Myspace, a place for Jerks

I hate Myspace.

It only serves to remind me how terrible I am at picking friends:

Bulletin number one:

Subject: Spring Break Mode

I am officially on Spring Break mode.... In just three days I will be flying to Miami....but until then, I have to get my party on in Vegas

*Douche Bag*

Bulletin number two (12 hours later):
Subject: New Credit Card

I just got a American Express Card and wouldnt you know... It got here right before my trip to Miami... That might spell trouble(over spending)... but oh well... Its Spring Break.Oh... It has no limit

*Douche Bag*

*Name has been changed to protect the vain.

Fucker won't shut the hell up about his damn credit card as if it's the AE black card. Give me a break, jackass.

I'm not usually this bitchy (umm... well...), I'm just moody 'cause it's the first day of my Spring Break and all I've done is eaten Cap'n Crunch cereal because it's lent and I can't eat meat... and the rest of the household loves fish... and I'd rather catch tetanus than eat sea-food... and I have to wash the dishes... and for the next week I have to look over this shit:

And let's not forget, this shit:

Mmmm... yeah... that hits the spot.

My heart... it skips a beat for you, Biology (damn you, Pepsi commercial!).

Nah, man, I don't do that shit no mo'

I've bumped into a number of people who have wanted me to draw them a thing or two.
I only bring this up because recently, a couple of relatives have really gotten on my case. After drawing the above doodle, and committing the mistake of placing it on my myspace page, the ones near and dear to me have taken it upon themselves to hassle the crap out of me.

"oh my garsh!!! u drew this??? this is super cute...aww do one for me yea??? hahah haven't seen u in like forever y aka yo piediendo favores...hahah well i mean if u wanna draw something up for me i would totally appreciate it(wink, wink) hahah j/k...but this is awesome man...wow so much talent in the family...i'm sooo proud..haha"

Yeah, no lie, that's someone related to me. She's the one that's been most adamant about the whole thing. She's coming down from her area in California in two weeks, and while I've been lucky enough to dodge her inquests these last couple of weeks, I don't know how I'll manage once she's in front of me. I don't look forward to this event only because something in my past keeps me from making her happy and just drawing some damn girl reading a book for her or something.

I used to draw for people, gladly. At first I thought it was comical... I'd be a little flattered, but I'd always oblige.
The whole... "AnoMALIE, can you draw me a *some animal, a girl(cause i can't draw boys)* I just love how you draw!" thing would make me blush... even feel important at times. But then fifth grade came around and changed it all.

1995-96: I wasn't popular, no those days were left back in first and second grade when I was still surrounded by little immigrant children. I was still considered an ESL (English second language) student even though I read at an 8th grade level (something I was proud of because everyone else read at a sixth grade level, max. Now I think: well, shit, it's not like I was reading at a twelfth-grade level, get off your high horse, AnoMALIE). I tried my best to fit in with the English speaking kids, but I found myself only bonding with the 2 other Latina-girls in class and one Filipina. I'd try buying the love from others by giving them some of my doodles from class.
There was one really popular girl, Dolly (why the hell did I try impressing someone with that name?), who had everyone--guys and girls-- doing back flips for her. I remember she approached me one day as I was doodling in my English journal (and I wondered why I couldn't get out of the ESL category) during lunch time.

"Hey, you draw that?"
She pointed at the girl I had drawn on the margin of my paper.
"This? Umm... yeah..." (I blushed... a cool girl talking to me? The math nerd? The ESL kid?)
"Can you draw me one?"
"OK..."
She smiled, and walked away with her posse.

I drew my typical girl: a gangster! (Well, I'd draw that or Jessica Rabbit... or just Jessica Rabbit in baggy pants... defeated the purpose of Jessica Rabbit and her long, sensuous legs... but her boobs were still there)
Yeah... I mean, what else could I draw besides hookers and gangsters, being that I lived in the hood (Naked City: what, what?!)?
She wore a green flanneled shirt, black baggy pants, black Nike Cortez's, wavy hair, and I may have given her a backwards hat. I remember I'd give the dolls really tiny waists, big boobs, big eyes, big lips, and big heads (the style really hasn't changed, as you can tell).
I was proud, cause I tried making her the prettiest of all (C'mon now, we're talking Dolly here), and I thought I had succeeded.

