It can't be

"So, uh, a certain young man did that ah... Genetic testing thing... and he's uh... quite disturbed to learn YOU appear as his uh... Close relative," she said.

"Why's that? I thought he'd be happy to learn why we have so much in common. I know I am. I get it," I said.

"Because uh... Well, come on, why else would a guy be upset to learn a girl is his relative? He's like... genuinely distressed," she said.

"Oh... Ohhhhh!" I said.

Did I mention how over the summer, JC tried getting me drunk as fuck, started asking me personal questions about my romantic life, approached me (I was laying down on my brother's sofa, kindle in one hand, glass of whiskey in the other, eyes on JC) and hovered over my mouth? No? Yes? Well, yeah, that happened. 

A normal girl probably would have lunged forward to make out or fuck or whatever the fuck "normal" girls do around handsome young guys, but I'm not "normal." I became extremely angry and agitated over this kid asking me so many questions, thinking he was such a fucking expert psychoanalyst. I raised my voice and glared at him, ultimately making him uncomfortable-- scared-- and he switched the subject JUUUUUST as the conversation reached the point where my admission to the VClub was going to be inevitable.

So yeah, I saw why this dude is now weirded out by our cousin status.

Luckily I'm not the one who on numerous occasions tried kissing the other (lol, then again, I'm also the dumb fuck who drunkenly admitted to "loving" him... And actively sought to get with his younger brother... Ahhh, life works in mysterious ways)

DudeSearch

I've been terrible about updating. I was hoping to update sometime throughout the last week... but my days seemed to run so much shorter, and whenever I had access to wifi, I'd spend my time angrily ranting to my sibling/family about how much I hate certain passive-aggressive "friends" and family of mine.
It's very uncomfortable for me to notice how upset and worked up I can get over the behavior of certain "friends" of mine... as well as many, MANY family members (particularly, from my father's side. Bunch of hating-ass motherfuckers). I don't fucking get it. To my face they're all love and "togetherness" then they are glaringly absent from acknowledging anything I do that I perceive as fun... or even amazing. And not to toot my own horn, but I KNOW I take good photos... the only times I add a filter are when my face will be prominent-- I try to blur that shit out. Other than that, filters are something I don't allow myself to use-- because that's cheating. Period.
So ANYWAY, I need to get off that tangent because I become pretty fucking irate.

SO I'd be getting online infrequently, and when I would be connected, I'd just post photos and proceed to grow very fucking angry... because some people are jealous pieces of shit that really should not be part of my life, honestly.

Life without internet is great. Life with internet is agitating.
I collected many anecdotes, all of which I wrote down on paper.
I did A LOT of people watching... and observed so much art and architecture... and just... observed human behavior-- my own included.
This trip I'd probably remember as my Dude Search.
I did NOT want to look for men, but of course, my brain betrayed me and I caught myself getting HELL of boy-crazy... like a teen.

In Italy, I found myself holding eye-contact with guys... and had my mother not been around, I probably would have been pretty sleazy... ok, no I wouldn't, but I definitely liked what I saw the majority of the time.
Italian men seemed to think I was one of their own-- an Italiana. I'd constantly find myself just smiling and shrugging after a local would ask me questions in Italian. By the third day, I actually gave an Italian lady instructions on how to exit the metro correctly... in Italian. Me. Giving direction to get OUT OF A METRO. The Vegas local, who knows nothing about public transportation. In Italian.
I'd marry an Italian... or just procreate with one, I'd be cool with that.

Spain? Spain was kind of a bummer... but when isn't it?
This time, I noticed a HUGE spike in South American immigrants. Last year it was a spike in Indians/Middle-Easterners, this year, it's a huge Hispanic population. And while all of this does not bother me, what DOES bother me is seeing the TREATMENT of these people. The manner the South Americans walk the streets upsets me. They do not hold eye-contact, they look scared, and they try to make themselves look SMALLER. They look... like a stray puppy who constantly gets kicked in the street by strangers. The way they are looked at by some of the Spanish infuriates me. The way some Spaniards refer to these people infuriates me. They have that... egotistical, patronizing... self-righteous air about them... elitist as fuck.
Not a day went by where I did not hear someone refer to a dark, short person as a "Sudaca"... or even just drop that derogatory term mid-conversation. At one point, a young man about 19-20, tried flirting with me. The Spanish boy looked me in the face, smiled, looked me up an down lustfully, and said "Ciao, chata!" ("chata" is a derogatory term for those who have Native American facial features) as he walked past me, turning around as I walked past so he could scope my ass. I felt so offended, I got teary-eyed. Normally, this would only piss me off, but considering I fucking adore Barcelona, seeing this drastic turn of events upset the fucking shit out of me.
NO! NOT YOU, BARCELONA! NO! DON'T LET THE RACISM WIN!
When I walk the Barcelona streets in company of my sister, I don't see this side of the people... because they seem to think I'm one of them. But in company of my little mom? They were hardcore racist... and nothing is more upsetting to me than seeing someone mistreat my little Mexican mom.
So anyway, I know this was another tangent of some sort... but it popped into my head.
While Spanish men did flirt with me, it was a weird sort of flirting... like they were flirting with... a weird specimen. They knew I was a weird mix... not entirely Spanish, not entirely "South American" (not AT ALL South American, but apparently they can't distinguish the look of South Americans versus Mexicans), something weird... familiar in a way, but exotic... weird. I didn't flirt much with Spaniards, I was too busy trying not to cry at how horribly they were murdering my beautiful memory of their country/culture.
I would MAYBE marry a Spaniard... and probably not procreate with one... I was taller than many of them... and OF COURSE always wider than them.

But let's now move on, before I break my heart too hard.
Let's talk pleasant shit. Let's talk France.
BOY OH BOY! Was I popular in Paris! Dudes were hitting on me left and right... whether I was alone or in the company of my mother. French men had a strange ability to pick up on not only the fact that I was a spanish-speaker, but a Mexican.
French dudes were the most insistent on holding eye-contact... it became uncomfortable.
I'm pretty sure I bumped into my future husband while at the Louvre. The guy was one of the museum workers, and *tried* flirting with me... but you know how I have that problem where I refuse to believe cute guys flirt with me, so I end up looking clueless and miss a good opportunity? Yeah, that happened here.
Instead of catching his flow, I became confused, which only made me look like a cold idiot... so he gave up, rather than become that creepy jerk.

Some day I'll become good at interacting with men I actually feel attracted to... not do any of this clueless, confused shit I do.

Marry a French guy? Nah. Have a baby with a French guy? Dude, have you seen their eyes? FUCK. YES!
... but I'd first have him tested.

I'm the girl

This last week was spent attending my cousins' home to pray the rosary.
Why? I don't know... it was just a random thing where my mom's cousin called her up and said "Yo, I have the patron saint at my house, we're gonna pray to him for a week straight, can you come?" And so, every evening, we'd travel all the way the fuck across town, into the BIG TIME boonies for this pray time.
We'd gather in their awesome living room, pray the rosary, which takes about an hour, then we'd all move the party over to the kitchen, where we'd eat a different delicious meal for seven days.

