lobsters in a tank

It's like time stood still... like those 20 years didn't go by... the feelings are amplified.
I haven't been this happy in a very long time.
No one has looked at me like he does, spoken to me like he does, and much less touched me the way he does... as though I'm the most fucking precious object on Earth.

My lobster-- he's alive, and has found me. I have agreed to get caught in the same tank.

But this isn't a happy story... anything that ever has to do with me should never be considered a happy story.

I'm just trying to hold on to this feeling before the world collapses... like it always does... knowing full well that this time it will hurt worse than it ever has in the past.

... I jumped off that cliff with my motherfucking eyes closed.

What a Woman

Today, I woke up with a lovely little reminder of my extreme rage from the previous night: another fucking coldsore.

The anger only escalated when I woke up to see a couple of fucking IDIOTIC cunts had decided to give lip (I had angrily posted something on the swindling trainer's page the night before)... which is something you should never try with me before I've had any sort of sustenance. I will fuck up ANYONE who tries to fuck with me when I'm running on an empty stomach... in the fucking morning (just ask my brother). Fuck that shit. Throw me some patronizing comment and I will lob that shit right back.

SO YEAH, I was angry... borderline furious, before 9 AM.

Then weird shit started happening:
Men started hitting on me, left and right.
I needed to get my eyebrows threaded. Guess what happened to me in the parking lot of the threading establishment... and then inside the establishment... then when I left the establishment-- I was shamelessly (I'm currently fond of that word. I trust I'll find good synonyms soon) checked out by men as though I were a piece of meat. I had all black clothing, no makeup, and my hair was held back by a headband-- in other words, I was a fucking bum. However, I guess my pent up aggression/rage was making me look fucking irresistible to men... or maybe I was just bumping into psychopaths who like bitches who would probably headbutt the fucking shit out of them... they're into that bondage, BDSM shit and I look like one hell of a dominant.
I had to take lunch to my mother at work. What happened to me at the restaurant's parking lot, inside the restaurant, and the freeway as I was taking Mom her lunch? Men checking me out.
I had a nice chat session with Mom as she ate the lunch. Two cholos who had to be in their early 20's showed up to pay their month's diesel bill... as they sat there counting their stacks of cash, they'd steal glances at me... smiling when we'd make eye contact, me trying to look as apathetic as possible (Homies, you're counting 101 $100 bills... keep your eyes on THAT).
When I finally decided it was time to return home, work suddenly swarmed with customers. Three drivers walked into the store to pay for their diesel, and two of them I noticed became all weird and shy... and kept staring at my face.
GOD DAMN IT... CUT IT OUT! I have a fucking coldsore! Leave me alone!
While I did want to scowl at them to force them to quit staring at me, I did otherwise because they are, after all, our customers.
As I walked out and turned on my vehicle, I noticed one of the drivers walked back outside and looked around, as if looking for someone.
This guy... so dramatic... does he think he's in a Novela?

Cut to dinner time, as I washed the dinner plates.
Mom: Mija! HAHAHA! I know what I forgot to tell you!
Me: Ummm... I'm kind of scared to ask.
Mom: Today I heard... you won't believe what I heard.
Me: ... what?
Mom: You left this one guy STUNNED.
Me:... ?
Mom: At work, did you see that younger bus driver? That well-dressed, short Mexican guy?
Me: Umm... the short one with the hair? (the other one who stared at me was rocking a cholo fade)
Mom: Yes, him. When you walked out, he followed you out, then walks back in and goes "Ma'am, with all due respect... but... who was that gorgeous woman who was just in here? The one who just left" And I said "My daughter?" And he goes "So she WAS your daughter? Once again, with all due respect, but... WHAT A WOMAN!'
Me: EW MOM... WHY did you have to tell me that? EW.
Mom, laughing hysterically: He was literally stunned... like he had just been witness to a miracle.
Me: My life was better before you told me that... I feel fucking gross now. EW. The fuck is wrong with him?

I'm over here poutin' 'n shit... all I want to do is throw my fucking tantrum in peace and angrily carry on with my day, and motherfuckers won't even let me do THAT in peace.

I am a below-average looking, shy chick... chill the fuck out men, you'll find five hotter chicks within thirty seconds of bumping into me. Keep cool, and carry on, blood.

Book covers

It's not surprising that I'd have difficulty fitting in.
Well, actually, that wasn't the case at this wedding.
The groom's family was very welcoming and kind... just a little snooty.
While the family was doing their best to make my sister and me feel included and comfortable, I can't describe the sense of relief that overcame me once family members of the bride's began to notice us, and embrace us.
HUGE sigh of relief.