The next day at school, I remember placing the drawing on Dolly's desk with a huge smile on my face.
She looked at it, her eyes lit up, and she thanked me.

Now, I typically live for that kind of stuff. I love making others happy, no matter what. So I felt like my job was done and I continued to draw for people.
Dolly was nice to me for the next couple of days, and she'd always ask me about drawing. I'd sort of ignore my real friends to spend time in her circle explaining why my dolls had small midsections and larger... other areas (I never told her it was because my friend in kindergarten had a stripper mom and it gave me ideas). Everything was cool the first three days, but the problem arose around the third day when the people who would typically commission me (with beef-jerky--not to be confused with Slim-Jims-- nonetheless. I was pretty cheap... actually, the trick still works today) to draw for them stopped coming around.
It took about another week before one of my best friends, Ana, interrupted my "reading time" moment by slamming a drawing on the desk in front of me.

"Hey, look what little Miss Dolly's doing to you."
I looked at the drawing and it looked like something I had drawn.
"What do you mean... it's my..."
I took a closer look.
"...oh. Is this my drawing?"

The doll was similar... but upon closer inspection, she had smaller features... and really fucked up eyes (I take my time on eyelashes, this bitch drew sticks like those drawn to indicate rays of sun). I can only imagine how Louis Vuitton feels when he sees someone walking around with one of those imitation bags. I must say, I drew that eye almost exactly how Dolly drew it... constricted pupil, McDonald's arch brow... stick eyelashes... it almost looked like a Paramecium... or something else that's capable of living under harsh environmental conditions.
But anyway, on with my story.
I was enraged when I saw the drawing and asked my friend where she got a hold of the drawing.
She told me Dolly was selling them to students behind one of the portables during lunch time (like the true crack-dealing hoe she would soon be destined to become).

Selling them? As in... getting money? Not just that tasty one dollar and fifty-cent beef-jerky?

Apparently so... and there was a line.
I remember looking over at Dolly, while holding the drawing, and her looking up only to shrug her shoulders.

When lunch time came, I went by the portables and upon seeing the transactions, I didn't know whether to vomit or just let the ghetto girl in me jump at Dolly's nappy, curly hair.
Rather than jump Dolly (I was 5'2", she was well below 4'8"), I stuck around for a while, wanting to hear what Dolly would tell these girls.
I saw one of my friends was in line (the fucking nerve), and listened in.

"Isn't this like *AnoMALIE's* drawings?"
"No. She draws big stupid heads. I fix her drawings. Now do you want one or not?"

I remember her emphasizing "fix" and then wanting to punch her.
Big stupid heads? Dude, how else am I going to get the intricate details of her iris down?
I eventually got caught spying on the (not so) illicit deals, and came face-to-face with Dolly.
I asked her what the deal was, and she admitted it, although she was quite rude about it (who tells another 10 year old their drawings suck and that they can do a better job... when clearly, a baby Yorkshire Terrier has more talent).
I took a drawing from her hand (she had like, ten in her tiny, thieving hands) and pointed:
"It's supposed to be a flannel shirt."
"Flannel's ugly."
"Well... then... she's not a real gangster."

With that, I left her in her little secluded area, and went back to my classroom. I can only imagine how red my face must have been.
I tell myself I didn't punch her out because she had two of her friends, like bouncers, at her side.

Twelve years later, I've never drawn for anyone again. I still doodle while in class, but... I no longer accept any sort of commission. My drawings are for me, and maybe a teacher's project... aside from that, no one else.

Now if only I could re-tell that story to my family without getting worked up and smashing something... or you know... sounding like a total cry-baby.

