Indifferent gratitude?

This Mexico trip, while being incredibly conducive to the proliferation of my artistic expression, also served to make me aware of a shift in my personality.

It has been a fucked up road for me in terms of controling my self-esteem.
Considering the ridiculously extended period of time spent being told I was ugly... literally getting that shit beaten into me at times, it should come as no surprise that I'm pretty fucked up in the self-esteem department.
I don't understand why exactly I had people calling me ugly as a toddler... I see photos now and think I was quite adorable with my giant eyeballs and whatnot... but the fact that "ballooning" in third grade brought about the merciless fat-shaming for the next 15 years kind of makes sense in my head... I mean, as much sense as bullying and ostracizing the fucking shit out of a girl for YEARS just because she's larger than average can make. Those were my formative years... age five to 25 are goddamn IMPERATIVE in a human's development, who the fuck are we kidding? To think someone-- a gentle, timid girl-- spent those years completely abandoned and only approached to be belittled or shamed or... hurt... and having her grow into an even more timid, awkward, and downright FUCKED UP individual isn't so outlandish.

So I hear I'm ugly and get ignored, only get attention to get publicly humiliated or physically harmed, for roughly twenty years. I hear fat jokes, people oink and moo at me (or actually "Ew" me when I walk by... really... that sound fucks me up to this day... it's worse than getting punched in the stomach, seriously), guys completely ignore me (AND ONLY me) at social events like Quinceañeras and weddings (I might be the only girl from Hometown who never once got asked to dance during her entire adolescence. Today, I still don't get asked because I acquired the fame of "The girl who doesn't dance" as thought that was ever my choice-- to turn someone down), girls avoid associating with me in public because they find it easier to have nothing to do with the one girl guys mock OR ruthlessly ignore. Later in my adolescence guys do begin to talk to me... I am smart, witty, funny, knowledgeable about sports, cool, kind, considerate... I'm a homie... and only that.
I become thoroughly convinced I am the ugliest, stupidest, most disgusting person on the planet... the unworthiest, most-embarrassing creature alive.
THEN I lose weight. A lot of it. THEN I suddenly become worthy. Suddenly I am noticed. Suddenly people want to associate with me. Suddenly people are baffled by my rejection... "You didn't like me six months ago as a fat girl... I'm the same fucking human being on the inside... I am the same shy girl who begged to be noticed and comforted... why the fuck am I suddenly worthy because I dropped 80 pounds? You're telling me being FAT warrants that type of torture?!" It was THE WORST mindfucking of my life.
The suddenness in the change of treatment from others was too quick for me to adjust, for me to accept. 20 years of neglect and hurt... suddenly converting to laudations from others in a matter of six months. I was the kindest, gentlest girl I could be during my years of torment... I graduated on time with a biology degree, FIRST person in my family to graduate college... but dropping 80 pounds was WORTHIER to people than any of that shit.

I refused to accept the claims from others regarding my "newfound beauty." It wasn't me being humble or fishing for compliments... it was me genuinely NOT believing those who spent the majority of my life calling me "ugly."
After a few years, I found myself feeling guilty... arrogant... vain... conceited, whenever I thought positively about my appearance.
"Get over yourself, AnoMALIE."
I'd catch a glimpse of my high cheekbones, or how cool my thick lips looked in a certain shade of lipstick... or how huge and dark my bare eyelashes looked after a shower... and would stop myself cold in my tracks when the thought was positive.
"People PAY FOR THIS SHIT, AnoMALIE! AND YOU WERE BORN WITH IT! You lucky broad!... but... I mean... I'm still ugly... I mean... I can't make it work... and that's just some conceited-ass shit, idiot. Clearly you aren't pretty, or else guys would be all over you. Get over yourself," my conscience would wrestle.

Up until two months ago, I'd still blush WILDLY... activating coldsores... whenever ANYONE would allude to my "beauty." I'D FUCKING GET TEARY-EYED from the embarrassment of a compliment.

This trip to Hometown, I experienced two instances which helped open my eyes to a possible shift in this fucked up, low (more like "nonexistent") self-esteem of mine.
On my third day, I went to the "city" to get my broken filling fixed (I was so furious a couple of weeks ago, I ground my teeth hard enough to break off one of my porcelain fillings). After the thirty-minute procedure, I proceeded to walk around the city with my parents as they did some shopping in various locations. Mom and I were fed up after about an hour of perusing through little shops in the city plaza, killing time as Dad had his boots shined.
Mom decided to grab some barbacoa tacos, while I sluggishly waited, standing next to her with my fucked up, swollen, numb mouth hidden from the general public who were enjoying their morning stroll in the plaza.
"Don't move your face... your right side is paralyzed... you will look crazy the moment you attempt speaking or even smiling... but don't look like a homicidal sociopath," I thought.
Originally, a chick was helping mom with her tacos. I looked away form the taco stand, searching for dad, and when I looked back at my mother, a young, green-eyed man was hastily making his way over to us, quickly asking mom what kind of beverage she would like.
"Uh... a... Coca-Cola," Mom said.
I couldn't help but smile, bringing a hand to my lips the moment I remembered about my half-paralyzed mouth. Mom had sworn-off soda before our trip, I bet her she wouldn't make it through this trip without a drink.
The guy looked over at me, holding out a chair, and invited me to please take a seat.
Fuck... I gotta talk...
I tried my hardest to "smize" (smile with one's eyes) a la Tyra Banks. I held out my left hand and shook it as a negative, immediately bringing that same hand to my lips when I felt a smile escaping as I thought about how dumb I must look with a half-limp smile.
I tried my best to gain my composure, and stood as... "nicely" as possible while my mom finished her tacos. I tried looking "nice" and not intimidating or angry as I stood without moving my mouth (that shit's hard when you're naturally scowling like I am. I need to overcompensate with a permanent smile so other don't think I'm ready to uppercut the shit out of them). I looked around and people-watched for about ten minutes, while listening to the green-eyed guy talk to his coworker about the upcoming dance he so desperately wanted to go to.
When Mom finished her tacos, I finally once again looked over at the young man and serenely watched as he pushed his female coworker out of the way in order to be the one who gave Mom her change. The guy fumbled with the coins for about thirty seconds, dropping and sorting through the 1's, 2's, and 5's, fucking up his math. The commotion made my sight shift to his hands, then to his blushing face.
"Here is your change. And pardon me for the fumbling... A guy gets... nervous," he said after giving Mom the correct change, smiling while briefly making eye-contact with me.
I smiled politely, softened my stance, and calmly walked away.
I did not blush with embarrassment, I did not roll my eyes in irritation.
I felt... sort of sorry for the guy... for letting my presence get to him. He was sweet, and not in the least bit vulgar in his behavior towards us... he was sweetly nervous.
Sweet kid... little does he know I'm damaged beyond repair, totally unworthy of the attention.
I'm dead inside. Well, no, it's more like... I felt tenderness for the kid, for still possessing that ability to feel for someone else at first sight. However, more importantly, his attention did not anger me, or embarrass me, or even flatter me... it just made me feel bad for him feeling I was something out of the ordinary. "Bless your heart!" sort of thing.
And I moved on. Calmly.

This type of... serene... resignation (to loneliness) was my response to all expressions of admiration from people.
A second instance of "blatant admiration" occurred the night of the big patron saint festivity, the 9th.
The evening is spent attending an hour-long mass dedicated to the Patron, and at the end everyone files out and down the hill, eats street food until the sun goes down (usually about an hour of fucking around to one's content, be it drinking tequila straight out the bottle until the world can't stop spinning, stuffing your face with cobs of corn or pancakes or churros or tacos or tortas or cotton candy, or playing various carnival games), then finds a good spot to watch three-hours-worth of live fireworks... really fucking intricate fireworks, set to live music.

