Deserve to know

Greatly underestimated how fucking horrible this feels...

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

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

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

Y a esta edad...

*Real Life Alert. Travel stories next time*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please don't go away...

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

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

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

Early 30s is too young

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

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

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

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

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

Bolt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking lightning bolts.
I see you.

they all fall down

Last year was a time for me when everything was going down in flames. I was standing still in a fucking burning room, completely shellshocked as everything else was burning to an unrecognizable crisp.

This year, I am watching (in horror) the worlds of others comes to a screeching halt, as I stand a world away on my own planet whose charred remains are finally seeing hints of green.
It has been bad news for so many people in my life, and there's nothing I can really do.

Last week I learned (one of) my friend's one-year-old has what appears to be terminal cancer.
This friend, she was a smart, kind, patient,  sincerely religious, "traditional"... damn near perfect young girl. She patiently waited for a guy to come into her life who would not pressure her into changing her good-girl ways... a dude who would appreciate her completely.
Jokes started to run in Hometown about this girl (and her older sister, who was much like her and also single), where others would warn single girls to change their ways unless they wanted to end up like this girl.
I always found her exemplary of what a girl should be... because despite all the bullshit she would hear, she held her head high and her hopes remained unwavering.
She was 38 when she finally found her other half... and they immediately got to baby making. After nearly two years, and numerous miscarriages, they were able to have this "miracle baby."
And now this.
I haven't been able to shake this all week. I'll think of all this shit at random times of the day.
I didn't know I could be this gutted for another person in such a profound way.
I find it all so unfair...

Then last night the father of one of my friends passed away.
I have never been good under these circumstances. It always seems I'm the one who gets more hysterical than my friend who has lost the loved one.
She has posted numerous photos throughout the day, where she is... she's just pouring her heart out... and constantly calls out to her dad like... well... a heartbroken toddler who doesn't want her daddy to go away. I've been crying all fucking day seeing this... just typing this has made my throat tighten up.

Anyway... this is all so... strange. And sad. I'm so very sorry for everyone... truly.

3 years later

I try not to be sad about it... and I manage to stay relatively happy.
I can remember him without crying now... most of the time... at least initially.
I can have dreams about him and still wake up happy... unless it becomes a recurring thing that week... ok, month.

I was kind to strangers today. I smiled a lot. I gave money and food to a homeless woman (I had never done that before. I still don't understand what possessed me to do it... the sight of her crushed my heart and I suddenly found myself offering all my shit to her).

And I didn't cry all day.

Then I saw his photo.
And all I could remember was seeing him under that tree.
Then flashback to seeing him in his little cardboard box the night I brought him home... the way he'd search for warmth and place his warm little puppy tummy on my leg.

And I lost it.

But it doesn't hurt like before... the tears aren't as desperate.
I just miss him. I miss him.
But at least I can think of the happy memories with him and smile... that's something.
Thoughts of him don't consume my day. I can look at other puppies, even play with them, without thinking of Tyson... or feeling guilty... or like a piece of my soul is missing.

Tyson did take an enormous, beautiful chunk of my soul with him... but... I'm ok with it.

Mi feo, mi amor, corazón. Enano, gordo, tontin. Chiquito, babe, little guy.

I really wish I could be patting his muscular shoulders right now, as he sits guard at my feet.
I miss you, Tyson.

Blowing kisses

This summer I met this odd, older man at Hometown. The guy was my mother's age, never married, never procreated, never dated anyone.
At first, I was irritated by him, having no idea about his life. I found him odd because he avoided people, avoided eye-contact.. but was fascinated by these three sisters who are 15, 17, and 19 years old. Men would mention how he was looking to make a wife out of one of the three girls, and he would laugh... but agree, wholeheartedly.
This irritated me, because I thought he was just a perverted old man... typical man from Hometown. I'm not too keen on these men.
However, I continued observing this man, and his interactions with others. I quickly noted he was... well, mentally deficient somehow. He seemed to be suffering from some sort of arrested development... I'd say at a ten to twelve year old level.
He was kind, he was polite, he was religious... he was shy.
He greeted others while looking at the ground, but smiling... blushing.
It made my heart hurt. So much.
He was a ten year old boy, forever trapped in the body of a middle-aged man.

When he'd see the girls--the three sisters-- he would pause, look up, and blow a kiss at each one. He would gently kiss his right hand, and even gentler "throw" the kiss at the first girl, then direct his full attention to the second, do the same for the second girl, and the same ritual for the third girl. He would then continue walking to where ever he was headed. No words spoken, no attempt at getting closer to girls... just... that weird blowing of his kiss.

Mom then told me his story, his lonely, sad story... and I felt horrible for ever passing such harsh judgement on the guy.
He was gentle. He was kind. He was simple. He was... he was a kid.

They found his tortured body today in Hometown.
He was tied up, throat slit, buried by the river-- his right hand the only thing sticking out... frozen by the river. He had been buried there for about a week.
He was murdered by someone he thought was his friend. A fucking monster who had been his neighbor for over thirty years. A motherfucking piece of garbage.

I think about his life-- his quiet, sad, lonely, simple life... and I want to cry. My heart breaks.
I think of how horrible his last minutes must have been... what was running through his head... the horror of seeing this guy you grew up with be the one who is going to betray you in the worst way, HURT you in the worst way.
Why? He did nothing... hurt no one... OFFENDED no one.... WHY hurt him like this? Why him? He was kind, gentle... simple. He was a gentle soul... a special needs soul... and he met his end worse than... shit, you don't even slaughter pigs that way.

He was in Hometown because it's supposed to be safer... no one there is supposed to hurt you, they all know you, they all care for you. It's supposed to be better there than in a "special needs" home. It's a close-knit community of few people who may be gossip-machines, but definitely take care of those in need.

We are all stunned. We are all furious.

I hope he didn't suffer. I hope he wasn't scared. I hope he didn't suffer.
I hope he wasn't scared.

