Thursday, December 31, 2015

Fluttering Butterfly

Ok... so I'm going to do my year in review, then maybe over the weekend write up shit about my trip.
My brother gave me an ipad (about time. After mocking those shits for who knows how many years, someone gave me an ipad so I could shut the fuck up with my trash talk), and I actually busted that out whenever I had an idea pop into my head... my mind was pretty busy, and not with depressive shit for once.

I thought hard about what I should call this year. What word could I use to best describe what this year was all about for me?
I had a little bit of everything this year: serious depression episode, pretty euphoric moments, chill times to myself in someone's else's house, new friends, loss of old friends, getting closer to some people, completely disappearing from the lives of others.
I had moments of EXTREME rage, extreme disappointment, some loneliness... just a hodgepodge of everything there is to feel out there... well, everything except that one thing that is always, and probably will always be, absent from my life: romanticism, love, partnership, whatever the fuck you want to call that. THAT. I spent another year with that subject completely absent from my life... like... NOTHING. NADA. Like freakishly "how the fuck is that possible" levels of "NOPE." And I'm ok with that. Can't miss something I've never had... so... it's aiight.

The fact that I started off 2015 with the worst case of depression I've ever experienced has done this really fucked up thing to me where my memory has been severely affected. I have difficulty remembering a lot of what happened in a large chunk of my life. I can't recall much from January to about ends of April. May is where my memory picks back up. It's weird... and upsetting to know I'll always have these strange voids in my memory... I lived but not really, because everything is blank. I can't explain beyond that. Back when I was younger, like... first-years-of-college "younger," I thought people were full of shit when they'd tell me they couldn't remember something that happened only a few months ago.
How the fuck can you forget something so recent, when I can go back to being an upset two year old sitting in her crib, soaked in piss? I call bullshit!
But no, you really can forget. The only day I can remember clearly is my birthday, because I was so pissed over being forced out of the house to "celebrate"... I remember what I wore because I was so frustrated over having to choose an outfit that didn't make me feel like I called any attention. I also remember that one baby shower in February, only because I doodled that horse for that baby book. Aside from those two events, everything at the start of the year is a huge blank.

It's evident, that this year was... weird, and off, just by looking at this blog. Sit there and compare the number of entries and it only gets beat by 2009 in LEAST amount of entries, and that's only because 2009 was THE SHITTIEST FUCKING YEAR EVER.

2015 I was plagued by injuries and ill health. There was a couple of months where I was scared of possible breast cancer... because even getting hit by water in the shower hurt my tits.
AND STILL I wouldn't go to the doctor. Because I'm an imbecile. And because I thought "Well, fuck it, if I fucking die, I die. I've pretty much been begging for it for a quarter of a century. FUCK. IT."
Turns out my tits were just GROWING.
I was almost down to a C a few years ago, now I'm back to busting out of a DD. Seriously. Fucking drag of a time.
I don't understand what the fuck is up with my body, it has a knack for growing past "normal" ages ranges. I'm almost 5'9" and a half now... which is RANDOM AS FUCK. I've grown AN INCH in two years. I'm motherfucking Benjamin Button. I don't know. I'm probably just fucking dying and my hormones are going batshit trying to warn me.
Speaking of wack hormones, this year I didn't work out as much as in previous years. My depression affected me there as well-- it made me sluggish. But... not lazy sluggish, but legitimate sluggish... where my hormones were the only ones to blame, because despite how hard I'd push myself to workout, I'd be rendered exhausted within minutes. Something that would have been a cake walk for me last year, was proving to be the most exhausting, tiresome, cumbersome piece of shit ever.
And my fucking left foot... that motherfucker. It was injured up until TWO WEEKS AGO. If it wasn't my "healed" fractured metatarsals, it was my fucking left knee. I was the most depressing, limping mess imaginable.
I can honestly say I'm FINALLY pain-free... over a year later.

I did travel a lot.
Ha. Boy. Christ. AH. Man. FUCK. Ugh.
There was good and bad to that.
"Good" because I received the knowledge I aways seek when traveling.
"Bad" because sometimes the lessons learned SUCKED. They hurt to learn. They FUCKED ME UP.
I met some rad people in my travels. I ate like fucking royalty.
I learned some of my friendships were BULLSHIT. I also starved a couple of times because I'd simply forget to eat due to all the information my brain was receiving.
It was all a stalemate.

I flirted with boys this year-- but they were all strangers in foreign lands. The flirting was just... just me smiling at a compliment or hanging out for a few hours. I was that random little butterfly that flutters into sight, twirls for a second, then disappears into oblivion.
I also felt incredibly excluded and downright snubbed by dudes. Feeling snubbed certainly sucks... it sucks more than I'd like to admit. It reminds me to KNOW MY ROLE. What's my role? Be an OBSERVER. At one point, I was physically moved out of the way by a dude so his group of dudes could check out the other chicks in my group... that made me cry on my way home. That felt pretty fucking bad.
At one point, I remember I did have a back-and-forth with... the dude I always talk about... and for a moment, I thought we were going back to the good ol' college days, to the days of the infancy of the crush... but then he pulled the fluttering butterfly stunt, and just randomly dropped communication. No clue what I did or said... just that too familiar feeling the Universe has tried getting me accustomed to, that feeling where you feel as though you have something, only to have it violently and randomly torn away, zero explanation. Left too shellshocked to react. Just stand there, at a loss for words, wondering if what had just happened was all a dream... or... that fucking fluttering butterfly thing.

I don't know what to call this year, I don't know a single word for it.
I know I had good times-- good, happy, incredible times.
I also know I cried a lot. I felt numb. I felt sick. I felt tired. I was done.
Things were so dark and dreary... and cold... with moments of clarity, warmth, and beauty.

I turned 30... and I gave up.
It's... that hopeful, optimistic little Me got lost in the dreariest forest... a dark, terrifying forrest... never to be found again. Walking alone, scared, often getting injured... with the occasional fluttering butterfly coming into view to distract her from her confusion... this tiny little reminder of how beautiful life can be, only to have a sharp branch scratch the shit out of her face, or a well-hidden root trip her up... reminding her of where she really is.

2015 was neither good nor bad. It was a stalemate.
My highs were very high... but my lows were the lowest.

I don't know what to expect out of 2016, and I don't know what I could ask of 2016.
A girl gets tired of wishing and hoping and trying.
Maybe hope for less "It gets better" talks from others... because you need not come at me with that shit. Not at this age. No.
It gets better for some-- not all.
I'll just be out here, watching it all happen. I always have been.

(well... that got dark real quick)

Wednesday, December 30, 2015


I'm never prepared for the uncomfortable truths I learn while traveling.

I don't know whether to scoff or cry each time I realize I indeed hold others in too high esteem... or that I give them too much credit.
I'm a dumbass.

I had a terrific break. I was often frustrated and on the verge of just throwing it all to hell-- I've never been so needed in my life, and I clearly do not react well to this.
But my neuroticism aside, I did have terrible sadness to deal with. Contrary to last year's sadness, this year was more serious-- because it has to do with my brother.
During a drunk indiscretion from one of his friends after our Christmas party, my heart broke for my brother.
I'll elaborate more on this later, when I have time.

I don't know if I should do my year in review now... or try posting tomorrow.
I suppose I can write up my resolutions on the first of the month.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

This makes... three?

Here we go again:
Leaving for another break across the Atlantic.
Hopefully all goes well... I am now in charge of two middle aged women who only speak Spanish and... have very short legs. Me. The quiet, awkward homegirl who is often surprised by the sound of her own voice because she can go on for days without uttering a word.

God help us all.

(I hope I have time to update abroad... I am FULL of motherfucking stories to tell and complaints to throw out there. ROUGH couple of weeks, especially this last one. I was FUCKED. UP. Emotionally speaking)

If something goes horrifically wrong like I get locked up for some dumb shit like being drunk while being a girl, you know the drill: It's been real (shitty sometimes), but it's ok.
Happy Holidays.

Friday, November 27, 2015

Thanks for making me sad

Spent my Thanksgiving entertaining a seven year old, and showing my appreciation for a 12 year old... both with equally shitty parents.

For someone who is a self-proclaimed disliker of kids, I sure do go out of my way to keep one from feeling like shit.
The thought of a kid feeling bad breaks my heart in a way I can't really describe... but if I think about it too much, it brings me to tears.
I'm not talking little kids throwing tantrums because they're not getting things done their way... but those who are silently sitting in some corner, observing the scenery-- those fucking kids break my heart.

How do you bring someone into the world... then fucking punish him/her for bullshit his/her mother/father did? You can't stand looking at your 12 year old son's face because he looks identical to his mother, your ex-wife? How is that HIS fault? How are YOU going to make a separate Thanksgiving party for your NEW nuclear family and NOT invite him? Why does this poor kid have to sit here with his grandparents, staring at a television in the living room because he's trying to seem nonchalant about NEITHER one of his PARENTS wanting him at THEIR parties? HOW IS THAT OK?

