Verde pa' la depre

This is the kind of shit I write up while slightly intoxicated:

Truth

Me mata que no puede pasar ni un día en el que no piense en ti.
Quisiera que eso fuera otra de mis exageraciones, pero es completamente verdad-- estas en todas partes.
La manera en que me haces sentir invisible es inaudito... ya quisiera yo tener ese poder.

Unos días tu recuerdo es mas fuerte que en otros.
Ultimamente, con todo lo que esta pasando en el mundo del deporte, estas resplandeciente en mi mente.
Recuerdo como hace varios años, me tratabas como amiga, pero ya ni pordiosera soy. No me haces en el mundo. Y yo de terca intentando demostrarte que valgo la pena... que enfadosa, me disculpo.
Algún día haré que entienda mi corazón, ya que sé que incomodo es tener a alguien que te admire tanto mientras tu solo quieres que te dejen en paz.
No se que me pasa, pero lo intentare de corregir. Te dare la tranquilidad que buscas.

...
People ask why I don't drink... uh, hello?!
This toook me HOURS to type, with a shitload of spellchecj. My Baaaad!

***

Hmmm. Nice one, AnoMALIE.
I'm still happy, just that whole drinking shit only amplifies my hidden feelings... obviously. Hence my usual apprehension towards the activity.
I did feel a little bummed with the outcomes of today's games, however (the Netherlands loss pissed me off, and while I went for Germany... my heart was just holding on to that hope that MAYBE Portugal would do something). As much as I complain about little bitch Ronaldo... I still like the actual country of Portugal... and Ronaldo is a total asshole when he loses... so it makes it THAT much more difficult to like him.

But every negative feeling always manages to die down when Mom prepares my favorite food:

Obviously the abundance of avocado is courtesy of... me.
I love that shit. LOVE it.

Mmmm... Enchiladas Verdes.
The sun is out, my friends. It's lovely... and life is aiiight.
Fuck anything else.

Like the wind

Today... started out rough.

For the last month or so, I've been going to English Mass at eight in the morning.
At first, I attended so my sister wouldn't be alone... but now, it's something I enjoy. It puts me at ease. I can't explain it beyond that. It's just like it used to be. It allows me to be wrapped in my solitude... my quiet, meditating solitude.
I like quiet solitude.

ANYWAY.
I went to mass alone.
Like a dog, my ear perked the moment I heard the first reading.
In all my years, I had never paid attention to that reading... until today.
It was from the seventh chapter of Job.
This line made me sit completely frozen:
‎"So I have been assigned months of misery, and troubled nights have been allotted to me."
Whoa... whoa...
I pulled up a missal and continued to read.
"My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle;
they come to an end without hope.
Remember that life is like the wind;
I shall not see happiness again."

I almost cried.
Bingo.
I decided to read the whole thing once I returned home.
Deep. And painful.

"My own utterance I will not restrain; 
I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; 
I will complain in the bitterness of my soul."
Yes. Yes. 
When I say, “My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint,” 
Then you frighten me with dreams and terrify me with visions, 
So that I should prefer strangulation and death rather than my existence.

I waste away: I will not live forever; 
let me alone, for my days are but a breath. 
What are human beings, that you make much of them, or pay them any heed? 
You observe them every morning
and try them at every moment! 

How long before you look away from me, 
and let me alone till I swallow my spit? 
If I sin, what do I do to you, 
O watcher of mortals? 
Why have you made me your target? 
Why should I be a burden for you? 

Why do you not pardon my offense, or take away my guilt? 
For soon I shall lie down in the dust; 
and should you seek me I shall be gone."

Rocked. My. World.
However, while I did identify with this reading FAR too much, instead of feeling happy over not being alone in my desperation... my sadness abruptly attacked me.
Right there, as I searched the internet, feeling bummed, I noted my sister had quoted "He's Just Not That Into You." I nearly lost it... especially since it took a swing at the "love" portion of my soul (the bible verses hurt my entire being, not my romance department...):
"No matter how powerful and real your feelings may be for someone, if that person cannot fully and honestly return them and therefore actively love you back, these feelings mean nothing.”

FUCK, MAN! WHAT THE HELL?! Does February 5th WANT to see me cry?

But suddenly, everything was all right with the world...
I was treated to a breakfast birthday party... where I had wonderfully delicious pancakes AND numerous variations of french toast... and bacon-infused scrambled eggs... and then this fucking beauty to top it all off:

Chocolate mousse, flan, cheesecake, and that bottom layer? TRES LECHES!
Ufff! The mere memory makes me salivate.

All celebrating my sweet aunt's birthday (and secretly, I kinda did it for Cristiano Ronaldo... but shhh).

