Second anniversary

I see him prancing around green fields, or locked in my Mexico home, or under that fig tree... the few times my boy visits me in my dreams.
Sometimes I'm having a great time camping and smiling at once again seeing my buddy, others I'm bursting at the seams with excitement thinking I have finally found him, only to feel the cruel sting of disappointment after realizing it wasn't him.

I just want to see him, touch him... even SMELL him. Never thought I'd miss his smell.
I want to hear him snore in his sleep, snort when he's hungry... do his happy prance when he'd see me carrying his bowl of thoroughly-mixed dry and wet food.
I want to feel him playfully bump the side of my leg with his ridiculously muscular thigh... I'd even be cool with him breaking one of my nails with the swat of his crooked little tail when he'd get overly excited.

I feel ridiculous knowing I could love an animal this much... that I'd MISS him this much... that I'd get so animated recounting one of his stories (I do it every time I remember the simplest little things he did... I think I do it as a way to overcompensate for the horrible sadness I feel knowing I'm talking about my dead little guy... try being overly-happy while talking to keep from bursting into tears... which doesn't always work).

I honestly feel SO STUPID over how much pain I feel over his death... even after two years. Each time, each and every time I look out my window to the backyard, my initial feeling is immediate sadness-- each. and every. time.

I've been told this attachment and suffering of mine for a dog says a lot about ME and how I interact with other people.
But... don't they stop and think that perhaps the fact that I can be this attached to an animal, to love a dog this much... to think that at some point in my life, the ONLY creature showing me any sort of kindness and support, the ONLY thing encouraging me to keep waking up each morning, was a simple, stupid, "soulless" dog... doesn't that say more about PEOPLE?

I'm no longer at that low I found myself in when I was given Tyson, now I DO have kind, loving people in my life... and while my lows are hardly ever as low as they once were, I'm much better at climbing out of the abyss.
However, the fact remains that there was that time in my life, a time where I felt so fucking ostracized and ridiculed and... humiliated... and worthless... and fucking invisible and disgusting... and not ONE person would step up to help me out of it. Of the people in my surrounding, not one fucking human gave ONE single fuck.
That time I walked through school after having some dude dump salsa all over me during lunch break... salsa dripping from my hair... how many PEOPLE helped me out? None.
The times I'd walk past the park in Mexico, hearing boys moo and oink at me while the girls would laugh... how many told them to stop? NOT ONE.
People preferred DISTANCING themselves from me in order to avoid getting swept in the abuse... my siblings included. When I'd be around my family and they'd ask me STUPID questions as to why I was alone and I'd shrug, what would be my mother's response? "Haven't you looked at yourself in the mirror?!"
I mean, theoretically your family's supposed to love and defend you, especially in your time of need... these PEOPLE, yet in my case, they were just fueling the fire by turning a blind eye.
And just as I was fed up with putting a brave face to the world, when I was more than convinced I HAD to end it all in the quickest, most guaranteed way possible... I was given Tyson.

Others' rejection of me wasn't imaginary... it wasn't me inventing stories out of narcism...it. was. real. And SO FUCKING BRUTAL. SO BRUTAL. On a daily basis... for YEARS.
When my own kind was rejecting me, along came this dog... this tiny, ugly, so misunderstood breed of puppy... and gave a shit about me... thought the fucking world of me. A. FUCKING. DOG.
Suddenly, during the summers where I'd still encounter cruelty from my peers and even adults... instead of crying myself to sleep, I had this little creature worried about me, cuddling me the moment he'd see me take a seat in the backyard, licking each and every tear off my face, hands, and feet... a warm little body nudging me... urging me to play fetch with him... SMILING in my face. My ability to pick myself up was increased drastically with the introduction of Tyson.
I also had my little dog that upon seeing me walk in through my front door each day after school, would wag his tail so wildly, he looked like a wind up toy ready to burst. The thought of returning home to my amazing, silly dog was the new, sole, BEST thing that got me through the school day.
He was my anchor in the roughest waters (don't people say this about deities? Man, I'm a wreck-- pun not intended)... and helped me stick around long enough to see a clearing, to meet the amazing people I now thank for teaching me to trust in others and enjoy life. Tyson helped me stay long enough to see many of my former tormentors mature--at least become somewhat subdued.

