Hit a fist

Word on the street is that my "face hit a dude's fist."

Negative.
The correct way to phrase that would be:
The side of a dude's hand smacked me on my right temple as I stood distracted by conversation.

There's a difference... though undoubtedly I WOULD do such a thing as walk into someone's fist. But I didn't do that this time, this time I was really just distracted when I should have ducked.

It was not serious at all, only messed up my hair a little... but it did remind me how LONG it's been since someone physically hit me hard.
Hilariously enough (I'm being somewhat sarcastic here... it's actually kind of sad), the spot I got smacked on is the same spot I was last punched.
That last punch was nearly seven years ago. Now THAT was a punch. I couldn't hear a thing out of my right ear for a good two hours.
My brother punched me that morning before my ecology midterm... that was lovely.

I guess I'm a good actress when it comes to getting injured.
Maybe I'm just so shy and timid, so eager to be invisible, it's just automatically assumed I'm terrified of getting hit... or something?
Maybe I'm not intimidating at all... just really pathetic? I look fragile and scared... ready to break at the slightest touch?

It's strange to see others concerned after hitting me-- concerned not because they fear I'll strike back, but because they fear they hurt me.

That's a first.

cRAZy kids

I went to bed frazzled as fuck...

Then I woke up to see something that still cracks me up... even just thinking about it.

So, the twelve year old boy is attached to me. I learned how to get him to chill the fuck out and quit pissing me off: toss money at him.

Aside from giving him money (no, seriously... he rummaged through my WALLET... which... at the age of twelve... I NEVER did that... that shit would get my fucking hands slapped so hard I'd lose feeling in them for days), I also play Donkey Kong and Super Mario with him... and not to toot my own horn, but I murder at those games.

Anyway, the boy now thinks I'm pretty legit.

These last two days I've been sleeping on the floor in my parent's bedroom (each night I brace myself to wake up to some traumatic shit, but so far, the only thing that has woken me up is the arctic temperature my parents keep in that room). By the time I wake up and work my way towards the room where everyone is hanging out, it tends to be pretty late.

Not today.

I woke up to some serious laughter.

Why the cackles? Because the 12 year old tried shaving his face this morning.

With MY razor.

You can imagine the sight.

Kid... you're lucky that razor is reserved for my calves...

All morning long, each time I looked at his chin I'd bust out into a chuckle.

What didn't make me chuckle was the fucking chastising I STILL received this morning.

This time, my aunt was the one giving me a talk about how "you don't do" what I "did."

Her parents were worried sick. She's nine years old. That was so irresponsible. What were you thinking?

First of all, I DON'T hang out with kids. I don't know how to handle kids. I DON'T LIKE kids. Second, you guys MADE ME take her with me when I was clearly only intending to take my 20 year old cousin to SUGAR FACTORY. Third, that fucking little heifer was the one throwing a fucking hissy fit at Sugar Factory about "I want M&M WORLD!" I don't know how to handle spoiled, idiotic twats (aside from slapping the shit out of their mouths and telling them to "act right!" But that would have gotten me in trouble in such a public area as the Las Vegas strip), so I did what she wanted in order to get her to shut the fuck up. Last, you of all people, should know this damn kid embellishes the fuck out of her stories. I got this after talking to her for five minutes... you've dealt with her for nine years, you should know this and take it easy on me.

Of course I didn't say what I was thinking... I just wanted the fucking conversation to end. I apologized, said I thought it was going to be a quicker trip (which I DID... but these kids were more indecisive than I am), and that I was very sorry I upset her parents like that (which I was... but when I say "I'm going to the Paris casino to get 20yearold some Sugar Factory," they should have known this was going to take some damn time... they should also know of their child's manipulative nature).

But... again... all I have to do is think of my cousin's bleeding chin, and I crack up.

Crazy kids.

Bruiser

When I started working on this fucking house, I had completely forgotten about tomorrow's event. Though I've been out of Quinceañera commission for ten years, I'm still forced to attend these fucking cotillions (is that what it's called in English?). Tomorrow is no exception to this rule... I must go... and sit around, watching teenagers grind on each other for a couple of hours, all to the chagrin of... everyone.

Fuck... kid's these days... that's dancing? Why don't you just pull down his fucking pants and stick his dick up your twat? Shit. Your parents and grandparents are watching! Tone it down, morons, this isn't EDC!

Sometimes I don't cringe at the thought of this social occasion, after all, it gives me an excuse to act like a girl. But see... the whole painting thing I did the last few days has left some battle wounds:

My badassery came with a price...
I do love the look people shoot at me when they see this at the gym.
If only they knew I acquired this shit after falling off a bar stool... while completely sober.

Not to mention I have very stubborn paint still clinging to my hair.

Mom has some pretty gnarly bruises as well.

