Good luck with that

Guess whaaaat...

Fucking awesome, right?
This time, my lip decided to switch shit up. This time, instead of breaking out in my usual spot of the lower left corner of my lip, my central nervous system decided it had enough of that shit, and handed me the cold sore smack dab in the middle of my bottom lip.
I have two lovely, perfectly circular holes in the middle of my lip. It'll be interesting to see that shit heal.

What caused this outbreak? An infuriating exchange with my trainer yesterday afternoon. My body was QUICK to react... the cold sore popped up six hours after the enraging encounter with the guy.

Remember that story about my substitute teacher who made me cry because he wouldn't give me my homework, back in third grade? I know it's in here somewhere... the story with that goddamn motherfucker Mr. Lockitch (however the fuck it's spelled... probably some Scandinavian or German spelling a Mexican like me never gave a single fuck about learning. His name I may not know how to spell, but his face I'll never forget... fucking... Edward James Olmos' characterization of Jaime Escalante in "Stand and Deliver" looking-ass) and how he took joy in tormenting me by holding up the extra homework sheet above my head as I pleaded for him to give it to me... tormenting me long enough for me to miss my bus and all that good shit you'd love to do to a nine-year-old good-girl.

 That was twenty fucking years ago... and yesterday, the story repeated itself, sort of.
It's well documented I HATE running. I'll sprint a couple of laps, just to get my HIIT in... but from that to making me run a mile after an hour of intense kickboxing is insane. It's NOT. GOING. TO. HAPPEN.
I was NOT built to run long distances... for fucking SHIT. I'm a fucking OX... I'm built to survive long, harsh winters... built to carry shit twice my weight... built to wrestle motherfucking bison... THAT'S the type of body I was given. I was not given the body of some fucking marathon runner... person who had to carry fucking surrendering orders to pussy-ass tribes... person adept to fleeing at the first sign of danger (can you tell my fucking disdain for this fucking activity, or should I continue?).
SO, when I'm ordered to run a mile, I will give my best contempt-filled glare, and walk out.

There's an added hatred to this mile because very few people actually run the fucking thing. When we sprint a lap or two, I'm always game... and I'm always the first girl done with the task... and if I get a good-enough head start on two particular guys in class, I'm the first person done. I hustle... I hustle HARD, just so I can get the damn thing done.
However, I find I'm usually one of the few who actually DOES this stupid thing. Well over two-thirds of the class just WALK HALF a lap, go to the bathroom, and then go back to the room to continue with the weight-lifting portion of the class.
This boils the fucking HELL out of my blood... I damn near foam at the mouth... and I definitely shoot death-glares at every single lazy fuck I see walk through the doors-- MORE SO to the fucking cunts I catch already in class, acting as if they ran the allotted laps... which I know they DID NOT, because none of them passed me on the track... I often scowl at them while mouthing "Liar" directly to their faces.
The dishonesty of others infuriates me... but the fact that the instructor knows this shit is going on, and STILL does it pisses me off most. He knows I kill the one or two laps, but still insists on the mile-- that shit fucks up my shins, it's too much stress on my body.
So as protest, I don't do it at all-- I just grab my shit and go home.

This was the case yesterday. After fucking killing myself with all the plyos, the moment the trainer ordered the class to run the mile, I walked over to grab my towel, water bottle, and car keys, and proceeded to walk out of the  class.
I was one of the first people walking out the door, and next thing I know, the instructor snatches the water bottle out of my hands, and goes for my hand holding my car keys.
For the next two-three minutes, I stand there, asking for the return of my water bottle, and he demanding my car keys so I can go on and run the mile.
Me: Not gonna happen.
Him: Gimme the car keys. You can't run with your car keys.
Me: I can't run that much. Give me my water, please.
What was REALLY pissing me off was the fact that his fucking groupies walking past us kept giving me "encouragement."
Annoying18YearOldTwat: Come on girl! You can do it! Wooo!
AnnoyingTwat2: Yeaaaah! Let's go, girl!
As if I was some fucking out-of-shape slob.
I was fighting the urge to "encourage" these fucking annoying girls to squat 200 pounds with their fucking noodle legs while I enthusiastically hooted "COME ON GIRL! YOU CAN DO IT!" Because everyone knows yelling words of encouragement helps you accomplish physically impossible tasks (the running is currently impossible for me because I've been nursing a fractured metatarsal for well over two months. I keep fucking it up because cunts keep yelling "encouraging" shit when I'm told to perform an excessive amount of burpees... always resulting in a re-injury of my fucking toe. Running on it is excruciating).