Coincidence...

I had a nice entry mapped out in my mind on Friday... nice, happy entry relating to my recent travels.
Then sad shit started happening.
I lost any and all thoughts running through my mind that were not those of concern for my friends currently hurting.

This family, my sister's best friend's family, we go back about 15 or so years.
The family is very similar to mine:
The dads have the same name.
The moms are the same age (birthdays the same week) and hail from the same part of Mexico (two towns apart).
The first born is a male, one born exactly a month before the other (my brother is the "young" one).
The middle kids are both girls with the same name.
The youngest/third kid is a girl, born on the same day, two years apart (my sister is the "older" one).
They were neighbor's/best friends with my mom's deceased, beloved brother when they lived in The Bay.

We became friends due to being in the same circle of friends when the whole Quinceañera circuit began for my brother and me (I was 13). We always bumped into each other, and I had a crush on the guy. I eventually made friends with the middle daughter, and introduced her to my little sister... the two immediately clicked.
Then my sister grew closer to the middle girl, crushed on the older brother, and I stepped aside.
The friendship/bond only grew as the years went by.

Yesterday was the 6 year anniversary of my paternal grandfather's death.
Yesterday, this family lost their maternal grandfather.

We hadn't noticed we were missing a similarity amongst the grandparents...

Coincidences make me smile... but when it's this... sad, well, it just breaks my heart.

Second anniversary

I see him prancing around green fields, or locked in my Mexico home, or under that fig tree... the few times my boy visits me in my dreams.
Sometimes I'm having a great time camping and smiling at once again seeing my buddy, others I'm bursting at the seams with excitement thinking I have finally found him, only to feel the cruel sting of disappointment after realizing it wasn't him.

I just want to see him, touch him... even SMELL him. Never thought I'd miss his smell.
I want to hear him snore in his sleep, snort when he's hungry... do his happy prance when he'd see me carrying his bowl of thoroughly-mixed dry and wet food.
I want to feel him playfully bump the side of my leg with his ridiculously muscular thigh... I'd even be cool with him breaking one of my nails with the swat of his crooked little tail when he'd get overly excited.

I feel ridiculous knowing I could love an animal this much... that I'd MISS him this much... that I'd get so animated recounting one of his stories (I do it every time I remember the simplest little things he did... I think I do it as a way to overcompensate for the horrible sadness I feel knowing I'm talking about my dead little guy... try being overly-happy while talking to keep from bursting into tears... which doesn't always work).

I honestly feel SO STUPID over how much pain I feel over his death... even after two years. Each time, each and every time I look out my window to the backyard, my initial feeling is immediate sadness-- each. and every. time.

I've been told this attachment and suffering of mine for a dog says a lot about ME and how I interact with other people.
But... don't they stop and think that perhaps the fact that I can be this attached to an animal, to love a dog this much... to think that at some point in my life, the ONLY creature showing me any sort of kindness and support, the ONLY thing encouraging me to keep waking up each morning, was a simple, stupid, "soulless" dog... doesn't that say more about PEOPLE?

I'm no longer at that low I found myself in when I was given Tyson, now I DO have kind, loving people in my life... and while my lows are hardly ever as low as they once were, I'm much better at climbing out of the abyss.
However, the fact remains that there was that time in my life, a time where I felt so fucking ostracized and ridiculed and... humiliated... and worthless... and fucking invisible and disgusting... and not ONE person would step up to help me out of it. Of the people in my surrounding, not one fucking human gave ONE single fuck.
That time I walked through school after having some dude dump salsa all over me during lunch break... salsa dripping from my hair... how many PEOPLE helped me out? None.
The times I'd walk past the park in Mexico, hearing boys moo and oink at me while the girls would laugh... how many told them to stop? NOT ONE.
People preferred DISTANCING themselves from me in order to avoid getting swept in the abuse... my siblings included. When I'd be around my family and they'd ask me STUPID questions as to why I was alone and I'd shrug, what would be my mother's response? "Haven't you looked at yourself in the mirror?!"
I mean, theoretically your family's supposed to love and defend you, especially in your time of need... these PEOPLE, yet in my case, they were just fueling the fire by turning a blind eye.
And just as I was fed up with putting a brave face to the world, when I was more than convinced I HAD to end it all in the quickest, most guaranteed way possible... I was given Tyson.

Others' rejection of me wasn't imaginary... it wasn't me inventing stories out of narcism...it. was. real. And SO FUCKING BRUTAL. SO BRUTAL. On a daily basis... for YEARS.
When my own kind was rejecting me, along came this dog... this tiny, ugly, so misunderstood breed of puppy... and gave a shit about me... thought the fucking world of me. A. FUCKING. DOG.
Suddenly, during the summers where I'd still encounter cruelty from my peers and even adults... instead of crying myself to sleep, I had this little creature worried about me, cuddling me the moment he'd see me take a seat in the backyard, licking each and every tear off my face, hands, and feet... a warm little body nudging me... urging me to play fetch with him... SMILING in my face. My ability to pick myself up was increased drastically with the introduction of Tyson.
I also had my little dog that upon seeing me walk in through my front door each day after school, would wag his tail so wildly, he looked like a wind up toy ready to burst. The thought of returning home to my amazing, silly dog was the new, sole, BEST thing that got me through the school day.
He was my anchor in the roughest waters (don't people say this about deities? Man, I'm a wreck-- pun not intended)... and helped me stick around long enough to see a clearing, to meet the amazing people I now thank for teaching me to trust in others and enjoy life. Tyson helped me stay long enough to see many of my former tormentors mature--at least become somewhat subdued.

How could you not love that creature with all of your being? How could you not suffer over the loss of that creature?
A dog... a pit bull, was the ONLY thing on the planet keeping me company, sticking by my side, and making me feel like I was worth a fucking shit, while my peers were either abusing me in any way they could, or quietly watching the harm to me occur without offering any sort of consolation or protection or END from the abuse.

