lobsters in a tank

It's like time stood still... like those 20 years didn't go by... the feelings are amplified.
I haven't been this happy in a very long time.
No one has looked at me like he does, spoken to me like he does, and much less touched me the way he does... as though I'm the most fucking precious object on Earth.

My lobster-- he's alive, and has found me. I have agreed to get caught in the same tank.

But this isn't a happy story... anything that ever has to do with me should never be considered a happy story.

I'm just trying to hold on to this feeling before the world collapses... like it always does... knowing full well that this time it will hurt worse than it ever has in the past.

... I jumped off that cliff with my motherfucking eyes closed.

Black Mustang

"I'm the black mustang," he texted.
I saw him through his tinted windows, and smiled... hopping out of my parked car.
I had been waiting about a minute, letting him know what part of the mall parking lot I was in.
He nervously stood in front of me, I immediately went in for the hug-- as tightly as possible.

"Jesus Christ... I haven't seen you since... seventh grade!" I said.
The smell of freshly blazed weed overtook my nostrils.
He bashfully kicked at the floor, hands in pockets, occasionally making eye-contact with my overly excited face.
"Oh my god... that is strong," I said as I cough a little.
"I knew it'd be a good idea to blaze before seeing you... you're fucking beautiful, I would have not been able to talk to you at all" he said.

I met up with 5thGradeBoyfriend today... and it was... so good... oddly very good... like... I... didn't even suspect it would feel this good.
He drove out from Arizona for the weekend, unbeknownst to me.
He was incredibly bashful, which was uncommon in the guy I always knew... he was a total bad kid last time I checked. I found myself in the awkward position of trying to make HIM feel comfortable... I was the one with the job of speaking... of asking questions... acting extroverted.
Often times, I'd come to a complete silence because I'd catch him through my periphery just gazing at me... a gaze I've never felt, really... the goofiest, dopiest... most... lovestruck gaze I've ever seen anyone throw my way. It was like live-action Bambi... the twitterpated part.
"Ummm... Hiiiii, *5thGBF*!" I'd say, waving while smiling.
"I'm sorry... I just..." he'd say.
"It's really me... I'm here, in the flesh," I said, grabbing his hand with mine, showing him I was really there.

The way he looks at me... it's... it'll follow me for life. He has always looked at me that way... like I'm... some fucking mirage of his wildest dreams come true... not a lusty dream, just... a calm, joyous dream... if that makes sense. There is no perverse lust in his look... or judgement... it's... such a lovely feeling... I can't explain it... I just, never thought anyone out there would be able to look at me that way... like... I'm being worshipped... like I'm the best fucking thing the universe could have placed in their tracks.
Like I am a motherfucking heavenly mirage, damn it.

I'd look down and blush... smiling when the quiet admiring of my face (and it was just my face... not my tits, or legs, or ass... he'd examine every inch of my face with the most tender glance... Jesus, it gives me goosebumps) would last too long.
"Whaaaaat?" I'd finally whine.
"You're just... so much prettier... I didn't think it could be possible... you're... so perfect. Everything about you is so perfect," he said one of the times.
There was a hint of melancholy in his speech... like his regrets over his bad decisions would get the best of him. The guy carries a lot of sadness... and he's genuinely shocked that I would insist on staying friends with him, on being with him.
"Aren't you ashamed of being seen with me?" he asked.
"Why would I?" I asked.
"Like that white dude. He's clearly wondering what a nice girl like you... in your Audi, is doing talking to a... lowlife like me," he said.
My heart broke.
"I don't give a shit what he thinks. Your heart is kind and kept me sane during a time I felt at my loneliest" I said.

We talked for two hours... in my car, in the parking lot of a mall... my flowery scent mixing with his lingering weed fumes... and that shit felt like heaven.

The way he quietly admired my face... I'll never forget that.

The hero

I guess this is the part in my story where the hero comes to my rescue after I have lost all hope.

Life is SUCH A FUCKING TRIP!
After quite possibly the most traumatic week of my life (this whole election bullshit has made me physically ill... where I've fainted in the middle of bootcamp and have felt nauseated all damn day. That same visceral reaction I have to news that upsets me horrifically), like in a fucking movie... the hero in my life reappears.

Today, out of the blue, at around 6pm, I logged on to FB to notice I had a new friend request. Rolling my eyes, I clicked on the notification expecting some annoying middle aged person from Hometown... but instead saw the name... a name I have been looking for since high school: Mario, the boy from the Red Ruffles story from a few years ago.

HE'S ALIVE!
He's a fucking stereotypical Raiders fan... but he's fucking ALIVE! And FREE.
I screamed.
I almost cried.
I shivered like a dog with no shelter in the middle of a rainstorm.
All over an ex-convict.

I had not seen this guy since 1998... I felt elated.
My one protector during one of the most difficult times of my life... the one voice telling me I was beautiful when the majority were taking time trying to drown me in the negative;
The boy from the wrong side of the tracks who showed me and only me the depth of his soul:
Mario.

And it did not take him more than five minutes to remind me I was beautiful, that I am "prettier" now.

Like... man... I fucking cried with joy... that bittersweet joy... of just how fucking FUCKED life is.

Is he trying to get in my pants like some dads my age are nowadays? Probably. Do I care? No. I'm happy to know he's out there... and it makes me blush to know he went through the trouble of looking for me. I feel... even if it's not the case, I feel as though... someone with whom I've intersected in life still remembers that time, and remembers it fondly. It makes me feel like I matter... like I'm memorable... like I really did mean something to him. It satiates that desire, that dream, that little line I'd constantly tell myself, the line I so badly wanted to believe during my lows: someone out there is looking for YOU.
After over a decade dealing with these situation where guys I think so highly about are constantly reminding me how fucking worthless I am to them, how forgettable and often obnoxious/burdensome I am... there's this kid I shared memories with twenty years ago... and he still thinks fondly of me.
That means the fucking world to me... especially right now.

This feeling is so fucking weird.

I am a nerdy shy girl... whose been on the back of the mind of a hardcore ex-con... and it makes me blush...
What?!

"Gabby"

There is no reason for me to be overly sentimental, biologically speaking... but these last two days have been me either crying my eyes out, or me biting my bottom lip in public in order to keep from bursting into tears.

I didn't think I'd be this messed up over what happened in Paris, but boy, I have found myself crying at random times of the day since receiving the news yesterday afternoon.
I didn't think I was this attached to the city... but my heart is seriously broken.
My mind juxtaposes the serenity and love I feel when in Paris, with thoughts of the sheer horror they must have been feeling yesterday... and then I think back to being the incredibly ostracized, lonely 9th grader, sitting in my French class instead of being in the school cafeteria, and how I'd just sit in class, doing homework, or writing letters I was never going to send... feeling so infinitely lonely and anxious, only to be soothed by my teachers stories of his childhood in france, all while listening to his favorite French oldies music... those 20 minutes being both my day's reprieve, while also the most anxious part of my day ("here comes the same loser to sit in a classroom for 20 minutes without eating anything because she can't handle the thought of the ostracism she'll face in the giant cafeteria... faaaantastic... I hope he's in the room...").
--The serenity I feel when present in the city
--The thought of the horror and panic of the victims of yesterday's horrible acts
--The nostalgia/dread/sadness of some of the worst moments of my adolescence
ALL swirling in my mind.
These conflicting thoughts and feelings mindfucking the shit out of me... and it just makes me cry quite inconsolably.
I don't know if it makes sense, but I don't care if it does. It's too much feeling... too much thinking... too much reminiscing.