So... I was PISSED... but trying to keep my composure.
Keep the fucking bottle... it's only a dollar.
And just as I was about to walk away, completely done with my "begging," the guy gave me my bottle and I walked away.
Why don't you give your bitch this much of a hard time? SHE never runs.

It wasn't until night time when I realized the level of rage reached... once I saw the cold sore.
Those bad boys always betray me and let me know just how fucking deep certain actions really cut me.

FUN TIMES!

Truck

Alrighty. I have time to upload photos and crack the fuck up.
I am, however, going to refrain from posting as many as I had originally thought... because they are SO FUCKING bad.
Here we go.

Let's take it back to good ol' '05. The summer of '05. The summer where there was a wedding on my dad's side of the family, and everyone was part of the bridal party, everyone but me. I wasn't asked because I'd kill the vibe, because I "wasn't pretty enough. Only hot girls allowed as bridesmaids."
Everyone was told I had turned down the offer to be in it because I'm so shy and whatnot... though the GROOM personally told me that about "only hot girls allowed in my wedding." Instead of objecting and telling everyone the true story, I stuck to only telling my mom and sister. To this day, my dad and my brother both think I'm a crazy, antisocial idiot.
Anyway, the photos:

That right there is the family-- my siblings and my cousins. The circle.
The look they're tossing me breaks my heart, still... actually, the entire photo does... even the angle, and especially the distance at which I took it.
Me? Ostracized? Says who?
It was impossible not to feel like the biggest fucking loser on the face o the universe this day.

Now, was my cousin (the groom) correct in leaving me out of the party? Well... as embarrassing as this may be, I'll let you be the judge. This is what I looked like that summer:

I'm the orange wastebasket in the middle.
I was going to say "dumbass" but it looks like my brother has reserved that noun.

My stomach hurts looking at this. I feel... as though I'm... I don't know what to say. It's hard to look at this for more than a second. It hurts. It breaks my heart.
To tell you the truth, I don't know how they managed to convince me to get in the photo.
By the way, that kid in the suit is my rockstar godson... this was around the time they'd call him derogatory terms due to his lanky figure...
My, how the world turns.

...
....
I don't even want to talk about this.
I'm just going to take a seat over here and cry for a couple of minutes...

This was also the summer after meeting Darcy. This was the summer following my two semesters of creative writing.
So... seeing the '05 photos was this horrifying moment where the lightbulb went off. That... eureka moment. The epiphany.
There is NO WAY in fucking hell he could have ever liked me. No way. In fucking. Hell.
Jesus. I feel so embarrassed to think... like... dude... I was a fucking truck. He was this super slender guy-- some might venture to call LANKY, but I avoid it, especially after Godson showed me how hurtful that adjective can be-- and I was this fucking truck totally after his bones. Sweet baby jesus... the embarrassment nearly makes me vomit.
He never LIKED me... NOT like THAT. I just... fixated and felt this absolutely one-sided attraction to the guy.
He didn't see you like an attractive girl... he saw you like A FRIEND, you fucking moron. He probably pitied your fat ass, you deluded dumbshit!
I can't fucking complain about this enough... it's horrible. I'm remarkably irritated with myself... for being such a stubborn, blind, annoying idiot.
Poor guy. Poor, poor Darcy.
I do find solace in knowing I never spilled my fucking idiotic heart out to the guy... poor guy... just imagine the awkwardness if I HAD... no manches.
And STILL, he was so incredibly cool to me... it's shit like that which makes me fiercely loyal to someone. Knowing someone who could have totally kicked my fat ass to the curb-- like my good ol' family-- instead put up with my obnoxious fawning (though, can it be considered that if my admiration was sincere?) and was kind to me... it melts me... and makes it a breeze for me to have their back for as long as they want me around.
So, as far as Darcy goes-- dude can totally forget I exist... he can avoid me like the plague, but for as long as I'll have use of memory, I'll have nothing but nice things to say about him... and gratitude towards him. I like him as a person even more now... is that weird?

