L'orange

While a couple of weeks ago I had to force myself to take a break from the gym, this week it's not the same story.
Sunday... let's not talk about Sunday, that shit was a mess.
Monday, I forced myself to get off my ass and go to the gym. Once there, a dude in a bright orange shirt set up right next to me, and my hour of weight-lifting was spent fighting back tears. 

Is that you, you diving son of a bitch?!

I came home, showered, and watched the Germany game.
I haven't showered since.
I haven't left the house since.
It's a pathetic sight, really. My hair is in a bun, my left eye is a watery mess (I swear it's some sort of allergy. The pressure in that eye is off, I just know it), not a single ounce of makeup is on my face.
I've also been force-feeding myself. I'm dealing with that thing that happens to me when I'm severely upset-- angry or sad-- where I lose my appetite. I swear my esophagus closes up and any attempt to eat is practically impossible. However, I'm fully aware I MUST eat, so I sit at the kitchen table and stare at my food-- at some point I pick at it enough times to clean the plate.

But I swear it's back to reality tomorrow. I have a nice little story making me laugh, and therefore, forgetting how badly this whole World Cup shit has upset me.
What's the story? I've been invited to the bachelorette party of a girl who legitimately hates me... and this party is a small party of EIGHT (myself included)... where THREE of the attendees dislike me. Is it a set-up? Hell of reminiscent of mean-girl slumber parties where they invite the ONE girl they're going to torment all night... sorry for being paranoid, girl-power chicks, but that shit happens, and it happens often.
Fun, fun, fun.

Esta tristeza mia

Cried for a good two and a half hours after that game...
That was one of the worst feelings ever...

I can't explain it... I just know it sucks, and hurts, so much.

You never really do get used to getting cheated out of shit.

Kangaroo

How's my foot, you might ask?
Fuuuuuuucked up.
Never have a gimp girl watch her team defeat such an audacious, shit-talking, ire-inducing opposing team.

I jumped each and every goal scored by Mexico (and screamed... Jesus, I have never screamed like that before). By the third, I swore I was a kangaroo... I was getting some mean air.
Once the adrenaline died down and my heartbeat normalized... I was reminded of my mangled foot by the intense throbbing. All that jumping fucked me up.
There I went again, being a dickhead, pulling a dickhead move... idiotically re-injuring myself.


I'd totally do it again.

Vulgar R and R

I swear... if I see ONE MORE motherfucking neon-colored tutu, I'm going to lose my shit.

As you can see, I'm still very much easily agitated.
I tried making this weekend all about rehab... physical rehab, that is... obviously I don't have a substance abuse problem because I'd have to first consume some sort of mind-altering, addictive substance.
I took off from the gym since Wednesday, a little light work on Thursday (because I HAVE A PROBLEM, ok?! I can't just quit cold-turkey... it fucking KILLS me), and then NO physical activity until this evening, when I just HAD to hula-hoop to keep form going stir crazy (how can people be ok with inactivity? That fucking shit gives me a headache AND gives me nausea... like a nasty case of immaculate conception).
I just sat home and watched soccer match after soccer match. This is probably why I'm so irritable... I screamed at the television six hour of each day... either out of excitement, or extreme frustration.
"GET UP! YOU MOTHERFUCKING PUSSY ASS BITCH!!"
"YOU'RE FUCKING GERMAN! SINCE WHEN ARE YOU FRAGILE?!
"A fucking foot to your motherfucking cleat is THAT FUCKING EXCRUCIATING?! MAN UP, BIIIIIITCH!"
"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' 'BOUT!!"
"YOU'RE A MOTHERFUCKING BEEEEEEEEAST!!!!"

My vulgar World Cup antics are well documented across the lands...
I don't fuck around with that shit.

I still feel a little bit of tinnitus just writing that shit... I feel horrible for my viewing partners (for the first time in the history of my family, my DAD joined the futbol furor! Shit got annoying after he refused to only cheer for ONE team per game... the man cheers for every damn goal made-- he's the bimbo of the group).

Anyway, how's my foot doing? It's aiight.
Now don't talk to me... tomorrow's going to suck dick... fucking World Cup... fucking Mexico.
(I guess my passion for this shit is back... just extra testosterone-y. Lovely)

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.

Last thing on the list

Four year ago, I was so stoked about this event.
Actually, I've been stoked for this event since 1994... I can't really recall anything earlier than that.
This is my first year feeling... what I can best describe as apathetic.

I am so fucking bummed by my inability to feel any buzz.

WHAT THE FUCK, BRAIN?!
You get excited, and you get excited NOW.

