This makes it how many times?

Know what pisses me off most about lies? The fact that my intelligence is underestimated.

I stay quiet not because I'm a fucking idiot... well, maybe I AM an idiot by believing in someone's fucking integrity... that's probably where I go wrong, but anyway, I stay quiet because I want to see HOW FAR you'll take your lie... and how LONG you're going to lie to me.

Mexicans have a saying: Si digo que la burra es parda es porque tengo sus pelos en mano.
If I say the donkey's brown it's because I'm currently holding a batch of its hairs in my hand.
If I'm telling you you're lying, it's because I did my goddamned research and did my fucking homework... I have PROOF... proof you provided for me throughout all that time you fucking lied, genius.

How can you live with yourself knowing YOU are being dishonest with someone?
For-fucking-real. How?

I also love how the "You're a neurotic narcissist" card is played once I call bullshit.

Lies... they're so repulsive. So damn repulsive.
Come on now.
Keep lying to me... and keep telling me GIRLS are the problem.

Fucking pussy shit.
Man.

Of Girls and Beasts

For the last few days, I've tried SO VERY HARD to stay mum.
I've bitten my tongue... and taken deep breaths... trying my best to ignore.

There's this fucking broad that is trying to get under my skin, and shit, why lie? She has fucking succeeded.
I'm often seconds from getting into my car, driving to her house, dragging her out into the middle of the street by her hair, and proceeding to elbow the fucking shit out of her SURGICALLY (POORLY) ENHANCED FACE.
I've almost called her out, by full name, on my FB...
but I'm a pressure cooker.

I've decided I'm going to let this simmer.
I like my beef so soft, it falls apart at the bone.
Come May, I'm tearing this bitch up! We're going to be bridemaids in the same wedding... and shit is going to get real... SO REAL on that fucking plastic heifer.
I'm building my appetite for now, and sharpening my teeth... as furious as her accusations make me... and how fucking obnoxious she's being right now... I'll hold off. I'll be the quiet, patient girl I've always been.
I know better... I build my case against whatever fucking brute continuously throws pebbles down my throat... and when the time's right, I let him or her have what he/she has worked SO FUCKING DILIGENTLY at acquiring: my motherfucking wrath.
Go ahead, think you've gotten away with shit, you fucking weasel... you're just making it easier for me to lose all fucking pity and mercy I'd have on you when the time comes to unmask you in front of the fucking society you think you're so superior to... I will feel no remorse about the ridicule and shame I'm about to bring your way. HAVE FUN!

I'll never understand why people constantly pick on a quiet, passive peer... the one who can CLEARLY kick your fucking ass, but opts to mind his or her own business.
Just because they allow you to throw your occasional stick or stone, you suddenly overestimate your abilities, and eventually push the monster to finally pound the living shit out of you.
WHY are people so goddamn stubborn and push limits like that? Why do they WANT to see quiet, peaceful people at their worst? What twisted logic is that?
My god.

Beefy

Fuck. Me.
I feel like death.

I'm exhausted. Pissed. Hung over. Did I mention pissed? How about exhausted?

I have the worst dark circles under my eyes.
I feel like my head's stuck inside of a jar... my feet are swollen, and I'm walking around as if I stepped on a cactus... this all fucking sucks.
I'm definitely getting too old for this shit.

While the wedding shenanigans were quite memorable, AND I laughed like a maniac the majority of the time...

How do you know I've had one too many shots?
I do that obnoxious, stereotypical "kissy" face...
my subconscious, making fun of 8/10 of the chicks on my FB

I just couldn't handle it.
I haven't had adequate sleep for a few days, and my body's making me pay. People make a big deal out of my inability to put up with a few bad days of sleep, but I want them to spend two hours a day, six days a week powerlifting/kickboxing and then get back to me if they only allow their body three hours of sleep a day. Anyone who says they can handle that is FULL of shit. Your body needs time to recuperate, and having someone force ME to stay up until the wee hours of the night and wake up at the asscrack of dawn is INSANE. So pardon ME for snapping at you.

This weekend, I'd go to bed at around three in the morning, and I'd be expected to be up by 7... but of course, there were numerous interruptions to those much anticipated four hours of sleep... like my drunken brother calling me at 4:30 expecting a ride home... or a drunk cousin informing me my drunk brother was lost... shit of that nature.
There was even a fucking flat tire involved... EVEN a Great Dane terrorizing me in my vehicle... all "Cujo"-like.

