Esa loca

Because finally sitting down to finish this shit is much more productive than me going out and punching every single motherfucker who has pissed me off these last few days.

Definitely not fun times for good ol' me.

Forcing the inspiration

An hour and a half's worth of work...

Now I know what people mean when they say the room's lighting fucks shit up.

My brain gets hell of fried when I force myself to paint.
This time I listened to more EDM while simultaneously playing an episode of Hoarders in the background.
As far as the quality of my work is concerned, this little experiment of forcefully painting has proved that it's... uh... strange. I'm pretty obvious when I reach my breaking point... I mean, look at that white streak on her left leg. While the painting can't talk, that shit pretty much screams "My brain stopped giving a shit riiiiight here."
As far as my mood is concerned, the forceful painting has helped in clearing my mind. It does such a wonderful job turning me into a blank slate, I'm honestly having a difficult time writing this up. I'm committing a shit ton of simple mistakes... adding unnecessary letters, leaving out e's and s's-- those two seem to be the letters I neglect the most.
I also notice I lose track of time when I paint... hence the Hoarders episodes in the background... it's the only way I can keep track of time (don't resort to my phone because that shit would just distract me).
My feelings about the painting? I'm not nearly as embarrassed about it as I am about others. I feel free to hate it publicly... well, I mean, if someone were to see it, I wouldn't blush... I'd just feel comfortable saying "Oh, that shit... I forced myself to draw that shit as an experiment. Feel free to observe it and notice my mood shifts based on the strokes of paint. Feel free to hate it-- I hate it too."

Anyway, I'm done with the painting for today, since that's all the torture I can subject myself to for now.
Tomorrow I'll gun for the hands and face... goddamn hands... I've never been able to draw that shit.
Ew. No. I prefer finishing the white frills... that is grossly ignored.

Wonderland

What does AnoMALIE do when she's feeling anxious, annoyed, frustrated, upset, angry, violent, and all those ugly feelings a person should never feel?
Resort to art.

Obviously not complete... that's about three hours worth of repeated motions... for the most part.
I'm sure my mood and feelings are more than self-evident.

Random AnoMALIE fact: Disney characters have to be some of the easiest characters to recreate.
As a kid, I was most fascinated with Jessica Rabbit. That broad made an appearance in the majority of my "work." I think about it now and I have to giggle... I mean... I was a seven-year-old... drawing a sex-bomb. WTF?

Anyway, I'm feeling much better, as predicted.
The world would be a better place if everyone was just given some canvas, brushes, and paint.
It feels good. I promise.

Calmadita Venadita.

Fuck. Took me long enough to update. My bad.
I've been back since Friday morning... after a 24.5 hour-long road trip that I BARELY recovered from... though I'm still struggling with this fucked up eye-issue:

I scared a good number of people with this shit...

But at least I'm back.

I'm tan.
I'm happy.
I'm calm.
I saw stars.
I saw/smelled wildflowers.

FINALLY saw flowers this summer.
I ran through the fields á la Heidi.

I smelled rain-soaked sand.
I got soaked as I walked in the rain.
I watched lighting storms from the comfort of a porch at 1 in the morning... sitting on a rocking chair... in complete darkness... in complete silence.
I walked my beloved unpaved streets.

I find this infinitely charming.

I chilled in my comfy pink house... even if it's starting to come apart.

Yeah, the walls are coming down...
but I still prefer sitting here, listening to the television, as I doodle away.

I sketched like a madwoman.

In case you doubt my claim of ADD...
I can't focus on just one sketch, I gotta go off and doodle random shit.

I wrote like a scholar... well, like a foul-mouthed scholar...
I laughed. A lot.
I ate... A LOT.

Tacos y cheves, left and right, day and night.

Boys were my sole company.
I made peace with one of my only two female "enemies."
Each night, I was fortunate enough to play with a brindle pitbull who was inexplicably smitten with me-- the feeling was mutual.

I also played with puppies once in a while.

cute sons of bitches.

I rode a horse!
Each morning, I woke up to this beautiful sight:

El UNICO que merece mis suspiros.

Did I mention I laughed a lot and I was happy... and that I did not shed a single tear? Well, I did cry, once, but that was when my godson paid me a surprise visit. After not seeing him for two years, I found myself sobbing with joy as he hugged me. It was really weird, the second time I ever do it... but it was so sincere. I fucking love that kid.

I ADORE being Mexican.

Viva Mexico, Cabrones.

Pegasus

A little taste of the ADD disaster that is my brain:

Let's starts with the double-entendre that dominates my life. That whole issue where I say shit that could be misinterpreted... or could serve as quite the euphemism. Today I seemed to be on fire when it came to this.

1.
Sometimes, it's unintentional, and I catch myself before making the situation any more awkward. Such an example occurred this morning, as I prepared my breakfast.
I love avocados, right? So the other day, I purchase two magnificently soft, huge, perfectly green avocados. Super tasty. Problem with that is that my dad eats avocados like normal people eat apples. I wish I were kidding.
Anyway, due to my dad's insatiable voracity for avocados, whenever I find some bomb avocados, I have to hide them if I plan on tasting them.
As I searched for the avocado half (which I had hidden in the fridge the night before) Mom walked into the kitchen. She was standing directly behind me as I joyfully exclaimed:
"My avocado is UNTOUCHED!"
Followed by an "Ew..." after my subconscious chimed "It suuure is, you nun."
Mom: What?
Me: Nnnnnnothing. I'm just really happy to see that avocado.

2.
Foot-in-mouth/double-enendre/AnoMALIE-ism part two took place at the gym.
This time around, it only served to prove I often need others to point out my... poor wording. Gentle teasing is the preferred method of choice.

My trainer caught me doing some extra arm stretches, slightly grimacing each time I'd pet my rotator-cuff.

