Pinocchios everywhere

One of my all-time favorite activities has become staring a liar in the face as he or she is telling me a blatant lie. I fucking LOVE it. I do this shit as a learning experience. It helps me catch their "tell."
Once a poker player, always a poker player.
I don't say a word... I usually just smile-- that's MY tell, my tell that I caught you lying and now I'm pissed. If you're telling me something, and you catch my face switch from quiet detachment to a raised brow and a smirk, bitch, I caught you... fuck your integrity, you have none.

Three months into this new year and I've had to deal with this sort of shit WAY too much, and with subject matter that is WAY too fucking deep for my comfort.
While I AM uncomfortable with the way 2016 has gone so far, in terms of being lied to DIRECTLY to my face, it has also proven to be one of the best lessons ever. I am getting so good at catching a lie, I am willing to bet I'd make it to the final table at a few poker tourneys.
This, of course, doesn't do much for the pent up anger I'm accumulating.
Bitch, WHY lie? WHY do people find it necessary to lie and manipulate? It will never cease boggling my fucking mind... or pissing me off. What a major act of disrespect to one's intellect, to have to deal with some fucking dishonest asshole.

I'm not mad, right now, I'm actually entertained... but I swear, one more motherfucker lobs a lie in my direction this week, I'm fucking them up.

recipe to exacerbate me

The FB feature which reminds me of the bullshit I did in the past, on the date, has changed my behavior.
Things I wrote back in 2007 up to like... 2012 are ridiculously embarrassing, not to mention annoying as fuck.
I become mortified each time the fucking notification appears.
Because of this embarrassment, I've become much more quiet over the recent years. Then again, I can't blame it all on my emotional state. My acquisition of family members on FB has also made me become increasingly silent.
Of course I know that I can place them on limited view and all that shit, but I've never been a fan of going through all that trouble. I've never really been a fan of censoring myself in that way-- the only thing I do which is private is my original on-line journal, which no one can access except me, and then there's this, which is under a pseudonym. Even with this pseudonym, people have been able to find me because I slip up and do something stupid like link my email address and that shit.
However, my IG account as well as my Twitter are public-- I don't put it out there for others to find, but they certainly can (and HAVE) if they snoop hard enough.

OBVIOUSLY my opinions get me in trouble.
This shouldn't bother me, because in my heart of hearts, I know I'm only telling the truth. As someone who spends her damn life observing others, and has been doing this since a fucking toddler, I believe I have a pretty solid grasp on what is good and bad behavior, what is fucked up, what is selfish, what is mean spirited, what and who sucks. Honestly. (Not saying someone can't fucking bamboozle me into thinking they're better people than they actually are... because that's the story of my fucking like, that should probably be titled "Wait, you're a lying piece of shit too?")
Sometimes I speak out of anger, and even then, what I spew tends to be a long-held opinion which has been simmering on low for fucking months, if not years.

OK! So, point is: I'm now very quiet on most social media (NOT Twitter. I still go off the rails on that badboy. It's my fucking therapy).
The self-imposed gag order has been conducive to keeping my sanity.
Then, of course, I am fucking idiotic and think "I gotta share this!"
Always a bad idea.
ALWAYS fucking problems.

My WORST problem is how fucking worked up when certain people purposely ignore my post. I know there are people out there with busy lives who don't have time to sit there and "like" shit, and they don't work me up. It's their fucking M.O.
But the motherfuckers who NEVER FAIL to like or post shit on FB... like their goddamn Starbucks cup of coffee... or some motherfucking harboiled eggs they had for breakfast... or their goddamn seventh selfie of the day-- FUCK those people. FUCK. THEM.
I especially take note of people who are well known for their absence from my posts. Like, ZERO acknowledgement of me... EVER... in the history of our FB friendship.
WHY ARE WE FRIENDS, YOU FUCKING CUNT?!
And the people MOST NOTORIOUS of this? My own goddamn cousins, the paternal side of the family, that is.

Last week, while visiting my mom's sister, we were discussing this latest trip.
My aunt slipped up.
She mentioned how at one of the Posadas, the family gathered around phones and looked through my photos from the trip-- ladies who DID NOT give me props... but at this fucking Posada were all fucking praising it loudly with their "Oh how beautiful" and blah blah blah. It was the motherfucking topic of conversation. MY PHOTOS. MY TRIPS.
THAT'S what pisses me off. The fact that they want to put on this fucking front around family like everything so fucking fantastic and awesome, "YAY! Go AnoMALIE!", but to MY FACE they don't say shit, they don't acknowledge shit.
It drives me FUCKING NUTS.
These are going to be the same fucking cunts who are going to get theatrical at my funeral some day.

SO, this trip did that negative to me. It made me get extra neurotic and pissed at the CLEARLY hatin' ass family I belong to... and now I'm resentful as fuck with my "I KNOW THIS IS A MOTHERFUCKING AWESOME PHOTO AND YOU'RE A DUMB MOTHERFUCKING CUNT WHO WILL NEVER HAVE THIS GODDAMN SKILL YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!" rage.

But hey... hope life continues to treat them exactly like they treat others.

I mean... other people MUST notice it, right? How these fucking imbeciles are notoriously absent from my life, regardless of how fucking rad my shit might be.

Ugh. I just made myself angry again. I'm an idiot... and easily exacerbated idiot.

Go to a pageant

It's that time of the year again, when I lose my fucking cool with those in my life who decide to judge me on Halloween.

GOOD TIMES!

I don't see why they see it as absolutely imperative to let me know how me dressing up as whatever the fuck, will automatically condemn me.
The actual saintly people in my acquaintance will calmly watch, often enjoy, as everyone parades in his or her costume... not saying a word.
But those dumb motherfuckers who have one mega-long tail for others to step on? First to fucking judge. FIRST.

If you're divorced: fuck you. Shut up. Don't judge me.
If you fucked before getting married: Fuck you. Shut up. Don't judge me.
If you had a kid out of wedlock: FUCK YOU. Don't judge me.
If you'e ever done drugs: FUCK YOU. DON'T JUDGE ME.

Treat others as you'd like to be treated.
You will be judged with the same severity you judge others.

BE KIND.

... And take that fucking stick out of your ass.

My goodie-goodness will probably trump yours, as far as the bible rules go... so fuck you for your self-righteous sermon all because I dressed like some motherfucking zombie or whatever the fuck I choose to be.
Quite frankly, I only keep dressing up to troll these dickheads.

Happy Halloween!

This makes it how many times?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking pussy shit.
Man.

Shanna 2013

And one last rant:

When you really give a shit about someone, you're happy with the simple fact that THEY'RE happy... regardless of whether you're included in there or not.
When you really give a fuck, you do your best to make THEM happy.

I gave a huge fuck about Darcy, I still do, and I always will.
I did, however, learn that HIS happiness does not include ME in the way I wish it did, that it NEVER did... and I ACCEPTED IT.
I will STILL always do everything in my power to help out the guy or anyone he cares about.
I will NEVER speak ill of him. I don't care WHAT happens.