I will never stop thanking that creature. I will never stop missing that creature. I will never stop LOVING that creature. Not two years after his death, not twenty years after his death.
He was my best friend, and many, MANY times my only friend... and now I can only interact with him in my dreams... the rare times my mind manages to conjure him.

So yeah... I suffer over, miss and love a dead dog.
I just had to get this off my chest. I hate others judging me for my feelings for a dog, I hate feeling stupid about STILL hurting about the death of my dog... and above all, I hate that there was ever a time in my life where the sole thing caring about me and keeping me company... and RESCUING me was an animal, a "simple fucking dog."

Sorry for the ramble, I've been crying all fucking day.

Sweetness leaves the Earth

I know I have wild mood swings... and I can either be irritatingly joyful, depressed to a worrisome degree, or in the middle of a blinding rage. I try to be rational and calm for the most part... try to find an explanation for things, after all, it's how I try to calm myself down when I find myself in a scary mood.
How is this helping you in any way? How is screaming all these profanities at an unsuspecting lady driving down the street helping in any way?
Ok, and locking yourself in your room in complete darkness is going to uplift your spirits... how...?
I know this is fun... but take it down a notch... you're getting a little too loud and obnoxious, homie.

For the last month, I've been dealing with this inexplicable sense of fear-- not dread, but fear.
The scariest moment was a couple of weeks ago, when I woke up in the middle of the night, scared out of my mind, with my heart pounding in my chest... and just KNOWING something was standing in the corner of my room, to my left... I just KNEW something or someone was there-- a masculine energy-- staring at me. It was a dark figure, and I saw it when I opened my eyes and looked over-- heart pounded so hard, I swore I was going to suffer a heart attack-- then I closed my eyes and told myself I'd keep my eyes closed and act as if I was asleep.
It can't do anything to me if it thinks I'm asleep... act asleep... breathe slowly... don't move... DON'T open your eyes.
It was agonizing... so fucking agonizing.
I sat paralyzed in my bed, trying to stay calm as I felt my left leg grow BURNING hot for a good five seconds, then immediately ice-cold. Then again to the burning, but this time up to my stomach... where I could have sworn my bed sheet was catching fire (no, I was not thinking of the Hunger Games), and again the scary cold on the leg. It was so goddamn terrifying and befuddling.
WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON?! DON'T open your eyes, AnoMALIE!
After what felt like an eternity, I finally opened my eyes and reached for my phone, turning on the flashlight function.
The time was 3:36 AM. I wanted to piss my pants... I HATE waking up at three in the morning... because I do believe that's a bad hour... fuck 3 AM.

This sort of shit happens to my sister all the time-- she's the one who sees "dead people." She's the one who suffers those paralyzing moments where dead family members come up to her and speak to her (in her latest episode, she saw Tyson, happily wagging his tail and licking her face, which removed all sense of fear in her... and that's when my paternal grandmother appeared. Sis was embarrassed to tell me about it because she thought I'd laugh at her because of a dog "speaking" to her, but it was totally the opposite. I'd fucking kill-- not literally-- to see Tyson one more time, my love). My "ability" is to sense when someone close to me is going to die... which I think is better than that petrifying shit I felt.

Anyway, after that scary shit, I kept getting perturbing dreams. I kept waking up and telling my mom "Someone's trying to talk to me... a dead person... or... do you know of someone who recently died or is dying? Because that homeboy or homegirl wants to talk to me. Someone has some unresolved issues or some shit."
Then last week, as I was driving to the gym, I tried changing the radio station as I backed out of the garage, and my car refused. I'd be able to turn the nobs, but when I'd press enter, either on the steering wheel or the MMI (multi media center... Audi is a classy bastard), I'd get nothing. Then, randomly, the station switched to a non-existent station, where I listened to white noise. I could not switch on or off or to the satellite radio, or CDs... my car was forcing me to listen to white noise... for the 20 minute commute.
Oh FUCK... FUCK FUCK! I just fucked up my car... it isn't even a year and a half old! My mom's going to fucking murder me!
I spent gym time freaked the fuck out over what I was going to tell Mom about my fucked up car.
When it was time to go home, I turned on my car, and it was back to normal. Instead of feeling relief, I felt another type of fear...
Uhm... is Mr. WillyBoy... haunted? What. The. Fuck? I think I preferred it when I thought it was a mechanical issue...

I came home and told Mom all about it.
Mom: Keep watching your scary shows, AnoMALIE... serves you right!
Me: Mom... someone's going to die.

Tuesday night, as I sat in my room, I was on my way to the bathroom when I heard--clearly-- someone call out my name. Clearly.
I didn't feel scared, since the name was called out very calmly... none of that haunting shit you hear in movies.
I thought it was Mom trying to ask me for a favor... even if the voice wasn't anything like hers (that woman screams like she's at the Superbowl, regardless of where her audience may be, despite what ever mood she may be in).
When I walked over to the living room and asked what she needed, she was surprised I was out there.
Mom: I didn't call you, Mija... it's almost midnight.

This morning, I woke up weepy... a heavy feeling on my chest... and I was just... randomly crying... crying hard... out of the blue.
At first, I thought maybe I was just regrouping from all this BoxingTrainer Drama bullshit of the last days... that I was upset with myself for blowing up the way I did.
Then in the middle of my gym routine I get the text: my maternal grandpa's brother-- the sweetest, gentlest one-- passed away.
And so... there I sat amongst the weights... crying like a pussy.

You know... I try to rationalize shit... to debunk all this supernatural shit... but I can't. So many strange little nothings occur to me... they all build up... and while I can't tell WHAT will happen, or when it'll happen... or TO WHOM it'll happen... it ends the same: I lose a loved one.
I don't know how the person will die, when he will die, or WHO will be the one dying... I just know the loss will hurt me.
I wish I could point to a particular person and say "Hey, you, love the fucking shit out of your grandpa right now... because he's going to die... he has been coming to me at night, scaring the shit out of me... and I think it's because he wants me to tell you to quit being a cunt and go say goodbye to him like a normal person. He misses you... now GO!" but I can't. Instead I sit in my room, paranoid as fuck, hoping these creepy things stop... or for them to just become clearer and tell me how I can help out or whatever the fuck needs to be done.

