Oh, sweet babies...

Oh, Notre Dame! Babies! What was that? Way to break my heart.
I'm not even mad... it was an incredible, amazing, exhilarating season. But I am sad.

Too sad to update properly.
I'm also sleepy as fuck.
So... here's a nice little thing to say adios today.
The hundred-word minimum can go fuck itself this year.

IRISH!

Shhhh!
Let me enjoy this for a week.

Number one team in the country.
Yeah. That's right.
Mmmm.

I'll take it! Thanks!

Ouuut!

Positive thing about this slight depression I've been dealing with is that I've been creative as hell.
Slowly, but surely, I'm going back to my regular self.
Last year, no matter how hard I tried, I could not doodle a damn thing.
In the last two days, I've drawn three sketches and finished two paintings. Pretty solid start... and my drawing aren't even depressing... even if I have cried a couple of times while sketching.

Overall, I'm back to smiling shape. I was even friendly in kickboxing today... even if I had one chick continuously invading my space... reeking of fried chicken (no lie. And if you're going to reek of anything, can you make it something NOT deep-fried? Like... maybe you went on a cherry-eating spree... or mango-eating-spree... even some bread-baking-spree. Fried chicken? Baby girl, stay home and digest that shit on your couch!). I wanted to kick her, but I just had to chill out... by taking wider strides in my side-lunges.
You call that a lunge?! THIS is a lunge! Hopefully that'll teach your stupid ass next time you want to invade someone's bubble.

There was a slight blip on the smiling today, thanks to soccer. I had to frown when I saw Germany lose. Yeah, I was shitting bricks thinking they would make it to the finals and rape my Spanish boys... and I should probably be happy someone stopped their rampage of terror... but I was kiiiind of looking forward to a rematch of the Euro 2008 Final. Seeing the disappointed players on the pitch, after the match, made me sad. Plus, I have acquired this freak crush on Michael Ballack thanks to his ESPN commentary... and he kind of reminds me of Jason Bourne... so DUH! He's also pretty funny when he's in a good mood. Aaaand there's that bit about Darcy being for Germany (I'd be lying if I said he wasn't all... fucking adorable in his damn Germany jersey. Then again, he'd be hot rocking a fucking burlap sack, as far as I'm concerned)... so... if I felt bad for a stranger--an ex-Chelsea player-- of course I'm going to frown for Darcy when his team fails to make the finals.
As if frowning about the surprise exit of Germany wasn't enough, as I switched the channel, I managed to catch the end of Nadal's Wimbledon match... where he was knocked out by a total nobody.
What the fuck, Sport's World? What is this garbage?!
So... there goes my interest in that fucking tournament... although... I'm still in if Federer is still in. Is he? I love him, even if he's not as aesthetically pleasing to my eyes as Nadal... 'cause come on... Nadal? That ASS? Hell yes! I'm just sweet on Federer because he's an incredible human being, aside from his athleticism, of course.

ANYWAY, I'm done for now... I still need to finish up a quick painting before I lose inspiration.
I like being normal, chirpy me.

You're out

Heartbreak.
Heartbreak.
Heartbreak.

This season... so... it's such a great metaphor for what has happened in life.
I think that's what has me most upset.

Por mas que quieras convencerte que todo es posible... que no es un sueño guajiro... alguien te regresa a la tierra... de un chingaso.

Dreamers don't like to be reminded that... yo, wake up, homie, you're dreaming again.

I was at a Chente concert...

Mmmmm.
Yesterday.
Good day.

This morning... not so much.

Yesterday, the pregaming began as I played board/card games with a couple of white folks (I say that lovingly... mainly because as a Mexican, boardgames are just... so not... popular. We do other shit... like drink and get pregnant. I'm glad I have "white" friends to show me the ways of this country... right?).
How'd that go? Fun and snack-tastic. I blew my morning's heavy leg workout after snacking on the nachos and fresh, giant chocolate chip cookies at the cardgame spectacular. Was it worth it? Ummm... I'm on the fence with that one... since I think nachos are a waste of tummy space with zero nutritional value... or flavor. The cookie... I would have eaten another two had I not guilt-tripped myself about the goddamn nachos. Fucking nachos. Maldita basura!

