Cielo Rojo

I had some of the best sleep ever last night.
I can't remember any of last night's dreams but one:
I was walking in a forest, a snowy one... I think it was Yellowstone, since I had watched a Nature program right before going to bed which talked about the animals at Yellowstone (FYI- it acquired "National Park" status on March 1st, 1872. Yet another reason why my birthday is THE shit) and how they handle winter. Knowing this, let's just assume this forest in my dream was Yellowstone.
So, I'm walking, admiring the sights. It wasn't cold, but I could still see my breath in front of me. The sky was pink, the trees were black... the feel was very Tim-Burton-y, but not in a creepy way, if that makes any sense.
As I made my way through the forest, I saw a clearing. The closer I got to the clearing, the more I realized what it was: a skating rink.
Don't ask me how, but I somehow acquired skates and I proceeded to hit the ice. The rink was suddenly packed with strangers enjoying their time, and I kept minding my own business, trying out shit like pirouettes (which I have tried in real life and totally ate shit. I can handle getting from point A to point B in ice skates... as long as I don't try to get all fancy). For some reason, this made me happy. I was smiling the entire time, and time was going in slow-motion.
Once I had my fill, I walked out of the rink.
Just as I was going to head back in the direction of the forest, I become startled when I feel someone gently tug on my left arm.
It was Mr. Darcy (what is it with him always scaring the shit out of me in dreams in order to get my attention?).
This is where the dream goes mute.
I smile, he smiles. We quietly walk towards a hill overlooking the rink... and just sit there, taking turns to "smoke" as we breathe out and pretend we're holding a cigarette. When we get sick of that, I rest my head on his shoulder, and we continue to stare at the rink-- all under a pink sky.

Then Rafa walked into my room and tugged on my foot to wake me up... that asshole.
I can never enjoy a dream for too long without someone killing it for me. I can dream about getting abducted by aliens for what feels like an eternity, but when it comes to having pleasant dreams where I feel at peace, some jerkoff has to wake me up.

Anyway. Yes, Rafa's back home. When we were driving back home from the airport yesterday, the first words out of his mouth were:
So... any news? Anyone pregnant? Married? Dead?
:S
Sister and I made eye-contact through the rear-view mirror and I just shot her my DON'T! look.
I blurted:
Uncle is having surgery on Thursday. He has a tumor in his lung. Mom tell you that?
That was the first bit of news that came to mind besides ALO'S MARRIED!!

I'm still working on making him laugh for now.
After being so rudely woken up by him, I went out to the kitchen to have breakfast with him.
As I was preparing my cereal ('cause that's how I do. Fuck cooking in the morning!), Rafa started doing his usual, annoying thing where he asks me stupid questions.
He does this thing where he acts like a baby, asking really stupid questions in an even stupider voice (don't ask me why, he just does. He's weird).
Rafa: *NicknameIHATE* when's the last time you shot somebody?
Me: Uh... never.
Rafa: When's the last time you got twiiiisted?
Me: By the way, idiot, you do know what that means, right? I'm over here admitting to getting high and drunk all thanks to your dumb ass!
Rafa: No, that's "twisted," I say "twiiiiiisted."
Me: Same thing, retard.
Rafa: *NicknameIHATE* when's the last time you pooped your pants?
Me: Um, I think you're confusing me for YOU.

This made Rafa laugh... and we went on a stroll down Memory Lane.

Rafa: Fuckin' Carlos (our elementary school janitor). I still remember, and have nightmares about him closing the door on me right before I got in the bathroom and I was like "NOOOOO!" and he laughed... I should have screamed "I'M GONNA SHIT MY PANTS!"
Me: HAHAHA! See, around here, you're the only one who has ever shit his pants.
Rafa: Then in middle school I remember HATING to go to the bathrooms in Fremont because there was never any toilet paper. But this day... I think it was music class, I was sitting there and I just shot my arm up in the air and I was like "fuck it, I HAVE TO GO! NO, REALLY, I HAVE TO GO!" There was no escaping it, so I ran into the bathroom and I had no time to check if the stall I went into had toilet paper. I HAD TO GO.
Me: Gross.
Rafa: Once I was done, I noticed there wasn't any toilet paper...
Me: NO! So what the fuck did you do?!
Rafa: I used my hand! What else was I going to do?
(I began to gag on my cereal with the mental image)
Rafa: When I was done, I went to go wash my hand,
(I gag some more)
Rafa: AND THERE WASN'T ANY SOAP!
(By this time, I'm on my knees, on the floor, laughing so hard I'm crying... but at the same time I'm gagging, on the verge of puking out my cereal)
Rafa: I stood there violently scrubbing at my hand as I ran the water. I was SO lucky no one walked in on me at that moment. I had to practice walking into class like everything was cool.
Sister then chimed in with a story of one of her first-grade classmates who shit his pants as he sat in his chair. Sister was sitting next to him and became traumatized after she saw how the boy's back and chair got covered in shit.
(I narrowly escape vomiting this time)
Sister: Now we know what type of legislation you'll pass when you're president.
Rafa: I'll champion school reform where it will be mandatory for ALL schools to have an abundance of toilet paper, and to have working soap dispensers that will ALWAYS be filled. I'll call it, "The Flu-Men-See-Oh Bill" (name of Sister's unfortunate classmate).

