Sinceridad de una sonrisa

The sun was beginning to set. We were in the middle of a very green park... a clearing in the forest, as the final rays of sunlight warmed our skin. Again, everything was silent. Again, an overwhelming sense of tranquility... serenity ruled. Again, we weren't saying a word.
And he was just smiling... that gorgeous smile that just... tickles my heart. The smile that melts my very cold heart.
His very white, perfect teeth. His endearing dimples. His dark eyes.
No words or laughter, just staring off into the distance, and smiling, with the occasional moment of eye-contact.
Cool breeze on my face, and unable to control a smile from crossing my face at the mere sight of him being... happy.

And just like that, all progress-- my best up to date-- went to hell.
The dream was random, an absolute surprise attack from my unconscious.
I had not gone to bed thinking about him, in fact, he hadn't crossed my mind in a while. I was too angry to give a shit about anything in this universe besides lying bitches playing me dirty. Lying, inconsiderate, manipulative bitches.

I woke up with a smile... which eventually turned to a frown.
I love the peace these dreams bring to my being... but I hate the empty feeling I'm left to deal with once I wake.

Whether it's Tyson quietly keeping me company as I sit in my backyard's porch... or Darcy keeping me company in some mysterious forest as we idly stare at nature... these dreams give the most inexplicable peace to my soul as I sleep, only to have me wake up to the fucking aching pain of knowing the absolute loneliness... the emptiness that actually surrounds and resides.

Plans? What plans?

I honestly hate complaining... despite what this blog might suggest.
I rant like a bitch here, but in person, my issue is that I hardly speak up when something is just not OK with me... when the subject is ME, of course. I'll speak up-- downright violently-- when someone else is being treated unfairly, when it's me? Nah. I just lower my gaze and become a mute-- it keeps me from bursting into tears if I'm in public.

Complaining, even when it's justified, makes me feel like an asshole... and ungrateful, annoying asshole.

These last few weeks have gone form bad, to worse.
It's not a serious subject, but serious enough for me to go to bed crying from the fucking frustration.

I had been planning two separate trips since January. In January, I just set aside the weeks I wanted: the final week of March for Costa Rica, mid-May to first week of June for Europe.
Simple enough.

Costa Rica was the first issue.
I mentioned the trip to my sister, and she agreed to join me since she has never visited the country. Sister then went ahead and invited Clemson (without my consent), the girl we traveled around Europe the first time around back in 2008. I didn't object, since 1. Clemson was going through a very fucking terrible break-up with her pro-NFL player boyfriend (who is a total fucking piece of shit, in my opinion. A fucking disgusting excuse for a man, that soulless fucking prick) and she desperately needed to keep her mind away from the shitty scenario. 2. She's a cool girl... as long as you don't eat her fucking bread (yeah, it's that girl with the bread story. My entire month in Spain was spent listening to this girl grow outraged each time she retold the story of how her roommates ate her two french bread rolls without her consent-- story she never failed to bring up EACH AND EVERY TIME I saw her... each and every time. Made for a maddening Spring Break trip with the girl... especially when we were trapped for that traumatic week in Paris).
Well, all was well, up until I asked the CR family if they would be available for that week in March.
Speed bump: No, the parents would be unable to take days off work, and the girls would be in school.
Solution: Americanas, visit for Holy Week, April 14th-21st, and you'll be GOLD. CR citizens get the Holy Week off-- mandatory, no school, no work. Oh hell yeah! Perfect!
Speed bump: Sister could not take days off in April because her lazy coworker's vacation request for the first two weeks of April had been approved a month in advance.
Solution: No Sister, still Clemson... and Mom, since she's the one who controls the religious zealots in the CR family... because she cares to talk about Jesus (whereas I just avoid acknowledging ANYTHING religion-based by remaining awkwardly silent).
Speed Bump: My folks' work only has two important dates each month, the first of the month, and the 16th... therefore, we had to leave on the 16th, at the earliest.
Solution: What the fuck ever, can we just buy the goddamn fucking tickets already?!

I am NOT kidding you when I say I had my laptop's browser set on Kayak, flights selected, ready to purchase my tickets, when my mom received Rafa's call.