After that fun-packed afternoon, a drunken display of Mexican pride ensued.
How so?
I went to go see the icon of Mexican music. The man, the myth, the legend: Vicente Fernandez.
Knowing I was going to deal with the entire Mexican population of the city of Las Vegas, I had to do something to prep: Drink.
Trick to Chente concerts is to pregame shit before arriving to the venue. Makes it a little less painful.

Sis and I took a tequila-filled water bottle, braved the stupid ass traffic in the parking garage... and once parked, swigged the fuck out of the bottle.
Good thing.
I'd like to take this moment to apologize for... my people.
GOD!
What these eyes saw...
This is what people associate when the word "Mexican" is dropped... Lord, have mercy!
People were fighting for about an hour near my seats... all because motherfuckers don't understand NUMBERS.
Dyscalculia is this prevalent amongst Mexicans? I'm definitely not gonna breed with them, then. Shit, my kids would be fucked.
About 90 percent of the girls present were in tight miniskirts/dresses... which, I mean... can be OK under certain circumstances... and when you have a smoking bod...
... but not when you're a 45 year old mother of three. COME ON, LADIES! WHAT THE FUCK?!
About 60 percent of the girls in miniskirts looked like streetwalkers... the other ones looked like simple floozies. The streetwalkers were identifiable based on their hairstyle and choice in makeup... sometimes their shoes.
I started feeling bad after the 100th girl I saw in this attire. I became self-conscious because I was wearing dark jeans, black TOMS, a black button-down shirt (showed off my cleavage... which made me feel somewhat Latina when I walked out of the house... but not once I stepped foot in the Mandalay Bay), and a black track jacket. Peer pressure was getting the best of me.
Oh no... I stick out more than the whore-y girls because I'm dressed like I'm going to catch a basketball game... Fuck... should I... umm... unfasten the top button on my shirt... maybe?
I decided to TRY and be a little... BAM! out there, so I took off my jacket and pulled down my shirt a little.
There. See. Yeah. I'm a Mexican girl. Enough? Cool. Now quit staring at me as if I were an alien. Look at the chick over there in the leopard print minidress and seven inch metallic heels.

Aside from having to deal with people... which we all know I'm terrific at... I had a blast.
I took videos of some of the songs... which I did think about posting, however, Mom's screaming in ALL of them, so they're a no. And yes, I'm screaming in some of them... which is extremely embarrassing, but DAMN, those songs just know how to cut me deep.
Aca entre nos, siempre te voy a recordaaaaaar!

Also, a magical moment I had was while making line for the metal detector at the concert.
There were some big screen televisions on the side of the building... I think it was a bar, but considering the mass of sombrero-rockin' Mexicans blocking the entrance, it could have been anything.
Anyway, at one point I turned and saw the majority of people in line were watching the game that was being played.
What game? The UNLV vs. UNC basketball game.
I believe it was at the point where the score was 82 Rebs, 72 Tar Heels... and everyone in line started chanting "RE-BELS!"
My heart filled with joy... who cared if so many of these short, obnoxious, drunk men were staring down my shirt... we were all rooting for the Rebels!

Ah... t'was a great day/night... even if at some point we lost part of my sister's car... and then I woke up unable to speak for a few hours.

RE-BELLLLLLLLLLLLS!

No Love

I'm never again talking about marriage before going to bed.
I had a horrifying nightmare last night where I dreamt I married some random dude. I was disillusioned with love (which is true, I suppose) and just agreed to marry the first schmuck to ask me (something I claim to be able to do). Within minutes of saying "I do," I felt like shit. I asked for a divorce... actually, I clearly remember saying "I WANT THIS ANNULLED!" and he was refusing, so I screamed "I DON'T LOVE YOU!" and he was like "I DON'T CARE! YOU'RE NOT GETTING ONE!" and I started to cry.
I was having a damn anxiety attack when I woke up with my heart beating out of control... at six in the morning.
Ugh... horrible.... just horrible.

Anyway, to forget all this, I'll write a story about what comes to me first: Basketball.