Trainer: What's up with your arm?

Me: Too much violent hooking.
Trainer: Listen, I hear times are tough, but there are other ways to make money, young lady...

Me: Huh? ... Wait... Arg! Too easy...
Trainer: ... in that field of work...
Me: DAMN. IT!

3.
I can't place all blame on my family/friends/acquaintances for fucking up my sentences. I'm largely to blame because... well, I'm super prone to being purposely vulgar.

I was talking to my sis this afternoon about an inside joke I have with Kelley, about being "flavorologists." I was telling her about our talk about visiting a candy factory. Then we got into talking about working for said company.

Sis: You'd be like... fucking Willy Wonka!

Me: Only if his dick is scrumdiddlyumptious.
Sis: I didn't mean it like that, you fucking pervert.

And now for some images:

Haz caso, con un chingado! 

Seriously have not laughed so fucking hard in a minute. My brain seems to think in Spanish when I'm really upset... like when friends have plans sans moi (only happened to me once, in Mexico... but I have seen this happen to OTHER people... and let me tell you... fucking Meme is on point).

I had an unhealthy fixation with horses when I was in elementary school. I'd jot those motherfuckers all over the place. I'd find excuses to draw horses on book reports, chalkboards, Valentine cards, the inside of my mother's Jeep... everything.
I'd go to the library and ALWAYS check out the same thick book on horses. A giant green book filled with horse photos and their stats.
I checked that book out EVERY. SINGLE. WEEK. From first grade, until fourth grade--when the book suddenly went "missing."
Christ. I had a problem.
Anyway, the book helped me learn how to draw... horses.

The moment I saw "Pegasus" as an option on Draw Something, I jumped on that train, just to make sure my horse-drawing game was still on point.
Took me thirty seconds to draw... and while the wing is shite, that horse is pretty boss... thank you very much.


My brain's all over the place, folks.

The power of doodles... and Brooklyn

Certainly I've mentioned my doodling habit. It's all I do, really... since the moment someone had the terrible judgement to hand me a writing utensil.

Doodling got me through high school, and undoubtedly college. Had it not been for doodling, I would have spent my entire college career asleep in class.

My favorite was when I'd get a friend to join me in the doodling. I had some great collaborative work from some of my best friends.

Well, some nerd has made my dreams come true, and now there's an app for that. As in, I can now doodle with my friends using the handy dandy iPhone (I love you, darling, I really do. I'm sorry I waited until 2011 to cave to your advances... you beautiful thing you. But FUCK Siri... she's still a racist, condescending cunt).

I've spent the last few days breaking into very loud laughter in the middle of parking lots, grocery stores, baby showers... all because of my friends doodles. It's quite fun.

And that easily, a smile has returned to my face.

I'm a happy girl... quite obvious with the progression of my doodles:

can you feel that poor doodle's pain? Poor little guy.

Can you guess which doodle was the last one I did there?
I felt SO guilty... but come on!

Yes, Tupac is of Asian decent in my mind.

I was unable to screen-cap my favorite part of that last doodle, the "West Siiiide!"

Speaking of Tupac, I officially have a new favorite shirt... which would be my All Time Favorite Shirt, would it have my man 'Pac instead of his... arch rival:

I now understand Mom and her hatred of my "ugly" hands.
They're mad veiny... all manly 'n shit.

I'm sorry! Just think of your good times with him, 'Pac! Peace and Love, lil' homie. Plus... you gotta admit, Brooklyn's pretty fucking dope...

Good times.

Not so happy little trees

SO.
I (as well as the rest of the world, I'm sure) find that my doodles relate to my emotional state.

Not too long ago, I was drawing "happy trees" all over the place... largely due to me spending too much time watching Bob Ross while knocking out my morning sprints.

My "paintings" looked more like this:

Remember, this is my FIRST time drawing any sort of trees without the aid of a pencil.
Not to mention my paintbrush was less than desirable for the technique.
But enough with the excuses.

I tried working on something today... mainly because I was stranded in my room because my folks decided to have company over... and I'm anti-social. I felt no desire to converse with these people and answer their questions (Mainly because it'd go something like this: Me? Where do I work? Nowhere. I was fired on Friday. What do I do? Nothing. I have a biology degree hanging on that wall right there behind you... but I haven't done shit with it. What do I want to do? I'm not sure... right now it's mostly just suicide... but... I'm not too sure how keen my folks are to the idea of... you know... me being dead and all...).
So I just sat in my room and painted.

I quit at this:

What the... fuck am I doing? Fuck if I know.

How am I doing?
Fine, man. I'm fine.

What does it mean?

Drunk texts from MGH always bum me out... and piss me off.
I don't know what his problem is... or why he does it (actually, I do. He does it when he's pissed off at his chick... which, tough cookies, homeboy, I'm cool with her now), but there I am, one in the morning and answering his questions.

This of course, gave me motivation to paint again.
I messed up today, though.
I got a little overconfident since last time everything went swell and I didn't break anything... or more importantly, spill anything.
But not today.
I kicked over the bucket of water holding the dirty brushes, and the water got all over the carpet.
Did I mention I was painting in my room? Well yes, I was. I didn't want to miss "The Amazing Race" so I kept the painting in my room (one of four rooms with carpet out of the entire dang house)... and the result is three pee-colored stains the size of... my foot, all over my room's grey carpet.
Such an imbecile.