Eventful, frustrating weekend where I looked like shit, and felt even MORE like shit.
To add insult to injury, my beloved godson suffered his first disillusionment with the world yesterday.
His super important, international body-building meet was yesterday, one I had to back out of attending with him as support.
Personally, and maybe I'm saying this because he's my blood and I love him like my baby, I think he had it in the bag.
He's ridiculously handsome... and muscle-wise, it's... phenomenal. No, seriously, look for yourself:

His first competition, Nov '11. My kid is the one in black shorts

April 2012

May 2012

Back in November, he won first place in his division, which was "novice youth."
This time around, he didn't even place top 6... which I think is a HUGE crock of shit.
He lost to the dude in the blue undies:

SERIOUSLY! Compare my boy's quads to the eventual winner.
FUCKING CROCK.
My boy's 100% BEEF.

Needless to say, my boy's devastated.
I'm gutted for him.
BUT... regardless, he'll always be my boy.

Silly little one.

My heart.

Still silly... trying to make me laugh as I bore him with my stories of woe.

My kid.

Shoulder to cry on when our Abue passed away.

I'll ALWAYS be infinitely proud of him...

Support system.

Because I KNOW he's a boss.
Next time. He's going to knock this shit to a whole new level. I have faith... he does have that ambitious spirit we're known for: we only gain momentum once told we can't do something.

MY pizza

Yesterday, a grown ass woman threw a bona fide tantrum thanks to me.

Now, I had nothing to do with it... or at least, I did nothing to incite the lady's irritation (I was on my best behavior, seriously... I wasn't even cussing).
No, I was just being me.

I went out for lunch with a buddy, and ordered the same thing I ordered the last time I went to CPK (kiwi lemonade and that one mango tandoori pizza).
I was listening to my friend as she was de-stressing about her bitch ex-roommates (she has a knack for picking HORRIBLE girls as roommates) and all the mean shit they did to her.
So, I was kind of letting my pizza sit there as I attentively listened to my poor friend.

Next thing you know, the woman sitting to my right starts complaining to her waiter.

I did see she was scowling at her plate of food.
Then I hear her:
What is she having?!
I want that!! I want what she has right there!!

So I looked over at her, and noticed she was pointing at me.

Gee, thanks... I'm flattered, lady.

Next thing you know, there's this hubbub between the lady, her girlfriend/partner, their child, their waiter, the manager, and my waiter.

Umm... ok... did I do something wrong here?

They kept coming over to my table and looking at my pizza... trying to figure out what I had ordered... all the while, not going through the trouble of asking me what I was having.
I just sat there and looked at them, my chin resting on my right hand.

Does anyone want to solve this ruckus and just ask me? I'm nice enough to tell you.

Then I figured what the problem was...
The lady wanted MY pizza...
Not a pizza like mine... but the pizza that was sitting in front of me... untouched because I had been too busy listening to my friend.
I guess they were telling her that they couldn't do that... and they took about five minutes to convince her to just take one home when she finished her meal... on the house (lucky bitch. I know I'll do that next time).

Now I know.
Next time I go out to lunch with a friend, first thing I will do upon receiving my food will be to lick the hell out of it.

Cleaning Lady

I hate fitting into stereotypes, but recently, I've really stuck to one that I especially hate:
Mexicans make good cleaning ladies.

I've spent the better of the last 3 days cleaning my side of the house (that's right, not just my room... but the entire wing that now belongs to me since Brother and Sister are gone having a blast in expensive ass Europe).
Sure, I took a break on Thursday for a while, since I went to go watch that one ABBA musical (as guilty as this makes me feel, I liked it... umm... kind of... a lot. I came out singing. Luckily, it left me after a day, but now I have an ABBA CD in my car... I listen to it on my way to the gym. Lame, I know... but they bring back some good memories of my childhood in Mexico).

I clean while my mom plays Guitar Hero.
If anyone that has rhythm would be playing GH, I wouldn't mind as it would provide nice music to clean along to... but my mom... oh man!
I'm convinced Mom is the WORST instrument player in the universe.
Absolute worst.
I love Mom to pieces and everything, but my God! She's terrible!
She nearly breaks the little guitar as she hammers away at the buttons... and I feel this horrible pain in my gut... knowing she's going to break my controller.
She has a baaaaaaaad sense of pace... and as hard as I try, I can't beat it into her (seriously, I slap along to it. Granted, I don't slap her, I'm not that barbaric, but I do--and have-- slapped almost every part of my body).

