Cliff Hanger

(Been working on this on and off since the first week of June. ...Life.)

Damn, this change in altitude beat my ass.
It's not that I had difficulty adjusting to the sudden spike in altitude, but coming back down has made my brain feel like it was left in the clouds.
However, I am back to 100, coherent enough to continue discussing this Peru adventure.

And in quite possibly the best segue ever, let's talk about health.

I was scared out of my mind as I prepared for this trip. I thought I'd be a nervous wreck in the airport, but there was so much bullshit to wade through once AT the airport, I barely made my gate in time to board.
Nerves once again began to enter my system upon arrival to Panama City. Everything up until that point had been a complete mess, I felt unwilling to test the boundaries of my luck, so I stuck around the airport... just shooting the shit with other passengers, listening to some very fucking shallow and ignorant conversations (little did I know I'd only hear more of this entitled bullshit throughout my trip).
BUT I SURVIVED.
I met up with my two travel buddies and all was well. I listened to these well-travelled, adventure nuts (I mean that positively, no shade)... hiking aficionadas... and they let me know that while the hike would be difficult, it would be manageable. They came to the conclusion that Bone would most likely be leading because she's speedy, Spence would be last because she felt so out of shape, and therefore, I'd be in the middle... because I'd just pick up on everyone else's cues.
And I was cool with that assessment... because the only "hiking preparation" I did was my weekly treadmill stroll where I'd walk as long as my CandyCrush lives permitted (usually about three miles. I'm a fucking Candy Crush savage).

This is where I kick myself in the ass for not following my personal TOP travel rule:
Travel with those of a similar fitness level.

I have observed, repeatedly, that travel SUCKS BALLS when I go about it with someone who is drastically below my fitness level. When I'm too fit for my companion, I spend my days frustrated as fuck because of the slow pace I'm forced to follow. I will be a fucking caged lion-- aggressive and resentful as shit towards EVERYONE.
For the most part, I'm fast paced, as much as EVERYONE cares to NOT believe this. I can take down the fittest little bastard out there... because I can go for extremely long periods of time without eating OR drinking thanks to my ghetto, anorexic start in life (from 6th grade up until college, I never ate breakfast OR lunch. I'd fast my way through school. Always. Elementary school I'd only have lunch, except for 4th grade, when I couldn't even do that because of those horrible girls who'd kick my ass every day. Good fucking times, growing up). I have a difficult time identifying my "hungry" signal... so I will plow through my day without having a bite to eat for an ungodly amount of time. This, I've noticed, will bring down even the most physically fit brute of my clan... because they're fucking normal and never starved themselves for a decade or so... also, the healthy, fit folk's energy will start to wane because their muscles will start to demand fuel. I have my fat storages all over my body... I'll be fuckin' goooood. It's like watching my biochem book come to life.
I READ THIS WOULD HAPPEN! OMG! HOW EXCITING!

Ok, so with that preface, let's continue with the Peru trip.
Let's move on to Spence, the "out of shape girl" (in her own words)... but Jesus Christ, more like "the injured girl."
Before the hike, we had been walking around Cusco for a few days, becoming acclimated to the altitude. I was good... I wasn't even suffering from shortness of breath. The natives were surprised, constantly warning me that while I may have felt great the first and second day, the third day would be the real test-- they were correct.
I was feeling great! My companions? They were hammered with massive headaches, fainting, and barfing all over the place. We went out to purchase altitude sickness pills, and they started to take their dosages. I pranced around Cusco, pushing my lungs to see how much activity they could handle (I was slightly scared, because I've suffered from cardiac arrhythmia since birth... neither side of my family has a good ticker).
So I was the freak of nature, while my company was getting scared. Our last dinner before the hike (which was by far, hands down THE BEST meal of my trip, top five EVER in my life), Spence came clean with her health issue.
"So, I really didn't train for this trip... I came down with plantar fasciitis... so I found training nearly impossible," she said.
We were all silent.
"Well... I broke my foot like two years ago... and it still acts up once in a while, so I'm not too excited about how my feet may react to five days of hiking," I tried to commiserate with her.

We packed our  bags (good god, the drama on this subject. I'm a night packer, they are early-morning packers. This caused so much fucking discord among us, I still feel my intestines twist with rage), went to bed, and the following morning (5:30AM), we were picked up to start the first day of the hike.
Within the first five minutes of the hike, I realized my CamelBak had a leak-- my left side was slowly becoming wet with each step I took. Instead of getting upset, I laughed... because the water was acting as a coolant, since the heat was so intense, my shirt would never get beyond moist before it was dried by the sun. The ONLY downside was that the fucking CamelBak was heavy as shit.
Anyway, there I was, the newbie hiker, at the end of the line, waiting on Spence, who was dead last. I figured someone had to stay close to the girl, in case she injured herself or... suffered a medical emergency... it was the fucking morally correct thing to do, I tell you!
Bone moved ahead with the group (we were three groups, each group with no more than 15 people. My personal group had 13. At the end of the day, all three groups would rest at the same camp ground. In total, we were about 50 people), group which was growing increasingly frustrated with the incredibly slow pace of Spence (I was lumped with Spence because I was waiting for her... and since the group wasn't aware of HER injury, they automatically assumed I had something to do with it too. I mean, I'm no tiny lady... I am fucking enormous, and if I've learned anything in my life, it's that my body type is QUICKLY underestimated/dismissed as FAT, slow, and useless).
Each day, we'd have two breaks-- lunch time around noon, and resting time at camp at the end of our day, around 6PM. Our first day, due to the unprecedented SNAIL pace of Spence, EVERYONE took the lunch break for about an hour and a half. Upon our arrival (Spence, Bone, and I. YES, that's how far behind we were. I definitely do not blame those kids for being pissed at us), they picked up their shit and jetted for our camp site of the day. Spence, Bone, and I had TWO minutes of break time... a time I had been looking forward to because I REALLY needed to shit (TMI? Too bad).
I don't know if everyone is like this, but the moment you keep me from emptying my bowels, I will fucking resent you... and use every last bit of self-restraint to not choke you to death.
I. Was. FURIOUS.
I was angry at Bone and Spence for dragging me back, angry at the group for being angry at us, and angry at the hiking guide for not allowing us to use the fucking toilet.
I was being considerate of my injured teammate, I felt it unfair to punish me in such a way. It's one thing to keep me from shitting after sitting around the house for hours, but hours of hiking... your goddamn bowels move... they move a lot.
So... at around 11AM, the group was moving towards our first campsite, my group of friends were busy taking selfies at the ass end of the group... and I was angrily stomping up the mountains (hiking boots, while being lifesavers, are HEAVY AS FUCK), wishing the worst on everyone for not allowing me time to shit like a civilized human being.

Angrily stoping through up this fucking beast.

So we keep hiking. Within five minutes of continuing with this hike (I believe I said this happened within the first half hour of the hike, but in reality, I meant first five minutes of "THE hike" aka, the rough, real part, away from civilization), I see a body drop like a fucking sack of potatoes. I believe I discussed this traumatic sequence of events in the previous post.
I saw a blue shirt plunge past the bushes and the group gasp. This is where I cry, as I speed up to join the group to see who the fuck just killed themselves.
I saw the littlest of the group, T, was down at the bottom of the mountain, five meters below us, assuring us all she was ok. Her man, Dave, was pacing back and forth, clearly worried and saying "T, I told you not to walk so close to the edge."
(T fell because she took the outside edge of a cement barrier used to divert the brook we were following. Naturally, it made a cascade on the curve of the mountain. The rock T chose to jump over--instead of carefully climbing over the cement barriers, hugging the inside of the curve-- was wet and slick, resting on the outer edge of the barrier/moutain. She slipped and tumbled down the rocky mountain side, to the next cliff which was five meters below)
Our even tinier tour guide, Will (He was about five feet tall... no joke), scrambled to the bottom and helped push T to the top.
The group was urged to continue with the hike along the babbling brook we were to follow to our camping site. Will stayed with T and Dave, providing first aid to little T and her scratched left thumb, while the rest of us continued with our trek.
After about two hours of hiking quietly, the rain started to pour. This was where T and Dave caught up to us, then passed us. I looked behind me and hardly saw Spence in her hot-pink vest WAY THE FUCK behind us... and I threw my morals out the window.
Fuck this shit. I'm cold, everything's wet, my boots are sticking to the mud, everyone's impatiently waiting for us... and I REALLY need to take a shit. FUCK waiting on people.
I fucking gunned it and walked towards my goal-- the end of this fucking brook.
When I thought my hike was over, what appeared to be a flat trek toward a blue tin barn... I was met by rocky hills... rocky, muddy hills. This is where I almost cried of frustration.

At my absolute worst... most homicidal I have ever been,
and will probably ever be.