Anyway, no photo of the painting today, since I don't know how I feel about it.
I'm even flip-flopping on the title.
It's from a sketch I did on how I remember Algorta, over in the Basque country. It's basically the cliffs my sister took me to which oversee the ocean. That's the image which is most burned in my brain (besides the doner kebab place which was sheer magic. M-mm-mmm!).
Well, originally I titled the sketch "Regresaré" aka "I will return." But now I'm all lazy and I just want to cal it "Algorta." Plus, I find I don't have to sit there and explain why I called it that (See, I once went to the Basque country, and it was gorgeous, and I fell in love with it... so, it's basically saying "I'm coming back, I promise." Because I love it so much and yearn for it. She looks sad because she is leaving her soul there. Get it?).
I noticed weird titles make others confused.
Take for instance yesterday's painting.
Mom has stared at it for a good... two hours, collectively speaking.
Mom: I try... and I try... but... I can't figure out... what is that by her nose?
Jesus, I feel stupid... arg! (Arginine? That's the science background speaking. It still makes associations like that)
Me: Another person's nose.
Five seconds of silence. Mom stares intently at the nose.
Mom: ... I... don't see it.
Me: It's there. It's... vanishing, so to speak... like a dream... kind of... I guess.
Mom: What does it mean?
Now... I could tell the truth... but... I feel stupid enough as is.
Me: It's stupid... just ignore it.
Mom: ... I don't get it.
Me: Story of my life, Ma.

Sister: Look at that! The AnoMALIE paints!
Me: Eh.
Sister: What's it called?
Me: Let me touch your lips (now practically whispering because I notice how stupid I feel after saying each word) I wanna see where you're... at.
Sister: ... o...k... weirdo.
Me: It's a song!
Sister: Whatever.

Radtastic.

But, I won't let it deter me... because I've officially declared war on Musketeer's wife.
That dumb bitch.
I'm nothing but nice to her, and SHE'S the one who acts like I'm the stupid nuisance. She gets arrogant as if she even has a high school diploma.
She also thinks she's Picasso:

NOT MY work, obviously. Daisies are SO 1992.

Bitch.
So... I'm gonna play the game... and be a total cunt right back (yes, I know. The finish line is SO close, but I'm just really irritated right now. I HAVE to cuss).

Let me touch your lips

Normal people spend their Fridays drinking and partying... or at least hanging out.
What did I do?
I drew.
No, I painted.

Now, keep in mind, the only painting "lessons" I've ever received in my life have been two or three Bob Ross episodes I watched on PBS when I was in elementary school.
I know all about "happy little trees" and whatnot.
What Bob Ross did was oil paint. That stuff is expensive!
For a newbie like me, I went acrylic... especially since I can easily clean that junk off... we all know how clumsy I am. I'd probably have oil-paint stains on random body parts for months if I went the other way.

Anyone who asks who this is gets STABBED.
I LOATHE that question

There.
The skill of a fifth grader, so don't judge (plus, other than here, NO ONE is allowed to see what I draw, because I feel stupid sharing. So feel special).
I gave it a painfully long title: Let me touch your lips, let me see where you're at, in honor of one of my favorite songs, The Wallflower's "From the Bottom of My Heart."
Technique? What the hell is that? I just acted like a kid with a coloring book (crayons are so much easier).
I must say, though, it was quite relaxing. I was just beating up the brush on the canvas and it was making me smile. I finished with a smile on my face.

I've been trying REALLY hard to pound the sadness out of my heart... and so far, I've been kind of successful. Gyming it up, hiking with the bestie and laughing at ridiculous lyrics and cussing as we get lost on trails (one day, ONE DAY we'll get it right! haha), leaving the house just for the sake of getting some sun.
But there's still that bit of... that feeling of loss. The feeling of being lost and not knowing where to pick it all back up and keep going.
I can say that when I'm drawing-- now painting-- those repetitive motions, they make me feel better. I'm in my own little world (you know, the part that wasn't destroyed by that nuclear bomb that was the grad school rejections) where I'm actually happy, and nothing really matters. It's a really strange feeling in my chest.

I'm such a freakin' hippie.

Talentless

Boys with blue eyes still mesmerize me... even if the boy's my friend's 20-year-old little brother.
That's fucking dangerous... but hey, anything to get me to leave the Darcy issue alone (you know, that whole thing with his indifference while I melt like a dumbshit popsicle. I'm resorting to pinching myself and saying "stop it, you fucking dumbass" each time my mind wanders off and thinks of him. I'm getting some mean-ass bruises and people are starting to wonder if I suffer from Tourette's).

ANYWAY!
Remember how I claimed that I'm at my best, art-wise, when I'm miserable and depressed?
It appears I've lost my touch.
I started off with shit like this that I'd doodle because I had grid-paper and exasperating calculus homework:

memories...

Then my skill deteriorated to this, back when I was bummed out in Spain, looking through a bridal magazine:

I might have been watching an alien movie at the same time

And now we have shit like this:

those are chairs...

Ok, that last one I drew a while back as I was attempting to explain something real quick.
But right now I really am having a horrible time trying to draw. It's IMPOSSIBLE. I draw an eye and lose interest, proceeding to erase everything.
I sit with my sketchbook in hand for hours, I listen to music... and still, nothing.
It's like someone chopped off one of my arms, and broke all the fingers on the remaining hand, and then gouged out one of my eyes so my depth perception would suffer.

I guess it only works when I'm on the verge of stabbing myself as I work out a proton NMR.

At least I have one thing to look forward to once I enter Grad School.
Inspiration! Come back to me! What's the point in being emo, but unable to draw?

Mind readers

You know what's weird? Me giving my sister dating advice.

The girl has always been far more popular, much prettier, and much luckier in the romance department than I, so I was a little surprised when she walked in my room and asked for help.

Sister: Should I just confront him and ask him what the deal is?
Me: I'm not a guy, but I'm sure over 80 percent HATE being considered mind-readers. Their clueless-ness is not an act... more than half the time they really don't know what the fuck is going on.
Sister: So I'm not being clingy/needy by letting him know that I like him more than a friend and that I want to know where we stand.
Me: No. Trust me... tell the guy. And if he tells you what you don't want to hear, be cordial about it. You don't have to stay friends... that hurts, and based on our personality, we can't really handle that shit. But always be nice to the dude when you see him. After all, he's part of your circle of friends,  no need to make shit awkward.

