Bleep Bleep Bleep.

I'm a potty mouth.

I'm sure that doesn't come as a surprise to anyone .
I've been told by most that they're pretty surprised when they get to know that side of me.
In creative writing, my teacher was fond of me but he'd always say that "this girl who in person is so shy and sweet has one of the dirtiest mouths I've come across in writing."
Ooops.
I've had a dude tell me "You know, I find a girl with a dirty mouth to be the ugliest thing ever."
To which I responded with "And... who gives a fuck?"

I've had the problem since... I can remember. The first English word I ever learned was at the age of three, and it was the lovely word: "Fuck." I even made a song about it ("Fuck fuck fuck fuck... fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck!")... what did they expect when my Dad watched HBO 24/7? My Mom and Grandma have a foul mouth as well (Mom always called us "Hijos de su chingada madre" which roughly translates to "Son of a bitch" or "mother fuckers" Yeah. Go figure)... I'm pretty sure that's where I get it.

I've tried getting rid of it, seriously, since eighth grade. I've tried to stop cussing when I met this really nice Jehovah's Witness (that worked for a month), I even mentioned it this year in THIS (click) post. Ever since 1999, I've tried giving up cussing for Lent. Has it worked? Hellllllll no. Not once.
I started off OK this year... only cussing while driving or writing. However, I quickly gave up... and went back to my cussing ways. Of course I felt guilty, very guilty, each time I dropped something like "Watch where you're going, you motherfucking asshole!" But I did it anyway... but I did feel like crap each time I said something "bad."

However, Lent has come and gone... and I'm back to my normal self again.
I did notice I haven't been so bad... just while driving. I quit cussing today because of what happened to me while driving to school yesterday:
I have to take the I-215 in order to get to school. It's never that packed (at 12pm)... but I do get idiot tourists from time to time (I get on at the LV BLVD entrance, so it's PACKED with California plates). Yesterday was like any other day.
Many dudes cut me off. Many dudes stopped abruptly. Many dudes drove 15 miles under the speed limit.
My response to everything was:
"Come on! Fucking cock suckers!"
It's just... a thing I say... since sixth grade.
I said it about six times... when on my final "CO!FCS!" I saw a female head pop up from... above the male driver's lap.
I was quiet... sort of laughed....
Well then... I hope she was recovering something she dropped...

I haven't called anyone a cock sucker in the last 36 hours... I'm feeling it's gonna stay that way for another 96 hours.
I may have just been traumatized.

Bored? Well, do I have the place for you!

Who needs movies/television when I have St. Anne to entertain me?

I've been in and out of church so often in these last 4 days, that I have no clue what's really going on in the world (I'm in my "Sister-AnoMALIE" mode).
Sure, it's bummed me out (hella. I was in a good mood all of last week... then all of a sudden I feel heavy-hearted and sort of sick. It doesn't help that this morning I woke up knowing AOL had erased all my "Favorites" AND saved e-mail. That shit had me crying for a while. It took me years to accumulate some of those favorites. And the saved mail... well... some shit had been there since 2001), but yesterday just made everything worth it.

So, I'm not fanatical about religion or anything (Mom wishes... she constantly accuses me of being a bad Catholic, but I give her more than a few examples on how I could be worse) but yesterday's mass is my favorite mass of the year. For one, it's done later in the evening... so there aren't as many children crying and running around (I don't hate kids... but I just like to worship quietly... sort of like a monk). Reason number two is that we start off in complete darkness... and that's just pretty rad. Three: we get to use candles! The priest blesses the fire, and we all light our candles one by one using the same flame. It's just awesome... and not because I'm a pyromaniac.

Anyway, lately, the church has really been going down the drain. They don't take much care of it, and the congregation doesn't give much dough for renovations. We don't have air conditioning (it's gonna get real ugly come summer time), the benches are coming apart (that's fun. I feel like a gymnast sometimes when I have to hold myself up using only my toes when kneeling down), and worst of all: there's this one Salvadorian lady who has set up a stand of Pupusas a couple of feet away from the main entrance to the church.
Being that we don't have air conditioning, people prop the doors open... and guess what we sniff in the air? Why, nice "fritanga" air, of course! You smell grease, pork, cheese... and often lard... and it all seeps into church.
Is that AWESOME or what?
HELL FUCKIN' NO.