We're going to look like a couple of champs at this fucking thing.

Alas, I don't really give a shit, I mean, who the fuck do I have to impress? These things are only frequented by family... and boys looking for a girlfriend... or a chick to grind on for a minute.

Back in the day, you know, when I was still "in commission," I did fantasize that maybe I'd find my next boyfriend at one of these shindigs. I'd be one of the numerous chicks hitting the dance floor... most of the time being part of the... what are they called? Entourage? Like... not bridesmaids, but... maids? Whatever... one of those chicks. I'd dance in the large group of girls, but of course, since my life has been pure discord and bitterness, I was never asked to dance one-on-one with a dude. Nothing like that ever happened. I'd just end up hanging out with the younger girls... who weren't old enough to get picked up by the boys in the "dancing age" (this made me INCREDIBLY bitter... but now that we're older, the "popular" girls have popped out at least one kid, and the "popular" boys are fat and bald and uneducated and working in warehouses... so... whatever. I'm happy they never chose me as a dance partner and chose to ignore me their entire adolescence. It only means I get to ignore them in our late twenties... which... well, isn't that awesome... because I still end up alone... but... hey, I get some sort of revenge... right? Nah. I don't. It still sucks dick and I still carry those wounds in my heart... I'm still that wallflower who feels less than everyone else in the room. I still sit there and wish I were invisible. But hey! Enough emo talk). I was left eternally yearning for the moment where the boy of my dreams walks up to me and asks me for a dance... for everyone to see.
See, guys! I AM pretty! Boys DO like me!
Sounds corny, but it's true. It's my unfulfilled wish... which I will never own up to in front of anyone else.

I must admit, all of this is largely responsible for my stance on love... which is similar to this:

This movie's the fucking shit.

Hmph. Easy for you to say.

So, I can't fully blame the stupidity of the youth for my hatred of Quinceañeras... I have that little secret bit of heartbreak nagging at me the entire time I sit through one of these.

Waiting... just... waiting. Your entire life composed of this, AnoMALIE... and yet, you refuse to leave post. You just sit there and watch everyone else be happy, banking on the hope that one day it'll be your turn. You're an idiot.

I just managed to make myself sad.
... bummer.

High, alright

You know that "runner's high" bullshit?
It fucking SUCKS!

I've been running (ha! unintentional pun, I swear) on two and a half hours of sleep.
I'm fucked up.
Oddly enough, I was amped for the race.
No matter how much I told myself to clock in as many hours of sleep as possible, I woke up at 5:30 in the morning, having gone to bed at 3AM.
Oh shit... did I even mention in here that I was running a 5K?
Well, I did. And I had zero preparation for it... at least nothing special for it, just my usual gym regiment... which is basically: Lift. Lift. Lift. Kickbox. Lift. Half hour of interval sprinting. Lift. Rest. Repeat.
Fuck cardio, dude. I just signed up because I wanted to accompany my breast-cancer-survivor friend.
Running + Me = FUCK THAT SHIT! You're kidding, right?

Well, apparently my body was stoked about this 5K, and I did that shit... but not before getting pissed the fuck off at one of our team members who showed up late. Lazy bitch.
So, I was irritated, and apparently that's the emotional state at which I'm most efficient, because I busted out my first-ever 5k in roughly 27 minutes.
But it didn't end there.
I was so... euphoric... or whatever... that I joined the "walking" portion of my team for their last mile and a half.
I think this "candy" waiting at the finish-line might have had something to do with it:

Yeah, they're probably all gay, but that doesn't mean I can't stare.
The dude on the left... mmm....
I caught myself staring at him with MY MOUTH OPEN a couple of times.
How barbaric is that? Gosh.

I proceeded to chit-chat with other runners downtown, ransacked the booths for free shit, bumped into friends who were volunteering at the booths, and took photos like some celebrity (this was more like me begrudgingly complying, because I really dislike photos... especially right now, after that episode last week).

I walked around for another two hours...
Then I came home.
I was so high on life, I went ahead and ran another three miles on the treadmill.
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON, body? What is this garbage?!

I had planned on knocking out once I got home... but I was too wired.
So I went ahead and went to church, hoping it would make me sleepy (I'm SO SORRY, Jesus). This failed because the priest made service the shortest he has ever done it.

As I restlessly made my way to my car, trying to figure out another form of tiring myself out, I felt it:
I felt the return of... my horrible shin splints.
FUCK YOU, body!

The pain right now is unbearable whenever I put pressure on my right leg. God had compassion and only fucked up that leg... at least as far as I know for now... still have to see how I wake up tomorrow.

I'm once again that stupid injured horse... limping my way around the house... spending most of my time on my belly, like some toddler.

Fucking runner's high...