This doesn't just pertain to Darcy, but like I said before, I mean it for all my friends I acquired through those rough years... Darcy just gets a special mention because I had/have this massive, eternal little flame in my heart for him, and instead of him being a cunt to me (like I have been on numerous occasions with guys who have, for some psychotic reason, owned up to crushing on me), he just lets me be. That's a good dude-- take it from me, a girl who has been humiliated every turn she takes.

The subject of Darcy probably hijacked the post because tomorrow marks another anniversary of him being placed on this planet.
I'm tired, I'm fighting a cold, and I'm embarrassed... it wasn't too difficult for the subject of Darcy to pop into my head and all over my blog.

... my god... how I must have pestered him. EMBARRASSING.
Excuse me, now, I have to crawl into bed and try to burn these images out of my mind as I drift to la-la land.
Does this entry make sense? No idea... my guess is NO.

Dibs

Guess I won't put this off any longer. 

Trust me when I say I feel EMBARRASSED AS FUCK by all of this. Like, I need to stop and take deep breaths because I start losing my hearing from all the blood rushing to my face.

Embarrassing admission: Many, MANY nights of my life I spent them crying... and fantasizing about what it'd be like to be a normal size... about being average.

I always knew I was fat... but the mind is a fucktard-- it does crazy shit.

At times it made me feel as big as an elephant, and at others, I'd look in the mirror and think "Yeah, you're ok." Self-preservation thing, I'm sure.

After bumping into the '08-'09 photos in the memory card, I was absolutely speechless.

There it was, photo after photo... my gut. 

Dying...

Had I been pregnant, I'd at least have a three-year old by now...

What was I thinking? Well, for starters, I felt like an absolute imbecile.

How the FUCK did you not do anything about this?

Then I felt horrible for all the guys I ever liked.

Poor dudes... the motherfucking predicament I put them in... goddamn.

Then I felt SO MUCH love for those who were with me at those times.

I can't begin to describe how fast my heart melted at the thought of the kindness I received throughout those years.

I didn't think of all the mean shit... or the hate, I thought of anyone and everyone who directed the minimal amount of kindness towards me.

Wow. Just wow.

To the left: Me, February of '09. To the right: Me, yesterday, in the same pants-- my "skinny" jeans.

It made me fall more in love with my friends... fuck, even my acquaintances.

This is how my loyalty is built, this is WHY it's built. 

My friends are MUCH BETTER people than I am.

And ANY guy that allowed me to crush on him... well, I... always knew he was a good guy.

Y'all got dibs.

Sluuuurp!

Friday night.
Time for some laughs, right?
I mean, I've been extremely aggressive recently... especially yesterday. As I was driving out of the gym, some asshole dude in a BMW was tailgating me as I was trying to pull out of the parking, then he honked at me for not taking a U-turn at the moment HE wanted me to, to which I responded with looking back and flipping him off.
Once we both did our U-turns, he did the tailgate shit again, and when he was going to pass me, a car got in his lane, so I sped up.
I can be a cunt right back, you son of a bitch.
SO he almost crashes, but maneuvers his way out of the trap only to speed off... all to no avail, because the streetlight turns red on him. I get right behind him, turn on my high beams, and arrange my car far enough so my lights hit his side mirror in the right spot where he's getting blinded.
LICK MY CLIT, MOTHERFUCKER!

It's behavior like that which one day will get me killed...
(Funny enough, a couple of minutes prior to that incident was when I penned a new nickname for myself as I kicked and punched my way through kickboxing class: AngrAmelie. I was laughing for the rest of class and up until that fucking asshole driver pissed me off. The sound of the nickname is so close to "acromegaly" that I couldn't control myself and I'd find myself chuckling to myself, like a total mental patient)

ANYWAY, since I'm aggressive, and I want to cut that shit out... and it's Friday... I'll mention something from last week that is/was quite mortifying to me, but hilarious to Mom and Sister when I let them in on it.
I'm always game for making fun of myself... so I'll write it here.
Plus, I want to get this shit out in the open just so the embarrassment will quit haunting me:


Day- Saturday, October 29th.
Place- The Gold Coast Casino ballroom (I think that's the spot? It's that place right across from The Palms).
Occasion- Pacemaker's cousin's wedding.

Part I.
So, last week's wedding was a trip... as I'm sure everyone can guess.
Sister and I made a very uncomfortable splash because the majority of Hometown was present. They hadn't seen us in a while, like... possibly over a year... so, when they saw us,

Baby Sis got that posing shit on lock!
She's precious!

