Black Mustang

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This feeling is so fucking weird.

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

Bolt

Today marked the Ninth anniversary of my grandfather leaving this place like a lightning bolt.

There are days when I miss him terribly... when I remember funny little moments I shared with him. I'll think about riding my grandpa's horse, playing with his assortment of cuddly farm animals, and see the images in my mind with the rosiest of filters.

There are days when I still feel incredibly angry and resentful towards him... even if he is dead.
I still have moments where I feel my blood boil, and my head feel lighter, from holding in my rage when someone speaks of him as though he were the greatest human to have ever lived.
There is no doubt in my mind that he was a good guy, that he had his great moments... but it makes me angry to know he placed me in this predicament... where I have the power of completely annihilating this image others have... to taint his memory in the minds of others... but I choose to shut up and walk away. I HATE that I have to deal with that. I WISH I could be like everyone else and whole-heartedly say "That man was such a fucking badass, that fucking amazing HeMan," without the back of my mind screaming "BULLLLLSHIIIIIIT!"
I also hate that I bite my tongue, shrug my shoulders, or raise my brow when others wonder why the fuck I'm such a weird, quiet girl.
WHY the hell can't you be normal? What the fuck is so terrible?
Well, fuck me if I know...
But I know... and I choose to stay quiet... and not blame others... and wonder if others can really be THAT fucking stupid to not put two and two together... to figure that "Well, someone hurt this poor chick."

But I'm not here to talk poorly of my grandfather.
It still feels weird to know I can no longer see him, or hear his stories.
It scares me to think that he could be out there, unable to rest his soul because I'm still so resentful of him.

Everyone has a story, and my grandfather certainly had one that is worthy of a movie saga. The amount of suffering he had to endure is something we continue to learn about to this day, with discoveries of all sorts of historical data.
I've learned to forgive, and sort of understand that he was a damaged person... that had numerous redeeming qualities.
He was my grandfather.
I possess many of his traits-- I have his skin tone, his smile, his explosive temperament, his stubbornness, his susceptibility to fall for a sob story, his charitable tendencies. Thanks to him, I love animals, I'm adventurous (really, I am), I love scary stories, I love nature, I know about farming, I love music... I love storytelling... I have thicker skin.
He prepared me for this world. He prepared me for the harsh realities this life slams upon others-- whether we looked for them or not, whether we deserved them or not.

I miss him.
Besides that night nine years ago, the first night after he died, I haven't dreamt of him.
I'm not sure I'm ready to see him again... but this entire month I kept thinking about today, his anniversary. I kept thinking "Like a lightning bolt... death came for him and took him out with a flash... a quickness... like he wanted."

As I walked outside to head out earlier tonight, I looked to my right and saw a storm brewing in the city's south side... lightning bolts lighting up the sky.

Fucking lightning bolts.
I see you.

Rainy Day Piñata

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Todo lo que me queda

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

bullets

Today marks my big television debut...
Hahaha... no, not television... I mean, it's on a certain streaming platform... not like people with shitty internet connection (like I do) would be able to see it.
And I'm pretty sure I'll be seen in only one episode... well, I hope that's all... no, in truth, I hope they somehow found a way to crop me out, or just deleted the scene... but no, I'm pretty fucking prominent... so... I'll more than likely show up... and I REALLY hope no one who knows me watches (hence why I won't give more information here).

I'm a little more alert now. Last night I found myself falling asleep in the middle of my typing. I finished the entry feeling like I do when I embark on a driving mission from Hometown, and we hit the horrible hell that is the area between Phoenix and Las Vegas-- that stretch of road is the worst torture of the 20+ hours of non-stop driving (your brain tells you you're almost home, and it gives you a little buzz... but the road is dark and desolate, nothing to stare at in hopes of keeping your mind busy, so your eyes begin to feel heavy as lead. It's horrible).

Anyway, the young man I wrote about last night was none other than good ol' MGH.
His cousin called me to complain about his behavior... hoping to get me to somehow fix the situation.
"AnoMALIE, he got KICKED OUT OF THE CASINO because they caught him in the bathroom with some girl doing... well, you know!" she said.
"Blow?" I asked.
"...Job... Among other things. Not drugs," she said.
"He's always had those tendencies... randomly fucking girls, regardless of his relationship status. I learned that... umm... five years ago, when I took him to Cancun," I said.
"All I could think was about how terrible I feel for *HisCurrentGirlfriend*!" she said.
"Yeah, he has always been putting me in the predicament. We'll be hanging out and I'll suddenly see him doing some shady, dirty shit with a complete stranger. I'll have to look away, because I feel guilty, but I'm not his mom to chastise him or try to correct him... so I choose not to deal with it at all and just let him fuck up his own life."