And this seven year old... where do I start with this seven year old little girl who thinks she's "gross" because she doesn't have her toenails painted? A little girl who thinks she can't eat fruit because "she has to watch her figure." A little girl who whispered into my ear if I wanted to go into the empty living room on the opposite side of the party... so that I could join her in being a NORMAL SILLY GIRL... dancing, singing, making funny faces... then "work out to burn all of this food we just ate." SHE'S SEVEN... why is she worried about working off what she just ate, and why must she feel like she has to hide in order to be A NORMAL, SILLY GIRL?! AND WHY is she apologizing to me when she removes her socks to expose her UNDONE TOENAILS? WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THIS KID?

This family often thinks I'm so fucking flawed because I'm single and barren... but... I'm the one who sits there and keeps their lonely, sad kids from feeling... weird. I keep them company, I make them laugh... and I let them know they're perfectly rad little people.
I sit there with a smile on my face, trying as best as I can to keep from crying out of frustration for these kids.
I hug them tighter, and I land my kiss on their cheek instead of the air thing everyone's so guilty of. I try and transmit my genuine appreciation of them.

I don't understand how a parent can abandon someone they helped create... someone who is HALF OF THEM. How can you sit at your dinner table to give thanks, knowing one of your little humans is out there knowing you left them out?

While my nuclear family is complete and chill, I haven't felt this sad on Thanksgiving in a while. I certainly have never felt this sad for SOMEONE ELSE.

I hope people learn to be more considerate of others. Empathy-- acquire some of that shit.

Saturday, November 14, 2015


There is no reason for me to be overly sentimental, biologically speaking... but these last two days have been me either crying my eyes out, or me biting my bottom lip in public in order to keep from bursting into tears.

I didn't think I'd be this messed up over what happened in Paris, but boy, I have found myself crying at random times of the day since receiving the news yesterday afternoon.
I didn't think I was this attached to the city... but my heart is seriously broken.
My mind juxtaposes the serenity and love I feel when in Paris, with thoughts of the sheer horror they must have been feeling yesterday... and then I think back to being the incredibly ostracized, lonely 9th grader, sitting in my French class instead of being in the school cafeteria, and how I'd just sit in class, doing homework, or writing letters I was never going to send... feeling so infinitely lonely and anxious, only to be soothed by my teachers stories of his childhood in france, all while listening to his favorite French oldies music... those 20 minutes being both my day's reprieve, while also the most anxious part of my day ("here comes the same loser to sit in a classroom for 20 minutes without eating anything because she can't handle the thought of the ostracism she'll face in the giant cafeteria... faaaantastic... I hope he's in the room...").
--The serenity I feel when present in the city
--The thought of the horror and panic of the victims of yesterday's horrible acts
--The nostalgia/dread/sadness of some of the worst moments of my adolescence
ALL swirling in my mind.
These conflicting thoughts and feelings mindfucking the shit out of me... and it just makes me cry quite inconsolably.
I don't know if it makes sense, but I don't care if it does. It's too much feeling... too much thinking... too much reminiscing.

Not only am I hypersensitive thanks to the attacks... but today I had to put a brave face at the baby shower of my childhood crush's girl.
He was the first guy to give me butterflies in my stomach.
My summers in Mexico were spent day-dreaming about him... finding any excuse to walk past his house in the mornings... then talking the night away at the infamous alamo of Hometown.
I remember being eight, helping my maternal grandmother peel charred green chilies... looking up one of the times, only to make eye-contact with this kid who looked my age... his green eyes looking into mine, his smile revealing braces... then both of us shyly looking down at our busy hands.
That's my first memory of him-- the moment my heart first skipped a beat for a dude.
My youth spent wishing, hoping for the day he'd ask me to... be his girlfriend... and then practically running away when he was inches away from saying something.
"Oh, no... now with this Europe trip, she'll be even more unreachable for... the guys," he told my parents after my first Europe trip.
Unreachable... ?
Never unreachable-- quite the contrary, actually-- just within grasp, patiently waiting, watching you choose everyone BUT me... watching you watching ME wither away.

And so... I went to his Baby Shower today. I... put on that same fucking stupid brave face I put on for the goddamn motherfucking world... and congratulated him, and assured him I was stoked for him... all the while feeling my childhood dreams fade into oblivion. Memories which helped get me through the difficult days of my teens, completely disintegrating with every minute I passed sitting at my pink round table... the only single, childless girl in the vicinity.

He is always so nice to me, so genuinely happy to see me... and it breaks my heart. I smile in return, hug him tightly... but feel something inside of me break loudly, irreparably. Each time.

If you always found me so interesting and rad... why did you let me slip away without a single word? Why didn't you even TRY? ... You didn't even TRY...

I often find myself wondering if they, these guys who have known of my feelings (they always know. I always tell them. I told THIS guy... everyone told this guy... EVERYONE KNEW), ever observe me at events and feel sorry for me. It's always the same story-- I am alone, quiet... and smiling when listening to others or answering their questions... but I am alone. Nothing ever changes. Does that make them feel sorry for me?

Before I make myself cry, I remind myself that I should never ask questions whose answers I'm not ready to hear.

... Having a hardcore Brave Little Toaster moment. I hope I get better soon.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

The Babes

While I can talk shit about all four sides of my family (dad's maternal and paternal sides, mom's maternal and paternal sides), I'll talk about the one of which I'm least resentful.
Lol, jk. I'm easily equally resentful of all branches (well, my dad's side carries a slightly heavier weight... but hey, there's plenty of time left for my mother's side to catch up!). I'll talk about the group largely responsible for my low self-esteem... or, you know, the ones who made it painfully obvious that I didn't make the cut in the beauty department.

Let's talk about my mom's maternal side.
Those women.
The women with whom I share mitochondrial DNA... the DNA I have a chance of passing down to my kids, if I so choose to procreate (which up until now, is a very firm "NO.").
My mother's maternal side is composed of... I think six women, six sisters. Something like that. And one brother.
They're mestizos. Their father was Spanish and their mother a Native American. They clearly inherited the Spanish elitist attitude-- they worship light colored skin, blue eyes (oh, yeah, the dude had ice blue eyes), and blonde hair.
I've ranted about this shit quite often on here. It's my fucking pet-peeve.
Growing up, my sister was worshipped, I was... lol... I was uh... constantly reminded of how I could "fix" my appearance. For example, if for any reason one of my "aunts" (my mom's cousins) caught me horsing around outside with the rest of the kids, I'd get some speech on how it'd be cool for me to "stay out of the sun, wouldn't want to get any darker than you already are." "Don't you want to look a little more like your little sister? See how she's playing in the shade? Go play like all the little girls over there under the porch."
These women used ANY opportunity to speak to me as an opportunity to "give me pointers" on my physical appearance.
"You look wonderful, mija, but you know what would make you so much more beautiful? If you wore a girdle! And best part of it would be NO ONE would be able to tell you're wearing one with the girdles they make now!" as I stand on the side, minding my own fucking business as OTHER KIDS ARE SWINGING AT THE PIÑATA. (How is that ever appropriate, dickhead?)

I could write an anthology on the fucked up shit not to do or say to a young girl, based on all the bullshit I got from these ladies.
However, if I were to remove THAT bullshit, these women were pretty damn badass (and my grandmother NEVER told me a single negative thing. She was a sweet, quiet lady who swore like a sailor whenever she did speak up... clearly I know where I inherited THAT tendency. Anyway, I'm sure she never said a bad word about darker babies because they reminded her of her saintly mother).

Ok, well, yesterday I saw an old photo of one of my family members of this clan (oddly enough, SHE never told me any of that backhanded shit).
Everything made sense:
OK then! Goddamn, well, shit... ok. When the broads look better than telenovela stars, I understand why TomboyMe was such a problem for them.
Apparently, she had a bomb body, too... this according to my mother... who also suffered the same fate as I did, since she too was a "prieta" ("darkie").
Mom has a memory of this lovely babe (who is like, three years my mom's senior) and her playing at her aunt's house (the babe's mom's house) when she was around 12. She remembers someone made a comment on how similar looking they were, and the babe's mom said "How the hell is this black (indian) bitch gonna look anything like MY *Babe'sName*?!" Mom didn't make a big deal, because the term her aunt used was one she had never before heard. Mom went home and asked her mom what the word meant, and my grandma became infuriated. An intense argument amongst the women ensued... only to be squashed by the matriarch due to that whole "family is everything" bullshit... and they continued with their merry lives, destroying future generations' self-esteem with their passive-aggressive commentary.

My family's gold, ain't it?
Like I said, they're cool as fuck as long as physical appearances aren't brought up. These women kill snakes with one hand, while saving babies in the other... they'll kill and properly butcher any mammal or fish without a single grimace... and will shred THEIR OWN into tiny little pieces using only their words, sometimes with just one glance (yo, not gonna lie, I actually like possessing this trait. I have been told I throw the worst daggers using only my eyes).
They're babes, with their natural hourglass figures, giant eyeballs, and fine noses... but Jesus Christ, someone put a sock in their mouth (not this lady's, she's fantastic... maybe why I find her so pretty, because I have positive memories associated with her, as opposed to other savages from this side of the family).


Probably in the middle of a lecture...

Monday, November 2, 2015

Oh, right, THAT'S why

Hearing a song playing in the background while having lunch and immediately recognizing the tune.
Oh damn... I hadn't heard that song in a while.
You take note to add it to your Spotify playlist when you get home.
This song is so fucking good... I can't believe I never added it to my playlists! It used to be the one song I listened to on repeat for years.