Maybe I just need to get Mexico losing out of the way before I begin to feel some sort of passion. Right now I just feel like I'm flinching before someone pulls the trigger of a gun that's resting at the back of my head.

C'est la vie.

La vie est stupide. 

Ouuut!

Positive thing about this slight depression I've been dealing with is that I've been creative as hell.
Slowly, but surely, I'm going back to my regular self.
Last year, no matter how hard I tried, I could not doodle a damn thing.
In the last two days, I've drawn three sketches and finished two paintings. Pretty solid start... and my drawing aren't even depressing... even if I have cried a couple of times while sketching.

Overall, I'm back to smiling shape. I was even friendly in kickboxing today... even if I had one chick continuously invading my space... reeking of fried chicken (no lie. And if you're going to reek of anything, can you make it something NOT deep-fried? Like... maybe you went on a cherry-eating spree... or mango-eating-spree... even some bread-baking-spree. Fried chicken? Baby girl, stay home and digest that shit on your couch!). I wanted to kick her, but I just had to chill out... by taking wider strides in my side-lunges.
You call that a lunge?! THIS is a lunge! Hopefully that'll teach your stupid ass next time you want to invade someone's bubble.

There was a slight blip on the smiling today, thanks to soccer. I had to frown when I saw Germany lose. Yeah, I was shitting bricks thinking they would make it to the finals and rape my Spanish boys... and I should probably be happy someone stopped their rampage of terror... but I was kiiiind of looking forward to a rematch of the Euro 2008 Final. Seeing the disappointed players on the pitch, after the match, made me sad. Plus, I have acquired this freak crush on Michael Ballack thanks to his ESPN commentary... and he kind of reminds me of Jason Bourne... so DUH! He's also pretty funny when he's in a good mood. Aaaand there's that bit about Darcy being for Germany (I'd be lying if I said he wasn't all... fucking adorable in his damn Germany jersey. Then again, he'd be hot rocking a fucking burlap sack, as far as I'm concerned)... so... if I felt bad for a stranger--an ex-Chelsea player-- of course I'm going to frown for Darcy when his team fails to make the finals.
As if frowning about the surprise exit of Germany wasn't enough, as I switched the channel, I managed to catch the end of Nadal's Wimbledon match... where he was knocked out by a total nobody.
What the fuck, Sport's World? What is this garbage?!
So... there goes my interest in that fucking tournament... although... I'm still in if Federer is still in. Is he? I love him, even if he's not as aesthetically pleasing to my eyes as Nadal... 'cause come on... Nadal? That ASS? Hell yes! I'm just sweet on Federer because he's an incredible human being, aside from his athleticism, of course.

ANYWAY, I'm done for now... I still need to finish up a quick painting before I lose inspiration.
I like being normal, chirpy me.

Verde pa' la depre

This is the kind of shit I write up while slightly intoxicated:

Truth

Me mata que no puede pasar ni un día en el que no piense en ti.
Quisiera que eso fuera otra de mis exageraciones, pero es completamente verdad-- estas en todas partes.
La manera en que me haces sentir invisible es inaudito... ya quisiera yo tener ese poder.

Unos días tu recuerdo es mas fuerte que en otros.
Ultimamente, con todo lo que esta pasando en el mundo del deporte, estas resplandeciente en mi mente.
Recuerdo como hace varios años, me tratabas como amiga, pero ya ni pordiosera soy. No me haces en el mundo. Y yo de terca intentando demostrarte que valgo la pena... que enfadosa, me disculpo.
Algún día haré que entienda mi corazón, ya que sé que incomodo es tener a alguien que te admire tanto mientras tu solo quieres que te dejen en paz.
No se que me pasa, pero lo intentare de corregir. Te dare la tranquilidad que buscas.

...
People ask why I don't drink... uh, hello?!
This toook me HOURS to type, with a shitload of spellchecj. My Baaaad!

***

Hmmm. Nice one, AnoMALIE.
I'm still happy, just that whole drinking shit only amplifies my hidden feelings... obviously. Hence my usual apprehension towards the activity.
I did feel a little bummed with the outcomes of today's games, however (the Netherlands loss pissed me off, and while I went for Germany... my heart was just holding on to that hope that MAYBE Portugal would do something). As much as I complain about little bitch Ronaldo... I still like the actual country of Portugal... and Ronaldo is a total asshole when he loses... so it makes it THAT much more difficult to like him.

But every negative feeling always manages to die down when Mom prepares my favorite food:

Obviously the abundance of avocado is courtesy of... me.
I love that shit. LOVE it.