These cousins are the cousins with whom I tend to have friction... the Euro... guys... remember that from a few years ago? In public, they treat me with a little bit of contempt--I dare say-- but in private, they seem surprised at how interesting and nice I can be.
SO, at this shindig, I'd have time to chit chat with these guys and laugh the night away. We pretty much bonded... since I was the only person under 30 who'd attend.

Yesterday, the last day, the good vibes finally turned to sad times.
What happened?
The boys found out I was the one who upset their friend.
Remember a few weeks ago at my sister's party, where that guy just straight stunned me by suddenly asking me out? Well... turns out he has a lot of friends... a lot of friends who happen to share a gene pool with me.
Now, the guys aren't mad at me, per se... but it's a sad situation... because apparently me turning the guy down really bummed him the fuck out. No, he wasn't bummed because he feels I'm the love of his life, but because he has been turned down so much now, that this last episode with me was the nudge he needed to go over the depression edge.
This has his friends upset because he's such a good dude-- which I believe, because from what I've gathered, and the conversations I heard him having, he was cool-- it hurts them to see him so down.

My cousins were surprised... because clearly I'm such an awkward girl... and I'm very, VERY far away from what the girls in their circle look like, it's surprising for them to think we'd ever coincide.
I apologized profusely... trying to explain myself... but of course, I was so upset with the news, I found myself choking on my words... nearly crying 'n shit.
I eventually acted like I was receiving an important phone call, and excused myself to a hallway.
I looked at my phone for a few minutes, took deep breaths, then worked my way to the empty giant sofa in the family room... where I laid like a corpse until my mother texted me, concerned, asking for my whereabouts.

I feel guilty. And shitty. And stupid.
And so fucking shitty.

I hate knowing that I played a part in making a good person feel bad... that's the last thing I ever want to do.
But I'd still not accept a date with him... and then that makes me feel bad because I feel like a cunt...
Then I ask myself why I wouldn't, and my answer further upsets me: because I can't handle the thought of "learning" to like someone in the romantic sense. I know what I like, I know who I like... and I'll never ever try and force myself to like someone if it's just not there. I can't handle that shit. That thought upsets me... angers me... makes my chest feel heavy with rage... I just can't do it without feeling wildly agitated.

I know I sound crazy... probably hypocritical... or just nonsensical... but... that's what's going on. It fucks with my head, it's all so contradictory.
I'm an asshole.

Asked out

My "Why are you still talking? Can I go home now?" face:

I bring a serious gun game...
Ugh. I'm such a dude.

Luckily, that was only at the end of the night, around 4:30 AM... at a taco shop.
For the majority of the night, I was doing my typical hyena thing... where I laugh at nearly everything.

A strange thing happened that night.
Aside form my teenage-angst shitty moment, there was an unbelievably awkward moment where I pretty much went deaf from the embarrassment.

Hottie sweet young ex-Mormon guy was busy... I don't know what he was doing, I think he was getting me a drink... so I was only surrounded by my female friends/family.
I was feeling good, so I was happy and kind to everyone, even the jackasses smoking nearby.
I had noticed two particular friends of my sister's looking over in my direction, but I honestly believed they would look over when I'd laugh too loud... kind of the way you look at a crazy idiot.
"Can someone please gag this bitch?" sort of thing.
They were the tallest, ummm... darkest... dudes in the area... not that I have a problem with that. I'm just saying, for imagery's sake.
I had been my typical self with these guys, since I knew they were some of the few cool friends my sister has. I'd laugh at their jokes, because they were funny, but at NO TIME, did I bring up anything that had to do with attraction... romance... hooking up... relationships... any of that.
One guy, the tallest one, was asking me many questions. I didn't want to be an annoying mean bitch, so I'd answer them, humorously.
I guess this is probably where the guy thought I was like... sending "mixed signals."
He asked me what I did... about five times. Each time I'd say something new.
Him: So, what do you do?
Me: Nothing.
Him: ... ?
Me: I am an "artist." I paint, I draw, I write, I take photographs.
Him: Is that all?
Me: Well... I travel as much as I can. I like to see the world and write about it. Draw it.
Him: Anything else?
At that point, I was wondering if this guy thought I was the worst fucking lush in the world.
Him: Do you dance?
Me: Only at Zumba.
He looked surprised.
Me: I'M KIDDING. I'M KIDDING. I do more aggressive shit at the gym. I'm not a dancer... well... I know how to dance, I'm relatively good at it... but I don't really like it... especially dancing to this music (they were playing Miley Cyrus).
Him: Well, what DOES get you to dance?
Me: I have a Peter Pan complex... so... I'm going through a really hard EDM phase.
He did not know what I was talking about... or maybe it was a ruse to get me to bust out my phone... who knows, I'm dumb and gullible.
So he asks me to name a song.
Of course I can't name a song off the top of my head.
Me: That one that says "muthafucking animals" thought the whole thing... you know what I'm talking about? Martin... Gar-something.
So there we are, laughing at how dumb I am... and I bust out my phone, and prove my point.

This is where the laughter stops and awkward begins.
He starts talking.
Him: Well... I think you're great. You're hilarious. You're beautiful and smart. Your smile lights up the room from a mile away. I really want to, you know, get to know you better. So, I was wondering if it was ok if I took you out to lunch sometime.
I FROZE.
No, seriously... I FROZE. Catatonic.
As I watched him say each word, my mind was going a mile a minute.
What the fuck? NO no no! Please stop... NO no NO! Oh No! FUCK! Don't put me in this position... FUCK! AHHHH! FUCK! My smile? UGHHHH! Don't smile, he won't know you smile when you're nervous, he'll think you dig what he's saying... FUCK! Please don't keep going! WHYYYY?! WE WERE COOL BEFORE YOU OPENED YOUR MOUTH! WHO ASKS PEOPLE OUT WITHIN A COUPLE OF HOURS OF MEETING THEM? WHO STILL ASKS PEOPLE OUT?! WHEN DID WE MENTION RELATIONSHIPS? HOW DO YOU KNOW I''M SINGLE?! FUUUUUUUCK!
And I just stood there, looking up at him, glazed-over eyes, smile on my face.
And I shake my head.
I felt like shit... but my head did not give a shit about being nice to anyone... it was shaking out of simple reflexes.
Me: Oh... you're so nice... thaaaaaank youuuu... but... I... caaaan't.... beeeecauseeee.... I caaaaaaan't...
Him: I should have known! Who is he?
Me: He is uhhhh... he livesss innnn...
Him: You're taken, huh? I should have known. A beautiful girl like you in a bar, single... it's either because your boyfriend's at home or you have something seriously wrong with you.
And he does that motion, where you move your index finger in a circle alongside your temple, to denote someone as crazy.
Me: Yeahhhh... sorrrryyyyy... but thank youuuu...
Him: Can I... is it ok if I curse him?
Me: Oh you go right on ahead and curse your heart out! Here, I'll help you! "YOU MOTHERFUCKER! YOU FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER!"
And there we were, two people cursing an imaginary person.