His cousin (Pacemaker) was discussing this subject with me for a good half-hour. I had to try and help her shake off the guilt.
Like I said last night, this whole situation had me thinking back to the huge explosion I had with this guy, MGH. The painful heartbreak I was in for SO fucking long. That weird-ass relationship of ours. I told that dude stuff I've never told other guys. I was closer to him than I've ever been with any guy. I was seriously moments away from moving out there for him.
I had some of the most entertaining moments of my life with that guy... and some of the most sour. I don't think I've cried so much thanks to a guy than I did with MGH. Homeboy had me fucked up.

The heartbreak I have with Darcy is SO NOT like the one with MGH-- for one, Darcy never EVER ever acknowledged me as... even a romantic POSSIBILITY. He has absolutely zero fault over my heartbreak (well... ummm... I do get upset over how I'm PREEEEEEEETTYYYYYY fucking sure he knew of my feelings for him and how he STILL tried to pin me onto a dude I repeatedly told I had ZERO interest in... but whatever. Bros before hoes, right? Trying to do his buddy a solid. Whatever. But still, all of that shit PALES in comparison to the fucking BULLSHIT stunts MGH deliberately pulled on me). It's just shit that happens when you're a shy, quiet idiot who yearns for someone she'll perpetually hold a candle for, but never actually go for... mainly because it's totally unrequited. It's what we shy folk do... because we're fucking dumb and don't know how to fix that tendency. It's the life of an emotionally fucked up introvert. Whatever.
But MGH lead me on. And used me. Shamelessly used me. He'd hold that proverbial carrot in front of me and watch as I'd faithfully follow in hopes of catching it. I was a blind moron and he used that to his advantage... just handing me crumbs the moment he'd catch me moving on, just to reel me back in.
I kept him company during the difficult time he had readjusting to life in a foreign country when he was a teen. I kept him from feeling alone... the kid's a social butterfly, "alone time" kills them. I encouraged him when he needed it, made him laugh when he had an extra shitty day, and stroked his ego when he was feeling ugly and fat (not to mention I physically massaged his back for HOURS almost every time I saw him). I'd stay up until four in the morning sometimes, video-chatting with him until one of us was completely exhausted.

I'm not going to sit here and act like I regret all that stuff... 'cause I'd be lying if I said that shit wasn't fun, or that it didn't help ME feel better... because it was fun, and those laughs/smiles are memories I'll cherish.
But man, was that shit draining... and... well, it fucked me up to watch him flirt and fuck all these girls, just random, forgettable girls... indiscriminately... and I'd have to pretty much beg for him to HUG me. Today, I hug that cat left and right, but back then? Homeboy acted like I had some contagious skin disease... or I was made of some deadly high voltage or some shit.
The years of the back and forth finally led to my angry outburst, demanding to know WHY he treated me the way he did... why he never gave me an honest decent shot, the title of his girlfriend, when he knew and SAW how much I loved him. "AM I NOT A GIRL?! I fucking love you! To me you are perfect!"
And his response is one of those sentences that is burned into my memory:
... I don't know what to say... ?

Nothing. You don't need to say anything.

And I cried. I cried for fucking months.
I couldn't stop crying because I felt so... unloveable. Here I had this guy, who had known me for the majority of our lives, and who knew things about me that no one else knew... who knew me better than any guy on the planet... and he STILL was unwilling to give ME a shot.  Still unwilling to go give me a shot knowing exactly how strongly I felt for him, and how much I was willing to do for him. The same guy I spent years watching as he hooked up with the ugliest, dumbest, sluttiest, trashiest, grossest girls... patiently waiting for him to finally call me next... was turning ME down. I was considered LESS than these LEGITIMATE whores. At least, that was my thought process at the time.
Nothing feels shittier than that. Nothing had ever made me feel so insignificant.

But eventually, I picked myself up, and chose our friendship over everything.
And I continued to watch him go back to his ways of random hook-ups... this while he was now dating a new girl. I'd see his lovey posts to her... all that corny, love-struck bullshit, only to later watch him become a dog once he was in Vegas, away from his girl.

I thought he had finally changed with this new girl... but I guess I was wrong.

So yeah... a few years back I was distraught over this rejection. My sense of self-worth was non-existent.
Now I... well, I'm glad it happened.
Painful as shit to experience, but MAN, I sure fucking dodged a giant bullet.
This was just... stubbing my toe on a corner, really.