YOU, however... YOU have taken this despicable, dishonest, disgusting, SELFISH, juvenile attitude of... somehow being WRONGED. Of having ZERO accountability (I can't believe I'm using this word, Kelley... Jesus, how time changes shit... I'm suddenly Shanna's angry boyfriend. hahaha). And THAT is what infuriates me.
If you really ever gave the slightest DAMN about me, you wouldn't have meddled and manipulated your way into my shit.
You made me think he didn't even consider me a FRIEND. HOW WAS THAT OK IN YOUR FUCKING STUPID HEAD?! That is FUCKED. UP. You made him look like a monster, and you made me feel like a complete and total ZERO... so that you'd appear to be the hero? How is that ok? How is that fucking justifiable? And you don't own it! That's what riles me up. "Perhaps it could have been interpreted like that." Bullshit! It WAS said with intent to harm and you're taking away ALL responsibility from having ever uttered such hurtful fucking BULLSHIT with your roundabout, idiotic answers.
You wouldn't have been so incredibly selfish and thought only about YOUR happiness.... YOUR comfort.

You manipulate everyone around you into thinking you're the most sincere person we've ever met. That poor, poor you always gets shafted.
Boo-hoo. 
Pobrecito.
:(
Bullshit.
You get what you deserve. You get what you've worked for, and in my case, it's perpetual resentment and distrust.
I can't even fathom EVER trying to manipulate Darcy... or wronging him in any way. Fucking ridiculous you claim to like me and blah blah blah, yet you said and did some fucking horrible things to me... and now clearly are making me out to look like a cold, monstrous, psychotic cunt. Whatever helps you live with yourself... as deluded as that world may be... but I do hope you remember it's a MADE UP, IMAGINARY WORLD.

Keep thinking you're sneaky, crafty, and witty.
You're a parrot: you regurgitate what OTHERS feed you... most often with a flaw in your diction, which gives you away as the phony you truly are.

I hope some day you learn not to hurt others for your personal gain.

I don't like you like that. I never did. I never will (ESPECIALLY NOT NOW). GET OVER IT. Grow a fucking pair of balls and act like a real goddamned friend. Own your fucking shit! Asshole.

Goldie locks

I have reached the point where I can no longer keep track of the number of times my writing has gotten me in trouble.
I've been placed on suicide watch, I've been told to have a psychiatric evaluation, I've released a couple of family secrets that led to moments of shunning... the list goes on.
I KNOW my writing gets me in trouble.
I KNOW my writing gets analyzed-- more often than not, it is done so INCORRECTLY... like most people's writing does.
As far as getting analyzed (criticized) by others goes, I'm usually fine with it... but I must say, I prefer it done in my presence... that way I can take the conversation as more of a constructive effort than a gossip session. I can also take people out of their mistake if they just so happen to read into my shit just... totally incorrectly.
Also, if you base your judgment of me SOLELY on what you read here, you're committing a terrible mistake. Often, what I write on here is what I write under great stress... or rage... or... any strong emotion which I bottle up and only release here.
And again... you can't fucking base your analysis on what you read... because often, you're a dumbshit who has shitty reading comprehension/analytical reading skills IN THE FIRST PLACE... and so, the writing devices I often employ will be lost upon you (oh yeah, many things of which I write are excerpts of a larger picture... of literary work... not... you know... for your goddamned WEAK analysis of me).

So, let me hit a topic which works me the fuck up, and seems to always be in the mouths of others... especially recently, because of these last two weeks of Darcy:
The romance department.
Analysis:
"Your standards are too high."

Why does it work me up? Because it's WRONG.

A.) Yes, Darcy is the dude of dudes. He is the guy that no guy has matched. He is smart, witty, funny, ridiculously handsome and all that shit that I like... that I like A LOT... like... the most I've liked in anyone. His existence makes me feel pretty things. And he accomplished this status without even trying, without even touching me, and hardly having ever crossed a couple of words with me. It's just shit he inspired without even trying... my brain chemistry went apeshit when I met him, and so... I love the guy. And I understand that this is not reciprocated AND I did not cry about it... just went on that Kanye-styled stream of consciousness from the other night. He will always be the guy my heart beats for. He's the dude who will never be with me. And I've come to terms with it. End of story.

B.) My so called "standards" are these:
1. MUST. BE. SMART.
2. Must make me laugh.
3. I MUST be physically attracted to him.
All three in one, no exceptions.

C.) My "standards" exist because of this:
1. I may downplay my intelligence... mainly by remaining quiet under most circumstances, but I am ONE MOTHERFUCKING BRIGHT COOKIE. However, I allow everyone else to do the talking, because I enjoy listening (as long as it's not incoherent RAMBLING)... I learn a lot from others, and I just fucking love learning. Somehow, this gets twisted into me not participating because I'm a dumbass.
Permit me to be a fucking snobby cunt right now: I am NOT dumb. I aced my way through the most elite classes offered by the schools I attended, and not ONCE was I in a remedial class, not even considering the fact that I started my education in Spanish-only classes.
I read WAY TOO FUCKING much and I did WAY TOO MUCH fucking math and science-- mostly against my very free-spirited, naturally bohemian will.
My AP, SAT, ACT, MCAT, AND GRE scores back me up on this. Just because I don't brag about it, does NOT mean I'm an idiot... I just don't like bragging... because this shit is personal to me... it's something I prefer to keep to myself.
So, I'm a smart girl... and I MUST have a smart dude. He doesn't have to be a genius, but his wit must be something I enjoy. How the fuck are we expected to communicate if he doesn't understand what the fuck I'm talking about? My mind must be stimulated first if anything is expected to happen.
Also, if you tell me you don't like math, you cease to exist to me.
2. I am a GOOD GIRL. I am loyal (I'm a virgin for crying out loud! What more proof do you need to convince you I am not easily swayed?). When I love, I am selfless-- I give my all. I am faithful. I dedicate my being to my love and making him the happiest human in the universe. I won't lie to you. I won't nag you. I don't look at any other guy but MY guy. I don't drink to excess (exceptions ARE made. I KNOW how to party, but only when I feel SAFE to make a fool of myself. Instances are RARE, but DO exist) or smoke or do drugs-- I've never done drugs, even if I was/am surrounded by them. I go to the gym and work on maintaining a healthy body-- my body is my temple... temple I give entirely to the one I love. I am a motherfucking GOOD GIRL.
3. I am rich (snobby enough for you?). I may dress like a beggar, but that's because I fucking like it. I don't need to find a dude to financially support me... I'm good. If I get a dude, it's purely because I LOVE him, not because I love or need his fucking money. That shit has been LONG taken care of.
4.. The physical thing... that is of the upmost importance to me. If your presence irks me, you're as good as invisible to me. As a person who was... as a person whose trust and love was betrayed-- in the most vile way-- at the age of seven, by one of the adults she most trusted in the universe, I HATE unapproved touching. If I DON'T like you near me, I FUCKING DON'T LIKE IT. To try to attempt to "convince" me otherwise will only inspire HATE from me... sometimes violence. You CAN'T and you WON'T "teach" me to "like" or "accept" your presence. If I like you, I like you, if I don't, then I don't. Some dudes I allow to grab my ass, others I don't even enjoy accidentally brushing my shoulder. I don't NEED to "accept" ANYONE.
I don't fear solitude... shit, I don't really fucking enjoy company. I find it unnecessary to constantly have some guy I don't give two shits about HOUNDING me for attention. I don't have the vocation of a maid... or a babysitter. I hardly care about taking care of myself... I don't care to add a second person I'm not in love with.

