NOvelas

My mom drives me apeshit.
The woman watches SEVEN soap operas in ONE day... SEVEN!
She monopolizes three televisions in the house, including mine, so I'm forced to relocate as she watches/records some ABSURD story of a drug lord, or pirate, or Moroccan whore... at all times of the day.

Back in the day, I confess I was a major telenovela fan. I'd rush home sometimes in order to make it in time for the afternoon soap that addressed some form of teenage angst- girls going to high school, getting pregnant, going through some sort of eating disorder, that kind of stuff.
But NEVER did I spend my entire day juggling seven soap operas.
WTF... if she's that interested in stories... she might as well listen to my shit. I swear, my life trumps any of her soap operas.

Want a story with pirates? Ok, my friend Lucky Soprano swears she's a pirate and, often times, tries to make me speak to her in "pirate."
Ni!!a, I have enough trouble juggling English, Spanish, French, and Portuguese in my head... shut the fuck up with this nonsense. You're not Johnny Depp, I'm not going to try and amuse you with my Arrrrgs, and I will definitely not be shivering your timbers.
And truth be told, I've had plenty of crushes on dudes with long hair. No, I don't get it either, it doesn't make sense, but it happens. I blame the 70's- which oddly enough, has plenty of that pirate-y look with the bandanas and all. You forced me to dig that decade, now suffer the consequences.
I've also dug "rebellious" boys I've so desperately wished could whisk me (your good girl) away, across the ocean, and towards the New World (although in my case, it's in the opposite direction, with Barcelona as my destination), like that idiot girl in your stupid pirate novela.
Oh, Ma! Me thinks I got yer pirates in me story!
However, I'm not too big on sailboats, or missing teeth... or hooks for hands... so... I'll have to work on that.

Story about a drug lord?
Umm... hello? WHY? We come from Durango... we travel to-and-from Durango every year. MGH's dad was the biggest DL of his time up until the day of his mistress' betrayal that lead to his murder, and MGH and his brother were given a bogus story about a car accident, since they were only about twelve when their father died. Ooo! Tragedy!
I have known MGH's dad's true story since I was ten, I was shown photos of his death shortly after it occurred... yet to this day, I still hide it from both MGH and his brother. How long can I keep that secret from them? Will they hate me once they find out... if they find out? Oooo! Drama!
I have spent a total of maybe 6 months at MGH's mansion in Mexico... put up with the strong paranoia ruling the family, having to walk in dimly lit rooms so as to not give away my exact location in the house. We wouldn't want a sniper mistakingly taking me out of this world just yet. Oooo! Adventure!
I've been in love with MGH, the man's son, for the last year! I went on trips with him... we spent nights together side by side... I almost moved in with him. Will I one day finally sleep with him? (Ouuuuch! The answer here is NO! I ultimately get my heart ripped out after he leaves me for a bland, Olive Oyl-looking-ass white girl who has NO clue about his family history... but hey, at least I don't get pregnant) Ooo! Romance!
and you'd still rather watch this damn fake soap opera?! I mean, the fucking list can continue, why listen to person X's invented life when a true story on DLs was almost part of your own?

And finally, a Moroccan whore.
Well... I have... Afghan friends... ?? No, they're not whores, but... I do have a minor crush on one of my friend's siblings. He too, like the lead character of the soap, is muslim... and I, well, I'm Catholic... but Jewish would have worked better here... although... I am technically, in part, ethnically Jewish.. so... hey! story right there! I also get confused for Lebanese, Pakistani, or Afghan while at my eyebrow threading place, I can easily make that work.
But I'm not a whore... and I'm not really down to turn into one in order to become entertaining. So... I guess that one must stay. At least you learn mini factoids about Islam and Moroccan culture... that's always a plus.

Madre mia, give me a couple of months... I'll give you plenty of stories to waste your time!
Now please surrender my television... Hell's Kitchen is on and I have things to learn! That Gordon Ramsay swears like a sailor, and I need to brush up on my skills.