You get home, do you thing for a few hours, then remember about that one song at the restaurant.
You search for the song, add it to the playlists in which you feel it belongs.
You press play to refresh your memory.

And you fucking cry... a REALLY GOOD, MUCH NEEDED, SINCERE cry the moment the first four words are sung.
Chicken skin. Trembling legs and arms.
You immediately remember why it was never placed in your music library since that one infamous, disastrous Laptop Crash of October 2013 deleted all of your personal collection.
This song fucking murders me. I can't function like this!

Some songs only pick up more meaning the older you get.

Quedaté un momento así, no mires hacia mi,
Que no podré aguantar sí clavas tu mirada, que me hiela el cuerpo-- me ha pasado antes, que no puedo hablar.
Tal vez pienses que estoy loco, y es verdad un poco, tengo que aceptar. Pero si no te explico lo que siento dentro, no vas a entender cuando me veas llorar.
Nunca me sentí tan solo como cuando ayer de pronto lo entendí mientras callaba.
La vida me dijo a gritos que nunca te tuve, y nunca te perdi,
y mé explícaba que el amor es una cosa que se da de pronto, en forma natural-- lleno de fuego.
Si lo forzas, se marchita. Sin tener princípio, llega su final.
Ahora tal vez lo puedas entender, que si me tocas, se quema mi piel. Ahora tal vez lo puedas entender, y no te vuelvas si no quieres ver:
Que lloro por ti.
Que lloro sin ti.
Que ya lo entendí, que no eres para mi,
Y lloro.

Spanish, you're so hauntingly beautiful.

Sunday, November 1, 2015


The time once again arrived.
I once again chopped my hair in order to donate.

Yesterday was spent walking around with long braids, imitating Wednesday Addams, today was spent crying my eyes out because the hairstylist got too fucking clipper-happy.
Yeah... clipper happy.

"This is for the greater good. This is for the greater good" was all I could repeat as I felt the clippers attack the back of my head.

I may not have the best hair... or thickest... or prettiest... but I will give every last bit of it if it means it will keep any other person from feeling ugly, or inadequate, or weird.
No one should ever feel like that... at least not in my world.

So... my hair is very, VERY short (didn't intend for it to be that way. The braids started below my chin, but like I said, the stylist went fucking crazy on my head)... the shortest I have ever had. I cried all afternoon after I got home because it's so strange looking for me. I don't know what to do with the look. Latinas don't... really have short hair like this.
I call the look my "Ruby Rose" hair... because it's THAT FUCKING SHORT.

However, I'd do it again... like I've done the three other times... if it means there will be one less person out there feeling like... anything less than great.

I'll give you every last strand of the hair on my head... let them ridicule me... all so you don't cry. Please. Don't. Cry.


Saturday, October 31, 2015

Go to a pageant

It's that time of the year again, when I lose my fucking cool with those in my life who decide to judge me on Halloween.


I don't see why they see it as absolutely imperative to let me know how me dressing up as whatever the fuck, will automatically condemn me.
The actual saintly people in my acquaintance will calmly watch, often enjoy, as everyone parades in his or her costume... not saying a word.
But those dumb motherfuckers who have one mega-long tail for others to step on? First to fucking judge. FIRST.

If you're divorced: fuck you. Shut up. Don't judge me.
If you fucked before getting married: Fuck you. Shut up. Don't judge me.
If you had a kid out of wedlock: FUCK YOU. Don't judge me.
If you'e ever done drugs: FUCK YOU. DON'T JUDGE ME.

Treat others as you'd like to be treated.
You will be judged with the same severity you judge others.


... And take that fucking stick out of your ass.

My goodie-goodness will probably trump yours, as far as the bible rules go... so fuck you for your self-righteous sermon all because I dressed like some motherfucking zombie or whatever the fuck I choose to be.
Quite frankly, I only keep dressing up to troll these dickheads.

Happy Halloween!

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Guacamole epiphany

Ahhhhh... the loveliness that is the cool down stage.

I've written so many posts... but decide against posting them because, as always, they're pretty fucked up. They're either suicidally depressed, terrifyingly aggro, or incoherent as fuck... actually, they're USUALLY incoherent as fuck. Regardless of the vibe, they're all posts I prefer not putting out into the internet.

It's strange how my true "voice" comes out when I'm at my angriest. Get me to reach the highest level of outrage, and just watch my inner, very distinct voice pop out in all of its depressed, ghetto glory.

This has proven to be the best therapy for me. I need to release everything I'm feeling... cry as desperately as I'd like while re-reading this shit... and then just forgetting it exists.
Either my thoughts make sense and teach me to watch out around certain people in my life, open a gateway to how I could possibly FIX my problem... or it just opens my eyes to how fucking hysterical I can get when I bottle up too much for too long.

Yesterday was a nice clearing for me, after I found myself crying into my guacamole (no, really. I cry such giant tears, they roll right into my food most of the time).
See, I ran some errands yesterday afternoon, which ended in me shopping at a nearby mall. As I went from one store to another, all sorts of dudes hollered at me. From catcalls, to dudes stopping me at the food court, to randomly getting offered a job at Nike-- dudes were all about complimenting me... being very nice and gentlemanly toward me.

I hear girls normally like this. But I'm not normal. I'm AnoMALIE. I CRY. I get upset.
I'm not accustomed to others being nice to me, much less being attracted to me. It's always so foreign to me. And this upsets me.

Recently, I've switched up my look, especially my makeup.
I am currently obsessed with the cateye, and I'm experimenting with how dramatic I can make the swoop without it making me look too mentally unstable. I'm also into dark lip color... purples and dark red, to be exact (I can't quite make the leap to black... but I have the dopest deep purple that is the fucking BEST color I've ever found).
I'm also on the final stages of growing out my hair (counting down the hours until November 2nd), and it's a fucking pain in the ass. Instead of blowdrying my hair or applying hair product and all that shit, I just pick it up in a high ponytail and braid (I'm gonna miss the creative liberties I've taken with these braids. I should be hired on the GoT set... I can braid like the best of them. Of course, this was bound to happen, given that my fucking ponytail is 23 inches long-- a motherfucking whip!). Apparently, from what others have told me, this really showcases my eyes and cheekbones (what's left of them, that is. I'm so fucking haggard looking most of the time. I think I have a sad-dog face, but hey... that's just me... I think... I hope?). "It kind of makes you look asian... all exotic n shit."

SO, I'm guessing this new look makes me more noticeable to dudes, which is not something I was going for... I was just getting creative with my face.
Why does the attention bring me to tears? Because I can't help but feel heartbroken over the fact that FUCK my personality (I'm cool as fuck. And Smart. And kind. I don't give a shit what some people may say. I KNOW I am at LEAST those three adjectives), that shit is fucking worthless... what matters it what you do with your face! My worth seems to be measured by something THAT FUCKING SIMPLE. And it fucks me up. It's so fucking ridiculous and... FUCKING RIDICULOUS.
I'll never get over that shit... regardless of how much time may pass. The fact that the majority of humanity measures my worth based on my fucking physical appearance FUCKS ME UP.
To be on the receiving end of mistreatment looking one way (fat, no make up), and then suddenly being venerated the moment you switch your look... is mindfucking as HELL.
Guys wouldn't mind tossing me off a bridge as a fat girl (or are willing to shoulder-check me into on-coming traffic when I'm not wearing an ounce of makeup)... guys are calling me every polite and charming word in the dictionary WHEN I HAVE NOTICEABLE/OFTEN EXCESSIVE AMOUNTS OF MAKE UP ON MY FACE. That is NOT cool.

SO! This had me crying into my guacamole yesterday.
And that point seemed to be the climax of my depression... or... is it the opposite of a climax, since depression is more like hitting rock-bottom?
Whatever. This little meltdown had me going to bed crying my eyes out... then suddenly, BOOM! Clarity in the morning.
I guess I finally cried out all of my frustration...
aaaaaaand I'm good.

I am a-ok.

Saturday, October 24, 2015

burn my ducts already

Ahhh, yes, now it's the crying stage of my rage/depression episodes.

I've been crying all fucking day.
Actually, I've been crying since yesterday morning.
None of that "gross" crying with the sobs and runny nose... it's just me sitting down and tears rolling down the sides of my face... a non-stop warm flow of tears streaming down.

It's exhausting having to act like everything's ok, like nothing bothers me, like I feel nothing... even more so trying to make others laugh when the stuffiness of pent up tears damn near blinds me.

No, no no... YOU laugh. Heaven forbid you have to hear about MY shit. No need for that awkward downer. No, no... laugh. Please laugh.

I'm so angry and so sad... I have no fucking clue how to act. I just know I'm tired.

Friday, October 23, 2015

The bile, it is a-building

I really wish family drama wouldn't interfere with my writing, but it does.
I have been SO fucked up these last two weeks... I can't think clearly. I am only ANGRY the whole fucking time. I damn near went to the hospital yesterday because I was SO angry, I was suffering from a horrible pain in my stomach for two days.
I tell you, I'm visceral as fuck... when I feel rage, I FUCKING FEEL RAGE.