And so... the smile returned to my face... and my brain filed the quotes in the "cherished" section.

Galletas

Feeling depressed?
Got dumped?
Were you the poor soul who scored third to lowest on the Molecular Biology exam in the entire lecture hall?
Parents bickering again?

Dude! Fret no more! BAKE STUFF!

Nutella oatmeal cookies on left
Red velvet sandwich cookies on right (Paula Dean style. I don't give a fuck that she has diabetes, she got there somehow, right? And I'm sure it was fun AS FUCK, too).
Motherfucking DELICIOUS!
And the size of my head.

I've spent the last... seven hours baking with my sister.
Sure, two of those hours were spent shopping for ingredients and a couple of appliances (so uh... we kinda burned our mixer, and had to make an emergency run to Target at 9PM), but we've been concentrated on baking for seven hours.
Ok... that's a lie. We've also been discussing her love life.

It's so cute to see her so excited. It's a trip to see how much love she's putting into these baked goods (I should probably mention these baked good are meant for her dude).
It's nice bonding time. She tells me what's up, and I give some input.
The blind leading the blind? Maybe... but hey, I'm making damn fucking sure she keeps the psycho-girlfriend tendencies down... that has to count for something, right? I may not know how to keep a dude, but I definitely know how to point out female's psychotic behavior.
Don't do that!
Don't say that!
CALM DOWN!
DON'T text him!
Shut up and cut it out! Don't be a fucking psycho, idiot!

I'm so going to be that fucking spinster sibling out of this bunch... I already have the "Gives good advice on behaviors one should AVOID" shit on lock.
But look at that! I'll be useful for something!

FrankenPie

Yesterday was my dad's 58th birthday. Fifty. Eight.
Daddy! :(
To honor him... and because this last year I've taken to hanging out in the kitchen, I baked him an apricot-pinapple-walnut pie.
This was originally supposed to be my little specialty of empanadas that I wasn't going to touch-- hence the disgusting pineapple...
... but I fucked up on the dough (who knew using gluten-free oat flour was going to be STUPID and render a fucking stiff as fuck dough? Not I. That was a very unpleasant news-flash for me).
In my fit of rage, I tossed the dough in a pie tin... and started punching it.
Yeah. I did.
After punching the dough about twenty times... I thought "Fuck it, let's do a motherfucking pie then."

I've never baked a pie. I didn't even know we had a fucking pie tin until I almost threw it away when I bumped into it while in a frantic search for a cookie sheet.
So, I made the bottom layer... punched that shit as thinly as possible, smoothing out any holes my bony knuckles made... and then I added the apricot-pinapple-walnut filling. I finished it by stacking the crumbling strips of the fucking incredibly stupid dough on top. I covered it in egg-wash (my attempt to keep the "crust" together), crossed my fingers, and popped it in the oven.

I had somewhere to be, so as the stupid pie baked, I showered and got ready to leave.
On my way out of the house (with my casserole-full of enchiladas, mind you. I told you, I'm hitting the fucking kitchen with a vengeance!), I took the pie out of the oven, dusted it with a mix of confectioner's sugar and cinnamon, and dashed out of the house.
Before leaving, I did give ONE instruction:

Mom, when this cools down, PLEASE HIDE it. I don't want anyone seeing, much less tasting, this garbage (that I only baked because gluten-free oat flour costs an eye out of the face!).

I left that instruction because my aunt was going to drop by the house to throw Pops a surprise party.
My pie was meant for my nuclear family's eyes... no one else. I'd fucking die if anyone else in this universe saw that offensive excuse for a pie. Imagine a party of nothing but Dad's relatives? Fuck. That.

I was supposed to come back home before the party started... but I was so happy hanging out with my friends (and eating german chocolate/gummy bears), that I lost track of time, and ended up getting home an hour after Dad's party had started.
Oops! My bad, Daddy! You still love me, right? I mean, you hate parties anyway!
When I walked to where the noise was emanating from, to my utter HORROR I saw that not only was my pie in full view... but completely demolished.
What the fuuuuuuckkkkkk?! N-ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! That shit was UGLY! Who touched it?! Who defiled my already-hideous pie?!

After greeting everyone standing between me and FrankenPie, I saw my aunt serving herself a fourth of what would have been the entire pie... only leaving about... a sixth.
Aunt: This was some GREAT pie, Mija! YOU did it?!
Should I lie...
Me: Yeah. I created that beast...
Own your mistakes, pendeja.
Aunt: It. Is. DELICIOUS!
You're... joking... right?
D: So you DID do it?!
Me: Yeah. You ATE it?!
D: I knew it tasted like your style! But I was like "since when does AnoMALIE know how to bake pies?!"
Me: I don't.