My kind of anniversary

Today marks my three year anniversary with the local gym.
It wasn't an easy task to accomplish-- joining the gym, that is-- and it took a fucking village to convince me (the "Goddamn, I HATE Mammalian Physiology!" crew).
Ha!
It's not that I thought I looked good... God, no! Anyone who knows me knows how low my self-esteem really is. I just couldn't build enough nerve to actually get my ass in a gym.
I mean, have you seen how much spandex is in there?!
But of course, like with anything in my life, tell me a hot guy is involved, and I'll be game.

I joined the gym, sat in the back of class, and damn near keeled over each time the hot instructors came anywhere near me.
I took classes that made me barf half-way through them, others that made me bruise up like I survived a severe drop off a cliff (oh, you silly hoola-hoop class!), and others that gave me horrible views up the shorts of dudes who decided to free-ball it to the gym (yeah, it's yoga... but you can't possibly expect me to be cool with the spectacularly shameless view you're giving me of your scrotum. Do us all a favor, and give your testicles some support, dude!).

Three years later, I still sit in the back of class (bitches know better than to take my spot, ha!), and I still almost pass out each time the hot instructors make eye-contact (not the smartest thing when my ankles are at risk), but hey! I'm part of the spandex crew now!
I'm friends with a good number of trainers, even having that one experience with the Hot Hot Trainer befriending me because I could make him laugh... that was interesting.
I lift heavier than the majority of girls, which makes me smile... but even creepier is when I'm lifting heavier than dudes... which makes me laugh.
I am by no means close to what I want to look like, I mean, I still have cheeks like those of a chipmunk preparing for a long winter:

but at least I no longer have the chins of a bear preparing for winter:

(Jesus... I see that and I still want to cry)

So, thank you very much, gym, you make me happy.
(and so help me God if I go back to looking like I'm ready for some hardcore hibernation... I'm ok with looking like I have a couple of nuts in my mouth--wah! wah!-- but NOT the double chin)

Hey, Miss Satanist

Sitting with Mom and Dad, having a pleasant Sunday afternoon at the kitchen table.
My phone rings:

Heyyyy miss murder can IIIIII, hey miss murder can IIII, make beauty stay if IIIII take myyyy liiiiife??

I excuse myself from the table, and speak to my friend who only called to give me details about her flight that comes in on Thursday.
I hang up and return to see an upset dad.

Dad: What does your phone say?!
Me: My ring tone?
Dad: Yes, when people call you.
Me: Well, it depends. Usually it's this one song by a guy named Pitbull... but the song that came on right now is for certain people. It brings back memories. Should I sing it with my mom? She knows it too.
Dad: What kind of garbage do you guys listen to?!
Me: It's a song dad... the guy sounds good. And like I said, the song brings back memories.
Dad: You'll probably start listening to satanic shit and continue to listen because it "sounds" good.

... I guess I won't clue him in on that one song I refer to as "the sexy rape song" ("Sic Transit Gloria... Glory Fades." Sorry Mr. Lacey, but whispering "This is so messed up" the way you do will only make me WANT to rape you).
... and he'll never know about me listening to Megadeth... or singing along to Tool's "Vicarious" (dear God, I'm sure he'd have some sort of exorcism performed on me).

Banda

It's a beautiful, warm Las Vegas evening. Saturday night of Memorial Day weekend. Banda El Recodo is in town, and my sister is attending the concert with a group of twenty 22-30 year-old Mexican-Americans...
and what am I doing?
Studying. Yep. Fun stuff (seriously, if I ever use a word like "pellucid," I give you permission to punch my pretentious ass).
My bookmark can attest to this:

Yeah... definitely have ADD

I'll pass

I was supposed to be in San Francisco by now.
This weekend was going to be epic: six girls, three boys in the city, club hopping with a local DJ who knows the Golden State Warriors, a suite in the city... and getting trashed.
And damn MGH was finally going to be legal to party with the crew.
Then he went off and fucked it all up, getting serious with a girl (that wasn't me. Because we all know I'm fucking awesome and I don't make pussies out of my boyfriends as is custom).