Me? Not so much.
Dig all that mess in the background?
In my defense, it belongs to pretty-girl D. It's her room.

they kind of freaked out.
Most were very kind and would go so far as to touch us.
Many had this look on their face... where their eyes sparkled and shit. Those kind of broke my heart, because I could see the sense of... admiration/happiness they had in seeing "Wow, she actually FINALLY did it... she's not fat anymore!" It felt strange to know all I had to do to garner their approval was to drop weight. Very strange/uncomfortable/sad.
I'm sweet. I'm funny. I'm smart... but what catches your admiration is my ability to fucking drop 50 pounds in 6 months? WHAT. THE. FUCK?!
Anyway, point is: there was a TON of attention being given to Sister and me.
It was like being on a reality show, where people are checking your every move.

I'm socially awkward... to a damn near unfathomable degree... but I was trying SO HARD to act confident. Happy. Comfortable. NORMAL.
The biggest test came when it was dinner time. Buffet style.
I had to stand in line for about fifteen minutes... answering questions, "gracefully" accepting compliments from the Hometowners... staying straight and not slouching.
That test I passed with flying colors.
I also passed the "serve yourself" portion of the test. I thought I'd surely fuck up right there because I'm clumsy as they come. I trip on some of the most impossible shit... like a spilled pea or something of that ridiculously stupid nature. I also often tremble like a fawn when in public... you know... that whole social anxiety shit of mine... I thought maybe that would kick in and I'd turn all Parkinson's as I'd be in the middle of serving myself some of the chicken marsala... that would ultimately end up on my dress... or worse yet, on the person next to me's dress.
But NO, NONE of that happened! I even managed to serve myself half a plate of steamed ASPARAGUS! That glorious vegetable! And none of it--not even the tasty juices-- ended up on the floor (uh... ok, maybe that's a half-truth... since one of the times, when I cut my asparagus and placed it on my fork, in my... child-like enthusiasm, I kiiind of missed my mouth and the asparagus fell to the floor. It's scientifically proven that I can NEVER be a smooth operator)!

No... the horrible incident happened the moment I reached my table with my goodies.

Part II.
So... recently, for some unknown reason, I've been excessively salivating (like how I try to keep it classy and not just say "Lately I've been HELLA drooling, dude!").
I'm sure you all now know where this is headed...
Smart people would probably hypothesize that I'm drooling because of my change in diet. I've had to tweak that shit so my metabolism doesn't fry or get too accustomed to my meals. It's a way to kick that motherfucker in its side to keep it on its toes, so to speak.
When I see food that really appetizes me, my mouth goes crazy. A totally new phenomenon for me.
I always joke about drooling... especially when I refer to a dude I find very attractive... I joke about him making my mouth water and whatnot, but of course it's a lie. I've never been able to drool over food (unless it was Tabasco sauce... even the smell of that shit has made my mouth water since I was a toddler)... because I apparently fucked up that part of my brain in middle school when I thought anorexia sounded like a good idea.
But recently, I've caught myself swallowing an abnormal (for me) amount of saliva.
If there's food in sight, I need to be careful before I speak, because I don't want to spray any innocent folks standing within spitting range.

I guess social anxiety makes me forget important shit... like SWALLOW YOUR FUCKING SPIT, YOU ANIMAL!

Part III.
I arrive at my table at the reception, second only to my sister.
Everyone is still in the buffet line, except for the family sitting at the table directly in front of me.
Ohhhh... you should know where this is going by now, or else we can't be friends...
I start fiddling with my silverware, trying to make room for my salad plate, AND my dinner plate. There are so many fucking forks, and knives, and glasses everywhere, but not room for my damn plateS!
The Universe, yet again plotting against me! I can't hold TWO fucking plates for too long before something eats shit and I make an ass of myself! MOOOOVE these fucking glasses and forks out of my fucking wayyyy!
As much as The Universe tried fucking up my day by putting that new little too-many-glasses-and-silverware trap in my way, I kicked it in the balls and set both of my plates on the table without any stains, or dropped food, or injuries to me or third parties.

