Here are some gems I collected on Sunday and part of today, with Pacemaker- my "friend" who stayed over yesterday and left this afternoon.
(Sitting in my room. She comments on my "baller" status since I now have a MacBook Pro)
Me: So would you still be my friend if I were poor?
Pacemaker: Honestly,no... I don't think so. I find poor people... undesirable.
Me: (internally) Funny, rich people find you undesirable.
(Paying for the bill at Yardhouse)
Pacemaker: You girls wanna go buy a car?
(bust out her credit card)
Me: Oh wow, you also ave a 100k credit line?
Pacemaker: No, 15k!
Me: Who the fuck buys a car with only 15k?
(Pacemaker standing by my bedroom door, talking about her Vegas shenanigans as I lay in bed, studying some word associations)
Pacemaker: I hope one day, you have as much fun as I did.
Me: Hahahaha! I guess.
Pacemaker: No, AnoMALIE... I mean... it was... man... I hope one day you'll experience something that fun!
Me: (inernally) I live here...and as for fun, I spent a month in Europe with pretty much a blank check... you cannot fathom the amount of fun I partook in. (spoken) I guess... your version of fun is completely different to mine.
(Showing me photos on her phone. Stops on a recent photo of just her face)
Pacemaker: I love this photo... look at it!
(I look, but at the same time catch her staring at my chin... where I currently have a pimple growing and ruining my life-- sarcasm, ok... but it is bugging me)
Pacemaker: My skin is flawless! It's so awesome!
Me: (internally) You know what else is awesome? Having a chin... I love it! (I guess I should mention Pacemaker is pretty massive. Her head reminds me of a full-moon. Same color and everything)
(Finding our way out of the Aria, right in front of the sports-books, after Lakers lose game two to the Celtics. Very excited, and attractive dude starts approaching me, reaching for my shoulder. Pacemakers speeds up her pace and intercepts the touch, taking his hand)
RandomDude: Wooo!!
Pacemaker: Wooo!
RandomDude: Way to go, Celtics!! That win just made me bank! (flashes big wad of money and waves it at me)
Pacemaker: Well, good for you!!
(Cute guy and his gang walk away, hooting and hollering about their big win)
Me: Oh! That's why he was coming at me... I'm wearing a solid green shirt!
Pacemaker: So?
Me: Celtics... they're green... I look like a fan... get it?
Pacemaker: (rolls eyes) No... not at all. He was coming at me. I give off that party vibe, guys want to be near me.
(Sister walks out of Yardhouse for a second to argue with her boyfriend over the phone. Pacemaker tries to get more information from me)
Pacemaker: So is he cute?
Me: I don't really know. He's nice... and really funny... she likes him... and that's all she tells me.
Pacemaker: Is he rich?
Me: He.. well, he owns a bakery.
Pacemaker: Oh snap... then who cares if he's cute... bakers can make good money.
Me: I guess. I just care for my guy to be funny... and smart... so they usually range in looks.
Pacemaker: Well, I only like douches. You know... the really hot guys with a good fashion sense that other guys tend to be jealous of. They take good care of themselves, shop at expensive stores... all that good stuff.
Me: Oh, you mean tools? I could care less for those "cute" guys.
Pacemaker: No need to tell me, it's more than obvious. You're lucky you're rich.
Me: (internally) WTF?
And my personal favorite:
(talking about Pacemaker's 1-10 "Beauty Meter" which is fucking retarded, considering NO ONE is a 10. Not even celebrities)
Pacemaker: MGH'sBrother is still upset about me calling him a seven.
Sister: Well, I mean, he is handsome. Seven might be a bit low.
Pacemaker: Seven is very high in my meter! I called my best friend a four! Now she had a reason to be upset... but hey, I don't lie.
Sister: What number am I?
Pacemaker: Seven! You're very pretty, LittleSister. AnoMALIE'S a five.
Me: (internally) When the fuck did I ask for my rating?!
How she left my house without a black eye is beyond me.
She was not being sarcastic at any time... and each time she seemed to come up with an increasingly hurtful jab for me.
She left me dumbfounded. Often times I'd consider talking back, but my head would be spinning so fast, I was too busy wondering what the fuck was going on.
Someone get me canonized... I'm a paaaaaaatient girl!!
