable seeking the church when my soul is not at rest... I go once a week to get my therapy... but I certainly do not enjoy waking up at dawn to pray the rosary and shoot firecrackers. I'm sure God understands... I'm sure God appreciates the fact that I'm very much a good girl, even if I do enjoy sleeping instead of locking myself up in a church for a week.

It was fun hearing these people judge me for avoiding their activities... it was a nice learning experience.
(To clarify, the ones judging me where the Hometowners who live in the US, not the Hometowners who LIVE in Hometown. They'd just ask me why I go, but would be happy to hear my reply. The relocated Hometowners? Not too happy)

temblorina

Yesterday was one of the roughest days I've had in a long time... I'm talking YEARS.
As soon as I finished typing yesterday's post, my body went haywire.
I began vomiting like a hose, trembling uncontrollably, and went in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day. What was worst was the high fever I was running... I was burning up, sweating, but felt so fucking cold.
I was dehydrated as fuck-- my lips dry and white, and I had a throbbing headache.
It was an overall pathetic sight.
I think I'm ok now... I still have a slight headache, and my stomach still hurts whenever I walk (yesterday I couldn't move without it feeling like I was running a scalpel down my internal organs), but in comparison to yesterday, I'm peachy.

According to my genetic testing shit, I have a high pain tolerance. All I could think of last night was "Fuck... if I have a high tolerance for pain, regular folk would probably be dead by now!" that, or just wondering how the fuck people survived at all back in the day (uhhh... then coming to the understanding of why they usually just lived to be like... 40)
I didn't intentionally cry from the pain, I'd just catch tears getting squeezed out of my eyes from all the trembling, honestly.
In hopes of getting my mind off the pain, in my lucid moments (which would last about an hour before I'd once again pass out from the pain) I'd surf Facebook... but I noticed I was being a little too sentimental with everyone, so I went ahead and put that shit away.
What finally got me to calm down? Sleeping. And chicken noodle soup. And my mom sleeping by my side.
Yo, I love my mom... fuck anyone who judges me for that.

So, as far as pain tolerance goes, my best coping mechanisms go as follows:
Least helpful
Internet
writing
television
OG soup
sleep
MOM
Most helpful

So if my tiny mother is the sole reason I got over my nasty, painful day, then I guess that genetic testing shit is pretty money.

parasitos me aman

Best part about acquiring a parasitic infection in your intestines while visiting Hometown? The part where your body's feeling awesome after a very miserable, bedridden four days... and then it's like "Just kidding, LOL!" and sends you back to rolling on the floor with your stomach pressed against the floor.

This sucks.

My first go at Hometown was rad as fuck... no illnesses, no sadness... just some good food, laughs, chill sunbathing, young men crushing on me like a bunch of middle-schoolers... just some overall amazing days, like the good ol' days (even better, since no boys liked me when I was a teen).
This time around? Only two weeks later? I was sick as fuck, only old people to be seen, AND these same old people calling me FAT.
Something's wrong when 18-30 year olds are calling my body bomb, and motherfucking 40-70 year old decrepit motherfuckers are telling me I'm fat... most of which were WOMEN (I came to the conclusion that all men think my body's bomb, and women just want me to be dead). Shit bummed me out for a little bit. I'm not mentally strong enough to handle stupid old lady snide remarks regarding my weight... it's something I'll have to deal with for the rest of my life... fucking bitches (you'd think they looked good, but no, they sure as fuck don't... and I STILL let them get to me).
The crummy vibe situation was further aggravated by the fact that my third day into the vacation I caught some parasite and was rendered useless for four days. I have no clue where it came from, but my money's on the fucking water (see, our house no longer had cold water--that's right COLD water--so we did everything with hot water... this included showering. It was like skinning a fucking pig-- HOT AS FUCK. I'm a chump for heat [remember how I violently slap hot tortillas out of rage when they're too hot and burn my hands? I'm fucking rational like that], so each time I'd have to force myself under the shower head, I'd take a deep breath, only to release it with the shock of the painful water hitting my body. So, there I'd be, under the shower head, mouth wide open, cussing at the water and house).

"Oh, Montezuma's revenge!" you might say. Homies, I WISH I was shitting the whole time! Instead I sat through some horrible stomach spasms that felt like some fucking alien embryo was growing inside me... but no bathroom relief-- no shitting or pissing... just painful movements going on in the GI tract.
This happened to me two years ago, when I had to de-parasite myself... you'd think I'd be better at avoiding it... but no, I'm not.
That shit is weird... you spend a good five days thinking you're a fucking champion, no care in the world about your gut and what you're eating, then suddenly on day six you swear you swallowed a chainsaw that activated once in your intestines. You spend a couple of days praying to your favorite saint, bracing yourself for death, then suddenly the sunny days return... only to again see the return of the unbearable pain after a few functional days. Horrible cycle.

I only mention this now because I'm back to the stomach pains after having spent almost a week feeling great. I'm going on day two now. I was thinking I wasn't going to need the parasite-killing pills I was given last week (I need to take them a week after leaving Mexico to make sure I don't ingest any more parasites after taking the pills)... but no, looks like I do. 