How could you not love that creature with all of your being? How could you not suffer over the loss of that creature?
A dog... a pit bull, was the ONLY thing on the planet keeping me company, sticking by my side, and making me feel like I was worth a fucking shit, while my peers were either abusing me in any way they could, or quietly watching the harm to me occur without offering any sort of consolation or protection or END from the abuse.

I will never stop thanking that creature. I will never stop missing that creature. I will never stop LOVING that creature. Not two years after his death, not twenty years after his death.
He was my best friend, and many, MANY times my only friend... and now I can only interact with him in my dreams... the rare times my mind manages to conjure him.

So yeah... I suffer over, miss and love a dead dog.
I just had to get this off my chest. I hate others judging me for my feelings for a dog, I hate feeling stupid about STILL hurting about the death of my dog... and above all, I hate that there was ever a time in my life where the sole thing caring about me and keeping me company... and RESCUING me was an animal, a "simple fucking dog."

Sorry for the ramble, I've been crying all fucking day.

C-c-cool

I swear I try to be cool and calm... and lead a normal life... it's just that sometimes, certain phrases or actions bring back the shitstorm I've tried to forget for so many years.

"Like most women, you want too much" was something I did not want to hear (there were a couple of more famous words written, but that phrase was the one that made me flip). It's something I don't want to hear. It's something I find to be SO incredibly inaccurate.
I'm a girl who has had such shit luck... and such shitty experiences... for SO long, that I want one thing to go my way.

I want the guy I think is dope, to think the same of me.
Period.

I'm still friends with this drunk-texter... because while I have a motherfucking mental breakdown in the privacy of my home (and yeah, my fucking car sometimes), I get over it.
Obviously he's unaware of my issues, and he assumes I'm like every other chick out there-- many of my family members are guilty of this, so why not a "stranger"? Evidently I'm quite the fucking actress... or just THAT much of a fucking unicorn.

He was drunk (oh, the typos! Such elegance! Such eloquence!)... confessed his crush on me (using various... strange euphemisms that only a drunk would understand. Wait... what? Are you referencing tacos in your double-entendre because I'm Mexican? Calm down and go to sleep, broski)... then lashed out when I let him know what was up (Me: My heart is unavailable, and you will ALWAYS be my friend. 
Him: Well, honestly, I'm the best you can do... so you're just wasting your life.
Not gonna lie, that made me want to cry. There were various other exchanges similar to this, but that one made me scowl for a couple of minutes).
I understand. I've done the same thing... I mean... I put on quite the fucking show for MGH a few years back, remember?

I'll just keep from ever answering drunk texts from now on... bad things happen when I do.

For a reason, huh?

Hmmm... haven't been all too consistent with the blog this month.
I think it's for a good reason.

(they totally have me pegged on this one... 100%... even with the corn part. I don't know why I love it so much, but fucking "elotes" are MY joint! ... and the very last part... GUILTY... on MULTIPLE occasions)

I haven't been in the best of moods. I've been pretty depressed actually.
Rather than take to the blog and vent all my sad, shit feelings, I opt to stay away... and paint.
My room looks like a fucking bomb went off... a colorful explosive that splattered all over the walls and carpet... even my covers.
I got problems.

In all of this, I even took care of a baby recently.
I taught him how to throw the horns as he dances to Dora the Explorer... because I'm a great role model.
The creepiest part was that this baby actually likes me... and my food.
Freakin' baby stole my heart.
Kid can keep it, though, since I have very little use for it.

Bye AJ

Pardon the sad post from yesterday... I had just received devastating news:
MY Backstreet Boy finally got married.
NO!!! WHY AJ?! WHYYYY?!
I was gutted.

HAHA! I kid (though, granted, I spent the majority of my middle school years daydreaming about one day marrying that crazy, facial-hair Picasso. Man forever fucked up my notion of what I find hot in a guy)!
I was sad because I was subjected to being in a crowd for a prolonged amount of time. Everyone knows that shit drains the fuck out of me (but I am sincere in identifying with the daisy. Even when I'm chirpy like right now, I know I'm the daisy).
Also, I wasn't too happy because I'm currently suffering from a sore throat. My vocal cords are all jacked... to the point where I couldn't utter a sound yesterday (what I get for making fun of Spongebob Emphysema pants the other day) and today it has that transvestite-quality to it. It's hot.

