sooooo bad

I lack expertise on many things... actually, I'm pretty bad with most things.

But knowing how NOT to wreck your life? I'm an expert... mainly because I've been so motherfucking GREAT at fucking shit up for myself. All you really have to do if you want to succeed at something, is do the opposite of what I did.

Knowledge on how to deal with heartbreak? Girl, I got you.

Today's relationship issue was my sister's. While we're not on the best of places in our own sisterly bond, I still don't like knowing she's out there alone in the world crying over some douchebag.

Does it get better? Meh. Maybe if you're attractive... which my sister is. For me? No, it doesn't get better. That motherfucking line is BULLLLLLSHIT for a girl like me... time has proven it. Repeatedly. I stand here, don't I? I'm nearly 30, and I'm here to say that NO, it certainly fucking doesn't get better for some people. It certainly has never gotten better for me. But my sister is of a different kind of girl... she has always been popular. I'm more of the... odd rarity-- the one poor fool who gets struck by lightning, repeatedly, but never wins something like the lotto.

Does it stop hurting? No... you just become a little numb to it... sometimes forgetting, as long as someone or something doesn't exacerbate the memory. You learn to function, even feel stuff for other people... but the hurt remains there, ready to flare up at the slightest provocation. Feelings of inadequacy will linger, probably forever. You memorize every single word he utters to you. Every single painful letter... of whatever ugly, stupid, hurtful sentence he manages to spew at you to finally dropkick the fucking shit out of your heart.
I don't know what to say?
Just another girl, nothing more, nothing less.
You'll walk past a Margaritaville, and find yourself locked in a bathroom stall five minutes later, crying your eyes out after the memories prove too tough to handle.
Or you'll be sitting in a dimly lit room, watching others drink... and you'll immediately head out in search for a brighter room, all in hopes of not bursting into sobs.
But you'll function... and many normal days will come. Shit, you'll even have some awesome days... numerous awesome days.

Do I think my sister will get better? Yep. Do I think she'll find another love? Of course, it's her. My advice to her is true, I believe in it... for her case.

At least she has that memory, that knowledge, that at some point, he felt something for her.... obviously not as strong as she did, but at least enough for him to give her the time of day... for years. She felt it. Literally.
Even if the feeling never evolved to love from his behalf, at least it wasn't apathy. At least she wasn't "just another girl." At least she had a name. At least she heard him say her name. At least she existed to him.
She has to find some solace in that.
She was something, someone, at some point. That has to count for something.
***

I hadn't thought about this fucking subject in a minute. Now this. Great. Fucking great.
(I lie. Last month I had a very comforting dream. Comforting, just comforting. I was sitting, facing a lake on a summer evening, watching the sun set. Pink sky. Knees hugged against my chest... crying. Then suddenly I feel him gently patting my back. Nothing romantic... nothing... romantic... just compassion. A comforting patting of my back, letting me know everything would be ok. Just that same comforting, silent company. He hadn't crossed my mind for a while until that dream... tumbled everything back to zero. I'm back to zero)

Thick

Aaaaand then my mom calls me fat.
Shit just keeps getting better.

I was standing at the kitchen sink, washing my dishes, when my mom walked up from behind and started her little verbal assault.

Mom (laughing): You... have a boxer's body now...
Me: What do you mean? Like a butch one?
Mom: Your back is... very wide. You're... thick.
Me: ...
Mom: Have you weighed yourself recently?
Me: ... no...
Mom: You definitely have to be much heavier than the last time you weighed yourself.
Me: ...You're calling me fat?
Mom: You're definitely much thicker.
Me: So, fat.
Mom: THICKER. You're thickening out.

My mother has always had a way with words.

Calmarme

I was slowly sipping on my favorite beer (not sure if it should be considered a beer, but OK) as I sat at the bar with the dudes.
I was nervous and concerned about my week with the ridiculously successful young man I was going to be paired up with for the wedding.
I was sippin' and trippin'.
"What am I going to say? This week of activities is supposedly meant for the bridal party to get to know one another and get comfortable. I haven't done shit... what am I going to talk about? This is going to be terrible!"
And he eased my irrational, anti-social fears.
"Just get him to talk about himself, and you'll be good for the night. He's a lawyer. They love doing that shit."
He kept giving me a play-by-play of what to do in case scenario A turned into B, or if it was more of a scenario C, and so on... you know, shit people like me NEED in order to be less socially awkward/anxious around others.

Look at him... helping me out. Helping me land a dude. Thank you.

As the smell of beer and garlic (so much garlic) invaded my nostrils, the only thing my brain was doing was sustaining the stupidest, saddest smile across my face.
Bittersweet, this entire exchange.

I am (and more than likely have always been) quite insignificant to him, but it's little gestures like the above mentioned, which will always keep me appreciative of him, appreciative of April 8th.

(... Also: his advice? Totally worked)

I don't like that name

I woke up with that itchy feeling under my left tonsil, that tickle in my left ear canal that lets me know I'm fucked-- I'm sick.

My weekend was spent visiting babies... a bunch of babies. My sister dropped by for the weekend, only purpose being to get her bridesmaid dress altered by our tailor (I mean, we've known the man since I was thirteen... so of course I'm possessive of him. Ha. He's the gentlest man in the world... never allowed me to feel shitty about myself when he'd be doing my quinceañera/bridesmaid dresses. He'd actually very kindly encourage me when he'd have to take in my dress. He wouldn't be like other seamstresses who'd do mean shit like tell all the other chicks in the wedding party about how "AnoMALIE's dropped SEVEN INCHES since I started making her dress! That's... what is that girl doing? And why doesn't she keep it up? She'd be a  NORMAL size if she did").
Since she was leaving at midnight, yesterday was spent in a whirlwind tour of her friends.
The first house was awesome. We decided to visit our "adopted brother"... and he had chocolate chip BACON cookies. Let that sink in. Chocolate chip BACON cookies...
He also has three kids under the age of five.
My sister took the three month old baby, while I was left to play with the toddler girls... well, more like "left to be harassed by two toddler girls."
I hate saying this all the time, but it appears this curse of mine, where adults randomly hate me for NO reason, and make up their mind about hating me before meeting me, is the exact opposite with kids. This is somewhat unfortunate, because everyone knows I fear/avoid children... because there are SO MANY WAYS in which you can permanently damage a child. I don't want to be responsible for messing up a kid with some idiotic remark that comes out of my mouth.
Anyway, these kids wouldn't leave me alone. They would roar at me (one minute they'd claim to be lions, the next I had to refer to them as dinosaurs), want to be thrown in the air by me... play all kinds of violent games with me... all the while, laughing like baby maniacs as if I was the most entertaining... THING in existence.
Then they'd force-feed me the cookies.
5YearOld: Excuse me. Are you hungry?
Me: Me? Ummm... no... not yet.
Two minutes later.
5TearOld: EXCUSE ME! Are you hungry?!
Me: Ummm... maybe in a little bit.
A minute later.
5YearOld: EXCUSE ME! ARE YOU HUNGRY YET?!
Me: Um... yes, yes... I'm hungry.
Melted cookie is slammed into my hand... chocolate smearing the fuck out of it... grossing me out, since it only manages to remind me of... well... poop.