"WHEN IS THIS GOING TO END?!" I almost broke down.
This is where I see Will walking up to me, and he tells me I just have one more hill to climb, and that when I get to camp, I should tell Washington the cook to start serving dinner.
Exhausted, pissed off, and with tears building, I reached camp.
Bone and Spence had yet to show up, and the rest of the group glared at me as I entered the hut.
"Are the other two girls and Will close?" asked Veronica, the second tour guide.
"Yeah, told me to tell... Washington? that he could start serving dinner... that they were close enough," I said.
I took off my drenched back pack and tossed it towards the other bags. I grabbed my walking sticks (goddamn poles are life savers) and tossed those muddy bastards on top of my bag.
Like the disheveled asshole I was, I glared at the rest of the group, already having a great time with their personal discussions at the far end of the table.

The promised land.
It's gorgeous. And has a toilet.

I sat down at the other end of the table and tried to control my trembling legs... and tried even harder to keep from breaking into sobs. I realized I was hungry... but I also really wanted to go to the bathroom. Just as I was trying to make a choice between waiting for my food in the company of these hostile backpackers, or storming out of the shelter in the middle of the rainstorm, in search for a fucking toilet, in came Bone... this fucking... never-ending ray of sunshine... as though she had just stepped off a cruise ship.
The hostile group increased their negative vibes to an insufferable level, and I decided I had enough. I went in search for a toilet, and quit giving a damn about the rest of the group... let Bone take care of that shit.
After hauling ass through mud, I found the very clean toilets.
I almost cried from the relief I felt (obviously, I did a lot of "almost" crying. Even when I find myself completely alone, I still find it hard to release my tears because I know the moment I let them out, all hell is going to break loose and controlling me will be damn near impossible for a few hours).
Upon my return to the dinner table, I noticed everyone was in better spirits, siping on their coca tea and munching on some popcorn. I served myself a cup of coca tea... and all was well with the world.
I sat in a somewhat catatonic state... drinking my hot tea... not giving a shit to say a fucking word... and waited for my food.
After meal time, we were walked to our tents, were we each chose/settled (as was my case, because I was the last one to "choose" my tent, which obviously, doesn't involve much "choosing").
The group was to make a "quick" hike up to a lake, but considering the mental exhaustion, I chose not to participate. Spence was physically incapacitated, so she was unable to partake in the lake hike, and Bone had no desire to go "alone."

***
Considering it is now mid-July, I'll stop right here... clearly where I never intended to end when I began typing this... but if I don't post now, I probably never will.
There will probably be two more parts... because this fucking five day hike had so much bullshit to it, on all aspects, "Health" being only one of them... and I promise it has a somewhat redeeming end... and there will be less commentary on my bowel movements.

The players

I suppose I'll jump right into the hike portion of my trip (as opposed to my favorite part-- the motherfucking delicious food).
I'm still amazed over how a situation like HIKING for five days can make a disparate group of 13 foreigners bond stronger than 13 years of grade school.
There were laughs, tears, plenty of vomit, falls, foreign language lessons, dance lessons, bruises, political debates, slips, broken nails, toilet paper drama... all sorts of shit.

Let's start this series of posts with an introduction of the newly formed family.

First, we had the father-daughter duo, ze Germans: Daddy Post and Jo.
This group was precious, and was where we acquired our adoptive father. They were from Hamburg, with the daughter residing in Dresden before she left for Lima on some study-abroad program. Living in Latin America made Jo realize she loves the family life and the tightness displayed by the culture. She now has plans to return with her folks and siblings to Hamburg, and be more open with her feelings. This of course, has made Daddy Post incredibly happy. They took this trip as a way to tighten up their bond before the big changes occur in the Fall.
From them, we learned our team mascot of sorts: the morgenmuffel. We were ALL morgenmuffels.
Just... angry, irritable, non-morning people.
"WHY ARE YOU TALKING?! We were all woken up at 3:30AM!"
Best. Word. Ever.

Second, we had the Dutch-Australian couple: Dave and T.
This couple had been traveling around the world for a year. Dave is a biology teacher, a year older than I, and the girl is a tiny pistol of a woman who... I'm not sure what her job was, but I do believe she has a kid or two? Anyway, they are a very well-traveled couple, super adventurous, and curious about the world. Dave was very friendly from the get-go, very quick witted, and T was a go-getter, brave woman. This couple had our adrenaline pumping within an hour of our hike when T FELL OFF THE MOTHERFUCKING SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN. YES. From the angle I saw her drop (completely different form everyone else, because I was a good chunk behind them. She fell at a bend of the road, while surrounded by 10 of the members. I had yet to reach the bend), I thought I had seen someone plunge to their death like a sack of potatoes. I literally started to cry, tears uncontrollably rolling down my face... the thought of reaching the horrific scene overwhelmed me. However, resilient little T made it with only a scratch on her left thumb. Had I taken the fall down the cliff, I certainly would have broken my neck with my bulky-ass-self, but she rolled like a pro and managed to climb back out of the ditch.
From this couple, we learned our motto: watch your fucking step.

3. The Iraqi siblings: Sam and Lita.
This brother-sister due was adorable. Sam, the young brother, is a recent college grad. Lita, his older sister, was joining her sibling on HIS grad trip around South America. I was surprised to learn she's only five years younger than I, her baby face made me think she was a recent high school graduate.
These two were always at the head of the pack, taking a wrong turn on the first day of the trek, needing to be rescued by our tour guide before they burned too much time (they burned about an hour and a half with their detour).
From this duo, we learned our second important lesson: ALWAYS listen to your guide's directions on where to stop.

4. The college grads: Casey and J.
These two boys were... boys. They were part of Sam's frat family... and it showed. Warming up to them was difficult, because they were stereotypical American youngsters. They always pulled too far ahead of the group, and hardly gave a shit to converse with the rest of the crew. It wasn't until the third day where J's love of rap music and basketball (the basketball was obvious, since he is well over 6'2"... but the rap thing was totally out of the blue, since he is as geeky, lanky white boy as you could ever imagine) came up in conversation when I mentioned NAS that he suddenly perked into life. J and I became pretty tight after that conversation, often catching him smiling sheepishly when I'd call out to him by his name... that was cute. Casey... that guy... he was the cold one. We had moments of warmth with him, but he'd suddenly revert to being that rebellious, somewhat unlikable American frat boy.
From this duo we learned: not all is what it seems.

5. The scientist couple: Cat and Alvin.
I fucking LOVED this couple! They were the most endearing Filipino-American couple who were initially hard to crack. Cat would speak up during lunch/dinner time, but in the shiest manner... we could hardly hear her. I would watch her gather courage to speak... and it would warm my heart. She always had awesome contributions to conversations, but she had to wind herself up in order to spit it out... or would have her boyfriend interject "Oh! Cat has something really cool to say about this subject. Go ahead Cat, tell them." Alvin was very stoic at first... finally cracking when he realized we had much more in common than we imagined-- he grew up in the same California town as where my uncle, we were both med school drop outs, we both liked Atmosphere, sports-team loyalties... and same level of sarcasm. After day three, we were like siblings.
From this duo we learned: quiet people are usually worth the patience (well, everyone else learned that... I've always known this, considering I'm part of that tribe).

6. My two friends: The Muppets.
These two ladies have known each other for a while. One of the girls... let's call her Bone, has been my friend since high school, and the other I met on this trip. Bone and... Spence have been friends for something like ten years or less. Anyway, they definitely have more in common with one another, since their friendship is fresh, and they live in the same city. They had many inside jokes, and a very similar sense of humor... really loud laughs. People in the group would often... sort of exclude them, because these two girls would be in a world of their own... not to mention, always the last two on the trail... by at least half an hour. The nickname was given to them by our hilarious German dad of the trip, and he meant it as a compliment.
From this duo we learned: quick wit can make tense situations into laugh-fests.

7. Me: The narrator.
I was given the title by the dad, since he said I was more of the calm portion of the trio, responsible for translating the humor of The Muppets to the rest of the group.
I was the tallest female... as well as the meaty-est (the "chubbiest" was Spence, but she is about 5'5" so it wasn't as... intimidating as my corpulence). Trust me, this will play a mean role later on.
From me they learned: having someone capable of translating from Spanish to English and English to Spanish is goddamn priceless in Latin America.

And so, add our magnificent five-foot-tall trek guide to the mix, and you get a group of 14 folks who endure all sorts of shit and form a peculiar bond.

Poor wittle baby

Aaaand I'm back!
Alive!

I managed to climb a fucking enormous mountain at... 6000+ m.a.s.l. but the part that kicked my ass was getting on a plane ride back home.
I managed to revert to toddlerhood and puked all over myself not once, but TWICE on the ride back home yesterday.

A five day hike across (more like around) the Andes didn't do much to me besides burn my skin to an unrecognizable toast (my Mexican tan and Greece tan are vastly different to the Peruvian tan)... but shove me onto a plane at four in the morning, and watch as I randomly barf my way out of sleep.