Godspeed, uncle. You were a sweet, caring man. Thank you for proving not only to me, but to the rest of the Hometowners that the M******* men are capable of deeply loving, and respecting women... giving your wife her rightfully deserved respect, and treating her with the endless love you promised her until the very end.
I will miss your stories... your romantic, adorable stories.
Thank you for being one of the only souls capable of, and CONCERNED with, bringing back my grandfather from the dark side to which he always fell victim.

Tough Lessons

The night my best friend's mom passed away, I spent it crying my eyes out, uncontrollably, and for no known reason. I couldn't explain it, but I cried so very hard... on the floor, to the point of convulsing until I passed out, literally.
The next day was when Kelley told me her mom had passed away.

This morning,  I woke up suffering from nausea... inexplicably.
As I was preparing my breakfast, I twice had to fight off vomiting.
Me: Hmmm... I'm nauseous... something's not right... something's going on...
Mom: Don't say that.
Me: I don't know... this is weird... I never feel nauseous... something's going on... something bad is going on... I just don't know with whom...
Mom: Shut up and sit down.

It makes me feel crazy, because this shit is ridiculous... it's preposterous... but I swear, my mother's side of the family has this weird sixth sense (it would be cool if it'd be a little less uncomfortable to deal with). Mom knows this all too well, because she spent many years of her life praying for this ability of hers to go away. Same goes for my mother's middle sister.

A few hours ago, I found out... umm... I feel bad calling him "Manipulative" right now but, I guess, I mean right now it's the only thing I've called him, so that's how he's known here. Anyway, I found out his sister passed away after battling cancer for a while.
I met her the same day I met this guy, let's call him Sport for now, because anything else is fucked up at this moment. She had me cracking up. I saw her a few other times as well, and found her to be incredibly sweet, and hilarious.
I don't say all this nice stuff now only because she's gone, because I'm one of those people who HATE it when others go that route-- turning the deceased into immediate saints-- but she was legitimately, sincerely, a great person.
The news broke my heart... for everyone.

Lesson learned from being a petty, resentment-harboring cunt: DON'T BE. Life's too short for that shit. Cut it out.

What I have to learn is how to let shit go. No one wins when I hold on to anger or with my refusal to... let bygones be bygones. No one wins with my goddamned self-righteousness and shit.
I say it all the time: no one knows what I'VE been through...
But I horribly fail at considering what OTHERS have been through... or ARE going through.

I'm so, so very sad... and sorry.

-1 +1

I've been dreading this post.
I don't even know how many breaks I've taken before typing anything.
I've been extremely sentimental, straight fragile, for the last week... knowing Tyson's anniversary was coming up
Yesterday, I kept replaying the events that had gone down exactly a year ago.
Monday morning, eating breakfast, walking outside... seeing his body under the fig tree... going to the gym and trying not to burst into tears at the gym...
And then today...the 23rd of July...
I've been crying on and off throughout the day. Sometimes just tears, other times some sobs get in there.

There's hardly a day I don't think of Tyson... I usually have to TRY not to think of him.
I miss that guy with every. single. fiber of my being.
Mi corazón. Mi amor. Mi vaquita. Mi corazoncito. Mi enano. Mi travieso. Mi feo. Mi bebe. Cabron. Babe. Love. My babykins. Honey bun. Asshole. Jerk. Jerkwad. Dumdum. Dummy. Silly. Little punk. Baby cow. Tontin. My love.
My best friend.
My baby.
My fucking love.
My heart.
My little guy.

I think of touching his face... caressing that giant head of his... holding his snout gently as he stared into my eyes... adoringly.
Yo tambíen te adoro, mi enanillo... más de lo que pense. How could you love me so much, babe?

I remember it was February, and I was running on my treadmill when my mom told me about the litter of puppies.
Running would be the best way I could clear my mind from the day's events at high school.
Sophomore year wasn't as difficult as Freshman year... I'd only think of suicide a few times a month... unlike Freshman year... were I'd pray to not wake up every single night.
I had three friends Sophomore year... three more than Freshman year... so that was ok.
But I was still getting bullied... it's the year they poured salsa on my head and in my eye... no one helping me to wipe it off... or even informing me I still had chunks of it in my hair.
I was still the target of ridicule and... mercilessly ostracized.
Though those three "friends" existed, they ditched school often... I had perfect attendance... so I'd still have many days where I'd sit alone in the hallways during lunch... counting the seconds until that bell rang for class to start.
I had zero reason to trust anyone. Zero desire to like anyone.

Then Tyson came into my life... and I finally had a reason to give a shit. Something depended on me... and in return, gave me its undivided attention, love... loyalty... admiration.
I had a little creature to come home to.
The thought of his cute vulnerability made me smile to myself throughout the school day.
It didn't matter who had taken a cheap-shot at me at school... who had shoved me... who had ignored me... I had Tyson... HE thought I was awesome. He loved me.
This tiny... loud... sarcastic little dude kept me looking forward to the next day.
This... animal... this creature that supposedly doesn't possess a soul saved my life... kept me alive-- not the fear of going to hell, not the fear of the heartbreak my parents would feel... but this dog... this silly dog kept me alive.

Seeing him under that tree that Monday a year ago... is indescribable. My homie, my love, my companion... my motor, my savior, my angel... my best friend... died alone... and left ME the job of... finding him.
The only creature who knew my deepest, darkest secrets and feelings... the only one who knew just how BADLY I had wanted to die on so many nights, whose warmth kept me from ending it all... beat me to death.... left me completely alone.