Guys, I tripped the fuck out. I looked like a cat who gets surprised by a loud, sudden noise.
The dude was hella cool, and as a friend I'd be happy to chill with him... but the way he laid it on so thick... there was just... no way. No way. Zero physical attraction. He didn't know my type of music. It just... nah, man. Nah. But it felt horrible having to say no to such a nice guy. But I had to... to keep it real.
I was still feeling like I had just been static-shocked by a massive metal block when the ex-mormon boy came by and made me forget... with more laughter.

Guess who I'm looking at...
Kinda scary to think this is the deranged look they're getting when I'm greatly amused.
No, really, just look at my nose and eyes. I'm getting slayed.

That night I learned I'm still not a fan of compliments. They fuck me up.
Come on... let's be serious... I was not that big of a deal. I'm a forgettable face... well, besides the enormous grill of mine, but you get the picture.
I know what I look like.. I know my mug is nothing out of the ordinary.
Flattery from others just gets me rattled and upset.

If you dig me (for whatever freak reason you find me tolerable), speak to me for a couple of hours... crack me up throughout the conversations (don't avoid me all night and only approach me as the night is ending). Make me laugh hysterically with your humor, and my attention is all yours, buddy.

Not a difficult concept (difficult to keep me company for a few hours. I understand it's pretty fucking demanding of me... but I'm a shy, painfully timid girl... it takes some time for me to warm up and be myself with a stranger. Some people have the patience, others do not, and that's fine. Just DON'T ask me on a date after having only spoken a few lines with me. That's... I don't handle that well. Never thought I'd have to make that disclaimer...)

The fireworks

My life is composed of very fucking random episodes.

Some episodes are violent and aggressive.
Other episodes are heartbreaking.
A number of episodes are so hilarious, you could swear they were fiction.
But there's always this strange... full-circle effect. There is always one tiny detail unifying it all somehow.

"Your writing is very... unique. You manage to make successful connections between some very seemingly disparate things," a college professor once wrote on one of my essays.
***

July 7th, 2014
Amazing lightning strikes opaqued the brilliance of the Vegas skyline.
Rain poured against my Q7's windshield.
So much relaxed laughter.
Random, aimless driving through the wet streets, many which I was seeing for the first time.
Reminiscing. Catching up.
A single, unexpected red chrysanthemum firework going off on the side of the freeway.
Me: Woah!
Him: What?
Me: You didn't see that?
Him: What?
Me: A firework right down there just now.
Him: A firework...
Me: Someone refuses to accept The Fourth was... three days ago.
I pulled at the end of my side braid, which rested below my armpit.

July 3rd, 2007
The skies were cloudy and the climate was muggy.
I was nervous. It was awkward.
We stood outside of my 4Runner.
Him: Did you see that?
Me: What?
Him: Some dumbass is blowing up fireworks right now.
Me: Where?... I don't see them.
I nervously scratched the back of my exposed neck, still not accustomed to my bob-haircut.

Things definitely didn't work out back then... which of course, bummed me out-- rejection is never fun, but was also expected (I was at my fattest... or nearing it). I totally understood.
However, time only revealed something cooler.
Yeah, things weren't meant to be romantic, but throughout the years, our friendship definitely became one of my favorites.
He never had to write me an anthology when bothered with my issues... sometimes a word or two sufficed. One song suggestion or another would help sooth my pain for months... some have worked for years now.

Last night as I laughed in the passenger seat of my car for two hours, allowing my friend to drive wherever he pleased, I realized our friendship is undoubtedly the best thing that could have happened between us. It's a legit comfortable, effortless friendship that I don't normally experience with other dudes. I can only bet on all of that ease being nonexistent had he given me a shot seven years ago.
Instead of the awkwardness and more-than-likely resentment (from my part, obviously. I am always the resentful ex), I get to discuss how shitty life can be to both us, mid-laugh-attack... because that's how life works.

Seven years ago I was too nervous, uncomfortable, and self-conscious to notice the evening's fireworks display in the middle of a movie theater's parking lot... but yesterday I was gifted a single, perfectly fired chrysanthemum by some redneck who refused to accept Independence Day was three days gone, at the exact moment my vehicle sped by on the freeway on a rainy summer night.
All in the company of this guy.
No, no romantic little love story to see here... but certainly an enduring friendship that constantly slaps a smile on my face, and renders me tranquilized.
What more could I ask for?

(I wrote about setting up that first hangout the day before it went down. I literally ended my entry that day with "20 bucks we end up being just friends." Ha. Haha.)

Whore how?

Know how I know you've been creeping my Facebook page? My intense mobile game of Candy Crush (or numerous other puzzle games of said nature) gets interrupted by an alert of you adding me as a Facebook friend... and once I check my Facebook (after losing my game lives) I see the notice has magically disappeared. To make sure I didn't just dream the scenario... or had some sort of glitch with my phone, I check my e-mail, and ohhhhp! there it is! "*ParanoidChick* added you as a friend!"
Slick... dumbass. Why don't you just go ahead and peep a few of my instagram joints? You'll get a bigger kick out of those, considering that entire thing is public... move I specifically performed for the viewing pleasure of people like you. Enjoy! (And no, I'm NOT interested in your HUSBAND. We're friends. We talk. We enjoy traveling and have traveled to the same places and I fucking babysat your kid for a week! WE HAVE THINGS IN COMMON. Get over your goddamn paranoia... YOU LIVE IN TEXAS! I want nothing to do with that)

But this post isn't about paranoid chicks who think I'm some whore trying to get with their man... no, I have sufficient experience with that to handle the ugly feelings within a few days of the incident. I'm used to girls hating me or misjudging me as a slut. I'll feel sad about it for a few days... then only recall a bad incident on exceptionally bad days.
And guys? Well, I've had my bad incidents with them. They've insulted me with many synonyms for "slut," but always out of frustration... because I WON'T get with them. These incidents don't make me sad... they make me angry.
Guys I like? They're of the opposite view-- they always think I'm too prudish... too good-girl.
This had always been the norm... up until recently.
For the last few months, I've dealt with one guy I really, really like... who now I'm pretty sure dislikes me... almost passionately... because he thinks I'm a druggie whore. Not only am I easy, but apparently also heavily into drugs.
While I should probably be normal and let this roll off my back... just forget this guy exists and MOVE ON... this fucked up judgement of me has me pretty messed up... it has been eating away at me... HARD.
For one, I have never participated in anything that could REMOTELY be considered slutty in his presence-- he hasn't even seen my exposed calves, for crying out loud. I don't understand where he goes off and thinks I'm a hoe... how? HOW? I'm closer to resembling a serial killer than a slut based on my behavior. Where is he finding the men who can say they've done anything with me?
When I'm near him, I am all about him... all I need to do is melt at his feet.
The druggy part also throws me for a loop. When he first met me, I was still sort of chubby... he didn't see me for a few months, and when we once again bumped into each other, I was at my thinnest. I'm guessing he assumes, like so many, that I dropped the weight with the help of illicit drugs.
... I don't even smoke. I haven't had a single drink in... months. The last time I was drunk was in December, and prior to that, it had been YEARS. I haven't even smoked weed... ever.
What?
Many of my friends DO smoke weed... I'm sure a good number do more than that... and while that shit irritates me, they're still my friends, and I still hang out with them. That doesn't make me a druggie.