Something I've failed to mention is that... I was a total Mexican-American today and ran this shit hungover as fuck.
I had the bright idea to drink the night prior... since this "I LOVE LIFE!" kick I'm currently on seems to also translate to "I'm fucking invincible!"
Who does that shit, man? Anomalie does.

More on yesterday's drinking later... once I chill out a bit.
Fuck running, man, seriously, fuck. that. shit.

Klutzy McKlutzenstein

Klutzy day...
1. 11AM.
Sprinting full-speed on the treadmill.
Ok, that's fine.
And then suddenly having the lights go out.
Not so fine.
Damn near took out my knees with that shit. My heart also beat erratically for a few moments.
GOOOOOOD morning, Las Vegas!

2. 12PM.
Kettle Bell swings.
Fun! Seriously.
Underestimated distance between left knee and kettle bell.
Chriiiiiist all mighty!... who needs sesamoid bones, anyway? (I DO!)
Luckily, I banged the knee when the swing was on its way down, which I do as gently as possible. Still, 35 pounds bumping your knee at any speed sucks.

3. 5PM
Interlude.
Time for some Lent Penance Service.
Church was empty, especially when it came to English-speakers... so I went ahead and confessed with my favorite priest: the foul-mouthed Nigerian, Father Innocent.
All was good, I even made him giggle...
Then came time for my penance, my sentencing: Seven "Hail Mary"s AND seven "Our Father"s.
Holy cow! I thought we were cool, Father!
Looks like someone wasn't a good girl (Father Innocent has NEVER given me penance... and now to drop SEVEN of each prayer on me? Sheesh. Way to make me feel like the spawn of Satan)... wooooops.

4. 8PM
Green tea time!
You are so damn delicious!
I drink approximately six 20-ounce mugs a day... because it's so damn delicious.
Everything was fine and dandy, until I reached in the cupboard for a brand new box of tea. The box was stuck to the box it was resting on... and that box bumped a glass jarful of saffron. SAFFRON.
Needless to say, the jar broke... as did my heart... and I lost about thirty-bucks-worth of the damn fucking spice.
I carefully sifted through the broken glass to try and rescue the remaining bits... which I DID.

Overall, the day could have been considered a failure... but there was a major saving grace.
This bad boy:

"Single scoop" of Orange frozen custard.

Lord... I love this place.
I only did what the cone asked me to do.

Adventures in Gymland #24534

Ahhhhh, yes! First week of the new year.
That magical time of the year where I consider taking aspirin to thin out my blood so I don't suffer a stroke from the rage-inducing gym newbies pissing me off.

But there's a perk that I do love from all this: the specials on gym attire!
I live in that shit.
I'm currently crossing my fingers for a discount on these babies... because they're at the summit of my wish-list. They're so fucking majestic... and expensive. Mmmmm.
But until that happens, I just go around buying enough sports bras to fit a soccer team.

Anyway, I've been good about this new onslaught of gym newbies. I'm taking my resolution seriously.
I walk in the gym with a smile on my face, and I've helped out two newbies already.
I also didn't chew out some 50-year-old Kevin-James-lookin'-ass who invaded my space this afternoon during my lifting session.
I did glare at him a couple of times... when I was clean-and-pressing and the idiot was too close for me to perform the lift correctly.
I HAD to glare... because come on, that shit is dangerous... for both of us.

Speaking of dangerous, today I almost died.
Ok, no, it wasn't that dramatic, but I did risk serious injury.
At the gym, I was feeling confident, so I increased my squat weight by twenty pounds (hey, that's huge for me, ok?).
I performed exactly TWO full squats, and on my third, just as I hit the bottom of the squat, I suffered a laugh-attack.
Let me tell you, laughing while in a squatting position... while holding a heavy-ass bar across your back, is NOT the smartest thing you can do.
It felt TERRIBLE. And I got stuck.
I felt so weak...
And I got scared.
OH FUCK! MY KNEES! I'm going to blow out my fucking knees!
AND I WAS STILL GIGGLING!
It wasn't until I thought of how STUPID I would look toppling over with a bar across my back (the noise! Imagine the NOISE!)... possibly hurting others, that I gained my composure and focused on getting un-stuck.
I bared down, straightened out, quickly released the weight, and then continued to laugh like a hyena... even if my "core" felt like I had just taken a serrated knife to it.
Then my face felt hot and I almost cried.
How did I keep myself from crying?
I thought, Hey, at least I wasn't this guy:

Somebody please punch that "trainer."

Fuck. That.

What induced my laugh-attack? As I hit the third squat, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror... and the position I was in reminded me of Darcy. Well, more like a move in which Drunk Darcy was trying to educate the rest of the room on Saturday. He was teaching us how to take a proper shit... you know, in case we were ever stuck in the woods and needed to bust out our best Bear Grylls skills.