That Rebels game last night... I was in pain for most of it.
What bugged me most was this one relative of mine who is a clear-cut example of a fair-weather "fan."
He will lick UNLV's balls when everything is going great:
When the school gets ranked.
When they're on a winning streak.
When they make it to the big dance.
He'll be looking for anything UNLV related. He will rock UNLV, tweet UNLV (when he's not too busy hashtagging "eurolife" at the end of all his fucking tweets. Shit drives me INSANE, considering he has never stepped foot outside of the US. How the fuck you gonna claim Euro Life when you've never even seen it? One day, when I was in no mood to hear his bullshit, he eurolife'd a photo of pho [which, FYI, that shit's VIETNAMESE]. Sister and I had enough, and we openly mocked him and his eurolife buddies. We hashtagged "rancholife" meaning... well, "Ranch life," 'cause that's what we are-- we're Mexican hillbillies, regardless of how many fucking blazers and oversized sunglasses we may own... it's just in our blood to know how to start a bonfire, how to pick out ripe fruit, and we'll always love the smell of wet dirt after it rains. We're rancho people. Accept it! Embrace it! Sorry, that was a very long tangent), claim UNLV (he DIDN'T go to ANY college)... basically, he'll be an obnoxious motherfucker.
But Jesus Christ, the moment the Rebels fuck up in the slightest, he's the first one to put them down. "I've said this all season: UNLV IS OVERRATED!" "It's official: UNLV SUCKS!""UNLV DOESN'T KNOW BASKETBALL." 
Yeah, ok, prick, and that's why we have one of the top ranked basketball programs in the country and why we're one of the winningest teams in history (I feel my grammar sucked dick in that sentence... I just don't care to fix it). Shut the fuck up!

This hater-ism brought me back to my basketball days.

I wasn't on the team back in my Durango days... because I detested my time there and all I wanted to do once the first bell of the day went off was return home and get as far, far away from the kids there. They were MEAN.

No, my basketball days began at my other school, which was brand new when I was a Junior.

Since we were new, guess what... we SUCKED.

It wasn't that we wouldn't try... it's just that we were all so young, we had no chance against the well-established schools who had Seniors on the squad.

Our practices were brutal as hell, too. Every single day.
The entire season, I vomited twice. I cried once... and I would have cried more often, but each time one of us wimped out and began to cry, we'd have to tack on a suicide (that drill where you run back and forth, at intervals, the entire court. The biggest pain in the world). FUCK. THAT! The girls already hated me because I was once responsible for TEN of their suicides (consecutive, no break in between. They wanted to kill me by the third suicide)... all because I couldn't make a left-handed layup (SO. HARD. I still get cold sweats when I think about making one). So crying was out of the question.
Anyway, I can still remember which games we won, and what the final score was. Why? BECAUSE WE ONLY WON TWICE! Once against Clark (worst. team. ever) and another time against Durango. I remember the Durango one most because I scored the first 14 points of the entire match (I did that shit out of spite. Fuck you, Durango!).
During practice (you know, as I gasped for air and complained of side cramps and all that typical shit losers complain about), the coach always "encouraged" me to play ALL my games like the Durango game (she would have encouraged me to play like I did the Clark game, but that game I was ejected for elbowing a stupid fat bitch in the face after she charged me. Fuck that shit. I ain't scared of no goddamn rhinos), and I'd be busy fighting the urge to say "Awww... but I like losing! There's nothing quite as fun as faking an injury to be able to limp off court as if you only lost because you severely rolled your ankle as you were going for a rebound. Losing's fun! It's the only reason I do it!"
Of course losing sucks! Of course I wished I could be rebounding every fucking ball. Of course I wished I could make buckets from all angles of the court. But shit just doesn't work out sometimes, and that's when you need your people the most.
I was lucky to never have any of my people during the two games where I kicked ass OR the rest of the season, where I'd be benched for missing an hour of practice due to me choosing AP History study sessions, but I'd be lying if I said it wouldn't make me sad.

Ehh... all this talk made me forget the point of the entry... so I'll end with this:
Bandwagon, fair-weather fans: EAT A DICK.

Sure enough

It hasn't been a week, and I'm already moody/mean as all hell.
I walk around like a zombie... I respond with monosyllabic grunts when shaking/nodding my head seems like too laborious a task, and I curl up on the bed/sofa/floor and fall asleep within minutes during random times of the day.
Then tomorrow... ugh. I'm so scared for the Mexico-France game, I've decided not to watch. Instead, I'm going to run at the gym with my headphones on until the damn match is over.
I'm going to look up the game's result in the same fashion I'd look up my biochemistry/molecular biology/mammalian physiology exam scores: with fear, on an empty stomach, and with lots of tissues... ready to bawl my ass off... and if I'm lucky enough to be home alone, I'm going to scream.