Monday, June 7, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
silent for a reason
I should start my own series:
"I'm a very patient girl..."
and just go off on how I'm pushed to the edge by someone.
Here's what's pissing me off right now.
Las night, I get a text:
(3:40 AM)
"I'm soooooooo sorry, but the girls are leaving at 6:15 AM and they're going to leave me lonely and alone. Can one of you pick me up, or should I just get a taxi to your house?"
My friend sent the text to both my sister and I.
I didn't answer, since I put my phone on silent each night. Little sister, on the other hand, was awake and started texting back... at 5 in the morning.
Sister wakes me up at 5:30 and gets me in on the action... I had gone to bed at 3 in the morning, so I was not very happy. I put on a hat and head out with Little Sister anyway.
We both go to Caesar's Palace and pick up my friend.
We were thinking she's gonna be pissed at her hometown group... because I know I would be if my friends sprang it on me that I was going to have to leave the room by 6:15 AM at 3:40 in the morning.
Instead, she was demanding shit from us as if she were doing us a favor.
I was promised an angry friend... what the fuck?
I don't see where she gets the balls to act this way... she's the guest.
She didn't contact us all of Saturday, yet out of the blue she expects us to be ready for her entrance at 6 in the morning on a Sunday.
So here I am, 7 in the morning, wide awake... cursing at the fucking world.
Lucky for me Nadal's playing the French Open final at the time... if it weren't for that, I'd be cutting a bitch right about now.
"I'm a very patient girl..."
and just go off on how I'm pushed to the edge by someone.
Here's what's pissing me off right now.
Las night, I get a text:
(3:40 AM)
"I'm soooooooo sorry, but the girls are leaving at 6:15 AM and they're going to leave me lonely and alone. Can one of you pick me up, or should I just get a taxi to your house?"
My friend sent the text to both my sister and I.
I didn't answer, since I put my phone on silent each night. Little sister, on the other hand, was awake and started texting back... at 5 in the morning.
Sister wakes me up at 5:30 and gets me in on the action... I had gone to bed at 3 in the morning, so I was not very happy. I put on a hat and head out with Little Sister anyway.
We both go to Caesar's Palace and pick up my friend.
We were thinking she's gonna be pissed at her hometown group... because I know I would be if my friends sprang it on me that I was going to have to leave the room by 6:15 AM at 3:40 in the morning.
Instead, she was demanding shit from us as if she were doing us a favor.
I was promised an angry friend... what the fuck?
I don't see where she gets the balls to act this way... she's the guest.
She didn't contact us all of Saturday, yet out of the blue she expects us to be ready for her entrance at 6 in the morning on a Sunday.
So here I am, 7 in the morning, wide awake... cursing at the fucking world.
Lucky for me Nadal's playing the French Open final at the time... if it weren't for that, I'd be cutting a bitch right about now.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Excess indeed
I hate hanging out with girls!
Out-of-towners think I can get a club hook-up in a heartbeat.
While they're sort of correct about this, it doesn't mean I enjoy it.
I hate bothering people for favors.
However, if I really like you, I'll ask around and get you some sort of connection at some club.
This weekend is a doozy. It's two different parties. One is composed of a mixed group of current and former Raiderettes. One of the more famous former Raiderettes is throwing her bachelorette party with her closest pals... 16 of them. Luckily, they're all very attractive, so no problem there... they're just slightly ghetto (come on, they're from Oakland) and somewhat egotistical divas.
The second party is the difficult one. It's composed of 12 grenades and 2 normal girls. The grenades are being so fucking difficult.
I had to work magic to convince my sister to convince her promoter friend to get them a table at TAO.
He did it... knowing one party would be composed of mostly grenades.
Friday afternoon, what happens?
Raiderettes get a table at Jet.
This doesn't upset me... I mean, Jet is more of their style, and they weren't entirely on board with TAO.
I visit the grenades later at night and what happens?
DeadliestGrenade: Raiderettes got a table at Jet?? Hey, what kind of hook up do you have at Rain?
Me: For when?
DG: Today. Let's just club hop from Rain, to Jet, to XS.
Me: Wait! WHAT?!
DG: Yeah, I hear Rain is nice. Then Lito can hook it up at XS instead of TAO. He said he could hook it up at XS
Me: ... for Sunday! Call Lito and see what he has to say about that. (internally) He is going to cuss the shit out of you.