Surprise! I just bought tickets to visit you guys in Vegas starting Good Friday until Easter Sunday!
WHAT?! WhatWhatWhat?! WHAAAAT?! Just like that?! You didn't even care to ask if we were doing anything for that fucking week?! What. The. Fuck?!
Of course, since he's the fucking golden child in this household (rightfully so, I must admit), Mom set her mind.
Put that laptop away! We're staying home and receiving your brother like he deserves! Easter is for family!
So, since Mom's personal Baby Jesus dropped the news on her, he dropped the fucking bomb on my CR travel plans-- completely obliterated any and all chances. (late April is when CR's rainy season begins, which is also their winter. I have ZERO interest in getting stuck in Costa Rica for their rainy "winter." FUCK that shit. Rain ruins everything)
I didn't bitch... I didn't (I only had that angry meltdown in my head. I didn't speak up-- ok, I did scream "What?!" two or three times... and I scoffed, but not enough to consider it a hissy fit). I convinced myself that this was a good outcome, the main selling point being "Well, I was going to start my stupid period on the 16th anyway... who likes to travel while profusely bleeding between the legs? And I'm not fanatical about the beach in the first place... add bloody issues to that shit and the beach might as well cease to exists."
So... I calmed myself down and swallowed that tough pill.
Cue this past Thursday, the 10th. What happens? Flow decides to pay me an irregularly early visit (I'm clockwork. This sort of irregular shit happens maybe once every two years). I am officially clear for the next month (I'm in that blissful phase where I'm not moody or bloated or tired or greasy... just fucking elated over the fact that I have an entire month to fuck around without worrying about bleeding all over myself like some fucking bitch in heat). This pissed me off, of course... because this might have been the best fucking vacation to Costa Rica EVER... since that period issue would be NON-EXISTENT.
Cue TODAY: Brother calls to say "You know... so I technically have Friday off... BUT if I STAY in DC and go to my class, I get paid extra, and paid extra for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday... even if I won't be at work, but my house instead. So... I canceled my flight and I'm staying in DC. Sorry."
Livid, guys... I was FUCKING. LIVID.
I heard the news and felt the worst fucking headache coming on. I still have that stupid pounding in the back of my left eye... I've spent the afternoon squinting because I swear my eyeballs will bulge out of their sockets. I think it's me subconsciously trying to keep the fucking tears at bay... giving myself a headache instead.

Eurotrip issue.
Another way I consoled myself about the failed Costa Rica trip was in telling myself I had this trip ahead of me. Now with CR expenses deleted, I had much more spending money for Europe.
It was going to be a trip to London, Paris, Berlin, and Barcelona. This would be done to celebrate Pacemaker's birthday... and mine.
On my birthday, my parents each gifted me trips. My mother was in charge of America, my dad straight up said "Go to Europe for as long as you want... for as long as you can." This made my fucking life.
I told my sister, asked if she wanted to join. Her response? "Why would I spend money seeing places I've already seen?" Ummm... because it's FREE and we didn't see it all (well, in Barcelona yes... but everywhere else? HELL NO. And STILL, I'll visit Barcelona ANY time I'm given a chance) and it's A FREE FUCKING TRIP AWAY FROM OUR MONOTONOUS LIVES!... AND IT'S FUCKING PARIS AND LONDON AND BERLIN AND BARCELONA! Places too many people can only DREAM of visiting just once in their lives.
So, after all was said and done, it was mid-March when Pacemaker and I decided it was just going to be the two of us. I was in put charge of looking up our lodging arrangements, since apparently I'm good at that.
Well, I spent a few weeks tweaking the itinerary, calling my folks' timeshare company and asking questions like a total dickhead.
That whole time, Pacemaker was silent. I didn't hear a peep out of her... not a single peep.
"I don't know, AnoMALIE... this all seems fishy. Don't you think Pacemaker would have contacted you by now? I have a feeling she's going to back out," said Mom.
"Nah, she would have at least texted me. But... now that you mention it, I'm going to text her and let her know I plan on booking everything today," I said, the date being the 9th, exactly a week ago.
So I did.
Me: Mademoiselle, when are you free so we can start booking this trip? :)
Her: any time

I should have known from that second, with that poor response... but no, I was a hopeful fucking moron.
I had been daydreaming about Paris for days, I could physically see myself strolling the streets... eating the food... people watching while sitting at a park, snacking on a crepe as a light breeze blew through my hair.
You know I'm balls deep (poor analogy, since I don't have balls) invested when I allow myself to fucking DREAM about something.