This is fucking torture. Good thing it only comes around once every four years.
(Oh man... and today's Spain game... I could not... I was... living-dead girl, man. I didn't cry because I was too shocked)

P.S. If I hear a Ke$ha song one more time... I'm going to look up that bitch's address, drive to her house, ring her doorbell, and punch her in her throat. Bitch can't sing... if I want to hear a drunk sorority girl mumble, I'll just drop by Maryland and Harmon, shit.

Basket case

My patience as of recently has really been waning.

In church today (man, I was reminded why I avoid mass on Sundays... it gets PACKED) some folks sitting to my right were a little too eager to get their money in the basket, and instead of waiting for the basket to come to them-- so that they could pass it on down to us-- they shoved the money in the face of the people in front. That way, the nice people in the front row could put the money in the basket for them (make any sense? I mean, visually, because logically it just means they're fucking impatient retards).

I became irritated, and signed the letters "r-e-t-a-r-d-s" to my sister.
She pushed my hand down.

Sister: Shhh... what if they understand?!
Me: They don't even know how to work a basket!

I'm mean.
Grrr.

And talking about things that go "Grrr,"
¡GOYA! ¡GOYA!
¡CACHUN, CACHUN, RA, RA!
¡CACHUN, CACHUN, RA, RA!
¡GOYA!
¡¡UNIVERSIDAD!!

¡¡Vamos Pumas!! (pardon my super Mexican-ess right now, it just runs in my blood to do this. Although... I never get this excited for UNLV. I celebrate UNLV happiness by being a little more gringa and doing things like... screaming "Yeaaaaaaaah!!" all the time)

My boys made it to the final.
Santos 4- Pumas 5
God, I really need to get into la UNAM.

¿Cómo no te voy a querer?
¿Cómo no te voy a querer?
Si mi corazón azul es,
Y mi piel dorada,
Siempre te querré.

I don't care if they don't beat Atlante (I have a thing for them too, but my heart belongs to Pumas), I'm just glad they beat the unstoppable Santos.

And that's the end of my fútbol talk.
:D

A Spaniard in France... how dreamy.

Yeahhhhhhhhh! Rafa won the French Open!!

I love this boy... who cares if he's younger than me, his hair's longer than mine, and his eyes are tiny... I love this kid (his body's so dreamy)

!

Kiddo made my day... even if Federer losing kind of made me sad.

However, you can't win them all.

Mexico lost to Honduras in soccer today.

Bitches (shit... I say that about both teams. Fuck them all).

Oh well, I understand I can't be pleased 100%.

At least the team (person in this case) that won plays a sport I care more about (well, I love soccer and all, but when it comes to American teams, my heart's not fully into it. Especially if it's not the World Cup we're talking about here. Just some lame-o cup of the Americas... or whatever).

Go, Rafa!!
(What can I say? Sundays are my sports days)

AnoMALIE: Bad Luck Charm

Yep, I spoke too soon.

Looks like I'm the bad-luck charm for any sport's team/person.

Go Spurs!!
(please work!)

Ruff ruff.

Sheeseh... it has been a rough start to the weekend for the Dos Santos* girls.

First off... well, let's erase Thursday from memory... I don't want to cling on to such bad memories.
Yesterday was rough. I hate The Joint... I detest smoking... and I think smokers should be forced to inhale their own smoke by putting some sort of helmet on.
Motherfuckers ruined my concert experience... as did that one horrible third band.
I was also uneasy at the concert because at one point, they started playing the Suns-Spurs game on all the screens due to some sort of... technical error. That only made me wonder what was going on with the stupid game even after having made the decision to not watch basketball for the rest of the season.
Bad idea... especially since the Suns got booted out of the playoffs... by a team with some bastard fiance to Eva Longoria that has that placed on all his stats (tell me the assists, tell me the points... tell me his marital status? Ah, no thanks).
Then today Manchester United lost the FA Cup to damn Chelsea. Fucking Drogba... why must you be so good?
At least Rafael Nadal's still doing all right in tennis (don't fail me now, Mallorcan boy!)

However, I didn't have it that bad. Sure, my right hand is covered in green ink from the stamps provided by TAO and The Joint (it's so hard to wash off!), but at least my car isn't covered in sticky glue.
Why do I say that? Check out what two of my sister's co-workers did to her vehicle yesterday:
The post-its say "Friday!!!" and "Viernes!!" since the co-workers have that day off, and Little Sister doesn't.
I wish I encountered this type of banter with my co-workers... sort of.