I am so disillusioned, but above all, furious, at how fucking shitty my family is proving to be.
I have spent my life thinking that family is everything... I have done MORE THAN my fair fucking share to make their lives just a little bit better. I have swallowed all of their backhanded compliments, "thinly" veiled insults, and downright public humiliations... all for fucking "family's sake."
I have harbored nothing but love for these fucking assholes with whom I just so happen to share ancestors... making myself believe their ill treatment of me and often my entire family, as "learning lessons." I've excused their bullshit as them "having a rough time" or "not knowing better." "Maybe they didn't know they were insulting me... ?"
But seriously... a 16 year old guy slapping me across my 7-year-old face with flour and throwing me against the floor in front of three other cousins who LAUGHED was them "not knowing they were humiliating me"? REALLY?! FUCKING REALLY?!

It's fucking ridiculous how many stories I have relating to these motherfuckers purposely acting injurious towards me, physically hurting me, psychologically/emotionally scarring me... and me just shutting the fuck up and forgiving them because I've been taught to "be a good girl," "to forgive," to be motherfucking empathetic... sympathetic to a fucking fault.
"Because you don't want to stir shit up."

And to all this, I keep asking, wondering, analyzing just what in the fucking hell I have done (I should say we, my parents and siblings have each been on the receiving end of some fucked up bullshit from these people) to DESERVE this.
Did I insult them at some point? What the fuck did I say or do that warranted this bullshit?

I (we) have done nothing. Quite the contrary, we have pulled them out of debt, we have taken care of the ill, we have given their criminal-asses jobs when no one else would, we have bought them cars, homes, VACATIONS, WEDDINGS... but still, STILL they find a reason to say and do some fucking WACK shit.

And it drives me fucking crazy.
It makes the bile in my system just... fucking rise. It makes me dizzy. It makes me faint.
So much rage, and confusion, and disillusionment... goddamn, is this what Don Quixote felt?! AM I DON QUIXOTE in this fucking family?!

I'm also confused... because I don't know how to react. I'm STILL scared I'll be accused of overreacting.
But... when have I ever overreacted? People often think I'm a goddamn mute or just boring because I'm so languid and detached in person. I am a mouse... it takes great effort to get me to say a word.
And still I manage to offend people-- blood-- to the point where they inexplicably hate me and intentionally aim to hurt me.
What in the fuck, man?

I HATE thinking that these people are "jealous"... though I often hear others explain it to me that way. I feel foolish even assuming this is a possibility.
"Don't try to find an explanation to someone's jealousy... it will drive you crazy. Oftentimes, it has NO explanation."
But I mean... what is there to be jealous about? I TRY TO SHARE as much as possible... I try as much as possible not to be selfish about what I have or what I can do. I thought I was making that clear... not "boasting" about it... just... proving that I was ready and willing to share the good stuff.
I give genuine, heartfelt compliments. I feel genuine joy at the positives in the lives of others. I try to help to the best of my ability when it's at all possible. HONEST. Nothing makes me happier than the happiness of others, especially my family's.

When it's bad stuff that is going on, I keep that shit to my own damn self. I prefer others to believe I'm a total weirdo than to clue them in on the fact that I'm motherfucking dying... that I am just fucking dying on the inside.

Is my ability to keep quiet and internalize the bad shit making it too difficult for others to realize that my life isn't all good?
I thought my inability to comfortably stand in a room with more than six people made it abundantly clear that my life isn't all rainbows and unicorns.
My inability to hold eye contact isn't indicative of my life maybe not being super rad? Not indicative of me having poor self-esteem?
Has everyone forgotten the constant, daily verbal abuse I took for being "fat" throughout my school days?

I fucking don't get it... and it's breaking me.

This shit is interfering with my creativity, with my peace, with... everything.
My heart is fucking shattered and I have no fucking clue how to pick up the pieces, if it's even worth attempting to salvage any of the pieces.

Feelings suck. Lies suck. People suck.

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Joking but not really joking

I possess this special ability... well, I don't know if it could be called an ability... I'm just gifted at being around some place at the wrong time.
I'm gifted at having others express really fucked up shit in my presence, because they know I won't go off sharing the information (unless this venue is considered. I fucking over-share on this bitch).

ANYWAY. Let's take it back to four year ago, when I was attending a baby shower (or... maybe it was a christening?), mainly because my sister didn't want to go to the party on her own. She was going to use me as an excuse for bouncing early... so I agreed.
As the night wore on, (! it WAS a birthday! I just remembered the pregnant girl) I became increasingly comfortable BECAUSE I had a fun app on my phone with which to play. No one was trying to drag me into small talk, and my sister found her niche of ex-coworkers to talk shit. This shit-talking powwow worked well for me because everyone was talking shit about someone I did not know... until one of the girls mentioned another female from Hometown.
Rose: This girl is such a fucking idiot. I tell my cousin to dump her fat ass... we'll find him a new bitch to get him papers, but he doesn't listen!
Sister: Wait... you're talking about *HometownChickThreeYearsMySenior*? She's a legal US citizen? Hm.
Rose: Yeah. My cousin only put up with her gross ass because she's his gateway to legalization. That bitch irritates him so bad... I don't know how you guys could put up with her in Hometown, she strikes me as MORE repugnant out there, since she's now considered a "Northerner." Insufferable bitch. But she'll get what's hers.

Everyone laughed. I looked up from my phone, completely disgusted.
True, I never really liked the girl being torn to shreds, and the mean girl was sort of right to an extent (HometownGirl WAS pretty insufferable back then), but to take such pleasure knowing you were playing with someone's feelings and future like that sickened me.
But everyone laughed... so it must have been a joke, right?

The fact that I didn't tell HometownGirl... does that make me a bad person? I mean... there was really no way for me to KNOW what I had heard was real, right?

I didn't say a word.
HometownGirl married the dude... went through the immigration process which included the dude moving to HOMETOWN-- which wasn't his at all. He isn't even from my state. He lived with his wife's family, and we all tried making him comfortable, always including him in our summer activities when we'd go to Hometown. We embraced that guy and let him know he was not alone.
His now-wife stayed here in Vegas, and would send him money.

Then he got his citizenship (my brother worked at the US consulate in Juarez at the time, was assigned this case, and had to refuse it due to conflict of interest. HometownGirl and all families still think they owe the citizenship to my brother. "Nah, dude, I fucking looked at the name and immediately tattled on myself. 'Nope. Can't do this one. I know the guy.' And I was off the case... but they're free to believe whatever the hell they want"), came back to Vegas, and lived a life where he yearned for HOMETOWN, not his own, but MINE.
Fast forward to last month, when the dude visited Hometown for the patron saint's festivities.
This motherfucker was drunk every single fucking day of the first two weeks of September. Every single fucking day.
This bitch didn't let me sleep at night because he'd sing full-blast in front of my house with a live band and a MOTHERFUCKING MICROPHONE... until 4:30 in the fucking morning. IN A MOTHERFUCKING TOWN IN THE MOTHERFUCKING WILD!
I. Hated. Him.

I kept wondering why his wife wouldn't go looking for him, dragging him home... what kind of careless wife is this woman?!
Often, I'd fight the urge to run outside and get in the drunkard's face. GO HOME AND SING IN FRONT OF YOUR OWN HOUSE, YOU DUMB ASS SON OF A BITCH!
But then I'd remember what part of the world I was in, and remembered about the barbaric atrocities people in that area are capable of perpetrating.

Short skip forward, to last night, as we watched the soccer match between my two countries.
My yelling and tachycardic episodes all came to a complete silence when HometownGirl showed up to the gathering, crying... completely destroyed.
She's getting divorced.
He really did only marry her for her legal status.

I froze in the recliner I had been swinging in, and covered my mouth, averting any eye contact with anyone.

I knew the whole time. I knew before it happened... but I didn't want to believe it was real. I didn't want to think others were capable of doing that shit, let alone BRAG about it.

Am I a bad person? What do I tell this girl? DO I tell her anything? Man, that felt like shit.

... And this is why I don't like people.

Monday, September 28, 2015


"I'm sorry... but I feel you REALLY need a BIG hug."-- Pacemaker.

So, last night I was REALLY losing my shit. I'm talking raging so hard, I was ready to hop in my vehicle and drive up to the bay with my vandalized painting, finding my godson, and finishing the destruction of my painting by smashing his face through it.

The disillusionment I have with this kid is unparalleled. I have NEVER been so disappointed and disgusted by a single person in my life... ever... like... maybe when that whole thing with my grandpa happened that ruined my childhood... but even then, I was seven, and the negative feelings only built up a little later in life-- when I was a bit older to really analyze the situation for the fucked up violation that it really was.
This time, it's was the most abrupt removal of the veil... fucking shit blinded me.

I decided to go to bed on it-- to chill the fuck out before I blamed anyone and potentially ruin our relationship.
I interrogated everyone who entered my sister's room in the last six months.
Everyone was removed from the line of suspects, everyone BUT my godson.