... I'm irritated. And upset. And angry... so fucking angry.
I'm SO close to just going off on him... but I'm sure that would only garner me the superlative of "Craziest Bitch" in his world.
But no, I won't.
I will remain silent and just leave that shit alone... as much as it mortifies me to think there's a guy out there who thinks I'm such a sleazy, drug-loving chick (because nothing could be further from the truth... it is SO way off base). And what kills me most is the fact that he doesn't care to be proven wrong... he just does not care, he writes me off with complete disregard for my feelings. It's upsets me because I like him, and he thinks so poorly of me. It sucks. I'm embarrassed over how upset it makes me.

This girl can never win.
Happy Friday!

Calmarme

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

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

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

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

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

nineteens

Proclivities. I have them. For certain groups of people.

Today is Jose's birthday... you know, the dude from The Bay with whom I have an interesting back and forth. The smarty pants who hit me upside the head at a club back in December. The dude who gets me to act like a total fucking idiot while he is cool, calm, and collected.
I like that young man.

Today is also Richard Gere's birthday, you know, the one from the wedding.
He's kind of a dick... but I can't complain about that, because I'm not the loveliest human to grace the planet either.
I make him laugh. He irritates and frustrates me. It works out wonderfully (no, it doesn't).
He's a cool dude... who does incredibly cool shit for his birthday... like what he did this year, for example:

He complimented their form.
I'm eternally jealous.

Best kind

Some dudes... some dudes.

The crazy part? I have absolutely zero feelings for him that are not that of friendship.

I should be punched for my stubborn, idiotic ways.

Comforting this baby

Enough drama.
Ha. Totally expected when I notice shit is going so smoothly... but the difference now is that I don't allow myself to wallow in the self-pitying shit for too long. Don't get me wrong, I was ridiculously sensitive all of Friday... randomly having tears streak down my face... and my fucking eyelids were a pink mess... but on days like that, I stay away from society as much as possible and entertain myself with either writing or doodling/painting.

I've noticed the people most adept at noticing I've had a shitty time AND TRYING to fix that are males. Girls seem to be aloof, or just too uncomfortable acknowledging a sad girl (except for my bestie. Well, we sort of do that thing where we ignore the problem, but try and fix moods by making the other laugh at silly stuff, which I certainly appreciate, because I'm pretty shitty at speaking about my tender, often-injured feelings. Too often my fucking sobs betray me and you just get an incoherent, violently shaking AnoMALIE... all scared-Chihuahua-like, nobody likes that). Guys on the other hand, turn so... umm... warm? Soft? You know, all those words associated with gentleness. Kind of like how most dudes behave when given that school activity where they are handed an "egg baby" and have to protect said egg for a week. Guys get all gentle, yet protective-- Get away from my goddamn egg. You might break it, bitch. Are you ok, Egg? Here, you're safer here.
Girls might approach you to talk... but see your busted eyelids and think "Whoa, messed up girl... I'll give her some space, she might be contagious. I might say something to make her cry... and then we'll just end up two girls randomly crying in public."
Dudes might be standing across the room, notice your fucked up eyelids, and make their way over to you to crack a joke, then add a reassuring squeeze to your shoulder... or some other comforting touch that melts your heart at the same time that it makes your bottom lip quiver. I choose not to make much eye-contact when such a thing happens, because the tenderness in their stare usually leads to me tearing up again, and all gains are lost... because I cry once they leave my side.

This is just my personal experience.
I'm sure plenty of girls out there go straight to their ladies to feel better... and probably DO get the comfort they need.
I just get the other side of the coin-- a very peculiar side, which still achieves the point of it all: to feel better, to get better. 

Gatsby

Elusive-- that's what he was.
The bride's brother said he had only managed to squeeze two or three words out of him the entire week, other groomsmen hadn't even heard his voice.

This elusive gentleman spent cocktail hour standing at the venue's front door, which was higher ground than the rest of the room.
He was like Mufasa on Pride Rock.
He stood on his hill, mojito in one hand, white umbrella in the other, silently scoping the scene.

The Billionaire...

It's odd to think of someone that way, I mean, I've never been in the presence of someone so... well off. His quiet behavior kept everyone at bay-- men, women, we all avoided him. Some were too intimidated (ME), others were jealous, others were not interested... and others... were too drunk to care.

The elusive gentleman was handsome, in his own way. Not particularly tall, or muscular... but his eyes immediately demanded your attention-- his intense stare.
He was very courteous, always allowing women first, offering his elbow as support. I had never seen such... manners.

After seeing our seating arrangement, Table 5, Betty, Sister, and I groaned. There were only three seats available, my partner was automatically booted from the table... the Billionaire club had bumped him.
Well, that's one way to make a negative impression, you selfish, self-important jerks...

The drinks flowed, the jokes followed, and Elusive Gentleman turned into Columbia Cute Witty Boy.
He would excuse himself from the table, but promise to return-- each and every time, looking each one of us girls in the eye, smiling.
He promised us he'd "dominate" the dance floor... and that he did.
He spoke Italian to us.
He sang Spanish to us.
He... smiled his sweet smile.
He promised to meet up with me next time he visits Vegas.

We became friends once I returned from my trip.
I saw his profile.
Today is his birthday (as is my father's).
He majored in art history as an undergrad.
His favorite book? The Great Gatsby.
His nickname? SERIOUS nickname everyone calls him? "The Gatsby."

Seems the Universe is hellbent on keeping memorable literary characters in my life.
I'm cool with that.

Oh my Lebanon!

That right there is my birdcage veil.
I had never heard of such a thing.
It WAS restricting like a fucking cage.

"So what do you think I am?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, side smirk adorning (yes, fucking ADORNING) his face.

Sister accidentally captured mini-Richard Gere while snapping a shot of our table setting.

The question came from the guy sitting left kitty-corner from me at the 12-seater dinner table.
My sister, Betty, and I had been taking guesses at the ethnicities of the two boys sitting directly in front of us-- the so-called "billionaires."
After perhaps five minutes of guessing, I had been the only one to correctly guess one ethnicity-- the one of the guy who wasn't even sitting with us, the stink-face uptight dude. I correctly guessed Russian for him... imagine that!
We girls had been too enthralled by the boy claiming Brazil and the big eyed pretty gentleman who claimed being "normal" to notice the one sitting furthest away from the dudes-- Richard Gere... Richard Gere's offspring. He was leaning back, looking at us all play our idiotic game, like a bunch of kittens running after the red dot of a laser on the ground. When he spoke up, we were downright startled... quickly feeling embarrassed about our rudeness to the sweet guy.

