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.

Ain't no princess here

The "Dietary Upheaval" of my lenten promise isn't that much of a surprise: No dairy, no carbs, no sugar.

Of course, the no sugar part is referring to "no refined sugar"... I eat fruits.

Well, my body--much like my personality-- is a stubborn little drama queen.
My body is histrionic as fuck, and it's causing me problems.

Lent started on Wednesday, which was a day of fasting except for the one meal of the day... in which I STILL HAD dairy, carbs, and sugar... because I do what I want.
Anyway, Lent began on Wednesday, and by Saturday morning my body was threatening public fainting.
My early morning gym session was cut short, 20 minutes in, because by my third time (of the required four) running my "clean-and-press, weighted tricep dips, and heavy squat" circuit... I became discombobulated. My body started doing that thing where my mind was totally alert "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, BODY? WHY THE FUCK DO I SUDDENLY FEEL YOU PULLING AWAY? HEY! HEYYYYY!" while my limbs were just not giving a fuck... it was ready to go down as though it were just hit by a tranquilizer dart.
I put down my weight, looked at my trainer and partners, and just plopped to the floor.
The look of fear on their faces is priceless... it's something I will remember for years and laugh. That sounds mean, doesn't it? I mean, it was nice and heartwarming to know these ladies care so much for me... but the fear... it was like they were witnessing someone get shanked before their eyes... watching an enemy army running straight for a playground.
They all went into problem-solving mode, and began troubleshooting... it was great.
Of course, the whole time I sat there, shellshocked, bracing myself for the moment where everything goes black... but it never happened.
Even gym regulars were looking over at me.
See... I'm the savage of my group-- the mule, the chick who lifts heavier than... some dudes. I never have these sort of episodes in public.
"What are you doing? Tell me right now! Susie, go get her a banana," I heard.
You stupid, fucking body. Fuck you.

"It's fine guys... I'll be ok... my body's just... an asshole. I'm on day... three of no sugar and my body wants to punish me, is all," I said.
So, I sat there an explained my Lent thing.

So... while I know I am FINE... I have MORE THAN ENOUGH energy stored for my body to chill the fuck out and not have me die (goddamn, just take a glimpse at my monstrous thighs! I can live off that storage alone for a good couple of months), I have to take it easy because my dickhead body's threatening me with public humiliation. I have been taken hostage by this sugar addiction.
You're gonna faint, you're gonna faint! I'm tooo weeaaaak! You know what would make this better? A dark chocolate, extra fudgy brownie...

I'm hitting the gym, acting like some fucking Victorian-era bitch with a bad crush who sees him in the distance as she frolics around in some fucking flowery meadow... in the middle of a rainstorm and OH MY GAWD! I CAUGHT A COLD AND NOW I'M GONNA DIE OF CONSUMPTION!

My body is such an asshole.
(Actually, I think of it more as my "artsy" part of the brain vs. the analytical, logical part. The crazy duality of my composition is working against one another, as per usual, but now they're fucking around with my body's function, not my feelings. My analytical side wants to poke around and experiment with dietary changes, while my artsy part is making me overreact with the histrionic shit it's trying to pull. It's fun. Right. Sure)

I still feel weak. Me. Weak. Hahahaha.

Kangaroo

How's my foot, you might ask?
Fuuuuuuucked up.
Never have a gimp girl watch her team defeat such an audacious, shit-talking, ire-inducing opposing team.

I jumped each and every goal scored by Mexico (and screamed... Jesus, I have never screamed like that before). By the third, I swore I was a kangaroo... I was getting some mean air.
Once the adrenaline died down and my heartbeat normalized... I was reminded of my mangled foot by the intense throbbing. All that jumping fucked me up.
There I went again, being a dickhead, pulling a dickhead move... idiotically re-injuring myself.


I'd totally do it again.

Vulgar R and R

I swear... if I see ONE MORE motherfucking neon-colored tutu, I'm going to lose my shit.

As you can see, I'm still very much easily agitated.
I tried making this weekend all about rehab... physical rehab, that is... obviously I don't have a substance abuse problem because I'd have to first consume some sort of mind-altering, addictive substance.
I took off from the gym since Wednesday, a little light work on Thursday (because I HAVE A PROBLEM, ok?! I can't just quit cold-turkey... it fucking KILLS me), and then NO physical activity until this evening, when I just HAD to hula-hoop to keep form going stir crazy (how can people be ok with inactivity? That fucking shit gives me a headache AND gives me nausea... like a nasty case of immaculate conception).
I just sat home and watched soccer match after soccer match. This is probably why I'm so irritable... I screamed at the television six hour of each day... either out of excitement, or extreme frustration.
"GET UP! YOU MOTHERFUCKING PUSSY ASS BITCH!!"
"YOU'RE FUCKING GERMAN! SINCE WHEN ARE YOU FRAGILE?!
"A fucking foot to your motherfucking cleat is THAT FUCKING EXCRUCIATING?! MAN UP, BIIIIIITCH!"
"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' 'BOUT!!"
"YOU'RE A MOTHERFUCKING BEEEEEEEEAST!!!!"

My vulgar World Cup antics are well documented across the lands...
I don't fuck around with that shit.

I still feel a little bit of tinnitus just writing that shit... I feel horrible for my viewing partners (for the first time in the history of my family, my DAD joined the futbol furor! Shit got annoying after he refused to only cheer for ONE team per game... the man cheers for every damn goal made-- he's the bimbo of the group).

Anyway, how's my foot doing? It's aiight.
Now don't talk to me... tomorrow's going to suck dick... fucking World Cup... fucking Mexico.
(I guess my passion for this shit is back... just extra testosterone-y. Lovely)

TinGirl

Good lord... when a day is shitty, it is REALLY fucking shitty.
WHY SPAIN?! WHY?! FUCK.
Now that I think about it, the entire month of June has been fucking garbage.

I am currently suffering from that feeling I often get, where I go on with my life as though I've taken one deep breath and dunked myself into a deep pool.
Inhale AS DEEP AS YOU FUCKING CAN!
I then attempt to survive the entire day like that... without breathing.