I discussed the subject with Pacemaker, and that's when she apologized for the shitty situation I'm encountering.
"I can't begin to imagine how this must all be for you. I know you really trusted this kid... and have done so much for him because you wanted his life to be better. It's just... I'm really sorry for what you must be feeling right now. What a horrible transgression. I know how personal your paintings are..." she said.
I didn't cry. I haven't cried. I'm so... shocked... and confused... I don't find a point in crying, as angry and upset as I may be. The confusion is so strong, it only gets me to laugh.
What the fuck was this kid thinking? HOW did he do it? WHY did he do it? WHEN did he do it? What the fuck? What. The. Fuck?

And I'm still wondering what the hell happened. What goes through the mind of someone who intentionally wrecks the work of someone else? How do they justify that shit?

... Am I really THAT bad of a person who deserves this sort of shit? Because FUCK! it is fucking astounding how much bad, hurtful shit is done to me intentionally... it DOES get me to wonder if I'm really a shitty person and just don't know it... and I need this sort of shit to happen to me so that I can open my eyes.

I. Don't. Know.
I don't fucking know.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Too much fuckery

You know, this totally ruins the vibe I had going on here. I have two posts already written up, but not published because I was looking to edit them.
However, life happens, and right now, I'm REALLY FUCKING PISSED-- so FUCK vibes, I'm posting this shit instead.

I have been very creative lately-- writing, reading, painting, shit, I've even danced a lot.
The painting streak I've taken full advantage of, because I know it's pretty damn fleeting.
After finishing up two different projects, I decided I'd go back to some old unfinished work. This is where I went to my sister's uninhabited room, and found this:

No one had been in that room but ONE person-- my godson.

That little motherfucker did this, and didn't tell me about it. I don't even jnow HOW this happened... what the fuck punctured this?

You know... It's one thing to verbally assault me and talk all the mad fucking shit you want... But to go after my work? That shit is so fucking personal... Especially since I hardly ever show it to anyone.
It could have been an accident... And I WOULD forgive an accident... But this? Come on! What in the fucking hell?!

I wasn't going to mention the drama I have with this kid, out of respect for our good years... But this is crossing the line. This really fucking tramples all over the line of respect for me.

I fucking hate who this kid has become.

Thursday, September 17, 2015

Chill blue

I've been back for a few days now, however, as has become my motherfucking cutsom for the last five years, I returned with a horrible case of... being old.

Another Mexico trip, another parasitic intestinal infection. Damn infection has left me weak, trembly, lightheaded, and unable to maintain a healthy appetite.
At least I didn't puke on the ride here this time around.

No, rather than spend my few days in the motherland confined to the bathroom evacuating my gut in some form, I spent my days READING (imagine that shit!), writing, listening to music, walking... and crying. Good lord, did I cry. I cried like I would back in the good ol' days... like the good ol' confused, emotionally abused teenager I was 15 years ago.

Yeah, I have different versions of crying... there are different vibes to it all.
For the most part, I would say my crying sessions in my teen years, while heavy and heartbreaking, still carried this silver lining to them... a sense of hope. Something in the back of my mind would always calm me down... give me the illusion that "YO! You still have like... so MANY fucking years to fix this shit! It's going to get better! Just you watch!" I also had Tyson to calm me down during that painful time in my life... that little cow was magical.
And so... if I could assign those crying scenes a color, it'd be pastel pink.
My crying sessions in my 20's were brutal. There was intense desperation in them... there was intense, uncontrollable vomiting... so much fucking stress. SO MUCH disillusionment. So much failure. Then when the decade started coming to an end, it all went black... it all fucking died... especially once Tyson died. I felt nothing. Hopes imploded. Dreams disappeared. "WHY DID I STAY?!" type desperation. FUCK. THAT. SHIT.
Yeah... the crying meltdowns in my twenties... I wouldn't repeat those for all the fucking money in the world. Black... the darkest fucking black is what I'd assign those crying sessions. Jesus. I'm uncomfortable just recalling it.

ANYWAY, this time around, my crying was... it had almost the same feel as they did in my teens... shit, the crying was milder. There was never any sobbing, or shaking... or sound, really. I would be sitting back, usually laying face up, thinking or listening to music... and tears would begin to roll down the sides of my face. Quiet little tears. Actually, I did sigh one time.-- the only time I sat outside in my backyard where Tyson would sit beside me as I'd cry bitterly at night. I looked up at the stars-- bright and glorious as they always are in Hometown-- and sighed at the sight... then tears quietly began to run when I looked over at the empty spot Tyson would have been occupying if he were still alive. ("I'm still alone, Tyson... but unlike all the times before... there's no desperation, but instead quiet resignation that no, it will NOT get better... so I no longer feel that sense of urgency for it to 'get better'... it's a peaceful sort of quitting... of giving up. Makes it so much easier to live... to just accept")
What color would I paint these crying scenes that I now begin at 30? I'm still uncertain about the hue... but I'm leaning towards a blue. It's not dark in the sense that I feel lost and frustrated... angry and agitated... but it's also not lined brightly with hope for a positive change. It's quiet resignation that it doesn't get better... it just boils over and pacifies for a while. It's sadness... not desperately begging for an end, but calmly waiting for it. It's watching those around me experiencing happiness, and feeling genuinely happy for them, while simultaneously NOT angrily demanding why the fuck I am refused this same, seemingly common privilege... just accepting that I won't. It's chill sadness... chill blue sadness.
Nice change I welcome... I was getting tired of screaming into my pillows, anyway.

Monday, August 31, 2015

otro año

ARRGHHHH! This month fucking zipped right past me!
I was supposed to post often, and I WOULD start the process... but I'd stop myself. Usual story.

It's proving more difficult than anticipated to share the tale of the ingrate... the manipulator... the... sellout. The liar. I can't bring myself to speak of it, much less write it down.

I can also feel the sadness creeping in. The attack on my emotional health is subtle this time around, nowhere near as random or abrupt as it was back in January. Things are piling up and getting the best of my nerves... totally not boding well for the near future.
BUT! For the time being, I'm doing my best to remain calm.

Tomorrow I take off to yet another place that more than likely will do a number on me... I'm going to Hometown.
Nice way to start September, right?

Here goes nothing.

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Siempre me quedara la luz suave del mar

It isn't the same anymore-- you're missing... and my eyes grow tired of searching for you.
I watch the building pass in a blurr... and struggle to remember the pretty feeling from years ago... when you'd drive me in the unpredictable, rainy Bay weather.
The pretty feeling... "Please remember that pretty feeling... don't forget that pretty feeling."
I could look forward to better days... I'd look forward to being older... I dreamed of the endless awesome possibilities for a girl as talented... and devoted as I.

Pero todo cambia. It's all different.
Everyone and everything's different... except me.
It's like... I fell through the cracks, into a moment in time where only I remain constant while my surrounding wilt and wash away... everyone leaves and grows... everyone but me.

The Bay... It's so much harder to do the bay without the company of either of my favorite dude companions... My partners in crime for the past 7 years.

Hopelessly searching for that pretty feeling.

Friday, July 31, 2015

Ranty pants.

I don't want to be a mopey, angry girl... so I try and find shit to entertain myself.
This time, entertainment has been provided by one of my relatives... who I believe is somewhere around 16 years old (not quite sure because I see this kid probably once a year, on a good year).

Ok, so we all know I'm a girl of few words, yet I still carry this fame (in my family) of being a scandalous asshole. This fame has made me become nearly invisible on FB (god bless Twitter... I really let loose there), heaven forbid I upset one of my asshole relatives who lack the IQ points required to understand sarcasm (have y'all seen that Cara Delevingne interview that was labeled "awkward" because the imbecile hosts didn't understand her sarcasm? This one right here. THAT'S MY FUCKING LIFE! Facial expressions included. If I could be any one celebrity's friend, Cara would be my pick.. she's the fucking shit. But enough of that tangent). So I just shut the fuck up and say nothing... wouldn't want to upset an aunt or uncle or friend of a friend.

Well, anyway, this cousin, the 16 year old, is... interesting. She too has many rants... but I feel they're uh... interesting. HOWEVER, her rants get family support... which... dumbfounds me.
This morning, I woke up to her most recent rant:

I read that and did my usual sighing while covering my eyes with both hands... partly because I find the rant annoying, and partly because it frustrates me to see my family (who find MY rants ridiculous and embarrassing) applauding this.

Please know that when I rant, I am absolutely at my wit's end, ready to punch shit.
AND STILL, I think I craft my shit somewhat thoughtfully (unless I'm about to literally fight a bitch and my brain isn't working properly).
Here's an example of some shit I've been involved in this week:
Like I say in the email, I only wrote because I was encouraged to speak my mind... so I did... as calmly as possible. That's how I complain... almost fucking apologizing for feeling the way I am. Is it normal? I don't know... but it's what I do.

Anyway, my email elicited this response:

For some reason, it really fucking irritated me ("Are you trying to BUY me? Fuck you, son! I don't put up with that shit! I don't need your fucking charity!" When I'm aggravated, I think shit like that. It's the ghetto, yet dignified Mexican in me. You won't catch me accepting freebies willingly-- I'll shove that shit back in your hands), so I responded with this:

That email only made them respond immediately with a request to please speak to me over the phone.
And I did.
And I turned into the demure, submissive, apologetic fucking mute I am (thought I still refused the freebies, PROFUSELY).
Goddamn it.