Not only am I hypersensitive thanks to the attacks... but today I had to put a brave face at the baby shower of my childhood crush's girl.
He was the first guy to give me butterflies in my stomach.
My summers in Mexico were spent day-dreaming about him... finding any excuse to walk past his house in the mornings... then talking the night away at the infamous alamo of Hometown.
I remember being eight, helping my maternal grandmother peel charred green chilies... looking up one of the times, only to make eye-contact with this kid who looked my age... his green eyes looking into mine, his smile revealing braces... then both of us shyly looking down at our busy hands.
That's my first memory of him-- the moment my heart first skipped a beat for a dude.
My youth spent wishing, hoping for the day he'd ask me to... be his girlfriend... and then practically running away when he was inches away from saying something.
"Oh, no... now with this Europe trip, she'll be even more unreachable for... the guys," he told my parents after my first Europe trip.
Unreachable... ?
Never unreachable-- quite the contrary, actually-- just within grasp, patiently waiting, watching you choose everyone BUT me... watching you watching ME wither away.

And so... I went to his Baby Shower today. I... put on that same fucking stupid brave face I put on for the goddamn motherfucking world... and congratulated him, and assured him I was stoked for him... all the while feeling my childhood dreams fade into oblivion. Memories which helped get me through the difficult days of my teens, completely disintegrating with every minute I passed sitting at my pink round table... the only single, childless girl in the vicinity.

He is always so nice to me, so genuinely happy to see me... and it breaks my heart. I smile in return, hug him tightly... but feel something inside of me break loudly, irreparably. Each time.

If you always found me so interesting and rad... why did you let me slip away without a single word? Why didn't you even TRY? ... You didn't even TRY...

I often find myself wondering if they, these guys who have known of my feelings (they always know. I always tell them. I told THIS guy... everyone told this guy... EVERYONE KNEW), ever observe me at events and feel sorry for me. It's always the same story-- I am alone, quiet... and smiling when listening to others or answering their questions... but I am alone. Nothing ever changes. Does that make them feel sorry for me?

Before I make myself cry, I remind myself that I should never ask questions whose answers I'm not ready to hear.


... Having a hardcore Brave Little Toaster moment. I hope I get better soon.

Rainy Day Piñata

It's not my intention to make this entire month... or MONTHS about my godson, but Jesus Christ! No one has done me this dirty. Ever.
I mean, when someone is my declared "enemy," someone who from the get-go let me know they disliked me, and wanted nothing to do with me... I can somewhat accept it. I know, or can imagine, what I might have to brace myself for whenever I deal with this person. If I hear some shit-talking from someone who doesn't like me, I have an easier time letting that shit roll off my back.

But here's this human... this creature I spent the majority of my life LOVING... like... really, REALLY fucking loving and even sacrificing my own wellbeing/future prospects, all in hopes of helping this kid out-- making his life easier, brighter... better.
Why did I love this kid so much? Because he was my cousin. I remember when he was born. I remember when he was an infant. I remember when he learned how to walk.

I remember this particularly rough day, back in June of 1998, when I was sitting alone in the living room of my godson's Mexico house. I was upset because every girl in my group had been flirting with the guys in town and I had been cast aside... by everyone. Guys were like "Ew. What the fuck is that fucking fatass doing here?" and the girls were like "The fatass is not part of our group!"
So, I had spent my day at a 5 year-old's birthday party, alone, under my umbrella, watching a bunch of kids swing at a piñata outside in the rain (Mexican kids don't give a fuck about weather when piñatas are involved. We're gonna swing at that motherfucking shit come rain, sleet, or snow... not that weather gets that extreme to begin with)... free to cry because the rain did a good job covering for me.
Once we all sang the birthday song to the birthday boy in the kitchen, I walked over to the living room, which was on the opposite side of the house, and sat in silence-- alone. No television or radio or people noise... just me, sitting quietly in an empty living room, swallowed by a giant burgundy couch, and observing the surroundings (so much yellow. I remember that the most-- the abundance of yellow colored objects). After perhaps half an hour of being alone, my eight year old godson waltz into the room and turned on the television. He changed the channel to MTV, and turned up the volume when the music videos came on (yes, this was back in the day when they still played music videos). And then he started to dance.
My godson turned into my little jester, and eventually coaxed me into standing up and dancing with him. He hugged me and started dancing Banda music with me... his tiny head resting on my stomach as he wildly swung around... trying to get me to move.
Godson: I may be eight right now... but watch when I turn old enough to dance at these dances... I'm going to take you out and show you off! You're going to get tired of dancing!
Me: Ohhhh am I?
Godson: You're beautiful. They're all just dumb.
And he continued to dance like a little fool... making me smile.

Here was this tiny eight year old I had always thought was just.. a kid... but proving he was as observant as I.
And he cared.
And he kept me company.
And he made me smile.
And he wasn't ashamed of me.
And he was making me discard the suicidal thoughts of that moment.
This fucking little tiny kid was making me live, keeping my hopes alive.

...
I mean... fuck! How can I forget something like that? I fucking can't. I won't.
The memory seems trivial as shit... but it wasn't to me.
And he only continued to do similar things in the summers that followed... my godson kept giving me company and reasons to smile... and kept reassuring me that nothing was wrong with me... and he fucking kept me company.

Now, after everything that has happened in the last couple of months... after seeing this image of the kind little boy crumple so fucking VIOLENTLY and abruptly to the ground... I'm devastated. I'm angry. I'm disappointed. I'm confused.
Now I wonder if all those years where this kid went to war for me, who did so many favors for me... if he did all that in order to gain my favor and just... use me. Was it all false? Did I really not know this kid at all, while he knew ME TOO WELL... and used it to his advantage? Has this kid been playing me my whole life?
It sure fucking feels that way... and it HURTS. It fucking burns.
But I find I'm still reluctant as hell to let it go... I'm holding on this this image I built of this kid, and I'm getting dragged.
I want to believe they're all lies... that what others are telling me are just... exaggerations or misunderstandings... lies. I want them all to be lies.

I won't write what the things I've heard are... I'll wait until I hear them from the horse's mouth.
I don't want to propagate information I've received from third parties.
Come next week, I'll have all my answers, and I'll be free to tell the fucked up, stupid shit form this recent vacation which shattered my longest-held illusion.

Todo lo que me queda

20 years ago I was in the "front yard" of my "house," helping my mom take out the grocery bags from her black Jeep. Mom was blasting the radio-- a lifelong habit of hers-- and that's when I heard the news of my childhood role model, not just dying, but getting murdered.
No more Selena.
I remember I was bent over the door, reaching for a grocery bag, hearing the news, then just staying there, frozen-- my upper body in the Jeep, my legs limp and hanging out. A limp little 10 year old, body half-hanging out of a Jeep, whose face was surrounded by plastic, brown "Lucky's" grocery shopping bags. That was me.
I didn't cry, I did my typical thing where I'm so shocked by bad news, I just repeat what I heard... but I lack the ability to emote anything... just... I just repeat what I've been told. It isn't until hours later that I react with rage or tears... or my (ridiculously histrionic but) uncontrollable fainting spells.

I hate stereotypes for the most part, and especially perpetuating them... but this is one of which I am unapologetically guilty.
I love Selena.
I loved Selena when she was alive, and I suffered when she died.
I tried to emulate her style, I listened to her music on loop... I annoyed the fucking shit out of my entire family with my fandom.

I loved her because she was hilarious. She was kind. She was talented. She was daring. She did NOT look like anyone else. She was curvaceous and was not ashamed of it... she rocked that shit. Her smile lit up any room, and warmed any cold heart. She was a Mexican-American girl. She was someone I could aspire to be... because, well, she was someone more similar to my background than any other celebrity of the time.