Jesus Christ... did I just write up an entire post on a fucking PIE?!
Sh'Oh did.

Lesson learned: I'm a motherfukin' ARTIST, regardless of the medium!
Not.
It's more along the lines of... "Don't judge a book by its cover," "It's what's on the inside that counts," and more importantly "DON'T EVER TRY USING GLUTEN-FREE OAT FLOUR ON EMPANADA DOUGH!"

Figs

I'm one of those chicks who gets angry each time a dude jokes about a woman's place being in the kitchen.
It makes me... kind of psycho-angry. There's a history behind that, as with every damn fucking trauma of mine, but I'm in no mood to write it up.

Anyway.. guess where I spent 2/3 of my waking hours today?
The motherfucking kitchen.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner like always... but I also decided to make dad some more empanadas.
Usually, it's not much of a fucking hassle... since the "jam" is made in a heartbeat.
However, today I was in such a giving mood, I decided to prepare a fig/pecan jam.
Fuck the moment I came up with that idea.
I don't eat figs, because they gross me out (for some reason, they remind me of a uterus. I'm not eager to know what a uterus tastes like) and the flavor has never appealed to me.
In my life, I have not peeled a single fig.

Well, we have an enormous fig tree in the backyard, and Mom, Dad, and D don't eat the fruits fast enough. Dad loves them, but there's only so much damage he can make to the fig supply.
So I decided I'd surprise him with a jam made out of those ugly, uterus-resembling fruits.

The peeling process was so tedious, I started pondering existential shit...
Light at the end of the tunnel? I'm sure if that ever happened to me... and they asked me if I wanted to walk towards the light or go back, I'd scream "go back"... death sucks... but... everyone has to die... imagine, Bob Ross is already dead, yet here I am, still awed by his work as I watch the re-runs on PBS... but one day I WILL be dead... and... would I want to live forever? Oh god... fuck you, figs!

That bastard jam ruined my day!
... but the empanadas are orgasmic.

I'm a beeeeast in the kitchen... I'm just not going to freely admit that shit to anyone, especially not a man.

(dude, last night I had a dream where I invented ice cream flavors. Not just ANY flavors, but they were all boozy flavors. I remember the Chardonnay best. In real life, I don't even know what that shit tastes like, yet there I was, selling gallons upon gallons of the thing. I woke up feeling satiated and proud of myself. I swear... I'm spending TOO much time in the kitchen. My break can't come soon enough)

I (HEART) Aguacates!

Fastest way to cheer up a sad AnoMALIE?
Feed her some avocado.
Duh.

Today, after nearly 50 days of not tasting the delicious, creamy, magical flavor of an avocado, I reintroduced the magnificence of the avocado into my diet.
Instantly, I was dancing in my seat-- the most sincere manner in which the body of yourstruly, tells the whole world that she is indeed a very happy camper.

Last night was rough.
I won't go into detail, I'll just say this:
Mean/rude people must have incredibly miserable lives to try so fucking hard to make others feel bad. I refuse to believe they're ever really happy. I genuinely feel SORRY for them.

I didn't cry in public, I refuse to ever do that (once I come home, it's a different story. I'll be a fucking crying disaster, because no one can hear me or see me. I'm convinced everyone does this on a really bad day). As hard as others try, I'll keep a straight face... which appears to enrage others and turns up the heat.
All the insults and just... the scenario itself stays in my head, and I have to release it at some point. So occasionally it'll find its way here. I do apologize for that.
WTF, AnoMALIE? You're supposed to be funny! What is this shit?!
Mah bad, homie. I have some bad days sometimes.

Anyway, I'm trying really hard to have a more cheerful disposition, so I woke up willing to make myself happy again.
I made myself a deviled egg... using two slices of avocado instead of mayonnaise (fuck that shit. Mayo makes me vomit), and fresh habanero salsa to mash with the egg yolk. Topped with cayenne powder, paprika, and fresh ground pepper.
Bam! Magic.
Best breakfast EVER.

I danced in my seat, and not even the bitter-ass green tea I was sipping on could make me frown (it did make me gag once, though).
I bet mean people aren't happy enough to dance in their seat in the mornings.

Awww... I'm frowning for them right now. Poor babies.
Espero y que se alivien pronto, puta gente amargada. :)

Fooooood!

Right about now, I would fight someone for:
- Avocados.
- Sushi
- Pho
- Assortment of salty nuts (don't even go there)
- Chocolate cupcakes
- BACON
- CHEESE
-PANCAKES
- PEANUT BUTTER


I will use bloody force for the bolded ones.