I'm exhausted. My body aches. I'm once again sad as fuck.
I try to ignore the shitty feeling by hitting the gym harder than usual... in hopes of getting my legitimate physical pain to override my emotional hurt.
A girl can run on that plan for only so long before her body starts to give out.
My body is giving out.
I have a stress fracture in the metatarsals of my left foot that has been unable to heal for the last... three  or four months (?) because I refuse to take more than two days off the gym. Each time I get close to no longer feeling any pain, I go off and do some fucking stupid shit... like abrupt burpees... and my foot once again gets wrecked.
My knees are also hurting now. Well... they don't "hurt" per se, but mornings are now extra crappy, because I wake up stiff as a board (imagine if I were a dude and used that colorful cliche...).
My back isn't too enthusiastic in the mornings, either.
Basically, the only thing currently not giving me grief are my arms and pectorals (... pectorals... as though I were a man-- although now that I think about it, I do have big pec muscles for a girl, and the fat content of my tits has gone down drastically... it upsets me. Only hint left of me ever having large tits are the stretch marks... the best part of the big-titty club!).
Each morning I have to spend about half an hour stretching like some fucking ballerina. I often catch a glimpse of my body in the mirror and can't help but conjure the image of the fucking Tin Man... oiling myself up to make sure I'm better able to walk over to the fucking Wizard of Oz.

I'm not doing so hot, and now my exterior is beginning to match my interior-- damaged and quite possibly irreparable.

FuuuuuUUUUUUUCKKKKKK!

Used Condom

It is astonishing how fast this year is speeding by.
I'm fuckin' dying.
Not literally... at least not to my knowledge.

The wedding used to feel like it was decades away... and now I have less than two weeks to get my shit together.
Today was the day I decided to take my dress for alterations.

This fucking dress PISSES ME OFF.
I don't understand the fucking purpose of getting your measurements taken, to ultimately be told "Yeah, so according to OUR chart, your bust is a size 13--if we made it-- your waist is a 10, and your hips are a size 15, if we made it. So... you might want to think about your largest part... so... it's either a size 14 or 16 dress you're going to have to order."
A size 14 or 16... when my waist is a 10. I dropped 200 bucks at a bridal shop to buy a PRE-MADE dress... that did not fit my upper body... not only was it baggy, but it was too short on my TORSO. MY TORSO! I'm 5'9"... how the fuck is that a freak size? AND ON A SIZE 14! What kind of fucking standard do they follow for a size 14? An obese midget? WHAT THE FUCK?!
AND THEN they charge 200 more fucking dollar for alterations... TWO-HUNDRED-FUCKING-DOLLARS.
Yeah, like I don't have anything better to do with four hundred dollars, so I'll just burn them on a fucking IDIOTICALLY SHAPED DRESS.
Why not just charge the four hundred dollars upfront and MAKE THE DRESS ACCORDING TO MY MEASUREMENTS?! Accommodate my freakishly long torso, big tits, and HIPpopotamus lower-half in one fucking shot.
Don't give me a fucking dress that will lead me to uncontrollable tears the moment I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and notice I resemble a dick covered in a fucking used condom. FUCK!

SO ANYWAY... I go ahead and put on the dress, proceed to scratch the fuck out of it as I mistreat it while looking in the mirror... and of course I cry. I'm offended by what I see AND I'm frustrated, AND it makes me feel like the ugliest piece of shit walking this planet.
You're a FREAK! YOU'RE ABNORMAL. THIS is why guys don't like you... you don't fit into the NORMAL shit... you will ALWAYS be a fucking heifer, dumbass.
I HATE dresses to begin with, but when the dress makes me feel like a fucking freak of nature, it makes me miserable. It makes me feel like such an abnormal... ugly... stupid excuse for a girl.
Why can't I be normal and fit in a pre-made dress?
I don't feel so out of the norm... and my ass is actually SMALLER than the average Latina's... yet here I am... still having to buy a BAG for a "dress."

So yeah, I've basically been crying all goddamned day because girls here are expected to be noodles with stupidly narrow hips... and because evidently I can never ever be considered fucking NORMAL.

FUUUUUCK, I HATE WEDDINGS!

Tits suck

Tit pains ain't no joke, guys.
I've been a total wimp about this uncomfortable pain on one of my boobs... and it has pretty much ruined ALL Friday for me.
I really can't think of anything else, really.

Fuck, man. 

Call it a problem

The last week or so has been somewhat rough for me.
Typical shit, ya know... crying, arguing, realizing a lot of people only view you as a money sign, realizing others have been lying to you for god knows how long... shit like that.
I've also had to deal with the "stress" of finalizing plans for the May trip. Somewhat of a headache, since I tend to suffer a panic attack each time I think of that piece of shit country of France... fucking stupid asshole France.
THEN there's my body. No one really tells you all the fucking bullshit your body will pull on you when you're "transforming."
There are good days... days when you'll look in the mirror and see some coolass muscle in places you never thought possible (at least on your own body). I geeked out the moment I saw the top two squares of my abs showing when I flexed, I practically passed out when I noted my obliques were coming in (that is some serious awesome shit), and I also have a thing for my pelvic bones-- never thought there'd come a day when I'd be able to see those.
Then there are bad days. Bad days suck dick. My bad days generally consist of noticing my jeans are tightening in the thighs/ass... or I'll feel like my skin is getting "pulled" in random areas. The pulling sensation freaks me out. It's not much different from the feeling you get when stretch-marks are coming in... except stretch-marks are itchy as fuck. This is what upsets me... because the thought of NEW stretch-marks makes me want to jump off a bridge. I have ENOUGH fucking stretch-marks, which I've finally learned to somewhat embrace-- SOMEWHAT.
Recently, my thighs and ass have been a problem-- they have been getting big, where it fucking worries me. Is it NORMAL for your ass to just start blowing up as if getting inflated by some air pump? My pants hug the fucking hell out of my bottom... and it's not like I can "suck it in," it's my fuckin' ass-- it's BAM! Right there!
I'd say my tits could be a "problem" as well, but what girl complains about her tits getting big? So yeah, I sense this has something to do with my girly hormones... that stupid, unstable cocktail of danger.

I told my sister of this problem the other day.
D: And it's just your ass and thighs getting big?
Me: Dude, my tits are also spilling out of the top of my bras.
D: Is your gut getting big?
Me: No. That's the annoying part. My pants fit fine in the waist, but I'm scared of sitting down because I feel my pants will rip at the thighs or ass.
D: Is your ass just fat, or firm?
Me: It's rock hard, dude!
D: Bigger tits and a bigger, tighter ass... I wouldn't call that a problem, idiot.