I curse the day I began listening to those CDs!

I can't get this part of Britney's Pepsi song out of my head:
My heart
Won't skip
A beat

Then my mind goes crazy and finishes off with:

and you will find
Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba
Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba
The joy of Pepsi

The damn thing only took a day off, then came back today to torment me as I went about my daily activities! Shit... at least let it be a good singer that gets stuck in my head.

I was in a good mood... for a while (if I omit the entire Pepsi commercial song from my head, that is).
I received a nice little "surprise A" on an exam (I thought that would never happen again, since apparently I grew keen on scores in the mid 40's), my cheeks became flustered, I made a trip (to an empty, peaceful) home before heading off into the "lab that ends right when traffic picks up on the I-215," but eventually, I came (to an estrogen-laden) home.

I've lived in the same home for 8 years now, and to this day, my bedroom does not have a television.
I had the short-lived joy of having a big screen TV in my room over the summer... but then came August, my brother, and Notre Dame to fuck it all up (it was his television and all... but still... where is there room in a dorm for a big screen television?).
So I basically live off the charity of my siblings. While Older Brother's away in Indiana, I can sort of go into his empty room and watch TV. I just hate how the television (it's from the early 1990's... I can still remember when Mom and Dad went out to buy the enormous beast) has funky colors on the upper right corner... so it distorts the image. I also don't like being in there for too long because... it's an army boy's room (I still get night terrors remembering one night we were originally watching the Rocky movies, we had paused it, and I--being an idiot-- went back later on to try and finish it. I didn't realize we were watching a DVD, I pressed the VCR's "Play button" and bam, two midgets having sex... yeah... I had to hold in my screams, out of fear my bro would catch me and scream at me for being in his room--while he was surfing the net for porn I'm guessing-- without permission) ... minus the cool console systems that can entertain a person for hours (no matter how hard I tried, I never convinced him to get Dance Dance Revolution. Something about it being "too gay"). Plus, Mom gets all emotional when in there... she doesn't want her only son's "scent" to leave the room. Luckily, it's not as bad as it was when he was actually in the army.

Since I'm too... reluctant... to watch television in my brother's room for the above mentioned reasons, I have to illicit some sort of pity from my younger sister in hopes of watching television in her room. It usually works since she works late at night and I have domain over her room from 6:00pm till 11:30pm. I have problems whenever she comes home moody because:
1) Her work husband was checking out the new, hot ticket agent
2) A celebrity asshole was mean to her
3) A moody, idiot passenger didn't want to follow TSA rules and bitched at her
4) She has an exam the next day and she's only studied for an hour
5) Her cycle is getting the best of her
6) I'm wearing the wrong colors
7) I said the wrong thing.

ETC. Basically, it's all determined by lunar cycles.
Today she was not lovely.
So... I'm sitting here bored out of my mind... not wanting to go to bed, not wanting to study, not wanting to check my grades, and most definitely not wanting to go into my brother's room. Mom didn't help... she sided with my sister ("It's my room! Can't I fucking go to sleep at 11pm?! She watches the one a.m. soap opera!").
Yo Mom, here's an idea: how about I get a nice little T.V. in my room, finally! Then I wouldn't be bothering anyone.

I'm glad I gave everyone in my house the sore throat I had Monday... and I'm happier they don't know how I got that sore throat in the first place (I think I licked the wall in my shower the day before, when I had an accident while squeegee-ing (I never knew how to spell that till just now!) the wall. Long story, but it made me feel like an old lady who needs those "safe-mats" for the shower).

World's worst DJ

Earlier last week, I became the proud co-owner of approximately 118 (but who's counting, anyway?) Mix CDs. I say co-owner because the CDs were given to my father. OK, not the actually CDs... but it was this huge disk changer thingy... one that professionals use (I only say that because I can't work it, and I'm a normal plebe). I have no clue if the donor was aware that 118 of his CDs were still in the damn contraption, but he hasn't called, so I called first dibs.