Pancakes... sometimes I think I smell them. Blueberry ones.
:(

I only get weird rushes like that on occasion. For the most part, I avoid places where these things will be showcased (I'd rather watch someone attempt to slice apart my small intestine with a butter knife than walk into a house that smells like bacon or pancakes... it's plain torture).
Weekends seem to trigger these urges (of fighting for my favorite foods, not of wanting to watch someone go at it with my small intestine).

In unrelated news: I will never again tell guys that I like their hands, or anyone actually, that my favorite thing on a dude is their hands.
I watched a movie last night that was incredibly disturbing. The creepy, weird protagonist would tell her crush that she loved his hands... and she'd always stare at them.
I watched in horror as the story progressed, because all I could think was "Jesus Christ! I say that all the time!" The level of creep-dom this movie took that line was... enough to make me no longer comfortable admitting my admiration for hands.
So... sorry hands, but Hollywood managed to ruin my public fascination with you (I still really like you... as long as you're pretty, of course... and ugly hands will continue to be an immediate deal breaker).

1,2,3,4, I declare a thumb war

In many aspects, I'm pretty stereotypical Mexican-- I have long brown hair that I usually wear down or in a braid, dark brown eyes, I'm Catholic, I shoot straight double shots of tequila without flinching, I watch novelas (once in a while... if my favorite actors are in it, or there's a lot of fighting), I like to clean (when I'm in the mood), I have a mean punch that can knock a boy out (yes, I've tried), and I love mariachi (I love all Mexican music, just not Duranguense... that shit is ATROCIOUS).
However, I'm not too stereotypical in what matters: I can't cook for shit.

My culinary skills peaked at the age of ten, when I learned how to boil water. Sure, I can make huevos rancheros for breakfast... and french toast... and... basically, I'm really good with eggs (yeah, I did that on purpose).
I can make any type of burrito-- I'm a master... as long as someone else prepares the rice, beans... anything that requires messing with flames or blood.
No one can fuck with me when it comes to quesadillas, those are my specialty.
... And my Mexican cooking skills go to hell after that.
Fajitas? Mom does that. Carne asada? Mom does that too (my Dad... bless his heart... he can't handle that shit). Enchiladas? I tried... but... I don't like frying shit, it scares me when the oil flies everywhere. I panic if even the slightest drop finds its way onto my skin.
Rellenos, sopas, ceviche, mole, you name it... mom does it. It's no coincidence that my room is the furthest away from the kitchen.

Well... I don't know what came over me today, what the fuck possessed me to do this, but I decided I could handle chilaquiles.
At a glance, it's nothing too hard. It's basically enchiladas that look like a bomb went off on (hmmm, ending sentences with prepositions makes me uneasy). Cut up tortillas, chile colorado, grated cheese, and shredded chicken breast (well-seasoned with oregano and cumin... and diced onion).

How the hell did I fuck this up?
I imagine people would worry once the chicken enters the picture. How could they not? There are so many elements of danger in it.
First is the boiling of the chicken. If you guessed this, you would be wrong. Remember, boiling water is one of my proudest moments... so no problem there.
The shredding of the chicken? I used two forks and I was good.
The sauteing of the onion and chicken? I handled that well, since there wasn't much oil in the pan to begin with. Nothing jumped too high to send me into a shrieking frenzy.

No, no... I fucked up in the easiest part: the grating of the cheese. Task I've completed time and time again. This apparently gave me an overconfidence that nearly cost me my right thumb. Ok, it wasn't that bad, but I did cut the shit out of it.
I was trying to finish the piece of cheese, and halfway through the task, I felt the knuckle on my thumb go.
"FUCK! I CUT MYSELF!!"
Mom: Oh, AnoMALIE, I told you you didn't have to...

Since my blood seems to lack the proper amount of thrombin or some shit, the slightest cut produces a freakish amount of blood to gush out of my wounds. My body's freakin' scandalous. This was no exception-- I started to bleed like a hemophiliac.
I had to leave my chilaquiles unattended, apply pressure to my thumb, man-up to add hydrogen peroxide (only thing I really have in my drawer... scars be damned), then apply my Hello Kitty band-aid.  After all was fixed, I went back and finished making my food.
And of course they tasted like heaven. Did I tell the rest of the house what happened? No. I just told them to eat the food at their own risk... that should be enough, right?

Another stereotypical Mexicanism of mine? I don't go to the doctor until I'm fucking dying of something. I don't need no doctor, damn it!

I'm gonna look awesome for tomorrow's wedding... I'm going to have a nice bloody and bruised thumb to show off.
I'll apologize to my partner when I see him later today. Hopefully he refuses to touch my hand.

Bye bye birdie

I'm going to fkn puke.