Richard Gere was looking right at me, with the sexy smirk... grin... smile? I don't know what to call it, it was just a slap to the face... a nice one.
"Japanese?" asked Betty.
"Nope." His smirk turned into a wider smile.
Yeah... I can see where she guessed that, he did have almond-shaped eyes... but his eyebrows were too thick.
"Ummm... you are...." began my sister.
"Lebanese?" I guessed. Lebanese is always my go-to answer.
The eyes on all the dudes at the table grew wide. They all seemed to choke on their spit... except for Richard Gere, his eyes seemed to glint, and he nodded.
"Yes. Yes I am." said Richard Gere, raising his glass of champagne and toasting at me.
Are you kidding me? That is CLASSY AS FUUUCK! ...I think I'm sweating in this 60 degree weather...
My jaw dropped and my eyebrows raised in surprise.
The dudes started to laugh.
"You're kidding, right?" I asked. "He's not really Lebanese, is he?" I asked Brazil and Gentleman.
"No, he is. He really is. You go it right," said Gentleman. Brazil nodded.
I looked over at Richard Gere and gave him MY side smirk (toothier than his... because I have a giant mouth), raised my left eyebrow, and cocked my head to the right.
"That's cool," I said, my smirk turning into a smile.

I was trying to showcase my drinks for the night:
unlimited champagne, red wine, water, and Patron.
The hilarious Brazil was caught in the middle.

I raised my glass of champagne and looked only at his eyes.

SEXIEST motherfucker in the room... that Richard Gere.


Best. Wedding. Ever.

The way he looked at his bride made my heart melt.
Those cobblestone streets made my feet bleed.
That trip made my soul HEAL.

Open sesame

I'm a pussy when it comes to severe injuries... severe, bloody injuries.
I will cry and holler... and look away... but not allow anyone near the fucked up area.

I guess you can say I'm a little scandalous... dramatic, I prefer "dramatic."

When it comes to heartbreak, I'm pretty much the same.
I bleed like a motherfucker, refuse ANYONE'S assistance, cower, and hope to die a quick death.

I was in a horrible place around... ummm... the ends of July. August was a fucking disaster. It went on like this up until... the moment I stepped foot in Mexico City in December.
I'm speaking romance-department.

In July, my brain finally made that connection... that... click... where it told my heart "Yo, nine years was enough... it's not going to happen... Darcy's dead... Darcy never existed. Please, please just move on! Let him live his life, you finally live YOURS," and my heart actually listened.
Of course, being the drama queen I am, my heart couldn't accept this news without fully imploding itself. A bloody fucking mess. I mean... fuck, did you see my updates for the month of October and beginning of November? I was dying.
But I had to let go of that... hope. Of that feeling... of that very pretty feeling. It was only hurting me, and well, I'm sure my behavior was only annoying him.

I've been told far too many times to "open" myself up. I always scoffed... I still scoff just writing it.
I went to this wedding with a clear mind. I wasn't looking for anything... I had ZERO expectation to even flirt with any guys... I purposely tried to keep to myself. After realizing what a weirdo I must have appeared to the others-- that tall, dark girl who refuses to converse with anyone, yeah, not scary at all-- I decided to be FRIENDLY.
And by golly! Did things change!
I was gross as hell, since I was hit by the flu bug pretty hard... coughing up a lung, runny nose, watery eyes, and that very seductive tranny voice I acquire when sick.
But STILL, dudes thought I was cool.

I made the strongest link with the barely-legal dude... which... god... I feel so embarrassed about. I'm such a DUDE! Scoping out fresh meat like that... so gross.
Anyway, while my link with the young one was strong, I also connected with two of the frat bros. One in particular makes me smile because he reminds me of a young Richard Gere. Young Richard Gere flirted with me all night the night of the wedding... him and his sexy smile and pretty eyes... ufff!
There I was, gross as gross can be, yet dudes weren't running from me-- quite the contrary, they were plucking me out of my seat to take me out to dance.

So, lesson learned: open you heart. It's not that I was LOOKING for anything, but I made the conscious effort to quit acting like an army widow... constantly yearning for her dead husband... perpetually mourning his loss.
I smiled at boys, I responded to their questions with a smile... and I answered honestly... and I was kind. I was me (true to form, I crossed a line a little with my sarcasm... but that only happened once, and I cut that shit out immediately after).

Open your heart, and you might just find yourself a young'un who finds you to be... pretty cool.
Young one that makes you forget how fucking uptight you are about the English language...

Your? I let that slip...
WHO am I?!
The grammar doesn't get better, either.
Cute petnames, right? So dreamy to call one another such classy names.

And then I get all giddy about it to Pacemaker... and proceed to laugh hysterically.

Oh, how she knows me.

But... can you blame me? Just look at him! THAT BACK! Good lord!

Literally riding a white horse...
Seriously Universe? I'd roll my eyes if I wasn't too busy smiling like a dumbass, cheeks forcing my eyes shut.

I'm hopeless.

Watching out

I intended to write last night, but I was falling asleep by 10PM... so that didn't happen.

ANYWAY.
My week in Mexico (well, week in San Miguel. I'm not counting my days in Mexico City for now) was fun.
I know I actually killed it by complaining that one day... but that was posted under severe stress... that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Anyway, the day of the wedding was incredible.
The wedding itself was amazing... something I had never seen, much less experienced.
I had been upset BEFORE heading out to Mexico, under the impression that I was going to be paired off with that impossibly gorgeous/intelligent/successful guy... who attended my dream school. This stressed me out because... well, I have difficulty speaking to "normal" people, you know, people like me... so the idea of speaking to anyone who is wildly successful makes me panic.
My biggest fear was that this guy was going to WANT to get to know me... ask ME questions. The thought was gag-inducing.

Originally, the week in San Miguel was going to be spent doing "team building" activities... to get to know each other and bond and whatnot. There were seventeen couples in the wedding, we sure as fuck had to try to get to know each other.
For the most part, we all bonded... all but the elusive group of five frat brothers of the groom. These frat brothers happened to include the Columbia boy.
Most activities were Christmas related, initially... because it just so happened to be CHRISTMAS TIME. The reason the frat bros weren't joining was because three are Jewish, one Muslim, the other Buddhist. Of course, we didn't know that... all we were told was "They're billionaires. So-and-so owns this and that. This other guy owns this..." so we all just assumed they were snooty and didn't like rubbing elbows with poor people.

For the week, we would sometimes bump into the boys... but since we never crossed a word, we'd just keep walking away... like a bunch of uncivilized... savages.

The day when we were supposed to REALLY bond, D and I spent the entire day out of town, since the rest of our family flew into Mexico. D and I were the only people missing form the group.