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what my siblings and I talk about on a rainy Monday morning.
I had missed having a brother.

Enferma y delirando

I was a moribund cow yesterday, so I think my use of my monthly free pass for skipping a day of writing went to good use.
I had intended to update... but I wound up passing out half-way through my entry, as I watched Jimmy Fallon.
It all worked out for the best, though, because after going over it this morning, the post was quite depressing.
Note to self: Don't write while ill. Your entry will start resembling a suicide note.

Yesterday I woke up at five in the morning, unable to breathe because my bastard tonsils were so swollen. The swelling was so bad, I wound up gaging on the tonsils and proceeded to puke... bloody phlegm (hot, I know).
That hurt.
And it made me feel like I had tuberculosis.
I then took some Mexican tetracycline (Terramicina) that works miracles, and I fell asleep as I sucked on it. You must dissolve the pill with your own saliva, which takes about an hour... but since I passed out, it was in my mouth for five.
That felt good... especially when I noticed I couldn't taste shit because the damn Terramicina had numbed my tongue. At least it didn't discolor my teeth-- I've heard horror stories about that shit.

I then spent the day forcing myself to spit. Gurgling and all that shit. It itched and hurt at the same time... horribly exasperating.
What got me through the day? The Travel Channel.
I swear, I'm going to work for them some day... even if it's me just handing the camera crew water bottles. I'm doing it. (Another thing that got me through the day was thinking "I'll be motherfucking damned if I'm sick for this weekend. I gotta be great for Kelley's shindig, damn it! You can't control ME, body!")

Anyway, I spent the day in and out of consciousness... and I finally quit around 1:30AM or something like that. I sort of remember trying to work on my Portuguese sometime around my delirium. AND trying out Farsi. Which, of course, I quit. Fuck that... that language is hard as fuck! I just know I was pretty good at saying "good afternoon."
Who tries to learn languages while semi-unconscious? This idiot right here.

Still, my pain and suffering paid off, since I woke up feeling like a champion today.
No runny nose, perfect tonsils... and more Travel Channel.
I'm even shopping later on. Apparently, my sister can't shop without a companion, and so, I must suffer getting toted around H&M and all those other stores she digs (I can't complain about H&M. I find myself walking into the store just for memory's sake. I'll sit there and remember Bilbao as I stare at the shitty material the clothes is made of. Fucking store is my guilty pleasure, regardless of the shitty clothing with the shoddy stitching job... I still buy their shit).
Hooray.

It's green...

1. Celery
2. Broccoli
3. Parsley
4. Green Apple
5. Cactus.
6. A little bit of OJ

Blend.
Drink.

Am I crazy for liking this shit?

Keep it indoors, lady!

I just...
caught my neighbor lady getting... banged... out in her backyard... hard...

Oddly enough... I was the one mortified... for being caught in my green pajama bottoms at nearly 2 in the afternoon....

MY NEIGHBORS ARE THE FUCKING TRASHIEST NEIGHBORS IN ALL THE FUCKING ENTERPRISE LAND (because we all know there are plenty of other crazy neighbors in Vegas communities, I just didn't know my hood was as trippy as my old central Vegas one)!!
(no pun intended... or is it? I don't know!! Now I must go and wash my eyes out with some chlorine)

Cleaning Lady

I hate fitting into stereotypes, but recently, I've really stuck to one that I especially hate:
Mexicans make good cleaning ladies.

I've spent the better of the last 3 days cleaning my side of the house (that's right, not just my room... but the entire wing that now belongs to me since Brother and Sister are gone having a blast in expensive ass Europe).
Sure, I took a break on Thursday for a while, since I went to go watch that one ABBA musical (as guilty as this makes me feel, I liked it... umm... kind of... a lot. I came out singing. Luckily, it left me after a day, but now I have an ABBA CD in my car... I listen to it on my way to the gym. Lame, I know... but they bring back some good memories of my childhood in Mexico).