As I was trying to calm the kids down, the younger one calmly sat next to me and started playing games on her mom's phone. The five year old girl walked into my lap, grabbed my face, and whispered
"Excuse me... what's your name?"
"AnoMALIE... but if that's too hard, you can call me Mimi... people call me Mimi," I say.
The five year old giggles and shakes her head.
"No. I don't like that name..." she says.
Join the club, homie.
"EXCUSE ME!" she says. "I like you!"
She was still gripping onto my face, and then proceeded to give me the sloppiest kiss on the right side of my face... chocolate, slobber... teeth.
"I like you too. You're awesome," I say.
"And smart! I'm REALLY smart!" she says.
"And don't EVER apologize for that, my friend."

The rest of the day was quick, a little on the sad side, since it was constantly reminding me that my sister was leaving in a few hours... but I did feel better knowing kids aren't terrified of me.

Then I woke up all sick.
Fucking kids...

Lagalities

Fuck, man!
I promise I've been trying to catch up with the updates, but sometimes it's just too damn impossible.

I've been busy dealing with my Godson.
His contest was this past weekend, and while he did win "best body," he didn't make the top 5.

I don't think he's depressed... but as is customary with our family, he's angry.
It's what happens when you become disillusioned.

These three were the winners:
1st place:

2nd place:

3rd place:

My godson:

FAAAAAVORITE photo.

I've had the job of talking to the relatives states side.
I've also been having a back and forth with Godson, convincing him that:
Babe, I don't care what the outcome, and I don't care that we're related, but I'm serious when I say: You were the best. Don't let this shit get you down. Please.

Let's be real:
* The winer looks like he's sniffing cat piss... and he probably fucked the guys and girls running the show. Come on now. Let's not kid ourselves.
* Second place... well, not gonna lie, I liked him. He's handsome. When I think "Handsome Mexican Man" I do think of this sort of guy. Only part I'd be able to critique would be his ass. It's odd. But other than that, the son of a bitch is handsome.
* Third place. Don't get me started on Third Place. It's something I'll never understand about fucking Mexico. They're so into the European-look bullshit. Which is retarded. If they wanted European looks, for an international setting, guess what? A REAL European will take the crown... not a Mexican of European decent. They have the legitimate Euros in the competition... so why don't you just select a MEXICAN look to represent MEXICO? Tan is where it's at, idiots. When Miss Mexico won Miss Universe... what did she look like? That's right, like a tan, brown-eyed, brunette MEXICAN. Not a blonde, blue-eyed, Mexican of European decent. And this kid... COME ON! COME ONNNNNNN! He has no definition... whatsoFUCKINGever.

I'll never get you, Mexico. Bunch of morons. Bunch of self-loathing, racist morons.

Anyway... that's pretty much what I've been telling my kid.
As far as the stateside relatives, I've had to reassure them my kid is ok... and that they shouldn't pity him. I've been dealing with texts similar to this:

And my answer has typically been along these lines:

Then it snowballs into this agitated exchange:

Don't act like you give a fuck. "Legalities of it"... ? You mean "politics"? Because "legalities" are non-existant here.

So... hmm. Interesting couple of days to come, I'm sure.
AngroMALIE is sure to stick around a bit longer.

Unobtainable

The feelings that hurt the most,
the emotions that sting most,
are those that are absurd;
the longing for impossible things,
precisely because they are impossible;
nostalgia for what never was;
the desire for what could have been;
regret over not being someone else;
dissatisfaction with the world's existence.
All these half-tones of the soul's consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.
-Fernando Pessoa

The night of the fireworks, as I sat on that cold, concrete bench, I found myself talking to a girl for much longer than I wanted.
I was sitting outside because Godson and I hadn't made it to church on time, and we were unlucky to bump into the girl as we were working our way OUT of the church premises.
The chick was Godson's classmates back in high school, but never paid attention to Godson because he was "scrawny." Suddenly, she "has always liked" Godson... now that he has bulked up and is making a name for himself in the fitness modeling world.
Right. We believe you, chick.
So, it was thanks to this chick that we found ourselves taking a seat on the benches outside of church, and talking in the chilly breeze.
I obviously wasn't saying much-- she wasn't MY ex-classmate. It didn't help that she remembered me as "Oh! Una de esas sangrónas" roughly translated to "Oh! You're one of those stuck up/conceited/fake girls." (she claimed she had never seen me before. Godson corrected her, reminded her of a wedding we had both attended-- she was an uninvited guest at MY table. We let her sit there, even if she took Godson's seat, so I don't know why the bitch complained... but whatever, that was four years ago) and then she proceeded to claim how we Hometown girls are the snobbiest, most unpleasant of the entire municipality (she's from two towns over).
Are you trying to befriend me... or get me jailed/excummunicated once the soldiers catch me strangling you on church premises?

Anyway, at one point, Godson left our side because he walked over to greet some other folk who hadn't seen him in years.
MeanChick and I were forced to talk... well, more like SHE was forced to talk, since I was fine sitting in silence.
She tried some smalltalk with me, but since I hate that fucking shit, she wasn't very successful.
Me: Sorry, I'm just really quiet and timid. People confuse it for snobbery, but I really just take a while to warm up and start talking.
Her: Yeah, no kidding... you really ARE really quiet.

She REALLY wanted to get on Godson's dick, and once she found out I was his godmother, who was pretty much like his older sister, she tried REALLY hard to fall in my good graces.

Apparently girls talk about their sentimental life in hopes of bonding.
MeanChick proceeded to ask me about dudes.
Her: So, are you married? Engaged? Dating?
Me: None. I'm single for life.
Her: You don't even have a crush or any of that business?
Me: Well, crushes I'm sure everyone has, I'm not an exception. However, my crush lives far, FAAAR away from me, so it's like... I pretty much have nothing.

A couple of minutes later, the conversation moved on to age. She likes older men, and hates younger guys.
Her: Younger guys are so... childish. I want nothing to do with them.
Me: Oh no, toss them over this way!
Her: What?! You like them young?!
Me: Hell yeah. HELL. YEAH. I mean, don't get me wrong, I've gone the older man route before, but it just DOES NOT work.
Her: They're just too serious, huh? They have their act together, they know what they want. I get it. You like the unobtainable... something that is not a sure thing... something that will never be serious. That's why you like the young guys... crush on guys that... you'll never be able to have. You'll never get serious, always be single.