I've tried, so damn hard, to remain friends with MGH, but it's too difficult.
Often times, I have to fight the urge to talk to him. Skype, MSN messenger, AIM, and FBchat are off-limits, because I don't want to bump into him.
This lead me to decide against San Francisco for this weekend, even if I did promise to go, back in February.

I don't want to stay at MGH's house and make nice with his new girl. I don't want to hear him talk about her, and I don't want to hear his family talk about her either.
She's so sweet! She's so funny!
Umm.. no... no she's not. She's an idiot. She might be "sweet" but she borderlines on imbecilic. And as for her sense of humor... it's obnoxious.
"You guys are jerks!"
You consider that the next Tina Fey?

However, nothing bugs me more, than her pea-sized brain. My eyes bleed each time I see her fuck up the words "your" and "you're," and don't get me started on the "there, their, and they're" (My favorite, no, more like, the thing I hate most, is when she comments on his page: "your amazing!" Bitch... come on! YOU + ARE, make it a contraction, you get YOU'RE. P.S. That's the best you can do? Really? You say that to a friend after they sign up for a marathon, when your mom cooks you your favorite meal... when your puppy learns to sit... when a kindergartener learns to color inside the lines... etc).

I could sit here and hate on the girl for days, but where will that get me?
She won, I lost. I wasted 3 years of my life trying to get what she acquired in a matter of a week: MGH. It's easy for me to hate.

So, I'd like to take this moment to thank MGH, for getting himself an illiterate, obnoxious girlfriend with the figure of an uncooked Chinese noodle, the brain of a goldfish, flowing "strawberry blond" Cocker Spaniel locks, and the gums of a 90-year-old chain smoking grandma (he could have at least chosen a pretty girl. I'd probably high five him if his new chick had some sort of killer attribute... but this, man, it makes it difficult not to be bitter. My only guess is that she gives some amazing head).
Thanks for fucking up my weekend, prick.

three percent

This shit is getting difficult.
I promised I'd write everyday back in March... and I didn't really follow through with it until this month (sort of).
I'm sick of looking at this screen, although it's a very lovely screen.
I sit at home, typing away... and studying (quite poorly. I've been revising the same 6 group of words for the last 2 weeks. 6 groups! I'm so frustrated with myself. Someone get me some fucking Ritalin!)... while my little sister goes out and enjoys her little latin nights with the girls.

I'm totally her wingman... well, in the sense that I tame the beast back at home while she lives a semi-normal young-adulthood. It's not like she should be mistrusted in the first place, since she's commanding officer of the V Club... and sheriff of the Virginity Police.
The girl takes issue with any one of her friends that informs her of their virginity loss. Sis will blurt out her discontent at the most random times to me.

I'll be sitting in the living room, catching up on my Wii Fit bullshit, trying not to wobble as I run a test:
Sis: So-and-so is not a virgin anymore. She told me she did so-and-so last month. She just barely got the nerve to tell me now.
Me: That's nice. ??

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, reading the cereal box as I eat some afternoon Honey Bunches of Oats:
Sis: Bitchass Girl#2! She let her boyfriend screw her!
Me: So?
Sis: THE CREW IS SHRINKING!

I'm sitting on my bench at the gym, quietly waiting for class to start:
Sis: So... Girl#3 is no longer part of the club.
Me: What?
Sis: G#3 fucked a guy.
Me: Who the hell are you? Chill, Gestapo!

It's a lonely club... to date, there are 7 lonely members... and one of them is close to getting her membership revoked due to her lax definition of virginity ("as long as a real penis doesn't penetrate your vagina, you are still a virgin." Take that as you may). The group only counts Hometown girls 17 years and older.

Sis is part of the club because she's of the "Wait Until Marriage" kind. She freaks out when her fellow Catholic V's lose their membership, and only grows disappointed in the Non-Cath members who were members... out of sheer bad luck?

Five of the seven members are of the WUM kind. They may be a little wild and party like rock stars, but they'll be damned if any boy touches their no-no place without putting a ring on their finger (besides the aforementioned girl with the rocky membership, because God knows what has been placed in her mouth, backdoor, and cookie box).