(Call Lito)
DG: Hey, Lito... so we don't want to go to TAO anymore, how about you change our names from the TAO list to the XS list?
Lito: Are you fucking kidding me?! (Click)
Why is it always the fucking ugliest chick that is always the most delusional of the group?
XS on a Friday? With non-locals... that are GRENADES... into one of the hottest nightclubs in town for free? Homegirls, you aren't the Kardashian sisters... no one needs to do you favors.
I was livid by this point.
I don't know how these chicks can think they can flake on one promoter and still be on good terms... especially when you're in such a large party.
After seeing how these girls weren't going to change their mind, I left their room and headed home... anything to keep from smashing their face against the nearest concrete surface.
I feel horrible for guys... I can't imagine having to live with one of these mercurial beasts for the rest of my life... fuck that.
Out-of-towners think I can get a club hook-up in a heartbeat.
While they're sort of correct about this, it doesn't mean I enjoy it.
I hate bothering people for favors.
However, if I really like you, I'll ask around and get you some sort of connection at some club.
This weekend is a doozy. It's two different parties. One is composed of a mixed group of current and former Raiderettes. One of the more famous former Raiderettes is throwing her bachelorette party with her closest pals... 16 of them. Luckily, they're all very attractive, so no problem there... they're just slightly ghetto (come on, they're from Oakland) and somewhat egotistical divas.
The second party is the difficult one. It's composed of 12 grenades and 2 normal girls. The grenades are being so fucking difficult.
I had to work magic to convince my sister to convince her promoter friend to get them a table at TAO.
He did it... knowing one party would be composed of mostly grenades.
Friday afternoon, what happens?
Raiderettes get a table at Jet.
This doesn't upset me... I mean, Jet is more of their style, and they weren't entirely on board with TAO.
I visit the grenades later at night and what happens?
DeadliestGrenade: Raiderettes got a table at Jet?? Hey, what kind of hook up do you have at Rain?
Me: For when?
DG: Today. Let's just club hop from Rain, to Jet, to XS.
Me: Wait! WHAT?!
DG: Yeah, I hear Rain is nice. Then Lito can hook it up at XS instead of TAO. He said he could hook it up at XS
Me: ... for Sunday! Call Lito and see what he has to say about that. (internally) He is going to cuss the shit out of you.
(Call Lito)
DG: Hey, Lito... so we don't want to go to TAO anymore, how about you change our names from the TAO list to the XS list?
Lito: Are you fucking kidding me?! (Click)
Why is it always the fucking ugliest chick that is always the most delusional of the group?
XS on a Friday? With non-locals... that are GRENADES... into one of the hottest nightclubs in town for free? Homegirls, you aren't the Kardashian sisters... no one needs to do you favors.
I was livid by this point.
I don't know how these chicks can think they can flake on one promoter and still be on good terms... especially when you're in such a large party.
After seeing how these girls weren't going to change their mind, I left their room and headed home... anything to keep from smashing their face against the nearest concrete surface.
I feel horrible for guys... I can't imagine having to live with one of these mercurial beasts for the rest of my life... fuck that.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Oh, you're talking to me?
"You're always holding your boobs!"
After months of not being directly addressed by my really, really attractive kickboxing instructor, he finally approached me last night. As he held out his hands to have me reach them with my knees, he laughed and turned off his mic to say those sweet, sweet words.
What do I do? Smile like a horse... and rip the shit out of my lip.
I'm such a moron, but I can't help it. There has never been an occasion in my life where I've been able to keep my cool around a guy who makes my heart flutter.
I'll either:
1) Stand in admiration, in an absolutely creepy catatonic state,
2) Smile, smile, smile (with a smile reminiscent to Mr. Ed's)
or
3) become an absolute klutz and inflict physical harm upon myself.
This stage in my life should have been long gone by now, and it kind of is since the number of dudes this happens around is quite limited.
The kickboxing trainer gets this treatment because... well, he is one of the most attractive "real" people I know. I don't care what words he directs my way, as long as they're directed at me, my body will react accordingly... I will hurt myself.
So, guys, let it be known, if I stare at you quite vacantly, or don't say a word and only smile like a horse (or nod. I'll nod when I'm trying REALLY hard to appear normal) I'm awed by you.
