VvG

I tell you, if one wants to be active, one must not be afraid of going wrong, one must not be afraid of making mistakes now and then. Many people think that they will become good just by doing no harm — but that's a lie, and you yourself used to call it that. That way lies stagnation, mediocrity. Just slap anything on when you see a blank canvas staring you in the face like some imbecile. You don't know how paralyzing that is, that stare of a blank canvas is, which says to the painter, You can't do a thing. The canvas has an idiotic stare and mesmerises some painters so much that they turn into idiots themselves. Many painters are afraid in front of the blank canvas, but the blank canvas is afraid of the real, passionate painter who dares and who has broken the spell of 'you can't' once and for all.

My apologies for the length of that last post... but the memory has been haunting me quite viciously the last few days.
His words... that exchange of words where he mentions the red dress... reverberate in my head.
I can still see his eyes... so big and wide (he DID have pretty eyes... even if I didn't like him like that--even while I was his girlfriend), as he spoke to me.
I can still hear his scratchy voice... like that of a cartoon character... with a slight lisp.
I can still remember that game of hide-and-seek.
It pains me.

Often times, I get the urge to visit him... but... I've never visited anyone in prison... so I don't know how that would go down.
I also do that thing where I wonder what life would have been like if I would have cared more about him. He showed me his gentle side, yet I was that bitch who was too... embarrassed? apathetic? to associate with him.
Who knows, maybe he would have taken me down with him...
Can't think of the other possible outcomes... or else I bum myself out.
I just hope he's ok, and that he has found some sort of peace.
I'll always remember the sweet boy, that's for sure.

...
Speaking of being sad, I finally got the green light to get inked.
Yeah. Seriously. Ain't that shit crazy?
I was reading up on the life of van Gogh, you know, because life isn't depressing enough, and Mom came over.
I then read to her my favorite quote of his.
Me: Can you guess what this means: La tristesse durera toujours.
Mom stared at me with a frown on her face.
Me: I love that quote. I'm going to get it on my body.
Mom: ...
Me: Because... nothing rings truer for me.
Mom: ... I didn't know.
Me: I haven't gotten it yet, lady.
Mom: No, I didn't know you felt that way. You think sadness will last forever?
Me: In some part of my heart, yeah. Always.

We then sat there talking about the placement and stuff of that nature.
It was that simple.

Happy Mother's Day to her...

Case #58663 against exhibitionism

Last night was one of the most terrifying of my life.
Ok... not THAT terrifying... I've had too many of those to make that big of a deal here, but the fear did momentarily paralyze me.
What happened?
D was a forgetful exhibitionist... that's what.

Last night I was supposed to hang out with her and a couple of friends, but around five in the afternoon I became sick, so I opted out of the girls' night (that'll teach me to go mental on some chocolate donut holes... I STILL feel like going outside and having a truck run over my stomach).
I did, however, agree to help D select her wardrobe and all that girly shit.

Since I was feeling sorry for myself and moping all over the house with my sugar-induced intestinal armageddon, D had to look for me each time she had to show me her outfit.
She was rocking a red minidress with some textured stockings when she found me complaining to Mom in the kitchen.
Me: WHY do I have such a weakness for chocolate, Mom?! I'm such an idiot!
Mom: Chocolate is so gross. So gross.
(can you believe that?! How. The. Fuck?!)
D: Look! Is this outfit stupid?
Me: Unless that outfit's name is AnoMALIE...

D opens up her leather coat. I notice the red minidress clings a little too tightly to her belly.

Me: Uhh... try... uh... picking up your pantyhose so it can... uh... push back... suck in your... because... the dress is kinda... clinging to your... bellybutton...

Now, whenever I have to readjust anything, I try doing it as inconspicuously as possible. It's that Mormon past life of mine... the Mennonite. I'm just never comfortable showing more than my ankles and elbows.
But my sister... that kid... she'll strip down anywhere. She has a runway model complex or some shit.

