Quarantine Life

I swear I have multiple drafts on here where I pick up on updating, then I just abandon it.

Obviously, a shit ton of things have occurred since my last entry (I don't even remember when my last entry was. I just logged on blindly and told myself I would write).

I've faced death twice... I want to say three times, but my fucking pregnancy brain has stuck around and has seriously deteriorated my memory (fuck that, it has deteriorated every damn thing about me).
I have two kids now... both boys... and I love them, they're great... but at the same time I now have zero time to myself and find myself worried about them entirely too much. Like... way too fucking much.

So this quarantine thing... yeah... good time to be alive with two little babies under 1.5 years old. Yeah, dawg, I did that. I fucking did that. Fuck.
Again, I love my kids... I just never thought I'd do this... I don't think ANYONE did, but I digress.
So anyway, back to the quarantine.
I was originally doing it since my last pregnancy (May-January) because I didn't want to catch the mean-ass flu that was going around, which was apparently insanely strong and not getting held back by the vaccine. From previous experience, the last fucking thing I wanted to do was have coughing fits while I had a huge-ass fucking gash in the middle of my stomach (it's actually just above the pubic area, but it still slices through your abdominal wall). I stayed the fuck away from everyone (also because I didn't want anyone to see my enormous ass. These babies were huge-- above average huge... "let me show my colleagues" huge).
Then came January 2020, where my baby had to be delivered in an emergency c-section because I developed cholestasis, and my dumbass body damn near poisoned my little baby. He was supposed to be here in February, but my body evicted him early-- it was the scariest moment of my life... I cried wildly at the doctor's office... alone... because that's how I did my pregnancy... fucking alone (I'm still married, but separated. It'll be explained later).
Now, about a week after having my baby (January 17th), I heard a rumor that a patient had been treated at the same hospital I had just left... treated for Covid19. I became a little worried, but since I wasn't too into checking the exact symptoms of the virus, I just did the whole "motherfucker better not have got me sick!" thing and moved on.
A week after that, I was plagued by the worst motherfucking headaches of my life. They would last at least 5 hours, every single day. Nothing was really triggering the headaches, they'd just strike randomly... debilitating as shit. I thought perhaps it was due to the spinal tap, but when I told my doctor, she said there was no reason for that to be happening to me so many days after delivering the baby. She told me to keep an eye on things. This lasted for a month... and the Motrin I was prescribed did jack shit to fix me. (They had also prescribed me Norco, but I stopped taking it after the second day after I suffered a horrible case of the chills. I spent one night of the most uncontrollable chills of my life, luckily my husband was there to control me, wrap me as warm as possible, and hug me tightly, reassuring me I'd be ok. The following day I still had some random chills. I blamed this on the Norco and immediately stopped taking them. I had no clue this was a symptom of Covid)
I also developed a cough for about three days... nothing out of the ordinary, just annoying. I had a TON of phlegm though, green mucus (I know this because I would spit up every single time I felt the mucus in my throat. I never swallowed it).
After seeing more information on this damn virus, I started wondering if maybe I had experienced it... but it's all so uncertain, because of the whole pregnancy recovery shit.

Aside from that little personal experience, I've been dealing with the worst case of anxiety of my life. I suffer panic attack every single day, though the last two days have been pretty good. I now worry about my babies... the thought of them getting sick fucks.me.up! I also worry about my parents. My father doesn't listen... and he still goes to work.
I read the news... too fucking much of it... and nothing fucking helps in calming me down.
So... I am pretty fucked up right now.

I'm hoping going back to writing will put me in a better headspace. Hopefully it will at least help me get me away from checking out news... I'll just try to get myself to remember things.

So here we go. I'm gonna try to be a little more ME than I've been in the last three years (I'm even listening to my music again... and I'm exercising again. I just want this fucking anxiety to leave me. Please leave me).
Let's see what this quarantine does for me.
Yey.

Oh shit, yeah, that quarantine thing... So I did it though my pregnancy, then immediately after my pregnancy, and right when I was about to get out into the real world, the government forced me back into quarantine.

Damn, pregnancy brain is fucking trash.

Burj Burj Burj

GUYS! GUYS!! HOLY SHIT, GUYS!