The moment I thought of that was the moment I lost control and fucked up.

I'll now have to think of... my parents murdering our pet rabbit, just so I can keep from laughing each time I have to squat.

Something tells me I'm going to have some fun in Gymland this year (or I'll just incur a terrible--but possibly hilarious-- injury)!

Sucker punch-ee

I was attacked by a phantom boxer last night.
There's no other explanation.

I tried taking a picture of it, but the lighting never captured it properly.
Stupid Photo Booth.
Plus, why would I add a ridiculously unflattering photo of myself?

I guess I should explain what's so unflattering:
I woke up unable to touch my nose... the tip of my nose, to be exact.
It felt as if I slept with my palm resting against my nose... making the "piggy" face. You know what I'm talking about... the face you make while holding the tip of your nose back, imitating a snout, and you snort like a pig. That face.
As the day progressed, the pain radiated further. I was unable to scrunch my face (I do that a lot, since I'm Mexican and that seems to be a genetic trait or something... genetically predisposed to be unable to talk or tell a story without making faces) by lunch time.

Once it came time for me to make dinner, Mom walked into the kitchen and asked "Who punched you in the face?!"
I looked in the mirror, and saw my nose was completely red, all the way to the apples of my cheeks (I looked like the piss-drunk uncle at family gathering).
My nose was also completely stiff (as opposed to it's soft nature, which allows for me to flare my nostrils at will. They were rock-freakin-hard).

I really need to take it easy while I sleep...
... or I need to catch the asshole who punches innocent, sleeping people in the face.

-1 Golden Ticket

Note to self #2475839485:
The wall will ALWAYS be stronger than your foot. Please refrain from kicking it, you animal.

I woke up with my left foot feeling heavy.
I removed my sock (so I sleep with socks on. My extremities run a little colder than normal people. I'm kind of a reptile when it comes to that shit. Sue me) and saw what was up.
What I thought was a harmless kick to my hallway's wall, turned out to be a huge injury to my middle toe. I fucked it up AGAIN, almost exactly a year to the day of when it first happened.
This time, however, it was a legit accident. I did not do it out of rage like last time... I was just being a clumsy idiot.

Sweet injury to have, exactly a week before my birthday.
I'll be limping around... looking extra pathetic for my birthday.

OH! (Each time I see that, first thought in my head is Alcohol? Hydroxyl groups are more important than exclamations in my book) Talking about birthday and being pathetic:
It's official, I WILL NOT take part in the mega, hyper awesome festivity that will be the introduction of the Euro Movement to the world.
The stupid thing is actually my cousin's 30th birthday party.
His group of friends did that whole... european alter ego bullshit. He keeps mentioning his "debut" on March... I think twelfth... but he marks it in roman numerals... fucking Superbowl style and shit.
He keeps asking "Will YOU make the cut?"

And nope... it appears I didn't.
My sister did, though.
She was acting like fucking Charlie and his goddamn golden ticket.

I was offended for a few hours.
Then I dusted it off.

It's shit like that which gives me the drive needed to get shit done.
The moment someone is mean to me is the moment my spite levels rise and I SWEAR to succeed at whatever it is this fuck underestimates me on.
In this case, it appears I'm not cool enough (or subservient enough... not sure here). Also, I supposed he's still too pissed at me for that fucking Twitter comment I made on astrology and how people should back the fuck up when criticizing me... because I DO have a science degree, so OF COURSE I understand astrology is FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES.

Ok, so yeah, I'm not cool enough and there isn't much he can get out of me (like he usually gets from chicks. They usually aid in him making connections with important males because these chicks can lure them into his circle by fucking them or whatever... not that my sister does that... but she does lure boys to come hither because she's a lovely, pretty girl with equally pretty/prissy friends).

SO... motherfucker, I'm gonna make you regret that for ever and ever... and I'm gonna love Every. Fucking. Second.

"If you even dream of beating me you'd better wake up and apologize."
His famous last words to me about a month ago. I never "dreamt" of "beating" him... but sucka, now that you intentionally snubbed me... oooooooo! I will MORE THAN GLADLY beat the fucking shit out of you AT YOUR OWN GAME.
Nothing I love MORE than bustin' egos, homeboy.

Thanks for the motivation. I needed that kick in the ass.
ON WITH THIS MOTHERFUCKING PROJECT!

P.S. How 'bout you or any ONE of your stupid, arrogant friends VISIT a REAL european country to see what that lifestyle's about. It's like me throwing a Bollywood themed birthday bash... when all I know about that shit is what I've watched on a fucking soap opera. Get the fuck out of here with that bullshit.

punctuRED equilibrium

Oh last night...
Where do I start?
Ok, I won't recap the night, that's just painfully unnecessary to experience a second time. Let's just say I ended the night almost leaving for the ER instead of my house. Two things were wrong: my stomach and my head.