I didn't listen to her... because I'm a hypochondriacal idiot... and I chose to believe my body was just winding up to explode back to its gibongous stage of the mid '00's.
Then today I decide to get into my tightest fitting gym pants.
Money.
My ass IS bigger than it used to be (I'll be the first to admit my ass is small and stupid. I'm not delusional when it comes to my ass. It might have been big when I was a seven year old, but I totally grew into it during adolescence), but my hammies are magic, and my tummy is flatter than ever.
My body was just doing that lame thing it likes to do when readjusting sizes.

I swear, guys, you can physically feel when your body is tightening up. You FEEL it randomly... and it makes you think you're cramping... or suffering from a hernia... or blowing up like a pufferfish. It's like getting smacked by a giant rubberband. You have no idea WHERE the readjusting will take place (spot training is BULLLLLLLSHIIIIIIT!), but after two or three weeks, you'll catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and think "Well, fuck me! That *body part* looks badass! Where the fuck did that come from?!"
Don't know if people who have been thin their entire lives experience this, but as someone who spent decades as a human pomegranate, I'm telling you it happens... at least to me it does. It sucks balls for two weeks when you feel like a silverback gorilla, but then through some fucking miracle, you see the progress for which you've been working so motherfucking hard.

I still think I'll spend the next few weeks in spandex though... 

ALL OVER Costa Rica... and Las Vegas too, BITCH

Ok, ok.
Doing much better.

Some days I'm just not up for dealing with shit. Yesterday was one of those days.
Yes, it was HELL of awkward to walk into a room where everyone was laughing at someone's imitation of your smile... as another talked shit about how I "smiled like that ALL OVER the Coasta Rica album!"
It hurt. Yup. Sure fucking did... and at the moment, all I really knew how to do was awkwardly walk to the bathroom and then cry the sentiment out.
I proceeded to spend the majority of the party in this state:

Pretty sure I was super proud of my Draw Something doodle or something...

Really wanting to smile "AnoMALIE-style" but fighting it

But then I had to press pause and assess the situation.

1. The guy imitating my smile so viciously was drunk as FUCK... and sentimental himself, since it was his daughter's christening, and no one showed up... just four co-workers, his mom, sister, and a cousin... and me and D. So he drank himself silly.
2. I was buzzed. The moment we entered the house, the drunk dude (who was imitating my smile... the dad of the celebrated baby, and the dude I often refer to as my adopted brother) had Sis and I take shots with him. I obliged. On an empty stomach. Because I'm an idiot.
3. I too am guilty of laughing when someone gets made fun of... I'm no saint. I shouldn't be shocked when I'm the butt of the joke.

So... I got the nice little cry out of my system... I had my lovely friends and family talk sense into my stupid, hormonal head... and I'm once again smiling (though I was pretty upset yesterday at the party, I still proceeded to make everyone laugh with my salty remarks... to the point where one dude was kicking his feet in the air and then "complimented" me with "I never would have thought you were funny. I didn't even know you talked." Yeah, I do, fuckhead... even after I get made fun behind my back. This was a dude who had always seen me around in Hometown, but had never crossed a word with me [mainly because he's like 12 years older than me and he was the "hot guy" all the teenage girls liked when I was a 10-year-old] until yesterday).

Don't like my smile? Go eat a dick, you fucking prick.
...
Look at that, I'm unintentionally rhyming... guess I'm still agitated about it.

This ISN'T?

Sex talk.
Oh yeah. 
Or...
What the fuck are you doing?!

Being a member of the Vclub, I understands it makes me ineligible to participate in certain conversation topics (and trust me, I don't mind. AT ALL). I also understand there will be certain topics in which I'll be completely alone (like the whole YOU'RE STILL A FUCKING VIRGIN?! fact. Just a minor detail, if you ask me).

However, I do believe there's a universal sex etiquette that must be followed.
It's quite fucking simple:
1. In conversation, it's ok to get in depth about your sexual exploits... but with one or two... sometimes even three of your closest friends. 
DON'T tell every motherfucking person you meet. Not everyone is as excited to hear every last detail of your sexual encounters.
2. Details should be kept to a minimum.
He has an 11-inch penis?! WHAT THE FUCK?! Ok. This one is worth mentioning.
His penis bends to the left? Not ok. WHY do I want to be able to envision what your guy's penis looks like? Unless this little detail plays a weird, yet amazing role in the sensation or procedure... I would rather you keep that between you and your guy... and that one close friend of yours.
3. Never ever EVER show me a photo of your man's dick. EVER.
I don't care if you're super proud of how well endowed he is... I don't care if it's "cute"... shit, I wouldn't care if it could talk. There is NO reason for you to let me know your man that intimately. YOU'RE the one fucking him, not me. Yes, I was supposed to go to med school... and I have seen plenty of photos of diseased penises through the course of my school years (I'm sure it has something to do with my reluctance to get near one. It's just... the images are BURNED in my brain. Why would guys let their little man get THAT bad?)... and I was traumatized enough to memorize a good number of those diseases... ok, to memorize ALL of the diseases... but that doesn't mean I'm qualified to diagnose. If you were to suspect your man of having some sort of STD or whatever, GO TO THE REAL DOCTOR. I'll just tell you what should be common knowledge: if it's leakin' shit that ain't cum... go to the doctor. And get that fucking photo off your phone! Blackmail starts off that way, jackass.

Alright, I mention this because recently, Twiggy has really gotten out of control in her sex talk.
First, she would tell everything, absolutely EVERYTHING to my sis.
I'd sometimes listen because I'd be unlucky enough to walk in on their conversation.
I know Twiggy's man's dick size.
I know what he likes her to do with her mouth and hands when she's giving him head.
And now, I even know what his penis looks like. No, I KNOW what it looks like. She showed us a photo he sexted her (really, man... you're going to show me your sexts?).
How did she sneak that photo into my field of view?
We were talking about the difference between the uncircumcised and circumcised penis.
Since my sister isn't too read up on the subject, being that she
1. is the president of the Vclub as well as the chief of police of said club,
2. has always hated science. She opted for Rocks for Jocks when it came to her required semester of science class for her business degree. There was little chance for her to bump into the diseased penis photos
she was unable to give a clear example.
I was next in line, so they went ahead and asked me for information (why can't girls just google their damn questions?!).
She wasn't understanding me... or at least that's what I tell myself in order to justify her next action... so she whipped out her phone while saying
"Oh!!! SO like... this ISN'T?"
Bam. I'm officially unable to look at her boyfriend from now on without envisioning his uncircumcised (but enormous) penis.
Me: What the fuck, Twiggy?! That's not cool! Does he know you're going around showing other girls what his penis looks like?!
Twiggy: I just want to know if his penis is normal... and what the big deal is with circumcised penises.
Me: Goddamn, Twiggy... my fucking eyes.