I... never in my motherfucking wildest dreams did I think I'd be experiencing the shit I've experienced in the last three months. I don't even know where to begin.
I have been wanting to write something up... but... good lord, it's impossible to contain the energy long enough to sit the fuck down for a minute or two to type shit up.

2017 has punched the fucking shit out of me, in the strangest way.... it has been a motherfucking Mack truck.

I want to say more, but I also grow scared and nervous that I'll fuck shit up.

I mentioned bracing myself for a horrible fall... and that shit has been hanging heavy in the back of my mind. I am at an all-time high, but I find myself unable to fully appreciate it because I know I'm going to find a way to trip and fall.
It's like... I made it to the fucking top of the Burj Khalifa-- zero safety railings or harnesses-- and I'm only preoccupied with looking down, knowing I'm going to fall down to a very gory death... instead of taking the time to appreciate the gorgeous sights around me and the amazing high of being able to reach that spot.

Eventually I'll talk more about it... when I'm comfortable and less paranoid about fucking up something awesome.

Sorry, October

DAMN IT!
I gave it an honest shot to post at least ONCE per month.
I kept October on the back burner because I kept thinking I'd have time for the slightest of updates.
It's not as though October sucked or was boring... quite the fucking contrary, I had too many things going on.
I mean, no, yeah, there were shitty moments, one time I cried so violently (as in, I was sobbing pretty loud and my nose was running as though I had the flu) I freaked out a dog for a minute or two... and I also had a very pathetic moment where I was quietly sobbing on a stoop in DC... but, it was... a lot of fucking shit going on.
Still, considering the number of times I cried in October, it was still a wildly fun month.
The quickness with which time is passing is just... inconvenient.
"Wait, what the fuck did I... what the fuck has happened since July?" I wondered, after realizing I've been driving without proof of insurance since that month (Ooops? And here I boast about not being a criminal).

The haze is back in my life, but I wouldn't necessarily call it depression. I'm having difficulty remembering what exactly I've been up to because events pile up, and I fail to write it all down.
I mean, July was spent trying to squeeze in a quick, last trip to Greece before my brother finished his tour-- didn't happen. August rolled around and that month was spent busy preparing the house for my brother's triumphant return to the States with his Greek buddy. Then September came up out of nowhere and that Hometown trip occurred from thin air... as well as I heard the terrible news about my friend. Then finally October, which had me in Chicago and DC and that was a fucking mess.

