Black Mustang

"I'm the black mustang," he texted.
I saw him through his tinted windows, and smiled... hopping out of my parked car.
I had been waiting about a minute, letting him know what part of the mall parking lot I was in.
He nervously stood in front of me, I immediately went in for the hug-- as tightly as possible.

"Jesus Christ... I haven't seen you since... seventh grade!" I said.
The smell of freshly blazed weed overtook my nostrils.
He bashfully kicked at the floor, hands in pockets, occasionally making eye-contact with my overly excited face.
"Oh my god... that is strong," I said as I cough a little.
"I knew it'd be a good idea to blaze before seeing you... you're fucking beautiful, I would have not been able to talk to you at all" he said.

I met up with 5thGradeBoyfriend today... and it was... so good... oddly very good... like... I... didn't even suspect it would feel this good.
He drove out from Arizona for the weekend, unbeknownst to me.
He was incredibly bashful, which was uncommon in the guy I always knew... he was a total bad kid last time I checked. I found myself in the awkward position of trying to make HIM feel comfortable... I was the one with the job of speaking... of asking questions... acting extroverted.
Often times, I'd come to a complete silence because I'd catch him through my periphery just gazing at me... a gaze I've never felt, really... the goofiest, dopiest... most... lovestruck gaze I've ever seen anyone throw my way. It was like live-action Bambi... the twitterpated part.
"Ummm... Hiiiii, *5thGBF*!" I'd say, waving while smiling.
"I'm sorry... I just..." he'd say.
"It's really me... I'm here, in the flesh," I said, grabbing his hand with mine, showing him I was really there.

The way he looks at me... it's... it'll follow me for life. He has always looked at me that way... like I'm... some fucking mirage of his wildest dreams come true... not a lusty dream, just... a calm, joyous dream... if that makes sense. There is no perverse lust in his look... or judgement... it's... such a lovely feeling... I can't explain it... I just, never thought anyone out there would be able to look at me that way... like... I'm being worshipped... like I'm the best fucking thing the universe could have placed in their tracks.
Like I am a motherfucking heavenly mirage, damn it.

I'd look down and blush... smiling when the quiet admiring of my face (and it was just my face... not my tits, or legs, or ass... he'd examine every inch of my face with the most tender glance... Jesus, it gives me goosebumps) would last too long.
"Whaaaaat?" I'd finally whine.
"You're just... so much prettier... I didn't think it could be possible... you're... so perfect. Everything about you is so perfect," he said one of the times.
There was a hint of melancholy in his speech... like his regrets over his bad decisions would get the best of him. The guy carries a lot of sadness... and he's genuinely shocked that I would insist on staying friends with him, on being with him.
"Aren't you ashamed of being seen with me?" he asked.
"Why would I?" I asked.
"Like that white dude. He's clearly wondering what a nice girl like you... in your Audi, is doing talking to a... lowlife like me," he said.
My heart broke.
"I don't give a shit what he thinks. Your heart is kind and kept me sane during a time I felt at my loneliest" I said.

We talked for two hours... in my car, in the parking lot of a mall... my flowery scent mixing with his lingering weed fumes... and that shit felt like heaven.

The way he quietly admired my face... I'll never forget that.

So many thanks

Always my favorite holiday.
Always weird, often uncomfortable situations occur.
Still my favorite holiday.

I spend this day with the family I hold closest, the ones who always show their love and share it.

I didn't think this day would come as fast as it did, I was actually dreading the awkward political confrontation that was promised to occur instead.
I never thought one of my closest relatives would be fighting for her life so damn soon.
Instead of political fights, my beloved aunt, Mooney's mom, suffered a massive aneurysm... and has been hospitalized since Sunday morning. I haven't seen her conscious at all.

Life's a blur. I haven't stayed so long in a hospital for any other family member in the past, not even my father. I fucking hate hospitals... yet there I am, not giving a shit... for as long as I can.
I love this woman... a lot... like, I can't begin to explain how much of my happiness and mental sanity I owe to her. She helped rescue my childhood from the doom it was promised. She has helped put a smile on my face during bitter growing pains.

Today was somber... today we all forced the food down... but we also stuck together like the glue we are.
Tonight I saw my aunt open her eyes... and give the nurse her famous annoyed glare... and I saw her squeeze my uncle's hand, and move her index finger when asked to do it... she moved it with desperation... the "I'm here! I'm HERE!" kind of desperation you so often see in movies.

I just want her to come back... and today was a promising start.
Please come back, tia.

The hero

I guess this is the part in my story where the hero comes to my rescue after I have lost all hope.

Life is SUCH A FUCKING TRIP!
After quite possibly the most traumatic week of my life (this whole election bullshit has made me physically ill... where I've fainted in the middle of bootcamp and have felt nauseated all damn day. That same visceral reaction I have to news that upsets me horrifically), like in a fucking movie... the hero in my life reappears.

Today, out of the blue, at around 6pm, I logged on to FB to notice I had a new friend request. Rolling my eyes, I clicked on the notification expecting some annoying middle aged person from Hometown... but instead saw the name... a name I have been looking for since high school: Mario, the boy from the Red Ruffles story from a few years ago.

HE'S ALIVE!
He's a fucking stereotypical Raiders fan... but he's fucking ALIVE! And FREE.
I screamed.
I almost cried.
I shivered like a dog with no shelter in the middle of a rainstorm.
All over an ex-convict.

I had not seen this guy since 1998... I felt elated.
My one protector during one of the most difficult times of my life... the one voice telling me I was beautiful when the majority were taking time trying to drown me in the negative;
The boy from the wrong side of the tracks who showed me and only me the depth of his soul:
Mario.

And it did not take him more than five minutes to remind me I was beautiful, that I am "prettier" now.

Like... man... I fucking cried with joy... that bittersweet joy... of just how fucking FUCKED life is.

Is he trying to get in my pants like some dads my age are nowadays? Probably. Do I care? No. I'm happy to know he's out there... and it makes me blush to know he went through the trouble of looking for me. I feel... even if it's not the case, I feel as though... someone with whom I've intersected in life still remembers that time, and remembers it fondly. It makes me feel like I matter... like I'm memorable... like I really did mean something to him. It satiates that desire, that dream, that little line I'd constantly tell myself, the line I so badly wanted to believe during my lows: someone out there is looking for YOU.
After over a decade dealing with these situation where guys I think so highly about are constantly reminding me how fucking worthless I am to them, how forgettable and often obnoxious/burdensome I am... there's this kid I shared memories with twenty years ago... and he still thinks fondly of me.
That means the fucking world to me... especially right now.

This feeling is so fucking weird.

I am a nerdy shy girl... whose been on the back of the mind of a hardcore ex-con... and it makes me blush...
What?!

Too soon

Well, shit, looks like I'm psychic, aren't I?

Girls aren't all bad

What was I doing when the motherfucking Cubs broke the curse and won the World Series on Wednesday night?
Angrily screaming "A MOTHERFUCKER BETTER BE DEAD!" as I sat in stand-still traffic for nearly an hour.

The kickoff to the long-weekend girl's getaway to Palm Springs started rough, being stuck in a horrible traffic jam in the most crucial moments of the World Series. Had it not been for that dickhead wrecking his car on a post, I would have made it to Kelley's place in time to catch at least the last three innings of the World Series ('cause who the fuck wants to sit through an entire game?). Instead, I very frustratedly sat in the passenger seat of my friend's car, reloading my google app, eating my nails, pulling my hair, and grunting like an animal.
But that was the only bump on the road (har-har... pun-y. I write like shit, get over it), and no, no dead bodies, just a dumb motherfucker running into a post in his stupid convertible... probably watching the game on his phone... but he lived.

I complain a lot about females and how I don't tend to get along with them, but this weekend was fantastic... though one female was driving me crazy at times... and she was not Kelley... or her pets. Now that I think about it, I hung out with pure estrogen this weekend.
And I could not have had a better time (well, maybe if I had gone to an amusement park-- because I get obnoxiously happy when I risk my life). I laughed so hard, I spit a mouth-full of water on my pants... I hadn't done that in years.

I was surrounded by animals... I hadn't done that in a minute either. I tried my hardest to win the approval of a cat, and I sure won it. That shit had me feeling all sorts of Snow White-y... a swollen Snow White due to her cat allergy she refuses to acknowledge or respect. I will NOT refuse to pet a friendly kitty, sinuses and itchy eyes be damned. Little homegirl even slept next to me on my final night, occasionally hugging my left leg (sure, her claws would "gently" wake me sometimes... but what if she was having a nightmare?).

So... yeah... girls getaway to the desert, night drives through Joshua Tree National Park, shopping goodass deals, eating burgers every afternoon, and listening to "oldies" rock... while going home to a couple of dogs and a cat, made me forget how heartbroken and disappointed I was in humanity.

But I'm sure I'll discuss my disappointment in the very near future.