The most... comfortable people to hang out with were this funky family of five. The mom is my mom's second cousin, and apparently she really likes my mom, so she came at us like a mother hen. That was nice.
The dad was a complete silver fox.
They had three kids: two teenaged daughters and an older son.
The mom and the three kids were extremely thin... frail-looking. The dad was bulky.
Of course, these were first impressions, made on Christmas eve... a frigid... tiresome Christmas eve. Everyone was in hoodies, jackets, scarves... there were a few pairs of gloves out there... so, absolutely correct assessments could not be made.

Then came Christmas, the day of the Mayan Baths... the day when we all bared skin and swam around.
Surprises rocked the day.
There was the Young'un... whom I finally took notice of (the prior night he had been following me around... always on the lookout for anything I might have needed-- giving me three empanadas when he was told not to give me any because I didn't sing for the posadas. I remember wondering why in the world that cat in the smooth tench-coat kept appearing everywhere I walked in that hacienda) after he stood under the waterfall... that's an image I'll whip out on depressed days, 'cause that shit was GLORIOUS.
Then there was the funky family.
We were all changing in the designated co-ed dressing room.
First were the daughters and their mom-- totally skinny, as predicted. Since we were closer to them than anyone else, we decided to enter the baths with them.
As we waded in the cave, I noticed a ridiculously muscular man in the pool with us... completely tatted up.
The man? The dad! He had the best body of ANYONE present, young and old. It had all of us, guys and girls, in awe.
A little later, I saw the son emerge from the water-- BANGING body. Very thin, very, very thin... but all muscle-- that too was pretty ridiculous.

So, I'm pretty good at people-watching, right? I did that for god knows how many hours, as I sat in the very comfortable cave, straight chillin'.
What I caught most were the astonished glances the women would give each other when they're see the mom and dad of the funky family.
He was very attentive of his wife, and never swam anywhere away from her. The dude held her hand whenever they'd leave one of the pools.
Women were GAWKING... and I'm sure they were all thinking the same thing: how the fuck did Olive Oyl over here land such a beefcake?! And why the fuck is MY dude such a douche bag?
But I mean, HELLO! Popeye is bananas about Olive Oyl.

I was loving all of it. I was loving the husband envy, I was loving the tenderness of Burly Man for his sweet frail wife, I was loving the muscle envy from the dudes-- young and old, and I was loving the fucking surprise it was to see what lies beneath all those layers of clothing.

Books and their covers-- yeah, don't fall for that shit.

A Danny

This wedding was full of beautiful surprises.

The groom prepared everything... to the exact minute. The only thing the bride had to do was show up to the events.

I watched Danny (the groom) as his bride walked down the aisle, up to him. He cried the whole time.

He cried so much, I eventually shed a few tears.

At the reception, after their siblings and his parents took turns at saying a few words, he walked over to the mic and presented his bride with a new surprise.

He told us how his bride loves music, and so, he grabbed a guitar and pulled a stool behind him to take a seat.

Danny: I have never played the guitar... I haven't even TOUCHED one until right now. But... *bride* loves music, and I love her, and I would do anything for her. She is my everything. I am yours, *bride*, mind, body, soul... I am yours and only yours in all sense of the word. So, without further ado, here's this song I wrote for you.

Danny's Friends: Have you ever heard him sing? He doesn't sing... silence! We need to hear this!

Danny "sang" his song as he strummed basic chords on the guitar.

His bride cried the entire time.

I cried.

My entire table cried... even the guys.

The entire night was loaded with these sort of... heartfelt, heart-warming surprises... at the top of the hour, every hour.

I had never experienced anything like it.

Firework display at one hour, dancers in stilts at another... mariachi band a different hour... mini cakes at another... bottles of Patron and Grey Goose slightly after.

Ignore the fact that all this must have been expensive as shit... but just think about the SENTIMENT.

THAT is what had me crying.

I say, I genuinely feel... I have convinced myself, that men like Danny do not exist... that love like Danny's and my friend's is non-existant... a fucking fairy tale that we've all been brainwashed into believing is out there for each of us.

To come face-to-face with a love like theirs, it made me... it left me... vulnerable.

It exists. It's possible. It happens. It's beautiful.

My right eye-- that's the eye that had a constant stream of tears running.

I smiled the entire time.

I say I don't, but I sincerely want a love like that.

I want to believe that somewhere out there, there is a guy who feels that strongly for me, feels I'm worthy of such treatment... and proceeds to do his best to provide it for me.

I want a guy whose beautiful, sweet, thoughtful surprises will keep me crying with delight.

I hate admitting that, it does nothing for my attempts at self-preservation.

pig. fucking pig.

I hate guys SO FUCKING MUCH sometimes...

Tonight, for example... tonight is a perfect example of WHY I hate them so much.

"Uh, no, buddy. That's something you ask earlier"

"Suegra" = mother in law

My timid nature is NOT an act... I don't understand why some pricks think it IS... like... I am naturally quiet and reserved as a way to ward off any suspicion to my "true inner slut."
I mean... a girl with such pouty lips CAN'T not be a slut... those lips are there for a reason, right?!
Or... maybe I'm so good at being quiet, and I'm "so lonely," I'll jump at the first opportunity to be...
FUCK man, I can't even continue with that fucking though.