I should probably preface all that shit by saying I spent my Sunday afternoon and night in hot pursuit of some good Peruvian seafood. We drove up and down the city of Lima looking for our favorite eateries... which all turned out to be closed due to Sunday hours (super Catholic country... they definitely beat Mexico in their fundamentalism). Our tour finally ended with us defeated, settling for a local sandwich shop (sandwich shops are the fucking shit out there. Just like we Mexicans go for late night taco stands after a night of dancing and debauchery, Peruvians rush the sandwich shops). Since we had spent about eight hours searching for food, ONE of the girls in the group had bigger eyes than stomach... and since I'm such a penny-pinching cheapskate, I force-fed myself the dish homegirl left untouched. The dish consisted of chorizo, a fried egg, aji sauce (SO FUCKING DELICIOUS), tomatoes, lettuce, and thick-cut french fries.
I ate the fries after I finished my enormous sandwich (chorizo, sausage, three kinds of cheese, thin french fries, aji, and slow-cooked pork). THEN I went back to my hostel and drank a bottle of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon with the homegirl... and by 11pm, I was ready to run into oncoming traffic.

Homegirl felt guilty after watching me grimace my way through the airport... and was relieved when she saw we would not be sitting together on the one leg of the flight we'd be sharing.
It was about an hour into the flight when I was woken up by the heaving of my stomach... too late to grab the barf-bag, but fast enough to avoid the more projectile portion of the puke-fest. I was lucky enough to be sitting in the aisle seat, so I saved myself (and my fellow flight companions) the disgusting outcome of a puke-drenched row 8.
On the second/final leg of my trip, I once again woke up as my stomach was gearing up for round two, and I managed to maneuver my blanket (provided by the airline) into a puke-basket, and barfed into it. People on this six-hour flight were much more compassionate, and adopted me as the sickly baby that I was-- wiping my face of barf, and feeding me ice cubes to relieve the nausea.

I was feeling slightly better by the time my mother picked me up from the airport, and randomly fell asleep around 6PM as I tried watching game 7 of the OCK-Golden State game.
I woke up this morning tired as fuck... feeble as fuck... and highly confused as to my whereabouts.
I have yet to eat anything, I find that I'm still scared to add anything to my gut. Luckily my head is no longer in the clouds, so I'm just waiting on my stomach to give me the hungry signal any minute now.

I need to find a cure for this fucked up odor-induced plane-sickness. 

recipe to exacerbate me

The FB feature which reminds me of the bullshit I did in the past, on the date, has changed my behavior.
Things I wrote back in 2007 up to like... 2012 are ridiculously embarrassing, not to mention annoying as fuck.
I become mortified each time the fucking notification appears.
Because of this embarrassment, I've become much more quiet over the recent years. Then again, I can't blame it all on my emotional state. My acquisition of family members on FB has also made me become increasingly silent.
Of course I know that I can place them on limited view and all that shit, but I've never been a fan of going through all that trouble. I've never really been a fan of censoring myself in that way-- the only thing I do which is private is my original on-line journal, which no one can access except me, and then there's this, which is under a pseudonym. Even with this pseudonym, people have been able to find me because I slip up and do something stupid like link my email address and that shit.
However, my IG account as well as my Twitter are public-- I don't put it out there for others to find, but they certainly can (and HAVE) if they snoop hard enough.

OBVIOUSLY my opinions get me in trouble.
This shouldn't bother me, because in my heart of hearts, I know I'm only telling the truth. As someone who spends her damn life observing others, and has been doing this since a fucking toddler, I believe I have a pretty solid grasp on what is good and bad behavior, what is fucked up, what is selfish, what is mean spirited, what and who sucks. Honestly. (Not saying someone can't fucking bamboozle me into thinking they're better people than they actually are... because that's the story of my fucking like, that should probably be titled "Wait, you're a lying piece of shit too?")
Sometimes I speak out of anger, and even then, what I spew tends to be a long-held opinion which has been simmering on low for fucking months, if not years.

OK! So, point is: I'm now very quiet on most social media (NOT Twitter. I still go off the rails on that badboy. It's my fucking therapy).
The self-imposed gag order has been conducive to keeping my sanity.
Then, of course, I am fucking idiotic and think "I gotta share this!"
Always a bad idea.
ALWAYS fucking problems.

My WORST problem is how fucking worked up when certain people purposely ignore my post. I know there are people out there with busy lives who don't have time to sit there and "like" shit, and they don't work me up. It's their fucking M.O.
But the motherfuckers who NEVER FAIL to like or post shit on FB... like their goddamn Starbucks cup of coffee... or some motherfucking harboiled eggs they had for breakfast... or their goddamn seventh selfie of the day-- FUCK those people. FUCK. THEM.
I especially take note of people who are well known for their absence from my posts. Like, ZERO acknowledgement of me... EVER... in the history of our FB friendship.
WHY ARE WE FRIENDS, YOU FUCKING CUNT?!
And the people MOST NOTORIOUS of this? My own goddamn cousins, the paternal side of the family, that is.

Last week, while visiting my mom's sister, we were discussing this latest trip.
My aunt slipped up.
She mentioned how at one of the Posadas, the family gathered around phones and looked through my photos from the trip-- ladies who DID NOT give me props... but at this fucking Posada were all fucking praising it loudly with their "Oh how beautiful" and blah blah blah. It was the motherfucking topic of conversation. MY PHOTOS. MY TRIPS.
THAT'S what pisses me off. The fact that they want to put on this fucking front around family like everything so fucking fantastic and awesome, "YAY! Go AnoMALIE!", but to MY FACE they don't say shit, they don't acknowledge shit.
It drives me FUCKING NUTS.
These are going to be the same fucking cunts who are going to get theatrical at my funeral some day.

SO, this trip did that negative to me. It made me get extra neurotic and pissed at the CLEARLY hatin' ass family I belong to... and now I'm resentful as fuck with my "I KNOW THIS IS A MOTHERFUCKING AWESOME PHOTO AND YOU'RE A DUMB MOTHERFUCKING CUNT WHO WILL NEVER HAVE THIS GODDAMN SKILL YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!" rage.

But hey... hope life continues to treat them exactly like they treat others.

I mean... other people MUST notice it, right? How these fucking imbeciles are notoriously absent from my life, regardless of how fucking rad my shit might be.

Ugh. I just made myself angry again. I'm an idiot... and easily exacerbated idiot.

CrimAnoMALIE

Damn it! I wanted to post every day this month, to keep from ignoring it all like I did last year, and I did a decent job... for three days.

I knocked the fuck out yesterday after shopping.
Well, not really shopping, I just went to Walgreens to get a passport photo taken of me... which, by the way, came out as all passport photos do: like trash. I don't know a soul who has a good passport photo... everyone ends up looking like a criminal.
In my first photo, back in 2006, I looked like a porky, overly excited girl. The photo should not have been allowed, since there are shadows in it, my face is sort of obstructed, I'm smiling like I was just told the best news in the history of the planet, my eyes are semi-closed, and my ears are not visible (did ya know that's one of the points officers inconspicuously check? They suuuure do. You're welcome). It was a shitty photo.
In this new photo, I look like a sad, somewhat scared criminal about to be handed her orange jumpsuit-- a criminal who had been running from the cops for months, chopped her own hair, and dyed it in the bathroom of a motel room. That's what I fucking look like in this new photo I'll be parading for the next ten years. It is a shitty photo.
(Can't say I'm shocked, 'tis the AnoMALIE Way)

All of this nonsense is draining to me. Having to get a photograph taken of me is very emotionally draining for me-- comes with the territory of being psychologically/emotionally/verbally fucked since the age of almost-five.
"Let me take a photo of you" is pretty much equivalent to "Let me saw off this limb from you."
I get my teeth drilled much more willingly than I pose for a photo.

This brings me to the photo experience of my trip.
Since I took both my mother and my aunt to my favorite cities, I went all out taking photos of THEM.
Despite my reluctance to take photos, I enjoy taking photos of others... because I try my best to get their best angle.
This obviously stems from my own dislike of photos of ME, because for the most part, I come out unflattering as fuck. So, when I photograph others, I tell them to trust me, I'll get a good shot of them... I'll fucking stalk them until I do.
So I got plenty of rad shots of these little ladies.
Of myself? I wish I could put my favorite shot on here... it's me at the London Eye. I asked my mother to take a photo of me (imagine that! Imagine how much I liked that scene, where I wanted to be captured IN it!)... and when I looked at it, I almost threw my phone in the Thames.
It is the BLURRIEST MOTHERFUCKING PHOTO EVER.
I looked at Mom and burst out laughing, "What the fuck is this? How the fuck does this even happen? The fuck is this shit...? Man, forget it. You're terrible."

So I must settle for selfies, where my true solitary nature shines in all of its depressing glory.
Surrounded by people, yet still isolated.
C'est la vie.

Vivita

I'm never prepared for the uncomfortable truths I learn while traveling.

I don't know whether to scoff or cry each time I realize I indeed hold others in too high esteem... or that I give them too much credit.
I'm a dumbass.