The times I've been close to posting something, they weren't happy posts... they were sad, reflective things that make me uneasy.
The haze is lingering, floating around my brain, mostly because of my friend's mom. She's actually why I even made the sudden trip to Chicago and DC.
Due to her weakening health, my friend's mom can no longer travel (she lives in LA). I've made it my mission to show her as much as I can, despite the fact that posting on FB makes me cringe because... it fucks with my nerves. I've posted videos and photos to her page of all of her grandkid's birthday parties... parties to which I've gone despite having zero children and zero ability to make smalltalk with parents (so I go about rough-housing with the kids as though I'm some fucking clown... all in the name of not having to participate in adult conversation). She praises my photography and my traveling spirit... she says it helps take her places in her mind.
One of her "final wishes" was to see the newly opened National Museum of African American History and Culture out in DC, because she herself lived some fucked up shit being a white woman who married an African-American man in the early '70's. Tickets are sold out until March of next year, and she doesn't feel confident she'll make it to that month, and if she does, is sure she will be in an even worse state to travel so far.
SO, I sucked up the irritation I feel when I know I'm going to get accused of humble-bragging, purchased a couple of last-minute plane tickets, aaaand I posted on FB.
Of course, I didn't mention the truth behind the trip... so the whole thing was a heavier burden than I expected to feel.
First of all, I went about my DC days in complete solitude (DAYS, my nights were a fucking shitshow... the most fucking entertaining, soul-recharging shitshow I've had in years). My brother works weird hours, so I wouldn't get to see him in the mornings. He's also barely getting all of his belongings returned from storage... so his apartment is full of boxes... no food... a total bachelor pad that gave me the most depressing vibe of loneliness. Here I go about my day at the fucking crack of dawn to get into the NMAAHC on their daypass... which is something like 100 a day that are given out, first come, first serve basis. There I was in line at 8AM, hair still dripping wet, in the shadow of the gorgeous museum... ONLY person there without a companion.
I actually scored my ticket, with something like 25 left... I've never been so stoked about something as I was about scoring this fucking golden ticket. The problem was that since it was only 9:30AM, I had until 2:45PM to be allowed entrance.
SO I walked all over the monuments... and checked out their free museums until then.
This didn't make me sad at all. I enjoy my own company... and the weather was motherfucking GORGEOUS.
It wasn't until I entered the museum that I realized I was about to be in for a world of hurt.
I cried throughout the entire lower levels (aka the beginning of slavery through the civil rights movement), and I had goosebumps the entire visit. The information was hard to ingest... despite being a history buff (laugh if you'd like... but I've killed this subject since grade school), I was not prepared to share the moment with people who have such a deep, personal connection with the subject... that horrible subject. It was difficult to look people in the eyes... to see their hurt... it was so very hard. Even harder was capturing any of it through my phone... because it felt so inappropriate... like I was interrupting such a private moment for OTHERS.
However, I tried my best to see it all... to give everything the respect it deserved... and I captured as much of it for my friends.
Knowing I was seeing this, experiencing this for someone who is going to... die... soon... was also responsible for my tears. It was strange... it felt so strange... to be aware of that... it was heavy.
"Wait, why the hell did you come here so abruptly, and for such a short period of time?" asked my brother. All I could give him was a shrug and an "I fucking love DC. I'm going to an event for the last Presidential Debate... and I'm going to worm my way into the NMAAHC at all costs." Completely unable to add the real reason of "my friend is dying and wants to see this." It sounds like a fucking movie script.
SO, I do this until I literally get kicked out of the museum at closing time (not before helping a disabled veteran out of the museum who was getting zero help from anyone. That bummed me out to watch), and I walk out to the Mall and sit down at a bench to watch the sunset in complete silence... soaking in all of these fucking emotions. Before complete darkness, I headed back home-- Capitol Hill... my brother literally lives three streetlights away from the nation's capitol... on Capitol street... it's fucking amazing (we're little Mexican-Americans from the Vegas hood... never ever did we even dream this would happen... fucking ever).
OK, so I do the longass walk home, and sit outside of the main gate to the apartment complex because, while I have the apartment keys, I do not have the key fob for the main entrance. My brother said he was nearby, but encouraged me to walk in behind one of his neighbors. He had told me this same thing the previous night, but I didn't heed the advice because I'm a fucking shy brute. However, this day I was feeling brave, and as I saw a young man walking up the stoop where I had been sitting (KEYS IN HAND, mind you), I stood up and started to walk behind him. Just as I grab the door he had just opened, he grabs hold of the knob and PULLS IT AWAY FROM ME, effectively slamming the motherfucking door in my face.
It was at that moment where I reached my breaking point, and I broke out into sobs. Yes, sobs. The door getting slammed in my face felt worse than anything I could have imagined... it... hurt my dignity... it broke down my emotional wall.
This wouldn't have happened if I were a pretty white girl...
The though jumped into my mind and next thing I knew I was sitting on the stoop crying like a pathetic little girl lost at a country fair.
I started to think about ALL the fucked up shit I've had to "suck up" and "deal with." All sort of... mean, racist, heartless, demeaning, embarrassing bullshit I've had to deal with... as a female, as a big girl, as a Mexican... and I fucking lost my mind. I quit. I quit trying to be strong. I quit trying to excuse it.
I. FUCKING. CRIED.

I sat on that stoop... clutching my FUCKING SMITHSONIAN GIFT BAGS full of EXPENSIVE ASS MUSEUM SOUVENIRS... alone... in the dark... looking at the ground, crying... trying not to look "dangerous" or whatever the fuck that dumb piece of shit prick thought I was.
I sat there for about twenty minutes, waiting on my drunk brother... cowering away from any new neighbors who'd show up to open the front door. I heard one person loudly walk up the steps... and I crouched to the smallest form I could get into... refusing to make any eye contact... the person stepping louder.
"Hey!" he said once he opened the front door. I didn't look up.
"HEY!" he said again, louder, more irritated.
I'm going to get kicked off the fucking stoop now, aren't I? Fantastic...
I timidly looked up, trying to look as... nice and calm as possible, to see it was my brother. The moment he made eye-contact with me, I realized he noticed I had been crying... and I KNOW he felt sorry for me... I saw the sadness in his eyes... his stance softened. I noticed the pity he felt the moment he saw the humiliated little girl I had been turned to, sitting on his stoop.