First, the stomach thing: I have no clue what made my stomach hurt so bad, but I blame the salmon of the night... or... I don't know. It was a sharp pain in my stomach that would make the tips of my fingers go numb. Go figure. I was almost in tears by the end of the night. Totally not fun.

Now the head thing: I ended the night with blood running down my neck. Sign of a good night, right? Not really. On my way out of the showroom, I was hugging and kissing people, saying goodbye, all the usual talkative-warm-Mexican-thing.
Well, suddenly, I felt a guy headlock me from behind... a short dude, because I had to bend backwards.
It was my (very drunk) cousin, and as he went for a kiss on my cheek, he managed to headbutt me in the process... right in the ear. I was wearing earrings that weren't my usual hoops, but rather studs, and I felt the metal end poke the shit out of the side of my head.
At the moment it all occurred, I just yelped a little and pushed my cousin off me, I didn't want to appear any more neurotic than I had the entire night due to my stomach pains (hey, you try being happy when you feel like the baby alien in your gut has turned into a ninja with full blown regalia). I didn't think to touch my ear or anything.
I finally grew a little more conscientious about my ear when I noticed a girl stare at my neck in what appeared to be horror. As I reached for my neck and back of my ear, I felt something warm. I brought my hand back to my face, and there it was-- blood. My entire hand was covered in blood... front and back. It was a disaster, and terribly embarrassing. The blood was oozing out of the fresh puncture wound (blood running all the way from the back of my ear down to my neck) my drunk cousin had made with his headbutt. Sexy.
I had to walk out of the casino with my hand glued to the back of my ear (not literally, but that would have been great).
The look on strangers' faces in and out of the casino were priceless.
WTF do Mexicans do at their weddings?!

Once I was home, I removed all makeup and changed into my PJs, making sure I photographed my misery:

My excitement is palpable, right?

(That one's for you, Mooney. Check out the locks-- damn near turned them into dreads. Putas marañas!)

Oh, and before I end, one final thing:
Know how I was prepared not to breathe the entire night? Well, that was a no go. It appears my freaking body is still dropping sizes or some shit... because my bastard dress kept slipping down. That shit was awesome (NOT!) when it came to dancing La Vibora de La Mar:

But at least I didn't fall (no, that's not my family. It's just some video I found on YouTube that best describes the shit you should expect out of this game).

Busted dreams n ankles

HEARRRRRRRTBREAK!

Ok, not so bad. I was pissed more than anything. I acquired a meanass headache... and somehow injured my left ankle... ??
Too much screaming, too much jumping, I suppose.
All in all, I'm proud of my little guys... except that dumbass Osorio. When all the young guns were sharp, alert, and speedy, he was aloof... and cost us some plays, not to mention that fucking goal.
Ok, no talk of the goals, 'cause I get upset (except when we talk about the third goal, Tevez's REAL goal. Now THAT was masterfully done... a thing of beauty).

Anyway, I'm glad to be Mexican. We find a reason to party over anything.
This time it was a "We're alright... FUCK 'EM UP, GERMANY!!" party.

Of course, everyone gets drunk, the heartbreak returns, and then we start sharing current heartbreak problems over some Vicente Fernandez jams. Next thing you know, I'm tearing up, sharing certain text messages I saved on my phone, and asking people "What is SO wrong with me?!"

...not that I really did that...
I mean, it's just hypothetical....
because I never get drunk... and I never cry.

I'm glad this is all in the past.

I have to go ice my injury now, messed-up ankles are no joke.
("Hot-blooded": for when you refuse to be called "stupid")

Hear yee, Arachnids

Dear Spiders:
I don't get it.
I'm nice to you... very nice. Each time I bump into one of you, whether it be in the wilderness or in my bathtub, I spare your life. I don't get all annoying and scream for someone to kill you.
I often admire you when you catch bugs in your webs... so those too are usually off-limits when I bump into them (well, sorry, I do get rid of them when they're in my house. Is that what this is all about? You're angry 'cause I wreck your home you've made inside my home?).
So, I'd like to know:
Why the fuck are you so fond of biting me?! Not only does it hurt, but it leaves scars.
I've been stupid enough to put up with the multiple bites to my arm and occasional knee bite, but now... now you've crossed the line.
Inner thigh? Really?!
Not cool. It hurts, and adds an extra paranoia I really didn't need in my life right about now.
That being said, I officially declare war.
Fuck you.
Next 8-legged creature to cross my path gets killed; daddy-long-legs, brown recluse (even if that shit is not indigenous to the area), or tarantula (applies now, since I believe I'm going to Mexico next month. Stupid, I know, but I can't help it), you're getting stomped. No mercy.