What upsets me more is WHO this person is. It upsets me so damn much. SO. DAMN. MUCH.

Fucking disgusting. FUCKING DISGUSTING!
Then he followed it up with this... as if I didn't feel gross enough.
I had told him to enjoy his alone time, because we all need it sometimes, and it tends to be a rare gift form the universe-- alone time.

Excuse me... I'm going to go vomit, then cry myself to sleep.

... I was doing so well... I was so happy and carefree... and now this.
FUCK this shit. FUUUUUUUCKKKKK IIIIIT.
GODFUCKINGDAMN.

Dream, dream, dream.

The thing I hate about being a dreamer:
-Is how no matter how threateningly I tell my conscious NOT to think of you, I still do.
-Is how no matter how often I go somewhere, I'll still "see" you there. Anything can, and will, be contrived to something related to you.
- Is that I convince myself that... things can work out... that maybe, at some time, you thought I even had a chance... maybe I just missed the train?
-Is that no matter how many flaws I try to find in you... I can't. I... can't.

Worst thing about being a dreamer?
In my mind, you will always... always be the best person I ever encountered... regardless of how many new people I meet... and regardless of how many cities, and countries I visit.

Eres lo mas hermoso, mas intrigante... atractivo, que mis ojos hayan visto, mis oídos hayan escuchado, y mi mente haya soñado. 
Algo que nunca tuve, y jamas tendré. 

Always Found Someone (else)

No sabia de tristezas, ni de lagrimas, ni nada que me hicieran llorar.
Yo sabia de cariño, de ternura, porque a mi desde pequeño eso me enseño mamá-- eso y muchas cosas mas.
Yo jamas sufrí. Yo jamas lloré. Yo era muy feliz. Yo vivía muy bien.

He could make me laugh with a single word.
He'd always be so enthusiastic to talk to me. He taught me A LOT, even if he was four years my junior. We spent so many hours of our day just keeping ourselves company. We could sit in the room without saying a word, and we'd be cool. We were each other's... companion.

Yo vivía tan distinto-- algo hermoso, algo divino lleno de felicidad.
Yo sabia de alegrías, la belleza y de la vida, pero no de soledad... pero no de soledad, de eso y muchas cosas mas.
Yo jamas sufrí. Yo jamas lloré. Yo era muy feliz. Yo vivía muy bien.

Too often, I'd sit back and watch as MGH hooked up with other girls.

Girls of all shapes and sizes... ethnicities... ages... all kinds of girls. He would NOT discriminate.

I think that's what hurt me most... watching him indiscriminately hook up with any bitch... yet there I'd be, practically pleading... and he'd... he'd just... he wouldn't even high-five me. He'd just do that thing... where he'd tell me no one got him like I did, no one touched him like I did... and leave it at that.

I'd be left at the club... the park... the room... watching him prance over to the girl... and disappear for the night.

All I had was that nagging questions: What is SO wrong with me? Why NOT me? Why everyone BUT me?

Hasta que te conocí vi la vida con dolor. No te miento, fui feliz aunque con muy poco amor.
Y muy tarde comprendí que no te debí amar porque ahora pienso en ti mas que ayer... y mucho mas. 

Then you finally pulled the plug. And we went our separate ways. We remained friends... but not like before... for a while.
But like the strange, close friends we are... with the bond that will always keep us together... you still seem to known when to come to the rescue. Whether it's to make me giggle, or just let me know you're thinking of me, you know when to reappear.

Thank you, Mario.

Yo era muy feliz... pero... te encontré.

Someone else used to have this strange power... of oddly knowing when I could use a tiny bit of his attention... something as "insignificant" as a "Hello."
Now... now I really AM invisible... insignificant to him.

He always found someone to hook up with.

I'll never understand why the dudes never... never ever... chose me... when everyone else in the room got her chance at the dance.
They preferred to watch me quietly wilt away.

You cross my mind every day. Every single fucking stupid day. Still.

Lagalities

Fuck, man!
I promise I've been trying to catch up with the updates, but sometimes it's just too damn impossible.

I've been busy dealing with my Godson.
His contest was this past weekend, and while he did win "best body," he didn't make the top 5.

I don't think he's depressed... but as is customary with our family, he's angry.
It's what happens when you become disillusioned.

These three were the winners:
1st place:

2nd place:

3rd place:

My godson:

FAAAAAVORITE photo.

I've had the job of talking to the relatives states side.
I've also been having a back and forth with Godson, convincing him that:
Babe, I don't care what the outcome, and I don't care that we're related, but I'm serious when I say: You were the best. Don't let this shit get you down. Please.