Of my family, I'm the one who looks the least like anyone else. As a kid, I'd look at my features and wonder where the fuck they came from. My siblings would always be told shit like "Oh my god! D looks identical to her great grandmother! That porcelain skin! The dimples! Those huge eyes! Gorgeous!" or "Rafa's just as handsome as his *male relative of some sort*" whenever a person in Hometown would bump into us after not seeing us for a while. What would I get? "Oh... look at you!" Just that. Nothing more.
Hometowners value light skin, light eyes, light hair color, fine noses... anything European... like, Eastern European. My type of Mexicans are the taller, blonder Mexicans, since my part of Mexico was settled by blonder Europeans than other parts (oh boy, the complicated nature of this conversation... but I'm sure my genetic results give you some sort of idea:

... since apparently I'm such an exotic mess). They're not particularly keen on the darker folks/features... and they don't care to be polite about it, either.
I was a tall, dark-skinned, super-dark eyed, brown-haired, flat-nosed (the bridge of my nose didn't become prominent until some time in high school), thick-lipped chubby girl (well, the chub didn't win until 3rd grade. Prior to that, I was a lanky tall kid)... Hometowners had no qualms about letting me know how ugly that shit was.

Then here comes Selena... and she celebrates that shit... OTHERS celebrate with her.
I felt normal. I had hope that hey, when I grow up, I can be just as pretty as this wonderful, talented chick. Thick lips are pretty, thick thighs are fine, and morenas are beautiful.
AnoMALIE, you will be ok.

And then she gets killed... by her "friend."
Yeah... tis life.

TF You Want?

Hey, how are you feeling? See photo above.
Hey, are you ok? See photo above.
Hey, why aren't you... SEE PHOTO ABOVE.

That's my "'the fuck you want?" look/vibe... but the non-menacing kind... more of the "irritated, but still listening to you" kind... like you just MIGHT say/suggest/demand something interesting, but I definitely had more pressing matters to handle.
"What do you want, weirdo?" and "'The fuck you doin'?" could be suitable replacements.
("Weirdo" because thanks to your stupid shit, you just made me take away my attention from that candy I was trying to enjoy)

(Tangent-ish: now do y'all understand why I mostly chill with guys? That's all that surrounded me in my youngest days)

This I find appropriate only because I attended a baby's birthday party yesterday where the fucking asshole parents DENIED me a goodie-bag... only me.
Yeah, I was pissed... mainly because:
1. I love candy
and
2. Here I am a single, barren girl...
  A. surrounded by CLOWNS who wanted to
     i. Paint my face
     ii. Make me dance or
     iii. Make me laugh. No bitch, I don't do clowns.
  B. surrounded by ILL-BEHAVED children who were
     i. running
     ii. screaming
     iii. THROWING GANG SIGNS (kids are still into fucking cholos?! Blew my fucking mind).
     iv. throwing toys into people's plates full of food. Fuck. That.
  C. surrounded by her Mexican relatives, all of whom have procreated... and I'm just... you know... single and almost-30 (never mind the fact I was also the only person in the building with a college degree... who give a fuck about that, right? Probably why the bitch will die alone, anyway... too smart for her own good, am I right?). Good shit.

The LEAST I deserved was a fucking $2-worth of candy bag.
But no. Instead, I sat in the kitchen, watching the Disney channel... completely captivated by some movie I had never heard of ("Mirror, Mirror"... embarrassing to admit, but whatever. A fucking kid threw a Hotwheel into my plate of birria, do you think I gave a single fuck the rest of the day? Nah, man, I mentally checked out right then and there).

I go on fun tangents, don't I?
See photo above.

Girl's Girl

I'm not a "girl's girl"... I used to be, for probably the first three years of my life.

Then I agreed to turn four.

I'm not entirely sure if I mentioned it here, or if I did so somewhere else, but I no longer feel ashamed of admitting it:
My "babysitter" abused the fucking shit out of me when I was a kid.
I'm pretty sure I mentioned some of her methods... that idiot girl-- the one who allowed me to get concussed at a playground as I walked across the pony-shaped swings in search for my mother.
The abuse was never sexual, thank god, but it was definitely physical and emotional/mental.

While my mom thought this idiot was taking care of me, she was really just torturing me for her own amusement. She'd say mean things, slap me around... lock me in a room for hours (telling my mother we were just busy playing)... refuse to give me a drop to drink or a bite to eat for hours, or the contrary-- feed me toxic shit... that sort of shit... shit you should never do to a four-year old little girl... not if you have a heart... or a motherfucking conscience.

Thanks to her, I learned people could be mean... really mean... mean for no reason... mean even when unprovoked... simply provoked by "your stupid face."

That same year, I had that aunt of mine throw dirt in my face and call me ugly... that story I've told tirelessly... the story I immortalized by turning it into a short story.
I started making the connection that Yo... girls can be crazy as shit... and they don't have your back, Baby AnoMALIE...
But still, STILL I attempted to be normal and have a normal relationship with my fellow ladies.

Things were great during 1st and 2nd grade. Girls thought I was awesome, and tried imitating me.
Third grade started getting shady... mainly because I became the weird little Mexican girl in all-English classes. I had a different jargon, thanks to being HBO-educated (as in, all my English knowledge came from movies on HBO), and my anecdotes all had to do with the life of a Mexican ranch girl... in the city of Las Vegas.

Then 4th grade happened... TWENTY years ago (goddamn!)... the pivotal year that made me lose faith in my fellow ladies. The year I spent getting the fucking shit beaten out of me EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. by the two girls I considered my "best friends." I was a good, calm girl... trying to make sense of the whole situation. I'd never fight back... I'd never provoke the beatings... but they would happen. Every day at school I'd be humiliated in some way... and physically abused for NO REASON. I've described only some of my more vivid memories of the beatdowns... because I could write a short story on quite a few of the beatings.... a short story PER beating... so I won't rehash some of them on here-- just know they were brutal and soul crushing.
What crushed my soul most was that through all these moments of torture, not one person came to my rescue... or wait, not one FEMALE came to my rescue.
The time of a nasty beating in the bathroom, I remember some girls were going to use the bathroom, but upon finding the scene, rushed the fuck out-- not alerting a single adult to what was going on.
My female classmates? They did nothing to stop the beatings. Sure, they didn't find it funny, or even fair, but they never did anything to get the girls to stop. They'd just catch me alone and then ask me why I still hung around my tormentors-- but NEVER offering to have me chill with them-- NEVER.
After getting my ass kicked, I remember guys being the ones to come up to me, gently patting me on the back, asking how I was doing... helping me straighten my hair... DUDES... DUDES would straighten my hair... GUYS (what the fuck do they know about fixing a girl's ponytail, right? These boys knew ENOUGH, enough to get a smile out of my reddened, sometimes swollen face). One time, I remember three of my guy classmates shielding me, pulling me away from the two bitches during lunch time (it was seriously a tug of war. Boys had one of my arms, the two crazy bitches had the other), keeping me in their company for that short time... they saved me form getting my ass beat at least that time.... which only pissed off the crazy broads... which only made them beat me with all their might the moment they had me in their grasp later that day... and the following day beating the fucking shit out of me before school started.
Ahhhh, and my teacher that year? A woman. I remember telling her numerous times, even trying to hide behind her one day during recess when the two cunts were actively trying to grab me to beat me, and I told the teacher what was going on, and she laughed, pulled me off her, told me they were "just trying to play," and that I should go ahead and just "play." She pushed me toward the cunts... and I just gave up... like a lamb to slaughter.
And when I tearfully opened up to my mom about getting my ass kicked on the regular? She screamed at me for "being an idiot."
I remember my first day of 5th grade, I was placed in a different class from my tormentors, but had the same lunch time. I remember being outside of the cafeteria, alone (OF COURSE), and the two bitches gathering EVERY.SINGLE. GIRL. from their new class so they could chase me and beat me up. What was crazier was that the girls AGREED to beat my ass... FOR NO REASON... just to know what it was like to kick someone's ass. I remember running as hard as I could towards my classroom (it was a portable), and just as I was on the second of the three steps leading up to my classroom's door, I felt the fastest girl's grip the back of my ponytail, yanking me back. The pain in the pit of my stomach, I'll never forget that feeling... just KNOWING, THINKING "Oh no... another year of this... and now it's an entire class..."
I remember getting yanked off the stairs and getting slapped a few times by two other girls as they pushed me against the wall, but this time, I fought back... just wildly swatting at them, pushing them away from me. I remember the group growing to about eight girls... and just looking at all of them... just... feeling so fucking defeated... ready to to just start crying (when I'd get my ass kicked in 4th grade, I never cried... I just dealt with the blows and tried to regain my breath as soon as possible. I learned the importance of "tightening my core" on my own, as a nine year old)... but then I made eye-contact with one girl, Tosha, a smart girl with whom I had my G.A.T.E. classes since 3rd grade... and she just stood there, as though suddenly slapped out of some hypnosis.
"Wait! WHY are we doing this?" she asked the group.
She was a tough girl... a cool girl... a girl with an older, tougher, cooler sister.
"Let her go. Don't touch her," she said. She walked up to me, and grabbed my shoulder, looked me in the eyes, and apologized to me.
"AnoMALIE, no one's touching you this year. You're free. No one's going to hurt you. Go into your classroom."
And sure enough, no one ever put a finger on me after that.