I finally got to listening to some of the CDs over the weekend. Some were entire albums, like "Siamese Dream" by the Smashing Pumpkins, about 5 Madonna CDs that I could care less about, Alanis Morissette's "Under Rug Swept", and Billy idol's "Vital Idol." However, there were only about 20 of those.

There were about 15 CDs dedicated to singles, real ones and burned ones. I only liked about two (NOT including The Verve's "Bitter Sweet Symphony," which only brought back annoying memories), so those CDs were placed back in the futuristic machine (yeah, I've settled for those terms since my Neanderthal ass can't operate it).

Then followed about 20 more that were Mix CDs, but with labels. They had "themes" for the most part. There were a couple of "1990's," "1980's," and "1970's" CDs. I must say, I quickly became fond of the 1990's CDs (who puts "Damn, I wish I was your lover" by Sophie B. Hawkins and "Crossroads" by Bone Thugs in the same CD? This man, that's who!).

After the fun of going back in time was over, I realized the remaining CDs were unlabeled. At first I thought it was going to be an easy task, because most of the songs were recognizable. Whenever I bumped into a song I had no clue about, I'd jot down some lyrics and Google them to get a clue.
This is how I found songs like "Breakfast at Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something, and the more disturbing "Don't Stand So Close to Me," from The Police (I'm pretty glad my mom only listened to Spanish music when I was a kid. At least their subjects consist of heartbreak, being locked up in jail and your woman forgetting about you, or about wanting to "na-na-na-na" with someone... rather than songs about wannabe Lolitas).
However, after an hour of doing this, I quickly became disgruntled and decided to just name the damn unknown songs by the first phrase I could catch... or the one repeated most often.

I think I could have lasted longer at this guessing game if the damn CDs would have been in some sort of order (I would have even been happy if the DJ guy would have just burned songs in the order they appeared on Napster... they'd be in some sort of alphabetical order, whether it were by artist or song title). But no... they were, by FREAKING far, the worst mixes I've come to hear. Here's a sample of my progression with the CD labeling:
Second CD of the series:
1-5, & 14: Chinese.
6. Janet Jackson- Someone to call my lover?
7. Mariah Carey
8. Red Hot Chili Peppers- Aeroplane
9. Rolling on the river?
10. Classical
11. Lady marmalade
12. Fly?- Nelly Furtado
13. electronica.

At the end of this, I felt ok... but that electronica in the end was a bit annoying. However, I was glad to have stumbled upon the very trippy "Aeroplane" by the RHCP's, and I was determined to understand what the Chinese songs said. At this point, I was thinking: Man, this guy's pretty rad. Chinese?!

Another CD (lots of) minutes later:
1 & 2: Techno
3. Mariah Carey- Like That?
4. Jungle
5. "California"
6. 80's Rock
7. Techno
8. Mariah Carey- Shake it off
9. 80's Rock
10. RuPaul
11. 90's Rock (followed by a smiley face)
12. Bring it on?
13. She's a little bit dangerous?
14. That's the way we get by?
15. Listen to your heart

At this point, I just wanted it to be over... so I'd jot down the phrases I caught in the middle of songs. This CD made me think that it might have had a "coming out" theme... because, really... RuPaul? Ru-freakin-Paul! You better work, cover-girl!

One of the final CDs I listened to:
1. Song for the Lonely- Cher
2. (starred, because I knew what it was, but was too tired to get on-line and look it up)
3. LFO
4. Take on me
5. Alanis Morissette
6. " "
7. _______
8. Techno
9. Dancing Queen
10. ABBA
11. B-52's
12. Blink 182
13. Pepsi Remix
14. (blank)
15. Coolio- 1,2,3,4
16. Blah
17. Crash
18. (blank)
19. STUPID SONG
20. Dropkick Murphys
21. 80's pop
22. Crazy- Britney Spears.