What does D do, right there next to the fridge... in full view of both me and Mom? She hikes up the dress to her bellybutton and starts tugging on the pantyhose.
What's so wrong with that? Mom and I are both girls, right?
Well, D has tattoos. Many of them. But in hidden places...
Sadly... one of the "hidden places" was not so hidden the moment she hiked up her dress.
The visible tattoo was this giant black-and-red rose (which wasn't the problem) with the words "Every Rose Has Its Thorns" written around it (bingo!), which is located on her left hip... which usually gets covered by her underwear... just not at that moment.
Once I noticed the visible writing on that dipshit's hip, I looked over at Mom, to see if she was looking.
Please... please, please, please... sweet Lord Jesus Christ, all-mighty savior, please, please PLEASE don't let my m-ahhh-mmmm...
I lost all feeling in my feet, arms, and head the moment I saw Mom's eyes glued to my dumbass sister's hip.
FUCK MY ASS! IT'S ABOUT TO GO DOWN! OUR WORLD IS OVER! THANKS A LOT, YOU FUCKING RETARD!
Still... with visions of my obituary running in tomorrow's paper, I maintained my calm demeanor.
I coughed a few times... and when I noticed the imbecile--better known as my sister-- wasn't catching on, I sternly said
JUST. GO. TO YOUR ROOM. AND CHANGE. CHANGE.
D froze.
I looked at Mom. Mom opened her mouth.
Herewegoherewegoherewego....
Mom took a deep breath... then closed her mouth... then exhaled.
D slowly lowered her mini dress, turned around without making eye-contact, and slipped into the hallway.
I stood frozen-- like what I imagine a soldier feels when ambushed, enemy holding the cold barrel of a gun against the back of his head.
Mom didn't make a move. She didn't look at me.
We're going to die. We're all just going to fucking die. Fuck.
From her room, and out of Mom's sight, D started miming at me.
D: Did she see?! DID SHE SEE?!
Should I speak? Should I shake me head? Mom's going to sense me shaking my head and know we're talking... she'll know I'm in on it. Fuck me. Fuckmefuckmefuckme. WHAT DO I DO?!
I nodded.
Me: Take it off. Take it off. Take it off! It looks FUCKING TERRIBLE, D!

I then started rambling. I can't say what the fuck came out of my mouth, because I swear I was having an out-of-body experience. I don't remember ANY of my nervous smalltalk.

The rest of the night I expected Mom to make her move. I expected the ax to drop.
I woke up this morning, still jumpy and ready to get slaughtered in some way.
But it never came.

I also checked up on Mom, making sure she didn't suffer a stroke from the pent-up rage.
But no... she has been very nice and relaxed, watching her Sabado Gigante and DVRed novelas.

That woman saw the tattoo.
That tattoo stirred something in her.
That woman is going to exact revenge.

This waiting game is fucking killing me... which is probably that woman's game plan.

Mexican moms are NO JOKE.
And while I don't have a single centimeter of ink on my body... I'm guilty by association. She knows I know this.
I'm fucked.

NO! WHY?! MAN!

Ladies and gentlemen.... she has done it.

My cousin finally got her 5th ugly tattoo. ...
Now... I remember what was said the last time she got a stupid tattoo...
and I'm a girl of my word.
I'm pissed she took my spot though (ok, secret's out. Besides the tattoo I'll get on my left wrist, I'll also be getting one on the right side of my ribcage)... but whatever.... man... I'll get it done.

I'm just torn between calling her Popeye or Linnaeus.

Inked

Just-Turned-20-Year-Old-Little-Sister: So... today I found out my tattoo artist has a mad crush on me.
Me: ...
Little Sister: He told Papita* he thought I was the most beautiful girl he's ever seen.
Me: ...
Little Sister: And he asked her for my phone number and I told her it was cool to give it to him.
Me: ...
Little Sister: I got a picture of him as he worked on Papita. Wanna see?

(Shows me picture of a very attractive, short, but super built Filipino with a pretty cool sleeve going up his right arm)

Little Sister: Imagine... how am I going to introduce him to our parents?
Me: You have a tattoo artist??
Little Sister: Yeah, remember?

There are days when I just want to punch myself unconscious.

*I stuttered one day as I was saying this girl's name, and the end product was "Papita" aka "potato chip" or "little potato" in Spanish. I still don't know if the poor girl's forgiven me for that embarrassing mess up (embarrassing because she's kind of... chunky, so being chunky with the nickname of "potato chip" doesn't seem very nice to me).

Where the hell are you going?

Talk about addictions: Geeze!! 19 year-olds these days!
My cousin, the one with the weirdo tattoo of the letter "A," and also the one who tYpEZ Nd tALks LyKe diSS OMG! hAHa! Yey! YipPEe sKipEe! She's gotten yet another tat:I must say... I'm starting to get VERY envious... and I'm a push away from telling her to start picking nicer tattoos! Who the hell does she think she is? Popeye?!

One thing's for sure: If this kid gets another one... I'm gonna have to say "Fuck it" and just get mine... at least mine has a damn meaning... unlike Mademoiselle Popeye over there.

P.S. I'm so freakin' addicted to that stupid commercial about the Springs Preserve! That song is so, SO catchy. I find myself bouncing to the song... and a huge smile crosses my face... and that dumb little turtle is so fucking cute! But I can't find it on-line!! I want that fucking song! (The entire commercial wouldn't be too bad either. Stupid adorable commercials. How come I can easily find the Orbit commercial with the Lint Licker line, but not this one? Yeah, the Orbit commercial is awesome, but I also want cute!)

It's not permanent... yet.