I didn't have a problem with this lady at first. I am empathetic more often than not. She started selling her Pupusas out of the back of her car in the church parking lot, and that was fine by me 'cause I felt bad for the woman.
Then, all of a sudden, she had a carpeted stand with tables and everything right in front of church. The fucking gall of the woman.
So anyway... this has been going on for about 8 weeks now, and it has really annoyed me. The straw that broke the camel's back though, was when I saw her stand on Friday. According to tradition, we're supposed to fast on Good Friday... and I had been doing just that. Once I got a whiff of the grease though, I can say I felt rage. Ignorant ass woman. However, I don't know who I was angrier with, the woman or the stupid asses who were buying Pupusas. It was horrible to see the people that were fasting... and how their faces turned like those of a torture victim once the air became saturated with the smell of cooking pork.

Anyway! Off that tangent. I've been annoyed, and I just knew they were going to wreck my favorite mass somehow (Yeah, Fritanga lady was there). It was semi-ruined... but the live entertainment I received ended up making my day.
There was drama, suspense, comedy, horror, and even action up in there. Worthy of running against any good movie I've seen recently.

Drama:
The priest's mic wasn't working... so for half of the mass (or the entirety of the darkness) most of us were absolutely lost. We had no clue what was going on... and little kids were freaking the hell out wondering why they were seeing fire at the entrance.
"What is he doing?!"
"I don't know... but something's gonna come out of that dark doorway!"
"I'M SCARED!!"

More in the drama category was this crush of mine... on the old married guy from the last entry. He looked so handsome... in his golden shirt (he had to wear it as part of the "uniform")... just like a trophy. He also read under the candle light... and his voice came out like thunder. H.O.T. Just awesome. Hot, deep voice.
I sat and wondered the whole time:
Could my crush get any worse? This is a married man! Skaaaaaaank!
Will this AnoMALIE drama continue? (Nah... it won't)

Another drama episode was a little girl behind me. She had a thing for crying:
Tennnnnnnnnnnnnngo Hammmmmmmmbreeeeee! Quierrooooooo Cooooooommmmidddddaaaaa!
Everyone heard... and I'm sure after a while, I wasn't the only one thinking:
Someone feed that little girl, already! She' hungry!
How long had this little girl gone without eating? Well, it was around 9:30 pm when her whimpering began, and she had been in church since 5:30 pm.
Poor child... being starved by her parents at such a tender age... and she cried out "I want food" until she fell asleep.

Suspense:
I don't really like fire. My siblings almost burned down our house not once, but twice back in the old neighborhood. Needless to say, I'm not too fond of flames. When we lit our candles, I did my best to keep it close to me, but not nearly close enough to catch myself on fire. However, there was this annoying bratty girl in front of me. The irresponsible mother let the girl stand on the bench, and while I frown upon kids ages 6+ standing on benches, I was more upset 'cause this 10 year old kid had very long, thick hair. Her hair was down past her butt... and she kept standing directly in front of my flame constantly swaying her hair from side to side like in the Herbal Essences commercials. Me, being the careful adult I am, tried my best to keep the flame away from the dumb kid's head... which ended up in me holding the candle at eye level.
So I basically played the Who's-gonna-catch-on-fire-first game. Would I accidentally ignite this dumb kid's mane or would I singe my eyelashes off first?
(I'm glad to announce no one caught on fire... but it gave the mass enough suspense for the rest of the year)

Horror:
The bratty girl sitting in front of me had an equally annoying older sister. Whenever Herbal Essences Model wasn't too busy trying to annoy me, it was her older, teenaged sister picking at her elbow that would catch my attention. She picked at her elbow so often, I found myself wondering:
Well, WTF does she have back there?
And that's when I peeked.

BAD IDEA.

She had, I counted, seven warts (jeez, I still get goose bumps just thinking about it) on the back of her left elbow.
EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
It was one of those things... where like with a bad train wreck, you just can't keep your eyes away from the carnage.
Horrible. Just plain horrible (some warts were budding off another... oh man... it was BAD)!