Then I committed the fatal mistake... of sneaking a triumphant glimpse at my plate of asparagus as I was pulling out my chair to take a seat.
My head was bowed, looking to make sure I wasn't sitting on anything (terrible habit a girl acquires when raised with a bunch of mischievous boys who like to fuck around with ketchup packets, tacks, and other sharp/sticky object), and that's when it happened:
An ENORMOUS amount of drool escaped my mouth... and landed on my seat.
FUCK. ME.
SHIT.
FUCK.
GODDAMN IT!
WHY?!
What did I do? What any other human does when they do something stupid/embarrassing/incriminating which can be used for decades for blackmailing purposes: I looked around to make sure no one saw.
DID anyone see?
I sure fucking hope not.
I made eye-contact with one of the girls at the table in front of me... and I gave her my best "YOU SAW NOTHING HERE. YA GOT ME, BITCH?" look.
Poor thing, I'm sure she didn't see shit other than me giving her a menacing scowl... as I wiped my seat with the cloth napkin in my hand.
It took me about two minute to compose myself. I was busy trying not to burst out in maniacal laughter, 'cause that's what I do when mortified. I was also finding it hilarious that no one had just witnessed such a potentially traumatizing event in my life.
Here I just drooled all over my seat like some Saint Bernard, at a wedding, and NO ONE saw! Not even D, whose sitting INCHES away from me! AHAHAHAHA!

I took a deep breath, waited until the last person at my table took his/her seat, and then proceeded to eat my drool-inducing asparagus.

...
I then took a potty break and released the asparagine-laden nuclear waste known as post-asparagus-piss...

Universe: 75687120
Me: 0

Goodies

I spent the day randomly smiling to myself. I'd remember the part of yesterday's book which impacted me most as a kid, and the smile would just creep up on me:

"I contemplated, for instance, jostling the blind on the street; and from the secret, unexpected joy this gave me I recognized how much of my soul loathed them; I planned to puncture the tires of invalids' vehicles, to go and shout 'lousy proletarian' under the scaffoldings on which laborers were working, to slap infants in the subway. I dreamed of all that and did none of it, or if I did something of the sort, I have forgotten it."

Then I'd feel guilty. But then I'd smile again.
Man oh man... I'm a horrible person! But imagine the reaction that would incite!

I'd calm myself down by remembering some of my new favorite lines:

"Then it was that the thought of death burst into my daily life. I would measure the years separating me from my end. I would look for examples of men my age who were already dead. And I was tormented by the thought that I might not have time to accomplish my task. What task? I have no idea."

That sobered me up real quick.
Not that I think of people who are already dead (although JC harassed me about this over the summer. "You're 25? Damn... well... be careful when you reach 27... you know that infamous little club... although you'd be in pretty cool company." I'd tell him I was turning 27 in 2012... you know... when so many people think the world's going to end. Coincidence? ::shudder::), but I really have dealt with that issue where I sit there and contemplate how many years are left of my life. I've been fascinated by that thought since I turned nine. I remember sitting on my living room sofa, staring out the window, drifting into space... thinking "Wow... just think... death is... now closer." Just the thoughts a nine-year-old should be having at her birthday party.

ANYWAY. Wanna hear a funny story?
Sister was mailing some chocolates, peanut butter, and Gobstoppers/Nerds to one of her friends who is living in Manchester (England), when the stoic postman (is that what you call the people who work at the post office?) asked her why she was sending so much junk food. D explained she was sending the goodies (45 bucks worth. That's how much that bullshit cost to mail out. We didn't even do that shit for my brother. My sister got me and my smuggling of jalapeño peppers, poor Rafa didn't get shit... although I did give him £100 which he later used to win a pub crawl... evens out, right?) to her friend who was homesick. Then Sister went off on how she was homesick when she lived in Bilbao so she wanted to do her friend this favor.
That's when the postman (fuck it, that's what I'm calling him) got all excited and explained how his wife was from there. Their conversation was animated, describing different areas in exact detail... they were both really happy.
D swore she had just made a new friend, but just as the lovely exchange was going to end... it all went sour.
Sister was signing the last of the paperwork, and she had to write the date. Instead of asking the postman for the date, she did what is second nature to all of us: she clicked her phone to see the date.
Mistake.
Her homescreen wallpaper?

Mmm... and it's kosher!

"Your wallpaper is inappropriate."

He resumed his snooty European persona, quickly turning his nose up in the air and looking away from D... and D lost her new friend.

ALMOST had him, damn it... almost!

