Forcing the inspiration

An hour and a half's worth of work...

Now I know what people mean when they say the room's lighting fucks shit up.

My brain gets hell of fried when I force myself to paint.
This time I listened to more EDM while simultaneously playing an episode of Hoarders in the background.
As far as the quality of my work is concerned, this little experiment of forcefully painting has proved that it's... uh... strange. I'm pretty obvious when I reach my breaking point... I mean, look at that white streak on her left leg. While the painting can't talk, that shit pretty much screams "My brain stopped giving a shit riiiiight here."
As far as my mood is concerned, the forceful painting has helped in clearing my mind. It does such a wonderful job turning me into a blank slate, I'm honestly having a difficult time writing this up. I'm committing a shit ton of simple mistakes... adding unnecessary letters, leaving out e's and s's-- those two seem to be the letters I neglect the most.
I also notice I lose track of time when I paint... hence the Hoarders episodes in the background... it's the only way I can keep track of time (don't resort to my phone because that shit would just distract me).
My feelings about the painting? I'm not nearly as embarrassed about it as I am about others. I feel free to hate it publicly... well, I mean, if someone were to see it, I wouldn't blush... I'd just feel comfortable saying "Oh, that shit... I forced myself to draw that shit as an experiment. Feel free to observe it and notice my mood shifts based on the strokes of paint. Feel free to hate it-- I hate it too."

Anyway, I'm done with the painting for today, since that's all the torture I can subject myself to for now.
Tomorrow I'll gun for the hands and face... goddamn hands... I've never been able to draw that shit.
Ew. No. I prefer finishing the white frills... that is grossly ignored.

Resolutions v.2013

Damn it! I was going to update yesterday, to finally have a year where my number of updates equals out to the number of days in the year (fail for 2012. Missed 366 entries by a little under 100... 97? Something like that. That's a little over three months... didn't feel like I did that, but the numbers don't lie).
I was supposed to post resolutions... but I guess I was bogged down by the constant pondering.
Truthfully, I don't know what I want.
Sure, I want to remain healthy... keep up the workout routine... but that doesn't change so I don't feel like talking about it.

As far as resolutions revolving around social interactions go: I don't have any. Well... maybe I'll resolve to repair some of the friendships that have deteriorated over the last few years due to my depression... and low-carb rage.
You'd be surprised how many people get offended by the shit I tweet, which often-- usually-- is not directed at them BY ANY MEANS. I guess I'm just offensive by nature. Or maybe people expect me to be a pleasant little saint... a doormat, and when I open my mouth to express an opinion, which often contradicts their own, I get kicked out of their club of hypocrites. I'm sweet and considerate, but if I feel you're getting too outrageously irrational, I'll call you out on your bullshit... that, or if I feel your ego is getting too big and you're crushing too many hearts-- I'll take pleasure in taking an ax to that inflated self-image of yours. Maybe that's what pisses people off? They think my quiet, passive nature means I'm dominated and a just one of their cronies? Sadly, the people who treat me like this are usually family... so I can't just walk away. Instead, I have to continue going to parties and get togethers where we coincide... and shit is just awkwardly quiet where we have to greet each other courteously before both our parents make shit even more awkward. Don't nobody need an intervention during Posada Night #9.
SO! Ok, I'll work on fixing this issue. I won't bite my tongue when one of my cousins is being a shithead... but I also won't harbor so much fucking resentment towards HIM or her (female cousins hardly piss me off, now that I think about it... except for the older ones... those ladies... yeah, never mind, THEY are the ones who piss me off most... with their archaic beliefs snooping around MY business). We. Will. Be. Friends.
Good lord, help us all.