I ended the conversation there. I zipped my lips, no longer made eye-contact, and probably scowled.
She was correct. So correct.
Bitch.

Stepford

"Damn. AnoMALIE, I wish I had your life!"

I've received numerous calls and texts from friends and family after this whole Tyson death thing.
It has been nice to catch up, and for the most part, as long as they don't sit there and try to make me reminisce about all the ridiculous... hilarious, sweet stuff my dog did, I'll be good.

The person who has succeeded most with this task has been Pacemaker. That chick.
We were talking about our upcoming trip to the east coast, and the conversation went something like this:
Pacemaker: We should have this trip totally booked by late August. Deal?
Me: Yeah, definitely. We have to work shit out prior to the first week of September.
Pacemaker: Oh, so you're on board for the Hometown trip with me, then?
Me: No... I have to skip on that one. Apparently things are growing increasingly worse. Plus, I have another trip pending... so I wouldn't be able to help out with the plans until mid-September when I return.
Pacemaker: Where are you going?
Me: ... Costa Rica. Mexico's national team is playing a cup-qualifier against Costa Rica on the 9th, and our friends got us tickets to watch it with them...
Pacemaker: Costa Rica's that fun, huh?
Me: Yeah. More like... I like it there a lot, especially now that I have "family" there.
Pacemaker: Damn. AnoMALIE, I wish I had your life!
Me: No. No you don't.
Pacemaker: Yes! Yes, I do! You get to travel to all these places whenever you want. You don't have to work. You can spend as much as you want on whatever you want. All you really do is work out, clean the house, and cook. I want that life.
Me: Ha. Yeah. I'm pretty much a Stepford Wife minus the kids, husband, and sex. Yeah. Dreamy.
Pacemaker: Dang. Calm down, Negative Nancy.
Me: Pacemaker, my dog's dead. I'm not exactly a ray of sunshine right now.

I wish I had your life.
Really?
I know damn near everyone says this (and those who don't will instead say something along the lines of "I'm SO BLESSED!" Which, I know I've said it once or twice... usually when I escape some bad situation, but others just love to drop this line every other day. Shut the fuck up, yeah?), but... my life isn't dreamy. At all.
Maybe someone who loves to spend money might envy my life... some shallow, materialistic person (Christ, I'm sorry Pacemaker... I love you, but your emphasis on monetary issues is the one topic that upsets me in this relationship), but money's fickle-- it comes as fast as it goes. Also, while I pretty much have free reign when it comes to spending, I don't have the heart to spend it. I think of the difficulty with which that money is obtained, and I can't bring myself to spend it on frivolous shit like designer shoes/bags/luggae etc. I've never been one to enjoy flaunting my shit... I'm sure my friends can attest to this-- I always look like a bum. Flaunting makes me feel bad.
Money doesn't get you shit, if anything, it gets many people--especially strangers-- to resent you.

This also makes me wonder... am I THAT good at making it look like my life's awesome? I don't talk! I rarely smile. I SLOUCH! I don't hold eye-contact.
That's the behavior of a person with a dope life? Last time I checked, people who behave like me have serious traumas.
Did I just admit to having serious traumas? Well... it's not like I'm normal, now, is it? Of fucking course I have traumas... and regardless of how much money I may chuck at them, they don't go away. Ever.

My life is meaningless.
Every dream I've ever had has been shot down at point-blank range... with a shotgun.
Kinda rough for a girl whose life has consisted of dreaming, something done in order to endure many of the aforementioned traumas.

Above all, my life is painfully lonely... it always has been.
Whether the room is full of people, or completely empty, it does not matter-- there's a disconnect.
Lonely, more so than ever, now that the only creature that ever understood me is buried behind the "play room" of my house.

When I found Tyson on Monday morning, aside from the obvious sadness I felt over his death, and relief I felt over him no longer being in pain... I was surprised to note I also felt a little bit of envy.
You beat me to it, boy. You were given the ticket out first. You no longer have to worry. You're free.

Sorry to say it, but: be careful what you wish for... things are not always what they seem.

Love: Persona non grata.

God. Fucking. DAMN IT!
Another one of my "possibles" is Facebook official.
This one made me want to barf... as if I had been mule kicked in the stomach.
I kinda want to cry. He was a REALLY good one... damn near perfect... if he were taller, but still a great dude. FUCK.

It doesn't help that I just got back from that fucking Quinceañera (yup, this is yet another one of my "cheat" updates)... where my sister was drunk texting me her heartache. She is REALLY fucked up right now. My poor baby.

And the emo begins... I'm (very appropriately) the blue one.

I'm always random.

Very true to how I talk in person...
So hard not to look like a psycho as I furiously typed away at her.

umm... I MAY have had a drink or two by now...
Why do they always sit me by the bar?

I tell ya, my fucking priorities..

I officially HATE this guy.

Hmm...

The conversation only got more depressing...
And I'll refrain from invading D's privacy any further... but FUCK, I was so upset during this conversation. I wanted to hug her and slap her at the same time. Shit, I wanted to slap MYSELF.
We even got into talking about Darcy, and I had to correct her: Look, it's not like HE ever led ME on. Plus *Darcy* is so fucking awesome. He's smart. And doing things with his life. And his fucking pants fit him. Quite fucking nicely, actually. It's impossible not to fall in love with him. Don't group him with *asshole we're talking about*
We had to change the subject and talk about more depressing shit: the future. Jobs. Gross.
But seriously... I read this shit over and I STILL feel my fucking blood boil.
I don't get it. And it's so disheartening. If my sister, who I think is GORGEOUS and pretty fucking tight, can't get a dude... such a simple, normal, average dude... what kind of fucking hopes does it leave me?
I swear to god we're fucking cursed.

I also found out my first cousin, whose wedding I was bitching about back in '10 (the one with the brick-colored bridesmaid dress),

is getting divorced... from the love of her life... with whom she has been with for twelve years.
What the fuck is she supposed to do now? She wasted her youth on him. She has been part of the duo for nearly half her life... and now... what is she supposed to do? I feel like fucking shit FOR her.
I nearly cried when my cousin told me at the party. My heart was pulverized for her.
If HER love of over a decade went to shit... what kind of hope do I have? I can't get a guy to like me for a day... shit.
I want to hug her too. I'm going to text her tomorrow, and offer her my support... even if it's just my physical presence... or a shoulder to cry on... I give awesome, tender hugs when needed. I'm also really good at petting people's backs... and I have a high tolerance for tears/screams of frustration. I give the support I wish others gave to me when I'm at my worst.
My poor, sweet, innocent cousin. She definitely did not deserve this... she was the one LEAST deserving of this outcome.

(On to more frivolous shit)
And I ripped my favorite dress ON MY WAY to this fucking Quinceañera... I didn't notice until I took a seat at my table.