So what happened when I called Pacemaker? She started crying on me. She pussied out... and pussied out hard, by bawling over the phone on me.
I'm such a fucking sucker.
She didn't say she didn't have the funds for the trip, but alluded to it instead... because God forbid she can't afford something... because everyone knows she's so fucking loaded and high maintenance with her $80 shampoo, $100 mascara and $3000 piece of fucking luggage. A week stay in Paris is chump change for her... yeah. Of course.
She just said "I was looking into flights and saw they were very expensive... like... they have to be taking advantage of the Grand Prix and everyone who wants to go out for it." (Uh... fuck the Grand Prix... in case you're unaware, Roland Garros also starts at the end of May. Ding ding ding, mystery solved)
"I think it's best if we leave it for later in the year," she said.
"... Don't you... start college in the fall, though? Flights aren't going to get any cheaper during the summer..." I said.
"Yeah, well, we'll see how it plays out," she said.
She then went on and put the waterworks on full display. She began thanking me for being so understanding and always hearing her out... told me some more personal shit about some falling out with her sister and her best friend. That was around the point where she was pretty inaudible due to her sobs.
So... I felt bad for the girl, and told her it was all good. That it was all going to be ok. That I wasn't upset.
And then I changed the subject in hopes of making her laugh-- which I did.
And like a drunk girl, after a few minutes of the giggles, she forgot about her dramatic crying scene and she slipped up.
Pacemaker slipped up and mentioned not ONE future trip, but TWO.
She was flying out to Mexico City THAT Friday... as in, two days after this phone conversation, then in May she was flying out to New York.

Betrayal. Such a horrible sense of betrayal.
I did not say a word. Now I wanted to cry over the fucking phone... go into hysterics... make HER feel bad.
But I stayed quiet.
After a few pleasantries, and I bet after she caught on to the fact that I might not be too happy about her complaining about flight prices after she admitted to TWO plane ticket purchases, we hung up.
I sat on my bed, completely catatonic, toppled on my side, and just let the tears fall.

To add insult to injury, after texting my sister with my complaint over how shitty I felt after Pacemaker bailed on this birthday trip, Sister found it sensible to let me know how the day before, she and Clemson had booked a trip to the Dominican Republic. This after those two bitches had been hounding me about going on a group trip. I had not heard a damn thing about the Dominican Republic.

So yeah... I cried. I cried a lot these last few weeks.
(Monday, Pacemaker uploaded a photo from Teotihuacan with the caption reading something like: Visiting all 3 Latin American empires! Mayan: check. Aztec: check. Inca, you're next! My blood boiled. Peru?! A trip to PERU?! NOW you're a jet-setter? QUIT FRONTING! QUIT FUCKING FRONTING! When do I blurt out your secret? When can I tell all these people you're full of shit and you aren't baller for fucking shit? POSER! But I just turned my phone off)

I'm no longer crying, I'm just really angry. And hurt.
Finding out just how fucking low I chill on other people's totem pole truly sucks. It stings.

Thick

Aaaaand then my mom calls me fat.
Shit just keeps getting better.

I was standing at the kitchen sink, washing my dishes, when my mom walked up from behind and started her little verbal assault.

Mom (laughing): You... have a boxer's body now...
Me: What do you mean? Like a butch one?
Mom: Your back is... very wide. You're... thick.
Me: ...
Mom: Have you weighed yourself recently?
Me: ... no...
Mom: You definitely have to be much heavier than the last time you weighed yourself.
Me: ...You're calling me fat?
Mom: You're definitely much thicker.
Me: So, fat.
Mom: THICKER. You're thickening out.

My mother has always had a way with words.

Bye bye

Aaaaaaaand everything just went to fucking hell.

2014, quit being such a fucking dick.