As far as my heart, my "love life," "romance," is concerned: it's dead. Non-existent. Done. Gone. A non-issue.
Now, more than ever, I'm sure this was never meant for me. Ever. Spending any time on this is a waste. Ain't nobody got time for that.
It brings unnecessary pain and worry... and really just turns my brain to shit.
Just like some people don't like the taste of protein powder, I fucking love it. Just like some people would kill for Hawaii-imported pineapples, I'd mule-kick anyone who'd offer me that shit.
Some people are meant to love and have a family and blah blah blah... but a few are meant to just roam the Earth alone-- I am one of the latter. It'd be foolish of me to think otherwise.
Love. Doesn't. Exist. (For me)
Companionship. Doesn't. Exist. (For me)
And that's that.

My "career"? (question mark goes inside or outside of the quotation marks here?) Haaaaa! Give me a minute, I need to scoff real quick.
Ok, so... I shouldn't scoff just yet. I do have plans... I actually HAVE set plans into action here. This is what happens when I convince myself not to fuck around with "love" or any of that nonsense.
My method of getting off the floor and dusting myself off is by putting shit into action. I fall from the imaginary, romanticized world I live in... the fall each time harder than the last, I face-plant for a couple of days... months... sometimes years... but the moment I decide to stand up and take the dirt off my shoulder, I go HARD.
Sure, I lose more of the sweet, soft AnoMALIE... but it's the price I pay for ever putting down my guard.

So... for 2013, I resolve:
1. To be nicer, more forgiving.
2. No "love" or any of that dreamy bullshit.
3. Action! Drawing, writing, the whole bohemian shebang!
and of course...
4. Travel like a motherfucker!

Failed Experiment. Good.

So... uh... for the last few months, I've run a tiny experiment:
How long can I last without gushing over Darcy?

I've tried acquiring crushes on other dudes... finding someone who inspires me as much as he, and refraining from getting on here and subjecting others to my endless fawning over a dude who doesn't dig me like that.
I didn't run the experiment because I think he's a bad guy, god no!
I did it because I put myself in his shoes. How would I feel if I had a dude being all weird about me, when I didn't feel the same (question to which I have gotten an answer, since that awkward moment of AnoMALIE-fandom from that dude friend of mine. This made me empathize WAY more with Darcy. Holy shit, I need to TONE IT DOWN!)?
Also, it's kinda rough on the heart to like someone so much and have him not reciprocate.
There are no winners here!

So, I tried thinking of other shit... like how angry people make me, how much I love cupcakes, and how awesome ice cream really is. I guess I also focused on proper lift forms... as long as they weren't squats-- I'll always associate him with that move from now on.
I tried finding other dudes cute... but uh... nope, didn't work.
Dudes still don't measure up. If they meet the physical criteria of what I find cute, their mind is nowhere near on the same level as Darcy... or their humor won't be there. In this time, I've actually met an unusually high number of dudes who hate sarcasm-- a little bewildering, if you ask me (how do you NOT like sarcasm, you wet diaper?!).
When I find dudes I connect with on an intellectual/humor level (like with Los), I am never physically attracted. At all. Even if they make me giggle. Even if they have a sexy voice.

This led to me just... ignoring dudes completely, at least in the sentimental sense (everyone knows I can't stop admiring dudes... it's a favorite pastime of mine. I'm a med school drop-out, I can't deny I'm a fan of the human body-- especially the male human body. That sounds a little creepy, doesn't it? Ew).
Everything was going as quiet and robotic as expected... but come June, I lost... for obvious reason: soccer.
Each time Darcy directed anything my way was like a fucking carnival-- smiles, backflips (not really. Remember I'm sort of traumatized about performing these. But you get the point), claps... pretty much the return of Retarded Seal Status.
He's fucking adorable, I can't control my reaction. No matter how much time goes by, I revert to that same fangirl who gets light-headed with just the mention of his name (someone should really remind me to breathe. I'm a pathetic sight). Is that normal? Probably not... I'm ridiculously immature.