So um... yeah... please just follow the guidelines... and we'll be cool.

... showing me a photo of your boyfriends penis... what the fuck is wrong with you?

And this is clearly not something I should be thinking about at this time of the night, but here you have me... doing just that.
Way to ruin my peace, asshole.

Crock... pots

Fuck.
I once again have chola eyebrows:

Wicked arch.

Not too long ago, my eyebrow lady was giving me thick, middle-eastern metrosexual eyebrows,

Is that Oscar the Grouch?!

Well, there has to be SOME relation there, right?

and now it appears she realized I'm actually a Mexican girl... and she gave me the eyebrows Mexican-American girls are given in movies.

smoking's bad... mmmkay?

Chola... or rockabilly? I could fall under either category

You have NO IDEA how many of my childhood drawings depict this. No. Idea.
These girls are fuckin' G!

Just another "Happy Birthday Weekend, AnoMALIE!" moment.
(I'll get a big "702" tattoo across my stomach to help me embrace my new look)

Anyway.
I'm celebrating my last weekend of being 25 by going to a bachelorette party... no, no, it's not that... it's a "bridal party."
I went shopping for the damn thing last night, since the party is this afternoon.
I almost had a fucking heart attack when I checked out the gift registry.
I knew Bed Bath and Beyond was a little pricey (one of the two places the bride is registered)... but Macy's (the other place she's registered)... that place... I was literally screaming as I scrolled down the list (I was in my room, making the selection before heading out to the store. Something told me I was going to be fighting the urge to strangle something while looking over the list, so I preferred to be in the comfort of my room where people couldn't see/hear me flipping out).
WHAT THE FUCK IS SHE THINKING?!
WHAAAAAT?!
500 DOLLARS?! WHAT THE HELL?!
YOU'RE CRAZY, BITCH!
WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I AM?!
MOM!!! LOOK AT THIS!
Think I'm exaggerating?
Check this out.
And this.
Oh boy, look at this (this one ALMOST made me spill my hot tea all over my lap)!

But the winner was this one.
There was shit like a $120 electric razor, $90 fondue sets, $170 "touch screen" crock pot (crock of mother fucking shit, if you ask me. WHAT THE FUCK is that about?! Calm the fuck down, Wolfgang Puck!), $200 pressure cooker, TWO $140 juicers (REALLY?! REALLY?! You drink that much natural juice? You DON'T fool me with that bullshit! Go to Jamba Juice, asshole!).
You know what... fuck it. I'll link it here.
The somewhat logical, sane registry at BBandB.
And the absolutely preposterous, full of fucking shit registry at Macy's.
Don't just check out the item's price... but also the QUANTITY.

I think you all can figure out this lovely cousin's personality based on her list.
Am I the only one who finds it frivolous and outrageous?
With kitchen appliances that expensive... I'm assuming Hubert Keller and Iron Chef Bobby Flay ain't got shit on her.
Or she thinks she's freakin' Beyonce... getting married to Jay-Z.

I can see when you can demand shit of that price when you're a celebrity or member of some aristocratic family... when you've been raised accustomed to such luxurious items (a seventy-dollar trash can?? Really?! That's just... my brain nearly explodes with that. And people wonder why they're in debt... maybe if you quit spending 70-fucking-dollars on a motherfucking TRASHCAN!). But... none of us were. Our parents were illegal immigrants who worked their way up the ladder after decades of backbreaking labor. All our shit came from the Swap Meet... quit acting like your sensitive skin knows about thread count.

Ok... so that ruined my Friday night. I was furious.
Mom got her the $200 set of pots (I won't take credit for that. All I did was show Mom the registry and help her decide which would be the better buy in the long run. 200 dollars for a set of 13 pots is quite reasonable, if you ask me).

Now all I have to do is kill my Saturday by attending this party later today.
Hopefully by then, I won't be cynical and angry over my cousin's gift registry.
Hopefully... since I still went to bed cursing $70 trashcans, and I woke up mocking $120 juicers.

Left Right

As a kid, I really enjoyed playing games that heavily relied on running.
I liked playing regular tag, freeze tag, red-rover (I think that's what it was called. Since I grew up Mexican, surrounded by nothing but Spanish, the actual pronunciation of this game--and many others-- may be a little off), kickball, dodgeball, baseball... I even played this game called "El Cinto" (aka "The Belt" where one of the players was in charge of hiding a belt. Once he/she was done, it was his/her job to guide the rest of us toward the belt by playing "hot or cold." Once one of us found the belt, he/she would run after the other kids, smacking them with the belt until everyone reached "home base." I last played that game three years ago.. that's how much I love that style of mean-ass, violent game-- not to be mistaken as an enjoyment in running... 'cause now as an adult, that's probably my most hated activity. YOU try running with double Ds).
I had a rough time with tag/freeze tag each time it was a boy's turn to be "it." Why? Because the fucking asshole would chase me on purpose just so he could see my ass bounce (as long as it wasn't my brother. He'd never chase me, for obvious reasons). I wasn't aware of this, I'd just run my heart out and think "FUCK! I"M FAST! This bitch can't get me!" However, I finally realized the perverted intentions of the boys once a new boy joined our game of tag one day. I was about ten when this went down. The new boy was nine.
Rafa: Damn it, Nick! Tag her already!
(Nick's still chasing me. I'm running behind cars and all that dangerous shit that should have gotten me killed)
Me: HAHAHAHA! Yeah, Nick, TAG ME!
Rafa: QUIT RUNNING AND JUST LET HIM TAG YOU, FAG! This shit is boring!
Me: NO! Why don't YOU let him tag YOU!
At this point, Rafa started running after me, and when he managed to get in front of me, he pushed me into Nick... ultimately making me get tagged "it."
Instead of running after someone to tag them, I bent over to catch my breath. So did Nick and Rafa.
Nick: Damn... all I could see... was AnoMALIE's... butt bouncing... left, right... left and right. It was... I was hypnotized.
Me: ?!?!!? WHAAAAT?! YOU FUCKING PERVERT!
Nick said the last part of his sentence while moving his hands left and right. I grabbed him with one hand, and punched him with the other.
Boy2: You just... have to try to ignore it...
Left-Right hand movement.
Me: Fuck you guys!
Everyone laughed at me... those jerks.