Now I really hope his close friends don't think I'm his side-piece, because what kind of fucking idiot hangs around a guy for 22 years without ever fucking him, right?
(This idiot. This idiot who apparently wasn't a girl until about... three years ago)

in deep

Ten years ago I knew I was done.
I was in deep.

And I still couldn't keep eye contact. I still stared at the table directly in front of me... but instead of being directly across from me, he was now directly to my left. I did everything in my power to avoid looking in that direction... because I'd feel my face go up in temperature at the mere thought. I knew I'd probably blush like a dumbass, and that was obviously the worst thing I could do.

The belt-buckle semester.

... I'm... I can't write.
Not today.

TF You Want?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Girl's Girl

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

Then I agreed to turn four.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Compañia

I had NO intention to participate in this year's Halloween.
After a couple of intense years full of parties, I was fucking tired of it.
I mean, I grew up NOT celebrating it at all due to my fanatical Christian folks (It wasn't until I was in college that I started dressing up and doing whatever the fuck I wanted [like wearing black nail polish. Even THAT shit was off limits growing up. I'm sorry, but I can think of ten thousand other things that are FAR WORSE than wearing fucking black polish on my nails... but I digress]... because I was a goddamn adult), reverting to the non-celebratory times would not be too upsetting.

Sure, I dig using my creativity and painting the hell out of my face... but that shit gets tiresome... especially trying to crank out a new costume, sometimes multiple costumes, every year. I'm not one to opt for the simple, slutty-whatever costume many ladies rely on (I don't have the flawless body, for starters).
So I said I would take this year off... crossing my fingers no one would invite me to a party (Oh, child, you and your anti-social, hermit ways).
All was going according to plan, especially since my friend who invites me year after year is currently pregnant, unable to throw a party, too busy prepping for her baby's arrival.

Then one of my besties decides to throw a party... where I watched many of the guests bitch out with some pretty lame excuses (what is so hard about saying "Oh man, sorry guys, but I have another party to go to at the same time as yours. Have fun though!" It's sincere, and though I'm sure it's a bit of a bummer to hear, sincerity is always appreciated-- at least in my case it is). The excuses irritated me enough to decide to pull out of Halloween-retirement.

And so... here I am... once again participating in the activity.
Shit has had me frazzled as fuck for the last week, since I was suffering from a horrible mental block.
But alas, like always, it comes down to crunch time... my procrastinating ass came up with a costume last night.
Have I practiced the look? Hell nah. Will it work? I don't know. Do I care? Nah, man, I'm going to be eating sugar all fucking night in the company of my best friends... the fuck do I care what I look like?

And with that, the month comes to an end.
October-- always so beautiful, so cool, so chill... so heavy with melancholy.
This year's October was no different.
This year, I had a random gift from a friend constantly keeping me company... meaningful to me in a way in which she has no idea ("It's like, your favorite movie, right? You're into that weird shit..." Yeah, weird shit).

Olvidar-- imposible.

Goodbye October.

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.

NEVER LEAVE ME AGAIN!

My left eye has been an unbalanced wreck for about a month now...
My paternal side of the family has been the worst bunch of cunts in my acquaintance for the last month...
My left foot has been healing only to be re-injured for... I don't even know how fucking long...
I've been getting backhanded compliments left and right for the last few weeks ("AnoMALIE looks very good!" Dad: You should have seen her a couple of months ago... face sunken in, bony arms... terrible, just terrible. Now she looks normal.)...

BUT I REGAINED INTERNET! FINALLY.

Something else that has had me smiling lately? My mom's oldest sister is in town, and we've been visiting her every day. She has been retelling some of the funniest stories I've ever heard.
First off, I was reminded why I have such an aversion for people slamming car doors.
"Deja puerta pa' mañana!" The infamous phrase my grandpa would say each time we'd slam his truck door. "Leave some door for tomorrow"... the saying was a huge part of my childhood, I would hear it at least twice a day. Before today, I hadn't heard it in a good ten years. I couldn't help but smile... crazy to see how much I inherited from that man... how much I miss him.
The second story I heard was how he once said he'd eat a shit taco "me como un taco de mierda!" if my grandma would be granted a green card... and when she did get the green card, my aunt took it to him and said "What's up?" and he just laughed and said he was joking. My aunt seriously wanted to see him eat a shit taco. Shit taco... I laughed at the thought... then gaged like a motherfucker. The mental image kills me... ugh.

There were many stories shared, but those two are the most memorable to me, currently.
I'm glad the other side of my family is capable of making me laugh until my stomach hurts... I'd hate to think what kind of human I'd be if BOTH sides were as shitty as my dad's.