Don't cringe guys, but Retarded Seal Status might last a little longer. Starting tomorrow, he'll be on the same side of the Atlantic as me... same country, same time zone, same city. Yup. Awesome, though sometimes I prefer to think he's so far away. It helps keep me functioning properly, and reminds me that he's THAT far away from liking me. The distance helps my heart realize it needs to grow up and chill out... leave the poor dude alone.
Siiiiigh.
Dude is dope.

I apologize if my spelling, punctuation, grammar, logic, attention-span etc. goes to hell for the next few days... but y'all know he discombobulates me... still.
I'll also try not to be annoying.

I'll try and stick to being cranky and on the verge of slapping some bitches at the gym.
No promises, though. Remember, I AM a textbook Pisces after all.

Medicinal, my ass!

I've mentioned many times on here that I'm quite the gullible imbecile.
Here's another example why:

My godson, this wonderful kid: (That day in Mexico was pretty fun... even if I only ate a chicken taco... God, I hate eating)
He's quite the example of good breeding.
Back in elementary and middle school, he was the top student not only of his school and district, but of the entire state he lives in (Durango, in Mexico). Once high school came around the corner, he became more interested in the ladies... and while his grades haven't slipped, he isn't THE smartest kid in his grade (he's friends with this one boy who won some sort of national math competition).

Well, I know this little fact of his smarts not diminishing, per se, just... lessening... but still, whenever he tells me something relating to nature i.e. everything on roosters (his dad's quite popular when it comes to rooster breeding. He has international fame-- I say that because he's known of in the Philippines, haha), snake breeding season (usually the time I'm down in Mexico... stupid ugly ass scary snakes), or the healing powers of plants, I'll believe him wholeheartedly.
The latter I want to dive into a little deeper.

During the first week and a half of August, I hung out with this one girl that's from Cabo San Lucas and was down visiting my little Mexican town because her best friend is from there (the singing sensation I've mentioned once or twice in here). This girl was very, very cool. She cracked me up because she was terribly outgoing... and did crazy shit to amuse us all.

Well, this girl had this huge wart on her left index finger that was the first thing you noticed if she ever made a fist because it's on the right side of the finger.
We all know how fond I am of warts... but this girl, knowing full well the wart was something not very attractive to me (but it wasn't like I stared at the thing either... I didn't even acknowledge it)... made a joke out of it. I mean... I never met anyone that made me laugh because of the way they treated their wart, but she sure changed that.

So this chick, as fond as she may have been of her wart, was also looking for a way to get rid of it.
That's where my godson comes into play.

Godson: Oh! Have you heard of ciricua? It gets rid of warts and also heals deep cuts without hurting any other part of the skin.
Cabo Girl: Really? I wanna try it! You guys have some really weird healing tricks I'm stoked to try out!
Godson: It's this leaf that burns the wart off.
Cabo Girl: Burns?... OK, I'll do it anyway.
Godson: Don't get freaked out when you see what it does to your skin...
Cabo Girl: O...K. When are we doing this?
Godson: I have to go out and look for it in the sierra... so maybe... in two days?
Me: I wanna do it!
Cabo Girl: You have a wart?
Me: Not really... but I wanna see if it fixes two of my fingers!
Godson: Don't worry Madrina (godmother), I'll get you some too.

So it was settled.
However, my godson managed to find the plant when it was too late for Cabo Girl. She left last Thursday from Mexico, and it was last Saturday when my godson found and brought me the plant.
He came over to the house, two of his fingers wrapped with bandaides, and showed me the leaves. He asked to see where I wanted to place them... and seeing as how the areas were small (my right thumb and my left ring finger), he said he'd do it before we started watching "Pan's Labyrinth" and take it off once it was over... to make it two hours that I'd have the plant on my finger.
He smashed the leaf on my fingers, made me get him two bandaids to cover the leaf as it rested on my finger, made me wet the finger to get the area a little humid... and smashed the bandaid with his nail to make the plant secrete more juice.
He then told me I was going to feel it burning me as time went on, but to not mind it.