Under the comedy category a ton of things could be listed... I see everything as comical. Maybe I can list the Pupusa air invading the church as something comical... only in a Catholic church would you have something like that happening.

And to finish it off, we have
Action:
Ushers help the priest hand out the communion. Most of these people are older ladies (the men are too busy protecting the doorways, I suppose). They go up into the altar in order to receive the communion straight from the priest, and then head back down to hand the communion to the rest of the congregation.
Well, the oldest lady up there (in her mid 70's) must have forgotten there were stairs in her way... because next thing you know, all you see is a golden little ball taking a sweet ass tumble down to the bottom of the stairs.
It was around 10:30 pm, and half of the people there were sleepy... but this tumble woke most of us up.
"Mommy... why did she fall?"
"I don't know... because she's old?"
Well... there goes her hip. That's what she gets for trying to do her own stunts.
***
I'm just glad this week is done with... now these people can go back to their usual behavior of forgetting the church even exists... and maybe Fritanga lady will move her place of business elsewhere.

Beware Fritanga Lady! She looks innocent at first... then she takes over like crabgrass.

Gimme and H...

Ah... it's that time of the year again! The time when tons of Catholics flock to church and Mom and I get our annual fix of people watching.

Mom: Hey... look at *BoyfromsameplaceinMexico*. He's a cutie.
Me: What is he? 17?

(Boy then proceeds with taking "Jesus" off the cross. We were watching... oh man, I have no clue how to say it in English... but I guess it's the re-enactment of the passion... you know, with as little bloodshed as possible. The church youth group set it all up, so of course no one's skin is going to be getting shredded off)

Mom: But look at that... he's strong! He lifted Jesus right off the cross all on his own!
Me: Yeah. Hmm.
Mom: He's a cutie. Didn't you say he was listening in on your conversation the other day?

OK, Mom, I'm not about to start dating a 17-year-old boy.

Me: Yeah. But who cares? He's a kid. I like guys more like that dude over there.

I pointed at this unbelievably handsome man standing near the doors of the gym where this Play-thing was taking place. I saw him yesterday as well. He's tall, with a chiseled jaw, perfectly proportioned nose, broad shoulders and a small waist. His muscles almost bust through his shirt. Big hands (Oh! Those hands!). He's just... man... hot... Mexican version of David Beckham (and because of that, I start blabbing like some cave woman).

Mom: Who? *GuyIpointedat'sname*? Oh, he's *Cousin'ssisterinlaw*'s husband.
Me: Married? You don't say...

I stare some more at the guy.

Me: I'd do him anyway.
Mom: AnoMALIE! It's Good Friday!
Me: You're the one trying to hook me up with a 17-year-old, law-breaker.
Mom: Well, any good Catholic boy... I was just making an example.
Me: Yeah... I'm done with good Catholic boys. You saw what happened with Altar Boy. Now I'm only accepting applications from Agnostics and maybe even a couple of Atheists.
Mom: (scoffs) Well, don't come crying to me when your husband sacrifices one of your kids to the devil.
Me: Those are Satanists...

Yep. That has been what I've been up to these past 2 days. Going insane with how horrible some of these "Catholics" are and then participating in the bad behavior myself by carrying on really crazy conversations with my Mom.
She's trying to hook me up with children, while I check out married men without feeling any sense of guilt (no, I do... but I'm still going to stare at the man if he goes to church tomorrow).

I'm always doing that though. I seem to have a thing for the older crowd (not Dad-old, just... 10-15 years older than me). Why? I don't know. I tell myself I'm destined to be a home wrecker... because it sounds a lot better to me than the whole Freudian thing about lusting after my father. The older guys I dig look nothing like my father... so I blame it on... all the movies I've watched. The actors I like are all in the older crowd. Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Edward Norton, Clive Owen... etc.
This affection for older guys then spills over to my real life, and being that these men are in the "older crowd," they're usually married (however, once the crush is there, I do my best to get over it if I think the guy's attached in any way).

Cursed be you, Hollywood movies! You're turning me into a home wrecker!

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?

Freedom! HOLLER!

I vomited out of excitement today.