If I manage to hurt myself in your presence... I probably want to have your babies... or not.
After months of not being directly addressed by my really, really attractive kickboxing instructor, he finally approached me last night. As he held out his hands to have me reach them with my knees, he laughed and turned off his mic to say those sweet, sweet words.
What do I do? Smile like a horse... and rip the shit out of my lip.
I'm such a moron, but I can't help it. There has never been an occasion in my life where I've been able to keep my cool around a guy who makes my heart flutter.
I'll either:
1) Stand in admiration, in an absolutely creepy catatonic state,
2) Smile, smile, smile (with a smile reminiscent to Mr. Ed's)
or
3) become an absolute klutz and inflict physical harm upon myself.
This stage in my life should have been long gone by now, and it kind of is since the number of dudes this happens around is quite limited.
The kickboxing trainer gets this treatment because... well, he is one of the most attractive "real" people I know. I don't care what words he directs my way, as long as they're directed at me, my body will react accordingly... I will hurt myself.
So, guys, let it be known, if I stare at you quite vacantly, or don't say a word and only smile like a horse (or nod. I'll nod when I'm trying REALLY hard to appear normal) I'm awed by you.
If I manage to hurt myself in your presence... I probably want to have your babies... or not.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Silver Lining, AnoMALIE style
I have been relieved of my duties as Vegas tour guide for the weekend.
I'm still responsible for being a taxi, though.
Regardless, I'm happy about it.
(Last night, I get a text from my friend: "Call me if you're still awake." I follow the instructions)
Friend: So, you ready for me to get there?
Me: Yeah... but I have a confession to make...
Friend: ... what?
Me: I currently have the cold sore from hell..
Friend: Oh man, I'm sorry! I hope you're not putting toothpaste on it...
(like I said, I'm gullible... EVERYONE knows this. In this case, she knows of an 8th grade, toothpaste story that embarrasses the shit out of me to this day)
Me: No... I'm covering it with nail polish...
Friend: AnoMALIE!! WHAT THE HELL?!
Me: And so far, I've found black does the best job out of any color I've tried....
Friend: COLOR?! What the fuck, AnoMALIE?! I thought you were using clear nail polish! Fuck that, AnoMALIE! I'm not taking you out like that! You're banned from the weekend club hopping!
I tried acting disappointed... but I was kind of bad at it, considering I couldn't stop laughing out loud.
I didn't tell her I remove the polish prior to heading out...
I'll just let her keep thinking I'm retarded and walk around the streets of Las Vegas with black nail polish slathered all over my bottom lip.
No dressing up for me this weekend... or make-up, or nearly fighting bitches because they spill their drink down my ass, and especially no cussing at painfully tall heels!
Thank you, Herpes Labialis... way to do me a solid.
I'm still responsible for being a taxi, though.
Regardless, I'm happy about it.
(Last night, I get a text from my friend: "Call me if you're still awake." I follow the instructions)
Friend: So, you ready for me to get there?
Me: Yeah... but I have a confession to make...
Friend: ... what?
Me: I currently have the cold sore from hell..
Friend: Oh man, I'm sorry! I hope you're not putting toothpaste on it...
(like I said, I'm gullible... EVERYONE knows this. In this case, she knows of an 8th grade, toothpaste story that embarrasses the shit out of me to this day)
Me: No... I'm covering it with nail polish...
Friend: AnoMALIE!! WHAT THE HELL?!
Me: And so far, I've found black does the best job out of any color I've tried....
Friend: COLOR?! What the fuck, AnoMALIE?! I thought you were using clear nail polish! Fuck that, AnoMALIE! I'm not taking you out like that! You're banned from the weekend club hopping!
I tried acting disappointed... but I was kind of bad at it, considering I couldn't stop laughing out loud.
I didn't tell her I remove the polish prior to heading out...
I'll just let her keep thinking I'm retarded and walk around the streets of Las Vegas with black nail polish slathered all over my bottom lip.
No dressing up for me this weekend... or make-up, or nearly fighting bitches because they spill their drink down my ass, and especially no cussing at painfully tall heels!
Thank you, Herpes Labialis... way to do me a solid.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Polished
Growing up, I always had to put up with shit about my lips.