Am I sure I gave her the best advice? Hell no. I have no clue. I only said what I've tried.
In my life, I have always told the guy I like how I feel. Well, I can't say always, because I have kept my trap shut with one or two (oddly enough, dudes I've really, really liked. I've opted to spare them the awkward "I'm flattered, but..." conversation), but the majority of guys, yeah, I have.

Every single time, it has ended in disaster (HA! The stories I've collected! I'm going to write a book on it some time. Heartbreaking, weird, and funny. Never heart-warming, but we can't have it all. I'm fine once I can laugh about it... which takes a few years, but it comes eventually)... but, I guess you can say I've been glad to get it off my chest.
I'm the kind of idiot who needs someone to grab me by the face and spell shit out for me.

AnoMALIE! IT. IS. NOT. GONNA. WORK.. MOVE ON!

^That kind of shit. Once that happens, I shake the dirt off my freshly-skidded knees, shake hands, and walk away... then I spend months writing dark poetry in my diary and doodling eyes all over the place. Ok, not really with the dark poetry... I just put Muse's "Falling Away With You" on loop until I no longer cry at any point during the song... but the eyes, yes, I do that (I'm clueless as to why I do it, but I find it sort of alleviating). Guess how I got over the whole MGH fiasco?

Anyway, I hope the kid gets her issues sorted. While I wouldn't mind having help in raising all my cats when I get old, I'd be devastated if the aid comes in the form of my equally-single baby sister.

Here's to very long titles in almost everything you do

I think I listened to too much Panic! at the Disco and
Fall Out Boy in my time away from home (I think that had a lot to do with the TINY amount of home-sickness I felt over there towards the end of my stay)...
Why? Because I made the title to this (Made-in-Spain, after I looked through a Bridal magazine and found a dress I liked better than the one I'm supposed to wear in June) sketch Not SO Stupid dress I COULD be excited about... :)

... Yeah... I'll quit doing that shit from now on.

(Totally off-topic: I'm so sad it's May!!)

Hey AnoMALIE!

How do you feel about not having electricity for 12 hours?
How do you feel about having such retarded-ass cousins?
How do you feel about it being Valentines day?

Are you fucking shitting me??

First off, the electricity thing... that was... interesting. Make do with what you got... good thing I'm such a candle fanatic.
Drawing under candle-light's kind of fun... since anything else under candle-light is pretty lame.

Second,
I hereby divorce myself from such a fucking imbecilic paternal side of the family.
They're stupid ass motherfuckers that... have no fucking brain whatsoever... they talk out of their ass... then get my siblings and I in trouble. They wait for one of us to trip so they can be quick to pounce. Not cool... especially since we supposedly share blood (they ain't got any! And if they do... they think it's that damn Horseshoe Crab "blue blood").
Fucking idiots.... who, I don't give a shit that they're 2 IQ points away from being considered retarded, I want nothing to do with anymore.
Myspace is called "A place for friends," and I have it on private for a goddamn reason. I DO NOT want my parents seeing it... hearing about it... and much less YOUR parents seeing or hearing about it.
FUCK. YOU.

Third,
I got nothing.
Valentine's Day is kinda fun... especially when you have a "hot date" and I've told off Obnoious Guy.
Pretty cool.
(Plus, this day brings back some awesome childhood memories of those cool Valentine's Day class parties.... where I was pretty damn popular... and all we did was eat red/pink/heart-shaped sugar-containing stuff.)

No more drawing for me!

So, I had never noticed this, but yesterday, it was brought to my attention that what I drew a few years back (ok, when I posted it on here, I altered some things to it since I had originally drawn the girl back in '03. Styles change, one must keep up) has a slight resemblance to Midori from Guitar Hero.
Hmm... if they took my sketch and turned it into a video game character without my consent... someone has a lot of explaining to do...

God, it's like I'm reliving 5th grade again.

Don't quit your day job, Bob Ross.

I keep getting the question:
So, AnoMALIE, what do you plan on doing now that you're out of school?

Or if the person's being a real asshole to me, he/she will say:
So, AnoMALIE, when are you getting a fucking real job?

To the latter, I say "Fuck you, eat a dick. Quit hating just because I don't have to get a job."
To the other question, it's usually a "I don't know? Relax?" with a shrug.

Since I got out of school, I really haven't "relaxed" much, since I've been on-and-off sick, and I'm annoyed with this whole issue with my dad (he's so paranoid... and he complains all the time... then he proceeds to make fun of Mom and Little Sister because he feels all "Biggest Loser" on us since he's dropped 35 pounds... so he'll harass Mom and Little Sister about how "fat" they are and how they look like trucks and that some day they're not going to walk out of the house, but will have to get rolled out of the house. That type of environment just pisses me off).

Anyway, when I do have down time, I find myself doodling.
But I can't even do that right.
I half ass all my drawings.
Examples?
Ok, here's Example One:

It bugs me how I can't complete it, but each time I go to finish it off... I just stare at it... and then flip the page. There's so much shit wrong with it... I don't feel it's salvageable... but I don't want to erase it, because of all things, I like the neck and the forehead.
??
Godawful chin I gave that chick... just plain awful... and she could use longer eyebrows... you know... more towards the center. And look at that ear!! Boooooooooo!!

I find I draw shit similar to the above when I'm listening to music.

When I'm watching TV, I'll draw things similar to Example Two:

(isn't the potbelly sweet?? Why the hell I've taken to drawing a "pooch" on chicks is beyond me)
Tell me one thing, do you think, that maybe, quite possibly, the day I drew this, they were talking about TomKat?