But enough of the sadness.
I'm stoked! Tomorrow I get to pick up my little coconut at the airport.
Sister and I chipped in to fly our goddaughter out here for a few days, and so... I'm glad I'll have a little 16-year-old to treat like my personal little doll.

Only thing that sucks is that I'll now have to clean every nook and cranny in the house.
Sweeeeet.

Compressing

Today was drastically different from yesterday.
In the matter of a day, Tyson's swelling has gone down by at least 60 percent.
That's A LOT.
I hadn't noticed (I'm such a terrible pet owner... I hate myself) how swollen ALL of his paws had gotten until today.
I always thought it was just his poor little hind foot that was swollen and bloody. When I stepped outside today in the afternoon, I looked down at him and I was shocked to see how normal all of his paws looked... well, that super fucked up paw is still rough to look at, but not nearly as fucked up as it was yesterday at the vet's.
Jesus Christ, Tyson! The pain you must have been in! I'm SO SORRY, CORAZÓNCITO!

I'm pretty sure the vet gave me the worst case scenario yesterday as a means to scare my ass into responsible-pet-owning shape.
Sure, I spent the majority of yesterday afternoon crying my ass off whenever I thought of Tyson... or dogs... or animals... or injuries... or... just about anything, but I deserved it, DAMN IT!

He's so much happier (he was even barking like the good ol' days... all loud and vicious. Anybody could be confused into thinking we had a new dog in the backyard or something)... which gives me hope that I won't have to walk around with a gimpy dog... not that there's anything wrong with gimpy dogs-- they own a little piece of my heart-- I just can't live with the thought that MY dog is handicapped because of MY negligence (well, technically it's my mom's fault. I hold myself responsible because I didn't just take Tyson to the vet regardless of my mom's protest/threats).

Today, I spent a total of about two hours outside with him, petting him and baby-talking him... he even did a few tricks for treats.
As I stared at the stale Beggin' Strip, I frowned, realizing how LONG it had been since I paid him so much attention.
And staring into his forgiving little eyes... Jesus Christ... a fucking dagger through my heart.
Why didn't anyone tell me I was going to become one of those pet owners who love their dogs as if they were humans (much better than some humans)?! I just wouldn't be able to forgive myself for hurting my loyal little cow.

I'm holding out for tomorrow before I start performing any cartwheels, though. If that little foot of his is further healed, I'll go out and smile at a baby or something. Until then, I'll just... smile to myself with the knowledge that my doggie doesn't hate me for being such a stupid dumb bitch to him and nearly getting him killed... my poor little guy.

During better times...
Just look at that smile!!
BABYYYYY!

(This joy just added to my initial excitement form the morning, after the US-France Women's World Cup match. 1. I love the attention soccer is getting from the locals thanks to the good performance from the girls, and 2. I love the fact that the US women stomped on FRANCE, of all countries. FUCK that place!)

Romantic Schizophrenic

Rafa: Oh! You never told me! How'd it go with the grad schools?!
Me: I didn't get into any.
Rafa: Damn... none?
Me: Nope. None.
Rafa: So what are your plans now? Joining the Peace Corps?
Me: hmmm... yeah, maybe, I guess. That... or just committing suicide. One of the two is bound to work out.

That was the first conversation I had with my brother when he picked me up from the train station in Princeton. It was about five seconds into the car ride.
Everyone in the car gasped.
I'm the definition of a ray of sunshine.

It's true that I haven't been this happy in a very, VERY long time... but still, I catch myself feeling sad... even while in New York (when I was at Central Park, it was gorgeous and I was enjoying my time, but then I'd see all the street performers, all SO talented, but practically begging for chump change. The sketch artists would doodle you a caricature or a more realistic sketch of yourself, and it was all for five dollars. Five FUCKING dollars. WHY must I have been born with the soul of an artist? The fucking hobos of the world... fuck my life, dude). Just randomly. I'm pretty sure this inexplicable sadness is something I'll deal with for the rest of my life. I'm just a sad girl.