Mmmm... Enchiladas Verdes.
The sun is out, my friends. It's lovely... and life is aiiight.
Fuck anything else.

Lembrança

This marks my first EuroCup that I do not spend in Mexico.
It's pretty devastating. And weird.

I haphazardly got addicted to the EuroCup one summer in Mexico, when the only thing on all three channels of the television were showing the same thing: the EuroCup soccer matches.
I was basically forced to watch soccer or clean the house.
A. Soccer: hotass European boys (I QUICKLY made the association: European = HAIRY motherfucker. Yes, awesome looking men, but the hair... all over the place) running around, sweaty, angry, competitive.
or
B. Cleaning: splinters, sweating, sneezing, occasional rat/snake/lizard encounter.

Uh, we all know the winner here. Fuck snakes, man!
Eventually, this tradition bore some good fruits (did I use that phrase correctly? IS it even a logical phrase? I made a literal translation from Spanish so... it might... not make sense): I discovered good ol' crybaby Cristiano Ronaldo. Sure, he cries like a little girl... actually, he cries more than I do... AND he primps more than I do... but that mug... Mmmmmmmmmmmm!
He also runs like a dummy... I can pick him out of the crowd, even if all I see are little stick figures. Very distinctive. Still hot as fuck... as long as I don't get a glimpse of his tiny, creepy hands. That's the only thing that proves to me he's a mere mortal and not some... god sent from the heavens... those ugly, little fingers (manicure the shit out of them all you want, they'll always be creepy, Cristiano).
Good memories...

The previous cup, I didn't get to watch the final... because I was stuck in church.
This was better for me, since I suffer mild heart-attacks when I watch soccer matches I really care for. I was caring last time because my dudes, Spain (remember, 2008, I now had acquired my eternal love for the country after having spent a measly month with my sister over there), were playing the final against Germany- team I swore was going to rape and pillage the village (I mean, come on, when don't they?).
So, me being the ever so dedicated Catholic, and seeing how... well, the gates were pretty much open, I made a deal with the Virgin of Guadalupe (she has always been my G). Please let Spain win, and if they do, I promise to... dejarlo en paz.
And what happened? She came through.
Did I follow through with my end of the deal? Sort of. Half-assed. Ok, no, not really... not at all.
And for that, I can swear I've paid dearly.
My bad. Never again. I'm sorry, Virgencita.

Now, keeping with tradition... well, sort of, I went ahead and made my sister tie this badboy on me.
I get three wishes... which I won't divulge... but I can pretty much bet you guys will know at least two of those three.

Come on, senhor do bonfim da Bahia!

If anything, it's a nice little ribbon on my wrist. I dig.
P.S. Coming up with those three wishes? Hard as FUCK! I'm such a broken, cynical, jaded mess.

@#$%#$@!!!

I think I may have broken the record for "most vulgarities uttered in a weekend."

Yesterday was the family reunion.

That was... interesting.

I showed up at 7:30, like I said I would. 

For the most part, I was ok. I was smiling a lot because the relatives I care for showed up... and together, we made fun of the occasion.

Me: So... where the tacos good?

(I guess I should explain that I did not have a bite or drink at this party. I brought my own liter of water and I ate before showing up. I still paid my motherfucking share, but I'll get into that in a second)

Cousin X: Definitely not 100 dollars worth.

This exchange would make me laugh (EVERYONE I spoke to had that reaction)... because I did mention we were being charged to go to this shit, right ($100 per family, or $25-$30 a person)? But I do believe I failed to inform that we were going to be eating TACOS at the shindig. 

We each paid $25 for TACOS.

MEXICANS PAID SOMEONE TO PREPARE THEM TACOS... 

The taco man supposedly cost all of us TWENTY-FIVE (some paid 30... poor suckers) DOLLARS PER PERSON.

Tacos you can buy at TACOS MEXICO... you know, the ones with the baby tortillas... THE 99 CENT TACOS.

Have I managed to make my point here?

The two ladies responsible for throwing this FAMILY REUNION tried convincing US Vegas relatives that we were paying the $25 for TACOS (goddamn it, I'm going to say that motherfucking word until you hate it as much as I do). Drinks we had to pay for at the bar. Yeah, that's right, drinks NOT included in the $25 entry fee.

LadyThrowingTheParty (Maggie): These tacos are REALLY GOOD, trust me!

Yeah... no. From what I saw (and heard) I make better tacos... and I've only been in the business of making my own tacos for the last two months or so... so... I better start setting up shop, make some dough off of lazy Mexicans.