I had a terrific break. I was often frustrated and on the verge of just throwing it all to hell-- I've never been so needed in my life, and I clearly do not react well to this.
But my neuroticism aside, I did have terrible sadness to deal with. Contrary to last year's sadness, this year was more serious-- because it has to do with my brother.
During a drunk indiscretion from one of his friends after our Christmas party, my heart broke for my brother.
I'll elaborate more on this later, when I have time.

I don't know if I should do my year in review now... or try posting tomorrow.
I suppose I can write up my resolutions on the first of the month.

This makes... three?

Here we go again:
Leaving for another break across the Atlantic.
Hopefully all goes well... I am now in charge of two middle aged women who only speak Spanish and... have very short legs. Me. The quiet, awkward homegirl who is often surprised by the sound of her own voice because she can go on for days without uttering a word.

God help us all.

(I hope I have time to update abroad... I am FULL of motherfucking stories to tell and complaints to throw out there. ROUGH couple of weeks, especially this last one. I was FUCKED. UP. Emotionally speaking)

If something goes horrifically wrong like I get locked up for some dumb shit like being drunk while being a girl, you know the drill: It's been real (shitty sometimes), but it's ok.
Happy Holidays.

I. O. U.

I always do this-- write at the the start of a trip and fail to keep up the work after about two weeks... then I return and still refuse to write anything for another few days or weeks. After that, some shit goes down in my life where my memories of the trip fade away or become irrelevant, so nothing gets mentioned ever again.

I returned from the trip sick as hell.
I've been going in and out of consciousness since getting here on Tuesday.
I battled the fucking shakes Tuesday and Wednesday, which felt like shit.
I have a phlegmy cough which hurts like hell... my chest feels heavy and breathing's a fucking painful chore.
My nose is running and my left eye drips tears uncontrollably.
My head is in the clouds but it also deals with a pounding headache every other hour.
I have to force-feed myself, because I have no appetite but know I MUST get nutrients in my system or suffer worse consequences.

SO! While I wish I could write something up, because I do have many opinions and many fucking things happened in the last month, I just have no strength or... long-enough an attention span to write about any of it.

I will say this though:
This trip helped me come to the conclusion that I'm NEVER getting married-- MAYBE get in a relationship... but NEVER marriage.
Nope.

Draining vs energizing

Yesterday was one of the best days I've enjoyed in recent memory.

It's insane how some activities take me down to my lowest, whereas others take me to such calm... I wouldn't call it ecstasy, because I imagine being all hyper and stoked when I say "ecstasy", but yesterday I was serene and happy. Anything that helps me calm down and be mellow makes me happy.

Clubbing and bar hopping makes me miserable. Anything that requires I look sexually appealing to others makes me miserable. It drains the fucking shit out of me to have to dress to the nines, put on make up, and comb my hair... so as to have dudes think I'm some hot babe (which I've painfully learned that regardless of the degree of effort I may put into the activity, I just don't meet the standards. Ever. So... it's all fucking futile and fucking stupid). While I do drink, and will drink if that's what everyone in my company is doing, I don't enjoy it. I don't enjoy the taste, and I certainly don't like the feeling. And then there's the smoking... FUCK ME and my fucking life when I have to subject myself to that fucking pollution at my own free will. Might as well have me chill in a truck stop, positioned directly behind the exhaust pipe of the fucking trucks and just inhaling deeply. Same fucking shit to me... thought the exhaust pipe might give me the added benefit of a high... which would hopefully render me unconscious and put me out of the fucking misery of polluting my lungs (and it wouldn't fuck up my teeth... but I digress).
SO! This nightlife shit is not and has never been my jam. Apparently dudes pick up chicks in such scenario, but that has never happened to me, because as previously mentioned, I don't meet the standards... even when the men are piss drunk... although... some have hit on me when intoxicated out of their mind, which only leads to a very violent reaction from me. SO NO ONE WINS... but I lose big... especially my "feelings." Sure feels like fucking shit to see every girl in a pub or club get some sort of attention whereas I only get stared at with a shitton of disdain. It's fun, guys, motherfucking FUN!

Ok, so this sort of social interaction psychologically mind fucks the shit out of me... especially since people my age are supposed to enjoy said activity (clubbing/bar hopping... NOT psychologically damaging others. I hope no one gets a thrill out of that, 'cause that's fucked up).
My time at the bar or club is mostly spent getting sad over the fact that I find NO enjoyment in the activity, actually. Seeing your peers having a good time while all you want to do is repeatedly stab yourself in the chest is confusing as shit... obviously depressing.

But then you invite me to go hiking to the most remote area you know.
No, you're not going to kill me and leave me for the wild life to eat my remains... you just want to explore the terrain.
And FUCK! Am I happy! I'm... there.

Just like that puppy

A group of eight people and a dog, climbing a steep mountain. Climbing across boulders, jumping off hills, and crouching under low-lying tree branches (that sting like a motherfucker when they touch your skin). Sweat slowly-- then rapidly-- drenching my hair and clothes.
I get SO MUCH pleasure out of this.

Is this real life?

I will quietly smile to myself as I follow the group.
I guess I enjoy being part of a group, but not entirely forced to constantly interact. We're a group looking out for one another (lending a hand when one has too much difficulty to jump a particular gap or climb down a tall boulder), but still individuals to explore our surroundings. I fucking love it.
We're concentrated on our breathing and where we step, so there isn't much chatter. Then, upon reaching a flat location, we take a rest, and have a good laugh as we rehydrate and snack a bit.
It's fucking perfect.

Puppy lead me most of the time.

And then we reach a valley... grass up to our shoulders... wild flowers in full bloom. A gentle breeze blowing, and making stray hairs sway over my face.
Everyone scatters to examine whatever has caught their attention-- a tree stump, a daisy, a stone-- and I just look at the scenery... take it all in.
THIS. THIS RIGHT HERE. THIS makes me happy. Jesus Christ. This feeds my motherfucking SOUL.
The wilderness, the fresh air... the company that still gives me SPACE. I'm part of a pack but I'm NOT FORCED to interact and that's fucking NORMAL.
THIS! I fucking LOVE THIS!

It's moments like that which will ALWAYS make me return to life even after my darkest moments. Knowing this is out there, and possible... makes me STAY... stay here-- not give into the very fucking dark thoughts that cloud my mind the majority of the time.
There's no pretentiousness... no mindless chatter... no fucking air pollution. I'm not trying to impress anyone, not trying to discuss some fucking obnoxious controversial topic, I'm not trying to find somebody to fuck... I'm just... I'm just alone, but not alone. I'm working out my body, but not competing with ANYbody.
Everyone's pace is respected... and... the laughs are so hearty and real.
No make up. Simple hair and clothes... and everyone's OK with it... NO ONE is judging. NO ONE is numbing some part of themselves with mood-altering shit.

That's life. THAT'S what makes me happy. That's what completes me. That's what I enjoy. That's what is real to me.

This deer MIGHT have been a dick...

Spent allllll motherfucking day hiking Parnitha, outside of Athens, where at the end of the hike, a herd of non-hostile deer greeted us.

Our way down provided by a funicular.
One could get used to that.

I was so calm and reenergized I even had a couple of beers with the gang afterward when we entered the city. Smelly and tired, we all took seats at a large table and ate South African meats... laughed about life... and shared stories of the most interesting kind (everyone at the table was interesting... but the most interesting to me was a special ops medic who gave me some of the kindest advice I've ever been given. Dude is 31 but has lived though so much... absolutely non-judgmental of where I am in life, but instead compassionate).

Hate to admit it was pretty tasty.

Motherfucking paradise.
I. Am. Full.
I. Am. Happy.

Roadkill kitty

Where did I leave off?
I don't want to go back and actually read what I write because that's too fucking draining. I just want to write it all out and try my best to shove the memory out of my brain. That's my therapy... especially now that I feel that disgusting feeling coming back to me... that nasty depression. Fucked up shit, man. It's that fucking terrible disease that you don't/can't eliminate... it just goes into hibernation for a bit... never knowing when the next outbreak will return. Like motherfucking botulism, it lives dormant in a motherfucking endospore which keeps it around for motherfucking eternity, until conditions are optimal to once again be release into the world.
"Ahhh, she's sad again... a couple of people have done and said mean things to her. GO! I release you! Be free! Wreck her world, depression!"

What was I going to talk about? About my own version of the fucking Trail of Tears out in Mykonos?

Quiet solitude-- my paradise... minus all that fucking sun and bare skin.