Crying on a stoop is nowhere near as "romantic" as movies make it out to be.
It's heartbreaking. And embarrassing. And pathetic.

After sobbing my way through telling him what had happened that day (I did that thing little kids do when telling their mom about a shitty school day... trying to seem strong but losing their shit once their chin begins to tremble when they start talking about their bully... yeah, I did that, and my brother was my mom), my brother took me out on a walk to some thai restaurant and a famous cupcake shop... where he even ate one, despite how much he hates that shit.

It was a nice walk in the dark... a gorgeous autumn night... with some of the most famous US monuments lit in the foreground.

The emotional weight of this day was... massive. The haze lingered, but only for a few hours. The universe has a way of balancing shit once in a while, and the following night was loaded with adventure and laughter... and a lot of drinking... with a Greek heiress.

So... like I said, a lot of shit happened. October was a crazy adventure.
One minute I'm sobbing in front of a scared dog because I was heartbroken by a lie (not sure I'll elaborate on this story yet, or ever), the next I'm giddy over purchasing tickets to the east coast.
One minute I'm crying my eyes out on a stoop... sobbing and cowering away from people... and the next I was taking care of a drunken, filthy-rich woman (who seemed to be much lonelier than I) who was forcing expensive alcoholic drinks and delicious falafel on me... paying for EVERYTHING because I was taking care of her.
One minute I'm sleeping on a broken couch in a cold living room on a chilly Chicago night, and the next I'm hugging and crying with a 50-something-year old Cubs fan outside of Wrigley minutes after the Cubbies win the pennant.
October was FUCKING CRAZY (FUN and oddly heartbreaking).

Behind cameras

As always, I intended on updating sooner... but shit got in the way. Luckily, I'm only sick, and not dealing with bullshit-ass family drama... my parents seem to have gotten their shit together... for now.
I'm sick because I spent my Monday screaming my head off at Disneyland... and getting incredibly soaked on that godforsaken Splash Mountain. Guys, never get on the same log as FIVE people who are well over 250 each... with one being at least 6'2" and in the 300's. The boat rocked in the most terrifying way, and splashed far more often than it intended. I was thrown to the front of the log, and so... I was literally drenched from head to toe... like a wet cat... my mascara even ran (and my maxi pad slid off my underwear, but no need to get into details about THAT beyond: I was MORTIFIED... and REALLY. FUCKING. WET. I should have just dived into a pool. This sort of shit only happens to me, I swear. Y'all should hang out with me more often and just witness the bullshit that occurs to me... it's amazing in a way).
I spent the rest of my day trying to dry off... and of course, I caught a cold like the dumbshit I am. I caught my flight back home that night, and I was so subdued by the illness, I didn't freak out when I had thirty minutes to reach my gate and a GIANT group of people with down syndrome (who had apparently attended some sort of convention earlier, based on the shirts they were all wearing) were ahead of me at the TSA checkpoint. They were confused... talkative... and did I mention confused? Had I been my normal self, I would have started sweating bullets, scared of not making my flight... but again, I was sick, and I just wanted to go to sleep.

ANYWAY! That update from the other day, the Saturday one that was sort of incoherent... that was written up while I very angrily sat at my table at the party, watching everyone act like a dick for the cameras.
It's baffling... terrifying to see how fucking different people behave once a legit camera crew is on them. I was the best behaved person present... and I was just fucking angry the whole time... and holding back my puke... and sort of drunk... and upset.
Each scene was shot a minimum of five times. FIVE TIMES. We were given freedom to be ourselves, but once one of us did or said something witty or outrageous, we were asked to re-do the "scene."
There's something about saying the same thing repeatedly, where you just feel a piece of your soul disappear.
There were about 28 of us, and I was the only one who isn't a regular at their parties... and one of the two Vegas girls they invited. So I sat at the table trying to remember everyone's name, while everyone else got mine the moment I shook their hand.
For the most part, I was checked out of the conversations... I had no reason to listen, since I didn't know anyone they were talking about.