View exiting the church.
That two-story house down there with the red "pop-outs" is my much-envied balcony seat.

Originally, I wasn't going to participate in the activities (except church, because I'm a fucking nun), but as I was exiting the church, a cousin whose house is at the foot of the hill (upon which the town's church is located) invited us to watch the fireworks from her roof.

Church on the hill, behind the pyrotechnic "trees"

This meant I would not have to mingle with the drunken crowd, and I'd have the best seats in town.
Just as the time approached for the lighting, rain started to pour, and everyone down below rushed below the stands and proceeded to shiver the night away, watching the workers struggle with the fireworks.
After perhaps half an hour of staring at the messed up fireworks display, I started to zone out. I sat in my chair, under my umbrella, gazing at nothing.

Never too rainy or windy to party.
Meanwhile, I live out my destiny to be the Mexican version of Quasimodo.

After another twenty minutes, I began to feel eyes on me. I felt a guy in a red shirt, standing below, at my periphery, intently staring at my face. The gaze felt hot on my face, but as calmly as I've never been, I looked over and made eye-contact with the culprit: Cos... my childhood friend... the little boy who always kept me company when I'd hang out at "el alamo" with the summer gang (don't get me wrong, those memories are without a doubt the happiest of my life, but not without its share of excruciatingly painful and sad... like when the girls of the group started turning into gorgeous teens and I only ballooned into a fatter, more pathetic nerd, and the girls proceeding to go out without me, disassociating with me so as to not scare away any boys). I love this kid, madly, but with no romantic feelings whatsoever. I love him for having a heart, and taking pity on me at a time when he was a sweet little kid, a 9-year-old with a platonic crush on a weird, funny, kind, chubby, (five-years) older girl who was mistreated by jackasses who failed to appreciate her strengths. When we'd play games that required a partner, and before there was time for me to stand alone for even five seconds, I was his go-to girl, this nine-year-old's first pick. He'd hug me, and sit next to me... and give me random little gifts that his nine-year-old little hands could find-- plastic bracelets, flowers, lightning bugs. This child saved me many, many tears.
He's now a 26-year-old honorably-discharged marine... with severe PTSD that he acquired during his two Afghanistan tours. Townspeople avoid him, because he's "weird" and doesn't talk... often says hello and randomly drifts off, walking away from everyone. He prefers to remain in solitude.
I've never been scared of him, never judged him. I've always loved and appreciated him.
However, this visit I had not seen him whatsoever (since he was not home the day I visited). Watching him watching me... felt... warm, but... cold. He stared, with the same kindness in his eyes with which he has greeted me since his childhood... that same level of admiration. His gaze did not leave my face for... what felt like an eternity (more like five minutes, because it lasted a song and a half). How do I know he was staring AT ME? I was the only person on the roof... everyone else was in the safety of the ground floor-- indoors. I made eye-contact with him for about five seconds, only to make sure I was the object of his cocked head. Once I saw I was indeed the object of his attention, I continued with my activities (filming one of the pyrotechnic "trees" which one of my family members ordered).
I was not being indifferent... I was just... being myself... my quiet self. No blushing, no irritation... just... quiet resignation.

There is certainly gratitude, but...  saudade... because it's undeniably kind of anyone to admire a wreck such as me the way they do, but sad that in no way do I deserve it or can "reward" them for it.
DO they even want to be "rewarded?"
Is indifference truly what I feel... now that I've typed all this shit out and finally analyze it for myself?

Gratitude... but... I don't understand what the big deal is... just carry on, my friend... carry on.

gush

Back in Peru, Spence and Bone commented how we needed to find a way to bottle my resilient, stubborn drive and use it for the greater good of humanity (this came up after our hike which, again, I will eventually elaborate on. However, to summarize, I shocked everyone because I fucking murdered the trek, at times out-pacing the guides... because I'm a fucking beast... with long legs and a seemingly never-ending supply of ATP... and all because people infuriated me, that shit giving me the drive I needed to go forth and beat everyone... all of this solely because everyone underestimated me, which GREATLY pissed me off. "You're telling me you can do all this shit, go from 0 to 100 ONLY because people pissed you off? We need to bottle this shit, AnoMALIE, and use it for the greater good of humanity," to quote my companions).

Vegas seems to mute this quality of mine, this strange ability to go above and beyond expectation to rock the shit out of something.
I am so lackadaisical, and timid in my natural state here in Vegas, that even those closest to me become skeptical of my abilities. In turn, though I KNOW I can do some pretty cool shit, I begin to believe other people's skepticism... much to MY OWN--and ONLY my own--detriment.
However, the moment I go to Hometown, I'm suddenly rushed by so much ambition and motivation. I become a busy-bee... a busy, artistic bee.
I will read two or three books in a span of five days (here in Vegas, you'll probably catch me reading a three-page internet article once a month... at most), which this time around included a 19th century novel, a new release "young adult" novel, and a Spanish (Argentinian) compilation of 21 short stories (TWENTY-ONE SHORT STORIES. IN ARGENTINIAN colloquialism. The goddamn book was SO fucking enthralling, that I didn't quit half-way through the first story, but instead burned through the book in one day. Stories of love, horror, or death... goddamn magical. I had forgotten how much I fucking adore short stories, in whichever language they may be).
I will doodle sketches every morning. This ten day vacation saw me finish two sketches which had been left unfinished for three years... that's pretty fucking miraculous.
I will write. In a span of five days (which was the total of legitimately "free" days), I summed up 18 pages-worth of what I call "skeletons"... aka short story outlines... which... is kind of exciting.

Hometown inspires me, when I'm not even looking to be inspired... I just go to unwind from the pent up aggression and anxiety I acquire here in the States, and come out of it with all sorts of creative trinkets, so to speak. While I do suffer from sadness out there... and I do cry nearly every day at least once... I cannot control my creative impulses. The tears are usually not provoked, they just randomly occur... even when people have been nothing but kind to me... or even when I've had a guy or two compliment me... I STILL find myself quietly crying as I sit in the living room of my house... or drinking my sleepy-time tea before bed (the walls of my Mexican home are painted pastel pink, pastel peach, and electric yellow... AND STILL, I'll cry because the fucking colors will elicit a childhood memory-- happy OR sad). I'll cry, then go off and do some shit like burn through a book, doodle, or scribble some words.
There's hardly any interference from the outside world, since any bit of rain causes the television signal to go out... and there is no wireless signal for phones... so I am left to my own devices when it comes to entertainment or even human interaction. Wanna talk to someone? Go outside and physically look for someone. Want to hear some news? Drive half an hour to the nearest "city" and visit an internet cafe.

So... I have all of this potential... and I have zero ability to harness it and manipulate to my liking... no clue how to control it. Just like my creepy ability to sense when someone close to me is going to die (or have one of their loved ones die), but no knowledge as to how to pinpoint WHO is going to die, I can go off and be a prolific "artist" but not whenever I want to... and there's always that strange side effect of going about, hiding in dark corners, crying my eyes out.

This shit feels like donating blood... where the life is literally drained out of you for the greater good, but you spend a while fainting all over the place as your body tries to recuperate.

This is all disjointed, isn't it? Like, what's my fucking point?
Basically, I'm hemorrhaging creativity and there's so much shit going on, I don't know where to point the gushing lifeforce before I'm drained and back to my catatonic, boring phase that lasts godknowshowlong.