Let's be real:
* The winer looks like he's sniffing cat piss... and he probably fucked the guys and girls running the show. Come on now. Let's not kid ourselves.
* Second place... well, not gonna lie, I liked him. He's handsome. When I think "Handsome Mexican Man" I do think of this sort of guy. Only part I'd be able to critique would be his ass. It's odd. But other than that, the son of a bitch is handsome.
* Third place. Don't get me started on Third Place. It's something I'll never understand about fucking Mexico. They're so into the European-look bullshit. Which is retarded. If they wanted European looks, for an international setting, guess what? A REAL European will take the crown... not a Mexican of European decent. They have the legitimate Euros in the competition... so why don't you just select a MEXICAN look to represent MEXICO? Tan is where it's at, idiots. When Miss Mexico won Miss Universe... what did she look like? That's right, like a tan, brown-eyed, brunette MEXICAN. Not a blonde, blue-eyed, Mexican of European decent. And this kid... COME ON! COME ONNNNNNN! He has no definition... whatsoFUCKINGever.

I'll never get you, Mexico. Bunch of morons. Bunch of self-loathing, racist morons.

Anyway... that's pretty much what I've been telling my kid.
As far as the stateside relatives, I've had to reassure them my kid is ok... and that they shouldn't pity him. I've been dealing with texts similar to this:

And my answer has typically been along these lines:

Then it snowballs into this agitated exchange:

Don't act like you give a fuck. "Legalities of it"... ? You mean "politics"? Because "legalities" are non-existant here.

So... hmm. Interesting couple of days to come, I'm sure.
AngroMALIE is sure to stick around a bit longer.

love lifespan

Over the weekend, I saw the mother of my ex "love of my life."
I had not seen that woman in... ages, and I don't even know why... but one minute I was minding my own business and next thing I knew, she was right in front of me.

I wanted to cry.

She was such a nice lady. So kind. And sweet.
I know people talk shit about "momma's boys" but honestly, I love them. Guys who love their mothers have my respect... mainly because I have a brother, and I would punch any fucking bitch who complains about my brother's love/respect for his mother.
This guy, was a complete momma's boy. And this woman loved me. She appreciated the fact that I liked her son so much... because she clearly lived for her boy.

The way she'd look at me... and hug me... and speak to me, made me melt.
The problem? Her son did not like me as much as I liked him.
When shit hit the fan, and we had to go our separate ways, I purposely avoided this woman, because I'd nearly break down each time I'd have to see her.
It hurt to have to act like I was ok, like I didn't miss her son, or feel stupid over what had happened between us.
My world would collapse and I'd be back at square one, once again trying to build my wall back up.

When I saw her on Saturday, my heart raced, and a smile crept across my face.
All on its own.
I involuntarily waved and smiled my typical, huge, real smile.

Her eyes are sad now. She has frown lines. She's a broken woman.
It broke my heart.

She's divorced now... from the love of HER life, the father of her two (equally handsome-but-idiotic) sons.
One son is in prison... and the other one, the ex-love of my life? He's a drug-addict... father of three.

No doubt I dodged a huge fucking bullet...
But that doesn't mean I didn't want to hug her and tell her everything would be ok... even if in the back of my mind I know I'd be speaking a lie.

"Me dio mucho gusto volverla a ver, señora."
Delighted to have seen you again, ma'am.
I squeezed her hands, turned my back, and walked towards my car.

Too Much

There is no way in hell anyone can convince me I don't have some sort of invisible sign that invites all fucking guys to drunk dial/text me.

It used to be funny... it used to entertain me... but now it just feels like someone is holding me under water, refusing to let me resurface to catch my breath, regardless of how desperately I thrash about.

What kills me most is that the conversations start off funny... and then somehow, they make a turn for the worst... and I end up on the receiving end of a chastising-- one I never escape without being called anything nicer than "idiot."

From MGH, to his brother... to Los and a few others, I have not escaped the frustrated, drunken wrath of my dude friends.

"(I) Never can pinpoint why I go from Cassanova to Bane from "Batman" on chicks"
When I asked why guys do that, that right there was probably the best response.

This last batch of drunk texting probably hurt the most, however... because as much as I hate to admit it, he was right... for the most part... just not on the phrases I'm about to quote.

Girls, when they try to console one another, tend to go the "He's an idiot/douchebag" route. In other words, they help you point out the dude's fault.
Guys... they make you see YOUR faults.

"Like most women, you want too much."