Ah... Mykonos. A fucking paradise of excess... too much liquor, too much skin, too much money, too much sun... too much everything.
Music is loud as fuck.
Food is expensive as shit.
The ONE fucking road is packed as fuck with cars.
Humans packed like rats in the tiny streets.
Liquor everywhere... even on your fucking clothes.
Dark, burnt skin on everyone... maybe not the Chinese tourists, who are ridiculously careful not to tan at all, with their huge hats, jean pants, running shoes, long sleeves, parasols etc (then why THE FUCK do you come to the fucking island, guys?! WHY THEFUCK?! It's AN ISLAND! THERE IS SUN! Goddamn lots of fucking sun! Nothing BUT sun from 5AM to 8:30PM. Go to fucking England or Germany if you want to hide from Helios! Goddamn. Ok, enough with the tangent).
NOT ENOUGH taxis.
Too many fucking stray cats making the place smell of shit and sound of horny cats fucking throughout the day... all motherfucking day and night... and fighting... so many fucking disgusting cats fighting like loud, drunken teenaged girls.

Night life about to kick everyone in the fucking mouth...

But it was fun.
Lol. "Fun."
It was... "relaxing." Yes. Relaxing. Let's go with that.
I got to sit in a fluffy "puff" aka giant beanbag bed on the beach with drinks in my hand... sitting under the sun, no parasol... from 11AM until 7PM. Just sitting there, catching some motherfucking skin cancer, with a nice dose of lung cancer from all the motherfucking jackasses who love to smoke like fucking chimneys... as though that fucking stench is fucking rad or some shit. Sitting there with watery eyes from the irritation their fucking horrible smoke brought to my eyes (I know this was the cause of my tears because I still wasn't all fucking emotional, so my tears weren't emotionally-induced, but merely a product of my obnoxious, irritating environment).
I was the tallest girl there... which was strange... considering I'm in Europe and European girls are tall, from what I remember. I was also the "thickest," which in this part of the world breaks down to FATEST (actually, on my last day, there was one girl who was "fat" aka "American" in shape... but her personality and self-esteem made her behave like any of the naturally thin Mediterranean girls. I was hell of envious of that girl... her attitude. Go, big girl, go!). And while I don't have visible rolls when I stand, I'm getting that "athletic girl" look which isn't necessarily "ripped/jacked", just like... straight, with giant thighs and arms. Laying down I just look like a giant fucking log... a fucking unfortunate tree trunk after a stormy night.
My skin wasn't tanning as nicely as the rest of the girls... I was getting my "fuck my fucking stupid Iberian roots" burn on. I'm a naturally tan girl (which caused me a ton of distress as a kid, since my family is a lover of porcelain skin and I was the "unfortunate" dark one)... but for some reason, "tanning" just doesn't work for me. My combination skin is some fucked up, useless shit.
So, the pale-complexioned females of my group suddenly came out of this weekend beautifully golden... I came out of it... um... combination skinned-- a little tanned here, a lot of pale there, even more red and burned over here.

And the nights.
Ah, the nights-- can't forget those shits.
I refused to go out on night two (the first night I hung on for dear life until 2 in the morning, after arriving to Europe from my transatlantic flight from Vegas). Night three, the infamous night, I tried to be a good sport.

She's loving life, ey?
Check out the crowd in the mirror above her head.

So, I make my way through the crowd, last person in the line, naturally... braving the painful burn I had going on my lower back (so easy to forget to cover that shit in sunscreen when you hit the beach to roast like a fucking pig on a spit).
Everything is fine and dandy as we position ourselves in the spot one of the girls had RSVP'ed for us at the bar. I drank. I danced around. I smiled. I observed.

Crowd outside the bar/club.
True story: another reality series was being filmed at the time.
I just attract that sort of shit.

Then my godson started dancing like... like a fucking stripper. The only person in the entire building to be dancing. The Greek men and women (oh, I should probably mention this was a Greek bar, not the touristy shit normal tourist visit) stared... stared hard.
We didn't tell him anything, just hoped he'd get the hint that uh, you don't do that 'round these here parts, but no... it seemed as though the looks of disgust and disdain form others only encouraged him to gyrate and thrust more aggressively.
This isn't Cancun. Chill out, Striparella.
Eventually a gay dude tried approaching him, only to be turned away by one of the girls in the group (quite aggressively, actually. It made me laugh).
Still, despite this slight aggravation over my blood's unwillingness to respect a culture's social norm, I still tried enjoying myself.
I DID enjoy seeing what music made the locals sing and dance... and I DID try dancing along... however, it was impossible to sing along because I had no fucking clue what was being said. This was entertaining, however, it made me look as though I wasn't having a good time.
Then my brother, angrily gesticulating at me his frustration over "hating to see me look so miserable" managed to dump his alcoholic drink all over my skirt and feet.
All of this because by 4AM, I was resting my back on the wall and trying to calm down my alcoholic buzz (six mixed drinks and a shot of patron... having eaten one meal all day. Cut me a break, please).
So, since my drunk brother's getting agitated, he decides to force me to leave the club. Alone. At 4:30AM.
It was wonderful.
Did I mention there weren't enough taxis on this godforsaken island? 25. 25 fucking taxis.
So, AnoMALIE, walk your miserable ass to your room.

That's really just a puddle of my own tears.

So... being kicked out of the Greek bar by my brother, I force my way through the crowd and eventually, make it out to the one road that will take me to my hotel, two miles away.
The road winds through the coast line... so it's a nice view.
The moon was huge, reflecting on the sea... like in fucking cartoons... AND it was a huge, reddish moon.
Every once in a while, I'd have to edge over as far as possible in order to avoid getting hit by a car as it drove past me.
There are these huge thorny bushes on this fucking island... shit people fail to fucking mention in movies and all that shit... how motherfucking painful it is to accidentally step on one, or slap your hand against one... rub your monstrous outer thigh against one. As I walked along the road, and edged over to avoid dying at the hands of a drunk driver (while I often DO want to die, this has never been an acceptable method... fuck that shit), I'd manage to hurt myself numerous times with these goddamn horrible thorns.
After hurting myself for probably the fifth time with one of the thorns, I came to a complete stop, looked out at the ocean to my left (once again thought about just dying... how I COULD just jump off the cliff right there, but how I MIGHT not die once I hit the bottom, just like... horrifically hurt myself BUT stay alive as punishment... yet another method nixed), the speeding, quickly fading car to my right (all I could think was how the driver probably thought "Outta the way, ya fucking COW!" as it sped past me)... and the desolate, long road ahead of me... I burst into sobs.
No, not just tears... I'm talking motherfucking, body-shaking sobs.
How many times have y'all seen these, Greek gods? Huh?! Poseidon, Little Mermaid... you fucks! A motherfucking LOSER ASS GIRL walking along the beach at the crack of dawn crying her fucking eyes out , completely fucking alone in the world, unable to connect with ANYONE... even her fucking blood. A motherfucking lonely loser in such a motherfucking glorious place, in a FUCKING SEA OF PEOPLE. Surrounded by such fucking beauty... painful fucking beauty... feeling like the fucking stupidest, ugliest, just... fucking stupidest, useless piece of shit in the world. A fucking waste of space and money... and did I mention how MUCH FUCKING SPACE this idiot girl takes up?! Godfuckingdamn.
So I cry. A lot. And keep walking.
"Why can't I be normal?" constantly running through my mind... sobs slowly calming down... too busy trying to wipe the snot off my face.

And then I run into a little puddle of blood... and make out a fresh roadkill... that earlier today was one of these disgusting, annoying cats on the island.
And I crack once again-- loud sobs now.

FUCK that fucking hill and that adorable hotel that rests on top of it...

I cry all the way up the hill (more like motherfucking concrete mountain) to my hotel--in my handy Flojos flip flops-- where I wipe my snotty, tear-streaked face with my flow-y tank-top, fix my wind-blown hair, adjust my busted, thorn-carrying maxi skirt... take a deep breath, and I walk in the lobby.
"Yasas."
I fumble with my room key, enter my bathroom... and break down again-- this time with the comfort of some sturdy toilet paper to blow my nose, and a nice clean towel to hold over my eyes.
Finally, I crawl into my rock-hard bed and fall asleep.

I wake up in the morning to see (despite my very swollen eyes) my brother and godson in their comfy beds, knocked out cold.
I can't get them to wake up, so I head out to the hotel's kitchen alone. I grab some breakfast, sit at my own table... and stare out into the sea... like the lonely fucking spinster that I am.

The scenery may change, but the fucking undesirable, awkward, lonesome, dead person that I am on the inside remains motherfucking constant.

View walking DOWN the hill, about one fourth of the way down.

Ho hey.

I am shit

Ahhh, Greece. Meeting again.

I arrived Friday morning, Greece time. It was a long haul... sort of. Layover was in Toronto... for nine hours. In those nine hours, I managed to cry in public. That was fantastic, as always.
I guess I should mention I brought my godson with me. It's my gift to the kid, since he's been battling a serious case of depression, unlike myself.
You see, when I really love someone, there's nothing I won't try to get them to feel better... as long as it's in my realm of possibilities.
If you have ever been kind to me, if you've ever made me smile-- you're good with me.
So, I figured I'd do this for the kid.