Saudade

"Write, you fucking animal!" my mind screams at me.
The manner in which life switches shit up on me is ridiculous... it honestly goes from lackadaisical days of (calm) monotony to sudden fucking explosions in my face.
Seems like anytime I decide to take a break, wether for mental health, or physical health... it winds up being a bad idea because life gets crazy and my more comical or interesting posts have to get tossed aside because someone is dying or fighting or... destroying someone's life.

I'm back from Hometown... sick as fuck, AGAIN, but fuck it, I'll write.

This break was sudden. My brother came to town after finishing his two-year Athens post, on the 23rd of August... or something close to that.
He brought his Greek friend with him... who drove me insane because he was the most stereotypical Greek man-- misogynist AS FUCK. I wound up giving up my side of the house, so the dudes could feel comfortable and whatnot (I'm too goddamn considerate). Once my brother left on his ten-day cross-country drive (showing his Greek friend around this wonderful country), I returned to my side of the house to see the fucked up mess the guys left behind. To keep it short, I'll just say I was barfing while scrubbing snot off the walls of my shower (if you blow snot-rockets, let it be known I fucking HATE your deplorable, disgusting ass... you fucking inconsiderate animal).
ANYWAY, while my brother was in Vegas, his conversations with family members encouraged him to go to Hometown, despite being heavily frowned upon-- uh, almost illegal-- by the State Department. SO, on a whim, with exactly four days before the date, we decided to drive down to Hometown, and have my brother meet us down there by air.
SOOOOO... in four days, it was decided that we would all be going to Hometown for the Patron Saint festivities.
Fast Forward to the night prior to my departure, and you have me receiving that text from my friend, my adoptive brother (I have a few of them, but he may have been the first). That text fucked. me. up.
His mom is the one who received the terrible news... and I fucking love that lady... like, she's one of my all time favorite adults... fucking BEAUTIFULLY sarcastic, but also so loving and caring, it fucking hurts (this soul has been trampled in the most traumatic way... how can she still cary so much kindness in her heart?).
The shell-shock followed me for about four days, it had me clinging to my parents like a newborn baby.

Mexico was a welcomed breeze of serenity... with the ever-present saudade that place elicits in me.
The place is greener than EVER, with cascades of water everywhere (probably commonplace back when the Spaniards "discovered" it in the 1500's, and why they named it after the Basque country... totally not what it has looked like these last 30 years). I'd wake up to a sweet view of morning fog rising from the enlarged river, and went to bed to the sound of a rushing river... or raindrops-- there was hardly a night where my nostrils weren't treated to Hometown's enchanting petrichor.

The festivities were quite subdued due to two deaths in town... and as previously mentioned in older posts, Hometown funerals gut the fuck out of anyone with its achaic traditions (the different styles of tolling the bells for a death is haunting. The sound resonates through the entire town for about ten undisrupted minutes each time). The nine days of festivities (actually, it's more like 12) passed by without much drunken debauchery from the men, unlike the ridiculously frustrating disaster from last year.

So... things were mellow... and melancholy. I had the break I didn't know I needed, and my sadness was quiet and calm, rather than the chaotic frenzy it can sometimes be.
Though I arrived home sick as all hell, I was not sick at all in Hometown. My sickness was only lightheadedness after vomiting my brains out at the start of the trip (though violence down there is basically down to zero now, I still find myself nervous out of my mind when I think of driving though that sierra in the dark. While they seem to be venerated in the states with all the fucking shows, real life narcos are goddamn motherfucking terrifying and hardly as amusing as the Netflix shit).

Now to pick up on where I left off with real life... where does a girl even start?

Chill blue

I've been back for a few days now, however, as has become my motherfucking cutsom for the last five years, I returned with a horrible case of... being old.

Another Mexico trip, another parasitic intestinal infection. Damn infection has left me weak, trembly, lightheaded, and unable to maintain a healthy appetite.
At least I didn't puke on the ride here this time around.

No, rather than spend my few days in the motherland confined to the bathroom evacuating my gut in some form, I spent my days READING (imagine that shit!), writing, listening to music, walking... and crying. Good lord, did I cry. I cried like I would back in the good ol' days... like the good ol' confused, emotionally abused teenager I was 15 years ago.

Yeah, I have different versions of crying... there are different vibes to it all.
For the most part, I would say my crying sessions in my teen years, while heavy and heartbreaking, still carried this silver lining to them... a sense of hope. Something in the back of my mind would always calm me down... give me the illusion that "YO! You still have like... so MANY fucking years to fix this shit! It's going to get better! Just you watch!" I also had Tyson to calm me down during that painful time in my life... that little cow was magical.
And so... if I could assign those crying scenes a color, it'd be pastel pink.
My crying sessions in my 20's were brutal. There was intense desperation in them... there was intense, uncontrollable vomiting... so much fucking stress. SO MUCH disillusionment. So much failure. Then when the decade started coming to an end, it all went black... it all fucking died... especially once Tyson died. I felt nothing. Hopes imploded. Dreams disappeared. "WHY DID I STAY?!" type desperation. FUCK. THAT. SHIT.
Yeah... the crying meltdowns in my twenties... I wouldn't repeat those for all the fucking money in the world. Black... the darkest fucking black is what I'd assign those crying sessions. Jesus. I'm uncomfortable just recalling it.

ANYWAY, this time around, my crying was... it had almost the same feel as they did in my teens... shit, the crying was milder. There was never any sobbing, or shaking... or sound, really. I would be sitting back, usually laying face up, thinking or listening to music... and tears would begin to roll down the sides of my face. Quiet little tears. Actually, I did sigh one time.-- the only time I sat outside in my backyard where Tyson would sit beside me as I'd cry bitterly at night. I looked up at the stars-- bright and glorious as they always are in Hometown-- and sighed at the sight... then tears quietly began to run when I looked over at the empty spot Tyson would have been occupying if he were still alive. ("I'm still alone, Tyson... but unlike all the times before... there's no desperation, but instead quiet resignation that no, it will NOT get better... so I no longer feel that sense of urgency for it to 'get better'... it's a peaceful sort of quitting... of giving up. Makes it so much easier to live... to just accept")
What color would I paint these crying scenes that I now begin at 30? I'm still uncertain about the hue... but I'm leaning towards a blue. It's not dark in the sense that I feel lost and frustrated... angry and agitated... but it's also not lined brightly with hope for a positive change. It's quiet resignation that it doesn't get better... it just boils over and pacifies for a while. It's sadness... not desperately begging for an end, but calmly waiting for it. It's watching those around me experiencing happiness, and feeling genuinely happy for them, while simultaneously NOT angrily demanding why the fuck I am refused this same, seemingly common privilege... just accepting that I won't. It's chill sadness... chill blue sadness.
Nice change I welcome... I was getting tired of screaming into my pillows, anyway.

otro año

ARRGHHHH! This month fucking zipped right past me!
I was supposed to post often, and I WOULD start the process... but I'd stop myself. Usual story.

It's proving more difficult than anticipated to share the tale of the ingrate... the manipulator... the... sellout. The liar. I can't bring myself to speak of it, much less write it down.

I can also feel the sadness creeping in. The attack on my emotional health is subtle this time around, nowhere near as random or abrupt as it was back in January. Things are piling up and getting the best of my nerves... totally not boding well for the near future.
BUT! For the time being, I'm doing my best to remain calm.

Tomorrow I take off to yet another place that more than likely will do a number on me... I'm going to Hometown.
Nice way to start September, right?

Here goes nothing.