Sorry, October

DAMN IT!
I gave it an honest shot to post at least ONCE per month.
I kept October on the back burner because I kept thinking I'd have time for the slightest of updates.
It's not as though October sucked or was boring... quite the fucking contrary, I had too many things going on.
I mean, no, yeah, there were shitty moments, one time I cried so violently (as in, I was sobbing pretty loud and my nose was running as though I had the flu) I freaked out a dog for a minute or two... and I also had a very pathetic moment where I was quietly sobbing on a stoop in DC... but, it was... a lot of fucking shit going on.
Still, considering the number of times I cried in October, it was still a wildly fun month.
The quickness with which time is passing is just... inconvenient.
"Wait, what the fuck did I... what the fuck has happened since July?" I wondered, after realizing I've been driving without proof of insurance since that month (Ooops? And here I boast about not being a criminal).

The haze is back in my life, but I wouldn't necessarily call it depression. I'm having difficulty remembering what exactly I've been up to because events pile up, and I fail to write it all down.
I mean, July was spent trying to squeeze in a quick, last trip to Greece before my brother finished his tour-- didn't happen. August rolled around and that month was spent busy preparing the house for my brother's triumphant return to the States with his Greek buddy. Then September came up out of nowhere and that Hometown trip occurred from thin air... as well as I heard the terrible news about my friend. Then finally October, which had me in Chicago and DC and that was a fucking mess.

The times I've been close to posting something, they weren't happy posts... they were sad, reflective things that make me uneasy.
The haze is lingering, floating around my brain, mostly because of my friend's mom. She's actually why I even made the sudden trip to Chicago and DC.
Due to her weakening health, my friend's mom can no longer travel (she lives in LA). I've made it my mission to show her as much as I can, despite the fact that posting on FB makes me cringe because... it fucks with my nerves. I've posted videos and photos to her page of all of her grandkid's birthday parties... parties to which I've gone despite having zero children and zero ability to make smalltalk with parents (so I go about rough-housing with the kids as though I'm some fucking clown... all in the name of not having to participate in adult conversation). She praises my photography and my traveling spirit... she says it helps take her places in her mind.
One of her "final wishes" was to see the newly opened National Museum of African American History and Culture out in DC, because she herself lived some fucked up shit being a white woman who married an African-American man in the early '70's. Tickets are sold out until March of next year, and she doesn't feel confident she'll make it to that month, and if she does, is sure she will be in an even worse state to travel so far.
SO, I sucked up the irritation I feel when I know I'm going to get accused of humble-bragging, purchased a couple of last-minute plane tickets, aaaand I posted on FB.
Of course, I didn't mention the truth behind the trip... so the whole thing was a heavier burden than I expected to feel.
First of all, I went about my DC days in complete solitude (DAYS, my nights were a fucking shitshow... the most fucking entertaining, soul-recharging shitshow I've had in years). My brother works weird hours, so I wouldn't get to see him in the mornings. He's also barely getting all of his belongings returned from storage... so his apartment is full of boxes... no food... a total bachelor pad that gave me the most depressing vibe of loneliness. Here I go about my day at the fucking crack of dawn to get into the NMAAHC on their daypass... which is something like 100 a day that are given out, first come, first serve basis. There I was in line at 8AM, hair still dripping wet, in the shadow of the gorgeous museum... ONLY person there without a companion.
I actually scored my ticket, with something like 25 left... I've never been so stoked about something as I was about scoring this fucking golden ticket. The problem was that since it was only 9:30AM, I had until 2:45PM to be allowed entrance.
SO I walked all over the monuments... and checked out their free museums until then.
This didn't make me sad at all. I enjoy my own company... and the weather was motherfucking GORGEOUS.
It wasn't until I entered the museum that I realized I was about to be in for a world of hurt.
I cried throughout the entire lower levels (aka the beginning of slavery through the civil rights movement), and I had goosebumps the entire visit. The information was hard to ingest... despite being a history buff (laugh if you'd like... but I've killed this subject since grade school), I was not prepared to share the moment with people who have such a deep, personal connection with the subject... that horrible subject. It was difficult to look people in the eyes... to see their hurt... it was so very hard. Even harder was capturing any of it through my phone... because it felt so inappropriate... like I was interrupting such a private moment for OTHERS.
However, I tried my best to see it all... to give everything the respect it deserved... and I captured as much of it for my friends.
Knowing I was seeing this, experiencing this for someone who is going to... die... soon... was also responsible for my tears. It was strange... it felt so strange... to be aware of that... it was heavy.
"Wait, why the hell did you come here so abruptly, and for such a short period of time?" asked my brother. All I could give him was a shrug and an "I fucking love DC. I'm going to an event for the last Presidential Debate... and I'm going to worm my way into the NMAAHC at all costs." Completely unable to add the real reason of "my friend is dying and wants to see this." It sounds like a fucking movie script.
SO, I do this until I literally get kicked out of the museum at closing time (not before helping a disabled veteran out of the museum who was getting zero help from anyone. That bummed me out to watch), and I walk out to the Mall and sit down at a bench to watch the sunset in complete silence... soaking in all of these fucking emotions. Before complete darkness, I headed back home-- Capitol Hill... my brother literally lives three streetlights away from the nation's capitol... on Capitol street... it's fucking amazing (we're little Mexican-Americans from the Vegas hood... never ever did we even dream this would happen... fucking ever).
OK, so I do the longass walk home, and sit outside of the main gate to the apartment complex because, while I have the apartment keys, I do not have the key fob for the main entrance. My brother said he was nearby, but encouraged me to walk in behind one of his neighbors. He had told me this same thing the previous night, but I didn't heed the advice because I'm a fucking shy brute. However, this day I was feeling brave, and as I saw a young man walking up the stoop where I had been sitting (KEYS IN HAND, mind you), I stood up and started to walk behind him. Just as I grab the door he had just opened, he grabs hold of the knob and PULLS IT AWAY FROM ME, effectively slamming the motherfucking door in my face.
It was at that moment where I reached my breaking point, and I broke out into sobs. Yes, sobs. The door getting slammed in my face felt worse than anything I could have imagined... it... hurt my dignity... it broke down my emotional wall.
This wouldn't have happened if I were a pretty white girl...
The though jumped into my mind and next thing I knew I was sitting on the stoop crying like a pathetic little girl lost at a country fair.
I started to think about ALL the fucked up shit I've had to "suck up" and "deal with." All sort of... mean, racist, heartless, demeaning, embarrassing bullshit I've had to deal with... as a female, as a big girl, as a Mexican... and I fucking lost my mind. I quit. I quit trying to be strong. I quit trying to excuse it.
I. FUCKING. CRIED.

I sat on that stoop... clutching my FUCKING SMITHSONIAN GIFT BAGS full of EXPENSIVE ASS MUSEUM SOUVENIRS... alone... in the dark... looking at the ground, crying... trying not to look "dangerous" or whatever the fuck that dumb piece of shit prick thought I was.
I sat there for about twenty minutes, waiting on my drunk brother... cowering away from any new neighbors who'd show up to open the front door. I heard one person loudly walk up the steps... and I crouched to the smallest form I could get into... refusing to make any eye contact... the person stepping louder.
"Hey!" he said once he opened the front door. I didn't look up.
"HEY!" he said again, louder, more irritated.
I'm going to get kicked off the fucking stoop now, aren't I? Fantastic...
I timidly looked up, trying to look as... nice and calm as possible, to see it was my brother. The moment he made eye-contact with me, I realized he noticed I had been crying... and I KNOW he felt sorry for me... I saw the sadness in his eyes... his stance softened. I noticed the pity he felt the moment he saw the humiliated little girl I had been turned to, sitting on his stoop.

Crying on a stoop is nowhere near as "romantic" as movies make it out to be.
It's heartbreaking. And embarrassing. And pathetic.

After sobbing my way through telling him what had happened that day (I did that thing little kids do when telling their mom about a shitty school day... trying to seem strong but losing their shit once their chin begins to tremble when they start talking about their bully... yeah, I did that, and my brother was my mom), my brother took me out on a walk to some thai restaurant and a famous cupcake shop... where he even ate one, despite how much he hates that shit.

It was a nice walk in the dark... a gorgeous autumn night... with some of the most famous US monuments lit in the foreground.

The emotional weight of this day was... massive. The haze lingered, but only for a few hours. The universe has a way of balancing shit once in a while, and the following night was loaded with adventure and laughter... and a lot of drinking... with a Greek heiress.

So... like I said, a lot of shit happened. October was a crazy adventure.
One minute I'm sobbing in front of a scared dog because I was heartbroken by a lie (not sure I'll elaborate on this story yet, or ever), the next I'm giddy over purchasing tickets to the east coast.
One minute I'm crying my eyes out on a stoop... sobbing and cowering away from people... and the next I was taking care of a drunken, filthy-rich woman (who seemed to be much lonelier than I) who was forcing expensive alcoholic drinks and delicious falafel on me... paying for EVERYTHING because I was taking care of her.
One minute I'm sleeping on a broken couch in a cold living room on a chilly Chicago night, and the next I'm hugging and crying with a 50-something-year old Cubs fan outside of Wrigley minutes after the Cubbies win the pennant.
October was FUCKING CRAZY (FUN and oddly heartbreaking).

Indifferent gratitude?

This Mexico trip, while being incredibly conducive to the proliferation of my artistic expression, also served to make me aware of a shift in my personality.