I never win when I rant, I swear.
Whatever. I know I made sense... sort of. Who gives a shit if I don't gain support, but instead lose it.

... Still makes me laugh, though.
(Want to see me metaphorically "drop the mic"? Don't give me a real mic)

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Rainy Day Piñata

It's not my intention to make this entire month... or MONTHS about my godson, but Jesus Christ! No one has done me this dirty. Ever.
I mean, when someone is my declared "enemy," someone who from the get-go let me know they disliked me, and wanted nothing to do with me... I can somewhat accept it. I know, or can imagine, what I might have to brace myself for whenever I deal with this person. If I hear some shit-talking from someone who doesn't like me, I have an easier time letting that shit roll off my back.

But here's this human... this creature I spent the majority of my life LOVING... like... really, REALLY fucking loving and even sacrificing my own wellbeing/future prospects, all in hopes of helping this kid out-- making his life easier, brighter... better.
Why did I love this kid so much? Because he was my cousin. I remember when he was born. I remember when he was an infant. I remember when he learned how to walk.

I remember this particularly rough day, back in June of 1998, when I was sitting alone in the living room of my godson's Mexico house. I was upset because every girl in my group had been flirting with the guys in town and I had been cast aside... by everyone. Guys were like "Ew. What the fuck is that fucking fatass doing here?" and the girls were like "The fatass is not part of our group!"
So, I had spent my day at a 5 year-old's birthday party, alone, under my umbrella, watching a bunch of kids swing at a piñata outside in the rain (Mexican kids don't give a fuck about weather when piñatas are involved. We're gonna swing at that motherfucking shit come rain, sleet, or snow... not that weather gets that extreme to begin with)... free to cry because the rain did a good job covering for me.
Once we all sang the birthday song to the birthday boy in the kitchen, I walked over to the living room, which was on the opposite side of the house, and sat in silence-- alone. No television or radio or people noise... just me, sitting quietly in an empty living room, swallowed by a giant burgundy couch, and observing the surroundings (so much yellow. I remember that the most-- the abundance of yellow colored objects). After perhaps half an hour of being alone, my eight year old godson waltz into the room and turned on the television. He changed the channel to MTV, and turned up the volume when the music videos came on (yes, this was back in the day when they still played music videos). And then he started to dance.
My godson turned into my little jester, and eventually coaxed me into standing up and dancing with him. He hugged me and started dancing Banda music with me... his tiny head resting on my stomach as he wildly swung around... trying to get me to move.
Godson: I may be eight right now... but watch when I turn old enough to dance at these dances... I'm going to take you out and show you off! You're going to get tired of dancing!
Me: Ohhhh am I?
Godson: You're beautiful. They're all just dumb.
And he continued to dance like a little fool... making me smile.

Here was this tiny eight year old I had always thought was just.. a kid... but proving he was as observant as I.
And he cared.
And he kept me company.
And he made me smile.
And he wasn't ashamed of me.
And he was making me discard the suicidal thoughts of that moment.
This fucking little tiny kid was making me live, keeping my hopes alive.

I mean... fuck! How can I forget something like that? I fucking can't. I won't.
The memory seems trivial as shit... but it wasn't to me.
And he only continued to do similar things in the summers that followed... my godson kept giving me company and reasons to smile... and kept reassuring me that nothing was wrong with me... and he fucking kept me company.

Now, after everything that has happened in the last couple of months... after seeing this image of the kind little boy crumple so fucking VIOLENTLY and abruptly to the ground... I'm devastated. I'm angry. I'm disappointed. I'm confused.
Now I wonder if all those years where this kid went to war for me, who did so many favors for me... if he did all that in order to gain my favor and just... use me. Was it all false? Did I really not know this kid at all, while he knew ME TOO WELL... and used it to his advantage? Has this kid been playing me my whole life?
It sure fucking feels that way... and it HURTS. It fucking burns.
But I find I'm still reluctant as hell to let it go... I'm holding on this this image I built of this kid, and I'm getting dragged.
I want to believe they're all lies... that what others are telling me are just... exaggerations or misunderstandings... lies. I want them all to be lies.

I won't write what the things I've heard are... I'll wait until I hear them from the horse's mouth.
I don't want to propagate information I've received from third parties.
Come next week, I'll have all my answers, and I'll be free to tell the fucked up, stupid shit form this recent vacation which shattered my longest-held illusion.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

De cualquier modo

While in Chicago at the start of this month (I think it was something like July 8-13th. Feels like a fucking eternity ago for some reason), I managed to get my sister to admit to moving out there for a guy-- you know, what we ALL suspected.
Also during this time, I saw this guy (the dude for whom my sister moved to Chicago) for the second time in my life (first time I saw him was the same time Sister first saw him, which was back in September of 2010. I'm pretty sure there's an angsty post about that shit if I'd bother to check on here). I wouldn't necessarily call this Chicago trip "great," but it was pretty cool... more like educational... lots of prime people-watching was done (most of it bumming me the fuck out because I kept noticing how I AM the fucking anomaly of the group... actually, just a straight up anomaly of a human. I am totally not normal or average or typical. I'm one weird, odd case). Much, MUCH people-watching relating to romance was done. Hook ups and break ups and unreciprocated feelings were observed.
One thing in particular that irritated me was my sister's relationship with her guy. They had been in an argument where he had just dumped her a week earlier, but while I was with Sister, they were making up.
Things with Sister and her dude were good by the time I left the city.
Fast-forward to this weekend, which was a cousin's wedding to which my sister flew back home to attend with us.
Sister: Ugh. *Dude* is being a fucking asshole again... all fucking weird and moody... telling me not to talk to him because I offended him with a joke. I wish he were back to how he was when you were in Chicago. I'm mad at him now.
Me: I don't even want to hear it anymore. I'm mad at YOU for putting yourself through this again. How many times has he dumped you? You're an idiot for not moving on. You bring this onto yourself.

My self-righteous ass is one to talk. Here I am getting frustrated with my sister for her strong adherence to this dysfunctional relationship with a clearly damaged man... yet I have always been one to gravitate towards dysfunctionality as well. I only have to look back to that hell year that was 4th grade where my "friends" would beat my ass day in and day out to remember that I too participated in that strange behavior of staying put in an abusive relationship.
People show us they're not worth a shit, yet there we go again... back into the cycle of emotional abuse.

This brings me to my current frustration/drama with my godson. I am an absolute FOOL trying to act like this is the first time he shows his true colors. I remember a few years back he broke my heart when he did something to ruin my school/work plans by slighting me... something like that, I forgot the details of the situation because it was so upsetting to me. Point is, I KNEW the potential was there, I KNEW he was not loyal, I knew his word did not mean much... I KNEW he did not hold me in the same esteem. I had all these red flags, and FIRST HAND EXPERIENCE, and yet I still went ahead and steamrolled that shit... STILL taking him with me to Europe.

I damn this very fucking stupid trait of mine... this loyalty bullshit I acquire for someone who has helped me through a difficult time... this attachment and eternal gratitude I acquire for anyone who has taken the time to put a smile on my face. That fucking shit gets me in trouble... and yet I can't seem to kill this tendency.

Bad episodes of disillusionment put me in a predicament I hate. On one hand, I want to be much more ruthless, to cut out any tenderness in my heart so as to possess the ability to destroy someone with the same violence they used to destroy my faith in them. I want to be horrible and vindictive and HURT them where it counts... cause SO much fucking emotional damage to an outed ingrate, they'll have nightmares about me for the remainder of their life. I want to FUCK. THEM. UP.
ON THE OTHER hand, I want to remain... kind. I want to be the girl who remains... selfless and eternally grateful and at someone's service. I WANT to be that person... even when I know MANY of these people will see me as nothing more than an imbecile who deserves to be taken advantage of (I hate ending a sentence in a preposition, but fuck it). I want to remain the exception to the rule... the rule that even a good girl goes bad... that everyone has a breaking point. I want to prove someone out there can remain good-- dependable, sincerely fucking dependable... with zero ulterior motives aside from seeing YOU happy. Honestly. That's what I want, what I've always wanted. I want to help others be happy... even if it means I'm going to fucking pay for it at the end.
As furious as betrayal makes me... it comes nowhere near as strongly as the sense of fulfillment I get when I know I've helped someone out. But it fucking hurts to remain this way... and I get angry each time I catch myself getting hurt by someone's betrayal after I've helped them.
It's just so fucking nonsensical.
Does anything which I just mentioned make sense? Am I weird? I don't even know why I bother to ask that anymore, I fucking KNOW I'm weird.
I have a problem. I'm a fucking masochist. I'm an idiot.

... or maybe, just deep down inside, woven tightly into the fabric of my being, I whole-heartedly believe in this (I first saw it attributed to Mother Teresa, and only just now read up on the actual story of the actual author):
People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered,
If you do good, people will accuse you of
selfish, ulterior motives,
If you are successful,
you win false friends and true enemies,
The good you do will be forgotten tomorrow,
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable,
What you spent years building may be
destroyed overnight,
People really need help
but may attack you if you help them,
Give the world the best you have
And you'll get kicked in the teeth,

... I just don't want others to be miserable-- the thought of anyone else feeling as horrible as me kills me. I'll do anything to get a smile out of them... even if in the end I'm the one who winds up shedding tears. And that's my truth.