I never knew my... annoyance was so blatant when I wrote. I blame the annoyance on the fact that Cher's songs had been all over the mix CDs... and if I heard another one, I might have just shoved a pencil in my ear (that last song on the CD really summed up my feelings of the odyssey in general). This CD I had an issue with... mainly because it was SO out there with its Pepsi Remix song... you know, the one Britney sang back in the... I forgot the year. But this song was also in another CD in its full version... and I had forgotten how fucking annoying it had always been.

I'm just glad I'm no longer "bada-bop-a-bop"ing around the place ("the joy of Pepsi" was fucking killing me!).

The hippie within

I have a tendency to complain about hippies... sort of in the way Cartman does on South Park.
I never threaten to kill hippies, but I do become bothered by them from time to time (they flock to me like... ducks at a park do to loaves of bread carried by a toddler).
However, it has come to my attention that I possess some of these Hippie Qualities.

First off:
I love "Mother Nature."

-Why else did I become a Biology major (to be a doctor, that's why)? While, yes, I had my mind made up to become a doctor, as the years went by and the classes became increasingly boring... I figured I only enjoyed classes that involved "Earthy"-related topics (NOT plant physiology though... fuck them and their different types of chlorophyll. And plankton... man, if I hear one more thing about plankton, I'm going to... dump iron in the oceans! Which may actually proliferate plankton colonies... but whatever. Do they live in colonies? Man, I hate aquatic ecology... it gets to my head).
- I really like the outdoors, mainly because it's quiet. While I do live in a dirty city, I try my best to escape during the summer and winter... or just weekends (which is difficult as how my parents think I'm going to go out and get assassinated by the next Zodiac killer or some shit).
-I watch PBS's "Nature" series out of longing for the discovery channel (stupid Vegas boonies and their cable-less homes!).
-I've been known to hug a tree or two.

Second:
I don't litter or eat much meat.

Third:
I wear my hair down on a daily basis... this one worked a lot better when I had long hair.

Fourth:
I'm a Pisces (mannnn).

Fifth, and final:
I don't take pills.

While this last reason may be... well, not the greatest because of the fact that some hippies were best known for their love of hallucinogenic drugs... I know of many that prefer to take the "natural" route when it comes to medication.
That's all the way me. I have no clue why I fight it, but whenever I feel a headache coming on, I refuse to take Advil/Tylenol/Whateverelseisoutthere. I somehow believe "thinking positive" will make the pain go away... and the strategy works maybe one out of five times. I have no concrete reason behind aspirin rejection... maybe because I don't like foreign chemicals being ingested by my body?
Anyway, this hippie behavior really pisses me off sometimes. Particularly today.
I woke up with a mean ass headache and an accompanying sore throat. While I did get up to take some medication for the sore throat (it's a... man, I learned this in micro... but can no longer remember the type of pill that it is) at six in the morning, I decided to try and "sleep off" the head ache till 10:30 am.
I woke up at 10:30 and felt worse... like the covers were glued onto me, I really couldn't eat, and I was sounding like a transvestite (some transvestites have a better voice than mine even when I'm healthy).
I drove off to school and I swear I was seeing blue (What the fuck? I didn't take Viagra...). While I knew it couldn't be that bad, I couldn't wait to get to school and relax my head. However, once there, the headache only increased.
To make a long story short, I had the opportunity to get some Advil/Tylenol about 3 times, but I turned each one of them down.
I came home wanting to pass out and ready for nap time.
I caught myself and thought:
Well, fuck this hippie bullshit. Where's the Tylenol?

And sure enough... my headache is gone.
Thank you, acetaminophen.

Note to Married Man:

Dear Mr. 50-Something-year-old Married Man in church today:
Thank you sir, for squeezing my hand while praying the "Our Father," today. It was enough with you flaunting your Air-Force-Ones at me, and I was even cool with you lifting your left leg onto the... that little cushion we kneel on. I was cool with that, I understand sometimes the little homies need a little venting when smothered by white polyester pants a size too small. But the squeezing of the hand, well, that was just over the top, Married Man. I was honored by the fact that you were cool with holding my hand rather than letting it float in the air as if it has leprosy... like the case is when I sit next to attractive, young, single males ("Mom, you suck for making me hold this girl's hand!").
But guy... you squeezed my hand for the duration of the prayer... which seemed longer than usual... and you increased the pressure of the squeeze in steady increments until the time came when I felt like I owed you at least three of the seven digits in my phone number. Not cool, guy.
-AnoMALIE.