It has been a fucked up road for me in terms of controling my self-esteem.
Considering the ridiculously extended period of time spent being told I was ugly... literally getting that shit beaten into me at times, it should come as no surprise that I'm pretty fucked up in the self-esteem department.
I don't understand why exactly I had people calling me ugly as a toddler... I see photos now and think I was quite adorable with my giant eyeballs and whatnot... but the fact that "ballooning" in third grade brought about the merciless fat-shaming for the next 15 years kind of makes sense in my head... I mean, as much sense as bullying and ostracizing the fucking shit out of a girl for YEARS just because she's larger than average can make. Those were my formative years... age five to 25 are goddamn IMPERATIVE in a human's development, who the fuck are we kidding? To think someone-- a gentle, timid girl-- spent those years completely abandoned and only approached to be belittled or shamed or... hurt... and having her grow into an even more timid, awkward, and downright FUCKED UP individual isn't so outlandish.

So I hear I'm ugly and get ignored, only get attention to get publicly humiliated or physically harmed, for roughly twenty years. I hear fat jokes, people oink and moo at me (or actually "Ew" me when I walk by... really... that sound fucks me up to this day... it's worse than getting punched in the stomach, seriously), guys completely ignore me (AND ONLY me) at social events like Quinceañeras and weddings (I might be the only girl from Hometown who never once got asked to dance during her entire adolescence. Today, I still don't get asked because I acquired the fame of "The girl who doesn't dance" as thought that was ever my choice-- to turn someone down), girls avoid associating with me in public because they find it easier to have nothing to do with the one girl guys mock OR ruthlessly ignore. Later in my adolescence guys do begin to talk to me... I am smart, witty, funny, knowledgeable about sports, cool, kind, considerate... I'm a homie... and only that.
I become thoroughly convinced I am the ugliest, stupidest, most disgusting person on the planet... the unworthiest, most-embarrassing creature alive.
THEN I lose weight. A lot of it. THEN I suddenly become worthy. Suddenly I am noticed. Suddenly people want to associate with me. Suddenly people are baffled by my rejection... "You didn't like me six months ago as a fat girl... I'm the same fucking human being on the inside... I am the same shy girl who begged to be noticed and comforted... why the fuck am I suddenly worthy because I dropped 80 pounds? You're telling me being FAT warrants that type of torture?!" It was THE WORST mindfucking of my life.
The suddenness in the change of treatment from others was too quick for me to adjust, for me to accept. 20 years of neglect and hurt... suddenly converting to laudations from others in a matter of six months. I was the kindest, gentlest girl I could be during my years of torment... I graduated on time with a biology degree, FIRST person in my family to graduate college... but dropping 80 pounds was WORTHIER to people than any of that shit.

I refused to accept the claims from others regarding my "newfound beauty." It wasn't me being humble or fishing for compliments... it was me genuinely NOT believing those who spent the majority of my life calling me "ugly."
After a few years, I found myself feeling guilty... arrogant... vain... conceited, whenever I thought positively about my appearance.
"Get over yourself, AnoMALIE."
I'd catch a glimpse of my high cheekbones, or how cool my thick lips looked in a certain shade of lipstick... or how huge and dark my bare eyelashes looked after a shower... and would stop myself cold in my tracks when the thought was positive.
"People PAY FOR THIS SHIT, AnoMALIE! AND YOU WERE BORN WITH IT! You lucky broad!... but... I mean... I'm still ugly... I mean... I can't make it work... and that's just some conceited-ass shit, idiot. Clearly you aren't pretty, or else guys would be all over you. Get over yourself," my conscience would wrestle.

Up until two months ago, I'd still blush WILDLY... activating coldsores... whenever ANYONE would allude to my "beauty." I'D FUCKING GET TEARY-EYED from the embarrassment of a compliment.

This trip to Hometown, I experienced two instances which helped open my eyes to a possible shift in this fucked up, low (more like "nonexistent") self-esteem of mine.
On my third day, I went to the "city" to get my broken filling fixed (I was so furious a couple of weeks ago, I ground my teeth hard enough to break off one of my porcelain fillings). After the thirty-minute procedure, I proceeded to walk around the city with my parents as they did some shopping in various locations. Mom and I were fed up after about an hour of perusing through little shops in the city plaza, killing time as Dad had his boots shined.
Mom decided to grab some barbacoa tacos, while I sluggishly waited, standing next to her with my fucked up, swollen, numb mouth hidden from the general public who were enjoying their morning stroll in the plaza.
"Don't move your face... your right side is paralyzed... you will look crazy the moment you attempt speaking or even smiling... but don't look like a homicidal sociopath," I thought.
Originally, a chick was helping mom with her tacos. I looked away form the taco stand, searching for dad, and when I looked back at my mother, a young, green-eyed man was hastily making his way over to us, quickly asking mom what kind of beverage she would like.
"Uh... a... Coca-Cola," Mom said.
I couldn't help but smile, bringing a hand to my lips the moment I remembered about my half-paralyzed mouth. Mom had sworn-off soda before our trip, I bet her she wouldn't make it through this trip without a drink.
The guy looked over at me, holding out a chair, and invited me to please take a seat.
Fuck... I gotta talk...
I tried my hardest to "smize" (smile with one's eyes) a la Tyra Banks. I held out my left hand and shook it as a negative, immediately bringing that same hand to my lips when I felt a smile escaping as I thought about how dumb I must look with a half-limp smile.
I tried my best to gain my composure, and stood as... "nicely" as possible while my mom finished her tacos. I tried looking "nice" and not intimidating or angry as I stood without moving my mouth (that shit's hard when you're naturally scowling like I am. I need to overcompensate with a permanent smile so other don't think I'm ready to uppercut the shit out of them). I looked around and people-watched for about ten minutes, while listening to the green-eyed guy talk to his coworker about the upcoming dance he so desperately wanted to go to.
When Mom finished her tacos, I finally once again looked over at the young man and serenely watched as he pushed his female coworker out of the way in order to be the one who gave Mom her change. The guy fumbled with the coins for about thirty seconds, dropping and sorting through the 1's, 2's, and 5's, fucking up his math. The commotion made my sight shift to his hands, then to his blushing face.
"Here is your change. And pardon me for the fumbling... A guy gets... nervous," he said after giving Mom the correct change, smiling while briefly making eye-contact with me.
I smiled politely, softened my stance, and calmly walked away.
I did not blush with embarrassment, I did not roll my eyes in irritation.
I felt... sort of sorry for the guy... for letting my presence get to him. He was sweet, and not in the least bit vulgar in his behavior towards us... he was sweetly nervous.
Sweet kid... little does he know I'm damaged beyond repair, totally unworthy of the attention.
I'm dead inside. Well, no, it's more like... I felt tenderness for the kid, for still possessing that ability to feel for someone else at first sight. However, more importantly, his attention did not anger me, or embarrass me, or even flatter me... it just made me feel bad for him feeling I was something out of the ordinary. "Bless your heart!" sort of thing.
And I moved on. Calmly.

This type of... serene... resignation (to loneliness) was my response to all expressions of admiration from people.
A second instance of "blatant admiration" occurred the night of the big patron saint festivity, the 9th.
The evening is spent attending an hour-long mass dedicated to the Patron, and at the end everyone files out and down the hill, eats street food until the sun goes down (usually about an hour of fucking around to one's content, be it drinking tequila straight out the bottle until the world can't stop spinning, stuffing your face with cobs of corn or pancakes or churros or tacos or tortas or cotton candy, or playing various carnival games), then finds a good spot to watch three-hours-worth of live fireworks... really fucking intricate fireworks, set to live music.

View exiting the church.
That two-story house down there with the red "pop-outs" is my much-envied balcony seat.

Originally, I wasn't going to participate in the activities (except church, because I'm a fucking nun), but as I was exiting the church, a cousin whose house is at the foot of the hill (upon which the town's church is located) invited us to watch the fireworks from her roof.

Church on the hill, behind the pyrotechnic "trees"

This meant I would not have to mingle with the drunken crowd, and I'd have the best seats in town.
Just as the time approached for the lighting, rain started to pour, and everyone down below rushed below the stands and proceeded to shiver the night away, watching the workers struggle with the fireworks.
After perhaps half an hour of staring at the messed up fireworks display, I started to zone out. I sat in my chair, under my umbrella, gazing at nothing.

Never too rainy or windy to party.
Meanwhile, I live out my destiny to be the Mexican version of Quasimodo.