Monday, July 27, 2015

betrayal of betrayals

You know how I tend to keep quiet when a bad situation is aggravating the shit out of me... and how it only snowballs out of control until I'm fucking irate and ready to start destroying my own property?
Well, that is sort of happening now.

I was quiet for months, and now, it seems more information is coming to light which is only WORSENING the situation.
Of course, this is all my fault, and only my fault (said sincerely. No sarcasm here) because I always place people on pedestals. I never learn my lesson about never putting my hands in the fire for anyone.

The gist goes like this:
I went to Europe at the ends of May.
I paid for my trip AND my godson's trip-- all of it, EVERYTHING. So, it was basically one Euro-trip for the price of two.
Being kind, it turns out, is always a bad idea... because people are terrible assholes.
People have heard stories about this Euro-trip... and they're mostly bad... about ME. IMAGINE THAT! Does that shock anyone?

These stories have gotten back to me, not all... but many. AND, at the end of the week I head over to the Bay where I will hear them straight from the people who my good ol' godson talked to.

I will pay any price to learn the true nature of a person... and I just paid a pretty fucking penny to learn that this kid is the biggest piece of work yet.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

3 years later

I try not to be sad about it... and I manage to stay relatively happy.
I can remember him without crying now... most of the time... at least initially.
I can have dreams about him and still wake up happy... unless it becomes a recurring thing that week... ok, month.

I was kind to strangers today. I smiled a lot. I gave money and food to a homeless woman (I had never done that before. I still don't understand what possessed me to do it... the sight of her crushed my heart and I suddenly found myself offering all my shit to her).

And I didn't cry all day.

Then I saw his photo.
And all I could remember was seeing him under that tree.
Then flashback to seeing him in his little cardboard box the night I brought him home... the way he'd search for warmth and place his warm little puppy tummy on my leg.

And I lost it.

But it doesn't hurt like before... the tears aren't as desperate.
I just miss him. I miss him.
But at least I can think of the happy memories with him and smile... that's something.
Thoughts of him don't consume my day. I can look at other puppies, even play with them, without thinking of Tyson... or feeling guilty... or like a piece of my soul is missing.

Tyson did take an enormous, beautiful chunk of my soul with him... but... I'm ok with it.

Mi feo, mi amor, corazón. Enano, gordo, tontin. Chiquito, babe, little guy.

I really wish I could be patting his muscular shoulders right now, as he sits guard at my feet.
I miss you, Tyson.

Thursday, June 25, 2015

I. O. U.

I always do this-- write at the the start of a trip and fail to keep up the work after about two weeks... then I return and still refuse to write anything for another few days or weeks. After that, some shit goes down in my life where my memories of the trip fade away or become irrelevant, so nothing gets mentioned ever again.

I returned from the trip sick as hell.
I've been going in and out of consciousness since getting here on Tuesday.
I battled the fucking shakes Tuesday and Wednesday, which felt like shit.
I have a phlegmy cough which hurts like hell... my chest feels heavy and breathing's a fucking painful chore.
My nose is running and my left eye drips tears uncontrollably.
My head is in the clouds but it also deals with a pounding headache every other hour.
I have to force-feed myself, because I have no appetite but know I MUST get nutrients in my system or suffer worse consequences.

SO! While I wish I could write something up, because I do have many opinions and many fucking things happened in the last month, I just have no strength or... long-enough an attention span to write about any of it.

I will say this though:
This trip helped me come to the conclusion that I'm NEVER getting married-- MAYBE get in a relationship... but NEVER marriage.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

Draining vs energizing

Yesterday was one of the best days I've enjoyed in recent memory.

It's insane how some activities take me down to my lowest, whereas others take me to such calm... I wouldn't call it ecstasy, because I imagine being all hyper and stoked when I say "ecstasy", but yesterday I was serene and happy. Anything that helps me calm down and be mellow makes me happy.

Clubbing and bar hopping makes me miserable. Anything that requires I look sexually appealing to others makes me miserable. It drains the fucking shit out of me to have to dress to the nines, put on make up, and comb my hair... so as to have dudes think I'm some hot babe (which I've painfully learned that regardless of the degree of effort I may put into the activity, I just don't meet the standards. Ever. So... it's all fucking futile and fucking stupid). While I do drink, and will drink if that's what everyone in my company is doing, I don't enjoy it. I don't enjoy the taste, and I certainly don't like the feeling. And then there's the smoking... FUCK ME and my fucking life when I have to subject myself to that fucking pollution at my own free will. Might as well have me chill in a truck stop, positioned directly behind the exhaust pipe of the fucking trucks and just inhaling deeply. Same fucking shit to me... thought the exhaust pipe might give me the added benefit of a high... which would hopefully render me unconscious and put me out of the fucking misery of polluting my lungs (and it wouldn't fuck up my teeth... but I digress).
SO! This nightlife shit is not and has never been my jam. Apparently dudes pick up chicks in such scenario, but that has never happened to me, because as previously mentioned, I don't meet the standards... even when the men are piss drunk... although... some have hit on me when intoxicated out of their mind, which only leads to a very violent reaction from me. SO NO ONE WINS... but I lose big... especially my "feelings." Sure feels like fucking shit to see every girl in a pub or club get some sort of attention whereas I only get stared at with a shitton of disdain. It's fun, guys, motherfucking FUN!

Ok, so this sort of social interaction psychologically mind fucks the shit out of me... especially since people my age are supposed to enjoy said activity (clubbing/bar hopping... NOT psychologically damaging others. I hope no one gets a thrill out of that, 'cause that's fucked up).
My time at the bar or club is mostly spent getting sad over the fact that I find NO enjoyment in the activity, actually. Seeing your peers having a good time while all you want to do is repeatedly stab yourself in the chest is confusing as shit... obviously depressing.

But then you invite me to go hiking to the most remote area you know.
No, you're not going to kill me and leave me for the wild life to eat my remains... you just want to explore the terrain.
And FUCK! Am I happy! I'm... there.
Just like that puppy
A group of eight people and a dog, climbing a steep mountain. Climbing across boulders, jumping off hills, and crouching under low-lying tree branches (that sting like a motherfucker when they touch your skin). Sweat slowly-- then rapidly-- drenching my hair and clothes.
I get SO MUCH pleasure out of this.
Is this real life?
I will quietly smile to myself as I follow the group.
I guess I enjoy being part of a group, but not entirely forced to constantly interact. We're a group looking out for one another (lending a hand when one has too much difficulty to jump a particular gap or climb down a tall boulder), but still individuals to explore our surroundings. I fucking love it.
We're concentrated on our breathing and where we step, so there isn't much chatter. Then, upon reaching a flat location, we take a rest, and have a good laugh as we rehydrate and snack a bit.
It's fucking perfect.
Puppy lead me most of the time.
And then we reach a valley... grass up to our shoulders... wild flowers in full bloom. A gentle breeze blowing, and making stray hairs sway over my face.
Everyone scatters to examine whatever has caught their attention-- a tree stump, a daisy, a stone-- and I just look at the scenery... take it all in.
THIS. THIS RIGHT HERE. THIS makes me happy. Jesus Christ. This feeds my motherfucking SOUL.
The wilderness, the fresh air... the company that still gives me SPACE. I'm part of a pack but I'm NOT FORCED to interact and that's fucking NORMAL.
THIS! I fucking LOVE THIS!

It's moments like that which will ALWAYS make me return to life even after my darkest moments. Knowing this is out there, and possible... makes me STAY... stay here-- not give into the very fucking dark thoughts that cloud my mind the majority of the time.
There's no pretentiousness... no mindless chatter... no fucking air pollution. I'm not trying to impress anyone, not trying to discuss some fucking obnoxious controversial topic, I'm not trying to find somebody to fuck... I'm just... I'm just alone, but not alone. I'm working out my body, but not competing with ANYbody.
Everyone's pace is respected... and... the laughs are so hearty and real.
No make up. Simple hair and clothes... and everyone's OK with it... NO ONE is judging. NO ONE is numbing some part of themselves with mood-altering shit.

That's life. THAT'S what makes me happy. That's what completes me. That's what I enjoy. That's what is real to me.
This deer MIGHT have been a dick...
Spent allllll motherfucking day hiking Parnitha, outside of Athens, where at the end of the hike, a herd of non-hostile deer greeted us.
Our way down provided by a funicular.
One could get used to that.
I was so calm and reenergized I even had a couple of beers with the gang afterward when we entered the city. Smelly and tired, we all took seats at a large table and ate South African meats... laughed about life... and shared stories of the most interesting kind (everyone at the table was interesting... but the most interesting to me was a special ops medic who gave me some of the kindest advice I've ever been given. Dude is 31 but has lived though so much... absolutely non-judgmental of where I am in life, but instead compassionate).
Hate to admit it was pretty tasty.
Motherfucking paradise.
I. Am. Full.
I. Am. Happy.