What made me cuss and get angry was the fact that I believed this dumb broad about the entry fee... her supposed reasons.

She said the place were the party was being held cost her two grand to rent.

Apparently this bitch doesn't use her fucking head when lying... or at least she doesn't put enough effort into the fucking process, and she forgot the lady who OWNS the place is my dad's 1st cousin... his favorite one. So what did Dad do? He talked to his cousin. He made her believe he wanted to throw a family reunion for their family, the D's, and he was curious to know how much it would cost him to rent the place out.

Dad'sCousin: Oh, I'd have to give you my family discount. For you, it'd be... 800.

Dad: That's cool. I'll think about it.

Dad'sCousin'sHusband: Yo, J, I'll rent it to you for 700.

Dad: Oh wow, I don't want you to lose too much in this. That price is just making me feel bad. A $1,300 discount? I'd be robbing you guys!

Dad'sCousin'sHusband: What are you talking about? We rent this place for a thousand.

... Once I heard that, I was outraged.

I mean, it's one thing to get a profit out of throwing a party for strangers, because it's your job or whatever the fuck. 

But to profit off of your family under the guise that it's a "family function"... ? What the fuck are you thinking? My parents don't bust their ass working from sun up to sun down so that YOU can have a sweet-ass life. Get a real job... or be upfront and say "Yo, this is my job, I need to make money." Don't make my folks, as well as the rest of the family, fork up dough with lies.

What infuriates me most is that the poor folks who came form out of town have NO CLUE this went on. NO CLUE.

They stayed over at the homes of these women and their immediate family, so Out-of-Town family thinks it's all roses with us.
Looking around at the party yesterday, it was obvious who was from out of town-- they were smiling and dancing.
We locals were sitting down, pissed off, usually staring at the motherfucking taco set-up... or the bar... clearly thinking "BULLSHIT!!!"

Now I'm going to stop talking about it, because I feel like I'm going to pass out from holding my breath for so long (I do it because it's the most effective way I hold back from yelling obscenities).

Let's move on to today... which can best be described like this:
FUTBOL.
I cussed, screamed, kicked, jumped... all of that shit, all while watching the female's World Cup finale.
Nothing against the Japanese squad, if I wanted anyone to win this aside from the US, it was them (after watching them rape Mexico 4-0, I knew those chicks were no joke). I agree with everyone who says that country deserves good news after such a tough start to the year. But the US had SO MANY opportunities to take this. It was their fucking match to lose... and that they CLEARLY did. Those penalties... I should have recorded myself, because I doubt I have EVER cussed and screamed that hard in my life. I was furious. Way to suck out, US.

So my chest hurt from that moment on... then I switched it to the spanish channel.
I had been switching back and forth form the women's game to the Brazil-Paraguay game, which was going in the same direction as the women's game.
The B-P game also went to penalties, and by then, the women's game was over.
Brazil missed all of their penalties.
THAT made me laugh... and the heavy weight lift off my chest.
I also cussed when that happened... form joy, obviously, because I dislike the Brazilian soccer team... since Mom, D, and Rafa love them (yeah, when they were killing it in the World Cups. I resisted).

I then went ahead and watched a third match, Venezuela-Chile. I bet Dad Venezuela was going to win, he went with Chile... and I only bet because HE suggested it (he swears he knows more than I do when it comes to soccer. It's like me claiming I know more about cars than he does. I've been watching soccer since I have use of memory... Dad watches it sporadically, when his workers won't shut the fuck up about it and he has to try and act like he knows what's going on. Cars, on the other hand, I'd rather stay away from. I know when I like a car... and I know how to change a flat tire... but aside from that, I'm fucking lost. Dad has been working with cars for two thirds of his life... he definitely knows more than I do). Since there was a bet on the line, I became emotionally invested in the game... and the colorful language began to fly.
This game was pretty intense to watch.
Venezuela's defense is... something else.
Who came out victorious? Venezolanos, baby!
Did I get paid? No. Dad just laughed in my face.
Bunch-a-bullshit.

High-five for dirty mouths! It prevents many (ME!) some mean-ass tachycardia. 

fut fut fut

Surprisingly, soccer has been ruling over my world these last few weeks.
First the Gold Cup... then it was followed up by the Women's World Cup. Within a few days, the Copa America joined the party. The u-17 world cup didn't want to be left behind (so in all, three tourneys are currently going on and it's hard to make time to watch them all).