*I have found my new last name!

You mean that's not cool?

Call me crazy... but getting advice (and taking it) from my underage baby sister and her equally underage best friend on proper nightclub etiquette/attire just seems wrong.

How the... you know what, AnoMALIE... who cares how they know. Shut up, listen, and I guess it'll work. I'm a nerd, what do I know?

On another note: I hate Bambi (the car, not the movie).
Today, a day Chase needed a ride, guess where my whore of a car was? Not in my driveway, and that's what matters.
Stupid ass car... I can't wait till they sell that bitch and my parents finally stop whoring out my damn vehicle.

I'm pissed.
(and yesterday's game, while the Suns did win, is reposible for a great deal of my anger. I'm not watching basketball anymore... I'm done. I hate jackasses that are jealous of Nash's greatness. Cocksuckers)

Must... get... away.

So... so freakin' tired.

My eyes hurt.

My brain hurts.

I've barfed.

I'm in a shitty mood.

I'm practically barking at people.

I'm tiiiiiredddddd, damn it!

(and now, I must stop typing like this, because I'm starting to feel like I'm writing Rosie O'Donnell's blog)

I can't wait 'till finals are done.

Till then (and I'm still fucking doing it!), I'll have to entertain myself by looking at funny pictures of "celebrities":

Oh, Nash, I had just told everyone how badass you are...
And, shit, I couldn't be any more right (that loss to damn San Antonio probably added to my bad mood today)!
Look at that dance move right there...
Hollaaa! Cool cat right thurrrrr! (granted, this is a couple of years old, but still)

Get up, you son of a bitch 'cuz AnoMALIE loves ya!

What a way to ruin an otherwise placid Cinco de Mayo.

Why couldn't my family like something like... NASCAR (ahaha... ok, ok... I kid there)? But, no, I really do wish my family would find entertainment in something less barbaric than boxing... and I wish I hadn't given my heart to Oscar de la Hoya. Curse you, Barcelona Olympics of 1992!

Yep. I participated in the typical Cinco de Mayo festivities... I studied, I ran, I cried, I had breakfast at 4 in the afternoon, I went to church, and I finished it all off with a Scotch on the rocks alongside my grieving uncle, aunt, Mom, and two male cousins while watching the De la Hoya- Mayweather fight (we probably should have been praying a rosary or something).

We're so hardcore.

However, I did turn down a Cuban cigar... so I guess that would make me a pu... wimp (or, you know, a girl).
Yes, no matter how hard I try, this Monarrez will always be the wussiest of all.
It didn't help that for most of the fight, I was reading a magazine, looking away, or shielding my eyes.

"Why... ahh... why in the hell... oh my God! Why would he do that?!"
That's all that was coming out of me. That or:
"Oh man... I can't watch! You can do it, Oscar!"

And like all the good Mexicans, I screamed:
"Oh, what the fuck?! That's bullshit!"
When the final decision was mentioned.

I could easily be complaining right now... or pointing out the good parts of Oscar's boxing... but I won't.
Whatever, we all know who the good guy is in this case.

I'll just go to bed, fuming a little... and hopefully it'll only give me more strength to study for these damn finals.

Eeeek. I'm scared (and a fucking spider just crawled all over my left arm... I fucking hate the boonies!)

Wussies de mi corazon!

"What's that you say Mommy? You mean... my hopes and dreams are going to go down a hole similar to this one?"
(Hey man, I just found an album loaded with my childhood pictures, and I'm posting as many pictures that are in any way relevant to my entries as possible before I forget they exist)

Check it.
Only freakin' Butters and his endlessly adorable wussiness could cheer me up from the pain of this loss. We were so close.
Nice try Rebs. Nice try (that damn shorty from Oregon's gonna give me nightmares tonight).

***Reminiscing Time! No need to read further***

Just for you, Chase, check out the photo in its entirety, since I'm always talking about my ghetto hood:
Summer 1987. I was 2, bro was 3, and my little sister was in the womb (ew).