Starting the night/filming

There were three tables set up. One was pretty much empty the entire time because the four people who sat at the table left early, the other table was the "action" table where all the "main characters" of the show were sitting, talking their made-up scripted shit, and then there was my table-- the drunken, loud, unruly table (where real drama was going on).
We were only allowed to drink Bud Light-- that was hell, and why I was drunk. I hadn't had food in my system for a good eight hours, and they hadn't given me water. I sipped my beer and felt like garbage within minutes. I swear I'm allergic to that shit... fucking beer.
ANYWAY, they eventually got us some tacos... and that proved to be a mistake, since I spent the remainder of the party trying not to vomit them out.
There were some funny moments, legitimately sincere moments... like when we started playing the game (Loteria, which is the Mexican version of Bingo), and when the main character of the show won and yelled Loteria, we all naturally called bullshit and flung our beans (what we were using as markers, like in Bingo) at him. This, of course, tickled the producer pink, and thus, he had us throwing beans at the guy another five times... and another three at the end of the night. He killed our joke.
There was also my favorite part of the night, when the cameras left, and everyone behaved like themselves. The superficial fake folk left along with the camera crew, but the cool people stayed and proceeded to crack jokes... and we had a very nice sing-along. A girl at the party brought her guitar, which apparently is what she does at parties, and proceeded to sing our favorite Mexican songs. It was so fucking mellow, I momentarily forgot about my fucked up stomach.

And then the fucked up part rolled around at midnight.
The entire night, a girl at my table-- the loudest broad-- kept asking when the blow was getting there. I swore she was just being obnoxious.
But she wasn't.
The blow got there.
Lots, and lots of blow.
Ahhhhh, yes! For a minute I had forgotten what part of Mexico we hail from...
I don't know if I'm the only person who feels like this, but few things break my heart more than seeing WHO does that shit... I seriously feel my heart shatter. It's horrible. The disillusionment I feel when I see someone I perceived as "cool" hitting that shit... it never gets better.
Cocaine has ruined so much around and in my life... there's no way in hell I'll ever be cool with it... or those who use it.

So... feeling completely shitty about humanity, I finally bitched enough to get taken home.
Upon entering my friend's home, I rushed to her bathroom and proceeded to vomit the red velvet cake I had stuffed my face with a few minutes before leaving the party (I initially panicked when I looked at the puke... thinking I was bleeding like some tuberculosis patient or some shit). Little did I know my "friends" took the liberty to look through my phone and steal some of my photos and read my texts while I panicked in the bathroom, projectile vomiting. That was nice... I wish the camera crews had captured THAT fucked up shit... at least that way I'd be publicly validated when I tell you guys some of my "friends" can be pretty fucking shitty people.

Ragarde

I'm once again at a loss for words. I don't know where to begin or how to begin.
Shit's just weird.
Weird shit happens.
I try and ignore things... ignore the sequence of events... blame it all on coincidence... but it's just fucking impossible not to trip when things get too fucking weird.

I've been busy this weekend doing some hardcore third-world shit.
I've been hooked on cocoa nibs for years, but things reached a new level once Dad brought the actual raw cacao from Nicaragua... a couple of kilos, actually.
It took us a while, but we learned the trick to preparing cacao nibs: roast the cacao bean, let it cool, peel away, grind, add to food and drinks (and fall in love)!
We did small batches a few months ago, on our first try, and stopped because it was so damn time-consuming.
Our Nicaraguan friends told us we should finish up the roasting and peeling of the remaining cacao before summer, when the beans run the risk of melting in this extreme heat. This shit is too delicious to allow for this travesty to occur, SO, Mom and I dedicated these last few nights to peeling the rest of the beans.
This shit is TIRING. It also hurts like a motherfucker, since the skin of the bean injures the fuck out of your hyponychium after a couple of hours. It's what I imagine the fucking Olmecs did as a torture tactic on their prisoners.
Anyway, I've hit the hay pretty hard these last few days thanks to this nice finisher.
I have not really given a shit about anything. I just leave the kitchen and enter my bedroom, turn on my television for my light source (and background noise... I need it in order to get sleepy. This goes back to my childhood days in the ghetto), wash my face, brush my teeth, turn off the TV, and go to sleep.
Yesterday, I was extra tired, although in an extremely good mood after a very pleasant day and evening, and a hilarious night of conversation with Mom as we did the cacao peeling.
After saying goodnight to the little lady, I left for my room and did the usual television thing and pre-bed ritual. When I returned to my room and looked up at my television, I froze.