After another twenty minutes, I began to feel eyes on me. I felt a guy in a red shirt, standing below, at my periphery, intently staring at my face. The gaze felt hot on my face, but as calmly as I've never been, I looked over and made eye-contact with the culprit: Cos... my childhood friend... the little boy who always kept me company when I'd hang out at "el alamo" with the summer gang (don't get me wrong, those memories are without a doubt the happiest of my life, but not without its share of excruciatingly painful and sad... like when the girls of the group started turning into gorgeous teens and I only ballooned into a fatter, more pathetic nerd, and the girls proceeding to go out without me, disassociating with me so as to not scare away any boys). I love this kid, madly, but with no romantic feelings whatsoever. I love him for having a heart, and taking pity on me at a time when he was a sweet little kid, a 9-year-old with a platonic crush on a weird, funny, kind, chubby, (five-years) older girl who was mistreated by jackasses who failed to appreciate her strengths. When we'd play games that required a partner, and before there was time for me to stand alone for even five seconds, I was his go-to girl, this nine-year-old's first pick. He'd hug me, and sit next to me... and give me random little gifts that his nine-year-old little hands could find-- plastic bracelets, flowers, lightning bugs. This child saved me many, many tears.
He's now a 26-year-old honorably-discharged marine... with severe PTSD that he acquired during his two Afghanistan tours. Townspeople avoid him, because he's "weird" and doesn't talk... often says hello and randomly drifts off, walking away from everyone. He prefers to remain in solitude.
I've never been scared of him, never judged him. I've always loved and appreciated him.
However, this visit I had not seen him whatsoever (since he was not home the day I visited). Watching him watching me... felt... warm, but... cold. He stared, with the same kindness in his eyes with which he has greeted me since his childhood... that same level of admiration. His gaze did not leave my face for... what felt like an eternity (more like five minutes, because it lasted a song and a half). How do I know he was staring AT ME? I was the only person on the roof... everyone else was in the safety of the ground floor-- indoors. I made eye-contact with him for about five seconds, only to make sure I was the object of his cocked head. Once I saw I was indeed the object of his attention, I continued with my activities (filming one of the pyrotechnic "trees" which one of my family members ordered).
I was not being indifferent... I was just... being myself... my quiet self. No blushing, no irritation... just... quiet resignation.

There is certainly gratitude, but...  saudade... because it's undeniably kind of anyone to admire a wreck such as me the way they do, but sad that in no way do I deserve it or can "reward" them for it.
DO they even want to be "rewarded?"
Is indifference truly what I feel... now that I've typed all this shit out and finally analyze it for myself?

Gratitude... but... I don't understand what the big deal is... just carry on, my friend... carry on.

gush

Back in Peru, Spence and Bone commented how we needed to find a way to bottle my resilient, stubborn drive and use it for the greater good of humanity (this came up after our hike which, again, I will eventually elaborate on. However, to summarize, I shocked everyone because I fucking murdered the trek, at times out-pacing the guides... because I'm a fucking beast... with long legs and a seemingly never-ending supply of ATP... and all because people infuriated me, that shit giving me the drive I needed to go forth and beat everyone... all of this solely because everyone underestimated me, which GREATLY pissed me off. "You're telling me you can do all this shit, go from 0 to 100 ONLY because people pissed you off? We need to bottle this shit, AnoMALIE, and use it for the greater good of humanity," to quote my companions).

Vegas seems to mute this quality of mine, this strange ability to go above and beyond expectation to rock the shit out of something.
I am so lackadaisical, and timid in my natural state here in Vegas, that even those closest to me become skeptical of my abilities. In turn, though I KNOW I can do some pretty cool shit, I begin to believe other people's skepticism... much to MY OWN--and ONLY my own--detriment.
However, the moment I go to Hometown, I'm suddenly rushed by so much ambition and motivation. I become a busy-bee... a busy, artistic bee.
I will read two or three books in a span of five days (here in Vegas, you'll probably catch me reading a three-page internet article once a month... at most), which this time around included a 19th century novel, a new release "young adult" novel, and a Spanish (Argentinian) compilation of 21 short stories (TWENTY-ONE SHORT STORIES. IN ARGENTINIAN colloquialism. The goddamn book was SO fucking enthralling, that I didn't quit half-way through the first story, but instead burned through the book in one day. Stories of love, horror, or death... goddamn magical. I had forgotten how much I fucking adore short stories, in whichever language they may be).
I will doodle sketches every morning. This ten day vacation saw me finish two sketches which had been left unfinished for three years... that's pretty fucking miraculous.
I will write. In a span of five days (which was the total of legitimately "free" days), I summed up 18 pages-worth of what I call "skeletons"... aka short story outlines... which... is kind of exciting.

Hometown inspires me, when I'm not even looking to be inspired... I just go to unwind from the pent up aggression and anxiety I acquire here in the States, and come out of it with all sorts of creative trinkets, so to speak. While I do suffer from sadness out there... and I do cry nearly every day at least once... I cannot control my creative impulses. The tears are usually not provoked, they just randomly occur... even when people have been nothing but kind to me... or even when I've had a guy or two compliment me... I STILL find myself quietly crying as I sit in the living room of my house... or drinking my sleepy-time tea before bed (the walls of my Mexican home are painted pastel pink, pastel peach, and electric yellow... AND STILL, I'll cry because the fucking colors will elicit a childhood memory-- happy OR sad). I'll cry, then go off and do some shit like burn through a book, doodle, or scribble some words.
There's hardly any interference from the outside world, since any bit of rain causes the television signal to go out... and there is no wireless signal for phones... so I am left to my own devices when it comes to entertainment or even human interaction. Wanna talk to someone? Go outside and physically look for someone. Want to hear some news? Drive half an hour to the nearest "city" and visit an internet cafe.

So... I have all of this potential... and I have zero ability to harness it and manipulate to my liking... no clue how to control it. Just like my creepy ability to sense when someone close to me is going to die (or have one of their loved ones die), but no knowledge as to how to pinpoint WHO is going to die, I can go off and be a prolific "artist" but not whenever I want to... and there's always that strange side effect of going about, hiding in dark corners, crying my eyes out.

This shit feels like donating blood... where the life is literally drained out of you for the greater good, but you spend a while fainting all over the place as your body tries to recuperate.

This is all disjointed, isn't it? Like, what's my fucking point?
Basically, I'm hemorrhaging creativity and there's so much shit going on, I don't know where to point the gushing lifeforce before I'm drained and back to my catatonic, boring phase that lasts godknowshowlong.

Saudade

"Write, you fucking animal!" my mind screams at me.
The manner in which life switches shit up on me is ridiculous... it honestly goes from lackadaisical days of (calm) monotony to sudden fucking explosions in my face.
Seems like anytime I decide to take a break, wether for mental health, or physical health... it winds up being a bad idea because life gets crazy and my more comical or interesting posts have to get tossed aside because someone is dying or fighting or... destroying someone's life.

I'm back from Hometown... sick as fuck, AGAIN, but fuck it, I'll write.

This break was sudden. My brother came to town after finishing his two-year Athens post, on the 23rd of August... or something close to that.
He brought his Greek friend with him... who drove me insane because he was the most stereotypical Greek man-- misogynist AS FUCK. I wound up giving up my side of the house, so the dudes could feel comfortable and whatnot (I'm too goddamn considerate). Once my brother left on his ten-day cross-country drive (showing his Greek friend around this wonderful country), I returned to my side of the house to see the fucked up mess the guys left behind. To keep it short, I'll just say I was barfing while scrubbing snot off the walls of my shower (if you blow snot-rockets, let it be known I fucking HATE your deplorable, disgusting ass... you fucking inconsiderate animal).
ANYWAY, while my brother was in Vegas, his conversations with family members encouraged him to go to Hometown, despite being heavily frowned upon-- uh, almost illegal-- by the State Department. SO, on a whim, with exactly four days before the date, we decided to drive down to Hometown, and have my brother meet us down there by air.
SOOOOO... in four days, it was decided that we would all be going to Hometown for the Patron Saint festivities.
Fast Forward to the night prior to my departure, and you have me receiving that text from my friend, my adoptive brother (I have a few of them, but he may have been the first). That text fucked. me. up.
His mom is the one who received the terrible news... and I fucking love that lady... like, she's one of my all time favorite adults... fucking BEAUTIFULLY sarcastic, but also so loving and caring, it fucking hurts (this soul has been trampled in the most traumatic way... how can she still cary so much kindness in her heart?).
The shell-shock followed me for about four days, it had me clinging to my parents like a newborn baby.

Mexico was a welcomed breeze of serenity... with the ever-present saudade that place elicits in me.
The place is greener than EVER, with cascades of water everywhere (probably commonplace back when the Spaniards "discovered" it in the 1500's, and why they named it after the Basque country... totally not what it has looked like these last 30 years). I'd wake up to a sweet view of morning fog rising from the enlarged river, and went to bed to the sound of a rushing river... or raindrops-- there was hardly a night where my nostrils weren't treated to Hometown's enchanting petrichor.

The festivities were quite subdued due to two deaths in town... and as previously mentioned in older posts, Hometown funerals gut the fuck out of anyone with its achaic traditions (the different styles of tolling the bells for a death is haunting. The sound resonates through the entire town for about ten undisrupted minutes each time). The nine days of festivities (actually, it's more like 12) passed by without much drunken debauchery from the men, unlike the ridiculously frustrating disaster from last year.

So... things were mellow... and melancholy. I had the break I didn't know I needed, and my sadness was quiet and calm, rather than the chaotic frenzy it can sometimes be.
Though I arrived home sick as all hell, I was not sick at all in Hometown. My sickness was only lightheadedness after vomiting my brains out at the start of the trip (though violence down there is basically down to zero now, I still find myself nervous out of my mind when I think of driving though that sierra in the dark. While they seem to be venerated in the states with all the fucking shows, real life narcos are goddamn motherfucking terrifying and hardly as amusing as the Netflix shit).

Now to pick up on where I left off with real life... where does a girl even start?