Blowing kisses

This summer I met this odd, older man at Hometown. The guy was my mother's age, never married, never procreated, never dated anyone.
At first, I was irritated by him, having no idea about his life. I found him odd because he avoided people, avoided eye-contact.. but was fascinated by these three sisters who are 15, 17, and 19 years old. Men would mention how he was looking to make a wife out of one of the three girls, and he would laugh... but agree, wholeheartedly.
This irritated me, because I thought he was just a perverted old man... typical man from Hometown. I'm not too keen on these men.
However, I continued observing this man, and his interactions with others. I quickly noted he was... well, mentally deficient somehow. He seemed to be suffering from some sort of arrested development... I'd say at a ten to twelve year old level.
He was kind, he was polite, he was religious... he was shy.
He greeted others while looking at the ground, but smiling... blushing.
It made my heart hurt. So much.
He was a ten year old boy, forever trapped in the body of a middle-aged man.

When he'd see the girls--the three sisters-- he would pause, look up, and blow a kiss at each one. He would gently kiss his right hand, and even gentler "throw" the kiss at the first girl, then direct his full attention to the second, do the same for the second girl, and the same ritual for the third girl. He would then continue walking to where ever he was headed. No words spoken, no attempt at getting closer to girls... just... that weird blowing of his kiss.

Mom then told me his story, his lonely, sad story... and I felt horrible for ever passing such harsh judgement on the guy.
He was gentle. He was kind. He was simple. He was... he was a kid.

They found his tortured body today in Hometown.
He was tied up, throat slit, buried by the river-- his right hand the only thing sticking out... frozen by the river. He had been buried there for about a week.
He was murdered by someone he thought was his friend. A fucking monster who had been his neighbor for over thirty years. A motherfucking piece of garbage.

I think about his life-- his quiet, sad, lonely, simple life... and I want to cry. My heart breaks.
I think of how horrible his last minutes must have been... what was running through his head... the horror of seeing this guy you grew up with be the one who is going to betray you in the worst way, HURT you in the worst way.
Why? He did nothing... hurt no one... OFFENDED no one.... WHY hurt him like this? Why him? He was kind, gentle... simple. He was a gentle soul... a special needs soul... and he met his end worse than... shit, you don't even slaughter pigs that way.

He was in Hometown because it's supposed to be safer... no one there is supposed to hurt you, they all know you, they all care for you. It's supposed to be better there than in a "special needs" home. It's a close-knit community of few people who may be gossip-machines, but definitely take care of those in need.

We are all stunned. We are all furious.

I hope he didn't suffer. I hope he wasn't scared. I hope he didn't suffer.
I hope he wasn't scared.

Why come?

I didn't participate much in the town's festivities while I was in Hometown this last time around.
I've explained the tradition before: it's Spanish in nature. The towns were given patron saints during the Conquista, and for centuries, the towns celebrate the patron's day. Nine days prior to the actual celebration, the town participates in the daily ritual of walking around town at six in the morning, praying the rosary, setting off fireworks at the start of each new... mystery (I think that's what it's called in english. The rosary consists of five "mysteries"... you know, each little batch of 10 Hail Marys, started by a single Lord's Prayer). Then at four in the afternoon they go to a daily mass.

All jazzed up.
Patron saint in the middle like a... king.

This is nine days.

Then the night before the main celebration (the 9th of the month, in my town's case), they have a giant firework's display. Then on the actual day of the celebration, they have more mass, more singing... and more fireworks. The FOLLOWING day, they have a rodeo and huge dance, where they crown a young lady as the "queen of the town."
These three days, while loaded with lots of church activities, are even more loaded with DRINKING. Men are FUCKED. UP. for the entire week... more like ten days.
ANYWAY, the only times I participated in anything were on the 9th (mass at 2PM, and only because it was late enough for me to have some good rest, a nice breakfast, and a shower. Then the fireworks bullshit until 2 in the morning), and Mass on the 10th.
OF CROUSE, I was heavily criticized for this.
"THEN WHAT THE HELL DID YOU COME HERE FOR?!" I'd always hear.
My response was always "Simple: to relax. I come here to relax."

My view returning home form the tiendita aka "mini mart".
How the fuck am I not going to come to a halt and admire this shit?

People don't understand why I enjoy walking around town, admiring the scenery.
They judge me crazy.
Seriously.

Judged for standing in front of my maternal grandparent's home and admiring this...
But, you see... I spent my childhood staring at this same sight...
so many afternoons and nights sitting in that field, just crying my eyes out, completely heartbroken, but out of sight from EVERYONE.
Many rainy nights spent sitting in the porch, listening to Grandpa's scary stories while watching this mountain light up with the lightning.

I try not to be haughty, but after continuos BULLSHIT, I just have to become a bitch.
"I live in Las Vegas... I can party ANY night out there. You know what we don't have out there? GRASS. GREENERY. RAIN. NATURE. What you have in abundance here, we lack over there. What you guys enjoy here for a week, we have in excess over there every single day of the year. I DON'T care to party. I DON'T care to hook up with guys. I want to sit here, with my thoughts, and just enjoy nature. That's it."
It had been a while since Hometown had been peaceful. I hadn't been able to enjoy sitting alone in a desolate place for nearly a decade. When the whole Cartel shit started, there was this indescribable fear in the air... uneasiness... heartbreak. It was the worst case of nerves to think of going to the fucking grocery store, running the chance of getting caught in a shoot-out... and not just a "normal" shoot-out, but one involving rocket-launchers and grenades, like some fucking war-torn country in the middle-east, only worse because the WORLD did NOT give a shit... we DID NOT EXIST as far as they were concerned.
This year, for the first time, I was able to walk alone, chill alone, stand on the road and admire MY TOWN, without having soldiers OR masked gunmen hold me up, pointing assault rifles to my face, asking for information.
I visited Hometown because I wanted to enjoy the solitude... the safe solitude, that I can't find in Vegas.
I did not visit Hometown to be a raging alcoholic, prowling the town in search for dick... to get "dolled up" to seduce the already heavily-intoxicated "men." I didn't care to be on camera, looking like some fucking town celebrity.
I also didn't go to be locked up in church. I do not have the vocation of a nun... I am comfortable seeking the church when my soul is not at rest... I go once a week to get my therapy... but I certainly do not enjoy waking up at dawn to pray the rosary and shoot firecrackers. I'm sure God understands... I'm sure God appreciates the fact that I'm very much a good girl, even if I do enjoy sleeping instead of locking myself up in a church for a week.

It was fun hearing these people judge me for avoiding their activities... it was a nice learning experience.
(To clarify, the ones judging me where the Hometowners who live in the US, not the Hometowners who LIVE in Hometown. They'd just ask me why I go, but would be happy to hear my reply. The relocated Hometowners? Not too happy)

parasitos me aman

Best part about acquiring a parasitic infection in your intestines while visiting Hometown? The part where your body's feeling awesome after a very miserable, bedridden four days... and then it's like "Just kidding, LOL!" and sends you back to rolling on the floor with your stomach pressed against the floor.

This sucks.