I tried explaining my naturally sad/quiet disposition to Pacemaker (as we waited in line to get into the McQueen exhibit)... you know, my fluctuating personality where I can be so happy one day, and miserable the next. A concept she can't grasp. I tried using McQueen as an example, but it was just confusing her.
It was frustrating.

Here she was excited about getting to see the Alexander McQueen exhibition, but the more I'd try talking about McQueen, the more I realized she had NO FUCKING CLUE who he was, or what any of his work looked like. She just knew he had something to do with the royal wedding (she didn't even know he was dead, much less that he committed suicide after his mother died. I felt like a very reluctant teacher as we waited in line and I had to catch her up on some of his work).
She wanted to appear cultured and read-up on fashion... while all I really wanted to do was see this guy's work in person, not because I think I'm a fashionista, but because I just... feel his work, if that makes any sort of sense.
Once I gave up on trying to explain myself to Pacemaker, I finally just said "Check out his work... all that shit he created... that's what goes on in my head. That's pretty much my soul. There are moments of bright, whimsical beauty, and others of... abysmal darkness... melancholy."

The entrance (the white dress is made of clams. It was great).

Pacemaker was kind of getting it, at first, when the dresses were kind of tame... stuff maybe Beyonce would wear.

Dress smack-dab in the middle is my joint. I'd wear that in a heartbeat.
The shoes on the far right were also awe-inspiring

"I'm a romantic schizophrenic" came around... and she started getting A LITTLE uncomfortable.
"Well... that's weird..."

Weird indeed... but I still wanted to pet it.

Then his work started getting even darker.
We entered a room where they showed one of his runway shows... and that's when Pacemaker lost it.
The girls were dressed in headgear that was bone-related... or blood-inspired... and they'd be walking with a complete skeleton tied to their feet, getting dragged.

"Eww! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" -Pacemaker
Something tells me Pacemaker won't have the stomach to accompany me to the Tim Burton exhibit...

It WAS a little jarring to watch... but I was intrigued because... it was interesting.

Once we left the exhibition, we continued talking about what we had seen.
Pacemaker: Wow... wow. That was creepy.
Me: Really? I thought it was beautiful. It was... me.
Pacemaker: That really goes on in YOUR head? How do you sleep at night?!
Me: Trust me, there are scarier things... that's just how my life and my mind work. I can be very happy, but when I'm dark... I fall to the pits of hell. Plus, he had some happy stuff, like that gorgeous flower dress... and there was that flowing dress... although that one made me cry because there was so much melancholy in the fluidity of it...
Pacemaker: Really? You got that out of seeing a dress flow in the wind?
Me: I'm weird like that. My bad.
Pacemaker: You're... interesting.

I tried. I guess it becomes difficult to understand when even I sometimes don't understand why in the world I can't find the strength to smile.
I'm just... a girl who is often sad, but will go to any lengths to make others NOT feel as empty and depressed as she. The good-girl who will always have that slight mischievous streak.

2AM, about to get yelled at by the stoop's owner, but I'm still taking the risk.
For "Hey, Arnold!"'s sake.

"I oscillate between life and death, happiness and sadness, good and evil."- Alexander McQueen
"La tristesse durera toujours."- Van Gogh

I'm motherfucking emo today. The day just wouldn't fucking end.

Gotta Jet

"No need to be so uptight, AnoMALIE."

I wouldn't say I'm uptight.
I'm very polite around people, especially when I'm visiting others.
I don't demand things from others, ever. I'll drink tap water if that's all they have... I'll sleep on wooden floors if that's the only spot available.
I have no problem with getting dirty and playing around... I've ripped plenty of shoes and pants running around being an immature 20-something year old.
I put up with guys being guys... and sometimes even participate.
I feel I'm very chill and easy going.

However, I guess I get "uptight" when it comes to... dealing with the opposite sex in a "romantic" sense.
I don't know how to put it. I'm just awkward and rarely interested in interacting with them... in that sense.
I don't care for hooking up, and I don't care to be "checked out." It makes me uncomfortable.
This of course, pisses off most of my friends, at least the ones looking for a guy.