I wouldn't call my ass "spectacular" or anything like that. Yeah, it's there... and it's not inverted like some chicks I know... but... it's not an onion like those on other chicks.
Back in the day, I did have an unusually perky butt for a kid... someone would always be pinching or smacking it during my early years. There's even a video out there where my older cousin and her husband are commenting on the awesomeness of my ass (I had a HUGE crush on her husband. I was 7, he was 27. Needless to say, I was mortified when I heard the conversation years later).
As the years passed, people started noticing other girls with wayyy better asses, and they finally started to respect my backside and leave it alone... with the exception of the occasional cock-graze at night clubs and metros.

But not today.

I was putting away my weights when an onslaught of human traffic walked my way.
I don't know if this was intentional, or a case of mistaken identity... but as I was bent over, minding my own business and picking up the lighter weights, a dude punked me... sort of.
It wasn't a graze... oh no. Not at all.
I felt when the guy walked directly behind me, so I tried to pick up my pace to get all the weights.
But it was too late.
He... he thrusted... in an "I know this ass, so it's ok" kind of way.

I claim to be so hardcore and "I'll beat your motherfucking ass!" but honest to God, I was scared and confused.
Whoa... What. The. FUCK.
I stood up immediately... and looked over my shoulder. My face was burning hot, I'm sure I was blushing beyond... any shade I've ever reached.
I'm also sure he saw the fear and confusion in my face, so he apologized-- repeatedly-- saying he thought I was a friend of his.

Me: ...O... k...

I walked away with my ba-gillion weights and tried my hardest to appear calm and collected.
I almost ran to my car.
And that was that.
Yeah.

Needless to say, I'm now going to take the "elevator" approach to bending down... as in, I'm going to descend by lowering my entire body... cocktail-waitress-style, whenever I have to reach something off the floor.
Or just act like a paranoid ex-prison inmate who got ass raped after dropping the soap.

I knew I should have paid more attention while watching "American Me."

Boo-bs

Stupid Victoria's Secret.
I look forward to their damn semi-annual sale with such anticipation... and when it finally arrives, all they have in stock are a bunch of ugly ass bras and panties that make you wonder what kind of blind, limbless (because of the fabrics they use. You have to be unable to feel in order to think some of that shit is acceptable) idiot came up with such ridiculous concepts (like, really, you're going to try to sell me underwear with glitter all over the crotch area? Come on now... we all know glitter is the herpes of arts and crafts... so to purposely put it near your cookiebox is just... who the fuck convinced them that was a good idea?).
Although... I probably shouldn't blame them entirely for the distressing selections I must choose from... I'm partly to blame in this... sort of.
I made the mistake of going on the second day of the sale.
I'm a dickhead for even thinking there will be decent bras by then... fucking women attack that sale like hawks, prime example being that one time that one lady smacked the panties out of my hand a couple of years back. Bitches don't play when it comes to cheap underwear. Maybe one day I'll turn into one of those chicks... but for now, I'll just stand next to the $5.99 bins and stare at them in disgust as they pillage the store.
My delay also allows the multitude of strippers in this town to get to the bras first.
It appears my size is quite popular with the vast number of plastic females who chose the size of their ta-tas. They get to the cool bras before I do, and I'm left to choose between the neon-colored bras or the animal-print bras... which... they're not that bad... if you want to be rescued from a deserted island and you need something to wave down a plane.

You'd think that at my age I'd have this game down... but I seriously underestimate the number of chicks who buy DD bras. The freakin' number is increasing... exponentially. Probably good for guys, but bad for me because now I'm forced to get the bullshit bras since the good ones are taken.

I was stoked when I bumped up to a C back in high school... even if it took a minute to get used to them (I had always thought I was going to be flat-chested because Mom is... almost a board, as are her sisters. The chicks on Dad's side aren't big either... so I'm pretty much an anomaly. Being that I had been flat most of my life, I had always had the habit of cleaning my hands off on my chest-- I'd just swipe my hands up there and I'd be good. Well, once the C's came in, I'd still have this habit [no, I wouldn't be wiping BBQ sauce off my hands on my shirt, but I would wipe off water, or salt/sugar, sweat... that sort of  stuff], I'd venture to say it got worse because I now had more surface to swipe. I continued to do this until one fateful day in 9th grade Biology. This year I'd wear nothing but black. When dissections came around, we had to use latex gloves... and it was probably my first time wearing latex gloves... so I didn't know of the STUPID white powder in the gloves to ease the sweating. I was still working when the bell rang for us to go to the next class, and since my next class was clear across campus, I rushed to remove the gloves. I felt the powder on my hands, but I couldn't see it, so I did a quick swipe on my chest and rushed to class. I noticed a lot of people, especially guys, double-take when I rushed past them, but since I was in such a hurry, I didn't bother to get paranoid. I sat through THREE classes... up until I went to P.E. and walked past a mirror to see what was calling the attention. There they were, on my solid black shirt: two white hand-prints on my chest... each appearing to cup a breast. I was fucking mortified... and PISSED no one had informed me of the problem. Some can argue "Well, I thought that was how the shirt was supposed to be" and to that I say Shut the fuck up! Really? Me?! The timid quiet girl wear a shirt like that on purpose? Don't kid yourself. Anyway, this was a tough lesson to learn now that I had boobs. Note to self: while cupping your breasts in order to wipe your hands clean, MAKE SURE YOU DON'T LEAVE A PRINT!).
Then stupid Veronica decided to get fancy... and wasn't happy with her C status... and grew to a D freshman year of college. Betty was forced to oblige, and I... well... I was uncomfortable... especially once the OLD MEN started noticing me and the girls. That was just... gross.
But no... the growth was not over, since Veronica is a greedy, ambitious cunt. She then gunned for the DD shortly after... Betty only half-assed followed... and so... I'm stuck at stripper size.
Just fucking lovely.

I can't wait until E's and F's start getting popular with strippers... maybe then I'll be good to shop for nice looking bras at reasonable prices in this damn city.
Fucking hoes.

Smile like you mean it

Lau, one of my good friends, recently started a pretty cool job.

By "pretty cool" I mean "I kind of wish I had it. Kind of."

She works at the Barneys in Beverly Hills.

I spoke to her today and asked her how she was enjoying her new job.