Deserve to know

Greatly underestimated how fucking horrible this feels...

This year has no qualms dethroning past "worst year ever"s...

On my way to Hometown... And I've been crying every other hour as I recall this text from last night.

I said I wasn't the one having the shit time this year, but it's not any easier having to sit here and watch everyone else's world violently burn to the ground.

Y a esta edad...

*Real Life Alert. Travel stories next time*

Growing up wasn't, and still IS NOT, easy.

As is the case for many people, music has always been my escape when things get a little too difficult.
I'll quickly give people my list of top songs... but usually leave one song out, because it is too revealing of my feelings... of my life... of how the cards have fallen for me.
It embarrasses me, to be quite frank.
I see the person's expression change the moment I drop the song title-- their look of curiosity turn to that of... pity-- and I quickly change the subject.

I first listened to this song as a kid, and cried my eyes out... to think someone could ever feel like this.
Years passed before I heard the song again, this time I was in High School... seventeen years old... and I cried even worse... because now I identified with the lyrics.

A mis dieciséis, anhelaba tanto un amor que no llego.
Siempre lo espere-- todos mis amigos se encontraban en la misma situación.
Y después yo vi como iban cambiando su manera de vivir...
Todos con sú amor; cada uno de ellos muy sonrientes, muy felices-- menos yo.
Y la soledad cada vez mas triste, mas obscura, yo vivi.
Y a esa edad, todos preguntaban los motivos, yo solía siempre decir:
Yo no nací para amar. Nadie nació para mi. Tan solo fui un loco soñador nomas.
Yo no nací para amar. Nadie nació para mi. Mis sueños nunca se volvieron realidad.

As the years have transpired, I have become even more identified by the song... to perfection (well, technically, this was about his feelings as a homosexual man in a Macho society. I am a quiet, shy, ex-obese girl with incredibly shitty luck in a very shallow world. It's surprising how fucking similar that can get).

Siempre lo busque, pero nunca pude encontrar ese amor...
Siempre lo espere, y en todas partes que esperaba, ese amor nunca llego.
Hoy mi soledad, cada vez mas triste y obscura pueden ver.
Hoy, en esta edad, aun me preguntan mis amigos, y es muy triste responder...

And something in my heart tells me it will hold true forever.

Yo no nací para amar. Nadie nació para mi. Tan solo fui un loco soñador nomas.
Yo no nací para amar. Nadie nació para mi. 
Mis sueños no se realizaron... yo no nací para amar.

Juan Gabriel wrote a song for every occasion.
I have so many songs as favorites that belong to this man. The way he manipulated the Spanish language was gorgeous... and hit so many emotional buttons on what I thought was a dead heart. He sang my hurt-- La Muerte del Palomo, La Diferencia, Asi Fue, Hasta Que Te Conoci, Te Sigo Amando, Amor Eterno (the goddamned BEAUTY of this horrifyingly heartbreaking song is unparalleled), De Mi Enamorate, Te Lo Pido Porfavor... TO NAME A FEW, have always been my go tos when I feel broken and I freely disclose those to others.
But there is that ONE song... that ONE song I keep to myself... THE song that speaks to me on a level that no other does.
Yo No Nací Para Amar... that one, that one is for my eyes only.

At sixteen, I yearned so much for a love that never came...
I always waited for it-- all of my friends were in the same situation.
Then I watched as they changed their way of life...
All of them with their loves; all of them so smiley, so happy-- all but me.
And the loneliness-- each time sadder, darker-- I experienced.
And at that age, everyone asked the reasons, I tended to always respond:
I was not born to love. Nobody was born for me. I was always just a crazy dreamer.
I was not born to love. Nobody was born for me. My dreams never came true.

I always looked for it, but I could never find that love...
I always waited for it, and every place I waited, that love never came.
Today my loneliness, each time sadder and darker, you can see.
Today, at this age, my friends still ask me, and it's so sad to respond...
I was not born to love. Nobody was born for me. I was always just a crazy dreamer.
I was not born to love. Nobody was born for me.
My dreams never came true... I wasn't born to love.

The voice that harmoniously expressed what I so often feel, is silent forever.
Thank you for making me feel a little less lonely during my shittiest of moments.

4

I was good... at least, I thought I was.
I was almost done with my jog, when I finally lost my composure, and ruined my streak of "Days Without Crying." The song's lyrics struck my heart... and I lost it.

If you go away, as I know you must
There'll be nothing left in the world to trust
Just an empty room, full of empty space

Like the empty look I see on your face
I'd have been the shadow of your dog
If I thought it might have kept me by your side

If you go away, if you go away
If you go away, please, don't go away

I ugly cried.
I sobbed... I almost toppled off the treadmill because my tears were blinding me.

My brain betrayed me, and flashed an image of Baby Tyson, wrapped in a towel after bathing him... I was holding him tight to keep him from shivering... he was impossibly cute and vulnerable and perfect...
... and the mental image fucking destroyed me.

I've been extremely absent minded these last few days... dreading today.
There has been nothing but bad news in my life-- again, not concerning ME or MY health, but damn near everyone in my life. Cancer is... fucking infiltrating my circle... and it has been so hard to keep hearing a new person tell me they've been diagnosed. Yesterday was just the latest diagnosis... and I couldn't even sleep from the sadness.

Please don't go away...

I guess it all just... became too much.

My abandonment issues are so bad right now... the thought of Tyson being gone for four years now gave me the final push needed to cry everything out.

... Not being able to hug him is the worst.

Cliff Hanger

(Been working on this on and off since the first week of June. ...Life.)

Damn, this change in altitude beat my ass.
It's not that I had difficulty adjusting to the sudden spike in altitude, but coming back down has made my brain feel like it was left in the clouds.
However, I am back to 100, coherent enough to continue discussing this Peru adventure.

And in quite possibly the best segue ever, let's talk about health.

I was scared out of my mind as I prepared for this trip. I thought I'd be a nervous wreck in the airport, but there was so much bullshit to wade through once AT the airport, I barely made my gate in time to board.
Nerves once again began to enter my system upon arrival to Panama City. Everything up until that point had been a complete mess, I felt unwilling to test the boundaries of my luck, so I stuck around the airport... just shooting the shit with other passengers, listening to some very fucking shallow and ignorant conversations (little did I know I'd only hear more of this entitled bullshit throughout my trip).
BUT I SURVIVED.
I met up with my two travel buddies and all was well. I listened to these well-travelled, adventure nuts (I mean that positively, no shade)... hiking aficionadas... and they let me know that while the hike would be difficult, it would be manageable. They came to the conclusion that Bone would most likely be leading because she's speedy, Spence would be last because she felt so out of shape, and therefore, I'd be in the middle... because I'd just pick up on everyone else's cues.
And I was cool with that assessment... because the only "hiking preparation" I did was my weekly treadmill stroll where I'd walk as long as my CandyCrush lives permitted (usually about three miles. I'm a fucking Candy Crush savage).

This is where I kick myself in the ass for not following my personal TOP travel rule:
Travel with those of a similar fitness level.

I have observed, repeatedly, that travel SUCKS BALLS when I go about it with someone who is drastically below my fitness level. When I'm too fit for my companion, I spend my days frustrated as fuck because of the slow pace I'm forced to follow. I will be a fucking caged lion-- aggressive and resentful as shit towards EVERYONE.
For the most part, I'm fast paced, as much as EVERYONE cares to NOT believe this. I can take down the fittest little bastard out there... because I can go for extremely long periods of time without eating OR drinking thanks to my ghetto, anorexic start in life (from 6th grade up until college, I never ate breakfast OR lunch. I'd fast my way through school. Always. Elementary school I'd only have lunch, except for 4th grade, when I couldn't even do that because of those horrible girls who'd kick my ass every day. Good fucking times, growing up). I have a difficult time identifying my "hungry" signal... so I will plow through my day without having a bite to eat for an ungodly amount of time. This, I've noticed, will bring down even the most physically fit brute of my clan... because they're fucking normal and never starved themselves for a decade or so... also, the healthy, fit folk's energy will start to wane because their muscles will start to demand fuel. I have my fat storages all over my body... I'll be fuckin' goooood. It's like watching my biochem book come to life.
I READ THIS WOULD HAPPEN! OMG! HOW EXCITING!

Ok, so with that preface, let's continue with the Peru trip.
Let's move on to Spence, the "out of shape girl" (in her own words)... but Jesus Christ, more like "the injured girl."
Before the hike, we had been walking around Cusco for a few days, becoming acclimated to the altitude. I was good... I wasn't even suffering from shortness of breath. The natives were surprised, constantly warning me that while I may have felt great the first and second day, the third day would be the real test-- they were correct.
I was feeling great! My companions? They were hammered with massive headaches, fainting, and barfing all over the place. We went out to purchase altitude sickness pills, and they started to take their dosages. I pranced around Cusco, pushing my lungs to see how much activity they could handle (I was slightly scared, because I've suffered from cardiac arrhythmia since birth... neither side of my family has a good ticker).
So I was the freak of nature, while my company was getting scared. Our last dinner before the hike (which was by far, hands down THE BEST meal of my trip, top five EVER in my life), Spence came clean with her health issue.
"So, I really didn't train for this trip... I came down with plantar fasciitis... so I found training nearly impossible," she said.
We were all silent.
"Well... I broke my foot like two years ago... and it still acts up once in a while, so I'm not too excited about how my feet may react to five days of hiking," I tried to commiserate with her.