It takes a minute to convince me to go to a club or some Mexican dance... shit, it takes people various days to convince me to go to a wedding. Once I get to the club/dance/wedding, I'd be lying if I said I was calm and relaxed. I will be the first to admit I have the worst stink-face around when placed in those situations.

This happened today.
My LA friend is in town, and I promised her I'd hang out. She wanted to go out since yesterday, but I was at the wedding and not in the mood to go guy-fishing afterward. I promised her I'd hang out today, after I was done with my day.
At around 4 in the afternoon, she texted me the plan:

F says we're going to JET tonight. You down?

Eh... ppl there are ghetto. Sorry.

Bam. She was pissed.

No need to be so uptight, AnoMALIE

Bam. I was pissed.

Let me explain myself:

So maybe not everyone at JET is ghetto... but my experience with the club is not too fantastic.
That club tends to attract a certain type... let's put it that way. The guys aren't my type, but it appears I'm their type.
Guys that I have bumped into at JET? Hip-hop lovers that have some sort of record deal "in the works," sneaker-heads who care way too much about their damn shoes, and guys who have developed their own English-butchering jargon. However, somehow, all these guys coincide in their insistence to refer to girls as "Ma."
Lucky me, when they see me, if they don't grab my ass or press their crotch against my ass when I walk past them... they'll look down at my tits while licking their lips and say those godforsaken words.

What up, Ma?

Baaaaaarf! Are you kidding me?
First off, quit licking your fucking lips! That shit gets them chapped!
Second, while it may appear my tits can feed a kid or two... I doubt they can sustain a grown adult-- they shouldn't look tasty AT ALL... if they do, you better look into that shit, you may just be a cannibal.
Third: my ass is attached to me... I'm sure it ain't going nowhere for now (their wonderful English skill is contagious), you don't have to hold it for me... EVER.
And last: the feel of your hardened dick against my ass does NOTHING for me. I'm cold and unfeeling. Don't believe me? I'm a 25-year-old Vegas-native virgin... it's safe to assume I'm not easily swept away by desire.

I'm a hispanic girl with big boobs and somewhat of an ass (I don't boast about it because far too many of my acquaintances have enormous asses that make me look completely flat-assed). I hang out with chicks that leave very little to the imagination... and come on, let's not fool ourselves, Latinas don't have the best reputation for being chaste little girls... far too many of them have a baby before they even graduate high school.
I can't really blame the guys at JET for being... well... guys at JET. Just like I assume they're going to press up against me and breathe down my neck the moment space become limited, they assume I'm a horny Latina dying to pop out a Jr.

So I choose NOT to put myself in the situation in the first place... I'm not going to be the uptight bitch at the club... because I won't even be at that club.

Other girls may enjoy the attention... may need the action... but I don't.

LA girl is not too happy with this logic.
She wants to drink. She wants to feel guys with raging hard-ons press up against her while she shakes it to some horrible hip-hop at the club.
I. DON'T.
Hence, I am uptight.

Boo-hoo. Woe is me. How ever will I live?

Ripping out my heart

Ok...
Here's attempt number 5 at writing this post... who knows if it'll stay up... because each time I start a post... I get worked up... leading to me deleting the post because it's just too damn mean.
Here we go:

My world sort of fell apart on Thursday morning.
It had started to crumble after that nasty fight I had with the chicks (my "friends" I so believed, but now that I think about it, real friends wouldn't do a tenth of the bad shit they did) back on the 6th of this month... although by the 1st of the month things were already taking a turn for the worst.

You see... two of the 4 girls involved in the argument started making a move for ALL of my friends/acquaintances... and they weren't shy about letting everyone know about our drama.
They made sure to make me uncomfortable in all situations: the park as I played volleyball with people from out of town (they'd make sure and talk loud enough so that the out-of-towners would hear the shit talking), my usual hang-out spot we so dearly call "The Alamo" (I didn't go for a week... and it was killing me to know these two chicks were usurping my place!), my own house (they're my neighbors... so I HAD to bump into them at some point).