While my faith in girls was long gone, that interaction in 5th grade allowed for that tiny silver lining, that optimist in me to continue with life. MAYYYYYBE things could change?
But they didn't. While no one was beating my ass, I was being ostracized... viciously.
High school came around and that was the last straw. 9th grade... well, must I elaborate on 9th grade again? I wanted to die, bottom line. I was done dealing with the world. 9th grade I had ONE girl make the girls in my classes shun me. ONE GIRL. She was able to convince girls that I was a mean cunt (because I was a quiet, shy, terrified new girl)... and that was good enough to have me cast into solitary. During P.E. I'd always be picked last, the team captain forced to keep me ALWAYS complaining about having to take me (this despite always proving my worth-- how regardless of how large a frame I might have had, I'd make up for in strength. I'd hustle hard at everything I did. I could play any sport like a boy, yet no one wanted me on their team).

After twelve years of having girls abuse the shit out of me... how the FUCK was I expected to be a "girl's girl?" I was not. I wasn't antagonistic towards girls, but I certainly didn't seek them out. I was just... I had accepted the role they had cast me in: the quiet, lonely girl... weary of other's intentions.
Like an abused dog, I approached with caution when I absolutely had to (like group assignments... goddamn motherfucking group assignments).
The humans with whom I was meant to best identify, were the ones so adamant on alienating me.

Then I met Kelley.
August 2001, assigned seat in my first class of the day.

SHE is easily the best human being on this planet.
She very patiently (no, seriously... she is ridiculously PATIENT), and gently showed me that I could have a best friend... that I could identify, and get along, with another girl. She proved that not all girls are horrible. She proved that I could have a female best friend who'd respect me, support me, and be the absolute best person in my company.
And while I was SO damaged... SO mentally/emotionally fucked up... SO paranoid and reluctant to believe such good people existed... she very patiently worked on rebuilding my trust in... people-- making me better. This all despite the number of times I hurt her with my paranoia... as though I were some feral dog she had rescued off the street who was so hellbent in defending itself from the one person trying to save them. She never lost her patience, not ONCE. She just healed her wound, and then would go back to trying to teach me how to heal my own.

She's my sister. My entire family loves her, despite me never telling her this. They are grateful that someone is capable of understanding me... more so than they can sometimes. Grateful someone has kept me form jumping off the edge. And they even wish they could have a Kelley of their own... she's a rare gem.

She's responsible for so much of the positives in my personality, so much of my sense of humor... shit, she's even responsible for my awesome vocabulary/curse words of which I'm so fucking fond. She's responsible for about 80% of my grades between 2001-2007. She's responsible for 90% of my taste in english music. She's responsible for this nickname-- AnoMALIE. She's responsible for Henry David, my gnome I've been taking on my adventures since 2006. She's even responsible for some of my wardrobe. She's responsible for my gym membership-- she held my fucking hand through it for a good couple of months, before I felt secure enough to go on my own. She's responsible for my more relaxed view of life (yeah, I'm actually more chill about life now than I was before... I was tight-wound like a motherfucker ten years ago). She's responsible for A LOT of my courage. She is largely responsible for healing my VERY fucking mutilated heart.
She is an ENORMOUS part of my life... motherfucking HUGE part. The absolute BEST part of it.
I can't properly... adequately describe how much I fucking adore this human. I owe her so freakin' much.

The time has come where... well, things are going to change. The time has come for semi-giant changes.
What she told me last week put my life on pause, made me rewind and re-evaluate... everything. Made me appreciate my last 13 years.
It's not my story to tell... so I won't go beyond that.

She is my best friend. She is my sister. She is the one who restored my faith in... humanity.
I admire her as much as I do my parents and brother... maybe more, because I am always so fucking amazed by how she handles the fucking BULLSHIT life can throw her way. She is so, SO MUCH stronger and braver than too many people give her credit for. She's a motherfucking beast. Unstoppable. Resilient, creative, responsible, and resourceful AS FUCK!
The memories we've made over the last 13 years... are awesome. Rad. Hilarious--cramp-inducing hilarious. Maddening. Slightly scary. Some horribly sad.
All life lessons I probably would have never accumulated had I not been seated next to the girl in the crutches with pink pom-poms in her hair, in our 11th grade physics class-- our first class, of our first day of school, on our school's first day as a school.

Goddamn... I was so fucking scared... it took me a week to catch my breath and collect my thoughts.

But I am only wishing the best of the best for you. Always.
Do things as you deem fit, and best... do it YOUR way. I will always support it. I will always respect it. I will always defend it. Always.
Thank you. For everything.
Everything will be awesome.

This is not the greatest write-up in the world, it's only a tribute... of the greatest write-up for the greatest person in the world.

Slippery sink

It's a bumpy road back to "normal."

Ever seen a cat panic when they're about to fall from a high place?

My dad's mom had this... ummm, well, it's supposedly translated as "sink" or a water basin, but it doesn't do this structure justice. This "sink" is common in the ranch we're from, because it's where women would do their laundry. It's a cement pool... a "baby pool" in the shape of a cube, built above ground, no taller than a woman's hip (I mean, they have to bend over it in the first place, in order to scrub the clothes). Two thirds of the cube is the actual pool that was always at least half-filled. The other third was where the women would scrub the clothes on the ridges built into the cement (they'd have a cup on the side that they would dip into the pool in order to grab water to rinse the soapy clothes. Am I doing a decent job describing this shit for people who live in this day and age where all we have to do is shove our clothes into a machine and press a couple of buttons in order to get shit washed?).
Anyway, I loved playing by this "pool," mainly because the cement was so worn, it would be irresistibly smooth, and water would evaporate in the strangest way. When the cement would be wet, it was the slickest, most entertaining shit to mess with (I'd try to write my name as fast as possible... I'd try to beat the evaporation process. That's the kind of shit that entertains me. I'm simple).
Well, I remember numerous times when my grandmother's cat (of the moment. They went through cats like I go through socks. Rough times in the rancho) would be curious enough to climb to the edge of this pool. As it circled the top of the baby pool, that slick cement would almost never fail to trip up the cat and BAM! cat in the pool-- or floor, when lucky. I remember catching glimpses of the cats right before they tumbled off... and I swear they always had that "FUCKFUCKFUCK!" look as they violently clawed at anything and everything to try and get a grip... all to no avail. Bye bye, kitty.

This is how I feel when I KNOW I'm about to slip into a depression... especially this latest bout I'm currently handling.
I know I shouldn't bottle negative feelings, but I do it anyway... I know I shouldn't dwell on negative comments OR ACTIONS... but I do it anyway.
I know nothing good will come out of these bad habits... I fucking KNOW I'm going to slip and absolutely nothing will be available to grasp to stay out of the sink... and I go ahead and fall.

Hopefully one day I'll learn there's no way to "safely" tread this slippery surface, and just stay on solid ground.

Until After

"Legit" boyfriends I don't think I've had. 

By legit I mean "official." 

By "official" I mean "he asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend and I agreed."