To say my "standards are too high" implies I'm either TOO LOW to ask for this or just undeserving. Am I really undeserving of this? HELL NO.

I have ZERO need for a guy in my life. It's not a pressing issue.
I was abused as a kid, therefore I have zero desire or TOLERANCE to put up with someone who does not make me FEEL.
To make me feel, you must be smart (truly possess intelligence, none of this mimicry of your smart friends. Eventually the truth comes out, and when it does, I WILL resent the fuck out of you), make me giggle, and I must feel absolutely captivated by you. That. Is. It.
Since someone HAS managed to captivate me, I know the possibility exists... so WHY THE FUCK AM I GOING TO SETTLE for someone who does not inspire the slightest bit of... similar chemical magic?
If I don't find it, I am FINE staying alone... because it only means I won't have to put up with some dumb motherfucker who irks me... demands I feed him and fuck him until I just commit suicide by jumping off some fucking cliff. Some fucking prick who feels entitled to my eternal gratitude for plucking me out of my solitude to cook and clean for him.
Awwwww, how fucking romantic! How fucking benevolent of you, sir, and how motherfucking inconsiderate and delusional of me!

To say I have too high a standard is FUCKED UP. And a lie.
I'm not asking for too much, I'm asking for what is fair.
I fucking DESERVE to have a guy I feel a magnetic attraction for. I've been a good girl, I am a great girl... and I've had some really fucking shitty stuff happen in my life... I should finally get to be with a guy I choose... IF such a man exists and wants to be with me. I should NOT ever again have to sit there and allow someone who WANTED me to TAKE ME against my will. NEVER. AGAIN. No MEANS NO.

"You'll learn to like it." "You'll learn to like me."

Uh, no, NO I won't. I don't HAVE to learn anything!

Hyena bait

My friends... my close friends, all knew what was going down these last two weeks.
They never admitted it, but I'm sure they felt sorry for me (not the type of pity I hate, but that... head shake you make when a friend tells you of a terrible idea of theirs, but you just let them do it... because you know trying to convince them otherwise would be futile... so you just... shake your head. Oh... baby... bad idea... but... ok...), because I'm an idiot with poor luck.

I did not cry a single day in these two weeks. I think it was two weeks. I attribute this to that initial shock I have to traumatic events.

Wait... no... I did cry last week... when... I... was cornered at a pub by a moron who does not understand no means NO... a manipulative, lying idiot.

It was all too much.
I would look around and note no one would try and get this blubbering moron off me... and it would sometimes make me laugh out loud to see how BAD everyone was at noticing my discomfort... some of them even encouraging it. Then I grew upset thinking that maybe it was because no one CARED about my discomfort... and once that idea entered my mind, I spent the rest of the night trying my hardest not to cry.
You're alone. You're a stranger. All you have is this creep who is hounding you like a vulture does a dying animal... and all you want to do is kick and scream and disappear... as everyone around you has a good time, has a partner, is part of a group... group that occasionally turns around to watch you squirm... with zero intent to help you out.
I'm just a piece of meat for this hyena... that's all I've EVER been. I don't matter... I NEVER DID!

I ran to my car that night... I jogged through the casino, and once I entered the parking lot, I burst into a sprint. The tears flowed the moment I started the sprint... the sobbing didn't start until I entered the safety of my car.

Obviously this reaction stems from my childhood.
I grow agitated when someone pushes themselves on me... regardless of HOW MANY TIMES I've told them no... regardless of the DIFFERENT WAYS I've told them NO. Hmmm... I wonder why...
When I see people apathetic to my distress... well... that just... devastates me. Few things hurt more than this... very, very few things.
These are things that will always hurt me, for as long as I live... I know it.
The fact that this all happened in Darcy's presence... killed me.
Just another slap across the face from Life, trying it's damn hardest to cement the fact that I am, and have been, rather meaningless in his life.
Just another girl. Nothing more, nothing less.

(Ohhhh shiiit! Look at me on my Kanye rant flow! I think I have juice for another story before I go to bed... perhaps two if I stay focused)

Used Condom

It is astonishing how fast this year is speeding by.
I'm fuckin' dying.
Not literally... at least not to my knowledge.

The wedding used to feel like it was decades away... and now I have less than two weeks to get my shit together.
Today was the day I decided to take my dress for alterations.

This fucking dress PISSES ME OFF.
I don't understand the fucking purpose of getting your measurements taken, to ultimately be told "Yeah, so according to OUR chart, your bust is a size 13--if we made it-- your waist is a 10, and your hips are a size 15, if we made it. So... you might want to think about your largest part... so... it's either a size 14 or 16 dress you're going to have to order."
A size 14 or 16... when my waist is a 10. I dropped 200 bucks at a bridal shop to buy a PRE-MADE dress... that did not fit my upper body... not only was it baggy, but it was too short on my TORSO. MY TORSO! I'm 5'9"... how the fuck is that a freak size? AND ON A SIZE 14! What kind of fucking standard do they follow for a size 14? An obese midget? WHAT THE FUCK?!
AND THEN they charge 200 more fucking dollar for alterations... TWO-HUNDRED-FUCKING-DOLLARS.
Yeah, like I don't have anything better to do with four hundred dollars, so I'll just burn them on a fucking IDIOTICALLY SHAPED DRESS.
Why not just charge the four hundred dollars upfront and MAKE THE DRESS ACCORDING TO MY MEASUREMENTS?! Accommodate my freakishly long torso, big tits, and HIPpopotamus lower-half in one fucking shot.
Don't give me a fucking dress that will lead me to uncontrollable tears the moment I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and notice I resemble a dick covered in a fucking used condom. FUCK!

SO ANYWAY... I go ahead and put on the dress, proceed to scratch the fuck out of it as I mistreat it while looking in the mirror... and of course I cry. I'm offended by what I see AND I'm frustrated, AND it makes me feel like the ugliest piece of shit walking this planet.
You're a FREAK! YOU'RE ABNORMAL. THIS is why guys don't like you... you don't fit into the NORMAL shit... you will ALWAYS be a fucking heifer, dumbass.
I HATE dresses to begin with, but when the dress makes me feel like a fucking freak of nature, it makes me miserable. It makes me feel like such an abnormal... ugly... stupid excuse for a girl.
Why can't I be normal and fit in a pre-made dress?
I don't feel so out of the norm... and my ass is actually SMALLER than the average Latina's... yet here I am... still having to buy a BAG for a "dress."

So yeah, I've basically been crying all goddamned day because girls here are expected to be noodles with stupidly narrow hips... and because evidently I can never ever be considered fucking NORMAL.

FUUUUUCK, I HATE WEDDINGS!

Engaged

I have a joke with one of my friends, where we say we're engaged. We continuously refer to this supposed engagement all over the place.

By now, after so many years of dealing with Facebook and the drama it causes, I should have known some sort of bullshit was going to happen in regards to this banter with my faux-fiancé.

The day we arrived in Costa Rica, it took all of half an hour for others to start digging into my relationship status. THIRTY-FUCKING-MINUTES.
We were whisked into my friend's mother's home upon arrival from the airport, and quickly ushered into the dining room.
I was digging into my arroz con pollo, when the first jab at my status was thrown my way.
ManOfTheHouse: Decided to leave the boyfriend at home?
Me: Nah. No boyfriend to worry about.
ManOfTheHouse: Oh, so you're here to find yourself a Tico boyfriend, I see.
Me: Nah. I just really like it here.
ManOfTheHouse: Because your "rib" is calling you here. You'll find him in due time.
Me: ... nah.