-That's the ugly ass Jeep I talk about all the time... the thing we'd have to jump start so many times before any of us were older than 8.
-Behind the jeep is this tiny shack that burned down the summer of 1995 while we were in Mexico.
-To the top of the Jeep we have a carpet-- yes, a carpet-- that our anal neighbors put there because they would park THEIR car in OUR driveway. They claimed to have lived in the area longer than we had, therefore they had every right to park there, and use the carpet to shield their stupid Firebird from the sun with that carpet. They moved the winter of '92, and we were finally able to use our own "driveway." First thing we did was get rid of that damn thing.
-The white building behind my very pregnant mom is the little apartment that was divided in two so that two families could live there. One of the families was my equally pregnant (Man, how Mexican is that?) aunt there in the blue and one of her kids is visible through the window of the Jeep.
-That big ol' tree was cool... but half of it fell on top of our house (which isn't visible because it would have been to the left of the picture) spring of 1997. So many of us ran into it while playing the game of kickball and running from third to home base. Two kids passed out thanks to that. I also carved my name in it like 6 times.
-That red wooden fence also caught on fire, but that was in the summer of '92 when we were once again in Mexico (fucking pyromaniacs seemed to like the season). There was a missing piece near the bottom where cats and drug dealers alike would slide through whenever the kids/cops of the neighborhood were pursuing them. I avoided that gap at all costs.
-On top of the fence, that big wooden pole protruding there with some rope, that's where all three backyard-sharing-families (my aunt's fam., my anal neighbors, and us) would hang clothes to dry. One of us would always have to be on the look out for druggies/prostitutes/pimps/criminals who would want to steal/smell our clothes until they finally dried. That sucked. I lost my favorite shirt like that once.
-That backyard is the backyard where that one kickball story I wrote for C.W. took place.
-Oh! That brown thing where the carpet's hanging from was our "porch." We lost about 10 balls/Frisbees/Barbies to that thing. Also, cats loved chilling up there and doing their... cat things. Each time it rained, the water would leak through a giant whole right above the area the Jeep's parked at. In turn, it would make that entire area smell like cat piss. My brother and I were playing under the "waterfall" the day my parents brought back my new little sister from the hospital. Because of that, Mom didn't let us touch Little Sister until we took a bath. Rightfully so.
-That little boy in the booty shorts is Older Brother. AHAHAHAHA.... ahahaha... man... ahahaha!
-The inquisitive little girl is baby Anomalie... pre-StarBright story. Awww... :(

I could talk about things in this photo for hours, but at least now you know what it all looked like... and I won't have to try so hard to describe the place. Ghetto... but... I was ok with it... just not when bodies were found stabbed to death/shot in the chest in front of the house (oh! that would be the area my mom's standing at).

Cristiano, your "too good"ness keeps me coming back.

Cristiano Ronaldo, you're the only love in my life! Aside from scoring the only goal in the Manchester win yesterday, that guy just knows how to make me smile when I'm having a rotten day (take from an article on ESPN):

He told Sky Sports 1: 'For me it is a penalty. Why when Cristiano is involved is it always polemic?"

Asked if he knew why controversial decisions seemed to follow him, he said: "I don't know why. Maybe some people don't like me. Maybe I'm too good.'"

Yes, you are, baby... yes you sure are...

***Edit: I have decided to remove the rest of this entry due to the fact that so many people goole "Cristiano Ronaldo" and I wouldn't want them reading my problems, because honestly, who does?***

P.S.: All you haters out there, give the boy some credit. I hate how some asses attack him because "he can't even speak English." Look, homies, there are plenty of people who are born in English speaking countries and still can't master the language. Make that accusation against those people, if you like, not against a Portuguese-born-and-raised boy that rocks at the sports and because of it, get exported to different countries.

Also, don't act surprised because he knows how to use "big words." He may look like a "himbo," but you should already know by his game that he's quite the smarty pants (and c'mon now, since when is "polemic" a big word? "It must come from the french 'polemique' and since Portuguese is so similar to French..." c'mon now! Spanish, French, and Portuguese have Latin roots.... and... I'll stop now... cause I'm not a linguist).

nana-nah-nah-nia-nia!

Thanks for bringing it back (no Justin, not your sexy, although, thank you for that)

Finally!
I go to a school where a sport I'm actually following wins something!

Actually, no, I take that back. I remember the Durango High School days when I'd walk into the gym and see all the trophies and whatnot (oh... but I must go back to my original claim and emphasize: actually following. What did I care about women's bowling? And women's volleyball I liked while playing, never watching).