NOrmal

I am officially retiring from quinceañeras for a while.
No, not in participating-- that ship sailed long ago-- but attending.

The last quince I attended didn't hit me this hard... maybe because I'm not as close to that family as I am to tonight's family.
Maybe I wasn't as upset then because I basically just went in and out.

Today I sat at the party from the very beginning. I had time to sit and admire my surroundings.
And then the nostalgia monster attacked me-- violently.
Maybe I had a worse time because many of the teens present reminded me of my friends, family, and me at that age... we all do look alike, after all.
I was transported to the early '00's... which hit me pretty hard. I thought of the style, the music... the slang of the time. I thought of what it actually felt like to be a hopeful little 14 year old girl... excited about the years to come.
Excited about the upcoming years dating and flirting with boys.
Excited about finally growing out of your awkward chubby stage.
Excited about how cute your crush(es) is (are) going to get.
Excited about the motherfucking future!

God, I was so jealous of those kids and their youth... like some wicked witch in a fairy tale (now I understand why they do all that mean shit).

I was fine, smiling for most of the party... memories do make me feel warm and chirpy for a minute or two.
But the MEAN nostalgia monster takes over... and everything goes to hell.
"AND LOOK AT YOU NOW!" it seems to scream at me.
I lose all concentration and stare idly at the ground as two thirds of the room hit the dance floor-- my conscious paralyzing me with its crippling insults.
"How many of those teen dreams came true for YOU, AnoMALIE?! How much advantage did you take of your youth?! NONE!" it continues to abuse me. "You are A-L-O-N-E! Your dreams are D-E-A-D."

And I finally lose my cool and beg to go home.
And so we do.
I get home, and can't even look at myself in the mirror as I power-walk to my room. I feel like the oldest, ugliest spinster in the world, I fear seeing an old, wrinkled catlady in the reflection. An idiot who wasted her life.
I wash my face and sit in my room in darkness, only my television occasionally illuminating my room, my laptop illuminating my face.
This is the only way I can calm myself down. This is the only way I can silence the self-loathing thoughts.

Others can be extraordinarily mean to me... but I am definitely the most vicious of all-- to myself.

Pre-party, knowing all too well how psychologically fucked up I will be returning.

Somehow, I always manage to make this girl feel like the stupidest, ugliest, oldest, and most useless creature to inhabit the earth-- like the worst waste of space.

I don't think I'll ever be able to stop-- I've tried, but it only worsens with the passage of time.

At least everyone was nice to me at this shindig, not a single backhanded compliment was given. There's that.

First in three

Espere hasta el ultimo minuto. Preferi dormir y estár inconsciente, en vez de estar despierta y agonizar con cada minuto que me acercaba a la cruda verdad:
Lo que a sido la base de nuestra conversación por la mayoría de nuestra amistad ya no importaba... ya era cosa perdida.
Y así fue: silencio.

A lot of shit happens in four years.
A lot.
Four years ago I was still very fat.
Four years ago I had yet to try my hand at grad school applications (and eventual rejections).
Four years ago I still had Tyson.
Four years ago I was-- incredibly-- less heartbroken than I am today.

Seventeen years were spent thinking that life would get better if I lost weight. Middle school, high school, and college spent thinking that one day, one day I'd actually find a way to drop weight... and when that day would come, I would be treated like a person... even possibly be liked.
Weight came off, and all these thoughts proved to be massively incorrect. Instead of all problems magically dissolving, and happiness magically replacing them, problems only reached a new degree. Suddenly, I had this new problem where some dudes were hating on me for not allowing them to treat me like a sleazy whore. The amount of insults lunged at me rose EXPONENTIALLY. Anything form "slut" (which... how is that possible if I'm NOT fucking ANYONE?), to "bitch" (not a new one), to "crazy," and an extraordinarily high amount of insults along the "dyke" line. I have never been accused of homosexuality as much as I have now at a lighter weight. Public humiliation of me has risen as well... this is definitely something I did not miss from my childhood... and now in adulthood, I find the humiliating events a little more public than they were in grade school-- bars an clubs have many more people in them... people who STILL don't do a thing to defend you. And still, still you aren't good enough, smart enough, pretty enough for the only one you give a shit about.

That grad school thing... well, no need to elaborate. Just that whole thing about me losing so much of my soul. I've seemed to patch that up by simply refusing to acknowledge it... blocked it out of my mind. But you know who did beast that shit? ...

Tyson. I met a new, much more painful version of heartbreak... heartbreak I now refuse to ever endure again. I will never again own a pet. I was also introduced to a different version of loneliness... a new level. A couple of hours after y'all chilled... Boom! Goodbye, Tyson.