My "rib." Get the fuck out of here.
I lost my appetite and went to play some soccer with my little ones.

The following day, my friends took me to a huge, private hospital. Francisco, the man of the group, is friends with the administrator of the cardiology department, and told us the dude was eager to meet Mom and me if we were cool with it (the man owns an island off the coast, this was flattering as fuck. Of course we agreed!).
Fran: Good place to find a Tico boyfriend ::wink::
Me: ... I dropped out of medical school because I hate doctors... (but I DID have interest in cardiology... goddamn it)

For the following two hours spent at the hospital, each young dude we bumped into would elicit some sort of wink or eyebrow raise from Francisco towards me. I'd just crack a side-smile and shake my head.
... there were about seven cute guys. Whatever. I'm a girl, ok? I have eyes and have a vast appreciation of the male form. Shit.

Friday we had a school function to attend for the littlest of my buddies, so we headed over in the early afternoon.
As we waited in line to enter the school, we started talking about the next couple of days, which we were going to spend camping in the jungle and shit of that nature. Mom and I were thanking them for the time they were taking out of their schedule to spend it with us and show us around.
Francisco: It's the least we could do. All we ask is that we get invited to AnoMALIE's wedding.
Me: No need for that, just come as soon as you can, because if you wait until my wedding, you'll never get to see the States.
Francisco: You're really NOT getting married?
Me: NO! Never!
Francisco: Doesn't that upset your boyfriend? Or are you guys just planning to elope? If you elope, just let us know at least a month in advance so we can make it to that.
Me: Nah, no eloping. No marriage. No boyfriend. I'm staying single forever. So no weddings or any of that.

The rest of the week, even while we were out checking out mangroves and geeking out over toucans and white-faced capuchin monkeys and hermit crabs and fucking boas, references to my "fiancé" were made. It took me ALL WEEK to try to convince them I truly was not engaged, had no intention to marry ANYONE, and that I was fine alone-- I am fine living vicariously through others (I'll just watch YOU fuck up not only your life, but also the lives of others. I'll chill here and occasionally cry myself to sleep when feeling extra lonely... then proceed to continue with my worry-free life).
Did I succeed in convincing them?
My second-to-last day in Costa Rica, we went to the ritziest mall in San Jose and window-shopped, for the most part (we wound up buying about 200 dollars-worth of coffee. That shit is MAAAAAAAAGIC, I tell ya!). We walked past a wedding dress store.
Francisco: Look! That dress is perfect for AnoMALIE' wedding with *DudeFriendIJokeWith*

Mom stares at me. My little homies stare at me and giggle with their mom.

Me: Nah. Nope. No wedding. With anyone. Ever. No dresses. Not gonna happen.

I tried to be happy during this trip... and I was... at times I was pretty fucking euphoric (those goddamned adorable, intelligent capuchin monkeys... and the lovelorn toucans, made me feel like I was going to burst out of my skin... as did all the fucking rice I ate out there, but that's another story), but there was this wild, lingering sense of sadness. It would be... somewhat unbearable sometimes.
It's one thing to hate on myself for being so alone and unable to attract dudes (that I like, to be fucking clear here), but another to feel the pity and judgement from others because of my single status. They feel SO SORRY, and SO COMPELLED to hook me up-- with ANYONE-- as if that's the sole purpose of living. Live to be in a relationship? To have a companion? To fuck? WHY? Why is it so unacceptable to be alone? Is it unthinkable that some folk out there enjoy solitude?
Yeah, it makes me sad if I think about NEVER finding someone I click with... to go on all these adventures without my "rib"... that perhaps my lobster has been captured and digested a LONGASS time ago... but I resigned myself to this life.
I've said it before: I'm alone. I'm solitray. I always have been. I can't MISS something I've NEVER had... no use in YEARNING for it.
My creative writing teacher always said the point in life was to find something to keep us occupied while the hearse gets here... and that's what I do. I stay occupied by drawing, and writing, and reading, and coloring, and throwing rocks, and climbing shit, and lifting shit, and seeing shit... asking questions, answering questions, laughing, crying... all that shit. Nowhere in there am I making out with boys, groping or getting groped, fucking, and MUCH LESS raising babies. You see that as weird? Well, I see your low-tolerance of chilies as weird, but you don't see me rubbing a fucking habanero all over your face.
Live and let live.
Is it sad that I CAN'T and probably WON'T find love? Yeah, I guess, since the majority of the world seems to do a decent job at it... and it is kinda sad to read about all those people who die all alone and shit... but I stay busy and play around with my surroundings, waiting for that hearse to pick me up.

Coffee withdrawals

This month marks my one year of coffee addiction.
I was never a coffee drinker, not even though my AP high school years, or even my college years.
I joke that I could have been mormon.

However, after going to Costa Rica last year, I got in the habit of drinking black coffee twice a day.
This last month, in preparation for May's wedding, I've staved off the coffee. I do my best to keep my grill clean, but coffee stains, regardless of how intense I may floss or rinse, are impossible to avoid.
SO, in hopes of getting my grill as white as possible, I've called it quits on caffeine until the fucking lame spotlight is off me.

This has turned out incredibly difficult... this exclusion of coffee.
I'm more restless than ever. I go to bed after three in the morning... then I wake up tired as hell.
I spend the time at the gym yawning like a bored feline.
I'm fuckin' dyin'!
Speaking of which, I even have withdrawals, where I swear I'm suffering a heartattack. Random bouts of tachycardia surprise me throughout the day. I have to giggle to myself as I think weird shit while encountering the palpitations.
Shit would fucking suck if I passed out right now... driving 80 MPH on the highway... that would be one fiery fucking mess...

I swear, if I'm going through all this motherfucking trouble to look half-decent for this retardedass wedding... and I get stuck with the fucking CREEP of the groomsmen (as is fucking CUSTOMARY, since I'm good ol' sweet idiotic AnoMALIE... who doesn't say shit and just sits there and smiles while her partner is running around, making a fucking scene)... I'm going to pick up my shit and walk out. Plain and simple.

The back of my mind is telling me this is certainly going to happen... because AnoMALIE + weirdos go hand in hand like... Spring and flowers.
I'm going to bet I get a weirdo... or a divorcé.... ohhhh! My money's on the divorcé who will spend the rest of the night swearing up and down that I want his fucking dick.
Great. I just jinxed myself. I feel dirty already.
Good shit.

Sweetheart? SWEETHEART?!

I was really hoping my friend had forgotten about me agreeing to being a bridesmaid at her Mexican wedding.
Then I received her group message today.
It was a photo of the dress and information on how she was mailing us a sample of the dress fabric.

NO WAY.
FUCK!
DAMN IT!

I'm officially a bridesmaid when I was never really... formally asked. I was just unlucky enough to be sitting at the same table at the sushi restaurant my sister had chosen for us three to catch up. Supposedly D and this friend were going to talk about the wedding plans... then suddenly the bride-to-be starts talking in plural... and I kinda hoped it was her having shitty grammar.

I don't want to go to Mexico in the summer. I don't want to go to Mexico... ever.
Fuck, man. Damn it.
There go my plans for August.