We packed our  bags (good god, the drama on this subject. I'm a night packer, they are early-morning packers. This caused so much fucking discord among us, I still feel my intestines twist with rage), went to bed, and the following morning (5:30AM), we were picked up to start the first day of the hike.
Within the first five minutes of the hike, I realized my CamelBak had a leak-- my left side was slowly becoming wet with each step I took. Instead of getting upset, I laughed... because the water was acting as a coolant, since the heat was so intense, my shirt would never get beyond moist before it was dried by the sun. The ONLY downside was that the fucking CamelBak was heavy as shit.
Anyway, there I was, the newbie hiker, at the end of the line, waiting on Spence, who was dead last. I figured someone had to stay close to the girl, in case she injured herself or... suffered a medical emergency... it was the fucking morally correct thing to do, I tell you!
Bone moved ahead with the group (we were three groups, each group with no more than 15 people. My personal group had 13. At the end of the day, all three groups would rest at the same camp ground. In total, we were about 50 people), group which was growing increasingly frustrated with the incredibly slow pace of Spence (I was lumped with Spence because I was waiting for her... and since the group wasn't aware of HER injury, they automatically assumed I had something to do with it too. I mean, I'm no tiny lady... I am fucking enormous, and if I've learned anything in my life, it's that my body type is QUICKLY underestimated/dismissed as FAT, slow, and useless).
Each day, we'd have two breaks-- lunch time around noon, and resting time at camp at the end of our day, around 6PM. Our first day, due to the unprecedented SNAIL pace of Spence, EVERYONE took the lunch break for about an hour and a half. Upon our arrival (Spence, Bone, and I. YES, that's how far behind we were. I definitely do not blame those kids for being pissed at us), they picked up their shit and jetted for our camp site of the day. Spence, Bone, and I had TWO minutes of break time... a time I had been looking forward to because I REALLY needed to shit (TMI? Too bad).
I don't know if everyone is like this, but the moment you keep me from emptying my bowels, I will fucking resent you... and use every last bit of self-restraint to not choke you to death.
I. Was. FURIOUS.
I was angry at Bone and Spence for dragging me back, angry at the group for being angry at us, and angry at the hiking guide for not allowing us to use the fucking toilet.
I was being considerate of my injured teammate, I felt it unfair to punish me in such a way. It's one thing to keep me from shitting after sitting around the house for hours, but hours of hiking... your goddamn bowels move... they move a lot.
So... at around 11AM, the group was moving towards our first campsite, my group of friends were busy taking selfies at the ass end of the group... and I was angrily stomping up the mountains (hiking boots, while being lifesavers, are HEAVY AS FUCK), wishing the worst on everyone for not allowing me time to shit like a civilized human being.

Angrily stoping through up this fucking beast.

So we keep hiking. Within five minutes of continuing with this hike (I believe I said this happened within the first half hour of the hike, but in reality, I meant first five minutes of "THE hike" aka, the rough, real part, away from civilization), I see a body drop like a fucking sack of potatoes. I believe I discussed this traumatic sequence of events in the previous post.
I saw a blue shirt plunge past the bushes and the group gasp. This is where I cry, as I speed up to join the group to see who the fuck just killed themselves.
I saw the littlest of the group, T, was down at the bottom of the mountain, five meters below us, assuring us all she was ok. Her man, Dave, was pacing back and forth, clearly worried and saying "T, I told you not to walk so close to the edge."
(T fell because she took the outside edge of a cement barrier used to divert the brook we were following. Naturally, it made a cascade on the curve of the mountain. The rock T chose to jump over--instead of carefully climbing over the cement barriers, hugging the inside of the curve-- was wet and slick, resting on the outer edge of the barrier/moutain. She slipped and tumbled down the rocky mountain side, to the next cliff which was five meters below)
Our even tinier tour guide, Will (He was about five feet tall... no joke), scrambled to the bottom and helped push T to the top.
The group was urged to continue with the hike along the babbling brook we were to follow to our camping site. Will stayed with T and Dave, providing first aid to little T and her scratched left thumb, while the rest of us continued with our trek.
After about two hours of hiking quietly, the rain started to pour. This was where T and Dave caught up to us, then passed us. I looked behind me and hardly saw Spence in her hot-pink vest WAY THE FUCK behind us... and I threw my morals out the window.
Fuck this shit. I'm cold, everything's wet, my boots are sticking to the mud, everyone's impatiently waiting for us... and I REALLY need to take a shit. FUCK waiting on people.
I fucking gunned it and walked towards my goal-- the end of this fucking brook.
When I thought my hike was over, what appeared to be a flat trek toward a blue tin barn... I was met by rocky hills... rocky, muddy hills. This is where I almost cried of frustration.

At my absolute worst... most homicidal I have ever been,
and will probably ever be.

"WHEN IS THIS GOING TO END?!" I almost broke down.
This is where I see Will walking up to me, and he tells me I just have one more hill to climb, and that when I get to camp, I should tell Washington the cook to start serving dinner.
Exhausted, pissed off, and with tears building, I reached camp.
Bone and Spence had yet to show up, and the rest of the group glared at me as I entered the hut.
"Are the other two girls and Will close?" asked Veronica, the second tour guide.
"Yeah, told me to tell... Washington? that he could start serving dinner... that they were close enough," I said.
I took off my drenched back pack and tossed it towards the other bags. I grabbed my walking sticks (goddamn poles are life savers) and tossed those muddy bastards on top of my bag.
Like the disheveled asshole I was, I glared at the rest of the group, already having a great time with their personal discussions at the far end of the table.

The promised land.
It's gorgeous. And has a toilet.

I sat down at the other end of the table and tried to control my trembling legs... and tried even harder to keep from breaking into sobs. I realized I was hungry... but I also really wanted to go to the bathroom. Just as I was trying to make a choice between waiting for my food in the company of these hostile backpackers, or storming out of the shelter in the middle of the rainstorm, in search for a fucking toilet, in came Bone... this fucking... never-ending ray of sunshine... as though she had just stepped off a cruise ship.
The hostile group increased their negative vibes to an insufferable level, and I decided I had enough. I went in search for a toilet, and quit giving a damn about the rest of the group... let Bone take care of that shit.
After hauling ass through mud, I found the very clean toilets.
I almost cried from the relief I felt (obviously, I did a lot of "almost" crying. Even when I find myself completely alone, I still find it hard to release my tears because I know the moment I let them out, all hell is going to break loose and controlling me will be damn near impossible for a few hours).
Upon my return to the dinner table, I noticed everyone was in better spirits, siping on their coca tea and munching on some popcorn. I served myself a cup of coca tea... and all was well with the world.
I sat in a somewhat catatonic state... drinking my hot tea... not giving a shit to say a fucking word... and waited for my food.
After meal time, we were walked to our tents, were we each chose/settled (as was my case, because I was the last one to "choose" my tent, which obviously, doesn't involve much "choosing").
The group was to make a "quick" hike up to a lake, but considering the mental exhaustion, I chose not to participate. Spence was physically incapacitated, so she was unable to partake in the lake hike, and Bone had no desire to go "alone."

***
Considering it is now mid-July, I'll stop right here... clearly where I never intended to end when I began typing this... but if I don't post now, I probably never will.
There will probably be two more parts... because this fucking five day hike had so much bullshit to it, on all aspects, "Health" being only one of them... and I promise it has a somewhat redeeming end... and there will be less commentary on my bowel movements.

The players

I suppose I'll jump right into the hike portion of my trip (as opposed to my favorite part-- the motherfucking delicious food).
I'm still amazed over how a situation like HIKING for five days can make a disparate group of 13 foreigners bond stronger than 13 years of grade school.
There were laughs, tears, plenty of vomit, falls, foreign language lessons, dance lessons, bruises, political debates, slips, broken nails, toilet paper drama... all sorts of shit.

Let's start this series of posts with an introduction of the newly formed family.

First, we had the father-daughter duo, ze Germans: Daddy Post and Jo.
This group was precious, and was where we acquired our adoptive father. They were from Hamburg, with the daughter residing in Dresden before she left for Lima on some study-abroad program. Living in Latin America made Jo realize she loves the family life and the tightness displayed by the culture. She now has plans to return with her folks and siblings to Hamburg, and be more open with her feelings. This of course, has made Daddy Post incredibly happy. They took this trip as a way to tighten up their bond before the big changes occur in the Fall.
From them, we learned our team mascot of sorts: the morgenmuffel. We were ALL morgenmuffels.
Just... angry, irritable, non-morning people.
"WHY ARE YOU TALKING?! We were all woken up at 3:30AM!"
Best. Word. Ever.