Lau: Well, I get commission on what I sell, so that's pretty exciting. I'm fighting fools for the jewelry and suit section. They make bank.

Me: Nice.

Lau: And I also like the jewelry section 'cause that's where I've bumped into cool celebrities. They've all been really nice.

Me: Ooo! Like who?

Lau: Well, I helped Kim Kardashian the other day. She's a cool chick. But my all-time favorite so far has to be Jack Nicholson.

Me: BITCH! I hate you!

Lau: Dude, AnoMALIE... I now understand why that man has had so many ladies in his life. He was such a gentleman! To top it all off, he told me I had a "beautiful smile." Awesome man, quite the charmer.

This warmed my heart.

Why? Because she's part of my "Gummy-Smile Crew." 

Red lipstick. Kudos to Lau.

Complementing our smile is like... telling us we won a lottery.

Gummy-smiles... they're... something.

I'm super self-conscious about a lot of things on my face (actually, I'm self-conscious about everything), but my smile is a top issue... although it might not be obvious, since I have the tendency to smile like a horse on all of my photos:

Ugh... this is what happens when I'm super excited. It's real, but gross.

It amazes me how I can make my upper lip nearly vanish when I'm ecstatic.

I find it ugly and gross. No one should know me that intimately except for my dentist.

I've heard of "corrective" surgery for it, but come on, how stupid would that be? You get corrective surgery on a cleft palate... a deviated septum... a botched boob-job... but for your lip? Weak-sauce, homie! Plus, I'm a chump when it comes to surgical procedures. I've had a total of... zero.

Instead, I opt to just sit there and think of "appropriate" ways to smile.

And I usually end up with shit like this when I think "appropriate" prior to photos:

It looks like I'm hiding food. 

Now it looks like I'm having difficulty breathing through my nose. 

Starting to lose control.

Luckily, even public figures suffer from this:

The president of the club. I love this woman!

It's just inevitable. When we're being real-- like a dog telling you to stay the fuck away from his food-- we flash the gums. When we give up and just want you to put the camera away and leave us alone, you get the fake-not-so-gummy smile. 

We also take into consideration that not many people are happy to be acquainted with our soft tissue, which leads to the safer, fake smile. 

So, when someone compliments the real smile... well... that's... that can get you laid.

I'm stoked Jack Nicholson didn't compliment me on my smile... it would really suck to have to hand over my V Card to a 73 year old player.

En una de esas...

I need to get in the habit of avoiding third-world countries.
But it's SO hard...

I had never dealt with a parasitic infection... I mean, a parasitic infection as an adult. I have a faint memory of being nearly deathly-ill as a two year old, along with my three year old brother. We were both sick as hell, and while I could walk around moping, crying, and hiding behind sofas as mom searched for me to "fix" me (insert the doctor-prescribed suppository [Worst. Feeling. Ever.]), my brother was not so lucky. He would be lying in bed, too dehydrated to move or cry, and only uttering "Ya dejenme morir!!" (Just let me die!)

Twenty two years later, I finally caught a case of worms as an adult, back in December. Something that was fixed around my birthday... with home remedies.

NOW, on my second week of vacation, I was lucky enough to catch a mild case of Giardia.
I begged to be cured then and there, since Mexico is packed with anti-parasite meds. However, it was recommended I hold off another week, until I'd be back in the US. Once home, I could "deparasite" myself with these magical pills (cartoons of giardia, tricha-whatever, and other worms, on the box. On commercials it has a catchy jingle: "Si tu sientes que te pica la colita... en una de esas, tienes lumbrices." I was curious, ok?), but only a week after being back.
You can always catch another case while still in Mexico, so just wait until you've spent a week back home... a month would be ideal.

Fuck. That.
A month? Who the hell do they think I am? Maybe they can put up with an extra month of giardia holding a rave in their gut, but I sure can't.
So today, exactly a week after coming back, I grabbed the two pills they gave me and I popped them in (orally, FYI).

Now I have a sweet ass headache going on... I feel the room spin once in a while... and I lose my train of thought every other minute.

That'll teach me to eat pulled-pork sandwiches while in Mexico... I should have stuck to my usually kosher diet.
And next time, I'm drinking soda... fuck this "I'm only drinking water" bullshit, sugar withdrawals be damned!
Next time... like there will ever be a "next time"... no, wait, there is... I have to get my wisdom teeth puled out in December... what a vicious cycle.

I can't think, my brain hurts. Let's hope I'm alive tomorrow.

Manitas

Pacemaker: Aww... so are you sad you're no longer going to see your loverboy?
Me: What are you talking about?
Pacemaker: Isn't he out of the World Cup or whatever?
Me: Oh... you mean that. No, I don't care. He has creepy hands.
Pacemaker: What the... AnoMALIE, this is why you don't have a boyfriend. Creepy hands?
Me: Yes, creepy hands. His fingers are too short. I don't know, maybe it's the violinist in me, or... I don't know. But short fingers DON'T fly. I don't care how fantastically muscular your thighs are, or how ripped your abs may be... short fingers remind me of Willow... and that little guy ::shudder::

I don't think I have extreme demands when it comes to dudes... I've just never been a fan of Vienna Sausages.

And now that we're on the subject of Pacemaker, I have a new dilemma she introduced me to last night:
Pacemaker and her cousin are planning to live abroad next fall... however, they're only up for it if my sister and I go with them.
While this excites the hell out of me... I'm pretty upset about it.

If everything goes according to plan, I'll be in grad school by the fall of '11.
Recently, I've been getting into far too many fights with those around me because they keep pestering me about my future. Add to that, the fact that my parents have recently referred to me as "out of control" because I don't cook for THEM while I'm home (ME, out of control... HAAAAAAAAAAAAA! Say that when you bail me out of jail after getting caught giving a dude head for money in a back alley in order to feed my crack addiction. But because I don't cook for them?). So, I REALLY want to get out of here... and grad school's my ticket.
The reason why I've been putting off the grad school step is because I've been too addicted to traveling... and that whole MGH misstep.
Now they spring the idea of going to Barcelona in 2011? Jesus... ahhhh! (and my other hesitation with that is the Spanish economy. Those fools are a step away from turning into the next Greece... I don't think it would be the brightest idea to be there for that. But it's SPAIN!! I LOVE IT! Why have they done this to me?)