I must say, while I AM a girl, and I DO play sports, this Women's World Cup is incredibly exasperating.
The pace is so slow, their dribbling sucks dick for the most part, and the power of their shots is weak. I feel like ripping my hair out as I watch... you know, so I can keep from falling asleep.
But still... I watch.

The Copa America is pretty much in the same category. Almost all the fucking teams are tying 0-0... except for Mexico. Those fuckers have lost both matches. Now, I could be ashamed and fall victim to the taunts form my South American friends... but see, this team they sent to play the cup is the scrub team. All under the age of 22. So... eh, whatever. Let them get their practice in.

What HAS been exciting has been watching the U-17 kids go at it. Mexico's squad made it to the finals after an insane quarter final match against Germany. Only with young kids will you ever hear of Mexico beating Germany... because teenage boys seem to be the same build at that age (unlike once they reach adulthood. Poor Mexican guys look like babies compared to the towering Europeans).
I used to know which video was the one where you could only see the last goal-- the bicycle kick-- but I'll settle for this one. Though it's weak quality, it DOES show all the goals scored.

Just lovely.

Let's go, little guys!

Moodkillah

I'm a terrible person to be around right now.
I'll admit that.
For now, I have a very short fuse... and I end up doing/saying things that kill the mood.

Scenario One: El Clásico taken up a notch to the UCL stage.
I'm an animal when watching soccer.
I am.
I will cuss my heart out, I'll scream, I'll jump... I'm HORRIBLY annoying.
That's me on a good day.
When I'm upset for some other reason? I'm worse.
Now, not only do I get to fight in person with people watching the match with me, but I also have Twitter to have my nice little arguments.

Guess who wanted to fight with me today... via tweets.
__(your answer here)__

Answer: Euro Birthday Boy.
Fucking again. As if I don't hear enough shit from him.
I'm convinced he has a serious case of ageism... and misogyny.

Whatever I say, there he goes berating me.
He treats me like I'm a huge moron just because I'm 1. a girl, and 2. younger than him.
I'm immediately a dumbass because of those two factors. Regardless of what I do or what I achieve, I'll always be a nimrod to him because I was a girl born in 1985, not a boy born in 1979.

This time, I tweeted ONCE about the Barça game:
A team once sponsored by a BLOODY DICTATOR is NO team of mine #fuckRealMadrid
He responded (not directly at me, but within minutes):
Crime pays.


Bitch say WHAT?!
Fucking passive aggressive dick.

I sat there and thought about going off on him... but instead I sat there and kept quiet, pouting... angry. Totally killing the mood for everyone around me.

I don't find the Real Madrid- Barcelona history a laughing matter. It's tragic... fucked up... and it pisses me off to see so many people hailing a team with such a crooked background as Real Madrid.
I often wonder if people know of the bullshit that went down for Real to have the dough to BUY all those amazing players that have played for the team (I'm sorry Hugo Sanchez, I love you, but it doesn't make up for the shit). Look into that. It's a nice little story of a wonderful little dictator responsible for inoffensive shit like the bombing of Guernica. Mr. Franco. That gem.

Maybe I'm more affected by this than a normal person... because I love the city of Barcelona as well as its people. I've said it plenty of times: My heart is THERE. I also hate injustices, which is what happened to the people of Barcelona and the Basque country (my "home" in Spain) during the Spanish Civil War. What Franco did to those people was despicable... I couldn't like anything he stood for.

SO, Real Madrid can go suck a dick... and laughing about how "crime pays" ain't cool in my book. It's like people who laugh about the Holocaust. How is human suffering EVER funny? Prick.

There's that rant and how it played into my shitty mood. I didn't even celebrate much even after the 2-0 win from Barça. I was still in cunt mode.

Scenario Two: Compliments + Me = Not right now.
The aunt who upset me last week when she started prying into my personal life... I love her, even if she has a very peculiar way of... "complimenting" me.
This time, our little parlay went a little like this.
Aunt: Oh my God, AnoMALIE! Look at your face!
Me: ... what?
Aunt: Where are your cute chubby cheeks?! I can't... pinch them anymore!
She tries pinching my cheeks.
Me: Apparently gone.
Aunt: So thin!Your head is so long now!
(see! There it is! That special little compliment dropping by to say hello)
Aunt: What's his name?
Me: Ummm?
I laugh nervously... 'cause here she goes again.
Aunt: The times girls lose weight drastically like that is when they're in love...
Me: Or have lost the will to live...
Room is silent.
Me: Why do you look at me like that? It's true! Girls do that!