... Yeah...
How the hell Mom has managed to remain married to my pops for 28 years is beyond me.
Does any grown, adult man living with another human behave like this?

Look at the damn thing just chillin' (no pun intended) in the fridge... not only is it unsightly as fuck, but more importantly, it's next to MY grapes!
Cross-contamination, dude!

My dad is a caveman!

Am I overreacting? Maybe... I mean, I'm sure many people have skinned pigeons (which were killed in the backyard by a BB-gun-toting father) sitting in their fridge...
But it doesn't mean I'm not allowed to gag... or yelp a little, each time I open the fridge.

Home, sweet home.
I need to barf...

It's green...

1. Celery
2. Broccoli
3. Parsley
4. Green Apple
5. Cactus.
6. A little bit of OJ

Blend.
Drink.

Am I crazy for liking this shit?

Ants in my... box.

My parents are going to be those old people.
You know... the type that:
-Never have toilet paper in the guest bathroom.
-Have food still stuck on "clean" dishes/silverware.
-Give kids ten-year-old candy that is rock hard, and stuck to all adjacent pieces.

The last one leads me to what happened last night.

Recently, I've become addicted to raisins.
Dad had a huge bucket of them laying around, so I took to eating them whenever I felt a craving for unhealthy snacks... like those super good, super sugary tamarind Mexican candies that were once called "Lucas" here in the U.S., but to all us Mexican kids, they're known as "Pelones." Yummm...
Anyway, I've been snacking on raisins.
I did have my complains... particularly, how I'd sometimes get a seed... or what I perceived to be a twig.

Me: Can't these people go through the trouble of removing the damn stem?? Damn! I don't need to be reminded that I'm eating something that should probably only be eaten by deer... in the winter.
Mom: Don't complain... at least they go through the trouble of putting them in boxes for you.
Me: Yeah... but I might as well go outside and grab a handful of dirt... it'd feel the same way on my teeth.

So... even with this problem/complaint, I'd pop raisins in my mouth.

Well, last night I was bored... and craving chocolate.
Trying to be a good, health-conscious girl, I went to the fridge to get some raisins.
I noticed the little bucket was nearly empty, the bottom being visible from various angles.

Yes... I'm almost done with this retarded box of raisins.

I wanted to finish the "bucket" because the raisins were all deformed...as was the "bucket" itself.

As I popped raisins in my mouth, I would be reading my new issue of Glamour (I've grown attached as the years go by. I also find myself being nitpick-y with the writing. I have a hissy-fit each time I find typos... or grammatical errors. I'm so lame). Once in a while, I'd feel this strange crunchiness, but dismissed it as a twig... or a small seed.

Man... I feel like an animal. I don't remember Sun-Maid Raisins ever having twigs or stems back in my elementary school days...

That's when a "twig" fell on the page I was reading.

WTH... why is it... half black... half re... OMG... it's an ANT! A frozen ANT!!

I immediately looked in the "bucket" and sure enough... there were about 10 dead ants... on the bottom of the "bucket," on the raisins themselves... just... I started to see them where I had originally believed to simply be "raisin residue."

Me: MOM!! WHY ARE THERE ANTS IN THESE RAISINS?!
Mom: What???
Me: You guys are gonna be those freakin' old people that have rotting food in their fridge and will never notice! What the hell is this?!
Mom: No... you're lying (don't you love that reaction? Why would I lie?)! Gimme the box!
Me: They're all over the place... that's what I've been crunching on this entire time... no seeds or twigs... mannnn!
Mom: But... your dad drowned them all...
Me: ?!?!?
Mom: Yeah... when he had this in his room, the ants started to invade the box... so your dad put the box in water... to kill them all... then dried the box and put it in the fridge so the ants wouldn't get the raisins.
Me: ?!?!? (my eyebrows were doing more of the talking)

So yes... I've been downing a little extra protein this entire time.
...

Why is it always during lent time that things like this happen to me?

Day 3 of dull(er!) AnoMALIE is half-way through, and I'm holding up real nice (sure, I've almost popped a vein in my brain a couple of times as I hold back the big words I wish to express, but I'm still alive).

Cuss count: 3 (Yesterday I added one more to my count because I once again dropped the F-bomb when I saw Shaq had been traded to the Suns in exchange for Shawn Marion and Marcus Banks. I love Shawn Marion... and I hate the Heat... and Shaq... well... he's... Shaq [sure, I'll confess I loved him while growing up because he was so damn cool... even his Kazzam movie. But come on! When the play named after you is "Hack-a-Shaq," it's kind of... not good]. If it would have been Steve Nash... screw this whole no-cussing thing... I would have gone on a Big-Word-tirade)

Green "tortillas"

Mission "Garden Spinach Herb Wraps" are an abomination to all that is considered food... or non-toxic (I'll take a bite of Play*Dough before I ever eat one of those green monstrosities again).