Yeah, great way to start this off, but that's how I do.
I typically stress myself out so bad prior to an exam, I'll spend days vomiting up to twenty times a day (or until I've thrown up bile at least twice). That behavior stopped after Organic Chemistry, which is around the same time my passion for Biology came to an end.
I have felt the urge to vomit since, but I fight the feeling by de-stressing at a movie theater (or you know, traffic: where I can curse and give people the finger to my heart's content) or the treadmill (nothing better than running for so long that I forget what my legs are doing).
Anyway, I did have an exam today, and I was feeling overwhelmed by it all. I almost hurled yesterday, but the treadmill works miracles. So things were staying put in my stomach for some time. However… last night I had a nightmare (like I told you I was going to, Chase) and woke up telling myself:
I have to check my score!
What score, you're asking?
MCAT.
I took that bad boy a while back, and never checked my grade. I planned on never checking, mainly because I'm no longer looking into the medical profession. I've had enough of some of these people and like previously mentioned… I vomit like nobody's business whenever stressed. I'm just finishing these last 4 classes, getting my degree, and saying goodbye to it all.
On with the story:
People have been asking me about the MCAT for about three weeks now.
“When you gettin' your MCAT score back?”
“How'd the MCAT go?”
“Y esa cosa que hiciste el otro dia? Como te fue? Ya eres doctora?”
To which my response is always:
I don't know, and I don't care.

Well, first thing this morning, I got on-line, went to the AAMC website, and checked out my grade.

Back in December I said:
I'm only sticking to biology if I score a 36 or better. I'm not denying the world my talent if I get that good of a score. Anything less, I go for an MFA in creative writing, just like Irsfeld was telling me a year ago.
I didn't study, and I especially I didn't pay for any special classes. I went in with the knowledge I've (sometimes not-so-solidly) acquired in my last 4 years of college.
What was my score?
…
…
30Q.

Yeah. I was quiet for a second, and checked the scores individually.
Fuck.
I thought about lying to my parents. The score’s still good for a medical school… and that's what was most upsetting to me.
No!! What am I gonna tell my parents?! I'm gonna lie!
Then I looked over at my writing sample score.
Q! A freakin' Q! Dude, I'm a writer!
I was ready to cartwheel my ass out of the room. I became lightheaded after laughing to myself for so long (yeah, I'm crazy… and super excited)… then followed the hurling.

Nervousness + Excitement = AnoMALIE tossing her cookies.

That score cheered me up because I took it as a sign that I should stick to writing rather than biology… my answer to whether or not I should apply to the Iowa writing program, as well as the one at UNLV. Dude, I'm fucking game for this!

I still had to wonder about what I'd tell my folks.
I thought about it all day at school.
I only let two of my friends in on the news. I got this reaction from each:
Friend number 1:
Me: Duuuuuuudde! I got my MCAT score.
Chase: How'd you do? You get a 36?!
Me: hahah. No. I got a 30.
Chase: That's still GOOD.
Me: Yeah... but I got a Q in the writing portion! A fucking Q!

Friend number 2:
Chase: AnoMALIE got her MCAT score.
FutureDentistFriend (FDF): How'd you do?
Chase: Guess! She did good!
FDF: A 35?!
Me:... no... I wish (do I?).

Instead of getting upset, I'd laugh with the whole "Was it a 36?!"
The good humor made me come up with a solution: I'm telling them I scored OK… and that I will apply to Med school. I'm not telling them which ones.
Which ones will I apply for? Yale, Dartmouth, Washington… maybe Harvard. Schools that will say:
Hell naw, homie, you ain't smart enough for us!
Then I'll tell Mom and Dad that I did my best, but I just wasn't meant for the whole doctor business (I can always resort to my usual crying and "I don't wanna keep doing this to myself!" speech I give around the holidays... highlighting my vomiting episodes prior to exams, "I puke out my fucking gall bladder, Ma!"). Hopefully they don't get NALEO up in this… I'll be screwed."She's a Mexican-American girl! You need Mexican-American girls in the medical field!"
Yeah... but with her GPA... not even affirmative action can help (curse you, affirmative action! I'd never resort to that. I'll be damned if I ever do).