The creature responsible for anything positive that ever happened to me between the years of 2001-2012 is outside... buried as far away from my room as possible.
A year later, and I still feel as though I suffer from that phantom-limb syndrome... because Tyson wasn't my right hand... or left hand... he was my heart and my soul... my hopes and my dreams.
All buried outside.

I don't know if anyone will understand all of this... I don't CARE... it's just what I feel... and what is true. I don't care if they think I'm being dramatic with my unrelenting grief for A DOG... I don't care if they laugh at my tears, my deep heartbreak... after all, that's all I've ever been for some people-- some sort of entertainment... causing pleasure, enjoyment at the sight of my mortification and pain and humiliation. I don't fucking care. Laugh, judge, belittle to your fucking heart's content.

I wouldn't be here if it weren't for Tyson... the little guy who taught me to trust and enjoy the simple things in life... my loyal, fierce defender.
... and now I've carried on without him for exactly a year.

I miss you, my love. I still love you, bebe. I always will.

Jack Frost

I'd immediately look away from his stare.
I'd feel a kick in my stomach each time he'd call me by name.
He terrified me... yet, I couldn't hate him... my heart felt PITY for him.

My grandpa, the crazy one, was an asshole... a dude with a horrible temper, a dude who'd beat the fucking shit out of anyone for any fucking reason, a dude who would fuck ANYTHING with a vagina, regardless of how that vagina was related to him.
But those crazy moments were just that-- moments.
The older I became and the more I learned in school, the more I suspected his temper flares to be due to his time in the US Army-- his time in the Korean War.
I also learned about Gramps' incredibly rough upbringing... and so... I began to understand him.

His rough upbringing made him have a soft spot for the destitute. He NEVER told a beggar to go away. He ALWAYS bought something from the little kids selling bubblegum on the side of the road. He'd buy random people clothes and shoes, and then treat them to lunch.
He'd sometimes cry (for about five minutes at a time) when he'd see really young kids begging for money... or just walking around in raggedy clothes, shoeless.
My Gramps was the wealthiest man in Hometown, but he'd spend the majority of his dough on others (yeah, I guess PROSTITUTES can be included here. It's the truth).
Grandpa could be such a horrible monster one minute, and the most selfless, generous soul the next.

Gramps always had a peon.
In my memory, the ones I remember most were two extremely loyal peons: Ivan, whom I've spoken about previously, and Marcos.
Both were young guys from the poorest families in Hometown, who Gramps hired as a way to get out of the misery... to help them put food on their family's table.

Ivan always played with me... even if he was so much older than I... but Marcos NEVER paid me ANY mind.
Marcos always scared me, he'd just stand there smoking his cigarette, criticizing Ivan for being such a child... and ignoring me as if I were invisible (he did like my sister. I remember him holding her, flashing a huge smile. Who could blame him? She was a motherfucking porcelain doll... the epitome of a beautiful baby).
I could be skipping around the backyard, happily feeding the horses or playing with the kittens, but the moment I'd catch his eyes on me, it was as if a weight were placed on my head... or if I had been touched by Jack Frost.
Paralyzed by fear.

He had blue eyes... sky-blue eyes... that were hard to miss... especially when they'd be focused on you.
His hair was black... he could only grow the measliest mustache, no beard.
His skin was red-- he wouldn't tan under the sun... just turn that lobster-red white folk turn when sunburned.
He was always sunburned.
Or drunk.
Or smoking weed.
Or chain-smoking his cigarettes.
He was around 5'10" and built like a bull.
I guess he could be considered handsome... if he were ever fucking sober for more than three days.
But like I said, something about his eyes freaked me out. He could have looked like motherfucking Ryan Gosling, but I'm sure I'd still shit bricks the moment I'd make eye-contact.

Once I grew up, hit my late teens, we'd be somewhat cordial. He'd sometimes mumble my name... usually only after he'd greet my mom at the park. He'd greet Mom as if greeting a sister.
Then he'd go back to being his usual sourpuss-self.
When we'd play volleyball, he'd often leave pissed off after a bad call. He'd fight with everyone, everyone but Mom. The moment would argue, he'd just "PSHHHH!" throw his right arm into the air, and storm out of the park.
Whenever Mom would fail to join me at the park, I'd come home early if Marcos was at the park. When I'd overhear him mention my name... I'd feel my erector pili go CRAZY. I would no longer freeze, but I would pause momentarily.
It was during this time that he gained his fame as the town's only thief.
I never saw him break into my house, but I DID recognize a pair of my Etnies on one of his nieces... my very fucking particular Etnies... with my MOTHERFUCKING NAME WRITTEN ON THEM.
Did I ever say anything? HELL NO. Fuck getting on Marcos' bad side! He already didn't tolerate me... didn't want to further aggravate that shit.

When Gramps died in '07, Marcos cried a river. He confided in Mom how he was going to miss him with all of his heart, and how he was going to need him...
When my grandmother died in '09, I don't remember much... everything was a blur... I felt as if the world were going in dizzying slow-motion, being rewound, then fast-forwarded, then once again in slow-motion. During one of my few moment of clarity, I remember looking over to my left as we were getting ready to put Grandma's coffin into the ground... and I caught a glimpse of Marcos-- his eyes swollen, pink, tears rolling down both cheeks, his hand over his mouth.
Marcos... the... terrifying bad guy... is a fucking wreck over my grandma? He has feelings?! Wow. Th...ank you...

Today we got word Marcos was murdered in TJ.
He was one of the ringleaders of abductors in our home state.
Mexico's military got him during some sort of operation sting.
This doesn't surprise me in the least bit, it was obvious he was up to no good.
Still, I have this bizarre sense of sadness in my heart.
I couldn't focus on anything today, because all I could think of was Marcos.
I felt pity... and scared... sort of relieved... then sad.
Such a bad guy... a guy who'd nearly get me to piss myself with just one glance... a guy who did not care about anyone or anything, and who was willing to do anything for a buck... never did anything to me or my family besides steal a pair of my Etnies to give to his niece. In fact, he showed my family an odd version of respect.
We flirted with disaster... with grave danger... it was right there, for so long... but nothing ever happened... if anything, I dare say we were protected.
Jesus Christ...