That hair looks eerily similar to Katie Holmes' hair (let's not forget that vacant look in her eye)...
No wonder people look through my sketches and ask who I was drawing (One of my biggest pet peeves ever. No One!! The answer is always NO ONE!).

I need to quit watching Extra/The Insider/whatever else program while drawing. They contaminate my pool of thought.

P.S. and totally random/off-topic: Did you know if you chew Stride Gum with it's wrapper, the wrapper will dissolve? Shit, I just found out and... well... what a neat way to cut down on litter... I guess.

Finally! A new pad!

You know you're a cheap-skate when you buy yourself a 5 dollar sketchbook and you act like you just bought yourself a laptop.- Little Sister

I filled up my old sketchbook of 5 years back in October... and I had tried settling for its bigger version ever since.
While the larger version is cool... and I have used it to make larger drawings... nothing beats the smaller doodles.

I can finally satiate my desire to doodle without having to whip out a huge, super-noticeable note pad.

So when I noticed the sketchpad at OfficeMax today, I practically skipped all the way to the cash register.
Little Sister doesn't understand how such simplistic b.s. makes me happy.

Frankly, neither do I (I guess I'm like... super Mexican-Farmer or something).

Hoe a Housewife?

I know I said I'd make this heartwarming, but what better way for me to celebrate Mother's Day than by talking about my favorite subject, and area of expertise: hoes!

You know... most hoes do turn into mommies... and if you don't believe me, just tune to Maury on any given day of the week, and you'll see plenty of proof ("You are not the father!").

Let's start off with what occurred yesterday:

OK... so my family's quite conservative. I guess it goes back to my grandpa (Mom's Dad). He was terrified that one of his daughters would turn out to be a hoe because supposedly there's strong selection towards that in our gene pool (I guess that makes sense... I mean, how else would there be so many of us?). He knew he suffered from it (he had 3, possibly 4, other families) so he was like "I'll be fucking damned if any of my kids turn out like me!"
Well, he raised his daughters with one of the strictest hands I've known, and all 3 of his daughters turned out right (in comparison to my grandpa's siblings who had children that were, and some still are... hoes).
Mom then learned from that, put it to practice, and now, well, I've been known to call Mom "Hitler" once or twice.

So, the people from my folk's town (tiny, where everyone knows each other's name, and if they don't, the person in question will respond with "I'm *fill in the blank*, daughter/son of *paren'ts name*, the son/daughter of *[possibly deceased] person's name*") know of this little problem in our family.
They themselves are pretty fucked up (and who isn't? It's little towns where the most fucked up individuals are bred), yet they try their damn best to point out the flaws in everyone.

Our family, luckily, has turned out to be pretty tame. My siblings and I are known as "the good, studious kids" in town, and we are... big time.
This, however, pisses some people off... and they make it their mission to try and catch us in a mistake (do you know how much stress that causes us? I feel like fucking Tweek whenever I'm out and about with the homies, for crying out loud!).

There have been rumors spread about us in hopes of ruining our "reputation":
1) That Little Sister was getting married... when she was 16 (this made my sister almost box the lady that asked Mom in Little Sister's presence).
2) That Older Brother joined the army because he knocked a girl up and my folks kicked him out of the house (this made my brother confront many guys at a wedding, while intoxicated, and threaten to hang the guilty people from telephone wires. It embarrassed the shit out of us).
3) That I was a lesbian (this one made me cry).
4) That I was pregnant (this one made me... I don't know... I was sort of offended. How the hell is a lesbian going to get pregnant? j/k).
5) That I was banging an older, married man from the same town (this one made me sick. The guy wasn't even hot--SARCASM!-- and I never talked to him!).
6) That I was being shipped off to a convent because I was not interested in boys and also because Mom was scared I was going to convert to my dad's religion (this one made me laugh. Silly people, if I ever convert to anything outside Catholic-Christianity, it'll be Islam. Hello!).

I mean, there's a ton of that kind of shit out there. I hear most about myself... since... well... I'm right there to get it. They usually find it "suspicious" that I haven't had a serious boyfriend (to their stupid knowledge), that I don't enjoy dances (they don't stop and think "Wait, she probably doesn't like the music... or getting felt-up by the dipshit-boys present. Ah... smart girl!" Or maybe, you know, I just expect respect from others by first respecting myself), that I'm still in school (because who the hell wants to learn anything that isn't kitchen oriented?), and all I ever do whenever in Mexico is play volleyball/visit the park or go on hiking trips (what the hell is wrong with this girl?!). Why don't I just get pregnant and quit being weird, right?
No... I'm weird because I'm not a "regular" girl who puts on war paint and looks like a whore at dances.

Well, anyway, thanks to my desire to be... normal, quiet, and shy, I get this response from bitches that ARE skanks:
Es una mosquita muerta.

Literal translation being "She's a dead, little fly." Symbolically, it means... umm... well, that I'm a sneaky, hypocritical, two-faced bitch.

Mosquita Muerta? I have no idea where the hell they've seen me getting felt-up, fucked, or even making out with anyone. They must have super powers... or maybe they've just confused me with my Doppelganger.

I always say people judge according to the way they live... and well... now I know why one of my harshest critics was the way she was (besides the fact that she once caught me calling her Pinocchio AND Michael Jackson. But you know, you can only take so much before you resort to name-calling):
She has now ran away with the town priest!

Yes Siree, Bob!

Who the hell needs television when shit like this is happening in your hometown (well, not my hometown... well, it is my Mexican hometown)?
I guess the bitch really wanted to catch one of my siblings, or me, in a bad situation so that she could comfortably say we were all... hoes. Or maybe so she could feel better about liking a priest that much.
Sure, I've thought one or two priests were attractive... but I immediately retracted. There are SO many men out there... why try and get with a dude who's "married" to God (I've said I have a homewrecker theory... but I wouldn't even think about wrecking that home!)?
No, homie, I'll go for a dude that... well... doesn't have me competing with God.