P.S. The dress? It's strapless, sweetheart neckline. The color? Tiffany blue.
Someone please just... shoot me now. I'm going to be a miserable wreck for the next 5 months.
Strapless sweetheart neckline...
Can you hear the wailing? Can you see my fucking mascara running from my eyes, my red nose covered in snot? God. Fucking. Damn it.

Slow and steady-- it's what I do.

AND the trashtalk CONTINUES!
I'm so fed up... so, so, SO fed up.
I HATE perpetuating stereotypes and being trite... but sweet baby elephants (I once again gave up cussing for Lent. Sorry guys!), I'm dealing with some incredibly stubborn haters.
Here I was stupid and naive, thinking that maybe with time, the garbage would end.
I'm sure after a couple of months of seeing me NOT rebound, they'll believe me when I say I did things LEGITIMATELY, and not with drugs or surgery...
But instead, the hate has grown more vicious... and from THE SAME BROADS!
They say it with SUCH CONVICTION, people believe them... and I'm left SPEECHLESS.
How can... how can anyone propagate lies like that... so shamelessly?! WHAT DID I DO TO YOU TO DESERVE THAT TREATMENT?! I'm a MOUSE! I mind my own business! I sleep, eat, hit the gym, shower, shop, draw, paint, write, watch some cooking shows... and sleep some more! I hardly see ANYONE, let alone speak to anyone. COME ON!

I try to be calm... and very rational. But it's so strange to see that even after I come out and "clear up" the situation, I still hear the SAME lies.
If pills really CAN build muscle... then... why in the hell have YOU not tried them? I mean, wouldn't you rather have muscles than that amorphous blob you call a body? Why are people still freakin' fat if such a damn magic pill exists?!

I know celebrities get hate on a regular basis... most public figures deal with this garbage. I'm baffled and bewildered because I'm such a private NORMAL person, and I've always been that way... the reason why anyone would want to talk about me confuses me. I'm practically invisible.
I've seen girls hate on each other due to jealousy... but I had never been on the receiving end (well, maybe they hated on me once or twice for my financial situation... I've heard plenty of people deprecate my travels as well as my vehicles. "Why does SHE get to do that?" I dunno, homie... because... I won some sort of lottery by being born to the parents I was born to. They love me. I'm sorry you didn't run such luck? You can always hitch a ride with me, if that's what you'd like. You can even travel with me, as long as you pay for your ticket. I'll pay for your meals, if that'll make you happy. I've done it before), since I've never been a "threat." I don't flirt... I don't date... I DON'T TALK! I just mind my business and carry on living... ALONE. Come on now. Why mess with me?

Friends have suggested I take it as a compliment... and I try... but it's just not me. I don't possess that trait.
I just live confused and then angry. And uncomfortable.
What do I do when angry, confused, and uncomfortable? I return the favor (you know, after I'm done crying from the frustration). I give the people what they want.
It's only fair. I'm considerate like that.
Because I'm a sweet, lovely girl.

Like I said, I'm a pro at slow-roasting...
I live to shark-- I work MAGIC in that department.

You want to hate me? Oh girl, why didn't you tell me earlier? I would have saved you the trouble of trying to be clever with your "sarcastic" "witty" and "indirect" remarks.
Sit back, relax, and watch me burn you. It'll be fun. And DELIBERATE.
Promise :)

Step one: I call you out.
Let's make this badboy PUBLIC. Let's get it out in the open, shall we? I'm feeling a little suffocated.

Holy cow... my tits look huge now that I see this on my laptop....
Too bad everyone already saw them on IG.
Welp... there they are, ladies and gents... my boobs.

Pill popping and plastic surgery? I'll show you whatever body part you want to see... but only if I can do the same to you. Most you'll see on me are my tiger stripes I very idiotically acquired from allowing myself to get so large. However, I have never been under the knife... I haven't even had my wisdom teeth extracted... so... good luck finding any of those scars. Can YOU say the same?
Let's also play a game: punch me ONCE, as hard as you'd like, right in my abdomen (never the face. My big nose is sensitive. Hitting me in the face only means you're ready to kiss a sidewalk)... but you must agree I get to do the same to you. It'll only hurt if your core isn't too strong... but considering you've ONLY hit the gym for YOUR weight-loss, I don't think you'll have a problem. Don't worry about me, though I've NEVER checked in at the gym like you have, I promise that place has been my shrine for two years. My core is a-ok.

Let the games begin.

(Hours after posting that photo on IG on Friday, I inadvertently became the personal trainer to three of my friends. I was answering nutrition questions as well as lifting questions. If only my haters would be as trusting. I'd answer their questions, TRUTHFULLY, if they'd just bother to ask me personally... instead of assuming things to pass off as facts. Who knows, maybe we'd even become close friends... gym buddies, minimum. I LOVE helping people out. I wish these jerks would understand that)

Problems with not being antisocial

I wish I knew who got me sick... so I could kick his or her fucking ass.

This is the worst week this fucking flu could have hit, since starting Friday, MGH-- who I will now refer to in his real name: Mario-- is coming to town with his buddies.
Mario called me Monday afternoon to inform me we HAD to hang out, and I very excitedly agreed.

Looks like my idiot ass now has to stay home in hopes of not spreading this shit.
I'm not even hitting the gym... which upsets the hell out of me... but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I fucking hate people.

Nah man!

Dudes in question are my COUSINS, hence my reaction.
Gross.

My friends crack me the fuck up... but you already knew that.
This conversation came about because I was furious yesterday after this fucking idiot tried hollering at me. It's the guy I forgave a couple of months back, the one who I considered my ONE TRUE enemy... the ONE person I hated with all of my heart.
SOMEHOW, this act of kindness was misunderstood... and he somehow translated my peace offering as me being OK with him flirting.
NAH BITCH! Hold your motherfucking horses! I would not touch your dick if I were held at gunpoint. FUCK. OFF.
And so... one of my biggest pet-peeves once again rears its ugly head.
There is only one person I'd ever want to flirt with, and I do that fucking ABYSMALLY.

I hate how dudes, FRIENDS, often misunderstand my kindness for... wanting some dick? I mean... dude, when have I EVER given that vibe? Seriously.
Luckily, my closest guy-friends don't suffer from this problem... at least the vast majority of them, as far as I know. It's always those guys I shrug at and accept when they ask me to be friends.
Homie, you said "friend." Had you given the slightest indication that you wanted something else I would have thrown you as far as I fucking could with the help of my car.

Ahhhh... I just love delusional people.

Is three not enough?

I think I'll call this month "Allegedly-on-time August." I just can't seem to update on time. My bad.
I AM proud that I actually out-did myself and updated 32 times for the month of July... though technically that extra post I would have preferred to have never happened-- Tyson's death post.

Anyway... my Friday was quite lovely... even if I was frustrated for probably three hours... pacing back and forth like a caged lion... but that's just typical for me.
I'm going through a phase, where I'm trying SO HARD not to be the mean bitch my conscious is telling me to be. I am SO irritated... and frustrated... but I don't act out because I pretty much brought this upon myself. Instead of lashing out and being the cold-hearted cunt I CAN be (need I remind you of my post where I talked about my bitch reaction to the poor pyrotechnic kid back when I was seven? I can be cruel as fuck when fed-up), I shut up.
I need to learn the proper balance between being nice and being... umm... honest?
What I mean is: I try too damn hard to spare feelings, I usually wind up irritated and... frustrated.