The summer of 2010, Alo, D, Jaz, and I were playing in a volleyball team that was turning out to be invincible for the evening. We only had two guys on the team: my godson and Marcos.
We were cooperating so well, we were kicking ass so hard, and we were laughing SO MUCH.
At one point, one of the guys on the opposing team spiked on my head. Angry, I cursed and threatened the guy.
Marcos let out a roar. He quoted me... and burst out laughing, uncontrollably.
"Ayyy, AnoMALIE. You're so fucking silly, kid."
I laughed... I fearlessly laughed... and felt good for finally managing to amuse him.

That was a good day.


I'm sorry Life turned out this way for you, Marcos...

Lore

Yesterday's blowup is something that would have been frowned upon by my Garcia side-- my grandmother, her siblings, and especially their father.
This side, the Garcias, are known for their generally calm and patient disposition. They were raised to mind their own business, be people of faith, and work hard. Their patience was OFTEN tried, and instead of getting physical, or even vocal about their anger (I have never met people of such few words. Wonder where I get my silence from? Here. 100%), they'd just walk away and say "Que haya un tonto y no dos." (Let there be ONE fool, not TWO)

In September, I had the privilege to go back to Durango, and see one of the remaining Garcias: mi Tia L. She was the cutest, most hardworking little lady my eyes ever did see. She was kind beyond measure... she had this way of looking at you, so adoringly, without saying a word-- only squeezing your hand/arm. When we'd sit in a group and talk, I'd think she wasn't listening (because she was so busy looking at everyone, in her own world, as though trying to mentally soak in everything about that moment), but suddenly she'd ask a question that would catch me off guard-- question totally pertaining to the conversational topic ("Holy moly! She was listening the whole time?!"). And she had this wit... which often went over people's heads, but the more I'd listen to her, the more I'd giggle to myself, and shoot her a quiet smile ("Oh, clever! I got you, Tia ;) ").
A widow at a young age, she learned to HOLD. IT. DOWN. I can't tell you the number of times I visited her, only to be greeted by one of my primas who'd tell me mi Tia L was outside trimming the trees... or, too often, on the roof, fixing it (she was still a busy-bee like this in September).
Each visit, she'd sort of force-feed me... not because I needed it, but because whatever she was giving me tasted DAMN GOOD and I NEEDED to try it (she force-fed me a .5 liter of coca-cola in September, because Coca-Colas are THE BEST. I don't drink soda, but for her, I'd chug a gallon of it. Then she didn't let me leave the house until I finished the lollipop she had given me... to wash down the coke, ya know?). Her enchiladas rojas? Only THE best!

In September, for the first time ever, she gave me her benediction. I never knew about her benedictions... so special... so... unique for each person-- I wasn't the exception, she made my benediction quite particular... it was like she knew what I needed. It's a beautiful moment I'll forever cherish...
... along with all those times with the sodas, the enchiladas, the frijolitos, the tight, loving squeezes to my arm, her gentle, adoring stares (she was one of the few who ever told me, from the very beginning "You are such a beautiful girl. So strong and tall... always so beautiful." Whereas everyone else's "compliments" would go somewhat like "You know... if you lost a few pounds, you'd be SO PRETTY!")... or how much I admired her ability to forgive (if they ever murdered my only son, in cold blood, in front of the town church, during the festivities of the patron saint... I would never have the heart to forgive the murderers. I would NEVER accept their apologies, and I would never allow them to walk free, as if nothing ever happened. But she did)... and her never ending pride and love when she'd show me the photos of her gorgeous kids, grandkids, great-grand kids, and even great-great-grandkids.

My wonderful cousins, I join you in your sorrow. I hope you know I love you all-- each and EVERY ONE of you-- with all of my heart, and grieve at the thought of any of you suffering with this loss. I am glad, however, that there are so many of you-- people who have a piece of this magnificent woman in their hearts (and genetic make-up), who are able to share it with the rest of the world. She left quite the legacy... and will be greatly missed.


... this is what I wished I could have posted... what I WANTED to post... but... I decided to keep the memories to myself. Is the selfish?

If there is anyone who deserves to rest in paradise, I know for a fact mi Tia L is one of them.
I can't begin to describe how grateful I am for the time I spent with her, and the opportunity I had to see her one last time this September.
She left me with some beautiful memories and beyond-admirable life lessons.
Hometown no longer has a reason to... I no longer need to go there... at least not immediately. It ended today.

Really him

One day, I will remember to gather all of my dad's stories and store them in a single place.
That man has had quite a life.
Pops drives me insane with some of his archaic beliefs... and his unabashed bigotry... and... I'll stop myself right there before I make this post a negative one.

I had noticed my poor dad was quiet... and actually pretty sad these last two days.
He has different types of quiet, angry-quiet being the one I hate, and sad-quiet the one that breaks my heart.
After sitting down for some dinner with my folks and me being oddly chirpy, chiming a playful hello and getting nothing in return, I remembered:
Dad accompanied his best friend as moral support as they cremated his brother.

I guess Dad's BFF's only brother passed away a few days ago, and Dad's BFF decided he was going to get the man cremated. Dad's BFF demanded to be present as they placed his brother in the furnace, to make sure "it was really him getting cremated."
He told Dad of this, and Dad volunteered to join him, since the deceased was also a semi-BFF by default. Back in the 70's, that's how these three guys did stuff... all three together, it was only right they'd be together for this as well.

I look through my dad's old photos and see young dudes having fun in a very old Vegas. They have the coolest haircuts... a ton of hair... huge glasses... bellbottom pants... they're smoking weed and drinking beer. They're being... young bachelors. They have no cares in the world.
Now they're chubby old men... thin hair... huge reading-glasses. Each one of them have battled some sort of cancer... and now they're watching as their group slowly dwindles.