Well, I did have one "official" boyfriend, in fifth grade (oh shit, wait, I had another one of those in first grade... hahaha! Oh man, I had forgotten all about him. Freddy. From first grade until the end of second grade, where I was separated from my latinos and forced into english classes. Traumatic). I've talked about him on here, I've even written a short story.
Mario. 

He was the best... in his weird, gangster-with-a-sweet-side way.
Homeboy liked me since we were third graders, but didn't tell me anything until fifth grade.

He didn't ask me out until AFTER my birthday... why? Because:
1. Saint Valentine's Day is in February.
2. My birthday is the first day of March.

Apparently those two days were too close together, and he felt it most prudent to ask me out after... so he wouldn't have to spend money on any gifts.

But seriously, he was a sweet, sweet boy (every girl's crush, back then. Everyone but me... I was too sprung on some other jerk).
He took care of me as best he could in fourth grade, when those two horrible girls tormented the fucking HELL out of me every single day.
He would randomly throw sweet compliments at me... like while making line to go into the library, or while aggravated in the lunch line... or while sitting quietly in class, in the dark, watching educational videos.
He'd play that ranking game with his friends, where they'd rank the girls in school on a hotness scale from 1-10. I remember glancing over, angrily, to see they'd ranked two of my friends as 2's... and Mario had ranked me a... one trillion? I don't know, it was a 1 with a bunch of zeros following, all the way to the end of the page. I remember feeling embarrassed that someone could find me that pretty... that the "hottest" guy in school found ME to be that pretty... it was... weird.
In sixth grade, when his hoodlum friends that sat in the back with him threw spit wads into my hair, he hit them and then discreetly told me to shake my hair, that I "ummm, have something in your hair."

When he told me he didn't ask me sooner to be his girl because he would not have been able to afford it, I felt like shit... for him.
I'm pretty sure that experience has much to do with the fact that I don't really give a shit about gifts... and the fact that I hold homemade/heartfelt gifts a lot closer to my heart.
I don't need dinners or material objects to be happy, something as priceless as a smile on a shitty day is enough for me. Something as simple as a reassuring squeeze to my shoulder remains burned into my memory forever.


Happy Valentine's Day.
I'm not a hater... enjoy the day whether you're single or taken.

I'm good.
:)

Noches

I learned how to walk during the night.
I took a little longer than your average toddler, because Mom said I was scared.

I started out enthusiastic... I guess like most toddlers. I'd grip on to shit and stand up. This would excite my mom, and she would encourage me to walk towards her. Just as I'd take a step towards Mom, my older brother would run over to me and knock me down.

Mom: It was weird. He'd see you stand up, and then just push you with all his might when he'd see you get the courage to take a step towards me. You'd topple over so hard and he'd laugh out loud. It was kind of funny.

Mom tried changing my brother's crappy attitude by telling him he should be a good older brother and encourage me to walk, TEACH me how it's done, not injure me.

They had a little song they'd sing to me in spanish: Andar, andar, patitas de ubar.
Walk, walk, little spider legs.
This only caused an extra issue-- my brother would sing "Andar, andar" just like Mom (well, as harmoniously as he could, he was about 3.5 at the time), which would give me enough confidence to begin walking (apparently, I only tried walking IF they sang this song), then he'd betray my trust by speeding up the "patitas de ubar!" so he'd once again catch me off guard to knock the shit out of me.
This happened EVERY. TIME.
Mom sings the song. I start wobbling over to her. Rafa runs into the room and tackles me to the floor. I cry and refuse to move. Rafa leaves laughing like a maniac.

Mom says I eventually opted for throwing myself onto the floor each time Rafa entered a room, just to prevent him from throwing me.
I'd just chill on the floor-- no crying, no fussing... just chill on the floor and know not to stand.
I finally regained trust by walking ONLY when it'd be late at night and Rafa would be knocked out in bed. I'd cautiously look both ways, make sure NO ONE was watching, and then I'd proceed to waddle around and do my thing. Once it would come time to be awake at the same time as Rafa, I'd spend my time splayed on the floor (to this day, there is nothing more comfortable for me than laying on my stomach on the hard floor)... or sitting like a good baby.
I didn't show Rafa my skills until I was sturdy enough to not eat shit at the slightest push.

THAT is how I learned to walk.

I apply this mentality with everything.
To this day, I am cautious when meeting people. I don't loosen up and show my true personality until I feel safe enough, confident enough that they won't just lunge at me and tackle me to the floor... metaphorically speaking (because, really, PLEASE try tackling me in real life... let's see how that ends).
Often, I just plop on the floor to avoid anyone from knocking me off my feet.
You can't push me if you don't know I can stand.

But then there are those few moments when I feel secure, and let my guard down... and I begin to show people who I really am. Then out of fucking nowhere, here comes the fucking gridiron gang and pummels me to the floor.
I'm left dazed and confused... gasping for breath... tears of rage and hurt streaming down my face... wondering WHY THE FUCK I made myself vulnerable like that.

Trust NO ONE... I know that's what I should stick to... but no, I'm soft. I'm nice. I trust.
And so, I get injured.

"Well... there is one thing. We feel you don't talk enough. Like... we'd really like to know what you think. What little you show is interesting, it'd be good if you shared more often."
And like a fucking idiot, I shared... like the fucking idiot "target" kid at a slumber party.

I'm so angry with myself for falling for that shit.
What a fucking idiot I always prove to be.

Without much fuss, I recoil... and refuse to ever move in that person's presence.
I am never the same towards them. A self-preservation thing, I'm sure. 

Un arbol

"The heart dies a slow death. Shedding each hope like leaves until one day there are none. No hopes. Nothing remains."

I had always resisted "Memoirs of a Geisha," whether it was the book or film.
I just know that shit will be sad, and while I know I'm one moody little bitch, I try not to subject myself to TOO much depressive shit at a time. Right now? NOT a good time for depressing shit.

Then today happened, and for some reason (well, I was irritated after shopping for three hours with my mother... I purchased some running capris, a tank, and a pair of sunglasses... took me ten minutes to gather my shit. The rest of the time was spent watching Mom rummage through sales rack after sales rack of old-lady clothes. This is all very tiring for me, and I'm vulnerable as fuck when tired) I didn't change the channel when I got home and saw what was showing on my television. Good ol' Memoirs had JUST started.
Ah, what the fuck. I'm beat. Show me what you've got, Geisha.

Of course I fucking cried... not a river, but I shed a tear or two. That quote I opened with made me nod in awe, as a stupid cliche tear ran down my cheek.
As stated earlier, I've never read the book or watched the movie, but I have often said something similar to that quote. Because it's true. So true.
I've spent my life watching my hopes, dreams, overall happiness, crumble to the ground... I watch that shit wither and die.
I tell myself "Come on, dude, it's just winter... spring time's coming up! Get ready for Spring!"
But then I'm left standing there... in "deafening" silence. Completely alone... with nothing to see. Everything's blank.
Feels like I have fucking Tinnitus or some shit.
It fucking sucks dick.
That "Spring's right around the corner, dude!" mentality is what has kept me pushing my whole life. The thought that it's all going to get better is what made toddler-AnoMALIE shake off mistreatments and abuse... the thought that one day I'd enjoy this supposed "Spring" like every normal person, made me get up in the mornings and endure some more people punching me in the stomach, slapping me, and spitting on me... literally.

The passage of time didn't just see the leaves wither... but also the occasional prick who'd break entire branches off, just for the fuck of it.

I was an awesome little girl. I swear. I think back to the person I used to be... and it's crazy. I was bubbly. I was happy... adventurous, curious, kind, funny, friendly... I had my moments of introversion, upon first meeting others, but after a couple of minutes, I was out and about looking for adventure... using my motherfucking AWESOME imagination. I explored nature, admired it... I played with animals, encouraged others to join me on my adventures. I ran everywhere... then people started tripping me and felt watching me sob in pain was more... entertaining, and so it began.
How many times, and in how many ways, can we fuck this girl up before she stops actually getting up?