My life is about to start, man! I'm going to say goodbye to all this medical school nonsense and say good-riddance to some of the worst humans I've met in my life (I met some great folks, but the bad outweighed the good). I'm done with cheaters… clicks… vomiting! I'm fucking D.O.N.E.
No more plankton! No more photosynthesis! No more pentose phosphate pathway!
(Ew, why the hell do all those start with P?)

Chase, if I ever get sad in your presence over saying goodbye to biology… please remind me of all the unpleasant moments… and never mention microbiology. I'm going to miss that subject.

I'm smiling for the first time in... months... and I mean, smiling with a sparkle in my eye and shit!
It's called hope, man... hope.

(All this while my poor little sister's life is crumbling to a million little pieces. She's been denied entry into her Major... after 2 years of taking lower division classes. She's been crying all day... then she takes a nap... only to wake up crying again. It's heartbreaking. She even cries out loud while showering. Whenever one of our parents asks her what the deal is with her tears, she breaks down and cries.
Makes me realize how good I am at hiding my pain. It wasn't a year ago that I felt like doing the same thing... but I'm so much better at appearing to be OK. It's what being a Pisces is all about. Sure, I'd cry in the shower... but always hold in my screams. I'd resort to screaming into the carpet when everyone else was asleep or out of the house. Sometimes I'd scream into my pillows... but I never screamed in anyone's presence.
I always look gully around people. Hella. AnoMALIE's great at being miserable behind closed doors... but not today, nope, not today. The roles have changed for the first time in... my life).

Tired of your brush bristles?

A couple of entries ago I mentioned how a complete stranger came up to me, touched my eye, and asked if my lashes were real. I thought she was crazy, and I even felt slightly violated.
Someone suggested telling people I had lash extensions to see what reaction I'd get. I laughed, thinking:
That's so silly... but I do wonder how that would work... would they sow them on like a weave? Would they clamp them on like the extensions Britney had the day she shaved her head?
Well... one of my friends brought this website to my attention earlier today:
Lashextensions.com

(Lashes nature should have given you? Are you telling me both your parents have giant eyelashes, and yours came out looking like brush bristles? Damn you, nature, always fuckin' up)
And apparently, it's not the only website dedicated to lash extensions.

WTF... I can no longer be mad at the stranger lady for touching me. I guess she was justified in poking me.

How sad... I'm no longer special (but I'm totally going to exploit this and tell everyone I have fake lashes from now on... and how they hurt like a bitch, just so they can be dissuaded from getting any).

Room full of mistakes.

Man, someone got me good for April Fool's day. I abhor this day.

Anyway, I wound up going to the wedding after all (I was seriously thinking twice about the whole thing. For about two hours all I did was blurt out/scream "I don't wanna go!" whenever the thought of the wedding came up). How'd it go? Well, I wrote down all the places where I committed a mistake:

Mistake number one:
Shaving in a hurry a couple of minutes after waking up.

I nicked the shit out of my ankle thanks to my very intelligent prospect of getting the job done ASAP. This marks the 34,958,685,748th time I do this to myself. Ok, just the fourth… but I should be better about it my now. I'm not talking normal nick here, I'm talking Did-I-just-scrape-me-some-hypodermis?-thick nick. I made a mini pool of blood on the bathtub in the time it took me to turn off the water and reach for a towel.
This led to me fixing it with hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin. I covered my “nick” with a skin-colored Band-Aide. Shit went sour once I realized I still had the Band-Aide on when time came to leave the party.
I had the Band-Aide on throughout the party. I'm fucking awesome.

Mistake number two:
Attended a wedding taking place at a circus-themed casino.

I despise clowns. Don't believe me? Check it:

I still hadn't watched “It,” but I had seen a Spanish Novela where a little girl gets abducted by the clowns at her own birthday party. Nice way to traumatize a kid (I know other ways, but I have an entire life time to describe those). That clown would "mysteriously" vanish to the bottom of the toy pile... but Mom would always get it for me. Stupid Pan-Pan... scary motherf*%&#$.

Mistake number three:
Arrive 3 hours late to the party.

Finding a parking spot sucks ass. Finding the table my father chose sucks even worse. He has a thing for choosing the table furthest away from all the action, but closest to the bar.
Where was he situated when we got there? NEXT TO THE BAR! Of course.