The seatbelt ripped my dress! HOW?!
I spent the night with that shit on my leg, holding on to the thread, crosing my fingers it wouldn't run any further.
Like how my shoes are obviously too big? My feet seem to have shrunk.

At least I'll no longer provide the damn perverted Hometown men with gratuitous shots of my cleavage...

Tittayyys!
Dude sitting across from me at my table was "burning a hole" through my chest.
Fucking dude probably designed the dress...

It's all too fucking much... it's like the universe is conspiring to fuck me up and see me cry.

I knew I was done the moment I caught myself getting watery-eyed as I sang along to "Part of Your World" at the Quinceañera (like I said, the motherfucking universe CONSPIRES to fuck me up. I have no clue why a kid born in 1997 would play a Little Mermaid song at her party... that's so 1990-92)
"When's it my turn? Wouldn't I love, love to explore that shore up above? Out of the sea, wish I could be part of that world..." Why the... fuck am I crying right now? Jesus Christ... I had never taken the time to think of the lyrics... curse you, Little Mermaid... no, no, I don't mean that. I'll always love you!

Wait... it was Friday the 13th, wasn't it?
Fuck, man. Fuck fuck fuck.

I'm just bracing myself for some more shit-tastic news.
This isn't going to end nicely... I'm going to be a sobbing mess on the floor any moment.

Pantalones blancos

I shouldn't laugh...
And I'm not... it's just a light chuckle encouraged by Karma... so it never develops into a full, body-shaking laugh attack... out of fear that Karma will turn around and slap me across the face--Mom-style. It's just a quiet, controlled chuckle.

Remember the guy who gave me that "compliment" a while back? The dude who said I'd be perfect if I looked like my sister? Well... that is pretty vague, considering that's what a ton of dudes tell me.
It's the guy who told my sister she'd be perfect if she had MY personality.

Well, I've been talking to him recently... because I'm a forgiving idiot.
But it's not like it's romantic or anything. Sure, there's flirting and whatnot... but as far as me wanting to take it beyond lovely bater, no. He's a smoker. I don't touch that shit. Sure, it gives him this sexy growl to his voice, but that sexy growl eventually with age it turns to a hacking cough, and that shit is NEVER sexy. Plus, smokers have a permanent, penetrating stench that my nostrils can't tolerate (sorry, smokers, but I'm not going to lie and act like you smell good).
Also, he has this... WACK beard going on... which I don't understand, really. WHY are men purposely trying to look like some old school lumberjack? The Brawny man is sexy and all... but he's like... "dad sexy." Stubble's fine... not a fan, but it's fine... but going for the ZZTop/Zach Wilde bullshit is unacceptable.
This guy has the ZZTop shit going on. Blegh.

Anyway, we've been talking A LOT, mainly thanks to the whole Euro Cup thing. As far as sports are concerned, Los (that's what I'm going to call him) and I connect pretty strongly. The moment I accidentally bumped into him on my way to kickboxing class, his face looked like what I imagine someone would look like if he/she saw a unicorn.
Yo, man, my legs are nearly three feet long. Someone wants to teach me how to use them as a weapon? I'm game!
So, he thinks I'm cool because of this... and we'll gently tease each other about our sports favorites.
HOWEVER, in my years of knowing him, I've learned a few things:
He's a textbook Aries.
My experience with Aries is this (ahhhh, shit, here comes my astrology bullshit... but hey! You have to admit many times that shit is scary accurate): I don't get along with female Aries, but guy Aries are a different story. I get along with dude Aries because they tend to push me to do shit my otherwise cowardly-ass would never do. And they tend to defend the shit out of me because they have quicker wits than I do. And they tell me to quit my pity-party bullshit when I'm being a Negative Nancy.
They make me less of a crying pussy, basically. Everyone needs someone like that in their life. Plus, when they want to be mushy and sweet, they're fucking adorable.
They have a strong, often off-putting personality, but when they're cool, they're hella cool.
BUT don't EVER piss them off. They will chew you out, then ignore you. You DIE to them. It's insane, really.
That's Los.
I've pissed him off ONCE. I criticized his smoking and he quit speaking to me for months.
I had to do fucking backflips to get back in his good-graces.
Lesson learned: don't piss off an Aries.

Ok, so, we're friendly and flirty.
Next thing I know, he starts hitting me up last night, FURIOUS.
Luckily, I wasn't the target of his fury.
He just needed to vent.
While he likes my personality, it's clear physically there ain't shit... because he's into the more feminine look... you know, girls who are into dresses and heels and that shit. I'm 5'8", he's 5'9"... if I wear heels, he's down to my tits... well, not that short, but I'll usually be a head taller than him.
He had been talking to a chick who lives in San Diego, she has only seen photos of him which he decides to post on Twitter. She HAS heard him, though... and like I said, he has a sexy, raspy voice.
He also raps. This is how she knows him.

Well, he went down to SD for some stupid rap-olympic type bullshit (see, if he heard me calling it this, I'd once again be cut off), where he finally met up with her.
Shortly after, he called me... at around midnight. His group of dudes had left him, and he was angrily/drunkenly walking the streets of San Diego.
Los: Yo, yo, yo! Can you believe this fucking shit?
Me: Uh... hello?
Los: I meet up with this chick, right? Fuckin' first words "You wearin' WHITE pants?!" and I'm like "YEAH, I'm wearing WHITE pants. Get off my dick!"
Me: ....
Los: Follows that shit up with "You look NOTHING like I thought you would." THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!
Oh. My God. Must. Not. Laugh.
Me: Whoa...
Los: Fuck that shit. Fuckin' broads tryin'a clown. Fuck fucking stupid fucking broads!!!
Me: You ok, man?
Los: ::Drunk, incomprehensible, raspy, sound... probably lighting a cig::
::click::

Aaaaaall righty then.
I still don't know what the deal was with that phone call... though I did find it hilarious it was made on JC's birthday.
It appears I'm quite the target when it comes to drunk, angry, heartbroken men.
Just let your frustrations out on me... it's all good. I've heard it all. Blame me for the ills of my kind... you know, the girls... though I'm not very girly... only apparently when you're drunk and angry and in desperate need to vent your frustrations.

And uh, Karma?
Yup.
How does it feel, bro? I've heard that line before... I have plenty of experience with it... usually a lovely head jerk where I just know the dude is thinking "WHOA! WHAT. THE. FUCK?! Must. Get. Out!"

You'd be perfect... if you looked like your sister.

Hmm... maybe next time you'll watch what comes out of that purdy little smoking mouth of yours, homie.

Ok, I'll stop laughing and start feeling bad for my injured-ego Aries. Poor dude.

Makin' good on a drunken promise

Starting tomorrow, my family will be complete.
For now, I just have to settle for having Rafa bug the shit out of me.