Friday, June 5, 2015

Roadkill kitty

Where did I leave off?
I don't want to go back and actually read what I write because that's too fucking draining. I just want to write it all out and try my best to shove the memory out of my brain. That's my therapy... especially now that I feel that disgusting feeling coming back to me... that nasty depression. Fucked up shit, man. It's that fucking terrible disease that you don't/can't eliminate... it just goes into hibernation for a bit... never knowing when the next outbreak will return. Like motherfucking botulism, it lives dormant in a motherfucking endospore which keeps it around for motherfucking eternity, until conditions are optimal to once again be release into the world.
"Ahhh, she's sad again... a couple of people have done and said mean things to her. GO! I release you! Be free! Wreck her world, depression!"

What was I going to talk about? About my own version of the fucking Trail of Tears out in Mykonos?

Quiet solitude-- my paradise... minus all that fucking sun and bare skin.
Ah... Mykonos. A fucking paradise of excess... too much liquor, too much skin, too much money, too much sun... too much everything.
Music is loud as fuck.
Food is expensive as shit.
The ONE fucking road is packed as fuck with cars.
Humans packed like rats in the tiny streets.
Liquor everywhere... even on your fucking clothes.
Dark, burnt skin on everyone... maybe not the Chinese tourists, who are ridiculously careful not to tan at all, with their huge hats, jean pants, running shoes, long sleeves, parasols etc (then why THE FUCK do you come to the fucking island, guys?! WHY THEFUCK?! It's AN ISLAND! THERE IS SUN! Goddamn lots of fucking sun! Nothing BUT sun from 5AM to 8:30PM. Go to fucking England or Germany if you want to hide from Helios! Goddamn. Ok, enough with the tangent).
Too many fucking stray cats making the place smell of shit and sound of horny cats fucking throughout the day... all motherfucking day and night... and fighting... so many fucking disgusting cats fighting like loud, drunken teenaged girls.
Night life about to kick everyone in the fucking mouth...
But it was fun.
Lol. "Fun."
It was... "relaxing." Yes. Relaxing. Let's go with that.
I got to sit in a fluffy "puff" aka giant beanbag bed on the beach with drinks in my hand... sitting under the sun, no parasol... from 11AM until 7PM. Just sitting there, catching some motherfucking skin cancer, with a nice dose of lung cancer from all the motherfucking jackasses who love to smoke like fucking chimneys... as though that fucking stench is fucking rad or some shit. Sitting there with watery eyes from the irritation their fucking horrible smoke brought to my eyes (I know this was the cause of my tears because I still wasn't all fucking emotional, so my tears weren't emotionally-induced, but merely a product of my obnoxious, irritating environment).
I was the tallest girl there... which was strange... considering I'm in Europe and European girls are tall, from what I remember. I was also the "thickest," which in this part of the world breaks down to FATEST (actually, on my last day, there was one girl who was "fat" aka "American" in shape... but her personality and self-esteem made her behave like any of the naturally thin Mediterranean girls. I was hell of envious of that girl... her attitude. Go, big girl, go!). And while I don't have visible rolls when I stand, I'm getting that "athletic girl" look which isn't necessarily "ripped/jacked", just like... straight, with giant thighs and arms. Laying down I just look like a giant fucking log... a fucking unfortunate tree trunk after a stormy night.
My skin wasn't tanning as nicely as the rest of the girls... I was getting my "fuck my fucking stupid Iberian roots" burn on. I'm a naturally tan girl (which caused me a ton of distress as a kid, since my family is a lover of porcelain skin and I was the "unfortunate" dark one)... but for some reason, "tanning" just doesn't work for me. My combination skin is some fucked up, useless shit.
So, the pale-complexioned females of my group suddenly came out of this weekend beautifully golden... I came out of it... um... combination skinned-- a little tanned here, a lot of pale there, even more red and burned over here.

And the nights.
Ah, the nights-- can't forget those shits.
I refused to go out on night two (the first night I hung on for dear life until 2 in the morning, after arriving to Europe from my transatlantic flight from Vegas). Night three, the infamous night, I tried to be a good sport.
She's loving life, ey?
Check out the crowd in the mirror above her head.
So, I make my way through the crowd, last person in the line, naturally... braving the painful burn I had going on my lower back (so easy to forget to cover that shit in sunscreen when you hit the beach to roast like a fucking pig on a spit).
Everything is fine and dandy as we position ourselves in the spot one of the girls had RSVP'ed for us at the bar. I drank. I danced around. I smiled. I observed.
Crowd outside the bar/club.
True story: another reality series was being filmed at the time.
I just attract that sort of shit.
Then my godson started dancing like... like a fucking stripper. The only person in the entire building to be dancing. The Greek men and women (oh, I should probably mention this was a Greek bar, not the touristy shit normal tourist visit) stared... stared hard.
We didn't tell him anything, just hoped he'd get the hint that uh, you don't do that 'round these here parts, but no... it seemed as though the looks of disgust and disdain form others only encouraged him to gyrate and thrust more aggressively.
This isn't Cancun. Chill out, Striparella.
Eventually a gay dude tried approaching him, only to be turned away by one of the girls in the group (quite aggressively, actually. It made me laugh).
Still, despite this slight aggravation over my blood's unwillingness to respect a culture's social norm, I still tried enjoying myself.
I DID enjoy seeing what music made the locals sing and dance... and I DID try dancing along... however, it was impossible to sing along because I had no fucking clue what was being said. This was entertaining, however, it made me look as though I wasn't having a good time.
Then my brother, angrily gesticulating at me his frustration over "hating to see me look so miserable" managed to dump his alcoholic drink all over my skirt and feet.
All of this because by 4AM, I was resting my back on the wall and trying to calm down my alcoholic buzz (six mixed drinks and a shot of patron... having eaten one meal all day. Cut me a break, please).
So, since my drunk brother's getting agitated, he decides to force me to leave the club. Alone. At 4:30AM.
It was wonderful.
Did I mention there weren't enough taxis on this godforsaken island? 25. 25 fucking taxis.
So, AnoMALIE, walk your miserable ass to your room.
That's really just a puddle of my own tears.
So... being kicked out of the Greek bar by my brother, I force my way through the crowd and eventually, make it out to the one road that will take me to my hotel, two miles away.
The road winds through the coast line... so it's a nice view.
The moon was huge, reflecting on the sea... like in fucking cartoons... AND it was a huge, reddish moon.
Every once in a while, I'd have to edge over as far as possible in order to avoid getting hit by a car as it drove past me.
There are these huge thorny bushes on this fucking island... shit people fail to fucking mention in movies and all that shit... how motherfucking painful it is to accidentally step on one, or slap your hand against one... rub your monstrous outer thigh against one. As I walked along the road, and edged over to avoid dying at the hands of a drunk driver (while I often DO want to die, this has never been an acceptable method... fuck that shit), I'd manage to hurt myself numerous times with these goddamn horrible thorns.
After hurting myself for probably the fifth time with one of the thorns, I came to a complete stop, looked out at the ocean to my left (once again thought about just dying... how I COULD just jump off the cliff right there, but how I MIGHT not die once I hit the bottom, just like... horrifically hurt myself BUT stay alive as punishment... yet another method nixed), the speeding, quickly fading car to my right (all I could think was how the driver probably thought "Outta the way, ya fucking COW!" as it sped past me)... and the desolate, long road ahead of me... I burst into sobs.
No, not just tears... I'm talking motherfucking, body-shaking sobs.
How many times have y'all seen these, Greek gods? Huh?! Poseidon, Little Mermaid... you fucks! A motherfucking LOSER ASS GIRL walking along the beach at the crack of dawn crying her fucking eyes out , completely fucking alone in the world, unable to connect with ANYONE... even her fucking blood. A motherfucking lonely loser in such a motherfucking glorious place, in a FUCKING SEA OF PEOPLE. Surrounded by such fucking beauty... painful fucking beauty... feeling like the fucking stupidest, ugliest, just... fucking stupidest, useless piece of shit in the world. A fucking waste of space and money... and did I mention how MUCH FUCKING SPACE this idiot girl takes up?! Godfuckingdamn.
So I cry. A lot. And keep walking.
"Why can't I be normal?" constantly running through my mind... sobs slowly calming down... too busy trying to wipe the snot off my face.

And then I run into a little puddle of blood... and make out a fresh roadkill... that earlier today was one of these disgusting, annoying cats on the island.
And I crack once again-- loud sobs now.
FUCK that fucking hill and that adorable hotel that rests on top of it...
I cry all the way up the hill (more like motherfucking concrete mountain) to my hotel--in my handy Flojos flip flops-- where I wipe my snotty, tear-streaked face with my flow-y tank-top, fix my wind-blown hair, adjust my busted, thorn-carrying maxi skirt... take a deep breath, and I walk in the lobby.
I fumble with my room key, enter my bathroom... and break down again-- this time with the comfort of some sturdy toilet paper to blow my nose, and a nice clean towel to hold over my eyes.
Finally, I crawl into my rock-hard bed and fall asleep.

I wake up in the morning to see (despite my very swollen eyes) my brother and godson in their comfy beds, knocked out cold.
I can't get them to wake up, so I head out to the hotel's kitchen alone. I grab some breakfast, sit at my own table... and stare out into the sea... like the lonely fucking spinster that I am.

The scenery may change, but the fucking undesirable, awkward, lonesome, dead person that I am on the inside remains motherfucking constant.
View walking DOWN the hill, about one fourth of the way down.
Ho hey.