Poor Daddy.

Well, fuck, look at that... I still made this negative, didn't I?

Good-night, sweet prince

The way the universe fucks with me is... unreal.
This past weekend was so pleasant for me... I smiled SO much... I hadn't been that happy in quite some time.
I hung out with Darcy, for crying out loud! That's like... something that was not even in my dreams, because I saw it THAT implausible.
Ok, maybe you'd coincide in one place... but to purposely chill more than once? Get real, idiot.
Everything felt so light... so airy... even if the most I did was give him a half-assed hug.

Then this morning happens.
I was chirpy... so fucking chirpy, despite having only slept four hours.
I had a bounce in my step, I was enjoying my breakfast... and as I happily wriggled in my seat while munching on my berries, I though:
"Well, shit! You know who deserves a good breakfast as well? Tyson!"
I stepped outside and noticed Tyson's mat was missing. I went for his food bowls and saw that both had been drank out of.
Ok, so he didn't run away.
As I walked towards the game room where we store his food, I made a quick glance behind me, and saw Tyson splayed under his favorite tree-- our giant fig tree.
When I approached the room's door, I noticed a couple of chipmunks, brazenly standing in front of me.
These little shitheads... who the hell do they think they are, standing up to me like that? Shameless little bastards.
These chipmunks are the same chipmunks that always scatter the moment they hear me reach for the food bowls. But not today.
I prepared Tyson's food... still chirpy, still smiling, and I headed back to the porch, where Tyson likes to eat.
I quickly glanced over towards the fig tree, and noted how Tyson had not moved... I could only see his backside, though.
I reached the porch, and decided to walk towards the fig tree to encourage Tyson to come get his breakfast.
I cleared the built-in grill that was obstructing my view of Tyson... and then everything went silent... I could not hear a thing... as if I were suddenly submerged under water.
"Tyson? ... Ty... son?"
He was laying on his left side. I looked at his belly first... it wasn't moving. Almost reluctantly, I looked at his face.
His mouth was open... with his usual, enormous, silly grin showing... his little tongue sticking out.
"Tyson..."
There was a puddle of slobber under his mouth, his eyes were wide open... still slightly watery.
"No, no, Tyson... Please no... Tyson? Tyson. Tyson. Tyson.... Please. Baby?"
I reached and shook his right shoulder. He was warm... but did not move. He did not breathe.
"Oh, Baby..."
This can't be happening...
I covered my mouth and jogged back into the house.
I ran into my room, where I couldn't hold it in any further, and I screamed.
"BABY!!"
Before I allowed the sobs to overpower me, I remembered my baby still had his eyes wide open.
NOTHING is going to eat his eyeballs right now.
I went outside, and did my best to close his eyes... the whole time wishing he'd suddenly reanimate and do his stupid little "I was kidding!" face... since he has always loved scaring me into believing he's dead... the little jokester.
Maybe I just saw wrong and he was just in a really deep sleep?
He never did reanimate...

I went back inside and called my mother.
"Tyson's DEAD, Mom... Tyson died..."
We both began to sob wildly over the phone.
I kept repeating the line... and she finally managed to get me to stop by asking me to recount everything to her.
I asked her what I should do, and she asked me to go back outside and fix his little legs before rigor mortis set in, and as a favor to her, splash a bit of holy water on him. Everything else she and Dad would handle.
After hanging up on Mom, I went back outside... this time completely dreading the process... and I tried moving his right hind leg-- it was completely stiff.
The puddle under his mouth? Dry.
I went ahead and sprinkled a bit of the water Mom indicated... and tears flooded my eyes.

The love of my life, my best friend, was officially dead.
***

Mom says he was alive, and resting in the sun when she filled his water bowls at 7:30 in the morning. He looked up at her, gave her a sad look, and went back to napping.
I found him at 10:50... obviously recently deceased due to the watery eyes, puddle of drool, and warm, soft body.
I barely missed seeing him with life for one last time...

By 11:30, I kid you not, a group of song birds had assembled in the fig tree, and were loudly chirping away.
It was like I lived in the fucking enchanted forest and all the little animals were coming out to pay their respects to the fallen old man of the hood.
I couldn't stop crying. I was a fucking mess. I still AM. My eyes have NEVER EVER been this swollen. The tears just keep coming.

My Pops was the one to dig the hole behind "Tyson's Room" aka the play room.
He freaked out a little when he returned to grab Tyson to drag him to the hole, and found me petting his little neck, whispering "You were a good boy. Good boy. Thank you. Thank you. I love you, baby..."
I started to sob loudly when I saw my dad begin to drag Tyson by one of his hind paws and drag him across the backyard.
Me: You're NOT going to treat my dog like that! His face isn't going to get dragged across the ground!

I reached for Tyson's front legs and lifted him, having Dad lead the way as we both carried him to his final resting place.
I finally had to allow my dad to drag him by one foot when it came time to place him in the grave.
Tyson's body positioned itself into his "baby chicken" position I loved so much, the one where he tucked his paws under his body, usually around the winter time... the one that made him look like a hen incubating an egg... this always made me giggle.

I once again sobbed very loudly as I watched his brindle coat disappear under the dirt.
Goodbye, my sweet, sweet boy.
***

My love...

I didn't know I could be THIS possessive... but Tyson was my fucking boy. MINE.
No one, absolutely no one has had my back like that, and no one ever will.
He was mine since the day I turned 16. He saw me through some of my toughest years.
He knew when to defend me, he knew when to lick my face, he knew when to lick my hands, when to lick my knees, and even when he could be a sick little bastard and fart in my face... which was always only used for comic relief... he knew that shit.
No one has looked at me with such loving, adoring eyes like my little Tyson.
No one has loved me as unconditionally as Tyson.

He wouldn't want me to join him outside so I could show him my love, he ALWAYS wanted me to go outside so he could show me HIS love.