As I drove him home from the airport, he got all brotherly with me.
Rafa: Damn, this last weekend has been... the first time I go... you know, full speed.
Me: As in...
Rafa: The partying.
Me: Oh, you mean it was your first time spending all three days drunk as fuck?
Rafa: Yuuup. Completely hammered... all three days.

This came as no surprise, having known his intentions since the moment he stepped foot at school:

Yup, that's the Brotherovski I know and love.
And yes, I approve of this behavior, at least when he's with his Princeton homies.
I adore the Princeton crowd.

Hello, I use Facebook, Einstein.
Rafa: And uh... I don't know if you remember... about... how... Jaz had told you guys to give me her number so I could one day drunk-dial her... ?
Me: Yeah, I do, she told ME.
Rafa: Well, I remembered. And I called her.
Me: HAHAHAHA!
Rafa: She was all... groggy. I mean, I called her at four in the morning, so of course she was going to be all "ehh... hhhhellohhh?"
Me: Oh Christ.
Rafa: I was like "Yo, Jazmin! So I'm calling to make good on that promise!" And we took it from there. We talked for THREE HOURS. God... I don't even know how I did that... I've never talked for that long... and I remember the majority of what was said.
Me: Wow.
Rafa: She's so... she has matured so much. She's more of an adult than I am! Her head is on straight... she gives good advice.
Me: So I'm guessing... you guys talked it all out...
Rafa: About... her sister? Yes. We did... and I mean, it's a sad situation, but she's so chill about it... It made ME chill about it. Like Jaz said, as long as she's happy... it's all that matters.
But God, man... I'm just glad I got it out of my system!

...
:(
If I were a better sister, I would have had some nice words to follow that with... but I get a knot in my throat each time I THINK about his fucked up love story with Alo.
I felt a knot the moment I realized he didn't even utter her name.
"As long as she's happy..." ??!?!?!
Oh my God... ahhh, my heart! What is this? The fucking Notebook?!

I wish I could forget his drunk-dial from years back... where he was sobbing into the phone as he wandered the forest in the middle of the night, drunk and confused... and only thinking about how he was NEVER going to find a girl like Alo... how his life would never be complete without her.
:(
I don't know... drunk, heart-broken boys break the shit out of my heart. Knowing my brother can BE a drunk, heartbroken boy makes me infinitely sad.
Rafa!! What happened to the trouble-making, hyper, silly boy I grew up with? What did they do to you?! :(

But, but, but! I think he's finally over it.

Thank you, Venus.

Midnight thing

Now that D's gone, Mom has really taken a liking to hanging out with me.
I don't mind... I actually volunteer to do shit with her because I feel sad seeing her little body sitting by herself in the living-room, completely zombified by the numerous, insipid Novelas.

All right, Mah, I need to go to Target and get myself some toothpaste, wanna join me?
Yo, we're running low on baby spinach, I'm hittin' up the grocery store... wanna join me, Little Lady?

I'm fine doing shit by myself, considering I'm such a fucking misanthrope by nature... but not Mi Mami.
Just like D, Mom is used to being in crowds... being looked up to... being popular, social... you know, participating in daily life. Now that she no longer has the outgoing, social kids to hang with, she has become a little... sad.
So, I try and include her in my activities.
Activity Mom enjoys most? Going to the movies.
Too bad I'm not too fanatical about this one.

Don't get me wrong, I fucking LOVE movies... LOVE them. But I'm a movie SNOB. Big time.
I'll often suffer through movies with people just so... they can be happy, but trust that internally, I'm fucking dying... writhing in pain... especially if my companion is loving the film... that just feels like I'm getting shanked in the neck.
You seriously like this shit?! Look at the fucking poor editing! And how the FUCK am I supposed to believe these people like each other? I doubt that bitch has ANY sort of personality in real life... so I'm not shocked that she can't act for SHIT! I'd get out of this chair... but that'd be ten dollars wasted... do you know what ten dollars can get me?! FUCK THIS SHIT, man! (Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm frugal as fuck. Get over it)

For the most part, I don't have too many of these episodes, since I tend to choose movie companions quite carefully.
HOWEVER... when it comes to family... well, I can't really say no when they invite me.
Luckily, the majority of my family has bomb taste in movies, so I don't suffer too much (my favorite is when we both choose the same movie, and end up terribly disappointed within five minutes... so we shoot each other a "FUUUUUCK! How did we not see this one coming? Bamboozled again! Here we go, 90 minutes of torture" look-- yeah, we express that much in one glance. We're special like that... explains why I'm so silent in person, since my eyes do all the talking).
There are just THREE people in my family with HORRENDOUS taste in movies... HORRENDOUS.
One is my mother's sister... my dear auntie who continuously tries hooking me up with dudes (Homie, if your taste in movies is indicative of your taste in dudes, I'll just walk myself to the convent now... thanks). She loves movies about vampires... very... Hollywood shit.
The second is THAT auntie's middle son. The thing that sucks here is that while I manage to dodge his invites to the movie theater, I get suckered into watching SHIT movies each time I visit him at home. He's into sci-fi... and lord knows I LOATHE sci-fi... like... with a motherfucking passion. I'm overly critical of that genre since I tend to gauge just how likely certain scenarios are to happen-- blame the scientist in me for this. The moment something is TOO much on my "bullshit!" radar, is the moment I kick that fucking movie to the curb and check the fuck out. Yes, there are certain sci-fi movies that have managed to captivate me... but it's usually due to the writing... and trust me, my cousin's taste in film is just... no, no, no! Total disregard for writing, editing... I frankly don't know what captivates HIM... but it sure as fuck SUCKS. Sorry, 'cuhz!
The third and final family member with wretched movie taste is MOM.
Dear ol' Mom...
My predicament here is that since she's so lonely and sad, I let her choose the movie each time we go to the theater... and... how she bases her choices drives me bananas!
GIRL IN PROGRESS, because it has MEXICAN actors!
Fuck my ass, man... ughhhhhh!
Yes, she only watches Mexican movies, or movies with legit Mexican actors...
This is a hit or miss... mostly misses... MAJORLY misses.

BUT... I love my mom... and she's a sad little panda right now... so I put up with it... even if all I do for the duration of the movie is ponder what different modes of suicide would feel like.
Plus, I get cute little anecdotes from her each time we hit the theater.