Do I? Do I really?
In my life, in my meaningless, twenty-seven years of life, not ONCE... ONCE have I had the guy I'VE liked like me back. NOT. ONCE.
Not ONE MEASLY TIME. I have no clue what that feels like. No. Clue.
It's not like I sit back and wait for my "knight in shining armor" to appear from thin air... some mythical, perfect man to descend from the skies to offer me the love story of a lifetime.
No. I've met guys who have made me FEEL the fucking way I want to FEEL-- who are not perfect, just perfect for me-- and though I manage to spend time with them, befriend them, laugh with them, sleep on them, they have ALWAYS refused to "give me a chance."
They've stiff-armed the FUCK out of my face and shoved me into the friendzone, with no fucking remorse, all because I don't fit some part of a fucking mold.
I make them laugh, I entertain them, I chill with them... I do everything for them... and still, somehow, for whatever reason, I fall short. I'm never the girl they want to.... they don't even want to kiss my goddamn cheek. I have sat back and watched the guy I'm crazy about hook up with "DUFF"s in front of me NUMEROUS times... and it leaves me baffled AS FUCK, each time.

Why THE FUCK am I getting reprimanded for doing the same to guys? Why am I expected to be willing to "settle" and give up on being with a guy that makes me... lightheaded with the mere mention of his name... a dude who makes my heart pound so violently that I fear it'll jump out of my mouth? Why am I not deserving of getting what I want?
Because I'm a girl and it's expected? Because we've been doing it for centuries? We just sell ourselves to the highest bidder, neatly fold our hands, and live the rest of our lives with a guy who will never give us butterflies in our tummy or inadvertent sighs when we think of his smile.
FUCK THAT.
If I don't get what I want, then I don't get SHIT.
Every guy I've "been with" has been a guy I've "tried" learning to LIKE so that I can get someone else out of my mind and out of my heart. It has NEVER worked. I can't begin to describe how empty and lonely... and guilty this shit makes me feel. It rips me apart. It tears me down.
I'd rather be alone and miserable than coupled-up, miserable, and making a second person miserable... because I CAN'T FAKE IT. I can't feign liking someone else.
When I like someone, I put myself at his feet and I no longer belong to myself.
That's the way I am, it's my natural disposition. It's my nature. It's not because I think it's what he wants... it's because it's something I want.
Here I am, do as you please. I am yours and only yours.
That's my style.

Wanting a guy who makes me laugh, inspires me to be a better ME, gives me butterflies when he smiles, and makes my heart race when he speaks to me, is asking too much? For real? Even if I've found a few who fulfill these requirements... the only flaw being that they refuse to like me back?
They don't have to make bank, they don't have to send me flowers or buy me gifts, they don't even have to remember my fucking birthday (though when they do, it makes me smile). They don't have to look like Ryan Gosling, they don't have to be chiseled like a Roman god, they don't have to be a certain faith, they don't have to live in a certain area or be a certain ethnicity.
I just have to admire him, laugh, and feel like I'm on the moon when I'm in his presence.
That. Is. All.
But still, it's denied to me... criticized for not settling for anything else.

I'm sick of men getting what they want. Twenty years ago, a man getting what he wanted ruined me... violently thrust me into the harsh realities of life... quickly stole any sense of normalcy.
I'll be motherfucking DAMNED if I EVER allow another man I don't feel SHIT for to put his fucking hands on me. I won't try to force myself to be OK with it, or numb myself so I can endure the encounter, either.
I can still feel his grip on my thighs... the weight of his hands as he petted my hair... every stroke of his tongue in my mouth... and how frozen... shocked I was, completely unable to move ANYTHING on my body... even unable to BLINK. 

I still feel as if I'm jammed in a hot box... desperately wanting to scream and cry... but unable to do SHIT... just sit there and feel his hands like hot coals on my body. 

I can still remember him repeatedly saying "You are so pretty. You're going to be so pretty when you grow up," as I sat there completely unresponsive and terrified.

To have to do that for the rest of my fucking life, all for the sake of "companionship" and not living alone? FUCK. THAT. I've always been alone. I'm not scared of doing it for the rest of my life... I'm prepared.

The thought of ever allowing anyone I don't feel physical attraction for to put a hand on me makes me sick to my stomach. It makes me freak out. It pisses me off.
THAT'S why I don't settle. That's why I'll never settle. That's why I'll never try to learn to love someone. If I don't feel it, don't try to convince me I'll eventually feel it... because I won't... because I'll only think of that stupid fucking night twenty years ago where I had to force myself to go numb, allow that man to do what he wanted, and convince myself I would be ok... all in hopes that he'd let me out of that truck, so I could carry on with my life as a seven year old.

Is that me wanting too much? The whole me wanting only guys I'm physically attracted to to be the only ones to touch me... is that me wanting too much?
Sorry, I was told there are girls out there who actually like the guys that touch them... and often times they even enjoy it. My bad for believing it and becoming so demanding.

"You're waiting for a train that is never going to pass. Just remember that you gotta go somewhere."

Nah, son, I'm sitting at the side of the tracks, cried-out after realizing my tears are not going to bring back the train that ALREADY passed me by.
For me, all other routes lead to the same destination: Everywhere BUT home.
I have no interest to move from my spot. I'll just quietly watch everyone else make their train.