This happened the other day... and I still keep mulling the idea over in my head.
How the... why would... oh man. That's jacked...

I'm not really "happy" about the news. I haven't even told a soul (well... I'm blogging about it, but I'm not mentioning names). Only me, Mom, and Little Sister know about it... and that's because Pinocchio's Worst Enemy told us (and Pinnochio's Worst Enemy's engaged to a guy that lives in Mexico).
I'm feeling pretty bad... and sad.
I didn't know she was that lonely/desperate.
A priest?
DAMN!
That priest always made Little Sister and me uncomfortable.
Little Sister: God, forgive me for what I'm going to say... but I feel like that man's undressing me with his eyes!
Me: I know! Why do you think I'm pinning anything that's V-necked?

The man was alright... but not anything out of this world (he did have some amazing hands though... I mean, physically. They were very pretty... to the point where I could be like "Screw the face... will you look at those hands?! I could marry those hands...").
Running away with the town priest.... not even I could invent such a story... such an ending to Pinocchio's love story.
:(

Another skank story, with which I'll end this post because it's getting too long and no one wants to read so much:

This weekend a good amount of my relatives were in town for graduation. My cousin (let's call him Eric), who's like a brother to me, graduated this weekend so we were all hanging out and in full celebratory mode.
Well... I tend to be a little loud/obnoxious when happy (If I'm not already when upset).

Today, Little Sister and I decided to take out Eric's sister, Ariel. Ariel's living in Florida for now... and it's the first time she's out of the state/house. We've been missing her a lot, so what better way of catching up than by visiting the mall?
We were giggling a lot (she was telling us some crazy stories about Florida girls. She says they put Rebel chicks to shame in the Hoe Department)... and we reached the bathing suit section of the store.

Me: Man, for some reason, I'm really wanting to visit the beach this summer!
Little Sister: Well, why don't we check out the bathing suits then?

We three chicks begin checking out the suits. I pull out an orange bathing suit that looked like this:

And comment to my sister: Wow... look at this whore-y one! Maybe, I should get this one!

We laugh, I put away the suit, and we continue rummaging.
There's a Colombian/Venezuelan lady with her husband checking out the suits to Ariel's right (it was Little Sister, me, then Ariel).

Wife: (giggles) Oh! Look at this one!
Husband: Ew, for what? For your ass, gut, and love handles to be hanging out of it?
Ariel: (to Little Sister and Me) Man... the guy next to me's brutal.
Me: Poor lady...

We continue looking at the swim suits, a little quieter, and Ariel gets increasingly uncomfortable. The husband and wife continue looking... and the guy's getting meaner.
We reach the area where the husband and wife were initially, and I pull out a swimsuit identical to the orange one, but this one's blue.

Me: Hey, look, Little Sister! Another skankalicious swim suit!

The wife is standing next to Ariel, and looks over. Little Sister, Ariel, and I laugh and make fun of the suit. The wife leans in on us and smiles shyly.

Wife: Excuse me, can I see that?
Me: Oh... yeah, sorry... no problem...

I give the lady the swim suit, and Ariel gasps.
We walk away as the lady heads off to the dresser to try on the suit.

Me: (whisper) I said "Scandalicious!"
Ariel: (loud) No, you said Skankalicious!
The Venezuelan/Colombian wife lady looks over to us.
Me: Ariel... only to me... this shit only happens to me!

To say I felt horrible at that moment would be an understatement.

When I put my foot in my mouth... I really shove it.

Todd is stupid, throw rocks at him!

I was strongly disappointed today.

I may not draw often... I kind of gave it up for a while thanks to DeviantArt. I see so many good artists out there (and they STILL don't make it), and the whole "Well, your shit looks nothing like this! Give it up, Lame-O!" mind-set invades me.

All this looking through people's art makes me become somewhat of a fan for certain artists.
Being that I'm sort of sarcastic... and caustic... and cynical... I like my art the same way (don't get me wrong, I almost faint over Edgar Degas' work as well).
I became a fan of Mr. Todd Goliath. Sure, his art isn't spectacular, but I liked the little sayings of his (I became a tool and bought a couple of backpacks and a binder with his "art" on it. I still carry around the binder that says "Please don't feed the boys," but now I just feel stupid walking around with it. Maybe I should just have a big bonfire and burn all my David and Goliath shit?).

Well, today, Best Bud Chase showed me an entry in the Something Awful forums... and it rocked my world. Turns out Mr. Goliath (Goldman) is a plagiarist. He not only copied worked from some guy that I can't think of his name right now (he/she posted something about it HERE ) but he went as far as to steal from DON HERTZFELDT. I love that man (D.H.). I freaking LOVE that man.

As said on one of my previous posts, I too had my art ripped (sure, it was a 5th grade thing, but it still affected me to the point where I no longer share my art work). Thanks to that, there's nothing I hate more than people's style/art/creation/writing being ripped. I have no problem when due credit is given, but when some ass tries to pass someone else's work as his/her own... that's when my blood boils.
I'm upset I ever liked this guy... I would have been more upset if I would have actually gone through with the purchase I was ever so close to committing (almost a grand for some stupid, lifted artwork. Fuck. that.). Stupid Venetian... making me feel like I actually wanted to buy one of stupid plagiarizing ass Goliath "creations."

People like him don't deserve the respect or space given to them by others.

Grrrrrrrrr. So. Angry. (and disappointed).

What my momma gave me?

I don't like weddings.
I usually attend two or three a year... last year I went overboard by attending 5.
The show of affection burned me the hell out... and I didn't have any desire to attend another wedding for the next two years.