There was a tiny intermission in the shitty times... an intermission that can be grouped altogether to less than a week. A week in four years. A single week where I felt as though I was floating on air... dancing on clouds.
But there's that pesky problem about flying so high-- the higher you rise, the harder you fall... the more painful, debilitating the fall.

I crashed hard... so. fucking. hard.
So.
Fucking.
Hard.
"Just another girl. Nothing more, nothing less."
"He told me not to cockblock..."
"I KNOW NOTHING'S WRONG WITH ME! She's the one with the mental problems! SHE needs to work on herself!"

I think of it all and the only thing my mind thinks, and repeatedly asks, is "How could you?"
I know I shouldn't even ask... the answer has always been there: because you never mattered, homegirl.
But my mind can't stop asking... my eyes always implore an answer when I catch my reflection in a mirror.

I apologize for the sad post... I've really been trying to be cheerful... or at least abstain from ranting or venting sad shit when I'm not having the best of day... but you see, he has been present in my mind lately.
He lived up to the hype I always said he was capable of. He reached the goal I always optimistically assured him he'd achieve-- not that I did it often, but when the subject was mentioned, and he'd go off on some pessimistic humble shit, and I'd always tell him to shut the fuck up and cut the shit... well, maybe a little less vulgar than that.
Brilliant, you're fucking brilliant. You always have been, and you always will be. I said it once, and I'll always say it.
He's a badass, officially a badass-- now verifiable to anyone and everyone... not just some timid girl with an unwavering affection for him.

Remembering our conversations of the last ten years has me nostalgic... but I'm especially nostalgic because we're currently in the middle of the only thing I could ever really talk to him about that wasn't school-related-- the World Cup.
Each time Cristiano Ronaldo was involved, I was sure to hear from him.
I lived for these occasions. A single sentence from him would brighten my week. You can ask anyone, they'd be able to tell you how I'd just beam with joy "randomly."
He'd never remember my birthday... or perhaps it was just a lack of caring for it... but major soccer events? That was my thing with him.

I waited until the last second before the game today... and then again until the day came to an end.
Silence.
Nothing.

A lot of shit happens in four years.

Just another girl-- indeed I am.

How YOU doin'?

The summer of 1999 was rough on me.
The previous summer had been incredible-- I was encountering a surge in popularity due to me suddenly hitting puberty and looking sort of different to the people in Hometown (I'm notorious for being pretty constant in appearance. People freak the fuck out when I change). As the year progressed, puberty hit me HARDER and I ballooned.
A girl can never gain weight without others being hypercritical and vocalizing their disgust... because the girl deserves all that berating because FUCK HER for being such a fucking slob... because all fat people are subhuman fucking slobs. They need to be put in their place.(SARCASM, here, ok... just had to place the disclaimer)

SO, while I spent that summer in Mexico continually contemplating suicide and hovering dangerously close to the edges of the town's bridge... I did have a couple of friends.
My best friends were my two cousins I've mentioned previously... the pretty girls.
This close friendship with the pretty girls made me popular with the cute guys... because they wanted me to hook them up with my friends.
This was my initiation to the DUFF Club.
Good fucking times in that club... I dare say I have a lifetime membership. (There's that sarcasm again-- the good times, that is... I'm pretty rock solid about my lifetime status)

Anyway, that summer, a pair of twins seemed to be the most active in seeking my help in coupling them with my friends.
These twins were BY FAR the most popular men in the entire municipality... like most fucking twins.
This constant chill-time spent with the twin boys made me popular because other girls wanted me to put in a good word for them... but also popular with the same girls because they'd proceed to gossip about what a whore I was (this always confused me. One minute I'm a fat cow/pig no one wants to be seen with, and the next I'm a whore... when would I have time to fuck all these guys when everyone was so concerned with publicly ostracizing the shit out of me?).
Like the lonely, sad girl I was, I tried to oblige EVERYONE as best as I could.
The only people who seemed to NOT be ashamed of being seen with me where these twins.
Needless to say, I did get them each a shot with their girls... and I (thought I) formed a close bond with the dudes.

