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.