... aaaaand this is how drunk-texting goes terribly awry.

Paint Mah House!

Hey, AnoMALIE! It's the hottest day of the year, what are you going to do?
I'm gonna paint a house!

Fuck. I'm exhausted.
So many things I want to rant about, laugh about, and ask about... but my fingers are killing me!
Let's see how far I can take this entry:

So we're landlords right? I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this, but yeah, we have a number of homes, and this latest acquisition is a motherfucking handful.
My dad, ever the stereotypical Mexican Machista asshole, doesn't want to do shit. He just coughs up money to his STUPID "brothers" from church to do shit for him... everything from mopping, sweeping, or painting the walls.
Mom and I are fed up with this bullshit. It's one thing to pay people twenty bucks to sweep a fucking kitchen, and another to pay someone 100 bucks for that shit. Come on now, that's fucking shameless... to charge that much. It's not like I'm asking Paris Hilton to sweep... get the fuck out of here!
Mom has been doing EVERYTHING at this house.
Dad doesn't even call her to see how she's doing. He just comes home at 3 in the afternoon, sits in his sofa, and surfs the internet. He doesn't even bother to cook.
And people question why I REFUSE to get married? I'm sorry... umm... how in the fuck is this behavior supposed to entice me to commit such a fucking stupid action? FUCK. THAT.
I felt horrible for Mom this morning, so I decided to join her at noon.
We painted from 12PM-8PM.
At first Mom was reluctant to allow me near the paint. She's under the impression that I'm still that four-year-old who doodled her name all over the walls in her favorite magenta crayon.
She made me responsible of removing the paint from the mirrors and windows using only a razor blade.
After finishing the bathroom and all four bedrooms, Mom walked into the master bedroom, where I was checking my phone.
Mom: Look at you! You're super good with the razor!
Me: I was an angsty teenager, Mom. I'm a fucking PRO with razor blades.
At least she didn't suspect my mastery was due to cocaine abuse... right?

After Mom saw I had no more surfaces to fuck up with a razor blade, she trusted me with the paint roller.
First thing I do? Spill paint directly into my eye.
That lady knows me better than I know myself.
I was entrusted to paint the ceiling, and... because I'm an idiot, I looked up just in time to have a huge drip of paint fall directly into my right eye.
I proceeded to nearly kill myself as I jumped off the (ROLLING!) bar stool I was standing on.

Rough start, but I eventually turned into the Bob Ross I always knew I was meant to be.
I was working like a legit day-worker...

I worked so fucking hard on that manicure last night...
I was seriously pissed off.

as if Mom drove to Home Depot and whistled at me.
Working hard... just Mom and I... from 12PM to 8PM. Dad NOWHERE in sight.

I'd find myself cracking up at times... whenever I thought about school... my biology degree.
Remember, kids, stay in school! Oh... wait... that's right... I'm painting a motherfucking house like some illegal immigrant... and I have a biology degree at home... hmm...

I didn't eat a bite since breakfast, which was at 10AM.
I came home at 8PM and prepared myself a meal the moment I walked into the house.
As I was grabbing spices from the cupboard, Dad waddled into the kitchen.
He had been home since 3PM-- FIVE hours, plenty of time to either cook himself some fucking food, or even drive two minutes away to the nearest fucking In-N-Out.
As I turned around with the spices in hand, I caught Dad shoving half of my meal (shredded chicken breast) in his mouth.
I almost cried.
I wanted to cuss at him SO BAD... but all I managed to do was grumble "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

I huffed and puffed... but I did not cry.

Each day I stand firmer next to my claim that I am NEVER getting married. Fuck that shit. Fuck purposely attaching myself to a man who won't do shit for me and will treat me worse than a fucking dog the moment I sign that fucking paper.
Not I. I will not do that.

Great, now I'm grouchy...
Let me just get this out of my system:
MEN CAN'T DO SHIT!

Ok, all better! 

Parce

Maybe I should stop being so reluctant about dating Latinos... (No. No. No. No. No)
My kickboxing instructor is Colombian. Thanks to this, next time I see him, I can put money on my eyes never leaving his crotch area. Thanks, subconscious!

What surprised me was France. French dudes? Really? Based on their attitudes, I'd guess that country would be painted red. Jerks.

Ok, now I'll quit acting like I give a hoot about penis sizes.

Racoons

Sticking to the marriage theme going on here (and since it's the early afternoon and I doubt this will give me nightmares later on), I give you my reason NUMBER ONE for refusing, vehemently, to get tied down:

I love how "resealable package" is legible and STILL disregarded.

Seriously... how fucking hard is it to OPEN THE GODDAMN BAG (THAT IS ALREADY OPENED) FROM THE CORRECT, ZIPLOCKED END?!
My dad can be such an animal. It's like I live with a fuckin' racoon... that I can't beat with a broom each time he rummages through my shit and destroys the bags. Yes, he's Mexican, but he knows how to read English... he has lived here for 41 years. I think I'd get the hang of Arabic if I lived in Iran or Syria for 41 years.
People may argue "But not all men are like that," but fuck it... knowing me and my luck, I'll be stuck with the animal who just... uses his mouth to rip shit open.