Dueces,
AnoMALIE

Velvet Sole

I may not be the classiest lady... hell, I may not even be considered a "lady"... I'm not as girly as they come... but I do *attempt* to look like one once in a while... most often with bad results.

That being said,
Can someone classier, girlier than I, please explain why the fuck anyone thought putting velvet on the sole of a flat (shoe) was a bright idea?
What good does it do, really?
'cause so far, all I've really done with those fucking shoes is slip... hard!

Before the day ends, I'm going to end up pulling a hamstring... and I will not be a happy "lady."

PSA

ALWAYS remove any eye makeup before going to bed.
Failure to do so may result in unsightly redness (and sometimes excruciating pain) in the eye(s).

This Public Service Announcement was brought to you by:

Why the fuck is my eye burning at 7 in the morning... and why is my left eye so small?
Maybe it's Maybelline? Well, what else could it have been, Sherlock?!
and
Conjunctivitis, that shit don't play.

I feel stupid.

Why, that's shocking!

For the last couple of weeks, I've been suffering from a very annoying problem.

The problem?

I can't get in/out of a car without getting the shit shocked out of me.
I also constantly feel that gross... tingly feeling... you know... when you know you're charged with electricity... and your hair's about to stand on end.

Well... I originally wasn't going to do anything about it... because this whole electrostatic shock crap never lasts too long with me.

However, the shocks are so damn painful, and so frequent now, that yesterday I decided to investigate what the culprit behind my pain could be (I mainly did it because on my way to school that day, as I was about to get in my car, this huge shock snapped the hell out of my index finger. It made me scream, which then led to my neighbor's dog barking at me quite viciously, then my dog barked right back... and it was just so annoying and loud).

I traced over my steps...
What do I do?
I touch a metallic surface... after coming out of my house...
Where do I go?
School... gym... church... casinos...
What do I wear?
A ton of shi... hold on... what do I wear?

Things started making sense.

1) I'm always wearing these two particular sweaters whenever I get shocked... maybe that has something to do with it?
2) But... when I wear those sweaters to the gym I never get shocked.

What's the difference between me wearing the sweaters to go out to sweat my ass off and me going out to interact with normal people?

MY BRA!!

Ding, ding, ding!

I never get shocked going to the gym because I have a cotton sports bra on...
But when I have to go out, I'm not about to wear something that smashes my boobs together.
As comfortable as it is to walk around in a sports bra... it doesn't look nearly as neat-o as when I wear my favorite bras (my chest defies gravity, I tell ya!).

Over the summer I bumped into the coolest bras ever.
VS Secret has this awesome collection, Secret Embrace (more like Fantastic Embrace!), so awesome that chicks somehow refuse to tell each other about them until you accidentally/out of curosity buy one for $30+... then you become part of the fan club and can't stop talking about how awesome they make your boobs look.
It holds so fucking well, better than any other cups I've come across, the wire I rarely feel (a feat worthy of worship, since wearing under-wire bras typically hurt/bother like a motherfucker), I can change the straps to be regular or racerback, and best of all, when worn, they don't make me look like some lactating mother (problem I'm sure I've mentioned here before, since I often complain about my chest), they make my boobs look fantastic!

So I went crazy and bought myself... too many.

I had no problems with the bra from July up until I started wearing these two sweaters that I really like and wear often (because they're black and warm) a couple of weeks back when the weather turned chilly.
That has to be it!
I checked out the components of the bras and sweaters.

Bra:
80% Nylon, 20% Lycra Spandex

Sweaters:
55% Cotton, 45% Polyester

Nylon + Polyester + movement + cold, dry weather (I looked this part up. Our weather isn't helping the situation out) = One very aggravated, electrically charged AnoMALIE.

No wonder I felt the tingly thing mainly on my chest area! I always thought it was just in my head.

So, now I know what I must do in order to stop yelping and sticking my injured fingers in my mouth in pain each time I step in or out of a car.
I must choose between the following:

1) Don't wear those freaking amazing bras.
2) Don't wear those cozy black sweaters.
3) Remember to breathe into my hands before opening a car door... or just dip my hands in water before touching anything metallic.

You know what my answer's going to be here, right?

AnoMALIE's going to be walking around with a water bottle!

Medicinal, my ass!

I've mentioned many times on here that I'm quite the gullible imbecile.
Here's another example why:

My godson, this wonderful kid: (That day in Mexico was pretty fun... even if I only ate a chicken taco... God, I hate eating)
He's quite the example of good breeding.
Back in elementary and middle school, he was the top student not only of his school and district, but of the entire state he lives in (Durango, in Mexico). Once high school came around the corner, he became more interested in the ladies... and while his grades haven't slipped, he isn't THE smartest kid in his grade (he's friends with this one boy who won some sort of national math competition).