Ok... so the first hour it was alright... I was expecting to feel the flames of hell or some shit, since I noticed my godson was scratching like crazy the place where he had the leaves placed.
Instead, I felt an occasional tingling going on in my thumb, but nothing on the ring finger.

Then I saw what my fingers were going to look like... why? Because my godson removed his bandaides and washed off his fingers.

They were black.

Godson: Yeah... your fingers are going to be stained black wherever the leaves touched... but don't worry... nothing bad happens to your healthy skin... just the wart.
Me: What the hell?! You mean I'm going to have to walk around with black fingers? I have church tomorrow! And how long does this damn shit last?!
Godson: I don't know... my mom didn't tell me that.
Me: Shit... there's a lot of shit your mom doesn't tell you.

Even after that exchange, and against my better judgement... I left the damn bandaides on for another hour.
By the time I was washing off the leaf juice, I was burning like a motherfucker and my fingers were super black... and not to mention getting blistered! (Photo taken about three hours after removing the bandaides. You can't really notice it, but my nail was starting to turn purple/yellow)

Regardless of the unsightliness, I thanked my godson... and believed every word he said.
Godson: The wart's just going to fall off... like... crumble.
Me: Wow... amazing. Mexican medicinal plants are the shit!

Well, ladies and gentlemen... they're not!!!
It's been a fucking week, exactly... and my fingers are still black... my thumb still has a blister the size of... an extra thumb... and nothing has "crumbled" off.
That Sunday I found out you were only supposed to leave the leaves on for 15 minutes.
I had it on for two hours!
(Photo taken as Godson and I looked outside the Internet Cafe window while we waited our turn for an open computer. Hand to the right is mine, the one with the fucked up middle finger is my godson's hand)
I've had to carry on this past week like some damn... black plague carrier... or frostbite victim... constantly putting on bandaides if coming into contact with another human is required that day in order to hide the unsightliness of my fingers.

The worst was on Thursday, while I was making the trip back to the U.S. My thumb swelled to its biggest level that day. I went as far as putting on a bandaid five minutes before crossing the border... out of fear that the border patrol officers would become suspicious of my condition and not allow me entrance to my own country until a certain amount of days in quarantine... and I have school to attend Monday... so fuck that shit.
In order to go to church today, I had to place bandaides on both fingers so people wouldn't be frightened to shake or hold my hand.

Ah, my godson... such a sweet kid... but he fucked his godmother up good (I feel the liquid in my blister shake whenever I move my thumb around... it's so damn gross and painful. Stupid Ciricua plant).
(picture taken today, like... right now)

Spring is here, I smell it in the fire.

I love March!
Not only do I celebrate my birthday in March (which... isn't so great now that I'm getting older... it's kind of sad, actually), but Spring time comes around the corner. While Vegas spring is not as awesome as Spring time in North Cal, it's pretty damn sweet. The unbearable heat still hasn't hit the city, and there are days when there's a slight breeze and it doesn't feel so bad to breathe.

I don't suffer from allergies, unless mulberry trees are doing their best to pollinate around me... which is true in the case of the food court (is it a food court?) at UNLV by the Sidewalk Cafe. I dodge that shit like the plague during the Spring. Aside from that, I have a blast around pollen (Haaaa! I have to, there are 10 fruit trees and 10 palm trees in my back yard thanks to my yokel parents. j/k. Silly me, Mexicans can't be yokels)

Anyway, when spring (is it capitalized? I won't capitalize in this case just to spice things up--I've been watching WAY too much Rachel Ray) rolls around my family gets in the habit of throwing little barbecues. I don't typically enjoy these things, since I have an irrational, semi-fear of fire (well, it's not that irrational. My siblings have almost burnt down the house not once, but twice) and I'm not a huge fan of meat (except on Fridays during Lent. The devil tries his best to tempt my weak soul and meat looks especially good to me then).

Well, this fear of mine only increases when I see who's in charge of the grill. Mom handles it most the time... and I'm not scared in those instances because she knows how to handle fire. However, if my father is ever left in charge, I tend to hang out by the fire extinguisher... or I just hook up the hose to the nearest faucet and keep that near the grill.