Living with men... get the fuck outta here (even if they're not like my dad, my experience with living with guys has never been pleasant. The month spent with Sister in Spain had me living with two boys... and both were gross in their own way. The hairy Italian boy would use Sister's loofa and leave his pubes as evidence... and the other guy... that one... he was special. He was a hairy Mexican-Indian mix. He'd shave his entire body and never clean up after himself. Hair would be all over the toilet, the sink, floor... it was a mess. And that was still acceptable. What BUGGED me was how he'd release his load every morning in the shower... and NEVER clean up after himself. I understand it's a necessity to some people, and what better place than the shower, where you can clean up whatever mess you may leave... but not this guy. I'd have to decide: Do I want to run into wet cum... or dry cum today? Nothing like going in to shower in the morning, to grab the shower handle and feel hardened cum. That was nice. Or the time I bent down to grab the soap and realized my ass touched the wet cum on the shower wall... that was REAL nice. He did it EVERY. DAY. Even when he'd hear me scream "AH! COME ON, MAN!" every single day... although, putting it that way, I may understand where the misunderstanding began. Get a better vocabulary, AnoMALIE).

Now that I'm talking about my dad, let me move on to his latest shenanigan:
My folks are going on a ten day cruise in two weeks.
It's the first time for both. Mom didn't want to go, she pouted for a good week after she found out Dad purchased the tickets without her consent (while telling her "Well, SOMEONE'S going with me, whether it's you or someone else. I'm going to be on that boat!"). Mom's argument is "NO ONE MAKES ME DO WHAT I DON'T WANT TO DO! And being on a boat is something I just KNOW I'm going to HATE!" and since Pops laid it on her the way he did, Mom was like "Shit, if I let this man go on his own, God knows if he'll even come back alive. He can't do shit on his own without getting taken advantage of."
So Mom is going for my father's own safety (or so she likes to claim).

Dad invited me... but seeing how magnificently I get along with the man... I turned that shit down without giving it a second thought.
1. I don't want to be responsible for whatever he decides to share. He has a tendency to be SO racist... even against his own kind. I fear I'll jump into the ocean the moment he says something TOO embarrassing.
2. My dad eats like an animal. Case and point being that photo above.
3. Dad is the gassiest man I know. No. Really. He is. That shit rivals chemical warfare.
And
4. I'm going NO WHERE near volcanos... I hear they do bad things to girls like me. PASS!

Married life... gross.

To Get Her

One of my most dreaded assignments in college was a twenty page research proposal for Evolution.
I remember being scared as fuck because:
1) The professor was intimidating as hell. He had a really strong Spanish accent, which only helped to spread more terror in my heart, since his tone sounded more like my angry Mom. I did not want to disappoint this man.
2) The proposal was worth 30 percent of my final grade.
3) What the fuck was I going to try to research that would take up a minimum of twenty pages to explain?

After a near panic attack, I finally decided to focus on the aspect of monogamy amongst animals. My argument was something along the lines of:
Why does the (scientific name of a certain Falcon that exhibits monogamous behavior) chose monogamy?
Something like that.
It was hard as shit to find any freakin' animal that is exclusively monogamous, and not losing focus was also difficult (I continuously found data relating to how slutty some birds could be. That shit would shift my attention entirely. I still remember how there's a femlae bird out there that purposely makes three or four males think they're the father of her young... just so there will never be a lack for food. How fucking ingenious is that?! Sounds like a couple of humans I know...).
Results?
This bird was monogamous because it helped them raise stronger young that would ultimately reach adulthood. It was less costly to do that as opposed to just hittin' it and quittin' it with as many females as possible, hoping the babies would be raised right by their mom, so to speak (haaaa! It was so difficult to use proper terminology for that. My rough draft was sprinkled with ghetto-talk which made the professor call me in to his office to go have a talk with him. The man was genuinely concerned).
I aced it.

Anyway, this has also been the way I see human interaction. I often wonder why I expect monogamy from a dude, when it's... sort of counterintuitive, at least on the dude's part, to stay with only one person. Considering the gestation period of a human baby and all that shit... why waste your time with only one girl? Go fuck a ton of chicks that are willing to have you, and be the happy animal you were meant to be. Spread those babies worldwide, sweet-thang.
...
...
But when it's a person you love? A woman and a man you thought loved each other so "truly and deeply," they had stayed together long enough to make anyone believe it was the real deal.
Why is it so devastating to find out one was cheated on? Why do I have the urge to hug and console the poor woman... and punch, kick, and spit at the cheating son of a bitch?