I did a good job keeping my composure with the movie... then I heard the last couple of lines:

"... to learn of kindness after so much unkindness... to understand that a little girl with more courage than she knew, would find her prayers were answered, can that now be called happiness."

I fucking lost it.

They'll Cheat You

Tit update: So much better. I'm pretty sure I smashed it with the barbell while bench pressing Wednesday afternoon... which makes a lot of sense because I'm such a fucking clumsy idiot. I've opted for leaving the body part alone and completely ignoring it... if I don't think about it, it's not there, right?

Anyway! I've been on an orchestra kick since returning from Costa Rica.
close to the end of my stay, the littlest of my friends pulled me aside to whisper in my ear.
Vale: Can you do me a BIG favor?
Me: Sure, what's that?
Vale: Can you play the violin for me? Even just a little?
Me: But I didn't bring it...
Vale: We can ask my grandpa for his... just so you can play a little... just a little... please? For me.

BabyGirl is learning to play the piano, and so one day, I sat next to her and played the few basic songs I know on the piano (you know, the ones that only require the use of one hand. I never took lessons, everything was by ear and stuff I did whenever I'd be alone in the music room, bored out of my mind). We began talking about the musical instruments we know how to play.

BabyGirl asked me while shoving her fingers in her mouth, which is what she does when she's TOTALLY shy about something.
I couldn't say no.
Me: Well... let's see if I remember anything...

Muscle memory is CRAZY. I was able to bust out a few CHRISTMAS songs... which cracked me up. There was also the obvious Vivaldi... everyone knows his jams.
I tried remembering the Disney songs I know (Little Mermaid and Lion King stuff... those movies are the shit). It made my little buddies smile and applaud. It was a little embarrassing, but very pleasant to make them happy.

Orchestra...
One of my first loves that taught me one of my first tough lessons about life: you get fucked... you get cheated.
We're told if we work hard enough, and put our heart into something, we'll be rewarded.
Lie.
I was naturally gifted... and I busted my fucking ass practicing every single day in that tiny house of mine... in the ghetto. No one else in my house knowing a thing about music.
I played my fucking heart out, and STOMPED my competition-- my friend who COULD afford years of private violin tutoring. I fucking DESTROYED her by playing flawlessly, in front of ALL our classmates. And they STILL gave her the top spot, as disgusted and outraged as it made the rest of the class... as heartbroken and embarrassed as it made me.
That was the first time I felt that kick in the gut-- the sting of getting cheated because someone else was more privileged.
"It's because... I KNOW she'll have it down by the time the concert rolls around... she has a private tutor," my instructor tried justifying, as I fought back tears.
And... I won't... because I'm... poor and can't afford a tutor? I just PROVED I can bust my ass and SHINE on MY OWN.

I got the acknowledgement from my classmates of being the best... but it didn't matter... SHE still got top spot, and played all the solos... SHE got to sit in that chair. To the audience, SHE was PRESENTED as the best.

What's the point of being "better" when it will never get recognized by the majority-- when you'll just be lost in the crowd?

She really was the best... but you know... First Chair had that expensive tutor... 

I was nine.

"I never... I never fully believed my dad was dead. I thought I was normal, like all the other girls in town-- I thought my dad was one of the numerous dads living in the US. That's what I told myself. I thought I just wouldn't see him because he could never make enough money to visit us, unlike all the other dads who would drop by once or twice a year to see their family.
"I remember when Mom finally purchased our house... and I stood in the empty living room. I walked to every corner and did the same thing-- I thought 'If only my dad could be here. Dad... please... come back. Right now. And see all this. See how pretty OUR house is. See how happy we are. Please show up, Dad.' Then, I remember closing my eyes, and seeing him... I saw him SO vividly, in this pale-blue shirt... his wavy hair parted on the side. He didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. We just looked at each other... then he cracked a smile.
"Mom walked in and called my name. 'Gloria, what are you doing? Are you... ok?' she asked. 'I saw him. I saw my dad. He was wearing a pale-blue shirt, and his hair was curly, parted to the side,' I told her. 'Did he say anything?' Mom asked. 'He's dead. I always felt he was dead... but when he smiled... I knew he was dead. My dad's dead, Mom,' I said. Mom hugged me, 'You're right, honey. I'm sorry.'
I stopped being a kid that day. I grew up. I was nine."

I've never been a fan of Gloria... that woman is one of the biggest offenders when it comes to giving me backhanded compliments... she's the ruling champion.
Tonight, she shared this story with my mom, aunt, and me.

This is why it's so impossible for me to hate people.
That story crushed my heart... and it wasn't the only story of the night to do so.

Monster.

My uncle's fine now... I think he's getting discharged tonight or something like that.

As for me, things have been weird.
Ever since the Thanksgiving outburst, it seems like the entire house is walking on eggshells when I enter a room.
Mom and Dad both asked me if I was ok yesterday. They both hugged me and patted my head.
Dad even asked me if they had been mean to me at the gym, since he knows that's my one sacred ground.
Dad: Something is really upsetting you... I can see it in your face. I've never seen you this sad... you sure you're ok, baby?
Me: I'm ok, Dad. Promise.

Mom: Are you ok? Your little face is red... and your eyes are so, so sad... like... you're devastated. You're unusually quiet. It's like you've had a serious boyfriend all this time and he suddenly... dumped you. You didn't have a boyfriend behind our backs, and now he broke up with you... did you? I feel like you had a boyfriend.
Me: No, Mom, I didn't and DON'T have a boyfriend. I'm ok.

Rafa hasn't apologized and I'm sure he's not going to (we're just going to act like the fight never happened) since it won't help. I loathe apologies.
He has spent the last day and a half trying to make me laugh. Texting me every other minute.
I appreciate it... but you know, the damage is done. I heard the words and I saw the look on his face when he uttered the words. I understand he said what he did amidst his rage... but... you know... it's like that time Mom asked me if I had looked at myself in the mirror when my cousin asked me why I didn't have a boyfriend.
It happened, I heard the words, my heart broke, and my eyes were once again opened to reality... by my own family.
I get it. I cried about it for an entire night. Let's move on now.

One of the people I've admired most in this world, and whose back I've had since the day I was born hates me. He doesn't hate anyone... well, maybe Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck... but I make the list.
Damn.
But it does explain a lot.

I have this memory that haunts me a little... of a day in Mexico, when I was about 14 years old. We were saying goodbye to Mom's parents. I had said goodnight to Grandma, but was waiting outside on the porch, angrily, as the rest of my family was saying goodbye to my Grandpa.
Rafa: Aren't you going to say goodnight to grandpa?
Me: No.
Rafa: What's you're fucking problem?
Me: I fucking HATE that man. I DON'T CARE about that man. I want to be AWAY from that man.
Rafa: You're a fucking piece of shit.
Me: Yeah. I'm the piece of shit.
Rafa: He's old! He's not going to last forever.
Me: And when that day comes, when he dies, I promise you I won't shed a fucking tear. Not for him.
Rafa: You're crazy. You're a fucking idiot.

I knew he wouldn't understand. I didn't want him to understand. I don't want him to understand.
Keep thinking I'm a monster. I prefer you think I'm the craziest, most heartless monster, than to ever know what it's like to deal with the shit I had to deal with at such a young age.
If given the opportunity to go back in time, back to that moment in the truck, and trade places with one of my siblings, I'd still choose to go through that shit than have either one of them take the fall.

It will never be mutual, the hatred, but I'll get over it.

Three little daisies.

I have a tendency to enjoy hanging out in groups of three.
I blame the fact that I have two siblings... so three just seems extra natural to me.

My friendship circles have always been groups of three.

There's my group of the Musketeers.
This is my group in college composed of my good ol' bestie and my dude buddy Kyle. We were three homies dealing with college shenanigans.
Then Kyle got married and it sort of died.
Now my bestie's getting married.
So... it's just me... the lone wolf (no motherfucking Hangover refferrences, please!), watching my buddies fall in love and me continuing on... I guess kind of like Bambi, I know I've used that reference here.