Also, I wouldn't be so scared if my parents grilled on our normal grill:
To the left, exhibit A: Notice the DIRT. Is it obvious enough that my folks don't use that shit, or what?

No, no. My dad has befriended some crazy man... who swears up and down by this thing:
To the right, exhibit B: Weirdest, scariest grill in the universe that my dad received as a gift from Crazy Man.

Now... seriously... the flames on that bad boy get enormous. I'm really shocked the neighbors haven't called the fire department yet.
It also screams out: HOBO! I can just imagine a pack of vagrants huddled around this thing in the winter just to keep warm.

Regardless of what I think, my family sure loves "grilling" aka burning our meat here (talk about burning, today we were all looking at that fire that broke out in the "wetlands." It was pretty sad. Sure put a damper on our little BBQ day). They have a blast, eat a lot... drink... dance... scream (Yeah. Scream...either while arguing or just being musical... if that's at all possible to imagine. Oh! Like Mariachis!) and then leave us to clean the place up.
Now, after all this day's activities, I'm tired and smell like ash.
Just another wonderful spring day.

But I guess I don't mind. As long as I have this little guy to smile at me (and eating some of the paper plates liter-bug cousins leave behind):

Ugly, dirty dog... his enormous smile makes me forget how dirty and scary he is... and I just wanna hug the little monster.

Talking about smiles!!
I've been running an experiment on myself over the past few months and it isn't until recently that I've noticed results.

I've been known to suffer a lot from chapped lips ("Ew, gross!" Yeah, shut up, I know). I've had the problem since... I don't know... I was born? I get nervous a lot, and as a way of coping, I tend to tear the hell out of my fingers. When those are in too much pain, I tend to go after my lips. They're such a huge canvas... I tend to get a little out of control and there comes the problem. I also lick my lips like nobody's business (but NEVER while checking someone out. NEVER).
So, after much aggravation with constantly touching my rough lips and... no, I take it back, I wont go into further, disgusting details. I just wondered what it'd feel like to regularly have soft lips (dumb, I know... but I only have soft lips a couple of times a year, when the weather's just right).
On New Years I made the resolutions of:
1)Not picking at my lips
2)Saturating my lips with Vaseline on a daily basis, at all times... just not when going to school. I can back off a little there.

Now, I went drastic with Vaseline because that shit's quite disgusting. It tastes like... well, petroleum. Nothing like the Bath & Body Works Raspberry lip balm I buy and then proceed to lick off, which only exacerbates the problem. It would force me to quit licking my bottom lip.

You see that! I mean, that has "OUCH!" written all over! I had to do something, especially since I often found myself saying "Shut up! Don't make me laugh! I'll bleed!" (I feel like a chick on those ProActive commercials right now. Vaseline should pick me up as a spokesperson. "Try it, it tastes like shit, but man, does it get the job done!")

I've been applying Vaseline for over... 2 months now and while I started off rocky (licking my lips a couple of times only to be met by one of the most wretched tastes I've come to know), but I now have normal-looking lips (you know, like a freakin' human), worthy of Maybelline commercials (riiight). Now if only this damn Listerine Whitening worked a little faster... and I wouldn't be so paranoid about using brightly colored lipstick (I claim to look like a hooker... I just can't get that out of my head. You try growing up in the hood and tell me if seeing hoes at your bus stop corner on a daily basis doesn't mess you up).

Aww... that last picture sure looks porntastic (Maybe it's all that Vaseline... saying that so often makes me think of Lisa Simpson). I shall try not doing that again... if only I could remember what I was thinking during the picture (probably "This is fucking retarded and I don't wanna smile") . And on the first picture... I was whistling... not blowing a kiss like all those emo girls on Myspace. I don't blow kisses... unless it's Tyson and I don't wanna go outside to get tackled by him.
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