Pub D

I wasn't planning on watching the Portugal game. I had made the decision last night, since it was 3AM and I was barely getting into bed. I was going to sleep until 11 AM, in time for the Spain game... not any time earlier.

Wish not granted.
I woke up at 5 in the morning to my mom doing her damn mariachi scream... then her knocking at my door.

"ARE YOU WATCHING THE GAME?! You can sleep in peace now... they're 2-0, Portugal has it in the bag!"

Thanks mom... I'll try.

Curiosity killed the cat, however, and I turned on my television.
I planned on watching the rest of the game in my room, but after hearing the rest of the family in the living room, and remembering that the TV there is four times the size of mine (i.e. better view of Cristiano Ronaldo. You're retarded if you think I'd pass that up), I decided I was going to get a little decent and head out there.

In the middle of putting on a t-shirt, mom runs in and opens the door on me.

"AAAAAJUUUUAAAAA!"

"What the fuck, Mom?! I''m changing!"

"Another one!"

"I don't care!"

The woman was more excited about the damn game than I was.
I was irritated, but then more goals came... and of course... there was an abundance of Cristiano smiles... and poof! all my anger/irritation vanished.
Then I started feeling bad for the NKoreans. It was a freakin' massacre.

I tried staying awake for the Chile game, but once I saw the goal, I went back to my room, into bed, and left the TV on.
When I woke up again, I saw the Spain game was about to start, so I dashed for the living room.
I had not realized my sister's friends dropped by to watch the game, turning the living room into... pretty much a pub.
I skipped into the living room... barefoot, in my mismatched pajamas (black wife beater with "patch-work" shorts that shouldn't even be considered shorts- I've seen underwear bigger than that. But it's hot, give me a fuckin' break)... with my hair all fucked up... and last night's mascara making beautiful raccoon patches around my eyes.
Sweet.

I lost my hearing, felt my face get hot, and excused myself, self-banished to my room for the remainder of the game.
That will teach me a lesson about running freely in my house in shitty pajamas!
Good thing Spain won (although they could have scored more than twice. Missed penalty, Villa... really?!), or else... I'd be thinking about moving to the other side of the world, and deleting my FB for good.

Now Mexico tomorrow.
Uff.
Please, make it a winner, boys!!

Jo-o-se, Can You See?

More proof I was born an idiot:

-As a kid, I cried whenever I heard/sang The Star Spangled Banner.

Dear God! I had totally forgotten about that until someone reminded me of it today.
I find this little factoid more embarrassing than the one about me peeing my pants back in first grade (come on... I was 6, shy, and polite... I didn't want to interrupt Reading Time, so I just held it in... until... I had the ugly accident in my shiny purple spandex).

Anyway, I might as well explain why I cried with the national anthem.
You see, I had a very young and impressionable mind... and each time I saw people singing along to the damn song (usually sporting events, because Mom was a huge sport's fan and would make us watch baseball, basketball, soccer, boxing, and the Olympic games since I can even remember) they would be crying.
Then, when I was old enough to use a dictionary (3rd grade) I looked up the words to the anthem.

Oh my God... no wonder people cry! This song's sad!!

So that explains why I'd cry each time I'd hear the song.

Now... the reason I'd cry when I'd sing the song is... stupid.
Back when I was too young to realize my voice was built more for doing shit like... herding cattle... I went through a phase where I really, very badly wanted to be a singer.
So I'd sing.
And sing.
And sing.
To the point where I'd have my parents annoyed and taking turns being in enclosed areas with me.
Dad once went as far as telling me (when I was about 5):

"Hey, AnoMALIE... who sings this song?"
"Los Bukis!!"
"Let's keep it that way!"

(I still remember the damn song and everything! "Tu Carcel," I was sitting in my parent's jeep, as we were on our way to Mooney's birthday party. I have to laugh each time I hear the song... just remembering the face I must have made when my dad clowned on me in front of my family)

Anyway, when I was in that phase, I had it in my head that somehow I'd become a singer (Jesus, I feel embarrassed admitting all this to the point where I'm getting a little light-headed), so I had to practice.
So I'd practice...
I'd get all dramatic when I sang a sad or angry song... I'd get bouncy/happy/annoying as fuck when it was a dance song (and let's not get into the shit I did when I fell in love with gangsta' rap back in 4th grade).