Well... being that I'm Mexican, every Spring becomes Wedding Season, and my goal (of not attending any) is always broken. People rush to the altar like they're getting paid or some shit in my family. If you're female, single, and past 27 years of age, you're a failure (haha... just wait for me, family... I'm gonna be quite the fuck up in your standards. Bachelorette 4 lyyyyfe!). So lately, it's really been sucking balls to go to these things. The couples getting married are my age, if not younger... and I end up sitting at the lonely-but-don't-you-fucking-get-near-me table, wanting to stab myself with the Marriott-provided silverware as I watch couples dance and make-out to shit like Shania Twain's "You're Still The One" (in English and Spanish).

What's that, waitress? Do I want red or white wine? How about you just break that fucking bottle over my head and put me out of my misery? Preferably the red, so it can conceal my running blood a little more successfully.

However, rather than going to a fresh new couple's wedding this Saturday, it's a 25 year wedding anniversary.
I wasn't going to go at first, mainly because the invitation to the party irritated me. It mentioned how you had to wear black or white. I detest "theme" parties. It's cool if you mention that it has to be a suit and tie affair, I can handle that... but when you tell me what colors to wear, you're pushing your luck.
All I really own are black dresses... but I'm still pissed they had to specify "only black and white." You gotta be kidding me. I usually rock black and red. Fuck you, old people. Fuck you (Lent is ALMOST over! Yesss! I'm that much closer to being my regular, super-duper vulgar self again!).
Anyway, I decided to go for at least 2 hours because a friend I haven't seen in over a year is going to be there. I've flaked on her before, so I might as well show up this time.

Since I decided to go, I also decided to buy myself another black dress today. I have a favorite one that looks like this quick doodle:The problem is I've worn that thing to maybe 2 weddings, 2 Quinceañeras, a funeral, AND I took family pictures in it ("Love" does not nearly describe my feelings for that dress)... all in 2006.
The dress is comfortable and flattering. Lots of lace and tulle... and the length's a little past the knee. I do have a problem with the abundance of cleavage it reveals, but shit, something has to be sacrificed so that the damn thing doesn't look like a burlap sac.

I've encountered a couple of uncomfortable scenarios thanks to wearing that dress.
Prime example: I was a little angry prior to the reception of this one wedding in San Diego back in May. Older Brother had gotten us lost in the ghetto because he was following fucking natives because they supposedly knew where it was going to be. We stepped out to ask for assistance at a hotel, and as I stood outside, pacing around, I stumbled into one of the natives (I call him "Walrus" because he looks just like one... a walrus during mating season to be exact. He puffs his already-robust chest out as he walks, he waddles, he has facial hair that look like husks). He's around five foot six, and I was around six feet because of my heels. So... once I turned, Walrus was directly in front of me, maybe eight inches away from my body, with his eyes and nose directly between my chest. I took as big a leap back as possible, made eye contact, and saw the biggest, most disgusting grin/smirk in the universe coming from the old ass man.
He then said:
"My, AnoMALIE... so sure have... grown."

I claim to be ghetto and down to sock fuckers if they ever insinuate anything wrong with me... but at that very moment... I feared for my life. I was alone, with this five foot six pervert-walrus man... in the San Diego ghetto while my family was inside a hotel asking for directions.

I now wear that bitch with a sweater covering me.

So anyway, as a preventive measure from encountering any further sick events I decided to go shopping for a new dress today (there are going to be TONS of middle aged men at this thing... and lots of them are divorced/widowed and those bitches flock to me like... zombies to brains [I was going to say pigs to slop. What a fucked up analogy]
Hey, sweetie, why so lonely?
Because I bite people, you fuck. Now get away from me!).

Mom tagged along to the stores... and didn't see my selection until we got home.
It looks like this (minus the handkerchief covering her eyes in a very S&M fashion) :I liked it because it wasn't skanky (well, it shows a lot of leg... but hey, no old-dirty-walrus-men-attracting cleavage!), and it's all black with some white accents.

However, this was Mom's reaction:
(I walk out... proud of myself, like an idiot)
Mom: What the hell is that?!
Me: A dress!
Mom: You look like a Chinese masseuse!
(I'm quiet and look at my hair in the mirror... Holy shit... she's right)
Mom: And what happened to your boobs?
Me: They're hidden, like I like 'em.
Mom: Te me pones ese vestido de la foto! (You wear that dress from the family picture!) A enseñar lo que te dio tu madre! (Show what your momma gave ya!)

What my momma gave me? I guess that's what happens when you've been an A cup all your life and you give birth to a kid who grows to have DD's. I wish we could just trade so she could show off what her momma gave her... I'm sure the old-dirty-walrus-men would appreciate it.

I still might end up wearing the old-dirty-walrus-men-attracting cleavage dress though... I don't want people to think I'm giving away happy endings while at this thing.

Nah, man, I don't do that shit no mo'

I've bumped into a number of people who have wanted me to draw them a thing or two.
I only bring this up because recently, a couple of relatives have really gotten on my case. After drawing the above doodle, and committing the mistake of placing it on my myspace page, the ones near and dear to me have taken it upon themselves to hassle the crap out of me.

"oh my garsh!!! u drew this??? this is super cute...aww do one for me yea??? hahah haven't seen u in like forever y aka yo piediendo favores...hahah well i mean if u wanna draw something up for me i would totally appreciate it(wink, wink) hahah j/k...but this is awesome man...wow so much talent in the family...i'm sooo proud..haha"

Yeah, no lie, that's someone related to me. She's the one that's been most adamant about the whole thing. She's coming down from her area in California in two weeks, and while I've been lucky enough to dodge her inquests these last couple of weeks, I don't know how I'll manage once she's in front of me. I don't look forward to this event only because something in my past keeps me from making her happy and just drawing some damn girl reading a book for her or something.