My first go at Hometown was rad as fuck... no illnesses, no sadness... just some good food, laughs, chill sunbathing, young men crushing on me like a bunch of middle-schoolers... just some overall amazing days, like the good ol' days (even better, since no boys liked me when I was a teen).
This time around? Only two weeks later? I was sick as fuck, only old people to be seen, AND these same old people calling me FAT.
Something's wrong when 18-30 year olds are calling my body bomb, and motherfucking 40-70 year old decrepit motherfuckers are telling me I'm fat... most of which were WOMEN (I came to the conclusion that all men think my body's bomb, and women just want me to be dead). Shit bummed me out for a little bit. I'm not mentally strong enough to handle stupid old lady snide remarks regarding my weight... it's something I'll have to deal with for the rest of my life... fucking bitches (you'd think they looked good, but no, they sure as fuck don't... and I STILL let them get to me).
The crummy vibe situation was further aggravated by the fact that my third day into the vacation I caught some parasite and was rendered useless for four days. I have no clue where it came from, but my money's on the fucking water (see, our house no longer had cold water--that's right COLD water--so we did everything with hot water... this included showering. It was like skinning a fucking pig-- HOT AS FUCK. I'm a chump for heat [remember how I violently slap hot tortillas out of rage when they're too hot and burn my hands? I'm fucking rational like that], so each time I'd have to force myself under the shower head, I'd take a deep breath, only to release it with the shock of the painful water hitting my body. So, there I'd be, under the shower head, mouth wide open, cussing at the water and house).

"Oh, Montezuma's revenge!" you might say. Homies, I WISH I was shitting the whole time! Instead I sat through some horrible stomach spasms that felt like some fucking alien embryo was growing inside me... but no bathroom relief-- no shitting or pissing... just painful movements going on in the GI tract.
This happened to me two years ago, when I had to de-parasite myself... you'd think I'd be better at avoiding it... but no, I'm not.
That shit is weird... you spend a good five days thinking you're a fucking champion, no care in the world about your gut and what you're eating, then suddenly on day six you swear you swallowed a chainsaw that activated once in your intestines. You spend a couple of days praying to your favorite saint, bracing yourself for death, then suddenly the sunny days return... only to again see the return of the unbearable pain after a few functional days. Horrible cycle.

I only mention this now because I'm back to the stomach pains after having spent almost a week feeling great. I'm going on day two now. I was thinking I wasn't going to need the parasite-killing pills I was given last week (I need to take them a week after leaving Mexico to make sure I don't ingest any more parasites after taking the pills)... but no, looks like I do. 

It's either that, or have someone punch me in the gut every half-hour to kill this pain... or you know, just punch me in the face to knock me unconscious.

WHY, MEXICO?! I THOUGHT WE WERE COOL!

I need to quit loving third world countries this much... damn.

Traveling woes continued

Ok, I think I'm finally coherent.
Last night we took off from El Paso around 9PM.
It was an exhausting trip... both physically and mentally.
I had to sit through a four-hour, sleep-deprived lecture... which--of COURSE-- was religious... fucking fundamentalist christian in nature.
I had to listen to my dad go on and on about the fucking rapture, how my dad thinks he has the gift of healing, and all sorts of... alarming, delusional religious shit... that I now swear I've earned my place in heaven for not laughing in his face and requesting he go to get some medication for his delusions... or the fact that I bit my tongue each time I felt the urge to correct my dad's grammar (I love my dad, but he does not have the gift of eloquence... or even being articulate. He uses big words incorrectly... and it drives me fucking crazy... because if you're going to lecture me, you damn well better have a better vocabulary than I do... or at least a good grasp on it. You can lecture me with basic words, as long as you're using them correctly... it's how I learned as a toddler, after all).
He tried guilt-tripping me by using some reverse psychology shit on my about my siblings and I not going to his church. Again, I had to practice some self-restraint to not scream "BECAUSE YOUR 'SISTERS AND BROTHERS' ARE FUCKING IDIOTS WHO DO NOT KNOW WHAT THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT, YET BELIEVE THEY'RE FUCKING GENIUSES!" or even mention that we all three went full-catholic because all we ever heard at his church was crazy shit about the end of days and how catholics were the root of all evil and all that mean shit... THAT, and his protestant brothers and sisters are plain crazy dummies... crazy, intolerant, ignorant fucking dummies. We opted for solemn traditional ceremonies given by well educated older men who guilt-tripped the shit out of us (good luck out-doing my old little aunts and grandmas on the whole guilt-trip shit... they were PROS... old Catholic pros, raised by women who lived through that whole traumatic Cristero War shit... they DID NOT play).

BUT ANYWAY! At around 3AM Dad gave up driving and gave the reigns to me... for a single minute. Both my parents became ridiculously nervous about ME driving THEM in that big truck and they forced me out of the driver's seat right when I was going to shift the gears. SERIOUSLY.
I was so upset, I remained wide awake until Mom got us home at 7AM.

In total, I slept for four hours on the entire trip. We left Hometown at 6:40AM local time (4:40 AM Pacific), arrived in El Paso around 6:40PM (Hometown time). In those twelve hours was where I got my four hours in... it was right after I puked all over myself in the Sierra, an hour into our trip. After barfing, in hopes of dissipating the dizzy spell I was encountering, I closed my eyes and forced myself to sleep... to keep my mind off how horrible I felt. This worked, because at around noon I woke up and felt much better (still covered in puke, of course. It was gross).
Anyway, in El Paso we were shuffled around, visiting a few of my dad's friends (yes, I was still wearing my puked clothes. CLASS!) until 8pm Pacific time.
That was the last time I "rested."

Then we got home... where we learned our AC is out.

It has been a wonderful two days.

Liberation!

I always joke about forgetting shit when I travel to Mexico... mainly because I do it so. Fucking. Often.

I've forgotten my comb/brush, my makeup, shoes... All sorts of shit.

I'm currently traveling to Hometown... this time, I'm driving out there with both my parents.

We packed every damn thing we sensed we'd want out there. Last night, I even grabbed two decks of cards and stuffed them in my purse. "Ain't no way I'm forgetting this shit for a fifth straight trip!"

Today I ran around town, buying last minute items for the trip. I purchased undershirts, BEEF JERKY (motherfucking IMPERATIVE), protein powder, and protein bars.

I threaded my eyebrows. I hit the gym.

I felt ready. 

It's what I like about road trips-- you can leave whenever you want, with whatever you want... no need for TSA compliance. You can go dressed however you want without worrying about some pervert ogling the fuck out of you for 36 hours.

I was ready.

I handed my house key to my bestie... something I've never done before since in the past we relied on our relatives for that... but times have changed... people have changed... and now there is probably no other person in the world I trust more than my best friend. 

I finally left.

One of the tire pressure sensors is dead, but we went directly to a tire place where they checked it out, and made sure our tire is fine.

I've been on the road for about an hour and a half... and about an hour in, I realized I forgot something.

Something important, but not vital, I suppose.

What did BRUTEoMALIE forget?

Underwear. I forgot to pack my FUCKING UNDERWEAR. My motherfucking underwear.

... I suppose I'll go ahead and mark this two-week trip as uh... one of my most liberating.

I am an IDIOT!

This type, that type

Going to Mexico gives me the best opportunity to step back and analyze my life.

The best soothing effect.

I'm alone in Mexico, but it's a different type of loneliness... it's a good kind of loneliness... a comforting sort of loneliness.
It feels warm... golds, reds, and oranges... sunlight... if that makes sense.

Feeling lonely in the States is different... it's horrible. It's cold. It's blue and black... a world of shadows.

In Mexico, it's absolutely normal to be alone. People will see you walking by yourself... hanging out by the river on your own, and won't question it. They'll look at you, smile, greet you, and if you allow them, they keep you company for as long as you'd like. They are also perfectly fine with leaving you alone if that's your wish.
I guess this type of alone is "warm" because despite being on your own, you're still surrounded by creatures--not just humans-- intrigued by you. I don't know how to better describe it. You're not just another faceless lump in the crowd... they think you're interesting, but respect the fact that you'd rather be on your own for a bit... and they don't think you're crazy for it... they don't FORCE you to be social.