He's still weird. I don't know how to describe it, but the best I can do is by having others imagine someone who has just been freed from a cult-- the shellshocked, deep disillusionment with the world... that sort of shit.
He was driving me insane with his constant religious talk, which was a bunch of shit... but since I'm a nice person, I'd keep mum and only say "Umm... ok."
He's also very vain... very... umm... flamboyant in the sense that he goes out of his way to call attention to himself. He'll wear nothing but muscle shirts, and talk at a very loud level, so as to call attention to himself. He still has that salesman mentality... and let me tell you... living with a salesman is the last thing I ever want to do from now on. Fucking BONKERS.
"Goddamn it... is he talking to that stranger again?"
"No. No. You stay over here... I'll be right back because this is going to take me a second and I don't need you striking up a conversation with every person there for the next two hours."
It's obvious English is his second language because he uses words incorrectly... or he'll use them in the wrong context... or... he'll use inappropriate terms he learned off the douchebag coworkers from when he worked at the timeshare business.

This leads me to the thing that made me cry in public.
As we killed time in the airport (which wasn't too hard, considering they have an enormous lounge area with an ipad for pretty much every passenger... which is motherfucking amazing. This airport is a gem), we were sitting in the lounge area having a discussion on life... relationships.
I was chastising him for being "stereotypical pig Mexican" because he'd shamelessly check out girls, almost all of them... looking at their tits and ass and even vag. I told him that was inappropriate, and to be a little more discreet. He then says "ALL women like that."
I NEEDED to correct him.
"No. They don't. It's vulgar. Not all women like vulgarity. I'd say most of them hate it."
"You're saying if I like that girls ass, and I tell her 'Nice ass' she's going to be offended and not take it as a compliment or like it?" he asked.
"Most girls would consider that offensive. It's not something some of us are looking to hear at a fucking airport when we're agitated and tired. So yes, she'll more than likely get offended," I said.
"Even if it's me? I mean, I know I'm a good looking man. Girls throw themselves at me," he said.
(I was so outraged by his ego at this point, I wanted to take my carryon bag and throw it across his face. How the fuck am I related to this? WHO DID THIS TO YOU, Godson?! Is this real life? What a fucking douchebag)
"It all depends on the girl... but I'm sure there'd be plenty of girls who'd be put off by the comment and find you offensive," I said.
"You're going to sit here and tell me if Cristiano Ronaldo went up to you and said 'Nice ass.' You'd tell him to fuck off?" he asked me.
"If those were the first words that came out of his mouth when he met me, I'd tell him he's a vapid, disrespectful jerk. That's exactly what I'd tell him," I said, completely enraged by now.
"YOU'RE SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!" he screamed at me.
I noticed damn near everyone in the lounge area stop cold in their tracks and stare at us. I could read some had a look of concern for ME, as though I was getting verbally abused by my boyfriend/husband.
"What you just said... offended me worse than anything ANYONE has ever said to me. ANYONE. And I can't believe it came from YOU of all people," I said.
"What did I say?" he asked.
"You just said I'm SHIT!" I said.
"No I didn't! You heard wrong!" he said.
"I don't care if you misspoke or whatever you were trying to do... but what came out of your mouth, and what EVERYONE AROUND HERE heard was YOU screaming at ME that I was shit," I said.
And then he did what most men have done in my life when I call them on their shit rather than sit down and take whatever fucking stupid shit they're talking: he acted angry and outraged.
"You know what. I'm fucking done talking right now. Let's stop right here before I really fucking say something offensive. I don't want to hear anything," he said as he slammed his face down on the table in front of him.
And I sat there... fighting back the angriest tears of my life.
Doing fucked up things in public... where they know I won't act up because I don't want to make a scene... so not fair.
The words reverberated in my mind... the look on people's faces ran through my mind... and past memories of others being fucking assholes to me ran through my mind.
I tried focusing my sight on the bathroom that was directly to my left... thought it would help me calm down while keeping my reddened face and watery eyes out of the view of nearly everyone who had witnessed the scene.
But it didn't help. Tears started rolling down my eyes and it was over.
People started leaving the scene... visibly uncomfortable... and I just sat there, across from my idiot godson whose face was out of view, and his fucking stupid earbuds (which I gave to him because his own got busted from listening to music too loud) blocking out any sound from the outside world (only pumping out douchebag Bro techno into his ears), crying... sobbing. So motherfucking alone. Again. In a fucking SEA OF PEOPLE at the motherfucking airport.
I mean... all this shit just runs through my mind when I'm crying and it does NOTHING to calm me down. It's such a fucking terrible cycle, I tell you.

So, after about half an hour of crying like an imbecile in my chair, I calmed down enough to climb out (it was a stool) and head to the bathroom... where I did the typical AnoMALIE thing of crying in the privacy of a stall... blew my nose... walked out to the mirror to fix myself... and then faced the world again.
I motioned to my godson that it was now time to walk to our gate and I was mute for the following fourteen hours (we waited at the gate for an hour, the flight was ten hours, then we headed to the embassy to get the house keys from my Bro. Got home, unpacked, and showered).
Once in Athens, as I was ready to take a nap before the haul to Mykonos for the weekend (we were going to leave at 4:15PM for the ferry to the island), Godson walked in and tried making things better with that bullshit line of "I'm sorry you felt offended" then added "But I'm offended you thought I MEANT it that way." Ummm... ok, thanks for that bullshit apology?
"When are you ever going to see those people?" As though that takes away the fact that was a fucked up thing to SCREAM in an airport in front of a sea of people.
"Now I know you're very sensitive." Excuse me? What? Was I... being too sensitive about getting upset about your ignorant ass SCREAMING "You're shit" at me in a very public setting, in front of men, women, children, and old people who are clueless about our relationship and our conversation? MY MOTHERFUCKING BAD. Fuck. Oh fuck! Fuck me and my extremely girly feelings! I brought it upon myself for being so motherfucking sensitive. My motherfucking baaaaaad.

There's a line... a motherfucking line. I can be ridiculously vulgar... I can drop as many fucking cusswords as you can imagine, in NUMEROUS languages... but I KNOW WHEN to do it. There's a time and a place... and I try my best to RESPECT it. Do I think censorship is silly? Yes, I do... but I also understand that it serves a purpose. I don't enjoy little kids hearing coarse language... or older people being harshly introduced to me by me uttering some profanity. I also understand that different cultures have different stances on vulgarity and more importantly, I RESPECT it-- despite how much or how little I may agree with it.

The key term here, I suppose, is "RESPECT."
Bumping into people who LACK any sense of it... or prove to be ridiculously inconsiderate, drives me MOTHERFUCKING CRAZY.

Ah... good times ahead. For sure.
(This past weekend was something to talk about. The long weekend in Mykonos sure has a lot of stories... one even includes me--yet again-- crying my motherfucking eyes out as I walked to my hotel room all alone at 4:30AM for two miles. Long stretch of highway along the coast where I stared out into the sea, under a nearly-full moon, just bawling my fucking eyes out with both rage and incredible sadness. I even ran into a run-over, dead cat. I mean, who would come up with this sort of shit? Good motherfucking times.)

Deuces

Typical drill.

I'm out.
Hopefully I don't suffer some stroke or other unfortunate bullshit... but come back ripped as fuck and a total beast.

Chances are, I'll return a grumpier, sadder bitch... but eh, whatevs.

I'll definitely miss my mom, though... that little lady.

Sea leggy

I really should get to talking about some of the activities enjoy last month before I go on and forget them.
I tried discussing some of the events of the last month with Mom yesterday, and caught myself slipping with the names of some of the locations (they were ports, so can you blame me? I don't really give a shit about water... so... kind of normal for me to forget).
Just so I DON'T forget, the Friday before I left, as in, the day after Christmas, we all packed up our shit and headed out on a day cruise to three little islands: Hydra, Poros, and Aegina. I think I have difficulty with the latter two because they were spelled so differently. There was the English spelling, the Greek spelling, and the Greek-phonetically-speaking-to-an-English-speaker-which-turned-out-to-sound-like-Mexican-Spanish spelling. I never knew what to go with... mostly anything other than English, because English was always wrong.

Anyway, Hydra was memorable because that's where Jackie O lived post-JFK. There were so many filthy cats and stinky donkeys... I wasn't overly joyed to be there. One thing I will say, however, was that once we left the touristy areas it was quite gorgeous... with tiny streets (no roads/cars, which was sweet because cars are quite the nuisance in the hands of some Europeans...) and steep, gorgeous hills. It was cluttered, but in a nice way, if that makes sense. Cluttered cutesy stuff.
Just that thing where you have to watch out for cat shit... and constantly staring at some dirty cat who will stare you down if you have a trace of food on you... that was the negative. Goddamn cats.