At first, it was the little kid thing where they would taunt me about the lips whenever they wanted me to fuck up during some intense game of kickball, or four-square, or... I don't know... tag? Basically, any time my peers wanted to see me worked up, they'd bust out the "N***a lip!" and I'd freak out.
Middle school came around, more kids were exposed to porn... more kids became sexually active... and so, came the new taunting lines:
"Shit... how many guys do you blow?!" "Why don't you shut the fuck up and go blow some guys behind the portables?" "Bitch, I know how you got your kind of lips! By blowing... guys!" etc... middle school kids are underestimated when it comes to creativity.
High school came around, and by then I had heard it all, except that now I started getting that annoying "lick the lips, make eye-contact" move from dudes... which was... I'd rather be hearing people call me Ni*** Lip, really.
So, to sum it all up, I've never been a fan of my own lips.
And when they do shit like what I'm about to show, it becomes increasingly difficult to like them at all:
That black stuff... I'll give you ten bucks if you guess correctly.
No, I won't.
It's nail polish.
Yes.
Why? Because my crazy Mexican mother told me it works magic on cold sores (yes... I finally contracted those pieces of shit... from my fucking brother of all people. Stupid asshole drank straight out of MY gallon of water when he was suffering from an outbreak... fucking retard. He could have at least allowed me to contract the damn herpesvirus participating in some fine, drunken debauchery-- like he did-- but no, he left it up to a fucking plastic gallon of water... gaaaaaaaaah!). Since I'm naive, and extremely gullible, I'll try anything once, twice if I'm that clueless... so here you have me faithfully tending to my wound every four hours.
While it's unbelievably unsightly (not to mention embarrassing), I have to admit... that shit is working magic. I hear cold sores take about 2 weeks to heal? My bad boy is nearly gone after two days.
Unbelievable... so much shit going on in the world, and here I am, blogging about my lip issue. But hey, what can I do? I'm a chick... and this shit has been interfering with my life for two days too many.
I don't go out in public like that-- I've put off grocery shopping and voting because of it. However, I did go to the gym today (nail polish removed, of course!), but only managed to look like a major cunt who refused to smile or look up.
I will be forced to emerge from my cave tomorrow, though, in order to perform my civic duty and vote... then buy myself some raspberries... then go get nearly killed at kickboxing... then hang out at the airport for an hour as I wait for my friend to fly in... and finally, back to my cave... my lovely, nail-polish-smelling cave.
Woe is me... someone, please rip off my lips!
(But hey, at least Rafa Nadal has been making my self-enforced quarantine bearable. He's such a hoss)
At first, it was the little kid thing where they would taunt me about the lips whenever they wanted me to fuck up during some intense game of kickball, or four-square, or... I don't know... tag? Basically, any time my peers wanted to see me worked up, they'd bust out the "N***a lip!" and I'd freak out.
Middle school came around, more kids were exposed to porn... more kids became sexually active... and so, came the new taunting lines:
"Shit... how many guys do you blow?!" "Why don't you shut the fuck up and go blow some guys behind the portables?" "Bitch, I know how you got your kind of lips! By blowing... guys!" etc... middle school kids are underestimated when it comes to creativity.
High school came around, and by then I had heard it all, except that now I started getting that annoying "lick the lips, make eye-contact" move from dudes... which was... I'd rather be hearing people call me Ni*** Lip, really.
So, to sum it all up, I've never been a fan of my own lips.
And when they do shit like what I'm about to show, it becomes increasingly difficult to like them at all:
No, I won't.
It's nail polish.
Yes.
Why? Because my crazy Mexican mother told me it works magic on cold sores (yes... I finally contracted those pieces of shit... from my fucking brother of all people. Stupid asshole drank straight out of MY gallon of water when he was suffering from an outbreak... fucking retard. He could have at least allowed me to contract the damn herpesvirus participating in some fine, drunken debauchery-- like he did-- but no, he left it up to a fucking plastic gallon of water... gaaaaaaaaah!). Since I'm naive, and extremely gullible, I'll try anything once, twice if I'm that clueless... so here you have me faithfully tending to my wound every four hours.
While it's unbelievably unsightly (not to mention embarrassing), I have to admit... that shit is working magic. I hear cold sores take about 2 weeks to heal? My bad boy is nearly gone after two days.
Unbelievable... so much shit going on in the world, and here I am, blogging about my lip issue. But hey, what can I do? I'm a chick... and this shit has been interfering with my life for two days too many.