It's even more atrocious that they're kept next to REAL tortillas... with REAL flavor... as if Mexicans are somehow responsible for this disgusting creation unworthy of being eaten, even by... starving rabbits.

Do you know how hard it was for me to keep my mouth shut and only shout "Gahhhhhhh!!! This... suckssssss!" as I ate that terrible "wrap?"
I did--mentally-- drop the F-bomb about five times "F*ck! This is so f*cking nasty! F**********************ck! Gahhh... f*ck this S#!t!"

However... I'm holding up nicely... kind of, when it comes to not cussing.

Day 2 of dull(er!) AnoMALIE is in progress... but it looks like I'll make it through cuss-free.
Cuss count: Still just the two from yesterday.

Uneasy

This makes me uneasy:
Notice they neglect to mention whether or not the pepperoni is "real."
Yeah...
I love those tiny pepperoni cubes...
It's the only way I'll eat pepperoni.
How disappointing.

You know what else makes me uneasy?
I'm turning 23 in exactly one month.
Oi... I'm old....
:(

A New Prohibition

My dad "prohibited" jalapeños today.
He also prohibited tomatoes.
... and chicken (?!?!?)
... and onions.

Why?
Because they "irritate the sites of his biopsies."

Three biopsies that were done in his gut...
back in November.

...
...

Now I know where I get my hypochondria from.

As far as the prohibition goes...
Hell no.
No. No. NO.
...
No. No. No. Not gonna happen.
No.
No one takes away my jalapeños.
I'm not going to pay for someone else's inability to control themselves around food.
No.

Little Sister... whenever you feel sad and homesick over there... just... read the type of shit I'm going through over here... then slap yourself for being so silly.

Me estan volviendo loca!!

MY pizza

Yesterday, a grown ass woman threw a bona fide tantrum thanks to me.

Now, I had nothing to do with it... or at least, I did nothing to incite the lady's irritation (I was on my best behavior, seriously... I wasn't even cussing).
No, I was just being me.

I went out for lunch with a buddy, and ordered the same thing I ordered the last time I went to CPK (kiwi lemonade and that one mango tandoori pizza).
I was listening to my friend as she was de-stressing about her bitch ex-roommates (she has a knack for picking HORRIBLE girls as roommates) and all the mean shit they did to her.
So, I was kind of letting my pizza sit there as I attentively listened to my poor friend.

Next thing you know, the woman sitting to my right starts complaining to her waiter.

I did see she was scowling at her plate of food.
Then I hear her:
What is she having?!
I want that!! I want what she has right there!!

So I looked over at her, and noticed she was pointing at me.

Gee, thanks... I'm flattered, lady.

Next thing you know, there's this hubbub between the lady, her girlfriend/partner, their child, their waiter, the manager, and my waiter.

Umm... ok... did I do something wrong here?

They kept coming over to my table and looking at my pizza... trying to figure out what I had ordered... all the while, not going through the trouble of asking me what I was having.
I just sat there and looked at them, my chin resting on my right hand.

Does anyone want to solve this ruckus and just ask me? I'm nice enough to tell you.

Then I figured what the problem was...
The lady wanted MY pizza...
Not a pizza like mine... but the pizza that was sitting in front of me... untouched because I had been too busy listening to my friend.
I guess they were telling her that they couldn't do that... and they took about five minutes to convince her to just take one home when she finished her meal... on the house (lucky bitch. I know I'll do that next time).

Now I know.
Next time I go out to lunch with a friend, first thing I will do upon receiving my food will be to lick the hell out of it.

I may get shot for this...

But Milano cookies are severely over-hyped.

It took 22 years for me to taste a Milano cookie... and now that I have, I'm definitely not impressed.

Also,
Milano cookie + dipped in milk = Yucccccccccck.


I'd rather bite into some garlic than do that again.

Ok, this MAY be an addiction

Sushi Factory on Trop and Jones:

Best sushi
EVER.
Period.

(and it's cheap, too!)

Bee Movie:
Eh... cute, I suppose.
Would I spend ten dollars on it again?
Yeah, but just one more time... ok... maybe three more times just for that one scene where the girl crashes into the mountain and bursts into flames.

Trust me... it may not sound funny... but I was laughing for a good five minutes.

Aren't you supposed to smile when you say "Cheese?"

Older Brother came home from Italy a couple of minutes ago, and what was the first thing he said to me?
Man!! I had the best cheese yesterday!

Good to see he did his homework.