Then there's my teen group.
My early teen's group.
Three girls: me (13), my second cousin Cristi (13), and my second cousin from "the other side" Denise (14).
We were three girls, eagerly awaiting our turn to grow up. We'd be in Mexico, and spent our days walking the railroad tracks, heading to the bridge, and we'd giggle about our crushes as we'd throw pebbles into the river... and ok, we'd also spit into it as well.
Cristi and Denise had bangin' bodies... and I... well, I was the tall, fat, quiet, awkward one.
I was the girl the boys would herd, befriend, all in the name of getting ME to talk about THEM to Cristi and Denise... all so I could hook them up.
This hurt. Bad. But it also was responsible for the ease with which I now befriend guys.
Anyway, I sat back and watched as these two were worshiped by the guys... and how they each started growing up... started... well, being in normal, functioning relationships. How they were wanted.
I remained the quiet, loney, child, left to only listen to these girls gush about the different guys... and me not knowing what that shit even felt like... but hoping that sometime in the near future... maybe when I lost weight and gained tits or an attractive ass, maybe then I'd have some stories of my own.

Cristi proceeded to get married in '08... I was a bridesmaid there. I have never cried as bitterly as the night I got home from that wedding. It was a terrible experience. It broke my heart.

Denise seemed to be going my route. She was hardly in the "news" and hardly dated. It seemed like maybe she'd keep me company in this club of lonely hearts.
But alas... she became engaged in July.
Yesterday, she messaged me and asked me to be her bridesmaid-- I accepted. I will be there, accompanying my last "trio" friend as she leaves me alone in the "single" boat and joins the ranks of the married.

It's like I have an out-of-body experience. I stand and watch as everyone gets taken out, and I'm slowly being left behind. Alone. On the field.
I'm told to be patient, that everyone eventually gets plucked out of that field...
but I know, I FEEL IT, I know it's just something that was never meant for me.

Swap and meet outside.

Mom employed various methods to control her kids at church.
My siblings and I would be bribed or threatened into good behavior.
I've mentioned the whole McDonald's thing, where she'd promise us each a Happy Meal if we behaved in church.
Mom would also threaten to beat our ass if we made a sound... which I'm sure isn't too difficult to believe, considering what a tyrant my madre can be.

OF COURSE I preferred to get bribed into good behavior... because I was a good, calm kid anyway, the bribe would turn out to be a damn reward!
My favorite bribe?
If you behave yourself for a month, we'll go to the outdoor swapmeet!

I didn't care for the actual place much... I have that social anxiety thing where too many people in one place pisses me off.
I went because I loved looking at the ponies.

I never did ride the fucking ponies... I hardly even saw them, since I was a kid and the stupid parents always obstructed my view.

I spent many Sunday morning at that outdoor swapmeet... made a lot of memories.

Today I hit that place up for the first time in 17 years.
First order of business? Take me to the fucking ponies!
It was only Mom and me, so the little lady didn't mind obliging me.
After walking for a few minutes... dodging a few crying children (these two little kids-- a brother and sister, boy around 4 years old, girl around 2-- broke my heart SO BAD after I heard the boy screaming "MAMI!" I turned around from the stand I was standing in front of, and nearly started crying myself the moment I saw the little boy holding on to his terrified little sister and leading the way through the crowd, as he too wailed, but kept his eyes open in search for his mom. He looked so scared, so sad, totally ready to start a life as an orphan in charge of his baby sister. He also looked ready to beat anyone who tried nabbing him or his sis. It was insane... it was heartbreaking... and enraging-- I wanted to find their mother and beat the shit out of her. WHAT is more important than your fucking toddlers, you fucking imbecile? Take care of your kids or don't bring them at all! Goddamn, the horror and fright in their eyes still makes my chest feel heavy with sadness for those babies... and I fucking hate kids, ok? But that was SO uncool!), we reached our spot:

After this glorious moment where Mom permitted me to gush for a minute or two (I mean, just LOOK at those ponies! MAN! SO FUCKING ADORABLE!), I allowed her to lead me where ever the hell she wanted.
We spent HOURS at this swap meet. It was the most entertaining people-watching moment I've had to date.
I felt a twinge of fear when I realized... I have WAY too many things in common with these people.
I... am one of them.
Dios mio...

Once home, Mom and I would laugh at each observation we made.
Often, we'd sit in silence and just hold eye-contact, smiling... tears wanting to form.
I love you, Mom.
I love you, Mija.
Thank you. For everything.
Thank you... for being you.

We've come so far...
My momma did so much to try to give us a normal childhood... it makes me get all choked up.
The woman drives me crazy, but I sure do love my momma.

Infinity and Beyond

The first summer without my grandpa, the summer of '07, my aunt who lives in Mexico waited for us to head out there before she opened up my grandparent's home to look through the belongings.
She had previously taken the obvious valuables, like the electronics and jewelry, without telling anyone because they'd obviously get stolen had they been left in the house.
The valuables she waited to open were the more personal things... like legal paper work, safes, and personal letters.
Of course, nothing exciting happened there... just shit that made us angry... like more information on more of his illegitimate children... along with their photographs. While it was enraging to see what a dog my grandfather was in playing all these women, it broke my heart to see the faces of the kids-- his kids.
Me: They look so much like... you guys... only darker.
A couple of them even have the same name as some of my "real" aunts and uncles. Sheisty.

My favorite? My grandfather's wallet.
Mom and I stood around my aunt as she opened my grandfather's wallet... and she pulled everything out one by one.
He had photos of his "real" kids... and one of the "illegitimates." He had a photo of us.
He had an old address, written on an old envelope, of some girl from Seattle.
A letter from that Seattle girl-- a gringa... a white girl-- dated some time in the late 50's, written in English. I can't recall what it said, verbatim... except for a part where she mentioned she still "visit(s) our park... our spot by the lake, thinking of you, waiting for you."
GRANDPA! YOU DOG!

As we stood there, pissed off at my grandpa's indiscretions, I pointed at a dark, folded piece of paper.
My aunt pulled it out, and unfolded it.

Straight out of a magazine.
It had Neil Armstrong's biography on it... talking about his first steps on the moon.

My aunt thought nothing of it, my mom got watery-eyed, and I... well... I was speechless.

Grandpa told me a ton of stories. Yeah, he scarred me in a way no other human has, but he also taught me SO much, and he gave me SO MANY good memories-- I was, after all, his absolute favorite human being, he told me so. Whether I like it or not, I'm a lot like him.

He may not have been a model citizen... but, his good moments were incredibly good.
Like everyone, he was a good kid who was screwed over by life at a tender age-- once his dad died and he took charge of his numerous siblings. HIS childhood was abruptly cut once he had to be an adult and find a way to feed his siblings.
I know a good deal about his life... hence why I found it easier to forgive him.

Something I did NOT know until that summer of '07 was who held a spot as one of his heros.
Neil... Armstrong, Grandpa? You admired an American astronaut... even if you were a Mexican farmer, turned American soldier? You admired... an astronaut? I... get you, sir... I fucking get you.

On rainy, stormy nights, Grandpa would take us out to the porch, and as we'd stare off into dark skies... he'd tell us stories. Funny stories, scary stories... all entwined with a bit of truth-- his truth.
I'd shudder after every loud boom of thunder, and he would chuckle.
Don't close your eyes, Mija... you'll miss what's worthwhile in this entire show.
I'd fight to keep my eyes from closing, he'd sit amused, staring off into the dark sky.

He taught me to chill out... and admire the endless possibilities... to imagine... to dream.
I didn't know where he had acquired that optimism from... until I saw that folded, glossy magazine page.

Thank you, Neil Armstrong. Thank you so much.

The Can

I have this very vivid memory... a really good one, for once... of being 13.