When I don't like someone AT ALL... not even as a person, I have no problem being honest and telling them to fuck off. However, when I think they're alright, and they have the potential to make me laugh/think, I lose the ability to tell them "Dude, back up. Can you shut the fuck up real quick?"
Instead, I stew in my irritation... and say really mean shit in my head... which usually gets me to wonder how the fuck I come up with such cruel words... yeah, I guess you could say I sit there and harbor resentment.
Since I plan on NEVER saying this in person, let me just jot it down here and get it off my chest:

If I IGNORE your invitation to hang out "alone" not once, or twice, but THREE times, it's safe to say I DON'T want to hang out with you. Failing to acknowledge your invite THREE times is my painfully obvious sign for you to NOT DO THAT AGAIN. I DON'T in any way, shape, or form, want to be "alone" with you... EVER. Never. No. Just stop. Please. Shhhhh! No more!

It's something simple like that... but it's what kept me from having a great day. I'd sit back and the thought would eat away at me... to the point where I would catch myself getting angry.
DUDE! Please... just PLEASE use your head, son! I'm a college-educated "good girl." 
You smoke like a chimney. Know how many times I've smoked? Maybe four times... and those were all when I was under the age of 13. I HATE that shit. WITH A MOTHERFUCKING FIREY PASSION! Smoke around me, and I'll fucking lose my shit. It takes every ounce of self-control in my body not to smash the fucking shit out of your mouth the moment I see you whip out a cigarette in my presence. And it doesn't matter if you quit... you've chain-smoked for so long, your lungs are shit. Call me selfish, but I sure as fuck don't want to deal with that shit.
You boast about all the hard drugs you have tried/were addicted to. Know how many times I've done some drug? ZERO. ZEEEEEROHHHHH! Not even prescription drugs, for fucks sake! Now, don't get me wrong here, I APPLAUD those who beat an addiction... that takes some fucking dedication... and I will never remove my friendship from someone who has dealt with/is dealing with a vice like that... but to go from that to me "dating" you is a LONG-ASS SHOT. SO. FUCKING. LONG. I mean... I would probably only accept Johnny Depp here... and even then, I'd think about all that smoking... and those disgusting teeth of his, and I'd probably just tell him to have a nice life. I'm also not an uptight stupid little bitch, either... I mean, weed and small shit like that I pass... as long as you do that shit AWAY from me, but shit like heroin and meth? COME ON, BRO! NO. 
You're... divorced? I'm A VIRGIN! COME ON!!!! COME THE FUCK ON! N-OH. Never. MOVE ON. GO. BYE. NO!

Basically: I have a super clean slate... damn near fucking immaculate. You, on the other hand... have had SEVERAL fuck ups.
Let me fuck up a few times... like... A LOT of times... then maybe... if I don't decide to just kill myself, I'll go... nah man, not even. Never gonna happen. Peace.

K. It's off my chest now.

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! 

Gorda? Nah, solo un poco sorda.

Ahhh! Things are going so fast! And so many things are happening, it's getting difficult to keep my shit straight.
I have to thank my lovely friends... for kicking my ass at karaoke, but making it a fun ass kicking. An ass kicking that made me laugh like a maniac. And forget shit.
Also have to give a shoutout to Mooney. I was intoxicated with carne asada today (in a good way, I mean) 

Tio M-style carne right there!
(sight of that prime rib still makes my mouth water. I'm such a fucking animal now... sheesh)
Shorty has always known the way to my heart!

and so... like... shit's hazy right now. I have that happily satiated feel going on... so... just bear with me.

Let me give this entry a good ol' try now:

In the last year, I've heard plenty of shit concerning my weight loss.

Everything from me having an eating disorder (which I joked about yesterday. But it's not a disorder... it's just me being addicted to cookies. That's fucking normal, if you ask me. As for keeping track of what I eat: I MUST. NOT holding myself accountable for everything I inhale is what got me in trouble in the first place. Not giving a shit about "and extra piece or two" is what got me to be 245 pounds. So EXCUSE ME, for putting strict limitations on what goes in my body nowadays. You can continue to reward yourself with food-- I love dogs and everything, but I'm not too eager to consider myself one... so no edible "rewards" for me. I'll stick to new pairs of pants/shirts/dresses/bras/underwear as MY reward. Thanks), to doing drugs (obviously you have no idea what a fucking control-freak I am when it comes to MY actions. I've NEVER liked the sensation of being unable to control what my body does, so I'm a drug free kid for life), to liposuction (seriously, if I had the nerve to get some sort of medical procedure done, the first things fixed would be my tits. So... you go ahead and keep thinking I lipo-ed my whole fucking body, twat).

I've heard it all.

I've written a lot about it, too.

The fierceness with which people hate on me is the same fierceness with which my loved ones defend me.

However, each time I hear a new accusation, I can't help but get aggressive... and wildly upset.

The latest incident involves Pacemaker's aunt who happens to live here in Vegas. The lady flew up to the bay when Pacemaker's dad was diagnosed with cancer.

Pacemaker mentioned this lady during our conversation, and I casually commented how neither the woman nor her two daughters cross a word with me... they actually go out of their way to NOT acknowledge me each time we happen to bump into each other.

Pacemaker's Cousin: Funny you mention that... because when they came up here to visit Pacemaker and the family, all three started talking shit about you. They said you and your sister were only skinny because you're reliant on diet pills.

Pacemaker: We both tried to correct them. We told them we know first hand how hardcore you guys are about your nutrition and workouts, but they quickly shut us up and said they live in Vegas, and know "the truth."

Pacemaker's Cousin: Woman SWEARS she knows you so well...

What upset me most was that they said this happened when they were all chilling in a packed room... so... pretty much "Hometown" people in the Bay think this is true.

Not gonna lie, this revelation made me cry. It hurt my feelings, it infuriated me, and it frustrated me.

So many thoughts crossed my mind... particularly RANTS to post on FB, where plenty of people will see it... including these bitches, because they snoop my page.

I was so upset, I went out and vented to Mom at midnight... and SHE was the one who told me to calm the fuck down-- something I finally did at three in the morning.

What did I do? I changed my FB profile photo, and wrote a nice little quote that I KNOW they'll understand.

My favorite way to tell someone to lick my dick-analogous clit.

Let the fucking dogs keep barking, I say.

Well... this only brought more drama. Of course. (and some fun shit, but let's focus on the drama, because that shit engulfs me)

I think that's where I'll end this for now, before I get too belligerent.

cuatro de Julio

Ah, yes, finally recovered after my first "successful" 4th of July festivity.

I don't think I have ever gone to a party celebrating Independence Day, though I have done the whole fireworks bullshit a few times.
It was a bunch of Mexicans... eating American food... which I don't dig.
Hot dogs, burgers... chips... and watermelon for desert... three dozen giant BURNT chocolate chip cookies... and carrot cake.
Americana... erghh. They didn't even have hot sauce.

Dude's my first cousin, and has always been super cool with me... a little on the creeper side sometimes, not gonna lie.
He was born and raised in Mexico, finally immigrated (illegally, of course) to the US when he was a fifth grader. I'd say he's trying very hard to assimilate to the culture... really, man? No salsa? Ufff.
Anyway, I love this cousin, so I go to every single one of his parties, even if I know I'll be hurting the entire time. Nig boozes me up, I can't complain!