Calmarme

I was slowly sipping on my favorite beer (not sure if it should be considered a beer, but OK) as I sat at the bar with the dudes.
I was nervous and concerned about my week with the ridiculously successful young man I was going to be paired up with for the wedding.
I was sippin' and trippin'.
"What am I going to say? This week of activities is supposedly meant for the bridal party to get to know one another and get comfortable. I haven't done shit... what am I going to talk about? This is going to be terrible!"
And he eased my irrational, anti-social fears.
"Just get him to talk about himself, and you'll be good for the night. He's a lawyer. They love doing that shit."
He kept giving me a play-by-play of what to do in case scenario A turned into B, or if it was more of a scenario C, and so on... you know, shit people like me NEED in order to be less socially awkward/anxious around others.

Look at him... helping me out. Helping me land a dude. Thank you.

As the smell of beer and garlic (so much garlic) invaded my nostrils, the only thing my brain was doing was sustaining the stupidest, saddest smile across my face.
Bittersweet, this entire exchange.

I am (and more than likely have always been) quite insignificant to him, but it's little gestures like the above mentioned, which will always keep me appreciative of him, appreciative of April 8th.

(... Also: his advice? Totally worked)

Putting it out there

WHO ARE you?!

Ten minutes into this sketch, I had to stop and take a break. She looks familiar, and the fact that I can't figure out who it is frustrates me... but mostly creeps me out.

So... I think this was the break I was asking for.

In other news, my middle school buddy published her book about four days ago. I wasn't aware of this until today, since I had been told it wasn't going to happen for another ten days.
I purchased the book, of course.

I am insanely jealous... obviously, since this is something I've wanted for almost 10 years (it is so fucking horrible to think Creative Writing was that long ago... what the fuck?!), and I haven't done SHIT.
I've been keeping journals since first grade, when my teachers forced me for my writing's sake. It was that latent love I wasn't aware I possessed until the day I first attended that writing class in college... just so I'd have something to do during my giant break between science classes, all while still in the company of my bestie. Something I did for so fucking long, and what unwittingly kept me holding on during those difficult years... those difficult times.
And I was a fucking snob and hated all over my friend's rough draft like a jealous cunt... and flipped when I found out she was actually going to publish.

Jealous because I didn't have the drive or courage to put my shit out there like this friend does.
Here, you have this fucking thing that I keep from pretty much EVERYONE... my other online journal, the popular one, the one I've had for 12 years is locked so only I can read it after all the horrible fights and drama that it inspired (no, seriously... there was some BAAAAAD shit on there). I do not possess the fucking ovaries to say "This is my shit. Go on. Say what the fuck you want. But it's MINE. And I like it. Fuck you." I cower and cross my fingers that I'm STILL that quiet fly on the wall.

But, while I still think that it's uh... something I'm not generally down for (the genre... the subject matter. I'm too cynical for it), I will still support her. Because she has a great, tender heart... she's a badass... and she's brave as fuck.

I'll quit being jealous... pinch myself when I feel it creeping up on me.
Best of luck to this wonderful, kind woman.

different zones

I wish I knew how to harness the different "creative streaks" I go through.
I have zero control over the medium my brain chooses, or when it chooses to be creative... but when it gets set on doing something, it just runs with it and holds me hostage in the zone for an undetermined amount of time.
Problematic.
It also helps explain why artists have that reputation of starving to death. Some days you're on fire, others you're riding through a hideous creativity dry spell.

Some periods I can't do anything other than write, others I only stick to sketching... then there was that period of months spent painting.

Right now it's the sketching thing again. I haven't painted since October, when I left the painting halfway done... and I tell myself I should probably spend my energy completing the painting, but my body refuses.
I also think of some good shit to jot down, but when I get on the laptop, I can't stand staring at the screen for anything longer than half an hour.
So I'm just sketching. (and reading... I don't know why the fuck I got that urge... but I'm also reading very late into the night)

So, while some interesting stuff has occurred in the last week (like my recruitment as a bodyguard by my short, white middle-aged gym buddy who has been getting bullied by some dumb hispanic cunt... something that is funny [the recruiting of me-- the quiet, solitary girl] and sad [the fact that my buddy felt the NEED to recruit ANYONE to protect her from a mean, violent bitch. How the fuck a grownass woman feels it's OK to harass an older lady is beyond me... but so fucking infuriating]), I haven't had the inspiration to write any of it down.

Hopefully this little sketching/doodling spurt dies down a little... so I can concentrate on other shit like a normal person.