I guess this is the part that makes me a human and not just an animal.
The feelings involved.

I don't know, I'm not making sense right now.
I'm just sad, and confused, and angry... I'm not too rational.
All I know is that I'm that much reluctant to ever get involved with anyone... to believe in anyone.

Macho, macho men!

Eghh... it really sucked to find out that the dude I've been crushing on for the majority of the semester is quite dull.
I'd stare each time he sat by me... and I even saw his Myspace once (because we have a friend in common). I really dug his presence. However, after today, I must say he has WAY more character on a webpage than he does in person.
Boring.
He's also a monotone... yeah... I guess I was too busy in class trying to decipher what the sleepy professor was saying to actually sit an pay attention to the guy interact with other humans.
He's just very... dry... I don't know... I didn't like it (and for me to say that, wow, that's BAD. I like almost every guy... or at least I find something to like in any guy. This poor dude... not even his military experience helped him out). What a bummer.
At least he made lab exams bearable (kind of. He'd ask so many stupid questions and drive the poor lab TA insane... but I got to stare. He only showed up to exams though, so I saw him maybe 6 times in lab).

Anyway... off to more important stuff:
I miss Mawmaw (She's in Zacatecas now! Grrr...)!

My Dad is driving me freakin' insane!
We fight so much...I'm surprised the neighbors haven't called the cops yet (maybe because my neighbors are fucking felons themselves... trashy ass Californians).
It's crazy how Dad acts as if he's the only person living in this house. He drinks/eats my stuff... things I personally shopped for... things he's previously said "Man, that stuff's disgusting!" to. Why?

"Because it was right there... in the refrigerator."

Well, no shit, Sherlock! It has to be in the fridge. What? Do I have to start making cubbyholes in the fridge to hide my shit, now? Where am I? Prison?!
He ate the world's best cheese already (Mom and I called it that because we've never had such good Queso Ranchero in our lives. We decided we'll never have anything like it again)... and there was about 2 pounds of it left last week. Once Mom left for Mexico... it disappeared! And Dad's lactose-intolerant... which... only baffles me.
He has this thing, where instead of following directions and, say, gently ripping the perforated top from the tortilla bag, he'll go all He-Man on us and just rip the entire thing.
Grrr! By the power of Grayskull...I have the power!
What the hell, Dad? Was it taunting you or just threatening the safety of the world?
He'll carve into things... like cheese or fruits... as if he were going on some sort of gold excavation. He'll leave us these lopsided-ass blobs that we're supposed to be compelled to eat.
He'll leave the sloppy, used dishes at the table, and he'll cook smelly food inside the house (a big no-no with Mom. BIG, big no-no with Mom) only to have my sister and I chocking to death in our rooms.

We had a sweet ass argument last night thanks to PBS:
(On TV: Show about Mormons that I happen to be listening to because I thought of that one South Park episode. I also need a diversion while doing my pre-run routine, so I was sitting in the living room stretching and watching PBS)
Dad: They're "sick pups" (I HATE that term! HATE it).
Me: Why?
Dad: Aren't you listening? There's something wrong with their heads.
Me: Well... if anyone were to walk into your church and see all you guys jumping, and dancing, and talking to yourselves--I mean, Jesus-- I'm sure people would think you guys were "sick pups."
(Dad scowls at me)
Me: I'm just sayin'... we're all weird.
(Dad looks at me over his reading glasses... à la Santa Clause making a list, checking it twice)
Me: You can't just go around calling people "sick pups," because we all have different beliefs. Whatever gets you by, gets you by. If it makes you a better person, even better.
(Dad's still looking at me as if I have a serious mental disorder)
Me: Do you think we (Mom, Bro, Sis, me) are sick pups 'cause we're Catholic?
Dad: ... well...
(::gasp!:: You Pentecostal Poo-Poo head!)
Me: You just sing, and dance, and talk to God to your heart's content.
Dad: What the hell is wrong with you? Is that what they teach you in school? To be blasphemous?
Me: Yep. And biochemistry, too!

I hate that shit. I absolutely hate it. I love my Daddy, but when he goes off on his religious tirades, I just want to jump off a bridge or something (he later came in to the computer room, where I was, and put the television on one of those evangelical channels... only to chime in with "Amen to that!" and "Praise the Lord!" whenever someone said something he liked. "You hear that, Mija? The Bible's alive!" Cool, Pa, now can you please take that to your room and let me finish Googling slides of the male and female reproductive systems?).
I thought he would stop being that way after this one Pentecostal "sister" of his came up to my mom, brother, little sister, and me to tell us that we were all going to hell for being Catholic, this when I was like... 8.
And while he hasn't said we're going to hell, he still thinks we're basket cases for crying when the Pope died (he was adorable and funny and artistic and cool and old and sympathetic... and... who wouldn't cry?!).

Mami!! Venga pronto, que este hombre me esta volviendo loca!