I don't go out in public like that-- I've put off grocery shopping and voting because of it. However, I did go to the gym today (nail polish removed, of course!), but only managed to look like a major cunt who refused to smile or look up.
I will be forced to emerge from my cave tomorrow, though, in order to perform my civic duty and vote... then buy myself some raspberries... then go get nearly killed at kickboxing... then hang out at the airport for an hour as I wait for my friend to fly in... and finally, back to my cave... my lovely, nail-polish-smelling cave.
Woe is me... someone, please rip off my lips!
(But hey, at least Rafa Nadal has been making my self-enforced quarantine bearable. He's such a hoss)
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
NOvelas
My mom drives me apeshit.
The woman watches SEVEN soap operas in ONE day... SEVEN!
She monopolizes three televisions in the house, including mine, so I'm forced to relocate as she watches/records some ABSURD story of a drug lord, or pirate, or Moroccan whore... at all times of the day.
Back in the day, I confess I was a major telenovela fan. I'd rush home sometimes in order to make it in time for the afternoon soap that addressed some form of teenage angst- girls going to high school, getting pregnant, going through some sort of eating disorder, that kind of stuff.
But NEVER did I spend my entire day juggling seven soap operas.
WTF... if she's that interested in stories... she might as well listen to my shit. I swear, my life trumps any of her soap operas.
Want a story with pirates? Ok, my friend Lucky Soprano swears she's a pirate and, often times, tries to make me speak to her in "pirate."
Ni!!a, I have enough trouble juggling English, Spanish, French, and Portuguese in my head... shut the fuck up with this nonsense. You're not Johnny Depp, I'm not going to try and amuse you with my Arrrrgs, and I will definitely not be shivering your timbers.
And truth be told, I've had plenty of crushes on dudes with long hair. No, I don't get it either, it doesn't make sense, but it happens. I blame the 70's- which oddly enough, has plenty of that pirate-y look with the bandanas and all. You forced me to dig that decade, now suffer the consequences.
I've also dug "rebellious" boys I've so desperately wished could whisk me (your good girl) away, across the ocean, and towards the New World (although in my case, it's in the opposite direction, with Barcelona as my destination), like that idiot girl in your stupid pirate novela.
Oh, Ma! Me thinks I got yer pirates in me story!
However, I'm not too big on sailboats, or missing teeth... or hooks for hands... so... I'll have to work on that.
Story about a drug lord?
Umm... hello? WHY? We come from Durango... we travel to-and-from Durango every year. MGH's dad was the biggest DL of his time up until the day of his mistress' betrayal that lead to his murder, and MGH and his brother were given a bogus story about a car accident, since they were only about twelve when their father died. Ooo! Tragedy!
I have known MGH's dad's true story since I was ten, I was shown photos of his death shortly after it occurred... yet to this day, I still hide it from both MGH and his brother. How long can I keep that secret from them? Will they hate me once they find out... if they find out? Oooo! Drama!
I have spent a total of maybe 6 months at MGH's mansion in Mexico... put up with the strong paranoia ruling the family, having to walk in dimly lit rooms so as to not give away my exact location in the house. We wouldn't want a sniper mistakingly taking me out of this world just yet. Oooo! Adventure!
I've been in love with MGH, the man's son, for the last year! I went on trips with him... we spent nights together side by side... I almost moved in with him. Will I one day finally sleep with him? (Ouuuuch! The answer here is NO! I ultimately get my heart ripped out after he leaves me for a bland, Olive Oyl-looking-ass white girl who has NO clue about his family history... but hey, at least I don't get pregnant) Ooo! Romance!
and you'd still rather watch this damn fake soap opera?! I mean, the fucking list can continue, why listen to person X's invented life when a true story on DLs was almost part of your own?
And finally, a Moroccan whore.
Well... I have... Afghan friends... ?? No, they're not whores, but... I do have a minor crush on one of my friend's siblings. He too, like the lead character of the soap, is muslim... and I, well, I'm Catholic... but Jewish would have worked better here... although... I am technically, in part, ethnically Jewish.. so... hey! story right there! I also get confused for Lebanese, Pakistani, or Afghan while at my eyebrow threading place, I can easily make that work.