So many nights this boy sat at my feet, and calmed me down. So many nights he listened to my heartbreak and traumas... and he always solved the problems by looking at me in a way that made me feel like the coolest, smartest, most amazing girl... human, in the world.
Girl, you rock. Don't cry. It'll be ok.

My fucking best friend is dead...

- 1 + icon

I remember being about ten years old when I first watched "When Harry Met Sally," and a little later "Sleepless in Seattle."
As I've gotten older, I've become further endeared to these two films.
Last year, when I went to New York for the first time, I was geeking-the-fuck-OUT at the top of the Empire State building, continuously mentioning scenes from "Sleepless in Seattle."
When Harry Met Sally? What can I say about that film?
You know that film, When Harry Met Sally? Fucking describes my life, dude!
I've heard girls and guys utter this line. I know I'm guilty of it.
Never the right time...

Nora Ephron... that woman knew what was up. Hilarious stories, but also with incredible heart-- what I strive for in my writing, and life in general.
The world is officially that much shittier without her now.
Mis respetos, gran señora.

... and just... as a weird sidenote:
Notice the phrase I used in yesterday's post (technically, it was marked as earlier today since it posted at midnight)? This is my life.

And that's how my weird psychic shit sometimes creeps up on me.

Gotta Fight

I've shed at least one tear every single day in May so far.
I knew this month was going to suck.
...

My first introduction to English music was thanks to MTV... during spring breaks and summer breaks of my elementary school days. Those were the only times we were allowed to watch whatever we wanted, and that was always something other than the Spanish channel. Mom would ONLY watch the Spanish channel, so we were fed up with that shit.
During school breaks, we'd freely watch MTV without adult supervision because Mom and Dad would be working. We'd be locked in the house until their return, at about three in the afternoon.
Those days were back when MTV still played music videos.
Video my siblings and I would be most captivated by?
"(You Gotta) Fight for the Right (to Party)," by the Beastie Boys.

No, I'm not claiming that now because of current events, I'm just telling the truth.
We'd sit there and laugh with the video... because all this time, we had seen rap performed by black people. All of a sudden we had these three goofy-lookin' white kids rapping and being silly... the total opposite of what we were used to, and we liked it... a lot.

As with everything in my life, what attracted me most was "the cute guy." The cute guy was Adam Yauch.

MCA was MY dude. And it will continue to be like that always.


The Beastie Boys rock.
MCA rocked. Solid dude.

He will be sorely missed.

Wrong Way Sunday

I couldn't sleep last night.
I was so disturbed, I woke up at five in the morning realizing my ankles were irritated due to falling asleep with my shoes still on.

I've always been so fucking hard on drunk drivers. Incredibly judgmental and unwavering in my hatred towards them.
You do the crime, you do the motherfucking time. You didn't mean to do it? Too bad, too fucking sad! NO EXCEPTIONS! FUCK YOU, YOU IRRESPONSIBLE FUCK!
That sort of deal. Always.

But last night... was a serious uppercut to my jaw... from... fucking Megatron.

She just ruined her life... oh my god... she just ruined her fucking life.

My heart is heavy for the friends and family of the kid killed. He was a good kid. A young dude... a 24 year old.
How do you ever... make up for taking his life? You can't.
To carry the burden of knowing your irresponsibility... your lack of good judgment... took this guy form his friends and family would be too much to handle. I'd fucking hate myself. Every morning. Every afternoon. Every evening. Every night. Forever.

My head spins because this girl is SO responsible. SO. FUCKING. RESPONSIBLE.
She had to learn to be responsible at such a young age... elementary school. She'd see her drunk dad beating the living shit out of her mother in front of all her siblings, and she'd step in and often take the beating... up until she gained the physical strength to fight her own dad once she entered high school.
She NEVER allows anyone to leave a party drunk, or even buzzed. Ever. She's so vigilant about it. I've seen it first hand, I mean... I see her at about 70 percent of the parties I attend. She has taken care of me.

She was supposed to be at my aunt's birthday breakfast last week, but was too busy helping her sister prepare for her Superbowl party. She did call my aunt to wish her a happy birthday while I was there, though. I just remember thinking what kind of fucking Superbowl-related fun they were sure to enjoy later in the day... because this girl is such a wonderful riot to be around.

I'm just so shocked. This is all so crazy. And I feel so horrible.
I read the on-line articles... with the accompanying (hateful, often racist) comments... and I can't fucking believe it. I repeatedly force myself to read her name and age... hoping to wrap my brain around it.
It's you. It'syouit'syouit'syou! You're the Wrong Way Driver...

She was put under arrest while at the hospital.
It breaks my heart... because I put myself in her place, and I just know I'd spend my entire time crying. They'd have to keep me sedated for my entire hospital stay... because I'd just go fucking crazy each time I'd wake up to see the cops at my door... the constant reminder that I fucked up and KILLED an innocent person. That I was so fucking stupid and selfish... that I killed a fucking kid.

She's a wonderful girl. A selfless girl. A kind girl. A good, brave daughter, an awesome sister, a remarkable aunt, a hilarious cousin, a wonderful friend and--while her grandparents were still alive-- a compassionate granddaughter.

How could you... have ruined your life like that? SO MANY lives like that? That's so not like you.

My heart is broken. My mind is frazzled.
You were driving drunk! You got behind the wheel while drunk! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT?!
I just think of her crying and feeling so much guilt. God, the unbearable guilt.
The judgement... the hate she will undoubtedly... quite justifiably face.
The friends she will lose. The job she has lost. The notoriety... the reputation... the new "title" she has gained.
The statistic she became.
I just want to hug her.

I don't want the deed to go unpunished. Shit like this should never go unpunished...
but I just want to fucking hug her and cry with her.

How could you fucking do this, man?! How could they fucking let you do this?!

What a terrible lesson I've just learned in the art of compassion.
Fuck, man. Fuck!