The sixth girl is a member because she has never had a boyfriend in the first place. Puberty hit her hard, let's just put it that way. That, and she's also very demanding... she grew up with no interaction with boys her age, so she's very squeamish and rather irrational when it comes to expected male behavior (and their bodily functions). I can't ever imagine her getting laid... because she would never allow a penis anywhere near her... too gross. Mark my words.

Me? I'm of the "Fuck that shit... are you kidding me? Have you seen how that shit turns out?!" kind. Frankly, I could give a shit if my future husband (not probable, but let's just run with it) appreciates this membership or not. My willingness to settle down and leave my comfortable lifestyle should be enough to say "Fuck, I LOVE YOU!"
He shouldn't take ANY credit for my chaste cookie box.
The truth is: I refuse to get that emotionally attached to anyone (hello, have you met me? I get upset when I have to throw away old Play-Doh. I imagine parting ways with a guy I screw will cause major irreparable damage to my already-cynical point of view).

Until the moment I find a guy I find to be absolutely legit (won't make me lament ever taking the chance of possibly reproducing with that retard), and all sorts of awesome (or at least one I can intimidate the shit out of so he won't say a word of what goes on), I'll continue being an anomaly in this city... at least the V Police won't be on my case.

(I'd like to thank today's episode of The Doctor's. Way to get into my head)

Bullhorn

I'm a good girl. Everybody knows this.
I don't really like this title, and often times, I purposely say incredibly vulgar things in hopes of removing people's blinders when it comes to me.
I'm not saying I'm a huge jerk, or even that people are wrong in their assumption in regards to me, I just don't want them to get alarmed when they see me at the next family function taking a shot at the bar.

Yes, I go to church every Sunday (Saturday, actually, since there's less people there to make me angry with their barbaric behavior), I visited Hometown ever year to take care of my little grandma, I play with kids, I always have a stupid shy smile on my face when spoken to, and more importantly, I don't fuck around with guys (I mean... when's the last time you heard of me dating a boy from Hometown? NEVER. And if I don't date a Hometown boy, then I don't date anyone... right?). I'm fucking saintly! But like every human, I mess up sometimes.
I drink... I get drunk... and I say STUPID things.
I'm also imperfect in the sense that I'm so naive, I always believe other's integrity will be equal to mine.
I rarely sense when people are lying to me, I always think others will keep their word, and I give people the benefit of the doubt.
This naiveté often times gets me in trouble because I'll use my reputation for the benefit of others, and they'll just fuck up... and then I look bad and lose credibility.

Reason I say this: last summer I let two 17 year old girls and one 15 year old boy join my circle of friends in Mexico. They were lonely, and their parents would only let them be out until the sun went down.
Since days seem to go a lot slower and the nights are clear, cool, and balmy, my group chills outside. We dance, sing, play games, and drink under the stars until the wee hours of the night. Typical lazy, fun summer nights.
So I ask their parents for permission to let them hang out with my group, and promise to be responsible and bring them back home in one piece.
Everything's fine and dandy... up until they start getting drunk and start breaking bottles behind the abandoned house we use as home base. We spend a couple of hours trying to sober the morons up, then drive them home.
Word spreads around town about the broken beer bottles and used condoms found behind the old abandoned house.
"What kind of person fucks near broken bottles?"
My group is tight lipped, but super curious about the used condoms. However, we accept that in order to not be accused of the used condoms, we'll have to leave that as one of life's greater mysteries.

Now we move on to last night.
A boy from our Mexico clan posts a music video on FB (of course); it's a song that was crazy popular last summer, a song we sang during our lazy summer nights, a song solely about getting trashed.
He comments: This one goes out to mah boys! Those nights we spent drinking by the house... gettin' twizted!
Stupid, now-18 year old girl comments:
"Hey!!! Dedicate this song to AnoMALIE, 17YOGirl2, Sister, and me too! We were right there with you guys!"

Bam.
Next time, why don't you fucking announce it through a bullhorn, idiot?!
And just like that, the jig is up.

I just want to know who the fuck was using the condoms.