So yeah, this party... it had:
1. Food I do not like...
I found myself eating SIX of the burned cookies.
In the middle of my fourth cookie, I thought to myself
Yeah, I definitely have an eating disorder.
It didn't keep me from going for another two.
2. Crying babies.
So many fucking babies... ill-behaved babies... loud babies.
3. NO cell phone reception.
I LOATHE Mountain's Edge. Fucking retarded piece of shit neighborhood that might as well be on the moon.
Mountain's Edge... more like "Murder's Edge." Someone could just drive you out there and kill your ass... you'd be unable to call for help... seeing how there is NO CELL PHONE RECEPTION. Location for the perfect crime.
4. Fireworks.
FIVE HOURS WORTH of fire works. Is that normal? I was fed up by 11:30... when my head was pounding and I couldn't see straight. I hate the noise, I hate the smell... I hate everything about fireworks. They're dumb, pointless, and dangerous. Fuck those shits, seriously.
I'm mesmerized by the people who DO love fireworks.
WHY? What the hell?
Especially the LOUD fireworks. I'm completely dumbfounded by those people.
5. Dogs.
I love dogs. Dogs love me.
I love dark-colored pants. Dark-colored pants don't like dog hair.
I ended the night completely covered in white and gold dog hair from... I can't remember the dog breed, I just know it's the breed from Lady and the Tramp... "Lady." That dog. Super soft... impossible not to pet for hours on end. I also made the mistake of feeding my burger to the three dogs, and so I spent the rest of the night hounded by the little fuckers.
6. No "single" people.
I was the only single person there. Everyone else was either married or living together.
Worst part was the pity-party they were throwing for me.
Awww! Poor AnoMALIE now home alone with her parents. No siblings. No boyfriend. No babies. No job. No... anything.
Gee, thanks.
7. My ex-boyfriend.
Yeahhhhhh.....
8. LIQUOR!
YEAAAAAAAH!

Needless to say, I was fucked up.
My cousin asked me if I wanted to drink... actually, he demanded I drink, and seeing how I was not going to be DD, I took full fucking advantage.
I drank half of the Cake Vodka bottle. Straight. Yup. I don't play.
Shit hit the fan once my ex showed up.
That dude I liked as a kid... I liked him throughout my childhood but nothing happened because we were both too shy to say anything. Then he was introduced to his cousin's best friend... dated her for a few months and got married to her.
Now, whenever we coincide at parties... it's awkward as shit... especially since his wife knows our "story."
These two have a kid... so that's weird as well... to see his kid... have his kid be all over me, and me proceeding to play with her and make her giggle and whatnot. It's all so strange and I really just wish I wouldn't have to do it.

My other cousin's baby boy was there too. This kid I love. He's a silly little grouch... whose first words are officially "NO!"... and he mean-mugs everyone who tries to touch him without his consent. Kid has a meanass attitude problem... and I love it. Reminds me of me.
Anyway, I spent the majority of the party playing with this baby. I was running up and down the house playing peek-a-boo, tag, races, "I'm gonna grab you by your feet and drag you across the carpet," "toss you in the air and act like I'm going to drop you." All those violent games that make hyper baby boys laugh.
And I did it all drunk.
Well, ok, not fully drunk, more like buzzed.
I did it to get my exercise in, avoid the ex, avoid the fireworks, avoid the dogs (which was unsuccessful because the moment I started playing "horse-y" with the kid the dogs were all over me), avoid the burned cookies, avoid thinking about my feelings, avoid explaining to everyone at the party that I was NOT sad over the fact that I am now "alone" without my siblings (seriously, guys, that shit gets tiring to explain. People GROW UP. Let it go. I'm fine)... all that shit. I just wanted to be in the moment.
I'm buzzing, I'm chasing this baby, and all I want to see is his smiling, mischievous face, and hear his hilarious, unique giggle. Fuck everything else, buddy.

I think I succeeded.

Fuck, I hate American food...

'nam

First day of Summer.
You can't hear me, but I just sighed... for about ten consecutive seconds.
My head is not here... needless to say my heart isn't either (a little of that has to do with the fact that the free preview of the Cooking Channel finally ended today... I love that fucking channel. Damn).
I had been wrestling with the thought of hopping on the bus for Hometown that left this morning. I had been thinking about it for the last three days. The desire with which I want to be in Hometown is disgustingly intense. However, each time I'm about to pull the trigger (terrible choice of words, but whatever) on just packing a bag and peace-ing out (again, ironic choice of words), some bad shit happens and I lose momentum.
What made me stop this time around? We got word that a couple of days ago my cousin's wife and her siblings got robbed on their drive down to Hometown. They were driving down to make their father's funeral, when on the outskirts of Chihuahua City, an armed group of masked men pulled them over and beat ALL of them half to death--women included-- and stole EVERYTHING... including passports, and obviously their truck.
Fucking terrifying. Call me a pussy, I don't give a fuck... but forgive me for wanting to piss my pants when I see myself surrounded, completely outnumbered, by a bunch of dudes in black masks pointing M16s in my face.

Over the weekend, I got into an extremely heated argument over this subject-- the violence in Mexico.
Mom and I were asked when we're going to Hometown.
Mom: We REALLY want to go... but... the violence is what keeps us away.

No biggie there, I thought... because we were speaking the truth. HELLO! My brother's a US diplomat living in Mexico, we have insider information for fucks sake-- and it just so happens that Hometown is a fucking hornet's nest when it comes to the violence going on right now. We're not just talking out of our asses.
But these two brats... these two chicks who LOVE stirring the pot... and are so fucking... narrow-minded and stubborn... just had to press my buttons.
Bitch1: I'm SO annoyed of people saying how dangerous Mexico is! Shut the fuck up. Nobody wants to kill you, dont feel so important. (seriously, verbatim)

Let the fireworks begin, baby.
It's not that one "feels important" it's just that one sees NO POINT in unnecessarily placing oneself in harm's way.
I'm glad many people are blessed enough to be delusional enough to think the violence in Mexico is "not as bad as depicted on television" because they've never had the unpleasant experiences many other Mexicans have had. Lucky them for not getting their Skype call to Hometown interrupted by a fucking gunfight going on outside. Lucky them for not having a family member taken for ransom... or robbed, or beaten, etc etc.
Also, it's not that we go out there looking for trouble... but there is such a thing as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Casualties of war, dipshit. Ever heard of drive-bys? I don't think the kids playing in their front yards were looking to get killed... yet, it happened quite fucking frequently when I was a kid.
But hey! Fuck it, point is YOU want to go to Mexico, right? I mean, YOU'RE fucking fearless... wait... what? What's that? You haven't gone in five years? Ooooooo. Interesting, Pancho Villa. I suggest you take your own advice and visit the paradise our hometown has become. Prove us ALL wrong, homie. It's pretty cool to see people practically run from door to door while they walk the street after grocery shopping... see how they flinch the moment they sense a car/truck approaching. Total overreaction. Yup. All overreacting drama-loving folk... like all those losers in the middle east afraid of grenades and shit. Pffft!

I fucking hate idiots.