Here in the states, they tag you a loner, a negative connotation. Many times, the people in my surroundings get ANGRY because I want to be alone... because I don't want to text or talk or even have my phone anywhere near me. This, in turn, only makes ME aggressive.
CAN'T YOU FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE FOR ONE MOTHERFUCKING MINUTE?! Can you go out and do something that doesn't require my input or presence? NO, I'm NOT angry, NO I'm not being passive aggressive with you... I just WANT TO BE ALONE... unreachable. I do things on my time... because I'm a broken girl... give me a minute to piece myself together.
In hopes of alleviating the angry friend, I will pretty much be bullied into calling/texting back... which never fully makes the friend happy, and only builds resentment in me. It's never a winning combo.
I'm not saying I'm ALWAYS pissed about my friends calling and texting... I enjoy that shit like normal people, too. I just get really frustrated when I show clear signs of wanting to be left alone (say you text me at 5 in the afternoon and I don't text back within two hours. I'm PROBABLY busy... and if it goes longer than 2 hours, it probably means I'm in a mood that requires I not socialize... because all you'll get is some overly aggressive shit, or some disturbingly depressing shit. Do any of us want that? Nah, man! Unless you hate me and enjoy my pain for some reason).

It's exhausting to be my friend, I bet, but it's also why I love the people in my life... because, for the most part, they understand.
I just need to recharge every few months in order to give others the best of me... because when I'm good, I'm fucking rad. I'm playful... so very playful when I'm happy. I'm convinced that's my natural state, however, it is too often weathered down to nearly non-existence with the passage of time. I run and jump and tickle and hide... and moreover, I allow others to be the same way with me (I'm a total curmudgeon when I'm running on empty. Even the laughter of children irritates me). I laugh and giggle and randomly smile all over the place. I hug people. I listen to others with the attention they deserve when I'm recharged-- EVERYONE wins.

Anyway, I enjoyed plenty of time to myself out in Mexico. I was free to walk around and admire nature, listen to it... bask in the sun, run in the rain. I also had the chance to socialize when in the mood-- which was just the correct amount to neither be overwhelmed by the demand, nor depressed by absence of people. It was all just right. Shit, I even had a couple of dudes crushing on me-- all at least four years my juniors (that cougar shit is real. I've embraced it. Whatever, man. It's just what's in my draw. Unpopular in my teens/early20's, babe in my late 20's+. I'm being facetious-- I'm not a babe, I'm a nerdy mouse. Probably explains why I make these guys "crush" on me all bashfully instead of inspiring passion like vixens do... I make boys CRUSH sheepishly like nerdy grade-schoolers). But that right there is an entirely different entry, because (of course) shit went down after I said I had no interest in finding a guy. 

Paz

I'm back.
Did I miss anything?

Sarcasm, of course.
I got in yesterday night, but was too tired and frustrated to update. I woke up to a ton of news-- amazing what type of shit a person can miss out on when she disconnects from the world for a simple ten days.

Some of my news? Well, my bus ride to Mexico was a 36 hour ordeal... THIRTY-SIX FUCKING HOURS on the goddamn road in the company of 45 other people. Do you know how painful that is? No, I don't think you do... (I'm being dramatic. I'm sure refugees know worse fates). Thirty-six hours sitting in a bus full of old people with bladder problems... and the ONLY fucking toddler being conveniently placed directly behind me. A screaming toddler who--I kid you not-- would sound very much like the Jurassic Park velociraptors every thirty minutes... just fucking randomly... because she was a fucking illogical toddler (she knew how to communicate verbally, she did it occasionally like when she pissed herself... but screaming seemed to be her preferred method of communication). At one point, when we were stranded at the border crossing in Juarez, she was separated from her mother because the chick failed to declare a box full of carpentry tools. The poor kid cried so hard and so desperately for her mother, she wound up puking all over herself... and her seat. I was too upset for the baby to be upset about the puke, though I did gag once or twice when I first caught sight of her projectile vomiting directly behind me.
But the crying toddler and smelly old people were the least of my problems. I'm so mindfucked into "being a lady," that my body immediately freezes when I have to do long trips in the company of strangers. By "freezing" I mean my body will refuse to perform normal bodily functions-- I struggle to take a piss, shitting and passing gas is out of the question. You don't fully appreciate taking a shit until your stupid body decides to freeze your anal sphincter for thirty-six fucking hours... I swear I was knocking on death's door. TMI? I don't care. That garbage was fucking painful and tortured the fuck out of me the entire ride.

Why do people subject themselves to these ridiculous travel times instead of taking a plane ride (depending on what flights you snag, the most time you'll make is probably 16 hours if your layover[s] is lengthy) or just driving themselves down to Hometown (a 20.5 hours process, if you haul ass non-stop)? Because the bus is a measly $100. Plane? Roundtrip is at least $700.
After this bus fiasco and my "near death" experience, I said "Fuck this shit!" and purchased a plane ticket back home for $500... which in all sincerity, they could have asked for double that price and I still would have forked it over.

Anyway, all this talk about traveling issues took entirely too much time... maybe because it was the only negative I encountered on this trip.
Well, there was ONE bad day, and that was the day I heard about Robin Williams' suicide. While I didn't sob violently or any of my usual behaviors while breaking down, I did shed many tears... tears for him, tears for me... tears for everyone struggling with depression.
I know I just mentioned that shit... about placing the dead on a pedestal... but FUCK, did I love that man... I loved him. And FUCK, did my heart break!

And with that, I have to stop writing... before I really do lose it and cry myself to sleep or something. At least in Mexico I was able to calm myself down with the fact that I was "home"... in peace... in the land my mind wanders to when trying to find solace. Mexico was there to distract me. Here? Quite the contrary... everything here encourages me to lose it-- my mind.

Peace: that's what I wish people now... because I never knew the true value of it until it was lost and I encountered the perpetual struggle to recover at least a bit of it. Peace.

deluded 3AM thoughts

No sleep all day.
Went shopping for final outfits and beauty products most of Sunday, then packed in a matter of twenty minutes.
Now I'm wide awake-- oh, I also ate taco after taco and a PB/Honey/Cinnamon/blueberry quesadilla as dessert at midnight-- forcing myself to pull an all-nighter so that the moment I take my seat on the bus at 6AM, I will knock the fuck out until Phoenix for some Golden Corral, then again pass out until the border... and finally once more from the border on... because FUCK being awake for that 36 hour bus ride... FUCK being awake in the Mexican side... I shit bricks in Mexico, STILL.

SO!
All I can really say is I'm pretty stoked to be going to Hometown.
My family thinks I want to head down to Mexico to "meet my other half," little do they know I'm doing it to keep my sanity... no, I'll seriously lose my fucking mind if I stay in this city any longer... I need to disconnect for a couple of weeks.

... Meet my other half... HA! Since when has that shit been a priority in my life?

In dreams

Those who think the violence will end in my hometown after today's actions are dreaming.

I am... somewhat shellshocked, to be honest.

The dude was responsible for turning my place of refuge into a living hell. My slice of heaven turned to a bloody war zone.
And nobody gave a shit, or cared to BELIEVE it, because we were all just a bunch of little "villagers" who were coming up with fabled stories of severed heads, pools of blood, golden assault riffles, lavish parties, hundreds of armed men in black. A bunch of bored little villagers who had nothing better to do but come up with stories.

I'm reading all these articles on the guy, and laugh.
"Fables."
No, they were real. They happened. And often.

He may be caught, but honestly, I think the violence is only going to get worse. I don't think the heads of the other groups are all going to amicably meet in some secret location, and evenly divide the territories. Hell no.