I mention this now because the woman has once again suckered me into watching a movie with her.
I forget the name... something about "For the Glory" or something like that. Has a ton of Mexican actors AND it's about the Holy War that took place in Mexico... so... it's like... THE movie for the Little Lady.
A couple of minutes ago, as I was pondering what to write about and she worked on the monthly statements, she lowered her glasses and stared at me from above their brim.
Mom: Mija... so... can we go to the movies NOW?
Me: Like... right NOW, now? Like... what's coming out or what? I'm not aware of anything.
Mom: They're not going to do that thing like I see on TV that they do with all those movies when they open at midnight? Like with those movies about the vampires... that Potter kid... where people go at midnight of opening day to watch the movie?
Me: That midnight showing nerd shit? HELL NO, Mom! They do that shit with like... hella popular movies... not a movie about the Mexican Holy War. Calm down.
Mom: Can you check on your phone right now?
Me: NO, Mom. We'll just go when D gets here on Wednesday.
Mom: NO! Tomorrow! I want them to get good ratings. Get credit for opening weekend.
Me: Yeah. Me and you, Mom. Good one. Two people. Making the difference.

She's so cute sometimes...

I DO love Skittles...

I have been quite creative today.
I felt the urge to do something artsy since last night, when I returned from a family function that had me quite chirpy. Something about hanging out with my M side makes me... happy. Ok... maybe the fact that I overdosed on chocolate might have something to do with the chirpiness as well. That shit had me amped until three in the morning. No, seriously, I was like this the entire night:

I was holding my heavyass camera up there,
I wasn't intentionally posing like an idiot, ok?
... I have such an enormous head...

Anyway, since I couldn't quite... properly harness the energy, I decided to sleep on it.
I haven't encountered a stroke of creativity in a while, so the moment I opened my eyes and realized the creative energy was still there, I decided to take full advantage.
First, I created a beautiful (and I heard "delicious" from those who ate it... I didn't touch it, since I'm staying off the carbs for a few weeks) strawberry-banana protein cake for Sister to take to work for breakfast.
Afterward, I decided to paint.

A couple of weeks ago, I was shopping and once again, the home department called my attention. I almost purchased a painting that had four of my five favorite cities listed.
Yeah... that was ALL that was painted... just words... yet I felt the urge to buy that shit.
However, since I'm frugal as FUCK, I talked myself out of it, convincing myself I'd just go home and create one.
Well, today was finally the day to make good on that promise.

To start the process, I first painted the five bases. As in, each city was going to have a different background for it's color.
I ranked the city from favorite to least favorite, top to bottom... and assigned each city a color... a color with which I associated it most.
My list of cities goes like this:

1. Barcelona
2. London
3. Rome
4. Paris (yeah, I couldn't believe it either)
5. New York

Ok, so I paint the canvas according to the list, and leave it to dry in the living room (place where I decided to start painting, because I do shit impulsively).
I proceed to go about my day, staying out of the house from 3PM until 7PM.
Everyone was home once I returned.
I walked to my room, to drop off all the shit I had been carrying around, and wound up bumping into my sister.
Sister: SO... what's up with that uh... painting you left in the living room?
Me: I left that painting out to dry while I went out and did shit. Why?
Sister: Just 'cause... we were just... wondering... my DAD was wondering... what the hell was up with that RAINBOW.
Me: It's not a rainbow.
Sister: Uh, no. It's CLEARLY a huge rainbow. Dad walked into the kitchen and asked us what you were "trying to say" with that painting.
Me: It's NOT a fucking rainbow.... a rainbow is ROYGBIV... and my painting's red, yellow, greeeen... bl...ue... and indi... fuck dude, IT'S NOT A RAINBOW!
What I'm "trying to say?" What the fuck, Dad?! Yeah, like I'm going to come out by  painting a giant canvas as a rainbow... I plan on marching with that shit at the next PRIDE parade... yeah, Dad.

I was frazzled... but still decided to continue with the painting... even if the vindictive, stubborn mule in my wanted to leave the giant "rainbow" canvas as-is, to irritate Dad with my supposed declaration of homosexuality.
Not even twenty minutes in, while I was in the process of drawing yellow stripes on the red section (get it? Barcelona... Spain... RED... Catalunya= red and yellow stripes. Ta-Da!), Dad tapped me on the head.
Dad: What ya doin' there?
Shooting heroin. Staring at lesbian porn through my phone. What do you think?
Me: Painting, Dad, I'm painting.
Dad: Yeah, I can see that... but WHAT?
Me: NOT a rainbow, ok? NOT a rainbow.
Dad: Good. I'm GLAD... relieved it's not a rainbow.

Just wait for my next piece of work: I <3 COCK!
Is that straight enough for ya, DAD? "What I'm trying to say"... get the fuck outta here.

Next Lifetime

D: Back in my TSA days (remember when Sister worked for TSA back in like... '07? Good ol' days), I remember *Coworker* warned *coworker she hated* that he'd better watch his back, because every dude who worked with me fell in love with me. I was like "No, Steve never fell in love with me!" and they just looked at me, rolled their eyes, and said "Yeah... um hmm... sure... Steve didn't fall in love with you..." and I was like "He's my brother!"
Me: You know... I DID find it weird that he was so interested in being my friend... in being cool with me.
::Sister rolls her eyes::
Me: You know he was just trying to get cool with me so I could encourage you to give him a chance...
::I wink at Sister::
D: NO! You know, it's entirely possible for my friends to want to be cool with my siblings because they're so much cooler than me.
Wait... what? You're saying I'm...
D: Like... a lot of my friends have told me they like you because you're cool... like... most recently... it was... let's see... it's was...
What the hell?
D: Carlos! He thinks you're hella cool, funny, and easy to talk to. He told me he wished I had your personality because he can talk to you about a lot more subjects than with me.
...
.....
What good does that do me, really? How's that supposed to make me feel?
I'll tell you how it makes me feel: angry.
It's not the first time I hear it, but each time it feels like a pebble is thrown at the back of my head.
You think I'm cool? You enjoy talking to me? What's that, though? You wish I looked like my sister? My bad... I'll try and work on that for my next lifetime.

And this is how I know I'll be single forever.

Dentist?

Back in my legit writing days, I remember the professor encouraging us to write in different narrative modes.
I think he would say the most difficult was writing in the first person, as the opposite sex.
Well, considering I'm stubborn, and... border-line retardedly (pretty fucking sure I just invented that word) ambitious, I wrote ONE story in first-person male mode... and he was cool with it. However, I seriously think this man was easy on me because I reminded him of his daughter. Every other person (besides Kelley)  has slaughtered me on my shit.

Now, while I'd love to write up an entire first-person, female narrative, followed up by the equivalent, but male form, so you can compare and rate my efficiency... it's too time consuming... for me to write AND others to read.
Instead, I'll give you a couple of scenarios/conversations that went down NYE-- my interaction with Darcy.
What really went down will be in normal font/color, but my subconscious thoughts (as in, what I was actually thinking but couldn't properly articulate) will be in italicized pink letters (as opposed to my usual style of going for good ol' green when it comes to my subconscious). I'll also take the liberty to occasionally insert what I think really crossed Darcy's mind-- that'll be in italic blue letters.