Second, we had the Dutch-Australian couple: Dave and T.
This couple had been traveling around the world for a year. Dave is a biology teacher, a year older than I, and the girl is a tiny pistol of a woman who... I'm not sure what her job was, but I do believe she has a kid or two? Anyway, they are a very well-traveled couple, super adventurous, and curious about the world. Dave was very friendly from the get-go, very quick witted, and T was a go-getter, brave woman. This couple had our adrenaline pumping within an hour of our hike when T FELL OFF THE MOTHERFUCKING SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN. YES. From the angle I saw her drop (completely different form everyone else, because I was a good chunk behind them. She fell at a bend of the road, while surrounded by 10 of the members. I had yet to reach the bend), I thought I had seen someone plunge to their death like a sack of potatoes. I literally started to cry, tears uncontrollably rolling down my face... the thought of reaching the horrific scene overwhelmed me. However, resilient little T made it with only a scratch on her left thumb. Had I taken the fall down the cliff, I certainly would have broken my neck with my bulky-ass-self, but she rolled like a pro and managed to climb back out of the ditch.
From this couple, we learned our motto: watch your fucking step.

3. The Iraqi siblings: Sam and Lita.
This brother-sister due was adorable. Sam, the young brother, is a recent college grad. Lita, his older sister, was joining her sibling on HIS grad trip around South America. I was surprised to learn she's only five years younger than I, her baby face made me think she was a recent high school graduate.
These two were always at the head of the pack, taking a wrong turn on the first day of the trek, needing to be rescued by our tour guide before they burned too much time (they burned about an hour and a half with their detour).
From this duo, we learned our second important lesson: ALWAYS listen to your guide's directions on where to stop.

4. The college grads: Casey and J.
These two boys were... boys. They were part of Sam's frat family... and it showed. Warming up to them was difficult, because they were stereotypical American youngsters. They always pulled too far ahead of the group, and hardly gave a shit to converse with the rest of the crew. It wasn't until the third day where J's love of rap music and basketball (the basketball was obvious, since he is well over 6'2"... but the rap thing was totally out of the blue, since he is as geeky, lanky white boy as you could ever imagine) came up in conversation when I mentioned NAS that he suddenly perked into life. J and I became pretty tight after that conversation, often catching him smiling sheepishly when I'd call out to him by his name... that was cute. Casey... that guy... he was the cold one. We had moments of warmth with him, but he'd suddenly revert to being that rebellious, somewhat unlikable American frat boy.
From this duo we learned: not all is what it seems.

5. The scientist couple: Cat and Alvin.
I fucking LOVED this couple! They were the most endearing Filipino-American couple who were initially hard to crack. Cat would speak up during lunch/dinner time, but in the shiest manner... we could hardly hear her. I would watch her gather courage to speak... and it would warm my heart. She always had awesome contributions to conversations, but she had to wind herself up in order to spit it out... or would have her boyfriend interject "Oh! Cat has something really cool to say about this subject. Go ahead Cat, tell them." Alvin was very stoic at first... finally cracking when he realized we had much more in common than we imagined-- he grew up in the same California town as where my uncle, we were both med school drop outs, we both liked Atmosphere, sports-team loyalties... and same level of sarcasm. After day three, we were like siblings.
From this duo we learned: quiet people are usually worth the patience (well, everyone else learned that... I've always known this, considering I'm part of that tribe).

6. My two friends: The Muppets.
These two ladies have known each other for a while. One of the girls... let's call her Bone, has been my friend since high school, and the other I met on this trip. Bone and... Spence have been friends for something like ten years or less. Anyway, they definitely have more in common with one another, since their friendship is fresh, and they live in the same city. They had many inside jokes, and a very similar sense of humor... really loud laughs. People in the group would often... sort of exclude them, because these two girls would be in a world of their own... not to mention, always the last two on the trail... by at least half an hour. The nickname was given to them by our hilarious German dad of the trip, and he meant it as a compliment.
From this duo we learned: quick wit can make tense situations into laugh-fests.

7. Me: The narrator.
I was given the title by the dad, since he said I was more of the calm portion of the trio, responsible for translating the humor of The Muppets to the rest of the group.
I was the tallest female... as well as the meaty-est (the "chubbiest" was Spence, but she is about 5'5" so it wasn't as... intimidating as my corpulence). Trust me, this will play a mean role later on.
From me they learned: having someone capable of translating from Spanish to English and English to Spanish is goddamn priceless in Latin America.

And so, add our magnificent five-foot-tall trek guide to the mix, and you get a group of 14 folks who endure all sorts of shit and form a peculiar bond.

Poor wittle baby

Aaaand I'm back!
Alive!

I managed to climb a fucking enormous mountain at... 6000+ m.a.s.l. but the part that kicked my ass was getting on a plane ride back home.
I managed to revert to toddlerhood and puked all over myself not once, but TWICE on the ride back home yesterday.

A five day hike across (more like around) the Andes didn't do much to me besides burn my skin to an unrecognizable toast (my Mexican tan and Greece tan are vastly different to the Peruvian tan)... but shove me onto a plane at four in the morning, and watch as I randomly barf my way out of sleep.

I should probably preface all that shit by saying I spent my Sunday afternoon and night in hot pursuit of some good Peruvian seafood. We drove up and down the city of Lima looking for our favorite eateries... which all turned out to be closed due to Sunday hours (super Catholic country... they definitely beat Mexico in their fundamentalism). Our tour finally ended with us defeated, settling for a local sandwich shop (sandwich shops are the fucking shit out there. Just like we Mexicans go for late night taco stands after a night of dancing and debauchery, Peruvians rush the sandwich shops). Since we had spent about eight hours searching for food, ONE of the girls in the group had bigger eyes than stomach... and since I'm such a penny-pinching cheapskate, I force-fed myself the dish homegirl left untouched. The dish consisted of chorizo, a fried egg, aji sauce (SO FUCKING DELICIOUS), tomatoes, lettuce, and thick-cut french fries.
I ate the fries after I finished my enormous sandwich (chorizo, sausage, three kinds of cheese, thin french fries, aji, and slow-cooked pork). THEN I went back to my hostel and drank a bottle of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon with the homegirl... and by 11pm, I was ready to run into oncoming traffic.

Homegirl felt guilty after watching me grimace my way through the airport... and was relieved when she saw we would not be sitting together on the one leg of the flight we'd be sharing.
It was about an hour into the flight when I was woken up by the heaving of my stomach... too late to grab the barf-bag, but fast enough to avoid the more projectile portion of the puke-fest. I was lucky enough to be sitting in the aisle seat, so I saved myself (and my fellow flight companions) the disgusting outcome of a puke-drenched row 8.
On the second/final leg of my trip, I once again woke up as my stomach was gearing up for round two, and I managed to maneuver my blanket (provided by the airline) into a puke-basket, and barfed into it. People on this six-hour flight were much more compassionate, and adopted me as the sickly baby that I was-- wiping my face of barf, and feeding me ice cubes to relieve the nausea.

I was feeling slightly better by the time my mother picked me up from the airport, and randomly fell asleep around 6PM as I tried watching game 7 of the OCK-Golden State game.
I woke up this morning tired as fuck... feeble as fuck... and highly confused as to my whereabouts.
I have yet to eat anything, I find that I'm still scared to add anything to my gut. Luckily my head is no longer in the clouds, so I'm just waiting on my stomach to give me the hungry signal any minute now.

I need to find a cure for this fucked up odor-induced plane-sickness. 

Jittery Broad

So, after much planning (that was not done by me), I'm finally heading out to Peru Wednesday night.

I'm fucking shitting bricks right about now.
This trip has been in the works since November... when May seemed like a fucking lifetime away.

Up until two weeks ago, I was the chillest of chill cucumbers. I had ZERO fear. I was downright careless.
Then I had to inform my work-out group I was leaving for Peru in two weeks-- THEY freaked out.
They have managed to embed all sort of doubts into my brain. I'm now thoroughly convinced I'm going to fucking die in the goddamn Andes.

"Do you have waterproof spray for your hiking boots?"
Me: I... don't have hiking boots yet.
"Do you at least have gel?"
Me: ... I need gel?
"FOR SHAFING!"
Me:... no.
"Do you AT LEAST have the Altitude Sickness pill?"
Me:... uh...
"Altitude Sickness can kill you!"
Me:... but... I'm... Native American... I think I can handle the altitude...

Everything is wrong, I'm going to fucking die, I'm a fucking idiot.

But GUYS! My mitochondrial DNA is Native American... My father's mDNA is as well. My motherfucking ancestral background is that of groups of human beings who fucking PLOWED through harsh terrain and fucking survived. That has to count for something, right? AND Hometown is located at an elevation of 6100ft... AND I've chilled in Mexico City, even RAN there, and that place is at 7,383ft... like... I'm going to fucking handle this shit.

I'm angry that despite all of these reassuring FACTS about myself (alongside the fact that I hit the gym 6 days a week... and I don't just fucking ride the goddamn elliptical for an hour-- I go hard), I have still allowed these hating-ass women to stress me the fuck out.
This past week has been horrible for me-- I have been restless as fuck at night, and my anxiety level is THROUGH THE ROOF. Saturday morning I was on the verge of a panic-attack... shallow breathing, trembling limbs, tears ready to burst any second. I had to force myself to take a nap, fearing I'd crack any second.

I've never been this uncomfortable before a trip. I'm not afraid over the fact that I'll be completely alone for the first leg of the trip, hanging out in Panama for 8 hours... I'm scared of actually BEING in Peru... with the other two chicks that will accompany me on the trip.