Fast forward to the fall of '99 and how my time only WORSENED as I entered a new school... as a Freshman in High School... an ex-ghetto Mexican-American girl in an affluent, vastly-white school.
The ostracism reach a completely different level, and my only friends were those willing to chat with me on-line.
These twin boys were some of the few who'd still chat with me.
One day, I commented how one of the twins-- let's call him V-- looked like the little boy on Seventh Heaven. I meant it as a compliment, David Gallagher was fucking beautiful, but V took it as the most horrendous personal attack, so he fired right back.
"Yeah? Well, you're Betty La Fea, only the fat version."
Ugly Betty... he called me Ugly Betty (imagine my distress when America Ferrera played this role years later... apparently we look alike, according to EVERYBODY), only he added the extra punch about the weight at the end.
BOOM! Nuclear War.
I let that bitch have it... I unleashed all the built up hatred in my heart and told him every single bad thing about him.
I'm terrible when it comes to speaking, but give me the opportunity to attack you in a written form? I will FUCK. YOU. UP.

Our friendship ended that moment.

I had not spoken to this twin since that incident. I have remained on good terms with his twin, but have gone out of my way to avoid that idiot V-- despite the fact that we're actually 3rd cousins (our grandfathers were very close).

Well, guess who I bumped into this afternoon as I walked out of my hardcore workout? Good ol' Simon Camden (aka "V").
He was on his way into the gym, but throwing something into a garbage can directly in my path, so when I looked up in order to avoid colliding with the can, I noticed him. I stared him in the face until he made eye-contact with me.
Like the idiot I've always been, I greeted him with a giant smile and loud acknowledgement.
"Hey, V!"
He, in typical V fashion, stared at me like he's carefully wafting some unknown concoction in high school chemistry class... looking down at me as if I'm a lowly plebe to his royal highness.
I don't know if he recognized me, but he stopped, and VERY shamelessly maneuvered his entire body so he could check out my ass-- unabashedly STARE at my asscheeks-- and uttered the phrase I will mock for the rest of my life:
How you doin'?

Now, I wouldn't make so much fun of this... had he been JOKING... but NO! He was serious.
He did not look me in the eye... he did not utter my name-- he stared at my spandex-clad ass while dropping the sleaziest line known to humankind... he spoke to my ass.
!
?
!

I laughed, continued walking forward (if he wanted to stare at my ass, what was the point of me just standing there trying to hold eye-contact like a normal, conscious creature?), threw up the peace sign (for real, I did all that... I don't know where I got the self-esteem to be that cool, but I did) and raised my voice loud enough for him to hear me say "I'm doing well!"
I did not look back.
I kept walking to my car (so fucking far away... all these "Beach Body" fanatics are making gym-life difficult), randomly bursting out into uncontrollable, childish giggles... with me occasionally repeating V's line, in the same tone and everything (nice to know my impersonation-tendencies return to me when I'm greatly amused).
"How you doin'?"

Today, the 7th Heaven goody-goody died and arose from its ashes only to become Joey Tribbiani.

Ps. V is now fat.
TAKE THAT, MUTHAFUCKAAAAA!

Good luck with that

Guess whaaaat...

Fucking awesome, right?
This time, my lip decided to switch shit up. This time, instead of breaking out in my usual spot of the lower left corner of my lip, my central nervous system decided it had enough of that shit, and handed me the cold sore smack dab in the middle of my bottom lip.
I have two lovely, perfectly circular holes in the middle of my lip. It'll be interesting to see that shit heal.

What caused this outbreak? An infuriating exchange with my trainer yesterday afternoon. My body was QUICK to react... the cold sore popped up six hours after the enraging encounter with the guy.

Remember that story about my substitute teacher who made me cry because he wouldn't give me my homework, back in third grade? I know it's in here somewhere... the story with that goddamn motherfucker Mr. Lockitch (however the fuck it's spelled... probably some Scandinavian or German spelling a Mexican like me never gave a single fuck about learning. His name I may not know how to spell, but his face I'll never forget... fucking... Edward James Olmos' characterization of Jaime Escalante in "Stand and Deliver" looking-ass) and how he took joy in tormenting me by holding up the extra homework sheet above my head as I pleaded for him to give it to me... tormenting me long enough for me to miss my bus and all that good shit you'd love to do to a nine-year-old good-girl.

 That was twenty fucking years ago... and yesterday, the story repeated itself, sort of.
It's well documented I HATE running. I'll sprint a couple of laps, just to get my HIIT in... but from that to making me run a mile after an hour of intense kickboxing is insane. It's NOT. GOING. TO. HAPPEN.
I was NOT built to run long distances... for fucking SHIT. I'm a fucking OX... I'm built to survive long, harsh winters... built to carry shit twice my weight... built to wrestle motherfucking bison... THAT'S the type of body I was given. I was not given the body of some fucking marathon runner... person who had to carry fucking surrendering orders to pussy-ass tribes... person adept to fleeing at the first sign of danger (can you tell my fucking disdain for this fucking activity, or should I continue?).
SO, when I'm ordered to run a mile, I will give my best contempt-filled glare, and walk out.