How am I feeling the day after receiving the life changing news? This sums it up pretty damn well:
Although I'd have to wedge "Fucking" between the "Don't" and "Panic" (and I know that would infuriate some die hard HHGTTG fans in the science department) to stay true to myself.

(To sum everything up that occured today/late last night in a nutshell: my parents are disappointed in my score, and I just don't give a flying fuck anymore. There's no damn way to please these people. No damn way.
"Why didn't you inherit my love for school?! I was almost a prodigy!"
I was seconds away from screaming "You two only went to sixth grade! Of course you did well and loved school! I did too at the age of twelve!" But no, I bit my tongue because it's holy week... and only because)

Wasn't I just talking about ugly tattoos the other day?

When don't I talk about hoes?

Just now I did some... study for a psychology grad student. It was about teens and sexuality. The scenario I had to read concerned a 15 year old girl who was caught having sex with her 42 year old teacher.
I was asked a couple of questions, and I can't help but think I was a little too lenient on the teacher and harsh on the girl. Oh well, a hoe's a hoe (if the 42 year old teacher looked like Ed Norton... you can't blame the girl, anyone would have banged him).

Talking about hoes!
Over the weekend I finally gave a name to my car. I drove Best Friend Chase down the parking garage and the conversation sparked up.
B.F.C.: Why don't you like your car? It's pretty and shiny!
Me: Because it's a whore.
B.F.C.: It's silvery-tastic!
Me: Yeah... but that's exactly the thing... I see way too many silver 4Runners driving around.

Then I remembered something I had done over the weekend.

Me: That's why on Sunday, my car's name dawned on me.
B.F.C.: What you call it?
Me: Bambi.
B.F.C. was quiet... I'm sure thinking: WTF? What's so special about that? I thought you liked Ariel.
Me: Mom thought I named it after the Disney character, but I named it after a stripper/whore. There are tons of Bambi's out there dancing for money and giving head for crack.
B.F.C.: Oh... (and I'm sure she was thinking: That's sad, AnoMALIE, real sad)
Me: But I guess that's good if a kid ever hears me mention my car's name. They'll think I'm a Disney fanatic, and not someone who's pissed over how my car's the household slut. Everyone drives the damn hoe.
(Silence)
B.F.C.: So... what'd your sister name her Jetta?
Me: I dunno... probably something like "SeXXXy."

And that my friends, is very true. My car gets ridden more often than any of those hoes you see on the Maury Povich show. It sure as hell gets more action than any of the other 3 cars in the house. Gotta go grocery shopping? Oh, let's hop into AnoMALIE's car. Gotta go to church for the third time this week? Oh, let's get in AnoMALIE's car. Gotta drive down to Lake Mead? Well, hello! What else is AnoMALIE's car there for?
Fuck that, Bambi's not my car... she's just there. I have no car. I disown that sleazy vehicle.
...
...
I take it all back! She's never been bad to me... which now she probably will be thanks to me being an ingrate. I'm sorry, Bambi! Take me back!


While we're on an ugly subject, let me show you one of the ugliest tattoos my eyes have ever seen: Now, I truly hope she never finds out about this Blog... I might get beat down (the owner of the tat is Pregnant Cousin's Little Sister, aka PCLS from the Cheddar Fries story). But come on now! That's just fucking ugly. I'm not a tattoo hater, in fact, I like them a lot. I don't have any, but who's to say I'll never get one. Sure, my mom would freak the hell out: Who the hell's gonna want to marry you now?! You've just disfigured yourself, AnoMALIE!
But, I'll live. I could always marry a circus freak and tour the world with him. AnoMALIE and her one tattoo: Married to the Lizard Man that eats bugs for a living. Yeah Mom, that'll happen because of a single tattoo.
However, once a tattoo's there, it's there to stay. If I'm going to upset Mom so bad, I might as well make the permanent mark worth my while. Make it attractive... possibly have some sort of meaning (I've thought about having an integral drawn on my ankle... or something math-related cause I'm a fan. I also joke with B.F.C. about having the structures of purines and pyramidines drawn on my shoulder blades; I can never keep them straight in my head and it's cost me a ton of easy points in my college years. I need a permanent mark of those fuckers and my torturous years as a bio student).

But THAT thing? A lopsided heart... with a letter A that has a tail end reminiscent of a sperm? P-L-E-A-S-E.
The most I'd ever be able to pass that tattoo off as is an interpretative take on my conception: The heart is my mom's unfertilized egg, full of love for her unborn child, then comes the sperm found on the tail end of the letter A. The A could be significant of all the hoops and whatnot the sperm undergoes while in search of the egg. Also, A would be my father, because he chose my name, which has A as its first letter (I'm taking PCLS's point of view here, her name starts with an A).

Badddamn! There you go... and THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how I bullshitted my way to an A in all English classes... and Philosophy 102.
Thank you, thank you very much.