I clean while my mom plays Guitar Hero.
If anyone that has rhythm would be playing GH, I wouldn't mind as it would provide nice music to clean along to... but my mom... oh man!
I'm convinced Mom is the WORST instrument player in the universe.
Absolute worst.
I love Mom to pieces and everything, but my God! She's terrible!
She nearly breaks the little guitar as she hammers away at the buttons... and I feel this horrible pain in my gut... knowing she's going to break my controller.
She has a baaaaaaaad sense of pace... and as hard as I try, I can't beat it into her (seriously, I slap along to it. Granted, I don't slap her, I'm not that barbaric, but I do--and have-- slapped almost every part of my body).

Mom, it's "one-two-three, one-two-three!" Not "one.... two.. three. Onetwo.. three."

I fear my thighs will start to bleed if I slap them one more time to help mom keep the beat.

For a music lover, she's... very bad... very, very bad.
And then she goes off and works on the same song for hours.
If I hear "Black Magic Woman" one more time, I'm going to punch a hole through the television... I've had enough of that damn song on Easy.
Same goes for "Slow Ride." I think I can do that song with my back turned to the television... I've had to slap the beat to that one far too many times.

Anyway, as I hear Mom butcher the beginning to Black Magic Woman for the fortieth time (and then fight the urge to stab myself with the nearest, sharpest, object), I sit in the hall that connect Little Sister's room to mine.
Every other area is clean (except my room... that thing is still a hazard no one is allowed in besides me), all I have to clean is this: (you see those bags down there? All trash... mainly boxes and old nail polish, that I've cleaned out of the top drawers--fuck me if that's not the correct term... what the fuck do I know about homes and the English language?-- I have yet to clean the bottom cabinets, and I'm so scared)
And I'll tell ya what, I'm having a bitch of a time.
How the hell... why the hell did we let it get so damn sloppy?
I feel like I should submit that photo to an "I Spy" book publisher.
The most random shit can be found in that mess (Seriously, what the hell is an Airplane Pilot Snoopy Christmas ornament doing there?).
It's so disgusting, and super DUPER embarrassing.
There are things there that we've been hoarding since 1999.
1999!
I was 14! Little Sister was 11/12... and it shows:



I've found dozens of these note cards in the drawers closest to Little Sister's room... all in her handwriting.
She has recipes, games... poems... notes... a ton of crap just written there.

I've found enough makeup to start my own Broadway show...
I have about 100 hair ties... and 1000 bobby pins.
Headbands that Madonna would have murdered for back in the 80's...
And some very... umm... interesting jewelry/makeup I used back in the day when I was in my Raver phase (thank God that's over...).

I also lost a ton of things found in the third, upper drawer due to a bad blue-eyeshadow-incident. I guess it broke... and all the powdery stuff spilled over the contents of the drawer. Most of the stuff had to go... and the blue won't leave the actual drawer. Mimi from The Drew Carey Show would have killed for that eye-shadow that went to waste in my drawer.


As long as I'm Mexican, this type of thing will never happen again...

I may get shot for this...

But Milano cookies are severely over-hyped.

It took 22 years for me to taste a Milano cookie... and now that I have, I'm definitely not impressed.

Also,
Milano cookie + dipped in milk = Yucccccccccck.


I'd rather bite into some garlic than do that again.

Podophilia

Did you know there are eight colleges of podiatric medicine (in the U.S. I think... it can't be worldwide)?
Yeah, I didn't know that either... that is, not until I started getting mail from a couple of those damn eight schools.

I've said it once, and I'll say it again: I HATE feet.

It's not like I go around telling people I detest feet... I won't get in people's face for exposing their feet in my presence, either... I just act like feet don't exist. I don't acknowledge that part of the human body (foot fetishists boggle my mind).

Getting contacted by podiatric schools creeps me out in the first place... but the fact that it peaked my interest a little, freaks me the fuck out.
However, my folks become ecstatic each time I receive any sort of mail regarding medical schools (just not when it's the military contacting me... which tends to be the only thing I'll ever read over twice, once in a while, because I wouldn't mind working on people who deserve it: the military men and women of this country. That's my patriotic comment of the week, and most likely, month)... and they think podiatric medicine is fantastic.

Mom: Imagine! You can work on the feet of soccer players!
Me: Yeah... that'd be hot... I'd be touching all these guy's busted up feet... sometimes have their future in my hands, literally. Sexy...
Mom: Oh, like you wouldn't want to work on Cristiano Ronaldo's feet?
Me: I would eat off his feet!! That beautiful creature...
Mom: And Rafa Marquez... and Lionel Messi... and...
Me: Ehhh... they're great footballers... but no... I'd only compliment CR's feet.

This exchange has given my parents hope that I'll return to medicine after a semester--at most, a year-- off from school (not. going. to happen.).

I'll have crazy moments where I'll think:

Damn... it would be fucking awesome to travel with a soccer team and be the one checking out their feet... that'd be fucking great!

But all I have to do is stare at this for a little longer than ten seconds:
...aaaaand I'm good (fuck.that.).