There's an added hatred to this mile because very few people actually run the fucking thing. When we sprint a lap or two, I'm always game... and I'm always the first girl done with the task... and if I get a good-enough head start on two particular guys in class, I'm the first person done. I hustle... I hustle HARD, just so I can get the damn thing done.
However, I find I'm usually one of the few who actually DOES this stupid thing. Well over two-thirds of the class just WALK HALF a lap, go to the bathroom, and then go back to the room to continue with the weight-lifting portion of the class.
This boils the fucking HELL out of my blood... I damn near foam at the mouth... and I definitely shoot death-glares at every single lazy fuck I see walk through the doors-- MORE SO to the fucking cunts I catch already in class, acting as if they ran the allotted laps... which I know they DID NOT, because none of them passed me on the track... I often scowl at them while mouthing "Liar" directly to their faces.
The dishonesty of others infuriates me... but the fact that the instructor knows this shit is going on, and STILL does it pisses me off most. He knows I kill the one or two laps, but still insists on the mile-- that shit fucks up my shins, it's too much stress on my body.
So as protest, I don't do it at all-- I just grab my shit and go home.

This was the case yesterday. After fucking killing myself with all the plyos, the moment the trainer ordered the class to run the mile, I walked over to grab my towel, water bottle, and car keys, and proceeded to walk out of the  class.
I was one of the first people walking out the door, and next thing I know, the instructor snatches the water bottle out of my hands, and goes for my hand holding my car keys.
For the next two-three minutes, I stand there, asking for the return of my water bottle, and he demanding my car keys so I can go on and run the mile.
Me: Not gonna happen.
Him: Gimme the car keys. You can't run with your car keys.
Me: I can't run that much. Give me my water, please.
What was REALLY pissing me off was the fact that his fucking groupies walking past us kept giving me "encouragement."
Annoying18YearOldTwat: Come on girl! You can do it! Wooo!
AnnoyingTwat2: Yeaaaah! Let's go, girl!
As if I was some fucking out-of-shape slob.
I was fighting the urge to "encourage" these fucking annoying girls to squat 200 pounds with their fucking noodle legs while I enthusiastically hooted "COME ON GIRL! YOU CAN DO IT!" Because everyone knows yelling words of encouragement helps you accomplish physically impossible tasks (the running is currently impossible for me because I've been nursing a fractured metatarsal for well over two months. I keep fucking it up because cunts keep yelling "encouraging" shit when I'm told to perform an excessive amount of burpees... always resulting in a re-injury of my fucking toe. Running on it is excruciating).

So... I was PISSED... but trying to keep my composure.
Keep the fucking bottle... it's only a dollar.
And just as I was about to walk away, completely done with my "begging," the guy gave me my bottle and I walked away.
Why don't you give your bitch this much of a hard time? SHE never runs.

It wasn't until night time when I realized the level of rage reached... once I saw the cold sore.
Those bad boys always betray me and let me know just how fucking deep certain actions really cut me.

FUN TIMES!

His Robin

At risk of getting beaten to death after admitting this, I'll do it anyway:
Unlike many people I know, I wasn't very into How I Met Your Mother.

The series started during a stressful time in my life. 2005 was a year full of science... labs, reading, screaming, crying, and sleepless nights. I was also writing, and part of the contract was to not watch TV, so I would adhere to the rule... only breaking it to watch America's Next Top Model and my late-night "Nature" shows on PBS.
It wasn't until 2008 that I went ahead and watched HIMYM sporadically, at the insistence of JC. I became a little more consistent around 2012.

Last year, when I visited JC in San Francisco, I watched an entire season with him. We were supposed to go out to the city, and as we prepared our "light lunch" before heading out, he popped up his laptop on the kitchen counter and began season four. With our eyes glued to the computer screen, we ate lunch, washed our dishes, cooked dinner, ate dinner, and once again washed the dishes. By the time we took the second dish-washing break, it was so late, we decided to stay home and finish the marathon.
As we watched the episodes, I'd catch JC staring at my face, examining my reaction to certain scenes.
Me: Oh man... that was... oh damn.
JC: See, I told you it was addicting. This show's... in your words "that show's my shit!"

These last two seasons I watched regularly.
Two boys would constantly pop into my head. One guy would come to mind because... well, he's my Robin. The other boy is JC, because... was I... am I his Robin?