Well, I know this little fact of his smarts not diminishing, per se, just... lessening... but still, whenever he tells me something relating to nature i.e. everything on roosters (his dad's quite popular when it comes to rooster breeding. He has international fame-- I say that because he's known of in the Philippines, haha), snake breeding season (usually the time I'm down in Mexico... stupid ugly ass scary snakes), or the healing powers of plants, I'll believe him wholeheartedly.
The latter I want to dive into a little deeper.

During the first week and a half of August, I hung out with this one girl that's from Cabo San Lucas and was down visiting my little Mexican town because her best friend is from there (the singing sensation I've mentioned once or twice in here). This girl was very, very cool. She cracked me up because she was terribly outgoing... and did crazy shit to amuse us all.

Well, this girl had this huge wart on her left index finger that was the first thing you noticed if she ever made a fist because it's on the right side of the finger.
We all know how fond I am of warts... but this girl, knowing full well the wart was something not very attractive to me (but it wasn't like I stared at the thing either... I didn't even acknowledge it)... made a joke out of it. I mean... I never met anyone that made me laugh because of the way they treated their wart, but she sure changed that.

So this chick, as fond as she may have been of her wart, was also looking for a way to get rid of it.
That's where my godson comes into play.

Godson: Oh! Have you heard of ciricua? It gets rid of warts and also heals deep cuts without hurting any other part of the skin.
Cabo Girl: Really? I wanna try it! You guys have some really weird healing tricks I'm stoked to try out!
Godson: It's this leaf that burns the wart off.
Cabo Girl: Burns?... OK, I'll do it anyway.
Godson: Don't get freaked out when you see what it does to your skin...
Cabo Girl: O...K. When are we doing this?
Godson: I have to go out and look for it in the sierra... so maybe... in two days?
Me: I wanna do it!
Cabo Girl: You have a wart?
Me: Not really... but I wanna see if it fixes two of my fingers!
Godson: Don't worry Madrina (godmother), I'll get you some too.

So it was settled.
However, my godson managed to find the plant when it was too late for Cabo Girl. She left last Thursday from Mexico, and it was last Saturday when my godson found and brought me the plant.
He came over to the house, two of his fingers wrapped with bandaides, and showed me the leaves. He asked to see where I wanted to place them... and seeing as how the areas were small (my right thumb and my left ring finger), he said he'd do it before we started watching "Pan's Labyrinth" and take it off once it was over... to make it two hours that I'd have the plant on my finger.
He smashed the leaf on my fingers, made me get him two bandaids to cover the leaf as it rested on my finger, made me wet the finger to get the area a little humid... and smashed the bandaid with his nail to make the plant secrete more juice.
He then told me I was going to feel it burning me as time went on, but to not mind it.

Ok... so the first hour it was alright... I was expecting to feel the flames of hell or some shit, since I noticed my godson was scratching like crazy the place where he had the leaves placed.
Instead, I felt an occasional tingling going on in my thumb, but nothing on the ring finger.

Then I saw what my fingers were going to look like... why? Because my godson removed his bandaides and washed off his fingers.

They were black.

Godson: Yeah... your fingers are going to be stained black wherever the leaves touched... but don't worry... nothing bad happens to your healthy skin... just the wart.
Me: What the hell?! You mean I'm going to have to walk around with black fingers? I have church tomorrow! And how long does this damn shit last?!
Godson: I don't know... my mom didn't tell me that.
Me: Shit... there's a lot of shit your mom doesn't tell you.

Even after that exchange, and against my better judgement... I left the damn bandaides on for another hour.
By the time I was washing off the leaf juice, I was burning like a motherfucker and my fingers were super black... and not to mention getting blistered! (Photo taken about three hours after removing the bandaides. You can't really notice it, but my nail was starting to turn purple/yellow)

Regardless of the unsightliness, I thanked my godson... and believed every word he said.
Godson: The wart's just going to fall off... like... crumble.
Me: Wow... amazing. Mexican medicinal plants are the shit!

Well, ladies and gentlemen... they're not!!!
It's been a fucking week, exactly... and my fingers are still black... my thumb still has a blister the size of... an extra thumb... and nothing has "crumbled" off.
That Sunday I found out you were only supposed to leave the leaves on for 15 minutes.
I had it on for two hours!
(Photo taken as Godson and I looked outside the Internet Cafe window while we waited our turn for an open computer. Hand to the right is mine, the one with the fucked up middle finger is my godson's hand)
I've had to carry on this past week like some damn... black plague carrier... or frostbite victim... constantly putting on bandaides if coming into contact with another human is required that day in order to hide the unsightliness of my fingers.