I initially turned off my TV after finishing up with my usual Saturday-afternoon ritual: watching the cooking shows on PBS-- they end at 5PM. I had not been in my room since then.
Upon once again turning on my TV, a little before 1AM, I noticed the TV was still on PBS but didn't care to change the channel-- all I really wanted was some background noise while I washed my face.
Why did I freeze after walking into my room and looking at the TV after washing my face? Because right there, on my TV, on the science program, ON PBS... was Darcy's face.

Goddamnit. You have to be fucking kidding me right now. How the fuck... what the FUCK?!

I wasn't hallucinating. It was really the guy on television (I even rewound the program to make sure I wasn't just imagining shit)... and of course I watched the rest of the show.
Shit like this frustrates me. I don't get it. It makes me laugh... but just... it... frustrates me. Exasperates me. Makes me wave an angry fist at the Universe because it's thinking this shit is so fucking amusing/funny.
Is this fucking normal? Does everyone encounter this shit? I know people go through that thing where you "see" your crush all over the place, in things that continuously remind you of the person... but I LITERALLY see the guy... and he's "real," not a celebrity, not a famous athlete, he's a regular hometown boy... all over the place. He was on my motherfucking television at one in the morning, for crying out loud!
It gets to the point where I feel a pain in my stomach... like someone just violently kneed me. I don't cry only because I'm over doing that shit... but I do always let out a light "Oh no..." as I feel a frown make its way across my face. I lose my hearing for a few seconds, and my face turns warm.
It's the universe digging its nail a little deeper into my empty chest cavity.
The jokes no longer funny, just hurtful.

I take a deep breath, smile after releasing a single giggle, and quietly sit on my bed.
I proceed to do what the universe has worked so diligently at beating into my head: in quiet resignation, I observe and admire what I know was never meant for me.

Je le regarde, le regarde, le regarde.
"Just another girl... Nothing more, nothing less."

Muero lento

My kindergarten memory rushed to mind the moment I woke up on the floor.

I've told this story before: I was in kindergarten, it was Mother's Day, we had all made roses out of tissue paper. I remember my rose was red, and in the little paper vase I had decorated.
For some reason, I felt very sentimental... and panicked when I realized I missed my mom.
I cried so hard, I passed out. I later woke up surrounded by my classmates, and teacher holding my head.

I do that when emotionally distressed. I mostly pass out the day after I receive news that pisses me off, but I convince myself to bottle up... to "get over." I act cool when the news hits me... but the next day, I find I pass out all over the place.

Today, I was feeling shitty at the gym, but dismissed it as the fucking stupid cold my idiot brother gave me.
As I was doing the final stretches for the day, as I was laying myself of the floor, in the deadman's pose after crawling out of the child's pose... I felt lightheaded and knocked out.
I woke up as I heard my instructor calling out my name and asking if I was ok. She was about to walk over to me when I woke up.

I thought I was fine for the rest of the day, but then my condition worsened, to the point where I projectile vomited a few minutes ago.

Last night... was a terrible night.
I tried laughing it off... but given my physical state today, it's obvious something is bothering me more than I'd like to admit.

I haven't cried. I CAN'T. I'm just... so confused.
People think I'm dramatic, but I swear, the shit that happens to me is... I just can't believe it happens. It's insane... so motherfucking IMPROBABLE... yet it happens.

I'll elaborate... I'll write a story about this, but for now, I have to sleep. I feel like my exterior is going to match my interior: dead.

Pura Vidaaaaa!

IT'S OFFICIAL!

And it's not a joke (I LOATHE April Fool's Day. Stupidest fucking day of the year).
I'm going to Costa Rica on the 10th (Dad wanted to go on the 8th... as in... EASTER... WTH?)!

I've been light-headed ever since I booked the flight.

The way life is readjusting itself is so... it's so... remarkable. I don't know what to say! I'm just ecstatic and incoherent and all I want to do is jump and cheer and scream... and kiss people!