It did bum me out that he took my joke seriously, though.
When he asked me what I wanted back from Milan back in May, my response was:
Taste all the cheese in Italy and tell if they're better than what they look like... and also tell me which one's the best!

I could have asked for anything... and I just got an essay on cheese.
Fuck you, cheese! Fuck you.

***
I was going to cut my hair today... since I last got it snipped on April 13th... but I decided it wasn't an omen I wanted to continue (I did get my hair fucked up that time).
I do need a nice trim though... and some bangs.
Bangs would kind of rock.

My departure date keeps creeping up and I grow increasingly frantic.
I'm scared! I don't want it to come! I'm scared!!

I've been seeing homies these past few days (which reminds me, Minnow, Time's-a-wastin'. You're not ever going to learn Spanish at that pace)... as if I'm going off to war or some shit. Kind of sad.
I hate goodbyes... even if I'll see the people again in a month... they still suck (what if I really die and never see them again? Imagine if I really do fall off a cliff this time... or I get gored by a bull--yeah, it ain't Pamplona, but bulls run wild over there-- or some drunkard takes me hostage? Dear God, why am I panicking?).

Maybe that's why I'm sad?

Oh well... whatever... anything beats being in this hot, hot, sun... and I need to erase what's on my mind... like they do in those Men in Black movies.
*Zap* What happened? Who are you? Where am I? Who am I? (yeah, like I need any more drama when it comes to my identity)

This is hunger? Well I'll be damned!

Mannnnnn!
What a waste of a day!

I woke up at 7:15 AM to get ready for this damn day, I show up, I'm starved for a couple of hours (something I now realize I do often... but I just never knew it was starving. I think it was starving... I didn't eat anything today, and yesterday I only had a homemade quesadilla... then I crashed. Yes, I have issues like that), I listen to some really dumb people not be able to follow proper directions, and then I get excused.
Thanks, dudes.

At least I can now live two years without worrying about being called up by the Regional Justice Center. I'll make sure and commit some sort of felony before the two years are up, and then I can no longer get called up as a juror.
Of course, this is just me bitching about the whole experience because that's what I do.
The thing was alright. I'd do it again, if I had to... just not wake up early to show up to the 7:30 AM call.

I almost was a juror on a criminal case... damn!
Although... the case stirred up a lot of memories I had from back in the middle school days.

"Does any one here know anyone, in person, who has been a victim of rape?"
Umm... no... not that... I can recall... oh wait... I did. Oh yeah! I did! In 7th grade! Does that count?

It's also crazy to see how many people know a person that's been molested/raped... it was around half the room (some of the people I doubted... because a good few wanted to do whatever it took to get excused).

Damn you, court, you bum me the fuck out... you and your criminal cases with creepy Latinos in the Defense that stare at me whenever my name's called because AnoMALIE Dos Santos is a Latin name and they think "Oh! A compatriot! You'll have my back!"

Creeeeeeeeeeepy!
Bone chilling, to tell you the truth... I kinda wanted to ask the judge to ask the dude not to make eye contact with me because I felt a strike of fear in my young, impressionable heart.
I also felt pity... which I don't think was proper... but I guess I may be like that because of my grandpa's recent death. I'm a big softy all of a sudden... crying and "awing" at anything and everything like some sissy.

Anyway, I'm just babbling now... I'm sort of incoherent because I'm tired... and staved... and a little angry... and I'm still feeling sorry for the dude (he's representing himself... no lawyer... and that just made me sad... especially when he spoke with his soft, accented voice. It made me just... ugh... think: Shit, this guy totally fits the profile of a child molester/rapist... but why am I feeling so bad for him? Why is he making me sad?)... and I'm still scared of the dude... sort of.

P.S. The D.A. I was totally eyeing yesterday: Married! (but still so, SO hot! I figured out who he looked like: a cross between Tobey Maguire and David Beckham. Hot, even if I don't like that nerd, Tobey)
The Salt n' Pepper guy from yesterday: Married! (and father of a ten-year-old boy)
I tell you, man, I'm going to be a homewrecker, I just know it!

Yeah, Baby, I like it RA!

For the last... hmmm... maybe 20 years, Mom's tried making me eat fish.


It used to work when I was a toddler.
I still remember she'd force me to eat shrimp with ketchup back when I was around 2 (yeah, I have weird memories in my head. I can go back to being one and a half and having an unfortunate incident in the cradle. I told my Mom the story, and she stared at me, "How do you remember that? You were one and a half?" I dunno... I guess I have a gift for remembering traumatic events).