Hydra was the first stop after a couple of hours at sea on this ferry. I quickly learned I fucking hate ferries. I hated the rocking motion. I hated the fact that I had to just sit there. I WAS glad, however, that at no point was I left to stare at open seas. There was always a little island or rock formation for me to stare at... so I wouldn't have that overwhelming sense of anxiety with staring at just... ocean.
Anyway, thanks to being stuck on this ferry for so long (there was this large group of Spanish tourists who quickly grew on everyone's nerves... they just wouldn't shut the fuck up. They were the loudest, giggliest group of elitists I've met in a minute. Sure, they had some good moments, but god forbid anyone try to JOIN their jovial party-- they'd be stared down like a bunch of lepers), we eagerly stepped off the ferry and mingled with what Hydra had to offer (frustrated locals who trashtalked the tourists who dared venture off the touristic area-- my brother translated).
A group of boys tried flirting with my sister at the cafe we walked into. Sister had no interest in what the boys had to say, mainly because she really needed to go to the bathroom. I stood there somewhat uncomfortable, because I'm sure they automatically thought I too was a bitch (which, sure, because I too really had to take a piss, and all I really knew how to say in Greek was "sorry" and "thank you").
Anyway, we eventually settled outside the establishment to stare at the water/boats... and fight the urge to barf at the sight of nasty street cats eating the fur off themselves (I swear I fucking despise cats after this trip. I used to be apathetic to cats... now I straight up hate them. Keep those fucking cats away from me... dirty motherfuckers). It was an interesting scene... sipping on some delicious coffee, eating some sort of delectable honey-covered Greek pastry, laughing with the funny conversation of my group, smelling the wet donkeys nearby... and those fucking cats... jesus, those fucking cats.

We checked out Hydra for about an hour, then headed back into the boat to scope out Poros.
Poros was an hour and a half away (I think?), but I wouldn't know how long it took, because this was the part of the trip where we were fed the buffet-styled lunch.
Poros was pleasant. We were given an hour and a half to discover the sights. I think this might have been the place we roamed around the most. The buildings were the most memorable... so much white, gold, blue, and terracotta roof tops. We stepped inside a few bakeries... and ate some more baked goods, duh! I think about the baklava and still drool.

The next stop was Aegina. This place was fun. What do I remember most? PISTACHIOS. We checked out some ruins... then grabbed some pistachio ice cream (absolutely delicious), and stared at some more ruins... and Athens in the distance. We also checked out a very pretty church... St. Athanasia? Anyway, we then checked out the city a bit more, and wound up purchasing kilos-worth of pistachios... and honey.

The trip was ok... I'd say wonderful had I not acquired a mild case of sea-legs. I was fighting the urge to puke at dinner later that day (back in Athens). The mood was also a bit somber, because Clemson and Pacemaker were leaving in the morning... so we were basically having our outing together.

Will I ever go on a boat ride again? I can't say I plan on it any time soon... that shit just isn't for me. However, I'm glad I saw what I did on this trip... and tasted what I did... because they will be sights, smells and tastes I'll constantly return to (in my mind) on my bad days (well, you know, I could have done without the smell of wet donkey and dirty, nasty cats).

NAMES... I can't forget NAMES!

Pouting bullshit

Chatty Cathy up in here.

Frustration does that to me.
I have buttons you don't push... someone getting manipulative on me--acting irritated because they're not getting things done their way-- is a button you don't push.

This whole people observing I do, it gets me irritated when I realize I'm in the company of someone who is neither appreciative or... honest. An ingrate.
I am noticing an increase in hostility from my behalf as far as Pacemaker is concerned. I notice I'm getting pretty rude towards her because I'm finally fed up with her behavior-- that constant need of hers to brag, to act like she is SO important. I'm now openly rolling my eyes at her... I no longer give a fuck if she catches me doing it.
"Oh, I'm just ready to hit Champs-Elysees and shop til I drop at the end of the month!"
Shop til you drop? Where? McDonalds? Not even there, fucking shit is expensive as all hell out there.
You've spent FIVE MOTHERFUCKING EUROS OUT HERE! FIVE! FUCKING FIVE MOTHERFUCKING EUROS IN A WEEK!
FIVE. MOTHERFUCKING. EUROS.
She comes to the store with me, and says "Oh, I got it," takes five fucking hours to bust out her goddamn stupid brand-name purse (I don't care about brands. Fucking shit can be a Louis or a fucking Prada... I wouldn't know and more importantly, I WOULDN'T CARE.) until I eventually just pull out my fucking bills out of my ripped up pant pocket, and pay for EVERYTHING.
I comment about staying in the sky lounge for Airfrance in Paris' airport (how I almost missed my flight due to fucking around in there for too long), and of course, she has to comment how she "needs to check it out" when she heads out to Paris after leaving Athens later this month (I saw her itinerary-- she's flying Economy).
... You do know you have to be flying first-class to enter the room, right?

I HATE that shit. I HATE the fronting. HATE IT.
She wants to rub elbows with "rich" people, constantly name drops... but she doesn't pay for shit.
She just sits there, pouting because we don't do what she wants to do.
Homie, I already saw the Acropolis, I drove out to Poseidon's temple... I don't need to see that. Wait for my sister to come to town so you guys can all pool your money for a taxi to go see those sights if that's what you want to do.

I'm here to relax, make my brother's life easier-- 'cause he sure as fuck is not having a good time right now-- not harass him into taking me out after his long day at work.
It's winter... I'm fine just chilling in the city of Athens, seeing sights whenever my brother has time... and chilling at home-- RELAXING. It's why I took the MONTH off. You only have two weeks? Well, then YOU look for tours to fit YOUR schedule. I did my part by convincing my brother to let you stay in his house and eat his food for free for the duration of your trip.

I don't know if this makes sense... or if I'm being irrational... or just highly sensitive.
I just know I am irked out of my mind by someone trying to live beyond her means, putting up the front of being "bougie" and giving me fucking attitude because I'm not catering ENOUGH to her fucking desires.
WHY do you try to make others think you can afford the life of an heiress, when you're just an average person?
Add to that the fact that I see this person constantly reporting back to her siblings and a certain cousin about her stay here... as she fucking pouts, staring at her stupid phone (iphone 6 PLUS, naturally. Of fucking course).... and it all makes me fucking foam at the mouth with rage (dawg, I had legitimate chest pains this morning from the fury I was fighting).
Not happy with your stay? THEN GET THE FUCK OUT AND PAY FOR YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ROOM IN A HOTEL RIGHT UNDER THE MOTHERFUCKING ACROPOLIS AND SHUT THE FUCK UP! Just SHUT. THE FUCK. UP.

I'm here to relax. My life is about RELAXING. That's it. That's fucking IT.
I don't care to impress ANYONE. Not a damn single motherfucking SOUL in this world. Not one. I want to disconnect. Not talk to anyone. Be alone. With my thoughts. Just observing. Just listening. Just... breathing. I don't care to see you pout because things aren't being done your way.
That clashes with your wishes? Well, FUCK, get up and leave. Shit. Go out and put up the front of swimming in money and rubbing elbows with high society... see how long that lasts you, or how much joy you get out of it. It's an insipid, wildly vapid world... this world you aspire to live in. But cool, dude, what the fuck ever. Just quit pissing me off and take that pissy attitude elsewhere.

I hate getting this worked up... it's just so unbelievable to me to come across people who are so demanding and such ingrates. Delusions of grandeur freak me out.
I also grow upset with myself for believing others will have the same value system I do, the same code of conduct... and then seeing that they really don't. "You should have known better, AnoMALIE."

I'm sure I'll feel better once I stop seeing this chick's pout all over my house... or maybe once I sleep the rage off... or maybe once I go eat dinner later tonight.

Bummer I have so many pissy entries so far, I swear this trip had been rad up until like... three days ago. And I'm sure spirits will pickup soon.

DudeSearch

I've been terrible about updating. I was hoping to update sometime throughout the last week... but my days seemed to run so much shorter, and whenever I had access to wifi, I'd spend my time angrily ranting to my sibling/family about how much I hate certain passive-aggressive "friends" and family of mine.
It's very uncomfortable for me to notice how upset and worked up I can get over the behavior of certain "friends" of mine... as well as many, MANY family members (particularly, from my father's side. Bunch of hating-ass motherfuckers). I don't fucking get it. To my face they're all love and "togetherness" then they are glaringly absent from acknowledging anything I do that I perceive as fun... or even amazing. And not to toot my own horn, but I KNOW I take good photos... the only times I add a filter are when my face will be prominent-- I try to blur that shit out. Other than that, filters are something I don't allow myself to use-- because that's cheating. Period.
So ANYWAY, I need to get off that tangent because I become pretty fucking irate.

SO I'd be getting online infrequently, and when I would be connected, I'd just post photos and proceed to grow very fucking angry... because some people are jealous pieces of shit that really should not be part of my life, honestly.

Life without internet is great. Life with internet is agitating.
I collected many anecdotes, all of which I wrote down on paper.
I did A LOT of people watching... and observed so much art and architecture... and just... observed human behavior-- my own included.
This trip I'd probably remember as my Dude Search.
I did NOT want to look for men, but of course, my brain betrayed me and I caught myself getting HELL of boy-crazy... like a teen.