I don't know what to think. I'm sad, and I'm scared.
This problem isn't going to go away, and now I'm left hoping it doesn't get any worse.

I'm gonna go vomit now.

denomiations

Let me jump off the bliss train real quick and discuss a slightly less... uh... dreamy part of my trip.

Mexico City was NOT terrible. It was fucking amazing and exceeded my expectations exponentially (my bad for that alliteration, my brain just does that shit sometimes).
The... sad portion of it, I guess I could sort of call it that, was the living quarters I was in.

This is as good a time as any to discuss my Mexico City friend and how our friendship came to be.
Back in '02, when I started blogging, I was sort of popular. I was the youngest of the circle... most people in the group were in their early to mid-twenties... and they all thought I was a hilarious kid.
One of my followers, who was probably my most vocal reader, was the best friend of another blogger I friended immediately because I found her to be... the Mexican City-girl version of me.
This reader sort of scared me, initially, because she was WAY too dark for me. I sort of held off on adding her.
However, months passed... weird/sad/terrible/hilarious life events occurred, and there she was, this "dark" girl giving me some of the best moral support I could have ever asked for. "Dark" girl with the real last name of "Rosas"... aka "Roses" which sort of clashed with the on-line image she presented.
Rosas had this cool cat, Luna, which she wrote about often. Luna was lost and found maybe five times in the span of three years... that cat was a fucking trip. However, I'd try and give Rosas as much support as possible... you know, all the way from Vegas.
Bad shit started happening to Rosas, really bad shit. First her Mom suddenly passed... and I remember sitting there and bawling. Her entries were... so hard to read through.
Shortly after, she fell in love, fell off the face of the universe... then reappeared a few months later, married.
She wrote scarcely... didn't read me much... thought she did send occasional e-mails letting some of us know what she was doing. She also proceeded to add me on Myspace, then the same with Facebook... that felt sort of personal.

About two years passed, and I saw an invite to her baby's christening.
WAIT! YOU HAVE A BABY NOW?!
I was still in college, so I couldn't just take off... I remember it was in the month of February.
A few years passed again... the typical small talk and all that shit people do on social networks.
Then her dad died. She watched him fade away from liver failure. My heart would break each time she'd post a photo of her pops fighting the battle... then suddenly the post of him passing on.
Maybe three months passed, and she was suddenly divorced.

Once Rosas divorced, we seemed to be closer than ever... our bitterness made us bond.
Over the course of our 11-year friendship, we always joked about one day meeting in person. I would tell her I had to meet this freakishly awesome Luna of hers... as well as her baby, of course.

Then July happened. July 17th, Luna died.
I cried.
That was Rosas' ride-or-die. Luna had been the one thread that helped her keep it together when she saw her parents die... saw her through her bitter divorce... took care of her baby in the way only cats know how (those creeps).

That's when I knew we had to meet in person.
And so, after asking her if it wasn't too creepy, she very excitedly agreed.

I asked Rosas for her daughter's favorite toys, and went crazy at Toys R Us.
Once at Customs at the Mexico City airport, I felt my nerves getting the best of me.
How is she going to know me?
Well, as I was busy trying to figure out how I'd find my friend, I looked up above the crowd and saw my nickname on a bright pink piece of cardboard paper.
I hugged Rosas as if I'd known her my entire life.
I waved at her six year old... because I'm awkward.

I fully realized how awkward the entire situation was once we were in our taxi, on our way to Rosas' home.
Cabbie: So... first time in the city?
Rosas: Well, hers, yes, I live here.
Me: Yeah. I've only flown through here a few times, but never visited the city.
Cabbie: Oh! So... you two are...
Me: Life-long friends... almost sisters.
6YearOld: Yeah, but can you believe this is THE FIRST TIME they see each other in person?!

Ahhhh, kids.

After sitting through a Mexican history and government lesson, we made it to Rosas' hood... and were dropped off at her apartment.
I found it charming... because I've seen these buildings in Mexican novelas... hood buildings full of colorful characters.
The inside was equally charming... you know... rooms with no doors... gas-station-style restroom...
I stayed in the little girl's room, scared shitless that I'd break her baby bed... so I slept like a fucking corpse each night.
They also had two kittens... playful kittens... who'd pounce on me at night, lick my face, and meow into my face for god knows how long.
BUT THIS WAS ALL CHARMING!

Then came feeding time... and that's when my heart broke HARD.
Just... the scarcity... the rationing... even the utensils.
One morning, we shared ONE tamal (singular form of "tamales" is TAMAL. "Tamales" is plural. Ok, end rant... that "tamale" shit just fucking kills me) amongst the three of us... and drank hot water.
I wanted to cry... because my friend and her kid deserve so much more.

What killed me most was that Rosas wasn't allowing me to pay for anything.
I'm pretty sure I talked about our activities... I mean, they were fucking amazing adventures.
Each adventure, my buddy would buy me something, a tiny, handmade memento, but still, so very heartfelt.

And this is what exemplifies what I mean when I say I adore Mexicans and their spirit. They can be living in the most abject poverty imaginable... but they will do everything in their power to show YOU they care for you... to help you feel... loved.
It's insane, how warm my people are... and it makes me feel like such a piece of shit when I stop and think about what an asshole I am to everyone around me. I don't live up to the hospitable/kind characteristic of my people... I'm a whiny, mean cunt.

Here, this single mom, my friend... a girl who is pretty much alone in the world except for her six-year-old daughter... was giving me gifts... sharing her ONE tamal... and just... showing me how amazing life can be as long as you're smiling... and I'm over here driving cars that cost more than her apartment building, yet still finding a reason to be suicidal. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!

I gave her the toys I had purchased for her daughter and told her to make the kid think it was all Santa. Never mind me... let the baby think I was a dick who didn't give them shit.
I did give Rosas a Christmas gift. I gave her something she had always wanted: expensive make-up... and my favorite pearl bracelet with a camera charm.
She was speechless... but with a smile she refuses to ever photograph/post on Facebook... because it's so wide and "dorky"... but REAL. Smiles like that are priceless.

Before leaving on our taxi cab ride back to the airport, I took out my stash of American cash.
I left five coin of each denomination on the six-year-old's bed. I labeled the coins with their name and worth.
I then wrote another note: These are the bills of the US currency. These are your mom's.

I left bills of each denomination, neatly stacked.

My only wish is that I would have been carrying more hundreds...
And still, they wouldn't cover the worth of this girl, my friend.

As long as I can come back

For a few months, I looked into moving out to San Miguel. It wasn't my original idea, the idea sprung from my "mentor" (that's what I'll call him now, since he knows his shit and he really is doing his best to help me out). From what I had read, it seemed like it was going to be an incredible place to relocate. Apparently, the place is pretty much run by American expats.
While I DID find the place charming... it didn't make my heart bounce. It didn't inspire the same excitement a place like... say, Barcelona, manages to build. I was disappointed by my inability to feel excited for San Miguel.
I made up my mind that while I was appreciative of my mentor's intent, I would have to turn down relocating to San Miguel.

Then I visited Guanajuato.
That. Place. Is. STUNNING.
I've heard of the place in songs and seen some Mexican novelas take place in this city... but dear god, I was not prepared for what I saw.
They have mummies, enormous buildings, historical sites that give me goosebumps, beautiful culture... art... the colors... the flora... UNDERGROUND ROADS!
The place is the fucking shit.

I hated the thought of moving out to San Miguel, but I compromised to move to Guanajuato for a couple of months... three months tops. When? I'm not sure... but I'm positive I'll give the place a shot for a few weeks... to at least LEARN something, ANYTHING, about art... ANY art... even if it's fucking welding!