I thought singers made it big once they sang in the Super Bowl... or World Series... so I'd practice my National Anthem. That way, whenever I made it big, I'd impress everyone in the crowd and have them all crying once I finished... fists in the air, couple of ass-smacks, and all that good stuff.

Well... I did that shit for years ("practice," that is). From around first grade, when I was first introduced to the concept of having to say it first thing in the morning (I'd get watery eyed even when I had to "speak" it in class... I'd have to look down to keep from crying in front of my peers-- lame ass attempt, considering I did way more embarrassing shit that year), up until third grade.
Why did I stop "practicing" in third grade?
Because a neighbor caught me.

God, the humiliation.

How do you play off a red, runny nose, tears streaming down the face, rake in hand as you belt out "That our flaaaaaaaaag waaas stillll theeeeeerrrrrrreeeee!!!" (damn me and my damn dramatics!!)?
You can't, damn it, you can't!
I'm a cool cat (as in: calm, relaxed) and everything (or so I like to believe), but something like that you can't live down.

The neighbor smiled at me (I'm sure he was ready to pop, laughing hysterically), as I smiled back, and bolted for my front door.

Obviously the bastard told everyone he knew... the running joke became people asking me to sing when things went quiet during any conversation, and Mom made me join the church choir... a place I was stuck up until 5th grade.


Ask me to sing now, motherfuckers... ask me to sing now...
(And no! I don't cry with the Star Spangled Banner anymore... yes... I get choked up... but fuck you if you think I'll shed a tear!)

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.

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.

Note to AnoMALIE's inner Chiquita Banana: Don't EVER do that AGAIN.

Ah, Justin Long... the Jeepers Creepers guy... the Mac Guy... the... well, cute guy.
I don't usually think of him though(not like... say, another Justin: Timberlake). The times he jumps into my head are when I see him in the Mac commercial (and I smile)... or when I see this one boy I've known since last semester (and I laugh).

Best-friend and I refer to him (talking about the school boy now) as "the Justin Long boy." I never learned his name, even though there were only 17 of us in class last semester (and at most, there would be 10 of us in there in any given day). Maybe I did... I just don't remember. (His name might start with a D... I'll call him that from now on in this story)
Why don't I remember? Because his laugh haunts me to this day. That... and well.. I did something stupid the one time he spoke to me (and that makes me want to crawl in a hole and die each time it's brought up).

First off: His Laugh.
The professor was a funny man, one of my favorites, but the class was a total bore (who gives a **** about Daphnia and... wow, I did a great job getting that out of my mind. PLANKTON!). But as always, AnoMALIE finds a guy to become fixated on and doodle about the entire semester.
One day, after the professor made fun of D, it was something really-- very funny-- and out came this... noise.
I refuse to reproduce it. But it was one of the worst, nerdiest laughs ever. No, there was no snorting involved (I tend to do that whenever I think something is REALLY funny. So the person hearing me snort should feel honored, not disgusted. HA). But the sound... it was reminiscent of... a horse sneezing after snorting some hay... repeatedly.
Dear me... why was i present to hear this?
I still hear the sound each time I see D.

Second, and most mortifying: I fucking WINKED at him!
I had never spoken to the guy, just laughed at his jokes.
This isn't strange since I'm unbelievably bashful.
What I don't understand is what led me to commit such a sleazy move.
It was the day we were all supposed to turn in our second of three research papers to the professor. Best-friend and I were the first ones to so, and D came a little late, and never saw us do it. There were only six of us in class, so the kid was definitely talking to us when he went up to the pile and said:
Did you girls already bring your reports up?
He was motioning at the stack of papers, and he made this cute eyebrow movement, like if he was going to come up and get ours.
I must have found it "too cute" cause all of a sudden I did something totally out of character:
I turned to him, smiled, and said "We sure did," then winked at him with my right eye.
(it all plays back to me in slow motion)
When I caught myself, I thought:
Who the hell do I think I am? Curse you, damn Latino blood! First you surprise me with the accent from time to time, now you make me act like... West Side Story's, Maria! Why don't I just shimmy next time?!
He looked away in what I perceive as horror, and for the rest of the semester he seemed scared of me. I scared him off!

Whenever I see him walk past me after class (he takes really long, unnatural-looking strides... sort of like an ostrich), I feel blood rushing to my cheeks... out of pure embarrassment.
Was it the damn wink?!

See what you do, Chiquita Banana! You scared off Justin Long!