So... I don't know what the fuck.
I'm still going to go through the whole grad school application process and see what the deal is. I just hope this new adventure doesn't sidetrack my mind too much... 'cause we all know how ADD-prone I am.

Polished

Growing up, I always had to put up with shit about my lips.

At first, it was the little kid thing where they would taunt me about the lips whenever they wanted me to fuck up during some intense game of kickball, or four-square, or... I don't know... tag? Basically, any time my peers wanted to see me worked up, they'd bust out the "N***a lip!" and I'd freak out.

Middle school came around, more kids were exposed to porn... more kids became sexually active... and so, came the new taunting lines:
"Shit... how many guys do you blow?!" "Why don't you shut the fuck up and go blow some guys behind the portables?" "Bitch, I know how you got your kind of lips! By blowing... guys!" etc... middle school kids are underestimated when it comes to creativity.

High school came around, and by then I had heard it all, except that now I started getting that annoying "lick the lips, make eye-contact" move from dudes... which was... I'd rather be hearing people call me Ni*** Lip, really.

So, to sum it all up, I've never been a fan of my own lips.
And when they do shit like what I'm about to show, it becomes increasingly difficult to like them at all:

That black stuff... I'll give you ten bucks if you guess correctly.
No, I won't.
It's nail polish.
Yes.
Why? Because my crazy Mexican mother told me it works magic on cold sores (yes... I finally contracted those pieces of shit... from my fucking brother of all people. Stupid asshole drank straight out of MY gallon of water when he was suffering from an outbreak... fucking retard. He could have at least allowed me to contract the damn herpesvirus participating in some fine, drunken debauchery-- like he did-- but no, he left it up to a fucking plastic gallon of water... gaaaaaaaaah!). Since I'm naive, and extremely gullible, I'll try anything once, twice if I'm that clueless... so here you have me faithfully tending to my wound every four hours.
While it's unbelievably unsightly (not to mention embarrassing), I have to admit... that shit is working magic. I hear cold sores take about 2 weeks to heal? My bad boy is nearly gone after two days.

Unbelievable... so much shit going on in the world, and here I am, blogging about my lip issue. But hey, what can I do? I'm a chick... and this shit has been interfering with my life for two days too many.
I don't go out in public like that-- I've put off grocery shopping and voting because of it. However, I did go to the gym today (nail polish removed, of course!), but only managed to look like a major cunt who refused to smile or look up.

I will be forced to emerge from my cave tomorrow, though, in order to perform my civic duty and vote... then buy myself some raspberries... then go get nearly killed at kickboxing... then hang out at the airport for an hour as I wait for my friend to fly in... and finally, back to my cave... my lovely, nail-polish-smelling cave.

Woe is me... someone, please rip off my lips!

(But hey, at least Rafa Nadal has been making my self-enforced quarantine bearable. He's such a hoss)

Not so free in that zone

Well, I guess after last night I can mark three things off my "To do before I die" list:
1) Check out a gay bar.
2) See a drag show.
3) Get my ass grabbed/fondled by a female stranger.

Now, honestly, none of that has ever been on my list (no shit, Sherlock), but it all happened last night.

Before the bar thing happened, I accompanied Chase to her band practice, and I was astonished by the similarity between one of her band mates and Ray Romano's voice. I mean, the likeness is uncanny.
The entire time, I found myself thinking "Keep talking!!! I feel like I'm in the presence of Ray! I miss Ray..."
I also wanted him to keep talking, or anyone else for that matter, because I was stuck listening to the one other person there who's not part of the band (but thinks she is), the wife of... I think he's a basist?
She talked... and talked... and talked... even when all I would do would be smile... or nod... or look in her direction.

She was trying to force me to drink a Bud Light... but she couldn't hear me saying "I don't like beer!!" Instead, she thought I didn't want to drink because I felt bad about "wasting her money."
She leaned in to me and screamed:
"Listen!! I make in one day, what you make in a year!! SO DRINK UP!! Don't feel bad about wasting my money."
I smiled... held back my urge to grab the open beer, turn it upside down on her lap, then get up and leave... but instead, I screamed "I. DON'T. LIKE. BEER!!!!"
"What kind of person doesn't like beer?!"
"Umm... me."
So she went on and drank... I think maybe 7?
At her 7th, she then proceeded to talk to me about what a sham marriage is. She told me never to get married, unless I found that ONE guy who'll still give me butterflies in my stomach each time he kisses me... then it's ok to get married.
I nodded.
Then she went off and talked about boobs.
How big boobs are great... how she loves her boobs... and how people thought she got her boobs only to call attention.
She then goes:
"If I wanted to call attention, don't you think I could just do this..."
She grabbed her left tit and proceeded to lick it... and I mean lick that thing like a hungry baby calf .

O...k....
What do you do when you see a 37-year-old woman licking her left boob in front of you?

I was more than ecstatic when it was time to leave the place.
Sure, bummed I wasn't going to hear Ray Romano's voice anymore... but fucking alleviated that I was no longer going to see this lady do weird shit to herself in my presence (if you want to do weird shit, do it in the privacy of your own home... or I guess a club).

Anyway, from there, we called our group of friends and asked where they were.
Where were they?
Free Zone.
And a little hammered.

I was reluctant at first (here I have family members constantly thinking I bat for the other team because I refuse to get a boyfriend... and now... if by some off-chance they see me walking into a gay bar... I can only imagine the damn roaring rumors this action will spark), but seeing the state DiabetesType1 Friend was in (she greeted us a block away from the club, because that's where we found parking), Chase and I decided to go in and check on the other two girls inside (Chase said she heard FutureDentist Friend screaming "Woooo-hooo!!" over the phone... so it was safe to assume she was tipsy as well).

En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y del Espiritu Santo... God, here I go...

The bouncer at the club was a lot more cautious about letting me in the place than any other bouncer I've encountered.
He checked my ID meticulously... then made me remove my glasses... inspected my ID some more, and finally let me in.
Was it because I was smiling in person?

We then got in and saw why FutureDentist Friend was screaming: a drag show was going on.

Yes... we were up close and personal with the drag queens.
I must say... those guys have great make-up skills... and it saddened me to see three of the four had better bodies than me (How can they control their boobs like that?! And no, I'm not talking padded bras... I'm talking BOOBS).

As we stood there watching the show, some fucker decided to sit next to me and smoke his damn Kools...
That, along with the shot and Mai-Tai DiabetesType1 Friend bought me, made up my mind to get the hell out of there and hit the dance floor with the buddies.