I remember not liking shrimp back then, either.
I'd sit next to my brother, Mom would bring in little plates for both of us, then she'd sit behind us (with that fucking leather belt--with burros, Charros, and cacti printed on it-- hanging around her neck) and tell us we weren't going anywhere until we finished our 10 little shrimps.
My bro would guzzle them down without any effort.
I remember sitting back staring at him eat each one with amazement.
I on the other hand, would hold one shrimp in my hand... and just stare at it (stupid pink and white headless little animal).
"You're not going anywhere until you're done with that," Mom would tell me.
She'd excuse my brother and he'd leave to the bedroom to play some Nintendo.

After about an hour of sitting at the kitchen table, and me crying and dipping the same shrimp in the ketchup, Mom would leave to the living room to watch her Novela.
"Y tu te me quedas sentada ahi hasta que te los acabes!" (You stay seated there until you finish them!)

Since our "house" was a ghetto, tiny square, any movement to the kitchen would be noticed from the living room:

However, older brother would be sneaky... and he'd wait behind the wall and then crawl on over to the kitchen whenever the Novela played its "suspense" music (I guess this made him feel cool... he had a thing for Rambo around this time).

Once there, he'd eat nine of the ten shrimp on my plate. I remember smiling and giggling because he'd make a game out of it (aww...right now I'm feeling warm and fuzzy inside remembering all this). I guess he did it to make me stop crying. I'd try feeding him my tenth shrimp, but he'd shove it back in my hand.

"Eat the last one in front of my Mom," he'd tell me.
"But they're nasty!"
"She won't believe you ate them all if you call her to show her your empty plate. She'll think you threw them in the trash," (something I had been guilty of in the past) he'd say.

Brother would sneak back out of the kitchen, the Novela would go on a commercial break, and Mom would walk back in to the kitchen to check up on me.

First, she'd inspect the trash can, the surrounding area, the sink, then my plate.
"I'm almost done," I'd tell Mom.
Older Brother would then walk out of the bedroom, head over to the kitchen, and stare at me as I shoved the last shrimp in my mouth.
I chewed that thing as if it were a cyanide capsule.
"Crybaby," he'd say and walk away (to this day, we still have this sort of relationship. Why? I don't know).
"There, that wasn't so bad," Mom would pat my head and leave.

Stupid ass shrimp... getting me in trouble since then.
I've tried to like them, really, but they're just so nasty... yet tasteless. It's gross.
I've also tried liking fish since apparently they're good for you.
It's something about their smell... their texture... I don't know... it's just so... not appealing to me.
To this day, I can't wash the dishes after someone's eaten fish on them because I end up fainting before I finish scrubbing (ehh... I've also had to dissect crayfish--or something similar-- in labs since eight grade... one of the most brutal things you could ever do to me).

Is it because I'm a Pisces?
I am a fish... therefore I do not eat fish?

Yesterday's discovery proved that to be sort of... wrong.
I'm a cannibal... of the worst kind:
I like 'em raw!
Turns out I've just been eating my seafood the wrong way.

Eww, eww, eww... yet... OMG... so damn good.

Thanks to my Sushi-addicted little sister, last Saturday I decided to try... I think it's some sort of Uramaki. Previous to that, I had given a California roll a try, and was absolutely appalled by it.
However, this one roll... it was so tasty.

Me: Yumm... what's this sweet sauce thingy on the roll?
Little Sister: It's... (inaudible)
Me: What?
I eat another one.
Little Sister: It's... eel sauce.
Me: Like... the ugly little bastards that live in the sea?
Little Sister: Yeah...
Fuck... I should probably be throwing up by now... but... it's so good...

So, over the week... that's all I could think about.
God, I could really use some Sushi right now... Screw it, come the weekend, I'm having some of that.
It's what got me through Finals and the study time.

So yesterday, since Fridays have now unofficially turned into "I Love My Sister" day, I went to a movie (The Ex... which bummed me out because I like Zach Braff, and to see the theater so empty made me sad for him) then to RA to take care of my Sushi craving (it's like I'm pregnant or something).

I do like that Uramaki... but I quickly learned that I STILL don't like other types of fish. I think I may just like crab. I tried salmon... and although I had to force myself to swallow that thing (I tried 4 of the little... tiny roll things), I'll probably still eat that kind of Sushi roll. I also tried one calamari (fucking nasty and never, ever, ever will I eat that again. Never.) that made me swear never to put anything like that in my mouth again.
It was still a good way to end my excursion out with Little Sister.

It took twenty years of "You better eat that!" and 21 years of support from the siblings to finally get me to open up to fish. Sure, I haven't fully embraced it... but it beats getting screamed at by Mom and having to dip shrimp into ketchup for hours before finally getting a sibling to eat it for me.

Fuck you, shrimp!