It was a warm, July night... a Hometown night.
It had become a tradition to play a game, "El Bote" aka "The Can."

See, we "country" Mexicans are "ghetto," as in, we're resourceful and make do with what we've got. We may not have much, but we'll find a way to make things work.
El Bote is a mixture of "hide and go seek" and tag... sort of.
First, you get an empty plastic bottle, add pebbles, and cap the lid... so you basically make a rattle.
One kid is "it" and has to chase after the bottle that someone else is going to throw in the opposite direction of where everyone else is going to run and hide.
The "it" kid runs after the can, retrieves it, and proceeds to search for the hidden kids. When the "it" person spots someone, he has to call him out: "One, two, three for *kid* who is hiding *place where he is hiding.*"
If the "it" kid gets it right, the kid in hiding has to come out and sit by the can.
Point of the game is for the "it" kid to find every person who is hiding.
Game ends once the "it" kid finds everyone, OR if he incorrectly calls someone out, OR if one of the kids in hiding beats him to the can and calls everyone out: "One, two, three for all my friends! Come out!"
If the "it" kid finds everyone, first kid he found is it. If the "it" kid loses, he has to do it all over again.

WELL!
This game is awesome to play at night... especially because in hometown, there are very few streetlights-- it's dark as fuck... so it makes it that much more interesting.
It's also an awesome time to go off and hide with your crush.

I took full advantage of this... and it was obvious... because I fucking HATE running... but if it means I get to chill with a guy I like, I'm more than game for the stupid activity.
Anyway, back as a 13 year old, I harbored a crush for this guy, six years my senior. I very clearly remember liking him the moment I made eye-contact with him as an eight year old-- yeah, EIGHT.
Anyway, considering he was so much older than me, it wasn't like he'd be all cool with dating me or whatever the fuck... he wasn't THAT much of a pedophile.
Anyway, it was obvious he thought I was alright, because he'd chat me up... and hang out with me until two in the morning.
Those were seriously some of the best nights of my life... just sitting there, under one of the only streetlights in town, under that alamo... giggling over mundane shit.
While we could chat for hours, there WAS the part where we'd be surrounded by my two siblings, Alo, Jaz, and three other little kids... so there never really was ALONE time.
That's where El Bote came in.

After maybe three games, FINALLY the guy followed me behind this tiny house. He tried chatting me up once there, because it was SO far away from everyone else... but I, being idiotic, shy, annoyingly-competitive AnoMALIE, focused on the goddamn game.
As I was squatting to look over at the "it" kid, to see if I could make a safe run for the can, I wound up falling on my ass.
Me: Oh shit! I just... I bet I just dirtied the hell out of my shorts!
I was wearing khaki short-shorts.
Him: Let me look...
This totally went over my head... because I'm naive and stupid.
Him: No, you're fine. Your ass looks great from here...

I got nervous... and like the fucking retarded, panicking quail on Bambi, I darted out of safety and into plain view of the "it" kid. I was caught.

I had not worn shorts in public since then...
Well, I HAVE worn shorts when I've gone to the beach... and when I was in Costa Rica, but not in Hometown or Vegas.
I decided today would be the day I broke that 14 year streak.

It was glorious.
No crush (OF MINE! I feel I must stress this, given my sudden fucking stupid popularity. I seriously just want to be that wallflower I've always been, invisible to everyone, well, almost everyone. Obviously there's that one guy I wish I'd be ever-present to...) to tell me I had a great ass, however... but that's cool, I understand shit in my life can never be perfect.

Now excuse me, I have to sleep. Yes, this was a hardcore cheat-update.

three little fingers

I'm not too fanatical about fireworks.
Being the grouchy old lady I've always been, the loud booms aggravate me, and the sight of idiots holding flammable/combustable shit makes me panic.
However, it appears everyone else in my family, actually, everyone from Hometown, enjoys this shit.

Back in Hometown, the time one sees a light show similar to fourth of July would be in September, when our patron saint is celebrated.
Everyone convenes, out in the open, directly in front of the church, which sits atop a hill... so, technically we really just stand at the foot of the hill, as the fireworks are shot at the foot of the church's steps. Making sense?

Photo is taken standing at the church's front door.
That thing in the middle is a "tree" of fireworks.
Down there, by those tents, is where we stand and watch.
In '09, my siblings and I stood on the roof of that pinkish, two story house directly in front.

Anyway, everyone in Hometown looks forward to this shit, which takes place the night of the 9th.

I only really remember seeing this show twice, once in 1992 and then 2009.
In 2009, we happened to be down there due to my grandma passing away. I was so fucked up in the head, I actually participated in the festivities by watching the fireworks atop the closest roof-top to church, in the company of my siblings, my godson and his brother... as we drank away our sorrow.... because we cared that much about proper safety precautions. Our matriarch was dead! What the fuck did we care about life?

1992 is somewhat shady, but there's one event that does make this year memorable:
The people in charge of setting up the firework displays are who you'd expect in a third world country: poor, thin young people... ruled by one fat motherfucker that does jack shit besides yell orders and collect the money-- total slave driver.
I remember looking at the kids who would be setting up the intricate stands full of pyrotechnics... and wondering how the hell their parents allowed them to miss school to do this shit.
The kids were all boys, most around 10-15 years of age, buzz cut (butch cut), and they'd all be covered in soot... "dirty," I thought. Worse than the Peanut's Pigpen.
Of all the boys, there was one who was clearly the youngest, probably my age, because he was much shorter than the rest of the boys and his voice was... well, that of a baby. He also seemed to be the one most scared of the pyrotechnics. He'd be wandering around, amongst the parked cars, staring at the ground.

Since I've always been a moody, grouchy person, even as a seven year old, I was pissed at having to watch this damn show. To further add to my aggravation, I was having to watch this damn show standing next to only Dad... while I rocked a huge, puffy, pink dress. Dad was standing next to his homies, talking shit like all fucking men do, and I was standing behind Pops... because I was scared/angry/crying about being forced to endure this loud, dangerous shit. The spot I was standing was perfect for this angry activity of mine, because I was in the darkness, with no one standing behind me to witness my fits.

I remember being distracted for a second, looking up at one of the "whistling" fireworks that was spinning into the sky, when I felt three little fingers tickle my right hand, which was resting at my side. The "tickle" was coming from behind, and it was a clear, shy attempt at grabbing my hand.
I thought perhaps it was my imagination, so I just shook it off like I shake off mosquitos.
A couple of seconds passed, and again, I felt little fingers try to grab the fingers on my right hand. This time, I quickly turned around, scared, and drew both my hands to my chest.
What the fuck was that?!
As I held my hands close to my chest, my heart racing, I noticed the small kid-- the one scared of the fireworks-- standing directly behind me, his head hanging low, completely embarrassed.
He smiled at me... I noticed because his teeth were the only visible thing, besides the whites of his eyes... huge puppy-dog eyes he was bating at me.

I then did something for which I still feel ashamed: I looked at my fingers, which were now covered in soot, then looked back at him, his hands, and sneered.
His smile vanished, and I noticed his eyes glisten with tears.
I looked at my hand again,
Who the fuck do you think you are?!
And once again, I sneered... whipping my hair in his face and proceeding to stand in front of Dad, in the light.
Once in front of dad, I turned to look behind him. I cleaned my dirty hand on my pink dress, clearly irritated... all the while looking at the little boy, to show him how disgusted I was with him for daring to touch my hand.
I quickly felt like shit when I saw him wiping his eyes with the inside of his filthy shirt... as he hastily walked away from me, into the shadows, away from the sight and sound of the fireworks.

Nearly twenty years later... and his little face still haunts me. His dirty, blackened hands... his dirty white shirt, ratty black pants and shoes... and that buzz cut. His timid smile.
I can't believe I was so despicable.
He was just trying to comfort me... and I was a bratty, heartless bitch.

To this day, I can't see photos of street kids without getting teary-eyed...
I still can't listen to fireworks without thinking of how cruel my young heart could be.