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.