In Italy, I found myself holding eye-contact with guys... and had my mother not been around, I probably would have been pretty sleazy... ok, no I wouldn't, but I definitely liked what I saw the majority of the time.
Italian men seemed to think I was one of their own-- an Italiana. I'd constantly find myself just smiling and shrugging after a local would ask me questions in Italian. By the third day, I actually gave an Italian lady instructions on how to exit the metro correctly... in Italian. Me. Giving direction to get OUT OF A METRO. The Vegas local, who knows nothing about public transportation. In Italian.
I'd marry an Italian... or just procreate with one, I'd be cool with that.

Spain? Spain was kind of a bummer... but when isn't it?
This time, I noticed a HUGE spike in South American immigrants. Last year it was a spike in Indians/Middle-Easterners, this year, it's a huge Hispanic population. And while all of this does not bother me, what DOES bother me is seeing the TREATMENT of these people. The manner the South Americans walk the streets upsets me. They do not hold eye-contact, they look scared, and they try to make themselves look SMALLER. They look... like a stray puppy who constantly gets kicked in the street by strangers. The way they are looked at by some of the Spanish infuriates me. The way some Spaniards refer to these people infuriates me. They have that... egotistical, patronizing... self-righteous air about them... elitist as fuck.
Not a day went by where I did not hear someone refer to a dark, short person as a "Sudaca"... or even just drop that derogatory term mid-conversation. At one point, a young man about 19-20, tried flirting with me. The Spanish boy looked me in the face, smiled, looked me up an down lustfully, and said "Ciao, chata!" ("chata" is a derogatory term for those who have Native American facial features) as he walked past me, turning around as I walked past so he could scope my ass. I felt so offended, I got teary-eyed. Normally, this would only piss me off, but considering I fucking adore Barcelona, seeing this drastic turn of events upset the fucking shit out of me.
NO! NOT YOU, BARCELONA! NO! DON'T LET THE RACISM WIN!
When I walk the Barcelona streets in company of my sister, I don't see this side of the people... because they seem to think I'm one of them. But in company of my little mom? They were hardcore racist... and nothing is more upsetting to me than seeing someone mistreat my little Mexican mom.
So anyway, I know this was another tangent of some sort... but it popped into my head.
While Spanish men did flirt with me, it was a weird sort of flirting... like they were flirting with... a weird specimen. They knew I was a weird mix... not entirely Spanish, not entirely "South American" (not AT ALL South American, but apparently they can't distinguish the look of South Americans versus Mexicans), something weird... familiar in a way, but exotic... weird. I didn't flirt much with Spaniards, I was too busy trying not to cry at how horribly they were murdering my beautiful memory of their country/culture.
I would MAYBE marry a Spaniard... and probably not procreate with one... I was taller than many of them... and OF COURSE always wider than them.

But let's now move on, before I break my heart too hard.
Let's talk pleasant shit. Let's talk France.
BOY OH BOY! Was I popular in Paris! Dudes were hitting on me left and right... whether I was alone or in the company of my mother. French men had a strange ability to pick up on not only the fact that I was a spanish-speaker, but a Mexican.
French dudes were the most insistent on holding eye-contact... it became uncomfortable.
I'm pretty sure I bumped into my future husband while at the Louvre. The guy was one of the museum workers, and *tried* flirting with me... but you know how I have that problem where I refuse to believe cute guys flirt with me, so I end up looking clueless and miss a good opportunity? Yeah, that happened here.
Instead of catching his flow, I became confused, which only made me look like a cold idiot... so he gave up, rather than become that creepy jerk.

Some day I'll become good at interacting with men I actually feel attracted to... not do any of this clueless, confused shit I do.

Marry a French guy? Nah. Have a baby with a French guy? Dude, have you seen their eyes? FUCK. YES!
... but I'd first have him tested.

Leg two

All right... so where did I leave off? I'm not even sure what I wrote was coherent. I didn't read it over because I had an audience at my shoulder.

Zurich?
That place is expensive. Pretty as fuck... but expensive.
I strolled around for a bit... all sorts of fucked up from my nausea, my ear ache, and my uh... bloody visitor. When mother nature wants to fuck you up, she FUCKS. YOU. UP. Thoroughly. Men will never understand. (I'll take a random, sudden, public boner over a blood-stained ass/crotch ANY DAY. You fucking kidding me?)

Anyway, so my plane from Zurich to Athens was delayed by around ten minutes, but did I notice? Hell nah, I was fucked up as shit. I had no clue.
To add insult to injury, the cunt running the boarding show did NOT announce boarding time... and everything turned into a fucking zoo. My mother and I were some of the last passengers to board the plane because our passes were fucked (of course they fucking would be, OF COURSE).
Once IN the plane, we realized there was zero overhead compartment space left, because I forgot what total fucking savaged Europeans are when it comes to overhead space (when they place their fucking coats in there, swear a fucking vein in my brain bursts from the rage. Inconsiderate fucks). So Mom and I Mexican'd it up, and placed our shit under the seat in front of us... as the motherfucking MAN sitting on our row (window seat. Man who placed EVERYTHING in his person up in that fucking overhear space-- but we got him back later) looked on... and we gave him the glare from hell (don't fuck with an angry Mexican woman).
So we sit through this ride... where I STILL want to puke all over the place, but resort to covering my nose with my coat. I was going in and out of consciousness due to having swallowed a anti-nausea pill (Dramamine saves my life when I go to Mexico, so why not Europe, ya know?), and that shit takes me out like a dart to the neck takes out a rhino.
In my random ins-and-outs of consciousness, I remember food being served... and fighting with all my might not to vomit all over the place when I realized it was a cheese sandwich they were serving. I remember the flight-attendant's very concerned look as she asked me (in a very choppy accent) if I was ok, if I needed anything. I just nodded and said "I'm ok," or at least, I think I did.
They also had the air circulating, and I FELT when I got sick. Some motherfucker on the plane was sneezing and coughing (without covering his pig fucking mouth)... and about twenty minutes later, three more of us followed with our lovely sneezes and coughs.
So, there I am, once again sort of awake, when I notice the flight attendants handing passengers little squares from a basket. I was clear-headed enough to remember Swiss gives away free chocolate to its passengers at the end of the flights.
"Oh, I'm not missing this shit!" I thought, as I felt the sleep-monster creep up on me.
The fucking flight attendant was two rows away when everything goes black and I once again open my eyes when the flight attendant is reaching his hand away from me... and the motherfucking son of a bitch sitting in my row has THREE chocolate squares.
The SON OF A BITCH TOOK MY MOTHER AND MY SHARE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING CHOCOLATE! SON OF A FUCKING CUNT!
I was irate!
But ten seconds later, I was once again unconscious.
I was once again woken up by the hideous pain in my ears... swearing my head was going to explode like a cantaloupe getting smashed by a sledgehammer. I was wringing my hands so hard, I seriously could have broken a couple of my phalanges.
Eventually we landed... and everyone bumrushed the overhead bins. Everyone but the motherfucking pig bastard piece of fucking shit sitting in the window seat of my row. I purposely puffed myself out, grabbed my hand luggage, placed it on my lap, and Mom did the same. When we want to be cunts... we are the motherfucking WORST (it helps that my mom is built like a little bull and I'm built like a... dangerous stork? We just look scary and dangerous when we're angry).
Mom and I relaxed in our seat and just grinned the most passive-aggressive grin we know how to flash at motherfuckers who have wronged us and are now paying the price. We waited until the last possible second to get up... then some more to actually MOVE out of our seats.

Not once were we checked, or even questioned about our luggage anywhere. We found my brother (more like he found us. Mom and I were pretty jacked up by now), headed to his house, and I knocked out until about 7AM.
I proceeded to lounge around and then did yoga while listening to some music.
Mom was still unconscious as ever in her room.
At 11AM and went to go check on her well-being.
She woke up... and I took a seat on the bed... and knocked out... until 6pm.
I felt horrible. Sleeping the day away is the worst fucking feeling for me.

Still, at 8 my brother showed up and took us out for some genuine greek food.
The people are fucking gorgeous. The men have some stunning eyes which I can't help but stare into like some... hypnotized zombie. All I need to do is just start fucking drooling all over the place.
I don't understand ONE fucking thing... I keep forgetting how to say "thank you" and "please." I just know how to say "yes," which... might not be the safest thing.
Our waiter last night had amazing eyes... and he gave us free drinks all night. I was drunk as shit by the end of our two-hour meal.
I came home... with the worst stuffy nose I've had in a long time... and tried to go to sleep.
I just rolled around in bed and sweated everywhere.

I am now just walking around with a roll of toilet paper in my hand, ready to blow my nose every five minutes.

Tomorrow I head out to Rome... which... yey. That'll be great.
That's sarcasm, by the way... Rome is nothing but rain, and all I really know how to do is tell people I'm hungry for an apple.

I don't know how my crafty mother was so shafted with two useless daughters (me FAR more so than my sister).
I'm sorry Ma!
(oh, and it's 10:25 AM, Thursday the 4th)