Did I feel like my "soul belongs here"? No. Not at all. What I did feel was like my soul... thought it was cool... like I can learn a thing or two... as long as I'm promised a way out of it once I start yearning for my hometown too hard.

Hmmm... I guess it was a slight disappointment.

COMO NO TE VOY A QUERER?!

I. 

Fucking.

LOVE.

YOU!

Hot Sauce

Went to bed with "nictitating membrane" plaguing my mind.

I cried... I ruminated... I sketched... I fucking did all that typical AnoMALIE shit.
I didn't puke though... I mostly just cried.

It's that scenario I dread: Hey, marry this guy. He's rich, prestigious, he likes you and wants you... you're old and no one else is hollering... marry this guy and just LEARN to love him.
Just rework it so it has to do with my career.
It wants you, it's interesting, nothing else is biting... sure, you'll vomit on the regular due to the stress of your unhappiness... but FUCK IT! You've been unhappy for the greater part of your life, you'll learn to handle this.

This research takes place in south east Mexico... the beach.
I like the beach... for two days. Years? After a month, I'll jump into the ocean... never to be heard from again, like in the REAL Little Mermaid (I won't turn into sea foam, but I'll definitely DIE).

But... after much thought... I'm contacting this guy and seeing where this takes me.
Who's to say the Universe doesn't conspire to fuck this up for me as well? Maybe FrenchDude (SUPER stereotypical name... just GUESS... it's like if I were named "Maria") catches on to the fact that I'm not as cool as Daniel made me sound... and he cuts me loose... ?
If this opportunity ACTUALLY works out? No worries... I won't really commit suicide... I'll just live a really, REALLY sad life... with a bunch of scientists and crocodiles... in the Mexican humidity... my skin in fucking perpetual adolescence.
At least... I'll be legitimately alone, right? Away from everything and everyone...

Jesus Christ.

(When I was about 10, I remember helping out at church for a Virgin of Guadalupe celebration where they had 32 little kids with sashes representing all 32 Mexican states. I wanted Durango... but of course, the person running the show made her daughter be DGO's representative. I was given a random sash, and read the name to myself: Tabasco? Isn't that a hot sauce? Is that where they make the fucking hot sauce?! I'm representing a HOT SAUCE in front of THE VIRGIN OF GUADALUPE?! TABASCO?!

... This is where I'd be relocating if it all works out. I wish I were kidding...)

Destiny? HAHAHA!

So... I'm sure it's well established that I truly do wish for the best, but almost always, my dreams are dashed, right? Or at least, that my hopes and dreams get smothered once I open my big mouth like the giant idiot that I am, right?

I'm not sad-- more like amazed.
It's hard to feel sad about something that was in its fledgling stage.
That whole moving to Mexico thing-- yeah, no, don't think it's happening.
I don't know how much attention anyone pays to Mexico... but it has been pounded by two storms (one coming in from the Pacific, the other from the Atlantic, then meeting in the middle like a happy family of destructive, murderous beasts) in the last couple of weeks... wreaking havoc all over the south.

I do not know what this is all about, it's just really, VERY amusing (how the universe works out for me, not the death and destruction my poor people are currently enduring-- that's very fucking tragic).

WHY don't you talk, AnoMALIE? We'd really like to know more about you.
No. NO. Leave me alone. I'm quiet for a reason, Holmes. Come on, I'm 28, I should be well-trained in this fucking department.
My goodness.
ZIP the lip, girl!

Of course, I'm taking this in good stride (or at least, to the best of my abilities... by unexpectedly turning into a wino)... because who want to live in Mexico? In the humid, rainy parts full of idiot tourists who don't shut the fuck up... ?

Just a TAD BIT bummed over thinking that perhaps I'd finally found my destiny... but like I said, that was quickly smothered with a taunting finger. Tsk-tsk... how could you be so silly, AGAIN, dumbass? "Destiny"... JOKE!

I'm only destined to be a quiet, angsty, abrasive recluse. I'm cool with that.
Se cuerda, pendeja!

No-just-Me

I first met the ocean in 2005.
I had seen it from a distance a few times prior to '05 (as in: from inside my car as we drove past it on the highway), but never walked along a beach until that summer.
My cousin, who is also my godson's mom, took my sister and me to Mazatlan.
First thing that occurred when I walked down to the beach with my godson and his brother? A fish flopped onto the sand and wobbled wildly... completely grossing me out. My godson's 11-year old brother grabbed the fish by the tail and flung it back into the ocean.
After removing the thought of that crazy fish from my mind, I proceeded to dip my toe into the water and said "Hello, Ocean, it's nice to finally meet you. I'm *AnoMALIE*"

I'm a Pisces... according to astrology, I'm supposed to like the ocean. I do like the sight of it and all that shit... but to say I constantly yearn to go to a beach would be pretty farfetched.
Typically, all I really do when I visit a beach is walk up and down the shoreline (making sure the water always touches my feet... unless there are jellyfish present. Fuck those motherfuckers), sit at a comfortable spot on the sand, and listen to the sound of the waves. I am not a fan of swimming in the ocean.
But... there is always one thing I have done when I visit a beach, every single time: I doodle on the sand.
Besides my own name, I have always doodled a single other name/initial. Same person.
I feel dumb as fuck admitting all this... but hey, it's a little secret of mine... a weird little ritual... an embarrassing, pathetic (of me) little ritual.
The only time I've been caught doing this was that first time I went to Cancun, the debacle with Mario... the time he caught me writing the initial in the sand in the middle of a giant heart. "Hey! My name doesn't start with a J!" he said. "I'm in love with Joe Jonas, didn't you know?" I responded.

Even his fucking name is pretty. My brain even considers the string of letters that identify this dude... it even finds that aesthetically pleasing, and melodic in sound.

Year after year, visit after visit, I find an opportunity to jot his name in the sand, and sit back to watch the ocean wash it away. I watch the waves erase the letters, leaving no trace of it ever existing... the ocean helping me keep my corny, lame, grade-school crush-behavior a secret.
Last year in April, on my first Costa Rica visit, I got remarkably, embarrassingly silly and wrote some very corny shit in the sand... hearts everywhere and all that shit. I got a little brazen that time. I even took a photo of it... to admire it at my leisure... like a dumbass fangirl.
This year, on my last visit to a beach prior to this Mexico trip, I jotted down a phrase: Goodbye, *Darcy*
I wrote it many, many times... and sat there, each time, watching every last trace of the phrase disappear, then starting the process all over again. I did it until I could finally watch the letters fade away without shedding a single tear.

On this recent trip to the beach I only wrote once... and it was this single word:

I'm here... on this continent. I'm on the land where my entire family was born and raised for centuries. I'm here, on this land that taught me to love nature, to enjoy solitude, to laugh, to be playful, to listen to the subtleties in... everything, to love music, to be kind, to help others, to find solace. I'm on the land that has always had a firm grasp on my heart and soul. I'm bound to this land, I'm part of this land... this mysterious, warm, wild, abused, marginalized land... this third-world.
And you're way past those waves... so, so much further away. In a land of so much advancement... a cold, rainy, but very civilized first-world... a historical, awe-inspiring land. Way past those waves-- unaware, unaffected by what happens here.
I was a fool for believing I could ever possibly, in the words of my favorite Disney movie and character, "be part of your world."
I've waited so long. I've hoped for so long. I've dreamed for too long.

It's just me. It always has been just me. It always will be just me.

Accepting the truth of a situation.
Just another girl... nothing more, nothing less.

I sat on the sand and watched as the waves made my name fade away, fade away, fade away.