Fast forward to the wedding day, and the moment when we are coupled.
I finally met Columbia boy, and learned we had been switched out... because in my heels, he was down to my shoulder.
I was moved to the guy in front of him, an older gentleman, who was as tall as me. I had no objection, because the guy turned out to be very understanding and cool.
Fast forward to the reception.
No one was paying attention to the frat bros, so the poor guys had to entertain themselves. That was during the eternal cocktail hourS.
At the banquet hall, D, Betty (girl I had sworn I'd never forgive), and I sat with all the frat bros.
Well... guess we're gonna have to talk to them now...
That seemed to be the sentiment in at the table... the mutual sentiment.

These boys were FUN.
So fun.
Well, one, the older one, was a dick. We'd smile at him when we'd make eye contact, but he'd straight SCOWL at any one who'd do it.
Well fuck you too, bitter bitch!
But the other guys were a riot.
A good hour was spent playing the guessing game, where the guys had us guessing their ethnicity.
Another hour was spent talking about life in Las Vegas.
The entire night was spent trying to ignore the fact that they have more money than they will ever be able to spend...
It was terrifying, intimidating, exhilarating, hilarious, and fun.
The best thing was that we had no internet connection... so we were unable to google them and see HOW MUCH they actually own.

I came home and googled them.
I proceeded to hold in my gagging.
They. Are. RIDICULOUSLY rich.
Yet so normal.

It must suck to have to hear that all the time.
I'm NOWHERE near as rich as they are, yet I often have to deal with guys referring to me as being "loaded" and only approaching me in hopes of somehow scraping some money off me.
I can't even being to imagine what life must be like for these boys.
I'm sure it was a relief to go somewhere, and sit with a couple of girls whose main concern was figuring out which one of them was Russian, which one was Lebanese, and which one was "normal" (that's what he claimed). We treated them like we would any other cool dude... and I hope they appreciated it... which it seemed as though they did... since SOMEONE was finally speaking to them.
This was such a bizarre event... a bizarre dream sequence. A once in a lifetime opportunity.
I'm glad I lived it.
***

While waiting for the dollar dance to begin, Columbia boy started a conversation with me about what I did for a living. I told him about my Bio degree. He was all about the Rebels... which took me for a loop. I never would have imagined him even knowing about the Rebels.
I told him where I lived-- streets-- and he knew exactly what I was talking about, since apparently he visits the city once a month for work. He asked me if I was a teacher. I told him no, that I was looking into schools for writing.
Him: You write?
His eyes got huge (bigger than they normally are-- which are pretty big. His eyes were OH so pretty... huge brown eyes one could stare at for hours), a large grin crossed his face.
Me: Yep. I sure do.
Him: What do you write?
Me: Fiction. Short stories.
Him: Of what?
Me: Umm... I guess they tend to be... dark comedies.
He was smiling... this pretty smile... of like... it's that look of intrigue dudes tend to give me when they think I do some cool, unexpected shit. I don't know how to explain it beyond that. It's a look of entertainment-- like telling someone you wrangle Komodo dragons for a living or some shit.
Him: Dark comedies? ::sweet smile:: I'm definitely going to look out for you then ::holds eye contact as I smile from ear to ear::
Me: Ha... are you?
Him: No, really, I am. Watch. ::smile::

Guys, I swear my knees got weak, and had I not been about to enter the ballroom for the dollar dance, I would have excused myself to the bathroom and fist pumped the fucking air the moment I entered the privacy of a stall... jumping as high as possible in my three inch heels.

He made my fucking life with that three minute exchange.
Sweet, sweet guy.

Pinch me

As we danced the night away, the crowd pushed me closer to Jose.
He dances sort of wildly... he likes to throw his hands up in the air.
We were in the middle of bouncing up and down, when some idiot girl pushed me from behind and sent my face directly into Jose's shoulder. My cheekbone bounced hard against Jose's deltoid.
I laughed.
Immediately, Jose reached for my face and gently, but oddly firmly, rubbed his thumb across my cheek... in a gentle, quick pinching fashion... if that makes sense.

Some people have this strange affect on me-- their touch lingers.
I know I've mentioned it numerous times, but it's only because I probably only mention it when I come across a person whose hands/arms have this power.
The touch lingers because it feels like... I get a sense of... it feels like they understand me... a sense of caring. There's a gentleness to it, but at the same time feels unusually hot... like I'm getting burned. I feel every finger, even the mounds of flesh on their palms.

A few weeks ago, one of my friends reached over to clasp my right forearm with both of his hands. I could tell he thought about it because he did it cautiously. I had told him something that made him sad, and he was compelled to comfort me, but comforted me cautiously. He gently squeezed my arm, and the burning sensation it sent through my body made me look down at his hands, then back at his face.
"... how long have you been waiting to touch me? Looks like when someone convinces himself to pet an alligator. But thank you..."

As Jose tried to "wipe away" the injury he had accidentally caused my left eye, I felt... so comforted. I smiled, closed my eyes, and allowed him to cradle my face. His firm grip on my cheek made me melt. The gentleness of his caress made my knees weak. That strange warmth his touch was emitting comforted me to the point where I had to back away before I lost the war with my tears.

It's so weird how I can sense people's sympathy for me based solely in their touch. I don't allow many people that right-- to touch me.

So many hands have slapped or poked or punched me... but the memory of them fade within minutes.

I'm always, ALWAYS shocked when I find those few whose hands possess the ability to leave lasting, comforting impressions on my skin. It makes my heart stop... my throat close... my heart burst.
I forget my troubles for those few seconds, and for that instant, begin to believe some people out there actually give a shit about me.
Not everyone out there is hellbent on hurting me, and this truth I truly appreciate... and need.

Metallurgy

Guy 1: "One day, you will be rewarded for that heart of gold that you own."

Guy 2: "You are extraordinary."

This week, I heard that.
Of course I cried.
I cried because I don't feel extraordinary.
I cried because deep in my heart I KNOW I won't be "rewarded." My heart is not gold, or titanium, or even iron-- it's coal... an energy source which is consumed for the generation of cooler shit.

I cried because I had never taken the time to notice how convinced I am of the contrary of what I am being told.

Some days I can laugh and smile and joke around...
Other days I just want to curl up into a ball under the covers, and cry until my eyes swell shut... those days I just want to be invisible.

I feel like garbage.
I want to be numb again.

Todo para que?

Wasting away.
Pining.
Lost cause.
Game over.
Hope, gone.
Defeat.

No sirve de nada...

All of it, I was thinking all of that and more here.
I caught a glimpse of myself on my camera, and immediately felt my heart break.

Multitudinous-- the meanings to this year's costume.

It earned me a number of compliments... even a handsome legit military, country gentleman was trying to get me to flirt... and as always, I froze and turned catatonic. I tugged up on my dress until I gave myself a rash.