So we danced...
And danced...
and danced.

It was comfortable because there weren't any guys trying to rub their crotch on you... or even staring at you. Well, actually, there were only two guys doing that... and I'm guessing they go to the club to do exactly that, bother the straight girls that only dance with their female friends to have a good time being dorks (there was no one to impress, so you know, whatever. I've never really felt that before... except maybe a couple of family get-togethers where I've danced my ass off like that).

Anyway, I noticed gay dudes are pretty touchy feely.
They won't think twice about moving you over by grabbing you firmly in the waist with both hands.

Well, then... thanks, dude... I guess... that's better than you poking my ribs with your elbow... I suppose.

And the ladies?
Well... there were a good amount of chicks that looked straight to me. Most chicks that weren't straight were there with their girlfriends... so there was not much to worry about.
But of course, since you're dealing with AnoMALIE and her shitty luck, of course she was going to be the one to get groped by an overly aggressive lesbo.

I was standing there... minding my own business,

Man... they have a pole in the middle of the dance floor!!

when all of a sudden I feel a small, slender hand grabbing the small of my back.

Whoa, there, buddy, if you want me to move, just push me!

The hand then proceeds to caress my entire left ass cheek in an S motion down, and when it reached the bottom, she cupped her hand, then spanked me lightly.

HEYYYYYYYYYYY!!

Instead of screaming, or punching her--like I would have done, to anyone grabbing my ass, had I been my usual self... or had I not downed alcohol at the speed of light upon entering the establishment-- I stood there like a deer caught in headlights.

Did I... did she... I got... Oh my God...

I just turned to Chase and said
"That girl just touched my ass..."

So what did we do?
We went to the very far corner of the dance floor and made an impenetrable circle where we danced until the back of our necks were soaked in sweat. I took the spot directly in front of the wall... so no sneaky bastards (female or male... what a hassle) could get behind me (why must I have such an irresistible ass?! To the wrong people, of course... 'cause you know, we're talking about ME. My ass could never be irresistible to someone like, say, Cristiano Ronaldo).

So there you have it... I went to a gay bar... and while it was fun to see guys weren't being your typical creeps who want to slip GHB into your drink or ass rape you on the dance floor, it was a little annoying to have to watch yourself from the ladies. It was also depressing to see the good-looking drag queens... they do a better job at being a girl than I ever will.
:(

Just sad...
Now if you don't mind... I gotta go shower...
My poor little ass is just a tad bit disturbed...
the Body Pump instructors didn't warn me about this.

The Gun Show

I had "the nightmare that wouldn't end" last night.

What's one of my greatest fears?
Aliens.
What was the subject of my dream?
Aliens.
Was I scared?
I thought I was going to suffer a heart attack!

I kept waking up... sort of sweating (terrified, I tell you), and each time I'd go back to sleep, the dream would just keep going.
How come that never happens when I'm dreaming about holding long conversations with Cristiano Ronaldo? Or when I dream that I'm watching him stretch and flex prior to his soccer match?

Talking about flexing and stretching, I have a new horrible habit I'm trying to eliminate.

I've never really suffered from that whole, narcissistic syndrome where you just have to catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror whenever you walk by it... or even your reflection from a shiny surface.
I actually do the opposite, where I look away... because I hate seeing myself. Really.
However, recently I've caught myself flexing and stretching when in front of a mirror or any reflective surface. The good thing is that I do this when at home... so the issue hasn't gotten out of hand just yet.

When I catch myself doing this embarrassing thing... I think

What the hell am I doing?
Who the hell do I think I am?
Relax, Madonna, put the gun show away!
Do you have a band-aide? Because I'm ::flex:: cuttttttttt!!

Ok, I don't say the last one... well... only as a joke to my little sister.

I'm trying my best to kick the habit... but how can you not check out your squat form when you see a full-length mirror? I only do it to better my stance... that's it.

I can already hear the neighbors:

God, first she goes out in her mismatching pajamas to feed her noisy ass dog... and now you have her doing squats in front of her sliding door... what the fuck? They didn't warn us about this before we rented this house!

To which I'd retort:

Get the fuck out my neighborhood, you fucking trashy ass Californians (not that all Californians are trashy. Just... when a Californian goes trashy, he/she goes trashy)! And take your four trailer homes with you (there's like, seven different men living with this one woman! and they're not even related)! Oh... and one more thing, NO! We don't rent this house like Mom made you believe! No one in this neighborhood does! There's a reason they're called "custom homes," pricks... and just be glad I comb my hair before I come outside... and quit smoking by my fig tree! You're polluting the tree's and Tyson's air!

Man, I hate my neighbors. Sorry about that tangent.

Podophilia

Did you know there are eight colleges of podiatric medicine (in the U.S. I think... it can't be worldwide)?
Yeah, I didn't know that either... that is, not until I started getting mail from a couple of those damn eight schools.

I've said it once, and I'll say it again: I HATE feet.

It's not like I go around telling people I detest feet... I won't get in people's face for exposing their feet in my presence, either... I just act like feet don't exist. I don't acknowledge that part of the human body (foot fetishists boggle my mind).

Getting contacted by podiatric schools creeps me out in the first place... but the fact that it peaked my interest a little, freaks me the fuck out.
However, my folks become ecstatic each time I receive any sort of mail regarding medical schools (just not when it's the military contacting me... which tends to be the only thing I'll ever read over twice, once in a while, because I wouldn't mind working on people who deserve it: the military men and women of this country. That's my patriotic comment of the week, and most likely, month)... and they think podiatric medicine is fantastic.

Mom: Imagine! You can work on the feet of soccer players!
Me: Yeah... that'd be hot... I'd be touching all these guy's busted up feet... sometimes have their future in my hands, literally. Sexy...
Mom: Oh, like you wouldn't want to work on Cristiano Ronaldo's feet?
Me: I would eat off his feet!! That beautiful creature...
Mom: And Rafa Marquez... and Lionel Messi... and...
Me: Ehhh... they're great footballers... but no... I'd only compliment CR's feet.

This exchange has given my parents hope that I'll return to medicine after a semester--at most, a year-- off from school (not. going. to happen.).

I'll have crazy moments where I'll think:

Damn... it would be fucking awesome to travel with a soccer team and be the one checking out their feet... that'd be fucking great!

But all I have to do is stare at this for a little longer than ten seconds:
...aaaaand I'm good (fuck.that.).