But I'm not a whore... and I'm not really down to turn into one in order to become entertaining. So... I guess that one must stay. At least you learn mini factoids about Islam and Moroccan culture... that's always a plus.
Madre mia, give me a couple of months... I'll give you plenty of stories to waste your time!
Now please surrender my television... Hell's Kitchen is on and I have things to learn! That Gordon Ramsay swears like a sailor, and I need to brush up on my skills.
The woman watches SEVEN soap operas in ONE day... SEVEN!
She monopolizes three televisions in the house, including mine, so I'm forced to relocate as she watches/records some ABSURD story of a drug lord, or pirate, or Moroccan whore... at all times of the day.
Back in the day, I confess I was a major telenovela fan. I'd rush home sometimes in order to make it in time for the afternoon soap that addressed some form of teenage angst- girls going to high school, getting pregnant, going through some sort of eating disorder, that kind of stuff.
But NEVER did I spend my entire day juggling seven soap operas.
WTF... if she's that interested in stories... she might as well listen to my shit. I swear, my life trumps any of her soap operas.
Want a story with pirates? Ok, my friend Lucky Soprano swears she's a pirate and, often times, tries to make me speak to her in "pirate."
Ni!!a, I have enough trouble juggling English, Spanish, French, and Portuguese in my head... shut the fuck up with this nonsense. You're not Johnny Depp, I'm not going to try and amuse you with my Arrrrgs, and I will definitely not be shivering your timbers.
And truth be told, I've had plenty of crushes on dudes with long hair. No, I don't get it either, it doesn't make sense, but it happens. I blame the 70's- which oddly enough, has plenty of that pirate-y look with the bandanas and all. You forced me to dig that decade, now suffer the consequences.
I've also dug "rebellious" boys I've so desperately wished could whisk me (your good girl) away, across the ocean, and towards the New World (although in my case, it's in the opposite direction, with Barcelona as my destination), like that idiot girl in your stupid pirate novela.
Oh, Ma! Me thinks I got yer pirates in me story!
However, I'm not too big on sailboats, or missing teeth... or hooks for hands... so... I'll have to work on that.
Story about a drug lord?
Umm... hello? WHY? We come from Durango... we travel to-and-from Durango every year. MGH's dad was the biggest DL of his time up until the day of his mistress' betrayal that lead to his murder, and MGH and his brother were given a bogus story about a car accident, since they were only about twelve when their father died. Ooo! Tragedy!
I have known MGH's dad's true story since I was ten, I was shown photos of his death shortly after it occurred... yet to this day, I still hide it from both MGH and his brother. How long can I keep that secret from them? Will they hate me once they find out... if they find out? Oooo! Drama!
I have spent a total of maybe 6 months at MGH's mansion in Mexico... put up with the strong paranoia ruling the family, having to walk in dimly lit rooms so as to not give away my exact location in the house. We wouldn't want a sniper mistakingly taking me out of this world just yet. Oooo! Adventure!
I've been in love with MGH, the man's son, for the last year! I went on trips with him... we spent nights together side by side... I almost moved in with him. Will I one day finally sleep with him? (Ouuuuch! The answer here is NO! I ultimately get my heart ripped out after he leaves me for a bland, Olive Oyl-looking-ass white girl who has NO clue about his family history... but hey, at least I don't get pregnant) Ooo! Romance!
and you'd still rather watch this damn fake soap opera?! I mean, the fucking list can continue, why listen to person X's invented life when a true story on DLs was almost part of your own?
And finally, a Moroccan whore.
Well... I have... Afghan friends... ?? No, they're not whores, but... I do have a minor crush on one of my friend's siblings. He too, like the lead character of the soap, is muslim... and I, well, I'm Catholic... but Jewish would have worked better here... although... I am technically, in part, ethnically Jewish.. so... hey! story right there! I also get confused for Lebanese, Pakistani, or Afghan while at my eyebrow threading place, I can easily make that work.
But I'm not a whore... and I'm not really down to turn into one in order to become entertaining. So... I guess that one must stay. At least you learn mini factoids about Islam and Moroccan culture... that's always a plus.
Madre mia, give me a couple of months... I'll give you plenty of stories to waste your time!
Now please surrender my television... Hell's Kitchen is on and I have things to learn! That Gordon Ramsay swears like a sailor, and I need to brush up on my skills.