"Even as a corpse you look stunning."
Thank you... but I don't feel it... and quite frankly, it no longer matters... it never did.

"Is your Romeo showing up later?"
No sir... not at all.

Podría ser todo suyo, solo suyo, y no lo quiso. Que más da?

Shanna 2013

And one last rant:

When you really give a shit about someone, you're happy with the simple fact that THEY'RE happy... regardless of whether you're included in there or not.
When you really give a fuck, you do your best to make THEM happy.

I gave a huge fuck about Darcy, I still do, and I always will.
I did, however, learn that HIS happiness does not include ME in the way I wish it did, that it NEVER did... and I ACCEPTED IT.
I will STILL always do everything in my power to help out the guy or anyone he cares about.
I will NEVER speak ill of him. I don't care WHAT happens.

YOU, however... YOU have taken this despicable, dishonest, disgusting, SELFISH, juvenile attitude of... somehow being WRONGED. Of having ZERO accountability (I can't believe I'm using this word, Kelley... Jesus, how time changes shit... I'm suddenly Shanna's angry boyfriend. hahaha). And THAT is what infuriates me.
If you really ever gave the slightest DAMN about me, you wouldn't have meddled and manipulated your way into my shit.
You made me think he didn't even consider me a FRIEND. HOW WAS THAT OK IN YOUR FUCKING STUPID HEAD?! That is FUCKED. UP. You made him look like a monster, and you made me feel like a complete and total ZERO... so that you'd appear to be the hero? How is that ok? How is that fucking justifiable? And you don't own it! That's what riles me up. "Perhaps it could have been interpreted like that." Bullshit! It WAS said with intent to harm and you're taking away ALL responsibility from having ever uttered such hurtful fucking BULLSHIT with your roundabout, idiotic answers.
You wouldn't have been so incredibly selfish and thought only about YOUR happiness.... YOUR comfort.

You manipulate everyone around you into thinking you're the most sincere person we've ever met. That poor, poor you always gets shafted.
Boo-hoo. 
Pobrecito.
:(
Bullshit.
You get what you deserve. You get what you've worked for, and in my case, it's perpetual resentment and distrust.
I can't even fathom EVER trying to manipulate Darcy... or wronging him in any way. Fucking ridiculous you claim to like me and blah blah blah, yet you said and did some fucking horrible things to me... and now clearly are making me out to look like a cold, monstrous, psychotic cunt. Whatever helps you live with yourself... as deluded as that world may be... but I do hope you remember it's a MADE UP, IMAGINARY WORLD.

Keep thinking you're sneaky, crafty, and witty.
You're a parrot: you regurgitate what OTHERS feed you... most often with a flaw in your diction, which gives you away as the phony you truly are.

I hope some day you learn not to hurt others for your personal gain.

I don't like you like that. I never did. I never will (ESPECIALLY NOT NOW). GET OVER IT. Grow a fucking pair of balls and act like a real goddamned friend. Own your fucking shit! Asshole.

Injurious delusion

"He had delusions of adequacy." - Walter Kerr
"He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire." - Winston Churchill
"He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary." - William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway).

"He is a self-made man and worships his creator." - John Bright
"He is not only dull himself; he is the cause of dullness in others." - Samuel Johnson
"He is simply a shiver looking for a spine to run up." - Paul Keating
"Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?" - Mark Twain
"Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go."- Oscar Wilde

(and two insults that have nothing to do with my rage, but made me laugh out loud:
"I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play; bring a friend, if you have one." - George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill

"Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second ....if there is one." - Winston Churchill, in response.)

"In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily." - Charles, Count Talleyrand
And that one, is that what I was SUPPOSED to do? You know, so I wouldn't be considered such a cunt? How DARE I stand there and act like "just a friend" when I have a vagina and everyone else has a dick. Clearly I was there to find some dick... because that's the only reason girls hang out with guys... not because they enjoy the conversation and shallow shit like that... we just wanna FUCK!

This issue has been giving me side-aches from containing my rage... my desire to just spew ALL of my hate and putting the TRUTH out there...
But fuck it. I'm done. Go ahead and continue LYING to everyone and interpreting shit like you always do: completely, utterly wrong, you fucking IMBECILE.
Keep acting like the motherfucking victim.
Hope you can live with yourself knowing what a motherfucking MANIPULATIVE piece of SHIT you truly are... you lying sack of shit.

Me: Hey, she likes you. You should give her a shot.
You: NOPE!
Me: Why? She's a good girl. She's smart, she's working really hard and succeeding at dropping weight, and she's learning about sports to have more stuff in common with you.
You: NOPE! SHE LIKES HARRY POTTER!

Yes... THAT was excusable for you in your fucking pea brain. "She likes Harry Potter" was a relevant reason to dismiss someone, yet here I tell you REPEATEDLY I don't like you, nor will I EVER, FROM THE GET-GO... and it makes me a hypocritical crazy bitch. I tell you I only like ONE person, and I don't pass around the circle of friends like some fucking joint from which everyone takes a toke... yet I'M the cunt. Right.

I end by quoting my best friend: When you objectify and act injurious toward someone, you become the most unattractive monster in the universe.

Oh, and before I forget, the reason I brought up my monetary situation last post was because of this: for ages, women were bought and sold like goddamn cattle... some STILL are treated this way. In my hometown, women HAD to get married in order to leave the town, come to the US, or to have a decent living. The only catch would be that often, they suffered the fate of a fucking servant. Machismo at it's fucking best.
My mother married my dad NOT loving him... because she gave up on all her hopes and aspirations... because her dad forced her to... because she was a woman.
Both she and my dad have told my sister and me that WE don't have to suffer the same fate, they worked so hard just so we wouldn't have to. Mom wants us to know what love feels like... not... getting with someone out of sheer convenience, and dad doesn't want us to suffer mistreatment from some douchebag who thinks he's above us for the simple fact that he has a dick.
Too many girls out there marry out of convenience... they want to be taken care of for the rest of their lives. When the need for that "convenience" is removed, they're free to look for LOVE... not "like" or "eh, I guess, whatever," "Eh, he's aight."
I am free to find a guy I genuinely feel for... regardless of how much or how little he makes. Money becomes a non-issue.
I did not mention this to "gloat." ANYONE who knows me knows I don't do this. PLEASE tell me of a time where I bragged about labels or brand names. Please. Show me ONE instance. (I WEAR RIPPED SHOES, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! WHAT THE FUCK?!)
I'm sorry I drive nice cars... but in case you haven't noticed, I damn near park a block away just so you won't see that shit... and I only "show it off" when others ASK to see it... it's not like I park in people's fucking driveways and honk as a way to announce my arrival.

SO FUCKED of you to judge me. Am I supposed to live in misery my whole life? What the fuck?