I HATE the fact that I allow others' doubt of my capacity and abilities seep into my mind, casting the self-doubt.
It SUCKS that others have such a low opinion of me... but it's fucking worse that I fall into the trap of believing them.

DAAAAMN IIIIIIIT!

Jumbo Card

My sister made a surprise visit on Saturday for Mother's Day.
I knew of my sister's trip since Wednesday, when she purchased her tickets on a whim. My job was to remain quiet and make up a lie for when it came time to pick her up at the airport Friday night at 11:30.
So... I was dying inside keeping this lie from everyone. It took me about a day to decide what I was going to do (say I was picking up Kelley from the airport... Sorry, Kelley! hahaha), and next thing I knew, it was Friday and I had to put my acting into play.
I decided I would spend time with a friend, so as to avoid both my parents, come home just in time to head out to the airport, then surprise the folks.
As I was making the trek out to my friend's house (about 45 minutes away), I received the frantic, furious texts from my sister-- her flight was cancelled. "Crew issues" was the reason given.
After calming the kid down, she purchased another flight for Saturday morning-- 8:15AM.
I had to lie for ANOTHER day. That shit was killing me!
So... I put on my best acting face and... my folks believed it.

Saturday morning came around, I hit the gym at 5:30 in the morning, came home, had some breakfast, then casually rolled out to the airport.
In the car I had a giant Mother's Day card my mom had thrown a tantrum over WEEKS ago, thinking I hadn't purchased it, and I made my sister sit in the back with it so she could sign it.
I came home, made Sister stand behind the giant card, and surprised the fucking SHIT out of my mom.

"How did you... you... you little jerk!" Mom said.
And she cried.
****

"Oh my god, how did AnoMALIE do that? Why did she do that?" asked my mother's employee. "Had it been one of my kids, they would have thrown the card at me the first moment I complained about them being bad kids by not gifting it to me."
"That's just who she is," said my mother.

You see, for the last MONTH my mother had been hounding me, taking digs at me, after a tantrum she threw at a Walmart when she saw giant Mother's Day cards for three dollars.
She wanted me to buy her a card, right then and there, but I thought it would be tacky... thought it would be a better idea to buy it when she wasn't around and surprise her with it on THE ACTUAL DAY we're supposed to celebrate mothers. I was very much pulling a Santa Claus on her.
This, for some reason that day, made her go into the pettiest of tantrums, where she verbally insulted me in front of the Walmart cashier and other patrons.
HOURS later, I returned to Walmart while she was at work, and I purchased the fucking card... and I hid it behind my blank canvases.
For the rest of the month, I would not hear the end of her rehashing of the goddamn CardGate... she told the fucking story to ANYONE who would listen. I would stand there, quietly listening to her berate me as she went on her dramatic spiel of "NO ONE HAS APPRECIATED ME! All you do is GIMME GIMME GIMME! NEVER EXPECT ME TO GIVE YOU A DIME EVER AGAIN (this was a famous phrase she used at Walmart, that woeful day I turned down her request to purchase the card)!"
Mom took the bitching up to this past Thursday, when she recounted her story of woe to her sister as we all sat at work, killing time. I had to sit there and listen to both my aunt and Mom rebuke me for being so cruel and heartless... as I took my eyes off my phone's screen only to roll them with each self-pitying comment from these women.

Now Mom is going around telling everyone the story of how I'm a sneaky jerk... who quietly listens to people trash-talk her in public, just to smile the moment she gets the chance to prove EVERYONE WRONG.
'Cause I'm a sneaky bitch who LOVES teaching mean motherfuckers a lesson... uh... not that I'm calling my mom a "motherfucker" or anything.

But yeah, watch yo mouf, muthafuckaaas... I'm actually a nice, thoughtful girl. Most of the time.

Early 30s is too young

People retelling their "Where were you when 9/11 happened?" by now is downright annoying, I'm sure.
I've told my 9/11 story multiple times, almost every year... because it was so eerie.

Back when it occurred-- the day of-- I left school early because I had to drive out to Oklahoma for my brother's graduation from Basic Training.
I was scared out of my mind, because I had no idea what it meant for my brother's future. I remember my friends trying to calm my nerves, and the one that managed to do it the best was my "first HS friend." She was the first girl to bother to get to know me, and include me in her circle-- spoke to me in 10th grade, added me to her circle in 11th. Her father was in the military, so she proceeded to answer my very weird, nonsensical questions.
High school was a time I clung to her because we had six out of eight classes together... she comforted me. College came around the corner, and we parted ways-- she went off with architecture stuff, I went to science... we spoke two times in ten years.

Though we grew to be very different people, I will never forget the role she played in my life during the most excruciating moments.
I will always appreciate the kindness of this friend, the compassion she showed this quiet, awkward, timid girl.
...

Her oldest brother died today... and... I have no idea what to say.

This year is the absolute worst for the people in my life-- I'm so sorry, guys.

MEme

I'm chatty today... as well as currently avoiding people who have managed to piss me off.

We're on the eve of the fifth month of the year, and I can say, I'm still riding pretty damn high. The further we get into the year, the clearer the picture becomes of the goddamned mess that was 2015. The huge discrepancies in feelings and behaviors and... everything-- the magnitude of the depression, it's so much easier to spot, to describe them... to know I have finally cleared that stretch of seemingly-never-ending hurdles.

My body has also bounced back. My face is clearing up and my exhaustion is almost non-existent. I find myself with a renewed enthusiasm and energy for the gym. While last year it seemed as though just sniffing a fucking cookie made me gain five pounds, this year I've been dropping inches off my waist without my body putting up much of a fight (I haven't been weighing myself in years, since it made me extremely neurotic).
All of these discoveries I'm sure have a lot to do with my fantastic mood. Seeing my face return to looking like MY face brings a joy to me I thought was lost forever. Forget getting my work-out body back, that shit is fleeting... but my face? The face I know can be sweet and innocent and... my fucking face? I was scared it was going to be scowling, wrinkled, and reddened for life-- an angry, bitter face... that ISN'T me.

I am more ME now than I have been since 3rd grade.
I have done and said things I haven't done or said in decades. It's not like it's a new behavior, it's an OLD behavior I thought so many years of torture had killed.
My family members have noticed the return of KidAnomalie, often times smiling and staring at me, usually remarking on how I used to do or say what I just did-- a glint of happiness at the return of the witty, silly little girl I used to be.

It's almost May and I'm STILL happy... fucking unbelievable. 

Bolt

Today marked the Ninth anniversary of my grandfather leaving this place like a lightning bolt.

There are days when I miss him terribly... when I remember funny little moments I shared with him. I'll think about riding my grandpa's horse, playing with his assortment of cuddly farm animals, and see the images in my mind with the rosiest of filters.

There are days when I still feel incredibly angry and resentful towards him... even if he is dead.
I still have moments where I feel my blood boil, and my head feel lighter, from holding in my rage when someone speaks of him as though he were the greatest human to have ever lived.
There is no doubt in my mind that he was a good guy, that he had his great moments... but it makes me angry to know he placed me in this predicament... where I have the power of completely annihilating this image others have... to taint his memory in the minds of others... but I choose to shut up and walk away. I HATE that I have to deal with that. I WISH I could be like everyone else and whole-heartedly say "That man was such a fucking badass, that fucking amazing HeMan," without the back of my mind screaming "BULLLLLSHIIIIIIT!"
I also hate that I bite my tongue, shrug my shoulders, or raise my brow when others wonder why the fuck I'm such a weird, quiet girl.
WHY the hell can't you be normal? What the fuck is so terrible?
Well, fuck me if I know...
But I know... and I choose to stay quiet... and not blame others... and wonder if others can really be THAT fucking stupid to not put two and two together... to figure that "Well, someone hurt this poor chick."

But I'm not here to talk poorly of my grandfather.
It still feels weird to know I can no longer see him, or hear his stories.
It scares me to think that he could be out there, unable to rest his soul because I'm still so resentful of him.

Everyone has a story, and my grandfather certainly had one that is worthy of a movie saga. The amount of suffering he had to endure is something we continue to learn about to this day, with discoveries of all sorts of historical data.
I've learned to forgive, and sort of understand that he was a damaged person... that had numerous redeeming qualities.
He was my grandfather.
I possess many of his traits-- I have his skin tone, his smile, his explosive temperament, his stubbornness, his susceptibility to fall for a sob story, his charitable tendencies. Thanks to him, I love animals, I'm adventurous (really, I am), I love scary stories, I love nature, I know about farming, I love music... I love storytelling... I have thicker skin.
He prepared me for this world. He prepared me for the harsh realities this life slams upon others-- whether we looked for them or not, whether we deserved them or not.

I miss him.
Besides that night nine years ago, the first night after he died, I haven't dreamt of him.
I'm not sure I'm ready to see him again... but this entire month I kept thinking about today, his anniversary. I kept thinking "Like a lightning bolt... death came for him and took him out with a flash... a quickness... like he wanted."

As I walked outside to head out earlier tonight, I looked to my right and saw a storm brewing in the city's south side... lightning bolts lighting up the sky.

Fucking lightning bolts.
I see you.