Mistake number four:
Attend a party where only one of the two offspring of the celebrated couple likes me.

How the hell am I going to win, when only one of the daughters likes me? The youngest has hated me since the day I vomited after seeing her drink two whole packs of McDonald’s ketchup… that was 1989. The oldest daughter thinks I'm cool… but I know for a fact that when you know one of your siblings is disliked by someone, you somehow find it hard to like that person.
It was also the birthday of the daughter that doesn't like me, and everyone was hugging her at midnight to congratulate her. I did as well… and… that was awkward.

Mistake number five:
Attended a party where I have beef with more than two thirds of the females present.

It’s no secret that I don't get along with my own kind. I've always wandered away from the flock of chicks. However, when I get to hang out with the chicks in small groups of two or three, we tend to hit it off quite well.
Now, I don't really have an issue with people. I'm quiet and keep everything to myself… any beef is kept in the confines of my mind. However… somehow, most of the chicks present have been at the butt end of some of my very nasty behavior (in my defense, they started it all. They never heard the one about “It’s not the loud ones you should be worried about…” They were awful to me, I was awful right back). What’s worse is that the girls had all managed to claim an entire table to themselves, a table of 12, at the entrance of the ballroom. There were maybe 15 girls aged 17-22 and 12 of them were at the same table. How many of those chicks are cool with me? 2.
Needless to say, dirty looks abounded throughout the night (Especially when 10 of the 12 girls got up to SQUARE DANCE. Bitches, I'd be jealous if I saw you 10 boarding a flight to Lisbon... not when you get up to dance to Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart" in a mob without inviting me. It's called "square dancing" for a reason. You don't look rad "electric-sliding" all over the place).

Mistake number six:
Went against my gut instinct and wore the Old-dirty-walrus-attracting-cleavage dress.

I thought everything would be fine because I wore a thin, black sweater on top. I only buttoned the top button, and thought I'd be good.
I had been sitting for maybe an hour when I noticed the gaze of the men on the dancing floor directed at me.
Am I talking too loud?
I had been laughing a little prior to the incident, and when I laugh… well… I heave a lot (here I am making fun of the way "Justin Long" laughs, when I'm not any better).
For some reason or another, I looked down and realized my safety net was gone: The button on my sweater had come undone during one of my heaves. My gaze was met by my two… muchachas taking quite the breather.
Fuck… and I stretched… laughed… and stretched some more while this thing was undone. What a whore.
I won't complain any further, I had this one coming.

Mistake number seven:
Attended a party without my little sister.

She makes me giggle… we talk shit… we get up to the restroom together. I was alone, people were asking me about her… and I watched other sisters hang out together. I miss my stupid little brat face.

Final mistake:
Attended the wedding anniversary of a couple whose family I have beef with.

The hypocrisy is Crrrrrrazy! I know, as well as they do, that mad shit talking has taken place amongst our family. What do I say when it’s my time to congratulate the happy couple?
“Congratulations! I only wish to be as lucky as you, to find my other half and last 25 years together!”
Yeah… and hopefully he doesn't spend all waking hours drinking himself to death while watching Primer Impacto on Univision...

Some good did come out of all this:
1) A girl petted my head and then followed that by exclaiming:
“Oh my God! Your hair is SO soft! I'm going to pet it again!” (Anything pertaining to how nice my hair is will always be welcomed)
2) My skin’s nicely exfoliated (but my cut hurts real bad)!
3) I didn't flake on my friend… so she makes 2 that like me in that family. Hopefully she can help swing more votes my way.
4) I no longer make an ass of myself whenever shaking the hand of this one dude. He's missing the middle, ring, and pinkie finger of his right hand... he chopped them off during a really bad lawn-mowing accident back in 2001. Each time I've shaken his hand since, I forget about his missing fingers and my face usually goes from:

To:
Not yesterday. I shook his hand confidently and thought: Man, this guy's really recovered from his accident (he was very vain prior to the accident. Now he's a regular, nice guy). Congratulations, man!

Thanks to all this, I've matured just a little... and I'm slightly girlier.