The worst was on Thursday, while I was making the trip back to the U.S. My thumb swelled to its biggest level that day. I went as far as putting on a bandaid five minutes before crossing the border... out of fear that the border patrol officers would become suspicious of my condition and not allow me entrance to my own country until a certain amount of days in quarantine... and I have school to attend Monday... so fuck that shit.
In order to go to church today, I had to place bandaides on both fingers so people wouldn't be frightened to shake or hold my hand.

Ah, my godson... such a sweet kid... but he fucked his godmother up good (I feel the liquid in my blister shake whenever I move my thumb around... it's so damn gross and painful. Stupid Ciricua plant).
(picture taken today, like... right now)

All the pretty Scene Kids.

I'm handicapped for the weekend. I feel like such an old lady!
I was doing my typical hour cardio yesterday early afternoon and everything was fine. however, once I stepped off the treadmill, and began my stretches, I noticed something was up with my lower back.
What the... hell... did I do to my back?
Stretches I can do for five minutes each were so painful to me, and I couldn't even touch my toes.
Dude, either I've just gained twenty pounds while sleeping, or I just... f*ed up my back.
(I must admit, this lent thing is really annoying me because I'm starting to sound like Ned Flanders with all these invented words I use to prevent myself from cussing. LAME life to live.)
As I attempted to stretch a little more, I noticed the pain wasn't going anywhere, and that it was only increasing. I therefore limped my ass to my room, thought that taking a hot shower would help, but even then I was having problems. I can only imagine how ladies feel when they have hip-replacement surgery... it was bad.
Now, I could have had an OK day trying to recuperate, but this damned injury occurred the day of the Cartel show. Hmm... stay home and rest my bad right hip... or go to a concert with the homies? Well, hello! What am I gonna need my hip for, anyway? Let the show go on!
I limped all over the place, unable to take long strides as I walked... which could have been a disaster in the parking lot if we would have arrived later (totally possible with my slow ass that takes 3+ hours to pick out an outfit-- as much as it may appear that I do not).
My two friends and I stood against a wall the entire time, and I had to be standing because bending down was quite a painful hassle for me (I can't even feed my dog, for crying out loud!).
I have no idea how long it's been since my last English-speaking concert, but man!! have things changed! Where the hell did all these scene kids come from? What in the... what are they thinking when they get ready to go out? How are they going to explain some of their hair/clothing choices when they get older and see pictures of themselves?? I would have taken pictures of some of the worst styles I saw, but I didn't want scene kids to flock to the flash like the moths they are (if you're a scene kid, bite me!). But let me just say: if your hair resembles a skunk, or like if you've just been in a brawl--and lost-- with a pack of wild Dingos, please don't let it smell like it too.

Anyway, the bands preceding Cartel were great. Very talented as opposed to previous bands I've been subjected to (their names I no longer remember due to their my-balls-are-being-attacked-with-an-ice-pick high pitch piercing my eardrums, forcing my brain to enter survival-mode, entering a catatonic state where nothing is memorable now). In particular, Quietdrive where the lead singer busted out a violin and won me over (bring out a string instrument, play the s**t out of it, and you'll win my admiration for life. That's just the orchestra-nerd way). All the bands had a great vocal quality to them... and Cobra Starship... well... Gabe's just one hilarious man. That's another fast way to my heart: crack me up, and make fun of yourself, and you'll have me forever. Plus, Gabe was the best dancer up there... that guy can rock to any beat. Viva Uruguay.
While Cartel played, my best homie wanted to buy merch, so we went outside. So much smoking was going on, I swear a day of my life has been shaved off (one less day of painful hip-replacement surgery to put up with, I suppose). While out there, band members of Boys Like Girls went out, were semi-mauled by 14 year old 4'8" girls, and signed autographs. I must say... the lead singer is one gorgeous man. Nice as well... signing crap like Starbucks containers for little dumb girls who'll have ulcers before Senior year of High School.
The worst was when Gabe from Cobra came out. Now that guy was mauled. Best-homie and I were caught in the middle of the action and were smothered against Gabe's tiny ass/long legs.
"KISS ME, GABE!"
KISS.
"AHHHH!" (I feel sorry for that girl's future boyfriend... I hope she doesn't pull off that kind of stunt after he kisses her)
How can people deal with that s**t? How can people do that to others? After a while I was more like: F*ck it, let's go. This s*it is aggravating me and my ass is being touched by unknown s*it... and luckily I have no penis, or else I'd be about to ass rape this poor guy if we don't leave this damn crowd now.
The whole time I stood there I thought of Cameron Diaz and how she says autographs are stupid, and how reportedly she'll lecture a fan who asks her to sign one on just how stupid autographs are.

Dude, Cameron, you got a point there (but I still got Gabe's autograph... haha).