SO! Yeah. Still wrestling with the idea. Still heartbroken with the probability that I will not visit Hometown for my second year straight. Second summer away from my thunderstorms and stars and volleyball in the rain... and the smell of horseshit and rotting carcasses and stuff like that. I just really like the third world... minus the violence. I'll try again next month.

But off sad subjects and more summer-y shit!
First thing that comes to mind are my cool "Spain-inspired" nails. Remember those?

Wasn't I making fun of Kim's fingers yesterday?
Hmmm...

My adorable 50-something-year-old asian gym buddy asked me if I was Vietnamese today.

Sure, South Vietnam no longer exists
...but it did during HER lifetime.

Arg! You win this time...
Looks like I'm not as creative as I think I am.

I'll try harder next time.

Hi, Summer!

Roast Menu

Remember that story from my childhood, the traumatic event that involved my aunt throwing sand in my face and calling me ugly?
Well, it's always an interesting time when I have to attend her parties... which aren't often... maybe once every five years.
Yesterday was time to pay my dues.

My aunt is married to my father's brother (hence why she's my aunt), but she's also my mom's cousin. Whenever I attend her parties, every single person there is related to me.
While I love my mother's side of the family... her maternal side, the Garcias, are interesting ladies. My aunt is one of these Garcias.
While they're hardworking, devout, loyal women... with many more virtues, they're shallow AS FUCK. Well... I don't know if you can call it "shallow" but more like... vain. They place far too much importance on physical beauty.
They're the ones who continuously "complimented" me with the whole "You'd be SO MUCH prettier if you wore a girdle!" line.
My mental traumas regarding beauty? Yep, placed there by these no-talller-than 5'3" little Garcia women who worship beauty... and let me know I was inferior since the time I was four and Baby D was born to prove that she was perfection, and I was perpetually defective.

Mom, while she knows these outspoken, vain women have a way of insulting me, still loves being with them. And I let her have that. They remind her of her momma-- I'll sit there and listen to the new bullshit they have to say to me, if that means my mom will be getting hammered and singing-along with her Garcias.
I don't mean to mention this as way to get other to feel sorry for me-- I hate that feeling in the first place-- but merely as a way to get you to... experience some of the... somewhat ludicrous shit I quietly listen to. Maybe my abrasive nature becomes a bit more understandable.

Stuff on the menu this time? Well, here are my favorites:
1. Except for you.
Entering the party, my aunt's mom greeted us. She seemed very excited to see us. I was the last one she greeted.
"Oh my goodness! You look... wow! Good job!" she said.
Holy shit... is she being nice?! HOLY SHIT!
"Go, help yourselves! We have a ton of tacos out back! Eat, eat away! This is a party!" She said.
As I walked past her, she tapped my shoulder and whispered in my ear "Except for you, since it's obvious you're on a diet... No food for you. Wouldn't want to ruin what you have going on right now."
SO CLOSE! You were so close, lady.
Seriously, I was speechless. I was in no way on the verge of tears, because I was too busy trying not to laugh cynically at her comment.
Some might say "Relax, AnoMALIE, she obviously meant it as a joke!" But trust me, I've known this woman for 27 years, I know when she's being serious. She was being serious.
I ate THREE slices of cake later. Fuck passive-aggressive comment. I licked the frosting clean on ALL THREE.
Fuck you, lady!... ugh... sugar... headache... ouch. Stupid.

2. Kim K.
As I was making line to grab my motherfucking tacos (I eat, damnit!!!), one of the younger Garcias with her 15 year old daughter intercepted me.
"Oh my GAWD! AnoMALIE! Looking great, baby! We were just talking about you! We agreed you look just like... like... what's her name, mija?" My cousin asked her daughter.
"Kim... mom..." said the girl, gritting her teeth... surely mentally cursing her mom.
"Oh yes! Kim Kardashian!" said the lovely Garcia.
"Whoa... haha... not at all," I said. Only thing I have similar to Kim are my eyebrows... and anyone can get those shits. "Probably just the eyebrows... because I thread them."
"Hahaha! Yes! You are of the 'dark-version' Garcias. We're more of the blonde, less-hairy, European-ish Garcias. And what about that badunkadunk (this is how I know you're trying too hard to hold on to your youth, ma'am...)?! I know none of us have anything resembling a butt! I hear she has cellulite... which... you know, is the only way we'd all be similar," the cousin says, winking at me.
::Sigh::
I asked for it.

And to be clear on this subject: it does flatter the shit out of me to be told I look like his chick.

Definitely the eyebrows.
Definitely not the nose or lips or hair or ass 

I find her to be quite pretty, actually. I'd never call her ugly... even if her fingers are... ehhh:

To be associated with her, I can't help but immediately recall her sextape (GIIIIIRL! Where do I begin? First off, I wouldn't be fucking Ray J. Kanye? Maybe. Ray J? Hell naw. Forget that scrub)... and her divorce scandal (Shallow? Vapid? Insipid? Impulsive? Huhhh?).
This also invites everyone to argue with the physical comparison.... which... you know... I never come out clean... because family loves to drive home the fact that I am NOT pretty.
It's just asking for trouble. So just don't say anything.

3. Short, nice interlude... almost.
After round one of the harassment, I found myself sitting next to an in-law to the family. We were sitting next to each other for a while, so the chit-chat began.
Mom mentioned how my brother was living in Juarez, and how my sister had recently moved to Chicago.
I was taking a sip of my margarita when the in-law went ahead and interrupted me.
"So how old are you, sweetheart? Does your mom know you're sneaking that margarita?"
She proceeded to take a swig of her water bottle when I cleared my throat to answer her.
"I'm 27, Ma'am..."
She choked on her water.
"27?! Oh my god, I'm not even kidding you, I swore you were 19, maybe 20! How in the world do you do it?!"
I laughed nervously. She was being serious, her face was red with embarrassment.
Just as I was going to answer her, to keep her from feeling silly, (she HAD been a nice lady the entire afternoon... and I found this to be the best compliment of my life) my loud-mouth cousin butted-in.
"Girl's 27, single, biology degree sitting at home. Can you believe it?!"
Do you get PAID to do this to me? Fuck...
I shrugged and smiled.
Lots of water, no smoking, no drinking, lots of sleep, no fucking... constant suicide contemplation... it's like the devil grants you eternal youth upon hearing you want death above all else. 
...This among other factors, ma'am.

I'm convinced they do this to me in attempts to be funny... and to give me a backbone... and to make me hate life.

4. One last time.
As I finished up my two carne asada tacos and two birria tacos, my dad's younger (and dumbass) sister sat in the empty seat next to me.
She had ten tacos on her plate.
"Let's eat, Mija, so people don't say we're skinny because we don't!"
One last time: I'm not skinny.

This particular aunt used to be much chubbier, but recently did some diet where she basically purged everything she ate... so... uh... yeah.
I know I didn't have this when I wouldn't eat:

Too bad my Spain-insipred nails aren't visible.
I'm quite proud of my nails.

So don't worry about me, tia, all's well over here.

Yep.
I ended the night after listening to my drunk parents and uncles drunk-karaoke for three hours... proceeding to drive my parents home at two in the morning.
Fun shit.

All quickly improved this afternoon after a little bit of soccer, of course. Nothing like watching France lose at something... though it wasn't definitive. Sweden just left the wonderful job of humiliating the French to my boys, the Spaniards. Ohhhh yeahhhh.
Fuck. France.