The relaxation from today's activities went down the drain and I'm now pumped like... some wind-up doll.
No remnants of my calm hike through the gorgeous landscape my lovely city has to offer

I am one ASHY motherfucker

Nope... I'm all giddy and loud.

April, you are going to be one HELL of a fucking awesome month!
THANK YOU!

Wrong Way Sunday

I couldn't sleep last night.
I was so disturbed, I woke up at five in the morning realizing my ankles were irritated due to falling asleep with my shoes still on.

I've always been so fucking hard on drunk drivers. Incredibly judgmental and unwavering in my hatred towards them.
You do the crime, you do the motherfucking time. You didn't mean to do it? Too bad, too fucking sad! NO EXCEPTIONS! FUCK YOU, YOU IRRESPONSIBLE FUCK!
That sort of deal. Always.

But last night... was a serious uppercut to my jaw... from... fucking Megatron.

She just ruined her life... oh my god... she just ruined her fucking life.

My heart is heavy for the friends and family of the kid killed. He was a good kid. A young dude... a 24 year old.
How do you ever... make up for taking his life? You can't.
To carry the burden of knowing your irresponsibility... your lack of good judgment... took this guy form his friends and family would be too much to handle. I'd fucking hate myself. Every morning. Every afternoon. Every evening. Every night. Forever.

My head spins because this girl is SO responsible. SO. FUCKING. RESPONSIBLE.
She had to learn to be responsible at such a young age... elementary school. She'd see her drunk dad beating the living shit out of her mother in front of all her siblings, and she'd step in and often take the beating... up until she gained the physical strength to fight her own dad once she entered high school.
She NEVER allows anyone to leave a party drunk, or even buzzed. Ever. She's so vigilant about it. I've seen it first hand, I mean... I see her at about 70 percent of the parties I attend. She has taken care of me.

She was supposed to be at my aunt's birthday breakfast last week, but was too busy helping her sister prepare for her Superbowl party. She did call my aunt to wish her a happy birthday while I was there, though. I just remember thinking what kind of fucking Superbowl-related fun they were sure to enjoy later in the day... because this girl is such a wonderful riot to be around.

I'm just so shocked. This is all so crazy. And I feel so horrible.
I read the on-line articles... with the accompanying (hateful, often racist) comments... and I can't fucking believe it. I repeatedly force myself to read her name and age... hoping to wrap my brain around it.
It's you. It'syouit'syouit'syou! You're the Wrong Way Driver...

She was put under arrest while at the hospital.
It breaks my heart... because I put myself in her place, and I just know I'd spend my entire time crying. They'd have to keep me sedated for my entire hospital stay... because I'd just go fucking crazy each time I'd wake up to see the cops at my door... the constant reminder that I fucked up and KILLED an innocent person. That I was so fucking stupid and selfish... that I killed a fucking kid.

She's a wonderful girl. A selfless girl. A kind girl. A good, brave daughter, an awesome sister, a remarkable aunt, a hilarious cousin, a wonderful friend and--while her grandparents were still alive-- a compassionate granddaughter.

How could you... have ruined your life like that? SO MANY lives like that? That's so not like you.

My heart is broken. My mind is frazzled.
You were driving drunk! You got behind the wheel while drunk! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT?!
I just think of her crying and feeling so much guilt. God, the unbearable guilt.
The judgement... the hate she will undoubtedly... quite justifiably face.
The friends she will lose. The job she has lost. The notoriety... the reputation... the new "title" she has gained.
The statistic she became.
I just want to hug her.

I don't want the deed to go unpunished. Shit like this should never go unpunished...
but I just want to fucking hug her and cry with her.

How could you fucking do this, man?! How could they fucking let you do this?!

What a terrible lesson I've just learned in the art of compassion.
Fuck, man. Fuck!

PERFECT Sunday

When I have bad days, they're BAD days.
My good days? They're fucking amazing.
Today has to go down in AWESOME DAY history, though. It was... great.

This last week was good for the most part. Throughout the week, I smiled and laughed a lot... I even found myself dancing around for no particular reason.
I was just a happy girl.
Today capped it all.