I used to draw for people, gladly. At first I thought it was comical... I'd be a little flattered, but I'd always oblige.
The whole... "AnoMALIE, can you draw me a *some animal, a girl(cause i can't draw boys)* I just love how you draw!" thing would make me blush... even feel important at times. But then fifth grade came around and changed it all.

1995-96: I wasn't popular, no those days were left back in first and second grade when I was still surrounded by little immigrant children. I was still considered an ESL (English second language) student even though I read at an 8th grade level (something I was proud of because everyone else read at a sixth grade level, max. Now I think: well, shit, it's not like I was reading at a twelfth-grade level, get off your high horse, AnoMALIE). I tried my best to fit in with the English speaking kids, but I found myself only bonding with the 2 other Latina-girls in class and one Filipina. I'd try buying the love from others by giving them some of my doodles from class.
There was one really popular girl, Dolly (why the hell did I try impressing someone with that name?), who had everyone--guys and girls-- doing back flips for her. I remember she approached me one day as I was doodling in my English journal (and I wondered why I couldn't get out of the ESL category) during lunch time.

"Hey, you draw that?"
She pointed at the girl I had drawn on the margin of my paper.
"This? Umm... yeah..." (I blushed... a cool girl talking to me? The math nerd? The ESL kid?)
"Can you draw me one?"
"OK..."
She smiled, and walked away with her posse.

I drew my typical girl: a gangster! (Well, I'd draw that or Jessica Rabbit... or just Jessica Rabbit in baggy pants... defeated the purpose of Jessica Rabbit and her long, sensuous legs... but her boobs were still there)
Yeah... I mean, what else could I draw besides hookers and gangsters, being that I lived in the hood (Naked City: what, what?!)?
She wore a green flanneled shirt, black baggy pants, black Nike Cortez's, wavy hair, and I may have given her a backwards hat. I remember I'd give the dolls really tiny waists, big boobs, big eyes, big lips, and big heads (the style really hasn't changed, as you can tell).
I was proud, cause I tried making her the prettiest of all (C'mon now, we're talking Dolly here), and I thought I had succeeded.

The next day at school, I remember placing the drawing on Dolly's desk with a huge smile on my face.
She looked at it, her eyes lit up, and she thanked me.

Now, I typically live for that kind of stuff. I love making others happy, no matter what. So I felt like my job was done and I continued to draw for people.
Dolly was nice to me for the next couple of days, and she'd always ask me about drawing. I'd sort of ignore my real friends to spend time in her circle explaining why my dolls had small midsections and larger... other areas (I never told her it was because my friend in kindergarten had a stripper mom and it gave me ideas). Everything was cool the first three days, but the problem arose around the third day when the people who would typically commission me (with beef-jerky--not to be confused with Slim-Jims-- nonetheless. I was pretty cheap... actually, the trick still works today) to draw for them stopped coming around.
It took about another week before one of my best friends, Ana, interrupted my "reading time" moment by slamming a drawing on the desk in front of me.

"Hey, look what little Miss Dolly's doing to you."
I looked at the drawing and it looked like something I had drawn.
"What do you mean... it's my..."
I took a closer look.
"...oh. Is this my drawing?"

The doll was similar... but upon closer inspection, she had smaller features... and really fucked up eyes (I take my time on eyelashes, this bitch drew sticks like those drawn to indicate rays of sun). I can only imagine how Louis Vuitton feels when he sees someone walking around with one of those imitation bags. I must say, I drew that eye almost exactly how Dolly drew it... constricted pupil, McDonald's arch brow... stick eyelashes... it almost looked like a Paramecium... or something else that's capable of living under harsh environmental conditions.
But anyway, on with my story.
I was enraged when I saw the drawing and asked my friend where she got a hold of the drawing.
She told me Dolly was selling them to students behind one of the portables during lunch time (like the true crack-dealing hoe she would soon be destined to become).

Selling them? As in... getting money? Not just that tasty one dollar and fifty-cent beef-jerky?

Apparently so... and there was a line.
I remember looking over at Dolly, while holding the drawing, and her looking up only to shrug her shoulders.

When lunch time came, I went by the portables and upon seeing the transactions, I didn't know whether to vomit or just let the ghetto girl in me jump at Dolly's nappy, curly hair.
Rather than jump Dolly (I was 5'2", she was well below 4'8"), I stuck around for a while, wanting to hear what Dolly would tell these girls.
I saw one of my friends was in line (the fucking nerve), and listened in.

"Isn't this like *AnoMALIE's* drawings?"
"No. She draws big stupid heads. I fix her drawings. Now do you want one or not?"

I remember her emphasizing "fix" and then wanting to punch her.
Big stupid heads? Dude, how else am I going to get the intricate details of her iris down?
I eventually got caught spying on the (not so) illicit deals, and came face-to-face with Dolly.
I asked her what the deal was, and she admitted it, although she was quite rude about it (who tells another 10 year old their drawings suck and that they can do a better job... when clearly, a baby Yorkshire Terrier has more talent).
I took a drawing from her hand (she had like, ten in her tiny, thieving hands) and pointed:
"It's supposed to be a flannel shirt."
"Flannel's ugly."
"Well... then... she's not a real gangster."

With that, I left her in her little secluded area, and went back to my classroom. I can only imagine how red my face must have been.
I tell myself I didn't punch her out because she had two of her friends, like bouncers, at her side.

Twelve years later, I've never drawn for anyone again. I still doodle while in class, but... I no longer accept any sort of commission. My drawings are for me, and maybe a teacher's project... aside from that, no one else.

Now if only I could re-tell that story to my family without getting worked up and smashing something... or you know... sounding like a total cry-baby.