Alright, be my guest and wince away as you watch this protagonist--me-- blow it with her cringe-worthy performance. Enjoy (honestly, it was like an out of body experience where I was watching--in horror-- how I was fucking up but I was just so paralyzed by a severe "stupid moment" that I couldn't fix it).

Example numero uno.
As he's waiting for the beer pong table to be set up, Darcy walks over to me and kills some time.

Darcy: You know what's sad? That the first paper of mine to ever be published... was a science paper... and not, you know... something... great. Something of fiction.
Me: Yeah. That's crazy. But cool. I'm jealous. When we first met, I was the scientist.
Yeah, like that didn't come off as you being a cuntface, AnoMALIE.
His friend: Then what happened?
Me: I fucked up, that's what happened.
Great... am I turning Hood AnoMALIE right now?
Drama queen.
Darcy: Yeah. So I have that article. If I were to email it to you, would you read it... and give me your honest... non-biased opinion?
Boy, if your job was to write the list of ingredients on a ketchup packet, I'd read every single ketchup packet I'd bump into and consider it a masterpiece each and every time...
Me: Of course. Even if... I haven't read anything scientifically-related in years... no, that's a lie. I read science articles all the time.
Stop... just stop talking, AnoMALIE. You're only digging the hole deeper.

Example #2.
Darcy asks if I have seen our old professor.

Me: Nah... I'm too embarrassed to talk to him right now.
Drama queen.
Darcy: Why?
Me: Because of my failure...
Don't cry, pendeja.
Darcy: Because you didn't get into schools like Stanford... and NYU?
Oh. My. God. LAME!
Me: Yeah.
I know it's stupid... but with my bro going to Notre Dame for undergrad, then Princeton for grad, this shit feels like someone just curb-stomped me, History-X style. It forever pigeonholes me into the "vieja pendeja" category with my family.
Girls...
Darcy: When I first moved to (city he lives at now), my roommate was this... brilliant scientist. Like... in our... field, you have to be... efficient at science, and computers.... and usually... people are... good at one thing, but not the other. But this guy, he knew about both, right.
I'd be the one who'd know nothing about either...
Darcy: Well, he applied to Harvard... as an undergrad, a grad, and post, and he was rejected by them. Three times.
So quit crying, wuss.
Darcy: Now he's... this... well-known scientist. A much sought-after professor... he's doing all these brilliant things now... and to think Harvard rejected him.
Is she even listening? Her eyes are glazed over... ?
Yeah... but that's Harvard... Harvard's HAAAARD.
Fuck it, looks like I'll keep talking in hopes this shit registers in her hard head.
Darcy: I guess the point of this story is... you know... fuck those schools."
I like his pep talks. They're so cute.
This bitch did not hear a word I just said...

Example number howmanytimescanyoufuckupAnoMALIE?!
We're all standing in the living room, watching the countdown. I notice Darcy's holding up his camera, filming the screen.
You're seriously recording the television screen?
We all countdown, then cheer to the new year.
Get off your fucking camera!
I cheer with everyone, even strangers... everyone but Darcy... I don't know how that happens, but it does. (Now that I think about it, I did not wish him a happy new year at all... wow... how fucking retarded can I get?)
Seven minutes into the fireworks display, I'm still standing near the television, watching the fireworks, occasionally the other guests. Somehow Darcy reappears and stands next to me and his bestie.
Darcy: What a waste.
Pointing your camera at the television screen during the countdown? I agree.
Darcy: Who needs to spend all that money on fireworks? It's such a waste. Look at that. Or what do you think?
Do you EVER have an opinion? Do you seriously EVER talk?
I think you shouldn't have been pointing that fucking camera at the television screen...
Me: Fireworks are cool... but not for seven... now eight minutes.
Darcy: Yeah, see. A total waste.
Like pointing your fucking camera at the television screen...
Me: Now there's the lovely pessimist I knew!
Even when you're ranting... you're sooooo fucking cute.
How is that pessimistic? It's the TRUTH!
We notice after the eight minute mark the fireworks finally end. We start walking in opposite directions.
Darcy: Well, that was anticlimactic...
Because you were pointing your fucking camera at the fucking television screen!
Stupid fireworks!

And that's the type of shit my professor enjoyed.

Grimace, much, guys?
There were a few more moments similar to that... where I'd just bottle up and seem retarded...
Poor Darcy... it was like he was trying to pull teeth.

In unison, let's all shake our heads in disapproval of me.
Baaaaad AnoMALIE!

ILMSD #125342

Today was another installment of "I Love My Sister Day."

Here, a compilation of some of our conversations:

1.
Listening to Adele's CD as we drive around the city, we talk about how much we love the songs (and how her ex-boyfriend deserves a Grammy for inspiring so many painful songs). The CD gets to "One and Only."
You've been on my mind 
I grow fonder every day. 
Lose myself in time 
Just thinking of your face. 
God only knows 
Why it's taking me so long 
To let my doubts go. 
You're the only one that I want. 
Me: I fucking love this song.
Sister: Fuck yeah. It's awesome. There's just one part that pisses me off.
Me: Oh dang. "Pisses you off?" Shit. Why?
Sister: This fucking part right here...
I dare you to let me be your, 
your one and only. 
Promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms 
So come on and give me the chance 
To prove that I'm the one who can 
Walk that mile until the end starts.
Sister: You don't have to tell a guy YOU'RE "worthy." Fuck that nigga! He should already KNOW!
Me: ... Yeah.... you have a point. Fuck that shit!
Sister: "Promise I'm worthy".... get the fuck outta here!
My lovely sister, once again talking sense into my retarded head (and here, a clear example of how you can take the girls out the ghetto... and give them bachelor degrees... but you can't take the ghetto out the girls).

2.
We decided to hit Nordstrom in search for our goddaughter's Christmas gift.
We were in the shoe department, and decided on some cute little Toms.
We stood around, looking for some goddamn sales associate asshole to notice us, but they acted as if we were invisible (I fucking love that shit. LOVE IT. Fucking racial profiling snobby pieces of shit. YOU WORK RETAIL! GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, DICKFACE! But thats me going on a tangent, so let's get back to the story).
Instead of getting angry and knocking all the fucking shoe displays off the tables, I decided to make myself comfortable on their nice "leather" couches... dangling my chuck-rockin' foot off the armrest.
Sister stood, arms crossed, Tom shoe dangling on her right index finger, a second "sales associate" (aka SHOE-SALESMAN, bitch! YOU SELL SHOES FOR A LIVING! GET OFF YOUR FUCKING HIGH HORSE!) walked past her.
Sister: Do these motherfuckers work for commission here?
Me: Yup.
Sister: Mother. FUCKER! It's the fucking curly hair (she had done her hair curly, style she dislikes).
A third shoe-salesfucker passes her without acknowledging her.
Sister: I'LL TAKE ONE IN EVERY COLOR, biiiiitch!
I sit up and look around... slightly embarrassed.
Sister: How do these motherfuckers know I'm not going to go off and buy one of every style? Miss out on a massive commission. Pricks.
Me: No cuesta nada soñar (it's free to dream).