Why in the hell is it always the old men that gather around me... and they're the only ones to "caress" my hand for that part of mass?
I'm going to make a shirt that says: Favor de no tocar... de ninguna forma... ni aun al frente de "el señor," Gracias.

Hmm... or maybe I should just do the normal thing and start going to English mass... where guys aren't as prone to being pervs... right?
Just wishful thinking

Sapo Verde.

Unlike any normal birthday girl, I've always hated being sung to at birthday parties.

It's great that it took my family 22 years to get out of the habit (although Mom managed to partially sing her broken-English version to me as I sliced through the cake my little sister bought me... which by the way, depresses me when I mention it because I can never afford to buy Little Sister anything), I only had to bury my head between my hands in shame for so long.

There's been a lot of love shown my way, something good on this day that was so freaking... horrible.
Who the hell schedules an exam on my birthday? Shit.

As I wrote the date down on the Scantron, my brain asked:

Dude, did you ever think you were going to be doing this shit back in... 1997? Taking a Biochem exam the day of your twenty-second birthday? Wasn't I supposed to be doing something important by now?


Shit, back in March of 1997 I was busy reading The Giver and freaking out over the existence of infanticide (the color red is the first thing that pops into my mind when I remember that book), what did I care about 2007?

I was still recovering from the fact that Selena was no more; even looking forward to the Selena movie opening later that month. Biochemistry? C'mon now! Who cared about the Pentose Phosphate Pathway when the controversy of a Puerto Rican Jennifer Lopez portraying the Mexican-American Selena was in full swing?

-Not me! Why WAS a Puerto Rican playing a Mexican-American? Oh yeah, because they couldn't find another Mexican-American girl with that size badunkadunk in such short notice.

Oh Selena, why must you have gotten stabbed (or was it shot?) by that idiot on my birth month? It's never been the same since that fateful 1995 date. At least Spring hasn't turned intolerably hot just yet. I Still have Spring to cheer March up.

Anyway, that reminds me of being in first grade and realizing I wasn't the only person born on the First of March. Being tiny and ignorant (I still thought everyone was Catholic, and every Latino was Mexican until third grade when I befriended a Mormon Salvadorean), I thought only I, the uniquely talented AnoMALIE, was born on that day; as I imagined the twenty other six-year-olds were born on their special dates. I still remember the boy's name: Benny, and how I became irritated because I thought he was pulling my leg.

"But only I was born on March 1st, 1985! You shut the hell up, Benny, and own up to your own date!"

Poor Benny only stared at me with a nervous smile (nice way of dealing with a neurotic kid, I suppose). That's when the teacher had to pull me aside and explain to me that it was very possible of sharing my birth date with another person, and that each year, each day, tons of babies were born all over the world, and thus, share a birthday. Benny would just be my birthday-buddy, which is always fun.

"Well, couldn't my birthday-buddy be cooler than Benny? I mean, look at the kid! He has pasty, translucent skin, with black rings under his eyes... like some raccoon (I had a bad experience with a raccoon earlier that year while camping with my family up in Brian Head. But aside from that, I later figured out Benny was anemic... which... man... oh man). And he laughs ALL the time."

"Now, AnoMALIE, that's not nice. You must love and respect your peers! Benny's just extra special."
Man, did I need a couple of slaps to the face... what an annoying bitch I was.

So yes, that's the embarrassing manner in which I found out that no, I wasn't the only person born on "my" day.
The day of that epiphany still reemerges from my vault of memories from time to time, especially on this day, my good ol' birthday.