See, in this case, everyone was happy-ish. Then I knocked down the mood by mentioning suicidal tendencies.
Well, it's not that I have suicidal tendencies... I'd never actually go through with the act because it's a terrible thing... but I often don't get the point of being alive. That's just a fact. At least once a week, I find myself thinking "What's the point?" but it doesn't mean I'll quit going through the motions. I'm too curious for what the day will bring to go off and end my life. Ok, got that settled.
Now, ever since the rejections, the last one, to be exact, something inside me cracked. I've never felt anything like that. It was me... breaking.
My body, my heart, my mind, they all simultaneously said "ENOUGH."
Having nothing to live for, I found myself not giving a fuck about me.
Uh oh. Drugs? No.
I went ahead and stopped eating... well, not entirely. I do eat, but about... 500 calories a day.
Dangerous? I don't give a fuck. I quit caring about life, remember?
No sugar, no dairy... shit, I'm not even eating salt.
And I'm only ingesting water for my liquid.

Anyway, this has all caught up with me. It's obvious on my body: my head is long (like my aunt so kindly pointed out), and my thighs can no longer feed a pride of hungry lions (maybe just a solitary jaguar now). Stuff like that.
People think I'm doing it for a guy... but honestly, it happened because-- like I said-- I no longer have a reason to... give a fuck. No, I'm not starving myself, I'm just doing something risky (that isn't drug-related) because I no longer care if I die.

Jesus Christ... I'm not making sense.
It's the lack of oxygen to my brain (RELAX! It's not even like that. I eat plenty of protein and veggies. I'm not reverting to my old anorexic ways. I'm eventually bumping up the calories in order to go back to some heavy deadlifting, squatting, bench pressing, and clean and presses. I got plans. I just have to clean up my act and start from zero. That's the God honest truth right there, not all my other sarcastic/moody shit).

Point is: I'm sad, I no longer give a shit about food, and I'm a moody little cunt that loves killing the moment for everybody else.
Oh, and I have a long head, in case I didn't stress that enough.

Busted dreams n ankles

HEARRRRRRRTBREAK!

Ok, not so bad. I was pissed more than anything. I acquired a meanass headache... and somehow injured my left ankle... ??
Too much screaming, too much jumping, I suppose.
All in all, I'm proud of my little guys... except that dumbass Osorio. When all the young guns were sharp, alert, and speedy, he was aloof... and cost us some plays, not to mention that fucking goal.
Ok, no talk of the goals, 'cause I get upset (except when we talk about the third goal, Tevez's REAL goal. Now THAT was masterfully done... a thing of beauty).

Anyway, I'm glad to be Mexican. We find a reason to party over anything.
This time it was a "We're alright... FUCK 'EM UP, GERMANY!!" party.

Of course, everyone gets drunk, the heartbreak returns, and then we start sharing current heartbreak problems over some Vicente Fernandez jams. Next thing you know, I'm tearing up, sharing certain text messages I saved on my phone, and asking people "What is SO wrong with me?!"

...not that I really did that...
I mean, it's just hypothetical....
because I never get drunk... and I never cry.

I'm glad this is all in the past.

I have to go ice my injury now, messed-up ankles are no joke.
("Hot-blooded": for when you refuse to be called "stupid")

Going south

Wow. My stroll down Bitter Lane is only getting worse.
And tomorrow...
regardless of the outcome, let it be known: I love you, Mexico!!
Unless the players give up... that's when the squad pisses me off.
That defeatist attitude is what keeps all of us down and unable to achieve greatness... I include myself in this because I'm guilty of it myself.
No one ever gets in my way... I'm always my own worst enemy, my worst critic.
Shit, I actually appreciate people doubting me. It has driven me to accomplish everything I've ever done.
High school graduation, college graduation, science major... all that good stuff. I have someone else to thank for doubting me enough to spark that vindictive side in me.

So... I hope the Mexican soccer squad has that drive.
A enseñarles quienes son los papas de los pollitos, cabrones!

Che boludos!

I found a sound I hate more than my mom's mariachi scream: my sister's disgusted scream.

Today, it was Little Sister who woke me up with her stupid sound effect when Uruguay scored.
It also didn't help that today, of all days, these ladies decided to make strawberry pancakes. The aroma had me on the verge of waking up...  it was at that weird stage where I'm still sort of sleeping, but I'm starting to become aware of my surrounding, so then they start playing a creepy role in my dreams. Giant strawberries were chasing me in the dream prior to being woken up.

Anyway, back to soccer: although Mexico passed to the next round, once again, the heart-breaking task of taking us out of the Cup is left up to the Argentinians.