Goldie locks

I have reached the point where I can no longer keep track of the number of times my writing has gotten me in trouble.
I've been placed on suicide watch, I've been told to have a psychiatric evaluation, I've released a couple of family secrets that led to moments of shunning... the list goes on.
I KNOW my writing gets me in trouble.
I KNOW my writing gets analyzed-- more often than not, it is done so INCORRECTLY... like most people's writing does.
As far as getting analyzed (criticized) by others goes, I'm usually fine with it... but I must say, I prefer it done in my presence... that way I can take the conversation as more of a constructive effort than a gossip session. I can also take people out of their mistake if they just so happen to read into my shit just... totally incorrectly.
Also, if you base your judgment of me SOLELY on what you read here, you're committing a terrible mistake. Often, what I write on here is what I write under great stress... or rage... or... any strong emotion which I bottle up and only release here.
And again... you can't fucking base your analysis on what you read... because often, you're a dumbshit who has shitty reading comprehension/analytical reading skills IN THE FIRST PLACE... and so, the writing devices I often employ will be lost upon you (oh yeah, many things of which I write are excerpts of a larger picture... of literary work... not... you know... for your goddamned WEAK analysis of me).

So, let me hit a topic which works me the fuck up, and seems to always be in the mouths of others... especially recently, because of these last two weeks of Darcy:
The romance department.
Analysis:
"Your standards are too high."

Why does it work me up? Because it's WRONG.

A.) Yes, Darcy is the dude of dudes. He is the guy that no guy has matched. He is smart, witty, funny, ridiculously handsome and all that shit that I like... that I like A LOT... like... the most I've liked in anyone. His existence makes me feel pretty things. And he accomplished this status without even trying, without even touching me, and hardly having ever crossed a couple of words with me. It's just shit he inspired without even trying... my brain chemistry went apeshit when I met him, and so... I love the guy. And I understand that this is not reciprocated AND I did not cry about it... just went on that Kanye-styled stream of consciousness from the other night. He will always be the guy my heart beats for. He's the dude who will never be with me. And I've come to terms with it. End of story.

B.) My so called "standards" are these:
1. MUST. BE. SMART.
2. Must make me laugh.
3. I MUST be physically attracted to him.
All three in one, no exceptions.

C.) My "standards" exist because of this:
1. I may downplay my intelligence... mainly by remaining quiet under most circumstances, but I am ONE MOTHERFUCKING BRIGHT COOKIE. However, I allow everyone else to do the talking, because I enjoy listening (as long as it's not incoherent RAMBLING)... I learn a lot from others, and I just fucking love learning. Somehow, this gets twisted into me not participating because I'm a dumbass.
Permit me to be a fucking snobby cunt right now: I am NOT dumb. I aced my way through the most elite classes offered by the schools I attended, and not ONCE was I in a remedial class, not even considering the fact that I started my education in Spanish-only classes.
I read WAY TOO FUCKING much and I did WAY TOO MUCH fucking math and science-- mostly against my very free-spirited, naturally bohemian will.
My AP, SAT, ACT, MCAT, AND GRE scores back me up on this. Just because I don't brag about it, does NOT mean I'm an idiot... I just don't like bragging... because this shit is personal to me... it's something I prefer to keep to myself.
So, I'm a smart girl... and I MUST have a smart dude. He doesn't have to be a genius, but his wit must be something I enjoy. How the fuck are we expected to communicate if he doesn't understand what the fuck I'm talking about? My mind must be stimulated first if anything is expected to happen.
Also, if you tell me you don't like math, you cease to exist to me.
2. I am a GOOD GIRL. I am loyal (I'm a virgin for crying out loud! What more proof do you need to convince you I am not easily swayed?). When I love, I am selfless-- I give my all. I am faithful. I dedicate my being to my love and making him the happiest human in the universe. I won't lie to you. I won't nag you. I don't look at any other guy but MY guy. I don't drink to excess (exceptions ARE made. I KNOW how to party, but only when I feel SAFE to make a fool of myself. Instances are RARE, but DO exist) or smoke or do drugs-- I've never done drugs, even if I was/am surrounded by them. I go to the gym and work on maintaining a healthy body-- my body is my temple... temple I give entirely to the one I love. I am a motherfucking GOOD GIRL.
3. I am rich (snobby enough for you?). I may dress like a beggar, but that's because I fucking like it. I don't need to find a dude to financially support me... I'm good. If I get a dude, it's purely because I LOVE him, not because I love or need his fucking money. That shit has been LONG taken care of.
4.. The physical thing... that is of the upmost importance to me. If your presence irks me, you're as good as invisible to me. As a person who was... as a person whose trust and love was betrayed-- in the most vile way-- at the age of seven, by one of the adults she most trusted in the universe, I HATE unapproved touching. If I DON'T like you near me, I FUCKING DON'T LIKE IT. To try to attempt to "convince" me otherwise will only inspire HATE from me... sometimes violence. You CAN'T and you WON'T "teach" me to "like" or "accept" your presence. If I like you, I like you, if I don't, then I don't. Some dudes I allow to grab my ass, others I don't even enjoy accidentally brushing my shoulder. I don't NEED to "accept" ANYONE.
I don't fear solitude... shit, I don't really fucking enjoy company. I find it unnecessary to constantly have some guy I don't give two shits about HOUNDING me for attention. I don't have the vocation of a maid... or a babysitter. I hardly care about taking care of myself... I don't care to add a second person I'm not in love with.

To say my "standards are too high" implies I'm either TOO LOW to ask for this or just undeserving. Am I really undeserving of this? HELL NO.

I have ZERO need for a guy in my life. It's not a pressing issue.
I was abused as a kid, therefore I have zero desire or TOLERANCE to put up with someone who does not make me FEEL.
To make me feel, you must be smart (truly possess intelligence, none of this mimicry of your smart friends. Eventually the truth comes out, and when it does, I WILL resent the fuck out of you), make me giggle, and I must feel absolutely captivated by you. That. Is. It.
Since someone HAS managed to captivate me, I know the possibility exists... so WHY THE FUCK AM I GOING TO SETTLE for someone who does not inspire the slightest bit of... similar chemical magic?
If I don't find it, I am FINE staying alone... because it only means I won't have to put up with some dumb motherfucker who irks me... demands I feed him and fuck him until I just commit suicide by jumping off some fucking cliff. Some fucking prick who feels entitled to my eternal gratitude for plucking me out of my solitude to cook and clean for him.
Awwwww, how fucking romantic! How fucking benevolent of you, sir, and how motherfucking inconsiderate and delusional of me!

To say I have too high a standard is FUCKED UP. And a lie.
I'm not asking for too much, I'm asking for what is fair.
I fucking DESERVE to have a guy I feel a magnetic attraction for. I've been a good girl, I am a great girl... and I've had some really fucking shitty stuff happen in my life... I should finally get to be with a guy I choose... IF such a man exists and wants to be with me. I should NOT ever again have to sit there and allow someone who WANTED me to TAKE ME against my will. NEVER. AGAIN. No MEANS NO.

"You'll learn to like it." "You'll learn to like me."

Uh, no, NO I won't. I don't HAVE to learn anything!