The day started off... well, like any day can start at 5:30AM after going to bed at three in the morning, drunk.
I woke up still buzzing, but a blissful buzz that made me nonchalant about everything. I only cared about my pink eyes-- not the gross conjunctivitis kind, but the dry-eyes kind.
I also had a terrible stomach ache.
Yesterday's food, while viciously delicious and thoroughly enjoyed by my gustatory glands, was not appreciated as much... actually, it was downright detested, by my intestinal lining.
Fucking Jalisco food... deceivingly delicious only to damn near murder you the next day.
I sat through church, almost falling asleep during various times, but that damn alien fetus in my stomach kept me awake.
THAT was the only downer to my day.

In an attempt to feel better, once I arrived home I decided to run intervals and hill climbs.
Wake up and forget about your stomach being a weak piece of shit! Also, get 100% sober, loser.
My day became brighter.
I then showered, which always makes the day that much cooler.
THEN I saw how Manchester United received their trophy.

CHICHARITOOO!

CHIIIIICHAAAAARIIIITOOOO!

THEN I watched PUMAS get their 7th championship.

7, suckaaas! I love these guys!

I was just kicking back, completely elated.
Of the three soccer leagues I follow (Spanish, English, and Mexican), my three teams were champions.
No, I'm not a bandwagoner. I have proof of my lengthy fellowship for each one (ManU was thanks to Beckham... because he has ALWAYS been ridiculously hot. Barça because they had a successful Mexican on their squad, Rafa Marquez, then Gio dos Santos. And finally, UNAM I've liked since high school, when I had that university as one of my top choices. So those who accuse me of jumping on a bandwagon can go eat a dick). I've been there for the good and the bad. I refused to participate in the "empañolada" when I went to the Barça game. They were 3rd place that year, yet there I was, supporting the dudes in Camp Nou.

Visiting the place where magic happens.

Only slight distress is trying to come up with a team to support for the Champs League final. I'm cool with whatever outcome, because if ManU is to lose to anyone, I'm glad it's Barcelona. I'd go ballistic if it were Madrid. And if ManU wins? Ok, I want THEM to win... because they have Chicharito.

Anyway, the awesomeness continued... because I went shopping. Well, shopping sucks... but I did get some new shirts. New shirts are always applauded.
THEN, I wanted some raspberries, so I asked Mom if she could go to Sam's Club and buy a bulk package of them. When we went, we saw this for 10 bucks:

Oh. My. God!

I was on that in a heartbeat.
You have NO idea how... FELIZ cherries make me. I am not exaggerating when I say: Cherries MAKE MY LIFE.

But the REAL magic? The REAL awesome news that made me... freak out?
Ready for this?
Ok:
Thanks to my mom, I've been asked to be a regular columnist in a magazine!
NO. SHIT.
When Mom told me, I nearly fell over. I thought she was joking.
(Sister's reaction was: LAME! ... ???)
The magazine has a very... specific target group.
It's a magazine that will only be distributed here, LA, Chicago, and... I forgot the other city. I tend to go deaf when I'm excited.
It's for people living in the US, but with Durango roots.
Aha! The catch!
I'd write short-stories based on my experiences IN Durango, traveling TO Durango, being AWAY from Durango... just... memoirs of a Durango chick, I guess.

I haven't accepted... because I KNOW this will get me in trouble. I'm misunderstood as is, I can only imagine the bullshit I'll face once I start writing shit and my sarcasm/humor won't connect.
I don't care about getting paid. I don't care that the magazine will not be widely distributed... I just... dude, I get to write!
And the weird thing was that Mom was super excited for me and... she thought of me when they asked HER to write the column (she's a poet/essayist... although not professional, since she never pursued it. But she's INCREDIBLE with words).
My mom wants ME to write. Is that... does that sound crazy to anyone else?

Fucking perfect Sunday.
I don't know... I'm still... taking in the weird feeling that is being asked to write for people. It's so... bizarrely exhilarating.

... OK, I'll quit being optimistic now, since that always wrecks shit.
Shhhhhh! I'm not mentioning another word of this again.

Why'd I have to come back?

It was...
I'm so...
I...

I'm back...

Words can't express the way I feel.

Absolutely... I wish it would have never ended.
I'm holding on to this feeling for as long as I can.