A far cry from my Sierra Vista days... I think we won maybe... a state title in wrestling (and once again, what did I care about wrestling that wasn't cauliflower ear- related?).

It's been five years since my basketball days, and it's just now that I can go back and watch a live game without getting the urge to jump off a balcony and end the pain.

It takes a while for me to get over traumatic experiences... and that time spent on the basketball team really messed me up good. Sure, it made me lean and mean... but oh, the emotional drama and the bitching! I think it was my junior year of high school where I decided never to hang out with so much estrogen in what remains of my life ( 2-3 girls in my group of friends each time I go out, max. Any more and someone ends up in tears or missing some earring).

I was the only idiot who actually followed directions, showed up to practice (missing only two and having that waved in my face for the rest of the season; while some bitches would be smoking weed outside the gym and showing up an hour late for practice with a brownie in hand), and had good grades (straight A's... minus that one B in that sexist-son-of-a-bitch Mr. Thomas' pre-calc class). These girls were bitching about dealing with pre-algebra and I was busting my ass in A.P. history... and they still got to start.
If it weren't for my Dennis Rodman skills, I probably would have been benched the entire season. Fucking bullshit. Instead, Shawn Marion's little sister took my spot (but she was the nicest of the group... so I think it was done intentionally because they knew I'd never bitch at her... and who could hate on such a nice guy's little sister? Bastard coaches).

I sometimes have nightmares of running suicides and making lay-ups. I hated those things... and I still can't do the left handed lay-up for the life of me.

All that practice, and all that... trauma, for nothing. I think we went... I have no idea... but I'm pretty sure we won about 4 games... and who starred in those games? Me! But nooo... let the cry-baby, idiot, ballhog girl have her way and drive us into the hole because she wants to have a school record with 23 points a game... while the other team out-scores us 75 points!

Oh! And the spectators! Freakin' A! The spectators! I'd always get the urge to just run into the stands and knock over the pushy, loudmouthed, lazy-ass moms screaming at me.

I'll block your fucking pork of a daughter all I want! The point IS to keep her from scoring. It's not my fault she can't mow me down like the rest of the team when she charges. Tell her to quit thinking she's the 5'2" female version of Shaq. Maybe that way she'll quit getting so many damn personal fouls called out against her.

Moms would be having a cow because I'd be able to stand my ground (unknowingly... I'm just accustomed to having people lunge and me not budging. Comes with the territory of being the playmate of an only-brother) and their dumb daughters kept getting caught after about the fifth time they charge me (I scored about 50 points that way). Then they'd get pissed if I managed to catch up to their slow offspring and strip the ball from them. Give me a break, man.

These moms weren't nice. What 45 year-old woman calls a 17 year-old girl a "motherfucking cunt!"? C'mon now! Call me that when I can't get hauled off by school security after slapping you around a bit, dumb ass lady.

Then I'd get the occasional:

Damn, girl! Look at that ass! You just keep jumpin'!
Can I get yo' number?

The gender of the people screaming that would also vary. You'd try to be nice... tell them you don't swing that way... but so many mini-Iversons following you to the locker room would eventually turn traumatizing 'cause you'd find yourself sizing them up from time to time thinking "Yeah, I can take her if she came at me."

It'd be worse when they'd eye you from the sidelines, only to get a feel on you during a rebound or their so-called "screens."

Dibs on the Latina with the two French-braids. Umm.
Fuck... I knew the braids were a bad idea...

I've never felt so much ass-on-leg action in my life (and I wish never again). Not even the lambada compares. Those were moments I wished I were short enough to play point guard instead of forward.

See, it's not pretty... and it was stressing the crap out of me... not to mention it gave me shin-splints like a motha...

But let's just forget about that sad part of my basketball-loving experience. It's just great to know that it's in the past, and UNLV, of all schools, made me feel better about watching the sport. Thanks fellas, you really rock.

Haha, Older Brother! Your fighting Irish may have gone to the Sugar Bowl (how the hell did you spend all that money, retard?) back in January, but my Rebs actually won their shit! (Not hating on Notre Dame, how could I? They introduced me to the ever so handsome Brady Quinn! Plus, I own a jersey, pajamas, and a sweater all with some sort of ND-affiliation. I can't really despise a team whose logo I rock)




Victory feels good.