Come Saturday (or is it Sunday? I'm too distraught to think clearly) I'm sure I'll be a very dejected girl... and I'll be full of rage.

Like today, what the fuck was that, Mexico? I try so damn hard to keep people from hating on the team... and just when I'm about to convert some into believers, Mexico goes off and plays like a bunch of little bitches. Makes me almost throw up bile from all this anger.

Damn it, I'm so upset. 

I hope the weekend takes its time to get here. I'm not too eager to ruin my weekend like that.

P.S. I better not listen to that Uruguayan accent today... that sucker will get punched. Argentinians will get punched regardless if they speak or not, 'cause they never fail to be annoying.

Pub D

I wasn't planning on watching the Portugal game. I had made the decision last night, since it was 3AM and I was barely getting into bed. I was going to sleep until 11 AM, in time for the Spain game... not any time earlier.

Wish not granted.
I woke up at 5 in the morning to my mom doing her damn mariachi scream... then her knocking at my door.

"ARE YOU WATCHING THE GAME?! You can sleep in peace now... they're 2-0, Portugal has it in the bag!"

Thanks mom... I'll try.

Curiosity killed the cat, however, and I turned on my television.
I planned on watching the rest of the game in my room, but after hearing the rest of the family in the living room, and remembering that the TV there is four times the size of mine (i.e. better view of Cristiano Ronaldo. You're retarded if you think I'd pass that up), I decided I was going to get a little decent and head out there.

In the middle of putting on a t-shirt, mom runs in and opens the door on me.

"AAAAAJUUUUAAAAA!"

"What the fuck, Mom?! I''m changing!"

"Another one!"

"I don't care!"

The woman was more excited about the damn game than I was.
I was irritated, but then more goals came... and of course... there was an abundance of Cristiano smiles... and poof! all my anger/irritation vanished.
Then I started feeling bad for the NKoreans. It was a freakin' massacre.

I tried staying awake for the Chile game, but once I saw the goal, I went back to my room, into bed, and left the TV on.
When I woke up again, I saw the Spain game was about to start, so I dashed for the living room.
I had not realized my sister's friends dropped by to watch the game, turning the living room into... pretty much a pub.
I skipped into the living room... barefoot, in my mismatched pajamas (black wife beater with "patch-work" shorts that shouldn't even be considered shorts- I've seen underwear bigger than that. But it's hot, give me a fuckin' break)... with my hair all fucked up... and last night's mascara making beautiful raccoon patches around my eyes.
Sweet.

I lost my hearing, felt my face get hot, and excused myself, self-banished to my room for the remainder of the game.
That will teach me a lesson about running freely in my house in shitty pajamas!
Good thing Spain won (although they could have scored more than twice. Missed penalty, Villa... really?!), or else... I'd be thinking about moving to the other side of the world, and deleting my FB for good.

Now Mexico tomorrow.
Uff.
Please, make it a winner, boys!!

Fightin' Irish

Drunk by 1PM.
Carne Asadas everywhere.
Mariachi music blasting.
Devastated French people.

Heaven... simply heaven.

I'm having a ball making fun of all my Mexican friends who talked trash about Mexico.
Suddenly, after this game, they are all either Chicharito or Cuauhtemoc fans.
Prior to this, they'd bitch about 'temoc being too old (even if he brings experience to such a young squad. That little hunchback gives the team such an unbelievable boost in morale when he comes in), Chicharito being a girl (girl or not, that kid was signed by Man U. A Mexican at Old Trafford!), and how "Mexico should stick to what they're good at: novelas and drug dealing!"

Now, they "knew all along Mexico was gonna kill it."
Get the fuck out of here.
But whatever... one must learn to live with bandwagon-ers. I'm too stoked about Mexico kicking France's ass to care too much.
Not only do I have beef with that country for personal reasons (Paris 2008, which I never fully explained on here and now I refuse to because the memories still upset me), but their squad is the most intensely hated squad on my list.
They weren't legit in getting into the World Cup in the first place... that Henry hand was bullshit.
I'd like to think my boys avenged the Irish, with whom I sympathize because my family's Irish in spirit: Notre Dame, baby!

You're welcome, Ireland. I just wish we could all get drunk and make fun of France together!

Way to make an impact!

My brother has officially beaten me to stardom.
Ok, I never aimed for stardom- I shy away from anything that resembles attention.
But anyway, my brother made it on international television today by appearing in the background of a Spanish news show syndicated in the US and numerous Latin American countries (Primer Impacto).