My last couple of days there were purgatory, since I'd always think back to that fucking day and get heated... and upset at thinking that my "friends" had been poisoned by a bitch who couldn't get her facts straight. I was upset knowing they had believed her over me... I was upset knowing things will never be the same between us again.

HOWEVER, as much as this fight hurt me, I DIDN'T go around telling people about it. People would approach me and ask... and while it was tempting to be vindictive and turn people against THEM, I never did. I only told one person about the fight, and that was my godson, only because he knew something was up... and he's probably the only other person I trust in this world... but I never told him to stop talking/start hating anyone (unlike what these girls were doing).

So, I left it at that... as heart-broken as it made me ("echame a mi la culpa de lo que paso..." I'm a vindictive bitch when I want to... but this problem hurt me too much soul-wise for me to actually get vicious. It was too much of a low blow, and while I would have my bursts of rage, I'd stay home and cool off, rather than go to these girls homes to personally kick each one of their dumb asses). I lived the rest of my "vacation" playing Guitar Hero, crying, counting the days until it was time to come home, and missing my godson like crazy (he was in the city, studying by now, remember? He was no longer in Hometown, wasting away like the rest of the kids his age).

On to what made me get worse and led to my Thursday melt-down:

I became unbelievably attached to my 19-year-old friend, who I'll now refer to as My Guitar Hero, MGH.
There's always been a "thing" between us... and it wasn't until this year that we sort of acted on it (I was in need of a friend/game partner... he was heart-broken/in need of female attention... it was summer time... shit happens, right?).
We became attached at the hip... and there was this crazy level of comfort between us, as well as the coolest vibe I've ever felt with a guy. I mean... it was... love, but not the "I want to marry you!! Let's have babies together!" love... it was just... "God, where the fuck have you been all my life? Can you believe we click like this? I'll fucking hurt anyone that tries to ruin this" type love.
He had been in Hometown for about two wonderful weeks in mid-July, left for a week and a half to another part of Mexico, then came back the day before we left for Vegas.
Before he left for that week and a half, we talked about not wanting to part and all that shit ("Don't leave me MGH!! It's gonna suck without you!"--and this was before I even had a hint of the shit that was to come for me later on that week-- "Who else is going to gold-star with me?!" etc). That's when he asked, very timidly btw, if he could come with me to Vegas... which garnered this response:

Oh my God! I fucking love you, MGH!!! ::bear-hug around his waist as he was dangling from a tree (so we like to play around on trees, we ARE Mexican, after all):: Of course you can!!

So I was excited when he left, because I knew he'd be coming to Vegas with me when it was time to leave.
I was even more ecstatic about his return after all the girl drama passed (drama he never heard about, at least not from me).

The trip came and went... it was uncomfortable as fuck because we were sort of crammed in the truck... but still, I made room for him to sleep on my lap, I'd give him hour-long back massages, once in Vegas, he slept in my room--the biggest aside from my folks' room, we showed him around cost-free...etc. he was basically treated like a king (because we wanted to treat him like that and had no problem doing so).
We took him back to San Francisco last Friday, the 15th, and we stayed with him until Monday (the only day I didn't see him was Saturday, because I was at that damn wedding with the stalker).
Everything was fine and dandy up until Sunday night... around the time we were getting ready to go to sleep. He started acting weird... looked sad... stopped talking... and didn't even get up to say goodbye in the morning.

All right... I don't get it, but whatever... I guess you don't like good-byes or something...

However, come Monday night, he called me to see if we had gotten home safe. We then proceeded to stay connected with each other up until Wednesday night... then all of a sudden, come Thursday morning... nothing.
I saw he had removed me from his contacts (except Myspace, because he doesn't use that often), wouldn't answer my e-mails, texts, anything.
Then I noticed that I wasn't the only one he removed. He removed my entire family and wouldn't talk to them.
I tried contacting MGH's brother (the one who was 19 last summer and would sing to me when we'd be alone) and asking what the deal was... but no answer. He wouldn't answer my sister's texts and e-mails either.
This lasted all Thursday... this attempt at seeing what the hell was going on.
Normally, I wouldn't panic THIS bad, however, I was freaking out because I remembered something terrifying:

In Mexico, when I was still cool with the batch of girls, we'd go together to the internet cafe. I'd always use the same computer because 1. It was my favorite, 2. It had all my favorites saved, and 3. It was pretty secluded from all the other ones.
One day, the 16-year-old of the group, beat me to my computer, so I was forced to use another one. This one was open to the world... meaning, I had no privacy walls... and people making line to pay would be able to see my screen.
This day, I had seen I had messages on blogger... so I went for it... and that's when it happened: the girls saw my blog.
The day had been pretty rough to begin with... since that same day they had looked at my Myspace page... and proceeded to make fun of one of my friends (to which I responded with really obscene words... offending them all... but I didn't care because you don't fuck with my real friends like that... I prefer for everyone to just... get along... and if any one of them makes fun of another, I'll be quick to step in and tell them to shut the fuck up... unless the arguing parties are siblings). Once they saw I had a blog, they proceeded to knock it... but I thought nothing else of it... just that they were butt-hurt over me offending them earlier, and now they wanted to make fun of me to feel better.
Well... from there, I noticed they became a little more interested in my Guitar Hero band name (I'm stupid enough to have "AnoMALIE" as the name... how retarded, I know), and asked me to explain the name to them.
I did as they asked... and thought nothing of it.

Well, I came to Vegas, and noticed that someone in Durango had been checking out my blog.
Once again, I didn't panic, I just thought "Fuck, AnoMALIE, why don't you ever erase the history off computers?? Now people in Mexico will be able to read your blog... and notice all your shit-talking..."

With the sudden cut-off from MGH, all kinds of things started running through my head.

Fuuuuckkk.... I've said some things about MGH on my blog... especially last year.... like... what his dad was known for... shit... fuck... his cousin saw me checking my blog... fuck! Oh no... shit... I offended him!! His family hates me now... and I can't blame them.... me and my damn big mouth! Fuckkkk! I ruined a good thing! My family! AHHHH! He's going to hate me... I lost him...

Sure, I thought maybe MGH had heard about the August 6th War of Words... and since his name had been smeared in the fight, I thought maybe he was mad... but I felt something bigger than that must have happened... and the thought of him finding out what I know about his dad was scaring me... terribly... because that shit you just don't talk about to anyone... especially when the man's own children don't know what's up. That shit has the potential to rip families apart.

When I saw Friday was turning into the same deal (no, I wasn't continuously texting and calling... I was playing the most anguishing waiting game, actually... praying my worst fear wasn't coming true), in the afternoon, I resorted to texting their cousin (who lives a couple of minutes away from them), one of the girls involved in the August 6th war of words (she's also first cousins with the main fire starter of it all, Enemy, the one that was going around bad-mouthing me to everyone), the same chick who learned about my blog and asked about my name.
She wouldn't answer my texts, so I started getting hostile on her.
She answered after my second serious text (none of this smiley face shit or text speak).
Upon calling her... she said she had no idea what was going on... she said she had never mentioned anything to MGH, but she never claimed her cousin, Enemy, as being innocent.
Since Enemy's Cousin (I guess that's what I'll call her, no, let's call her Pacemaker, like a song her name's involved in), Pacemaker, lives closer to MGH and his family, she did the calling and figuring out what was going on.
Eventually, Pacemaker got me in touch with MGH (the following night).
As all this was happening, I decided to close my blog... because it would only be incriminating ("Yes... I talk about you... and your dad... and your money... but I really do love you!!" How the fuck would that work?).

Upon talking to MGH, he let me in on why everything had happened (reasons being far more tear-inducing than I thought. Not scary at all... at least, not to me... to him, maybe). He calmed me down... we got back on good terms, and he's once again My Guitar Hero.

Pacemaker swore never to make mention of this blog ever again... as I promised never to write bad things about HER (hell no, I dind't agree to not talking bad about Enemy... I said I wouldn't mention her at all... ever again... in writing or in person). I hope she holds up to her agreement... 'cause I know I will.
:T

AAAAND, that, my friends... is why I had a massive meltdown this past week... why I ALMOST deleted this blog completely... and why I haven't really talked much on here anymore (and probably never will talk too much... man...).