I have flashbacks to that strange encounter I had with him back in 2001. That summer afternoon where it was just him and me in the kitchen. He asked me for something to drink, and as I handed him a glass while opening the fridge, I asked him what he wanted.
JC: Give me whatever YOU want to give me.
I will never forget the look that 13 year old boy gave me... or the way he said "whatever you want to give me." So picaresque and at the same time so... shy? Like a boy caught in the middle of a dirty daydream of his teacher, by his teacher.
My 16 year old self was no smoother than my 29 year old self. I tensed up, forced a chuckle, and awkwardly said "Water. You need water."

Then I fast forward to the numerous moment I've shared with him while visiting the bay.
I'm especially tormented by the look he gave me the night he saw me laying on MGH's lap... the look of... he felt pity for me, for liking someone who didn't like me... but at the same time he was surprised to see me there... he looked sad. Sad, disgusted, disappointed, and angry.
Many times he'd get between MGH and me when we'd be sitting together on our drives around the bay area, or while dining out... or when I'd be giving a back massage to MGH.
When JC had my undivided attention? He'd stand taller, he'd smile at me, and he'd speak to me in a steady, kind voice. He'd hold eye-contact until I'd be forced to break it by looking at the floor.

I think to the times he'd randomly call me, wether he'd be in Berkley or Vegas, or Argentina... or Germany. His voicemails that are now lost... we're he'd sing me my birthday song.
I think of the look he gave me last summer when I missed that train to... that day where I was splayed on his floor, crying onto the hardwood floor of his apartment in a very foreign land. That was his second time seeing me cry over a boy, and that familiar look of heartbreak and anger was on his face. He felt sorry for me, but simultaneously wanted to slap me for being so stupid.

His words "If he really gave a shit, he would have made it up here," "If you mattered, that's what would have happened" "Eres una pendeja," reverberate in my head... will probably do so until the day I die.
That sorrowful, angry look of his will remain emblazoned in my mind.

Am I his Robin? Was I his Robin?

Slippery sink

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

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

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

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

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

9 plus 20.

"It's my birthday today :) "
"NOBODY CARES!"

I haven't announced that since that day... I think I was turning 5, when my cunt of a baby-sitter/cousin said that to me.
There's a fine line between being sarcastic... and being a thoughtless, mean-spirited piece of shit. She was the latter.

I no longer make a big deal, but I do appreciate any form of acknowledgement... now, even the "Happy bday" and "hbd" messages.

I never imagined I'd make it to 29. Honestly. At any age, the furthest I thought ahead was 26. I thought about being 26 as a kid, mainly because that's when I calculated I'd be done with school (I don't really understand my math, but keep in mind my folks only made it to 6th grade).
Once the teens hit, I swore I wasn't going to make it past high school. Each year only brought forth heavier problems... more painful shit to handle as quietly as possible. In 9th grade I swore I was just going to kill myself and get it all over with.
But I held on.

In my early 20's I swore I was going to die of some health-related issue... but I still stand.
Mid twenties depression struck harder than ever. Then I swore I was just going to dissolve into non-existence.
But I'm still here.

20 years ago, as a nine year old, I remember that year as one of the most tumultuous of my life. A NINE year old.
Last night I went to bed remembering what life was like TWENTY years ago... and I damn near had a panic attack.
4th grade was horrible. Horrible, humiliating, painful, and traumatizing. I don't even remember what my 10th birthday was like. I just wanted to be dead.

I've outlived 9 by two decades.
Yet the scars are still there. When anyone presses that button, I crumble completely.

I don't even know what to expect, or what to ask for, now as a 29 year old-- I never expected to see this number.

I don't know whether to be excited or upset.

Give only to take away

I've dreamt of Tyson for the last week or so.
Impossible not to get weepy about it... especially after the week mark. It really sucks to continually feel so happy in A DREAM only to wake up to an empty house, no Tyson to be found... just me in complete silence, sitting at the kitchen table at eight in the morning, alone.
Of course, I cheer up as the day continues, but each morning, I can't help but feel an awful sense of melancholy.

Let's not get things twisted, I DO enjoy solitude and silence; I get all crazy when not given the adequate peace and quiet. It just feels like a slap to my face to-- night after night-- remember the one little creature that I allowed to keep me company, the little dude I loved with all of my heart and who actually loved me back... to remember that happiness, and then wake up to such stark contrast, MY reality-- he's dead, I'm alone. Kinda makes handling shit, this dealing business, difficult.

I go to bed each night and never fail to say, out loud, as though he will hear me "I miss you..."

Tomorrow would have marked 13 years of my little dude being in my life... so this whole emotional shit is a little heavy.
I promise I'm still a happy girl... it's just some days are harder than others.