It's either that, or have someone punch me in the gut every half-hour to kill this pain... or you know, just punch me in the face to knock me unconscious.

WHY, MEXICO?! I THOUGHT WE WERE COOL!

I need to quit loving third world countries this much... damn.

Spousal bullllshit

Reading over yesterday's post, I realized I was still incoherent as ever. My times were all over the place, as were my thoughts. Comical to me, of course, because I honestly thought I was good to go by the time I updated... then I did random shit sleep deprived people tend to do... like spill milk all over their leg because they miscalculated the position of their mouth in relation to their face... or just dropping down to sleep in the middle of the hallway at 10pm-- no pillow or sheets, just the cold, hard ground and my body splayed all over it like an unclaimed carcass for ten hours.

I'm the faithful co-pilot. No, I'm not trusted to do the driving, but fuck me if I fall asleep on the driver. I'll sit there for the 20whatever hours of the drive, talking to you, singing to you, listening to you, feeding you, staring at you and poking you the moment your "blinking" slows down to a "shut eye"... that sort of shit. I'll be fucking damned if I let your ass fall asleep at the wheel, killing us all when you run us off a cliff or onto a semi-truck.
The drivers can alternate, yet my position as the co-pilot is constant. The tired driver will give up his or her post at the wheel, go to the back of the truck and fall asleep, while the fresh driver takes the wheel and start talking to me... and me? I don't get relieved of my duties until "home" is reached. So there I am, like a zombie, saying and doing weird shit until my body finally caves and I pass out.

My eyes are still blood shot and my left side hurts like a bitch. I think I leaned on that side of my body for too long, and my ribcage hurt my soft tissue. My voice is also busted... weak as fuck, my vocal chords hurt when I have to utter anything... as if I attended a music festival and screamed over the crowd and music for days.

I'm getting too old for these road-trips, I now take longer to recover.
Or maybe I'm just this fucked up because I was so fucking irritated by my road companions.
No, I'm not complaining about my parents for once... thought I WAS frustrated as FUCK by my dad's incessant religious talk (all that talk about the rapture... GOOD GOD! I had never heard so much about that fucking event as I did on this trip... It was like having my television freeze on the History channel), but what most irritated me was my dad's buddy. We had my dad's friend and his wife traveling with us. We gave them a lift from Hometown to El Paso because we feel eternally indebted to them because they were the ones who housed my sister when she moved out to Chicago. No family agreed to keep my sister, but the moment my dad asked
(ohhhhp! I just fainted... yep, still not ok)
oh, yeah, back to what I was talking about: dad asked the guy and he immediately offered his house, for as long as D needed to get on her feet.
We treat others as we'd like to be treated, so when someone does us a favor, especially one THAT big, we repay them as best as we can... so... we offered to bring them to the border, where the guy's siblings live.
Well... I don't want to sound like a cunt, but this guy ABUSED our kindness.
What bugged me most was his... patronizing way. His... superiority complex. No, he didn't patronize me, quite the contrary, he coddled the shit out of me, especially after I puked all over myself. However, the way he treated his wife hurt me to my core. It broke my heart. It infuriated me. The way she would look at him when he'd speak to her... the way she'd agree with him when he'd berate her... it made me want to cry... or at least punch him in the mouth with a brick.
This guy is a dandy. His speech is eloquent and well paced. However, the way his eyes burn holes through his wife terrified me. There is so much hatred in his eyes when he addresses his wife, it seems the fool is possessed by satan himself. It was SCARY.
Mom and I would try to correct him at first, defended his wife, but she'd get so upset, and tell us to leave it alone... we just... listened to her. It was like getting punched in the gut.
I stopped protesting after seeing the lady get WORSE with my scoffing at her husband... I had to settle for scowling at him anytime he'd open his mouth... or I'd catch him glaring at his wife.
Well, maybe she deserves this treatment. What must she have done to him to get this reaction from him, even in public? You may say... but, dude, this woman is a sweet human being. It is obvious she has dealt with verbal abuse for decades... possibly even physical abuse. The man's a fucking misogynist who thinks women are the scum of the earth, and only useful for procreational purposes... I swear he's more sexually attracted to men... but probably never acted on that because it would be seen as a bad thing in the society he was raised in... and maybe that's what has made him harbor so much fucking resentment. Because his behavior towards his wife is not normal. My folks have been arguing quite aggressively lately, but their behavior pales in comparison to what I witnessed between this married couple.

So yeah, having to listen to this man and see him behave like a complete savage for 12 hours drained the fuck out of me.
He knew he had us in the palm of his hand... that we HAD to do whatever he wanted, because he did us that giant, very personal favor when no one else would.
IT SUCKED.
Stop here, eat here, go here, get that, stay here, eat that... it was so fucking exhausting.