He's spending the summer in South Africa, interning at the US embassy, and so, he gets to do the most unbelievable shit!
While last summer he spent it in DC being one of Hillary Clinton's secretaries (at one point being responsible for divulging the news of MJ's death to news groups), this summer he lives in Durban and gets to travel to multiple World Cup matches. Lucky bastard!

Anyway, he's rocking a white US soccer team jersey... the only dude with a US jersey, actually, and he's also drinking this huge Heineken. Luckily, he's not making an ass of himself... he just looks like hes really enjoying that beer (until the very end, before it cuts off... he makes a horrible thiz face).
Being his nearly-twin sister (ok, not really, he's a year and a half older than me, but we're still pretty in synch), I can tell he's thinking "Oh my God... I'm really here!" because that's his "Oh my God... I'm really here!" face (the last frame). Here are some stills from the video: 

Anyway, I was having a relatively shitty day, and this tiny action made me giggle from 3 in the afternoon until... I'm still smiling!

I love my brother... he's so fucking awesome!

"Just an army boy," HA!

I'm sorry, sleepy time!

For the last couple of weeks, I've been trying to adjust my natural sleeping schedule.
It has been rough, and I am never happy about waking up at any time prior to 10AM.
I've managed to train my body to get up at 8 in the morning, considering I go to bed at 3 in the morning.
That was the best I could do.
Now, the day finally came, and I never made it to waking up at 6... at least, not with a smile on my face or the desire to be nice to people.

Why am I doing this?
Because the damn World Cup is in South Africa.
But I guess it could be worse, like that time it was held in Korea. Those were the most miserable times of my life.

Anyway, the games start tomorrow and my Mexican lovelies get to play the opener.
6AM.
Nice.

So, I apologize ahead of time...
for he next month is going to be a rough one for me. But, LET'S DO THIS!

 Go Mexico! Go Spain! Go Portugal! USA... well, don't be total dicks, k?

My room looks like a fucking embassy.

Ah, yes, and just for shits 'n giggles, here's my deluded bracket:

Crazy? Just a little.

Lindo y Querido

Deportation... that would have sucked... had I not been born in the US (segue-way master, huh?).
Still, I love my beautiful Mexico.

This will be my first year in ten years not spending my summer (or part of it) in Mexico, the 5th time of my entire life.
I've had my moments of weakness when I think I can go out there for at least two weeks... but then the more reasonable part of my brain jumps in and slaps me back to reality- it's horribly dangerous out there (Why, DGO? WHY?! Once BBC talks about it, you know it's no joke), no one is going, and I no longer have much of a reason to be out there.
Plus, my diversion for boring days/afternoons while out there is now out of the question. Playing Guitar Hero (as has been the case for the last 2 Mexico summers) is a bad idea because, to this day, I can't play without crying. No, not out of desperation. We all know I kick major ass at the guitar (gold-starring on expert. Get on my level, sucka!), I could also be part of a Nirvana/Coldplay cover band if need be (notice I didn't mention a chick band. My voice is a sad, sad situation... I perfect Kurt Cobain's range by just using my talking voice... it makes me laugh but feel sad at the same time), but I cry 'cause I can't stop thinking about how much the damn game irritated my grandma.

So no... NO Mexico.

However, my heart will be 100% Mexican this summer... because of that magical time in one's life that comes up ever four years, better known as: The World Cup!
I'm stoked for the games, even if they'll be at a freakishly early hour (for me, 5-7AM is ungodly considering I usually go to bed at 3AM), and yes, like any good Mexican, my hopes are high.

But I must admit: my hopes might be a little TOO high.
I realized this fault of mine after the recent Mexico - England game.
A week ago, I completed my fantasy bracket and placed Mexico... in the semi-finals (after defeating England in the quarter final match)!
I know... I know... what the fuck was I thinking... but like I said, I had high hopes. They have a tremendous squad... and that might have been the culprit behind this example of momentary insanity. Mexico's U-17 world championship back in '05 makes me trust these young kids like crazy... however, it's just... man, when playing with the big dogs... it becomes a wreck!

So I'm a realist: Spain's my rooster.

Honorable mention goes to Portugal... because they're the reason I'll be getting up early... because they have the most beautiful, albeit sluttiest, man in the universe... that I liked before he was so popular... you know, back in '04 when he cried more than a new born child.
Biggest disappointment? Brazil... for not calling on Ronaldinho.
Team I hate? FRANCE. Fuck those cheating mother fuckers (all this considering I'm not Irish).

I promise never to make any more brackets again... well, at least brackets that contain the Mexican soccer team, we all know I think with my heart when those guys are involved... and like in real life, those boys ALWAYS break my heart!