3.
Talking about nicknames. It started off by me complaining over how half the female population has my nickname (really, Mariah Carey? "Mimi?" They get "Mimi" out of "Mariah"? Shut the fuck up. Don't get me started on Mandi Moore), hence my aversion to it.
Me: You know who else's nickname I hate? Mike's.
Sister: Ugh.
Me: Seriously. How the fuck did they come up with it? How the hell do you even say it without feeling stupid? (His nickname sounds like the spanish term for "poop")
Sister: Shut up. You know what I'd feel stupid about? Writing that gay-ass Christmas card of yours.
Me: I shouldn't have listened to you and written how YOU really feel.
Dear Poopy-face,
I can't eat, sleep, laugh, talk, or shit without thinking of you... I mean, your name says it all.
You're everywhere... your six-foot-six (she corrected me on this. Originally I thought he was 6'4" but turns out I was two inches off) frame I see in everything... like doorways and graveyard undertakers.
Your ringtone ID on my phone makes everyone turn around and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. It annoys everyone and I risk getting punched in the face, but I put up with it because you're SO FUCKIN' AWESOME.
When you text me, I laugh like a hyena who has stumbled upon an abandoned, but freshly killed wildebeest carcass in the Serengeti. The Serengeti... a much warmer place than that frigid tundra known as "Chicago" that I'm so adamant about moving to this upcoming spring.
I have already named our future first five babies.
I hope they have your sleepy, radioactive-green colored eyes.
You're SO fucking hot... even when you call me all those lame, stereotypical names like "Hermosa" and "linda." From you... they sound like poetry.
You are so fucking hot.
Love you, always and FOREVER!
D! 
Sister: Fuck you.

Always a fun time with that bratty poopy-face.

Keep the shirt

"Are you ok?"
His first words to me.

I've tried holding off talking about this, because it tends to anger me... then make me sad... then make me feel like a loser.
MGH has been up to his shenanigans once again.
He has been doing the whole "subliminal message" thing with me.
And while I DID notice, I acted as if I didn't... even if I felt like I was getting upper-cutted with each little detail of his.

Him: I bought an ND shirt the other day...
Me: Is that so?
Him: Yeah... ND.
Me: That's cool. That way you can always think of RAFA and NOTRE DAME when you wear it.

I've known of the shirt for a while now. I saw a photo of him wearing it... at Pacemaker's nice's Quinceañera. Coincidence he wore it there? No. If I learned anything from him, it's that his actions are calculated and deliberate.
I saw him wearing the ND shirt (my initials, in case you've forgotten) as I looked through Pacemaker's photos, and I felt as if I had gotten kicked in the gut.
WHYYYYY are you doing this?! Goddamn it, WHY?!

Today he used his famous line on me: I need to talk to you.
Everyone knows I spring to action when I'm needed.

Once I agreed to talk, those were his first words... "Are you ok?"
Agitated, irritated, annoyed... what have you... and still, I talked to him for two hours (hours filled with more of the cryptic shit... where he highlighted memories from the past... especially Cancun. He really stressed that one. Oh yeah! The trip where you obliterated, completely pulverized my heart? Oh yeah, I remember that!).

I'm such a fucking sucker.
And I will NEVER understand guys.

... and I will NEVER take him back.

Capricorn

So I'm a little territorial.
No more than a dog... but probably more than, say... plankton.

I allow others to use my shit... however, there are certain objects I'll probably fight you for... like my toothbrush... my lipgloss/chapstick... my half-gallons of water that I remember to fill up and place in the fridge each night (we all know how that shit works out for me... especially during stressful times of my life... when the cold-sore from hell decides to pay me a visit like the fucking asshole it is)... stuff like that.
Staying with the "things I bring to my mouth" topic, I'm VERY defensive about my tea mug.
It's a fucking awesome mug. It's enormous. It comfortably fits 5 cups of liquid. It's cute with its blue little daisies dancing around in a white background. It was a gift.
It has a small chip on the lip because my mom was a jerk and bumped it with the damn blender.
But still, I love this mug.
Know who else loves my mug?
My dad.

I try to be cool about it, but each time I walk into the kitchen and catch him drinking out of my mug, I feel the stream rushing out of my ears.
Me: Heyyyy! That's MY mug, Dad!
(leave it to me to fight over a fucking mug)
Dad: Says who?
Me: Uh... everyone... in case the blue daisies don't give it away that this mug MAY belong to a female.
Dad: Well... then... which one's MY mug?
Me: Any other one in the cupboard... that huge black one with that one truck company's logo on it. No one touches that one.
Dad: But I like this one because it's so huge.

A couple of months back, Mom and I were having our little bonding time, shopping.
As she was busy in the dressing room, I found my way to the "Home and Kitchen" department.
I checked out the plates, and came upon the mugs. I found an enormous white mug with a giant black J drawn on it... and I was going to purchase it for pops, hoping the damn letter would make it clear that "Yo, this is your fucking initial... it's YOURS. Quit drinking out of my blue daisy cup!"
However, Mom convinced me not to, because according to her, we had more than enough giant mugs in the house.
When we were going to leave, some mugs with the zodiac signs (and their descriptions) caught Mom's eye.
Mom's borderline-fanatical Catholic and all... but she loves astrology... go figure.
We checked out the Virgo (Mom), Libra (D and Rafa), and the Pisces (me, obviously).
Mom didn't think buying Dad the giant J mug was worth the five dollars, but she went ahead and spent 15 bucks on three huge zodiac mugs we definitely didn't need.

Fast forward to today.
I was sitting at the kitchen table with Pops. I was enjoying some tea, and he decided he'd have some as well.
What mug did he grab? Mom's giant Virgo mug... which is even bigger than my blue daisy mug.
Me: Hey... that's Mom's mug.
(y vuelve la burra al trigo... I'm so fucking stubborn, and nagging, I know)
Dad: Uhhhhh! Where's MY mug?
Me: I was gonna get you one the other day, but Mom was all "No, he has one already."
Mom: Oh... I thought he did.
Dad: I like this one because it's HUGE! And it has a pretty lady drawn on it.
Me: ...and it's pink. Dad. I'm getting you a mug. One identical to that one. But... since you're a Capricorn, I'll get you that one. That mug is blue and everything.
Dad: I AM A CHRISTIAN!
Me: Yes Dad, you're a Christian... but also a Capricorn.
Dad: I. AM. A CHRISTIAN!
Me: Well, Christian, you really like that VIRGO cup.

...
He's getting a Capricorn cup unless that man decides to go to the store and buy himself his nice little Christian cup. Good luck finding that one.