Mom, it's "one-two-three, one-two-three!" Not "one.... two.. three. Onetwo.. three."

I fear my thighs will start to bleed if I slap them one more time to help mom keep the beat.

For a music lover, she's... very bad... very, very bad.
And then she goes off and works on the same song for hours.
If I hear "Black Magic Woman" one more time, I'm going to punch a hole through the television... I've had enough of that damn song on Easy.
Same goes for "Slow Ride." I think I can do that song with my back turned to the television... I've had to slap the beat to that one far too many times.

Anyway, as I hear Mom butcher the beginning to Black Magic Woman for the fortieth time (and then fight the urge to stab myself with the nearest, sharpest, object), I sit in the hall that connect Little Sister's room to mine.
Every other area is clean (except my room... that thing is still a hazard no one is allowed in besides me), all I have to clean is this: (you see those bags down there? All trash... mainly boxes and old nail polish, that I've cleaned out of the top drawers--fuck me if that's not the correct term... what the fuck do I know about homes and the English language?-- I have yet to clean the bottom cabinets, and I'm so scared)
And I'll tell ya what, I'm having a bitch of a time.
How the hell... why the hell did we let it get so damn sloppy?
I feel like I should submit that photo to an "I Spy" book publisher.
The most random shit can be found in that mess (Seriously, what the hell is an Airplane Pilot Snoopy Christmas ornament doing there?).
It's so disgusting, and super DUPER embarrassing.
There are things there that we've been hoarding since 1999.
1999!
I was 14! Little Sister was 11/12... and it shows:



I've found dozens of these note cards in the drawers closest to Little Sister's room... all in her handwriting.
She has recipes, games... poems... notes... a ton of crap just written there.

I've found enough makeup to start my own Broadway show...
I have about 100 hair ties... and 1000 bobby pins.
Headbands that Madonna would have murdered for back in the 80's...
And some very... umm... interesting jewelry/makeup I used back in the day when I was in my Raver phase (thank God that's over...).

I also lost a ton of things found in the third, upper drawer due to a bad blue-eyeshadow-incident. I guess it broke... and all the powdery stuff spilled over the contents of the drawer. Most of the stuff had to go... and the blue won't leave the actual drawer. Mimi from The Drew Carey Show would have killed for that eye-shadow that went to waste in my drawer.


As long as I'm Mexican, this type of thing will never happen again...

Am I the only one, or what?!

Fuck, man.
I didn't get out of it.
Curse you, once again, Latino blood!

I must go back to the court room tomorrow... and I can't talk about this. It sucks balls.

I will say this, though: Best dressed motherfucker out there? Me!

Screw tomorrow, I'ma be normal AnoMALIE in my chucks, jeans, and... not "tee-shirt" but not a dress shirt either (I went with a dress shirt today... and it was a semi-bad idea because I looked like I was ready to take off my blazer and start salsa dancing or something). Everyone else was doing it, so why can't I? Screw looking decent, I'm AnoMALIE, damn it! I only dress up for weddings!

P.S. I have a serious problem with the older crowd! Out of everyone there, I found myself checking out the one dude with salt n' pepper hair who was checking out my Barak Obama book (yes, I started reading it before I was informed of this jury B.S. so I wasn't just trying to look smart. I would have brought in my Molecular Biology textbook in that case)... it was him I was checking out and one of the D.A.'s... who was so unbelievably hot, in all his smugness.
Judge: Do any of the here present know, or are acquainted to *Name of D.A.*?
Me: No (but damn, would I fucking love to!! Yeah, I'm talking about your cocky ass over there smirking)

P.S.S. A dumber crowd I believe I've never met in my life... ever, ever, ever.
What grown adult doesn't know how to form a line in chronological order? OMG!

Beware: Do not wake the AnoMALIE!

It doesn't take long before people realize that I really love my sleeping time.

If you're going to wake me up from my slumber... someone better be dying... or my house better be on fire... anything else, you're getting your ass kicked (like with a bear in hibernation. Would you ever wake him/her up? No, unless you want to get your intestines confused for a big ball of yarn).