Over the years, my aversion for any type of commitment has increased. This latest interaction with a married couple has only solidified my resolve to NEVER get married. FUCK. THAT. SHIT.
(Maybe I'm still fucked up and this was all incoherent as fuck. Whatever)

Traveling woes continued

Ok, I think I'm finally coherent.
Last night we took off from El Paso around 9PM.
It was an exhausting trip... both physically and mentally.
I had to sit through a four-hour, sleep-deprived lecture... which--of COURSE-- was religious... fucking fundamentalist christian in nature.
I had to listen to my dad go on and on about the fucking rapture, how my dad thinks he has the gift of healing, and all sorts of... alarming, delusional religious shit... that I now swear I've earned my place in heaven for not laughing in his face and requesting he go to get some medication for his delusions... or the fact that I bit my tongue each time I felt the urge to correct my dad's grammar (I love my dad, but he does not have the gift of eloquence... or even being articulate. He uses big words incorrectly... and it drives me fucking crazy... because if you're going to lecture me, you damn well better have a better vocabulary than I do... or at least a good grasp on it. You can lecture me with basic words, as long as you're using them correctly... it's how I learned as a toddler, after all).
He tried guilt-tripping me by using some reverse psychology shit on my about my siblings and I not going to his church. Again, I had to practice some self-restraint to not scream "BECAUSE YOUR 'SISTERS AND BROTHERS' ARE FUCKING IDIOTS WHO DO NOT KNOW WHAT THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT, YET BELIEVE THEY'RE FUCKING GENIUSES!" or even mention that we all three went full-catholic because all we ever heard at his church was crazy shit about the end of days and how catholics were the root of all evil and all that mean shit... THAT, and his protestant brothers and sisters are plain crazy dummies... crazy, intolerant, ignorant fucking dummies. We opted for solemn traditional ceremonies given by well educated older men who guilt-tripped the shit out of us (good luck out-doing my old little aunts and grandmas on the whole guilt-trip shit... they were PROS... old Catholic pros, raised by women who lived through that whole traumatic Cristero War shit... they DID NOT play).

BUT ANYWAY! At around 3AM Dad gave up driving and gave the reigns to me... for a single minute. Both my parents became ridiculously nervous about ME driving THEM in that big truck and they forced me out of the driver's seat right when I was going to shift the gears. SERIOUSLY.
I was so upset, I remained wide awake until Mom got us home at 7AM.

In total, I slept for four hours on the entire trip. We left Hometown at 6:40AM local time (4:40 AM Pacific), arrived in El Paso around 6:40PM (Hometown time). In those twelve hours was where I got my four hours in... it was right after I puked all over myself in the Sierra, an hour into our trip. After barfing, in hopes of dissipating the dizzy spell I was encountering, I closed my eyes and forced myself to sleep... to keep my mind off how horrible I felt. This worked, because at around noon I woke up and felt much better (still covered in puke, of course. It was gross).
Anyway, in El Paso we were shuffled around, visiting a few of my dad's friends (yes, I was still wearing my puked clothes. CLASS!) until 8pm Pacific time.
That was the last time I "rested."

Then we got home... where we learned our AC is out.

It has been a wonderful two days.

Barfing in nature

13 hours after setting out on my way back home, I'm finally sitting in a living room in El Paso.

How'd I start my treck back? How did I begin my trip? One hour into the drive, I stuck half my body out of the truck and puked my guts out. I had the urge to vomit while we sped through the most dangerous part of the trip, the highest part of the sierra, the windiest road... And the puke came when we were at the spot lacking a place to pull over... Because it was nothing but huge cliffs.

So I rolled down the window, stuck my body as far out as I could, and proceeded to puke. 

The entire right side of my face and hair, and right shoulder/chest were covered in puke... like a fucking baby.

Ugh. Rough shit.

Part two of this treck will begin soon... hopefully I don't continue the trend and piss myself now.

Liberation!

I always joke about forgetting shit when I travel to Mexico... mainly because I do it so. Fucking. Often.

I've forgotten my comb/brush, my makeup, shoes... All sorts of shit.

I'm currently traveling to Hometown... this time, I'm driving out there with both my parents.

We packed every damn thing we sensed we'd want out there. Last night, I even grabbed two decks of cards and stuffed them in my purse. "Ain't no way I'm forgetting this shit for a fifth straight trip!"

Today I ran around town, buying last minute items for the trip. I purchased undershirts, BEEF JERKY (motherfucking IMPERATIVE), protein powder, and protein bars.

I threaded my eyebrows. I hit the gym.

I felt ready. 

It's what I like about road trips-- you can leave whenever you want, with whatever you want... no need for TSA compliance. You can go dressed however you want without worrying about some pervert ogling the fuck out of you for 36 hours.

I was ready.

I handed my house key to my bestie... something I've never done before since in the past we relied on our relatives for that... but times have changed... people have changed... and now there is probably no other person in the world I trust more than my best friend. 

I finally left.

One of the tire pressure sensors is dead, but we went directly to a tire place where they checked it out, and made sure our tire is fine.

I've been on the road for about an hour and a half... and about an hour in, I realized I forgot something.

Something important, but not vital, I suppose.

What did BRUTEoMALIE forget?

Underwear. I forgot to pack my FUCKING UNDERWEAR. My motherfucking underwear.

... I suppose I'll go ahead and mark this two-week trip as uh... one of my most liberating.

I am an IDIOT!