This rule has been followed since I can remember. I'm a peaceful kid as long as I'm given my time to rest.
As a baby, I'd sleep all day long, and only wake up when hungry. I didn't even bother crying... mom knew my routine: AnoMALIE has her eyes open? Well, let's feed her before she cries or something... then she'll go back to sleep and not bother a soul.
As an older kid, sure, I got up for school, but on the weekends I'd be laid out till maybe 11am. That became a little troublesome because I'd sleep in the living room (because we were ghetto, remember? 5 people lived in a one bedroom apartment... my little sister and I had to sleep in the sofa-bed in the living room while my folks and older brother slept in the one bedroom--SO many traumatizing stories came out of that) and sometimes we'd have early visitors... or Mom just wanted to open the curtains... but did they ever wake me up? Hell no. They knew not to. Instead, they waited till I woke up on my own and acted like no one was home till then.
As a teenager the rule only became more strongly enforced. Don't feel like getting a shoe right between the eyes? Well, don't come into my room and wake me up... I have surprisingly good accuracy when irritated.

Do not, I repeat, DO NOT wake up a sleeping AnoMALIE.

Apparently, my close acquaintances are aware of this rule, but not the rest of the world (gee, that's hard to believe).
For the past three weeks this one bastard's been calling my phone at an ungodly hour... thus waking me from my very comfortable sleep (and in the most annoying way possible: by having my phone ring!).

The first time I answered was when he called at 5:26 in the morning . He had called the previous day in the afternoon, but since I was in school I had the phone on silent. When I saw the number appear on my phone the following morning, I thought
Shit... who died?!
Because no regular person gets a phone call at 5 in the morning.
So I answered the phone...

"Uh... hell..o?"
"Julio, I'm outside."
Bitch... who the fuck is Julio? Do I sound like a Julio?!
"Nah... dude... you got the wrong number..."
Click.

Now, that bitch should have considered himself lucky. I was too dazed and worried to go off on him over the phone like I typically do to other unlucky callers (although I had an ex who would wake me up by calling me at around 8 in the morning every day just to hear me talk. I never went off on him once, and I answered all of his stupid questions while watching children's programming on TV. Weird dude with weird requests... but hey, you gotta give the people what they want, correct? Doesn't hurt when someone's willing to listen to me drone on and on about asymmetrical skirts). I should have never heard from him after the whole "nah, dude, you got the wrong number," thing, but no... he called 6 more times! All times on a different day (he did call twice in one morning though) and all between 5:15 and 5:45 in the morning!
After I answered the first time, I learned to put my phone on alarm only... and I thought it would get through to him.
Fucker... if the person ain't answering... quit fucking calling!
So I didn't hear from him for about a week (ok, maybe it was just 3 days) and I thought it was safe to go back to having my phone full volume as I slept (because I am paranoid and I think "What if Mom or Little Sister need me and I'm too busy sleeping?").

Bad idea! (shit, I feel like that should be the new title to this page... I just can't learn from mistakes! I'm like a fucking mule)

Guess who called me today at 5:02 in the morning?
Daaaaaaaavid.
That's his name.
Daaaaaaaavid.
And apparently I'm Julio... and our boss is Maaaaaaario.

Julio gives David a ride... or maybe it's the other way around... I'm too furious to care. I have no clue why Julio makes David believe my number is his... or why David insists on calling me even after I told him not to.
I thought about answering, but seeing the number appear on the screen made me feel like if I answered, I'd say some shit I'd live to regret... or that I'd have to go confess to a priest later on. So, I just made his damn call go straight to voicemail.

He left me a message:
"Julio, it's me... Daaaaaaaavid. I can't come in to work today ::groans:: so just tell Maaaaario that I'm sick ::sniffle:: I gotta go to the doctor later today... so ahh... yeah"

Ya! Dejame dormir o muerete con un chingado, imbecil!

I'm obviously not going to let this slip so easily. I've given this bitch one too many opportunities to learn that he's dialing the wrong number and irritating the wrong chick by continuously referring to her as Julio (and here I always thought I sounded like a sex-hotline operator in the mornings... you know... being groggy and all that shit) and calling at such an ungodly hour.
What am I gonna do?
Why, privatize my number and crank phone call him at 2 in the morning, that's what!
The level of evilness behind the phone call is still being debated between me and my sister... but it's gonna be good... especially since I now know his name, as well as two of his acquaintances.

I just hope that by 2 in the morning I still remember what it is I'm supposed to be doing. It's a miracle when I remember to rinse off my mascara at that time... let's hope I can manage to role-play an angry spouse at that time or something like that.